The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series
Read The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series Online
Authors: Chris Bunch
THE
LAST
LEGION
Chris Bunch
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
For
Don and Carol McQuinn
Megan Zusne and Gary Lothian
Jim Fiscus
Not to mention
The Real Ben Dilley
and
The Real Jordan Brooks
CHAPTER
1
Ross 248/Waughtal’s Planet/Primeport
The police sweeper drifted past the alleyway, white faces under helmets inside staring straight ahead, disinterested.
Baka
, Njangu Yoshitaro thought. He peered after them, saw the red-banded gravsled lift over the dome where the street curved.
Fools.
Njangu wore dark brown pants and tunic, and a roll-down mask on his head. He pulled it over his face, adjusted the eyeholes, and went out of the alley. The wide boulevard was deserted under the hissing lights. Some shop windows were dark, more were lit with posturing mannequins, furniture, tron gear that no one in Yoshitaro’s district of Dockside would ever own unless they stole it.
Njangu darted across the street to the steel-barred, blank doorway. The lock was a Ryart Mod 06. Not the hardest, not the easiest. Four numeric buttons. He would have three chances before the lock either set off an alarm or froze, depending on the store owner’s paranoia and budget.
Try easy.
The factory setting was 4783. He tried it, nothing happened.
The owner thinks he’s clever. But his salesmen open for him sometimes. Perhaps
…
the shop’s address was 213. Blank first, blank second? Most likely first.
He spun the dials, and the door clicked open.
Not that clever.
There were a dozen clear-topped cases in the thick-carpeted room. The half-sentient gems inside caught the light from the street, reflected it back in moving, kaleidoscopic splendor as they moved like jeweled snakes.
Njangu took a com from his pouch, touched a transmit button, held it down for a count of three, then a count of one, then three once more. Half a dozen shadows ran silently toward the shop’s yawning door.
Yoshitaro trotted out, not looking back. He’d see the others later, get his share.
He ran for three long blocks, then turned down a dark street. He stripped off his hood, gloves, stuffed them in his belt pouch. He was walking quickly now, nothing but a tall, slender young man, respectably dressed, out a bit late, eager to get home and to bed.
The first shot rang dully from behind him, from the boulevard, then another and a third. Someone screamed, someone shouted. A metallic hailer shouted orders, inaudible but official.
Shit!
Njangu unsnapped the belt pouch, and took out a leather-bound book. He resealed the pouch with his burglar’s tools, pitched it under a parked gravsled, and went on, strolling now, his
Tao-te ching
held in prominent view.
The temple closed, what? An hour, no, an hour and a half ago. You missed the last trans, eh? Yes, and stopped at a vend for a snack. See, here’s the wrapper in my pocket. Good.
It had better be.
He made another ten blocks before the spotlight caught him halfway across the street, and the sweeper’s guns spat coiling rope. One straint caught him around the waist, the second pinned his arms, and he went down. He rolled to his side, saw legs coming toward him, the outline of a blaster.
“Do not move,” the voice said, hard, metallic, robotic. “You are being restrained by a member of the Commonweal police as being under suspicion and a possible threat to life and public safety. Any movement will be determined as life-threatening.”
He obeyed.
“Good. Don’t even breathe.” The voice became almost human. “Eh, Fran. We have him.”
Another set of black legs came out of the police sweeper.
A boot nudged Njangu onto his back, a beam swept his brown face.
One cop dragged the wiry young man to his feet by the straints. Yoshitaro was taller than either of the men.
“Guess you didn’t have squat to do with a little B & E back on Giesebechstrasse, eh? ‘Bout ten minutes gone?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Njangu said.
“Yeh. Guess you don’t
know anybody named Lo Chen, Peredur, or Huda, either? Among some of your o
ther friends we netted.”
Yoshitaro frowned, pretended thought, shook his head.
“Wonder if the eye we had floating got
you?” one officer said gleefully. “Not that it
matters, since we found this on you.”
He took a pocket-blaster from his boot.
“What were you going to do with it?”
“Never seen it before,” Njangu blurted, cursed silently for letting them draw him.
“You have now,” the second officer said. “It fell out of your waistband when we took you down. Bad charges, Yoshitaro. Violation of curfew, being outside your di
strict, possession of firearms, and I’m not sure but what you were trying to pull it on us.”
“He was, he was,” the other voice said. “I saw it clear.”
“Attempted murder, then. Guess
that’ll be more than enough, eh?”
Njangu’s face was calm, blank.
The cop drove a fist into Yoshitaro’s stomach, pleasure-filled eyes never leaving his face. Njangu caved in, let himself fall forward, turning to take the fall on his shoulder. As he fell, his legs lashed out, sweeping across the cop’s calves. The cop screeched in pain and s
urprise, fell, his flash rolling away, sending swirls of light across the blank dark buildings around him.
