Marshall Thomas: Soldier of the Legion

Crista Cluster, 1,400 light years from Sol

When the first Outworlder refugees approached the Outvac fleeing System oppression, the Crista Cluster beckoned them onwards with a view that appeared to form a starry cross in the vac. ConFree's ancestors settled those worlds as a free people and vowed in a Constitution written in blood to uphold liberty, justice and freedom, no matter what the cost, and to remain eternally vigilant against all forms of tyranny and slavery. The ConFree Legion was formed to accomplish those objectives.

“Stand by. Redhawk is on the way.” Snow Leopard’s icy whisper hissed in my ears, though he was nowhere in sight.

A muted red glow bathed the interior of my helmet and the darksight built into my faceplate lit up the black forest better than daylight. It was the dead pit of the night on this obscure world. Merlin and I crouched in our A-suit battle armor in a tangle of undergrowth, surrounded by tall, spooky trees. The silent forest was calm and serene. All appeared to be well.

But it wasn’t.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, I checked my E. The E Mark 1 Multi-Ordnance Battlefield Superiority Rifle was a compact, general-purpose electronic weapon that never malfunctioned and never missed. I raised it and slid the stock against my armored shoulder. Biostats blinked in the upper left corner of my faceplate. My heartbeat had just sped up. I swear I could taste the adrenalin on my tongue. Deadman! I would probably start shaking soon.

I was completely protected inside my A-suit, with its powered, lightweight, superdense, self-sealing cenite armor. According to our instructors, it was the most effective personnel armor yet devised. In fact, I had yet to take a single breath of air from this planet’s atmosphere-I was still on suit-air. Suddenly, though, I felt naked.

This was insane! I was insane! Joining the Legion had seemed like a good idea at the time, and now, here I was, about to get killed on our first real action. My past was gone forever and now I was Beta Three. They called me Thinker because I had a tendency to over-think things. I was convinced I should have been re-named Psycho for even being here, but Beta Five had me beat, hands-down. The numbers were our official designations: Snow Leopard was Beta One, our leader; I was Beta Three, and Merlin was Beta Four.

The night was spectacular. I glanced up at stars beyond the treetops. Velvet hush, I thought. It won’t last long.

“You know, Thinker,” Merlin remarked thoughtfully, “When they told us the Final Problem was a live fire exercise I kind of thought it would consist of us shooting up lots of targets with live ammo while they shot over our heads. I never suspected the targets would