Yoshitaro struggled to his knees, had one foot under him as the
other cop came in, and Njangu saw the gloved fist smashing toward him.
Then nothing.
• • •
“It would seem,” the severe-faced woman said, “there’s little point in my recommending this matter be brought to trial.” She stared again at three screens whose display was hidden from Yoshitaro.
“All evidence appears in order, and your appointed defender advised he had nothing to offer on your behalf.”
Njangu’s bruised face was stone.
“You’ve had quite a career for someone just eighteen,” the woman went on. “I think it’s a blessing for the Commonweal you weren’t able to reach that pistol in time.”
She paused.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Stef Yoshitaro?”
“I do not recognize that name any longer.”
“So I understand. Very well. Njangu Yoshitaro.”
“I don’t guess there’s any point in saying anything, is there?”
“Show proper respect for the court,” the heavyset bailiff rumbled.
The judge touched other sensors.
“A long and unattractive career,” she mused. “Beginning when you were just thirteen. What happened to you, Njangu? The file on your family shows no reason for you to be what you are.”
It
wouldn’t. Mother never went out until the bruises went down, and Dad bought his synth all over the city or sometimes made his own. And Marita would never tell anyone about our fathers little nighttime visits. No. There’s no good reason for me to be anything but what I am.
“Very well. Do you have anything to say for yourself? Are there any mitigating factors? The charges are most serious, even setting aside the matter of the attempted robbery of Van Cleef’s with your fellow gang members. What I understand you hooligans call a clique.”
None you’d recognize.
“In consideration of your age,” the woman said, her voice formal, “I offer two options. The first, of course, is Conditioning.”
Condit? A voice inside your head until you died, telling you just what to do. No spitting on the sidewalk, Yoshitaro. No alk. No drugs. Work hard, Yoshitaro. Don’t criticize the Commonweal. Tell any policeman whatever he asks. A guaranteed job, dull eyes handling other people’s credits and never thinking for a minute of slipping a handful into your own pocket for fear of that hidden voice.
I don’t think so.
“The second is Transport for Life.”
It couldn’t be any harder on the prison planetoid than here in Primeport.
“You may have half an hour to reach a decision,” the woman said. “Bailiff, escort this man to the holding cell.”
The man came toward Njangu, but he was already on his feet.
“I know the way.”
“Wait!”
The judge was opening another screen.
“There is another alternative, Yoshitaro, which I’d momentarily forgotten,” she said. “We received a mandate a few days ago. Although I doubt if you’ll consider it for even a moment.”
2
Capella/Centrum
Alban Corfi, Chief of Procurement, Undeveloped Worlds, Elis Sector, was a careful man. He read the entitlement twice before looking up and nodding at his superior, Procurement Head Pandur Meghavarna.
“Very unusual, sir,” he agreed. “This is the what … thirtieth request for reinforcement and logistics this Strike Force Swift Lance — pretentious name, that — out there on the thin edge of nowhere’s sent in this E-year?”
“Thirty-fourth, actually,” Meghavarna corrected.
“Something you might know, sir. All the others were spiked for lack of proper priority, unavailability of equipment, improper preparation of forms, and such. Why was this one not only allowed, but given a Beta priority?”
“An excellent question, Corfi, one which I attempted to find an answer to. I received none. Perhaps the Lords of the Confederation are practicing their capriciousness.”
“Very well, sir,” Corfi said, opening the file again. “So what exactly do these noble frontiersmen think the Confederation is oh-so-willing and unable to give them? As if we aren’t stretched to the limit and beyond already.
“Hmm. Six Nirvana-class P-boats with supply train … well, they’ll whistle through their ears before they get any of
those.
Every one on the assembly line is tabbed for the Riot Troops. Alpha priority.
“Thirty-five heavy lifters, capable of carrying ten K-tons or greater for one thousand kis or more … I seem to remember there’s some reconditioned items we could allow them.
“Assorted assault lifters, gunships, and so forth. Impossible, but with that curious Beta priority I suppose we’ll have to give them what they want.
“Various other small vehicles, weapons, not a problem, not a problem …
“Twenty of the
Nana
–class strike boats? How’d anyone that far in the outback even
hear
of those? They haven’t even been formally accepted by the Fleet. Beta priority, schmeta priority. I
hardly
think we need to worry ourselves — ”
“Look again,” his superior said. Corfi obeyed, and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. That item was marked, in tiny green script,
Approved, R.E.
“Well,”
Corfi said, ashamed at his momentary lapse. “So I was wrong. If
He
has approved the matter, it’s up to
Him
to justify that to his superiors.” He sniffed, clearly distancing himself from future blame.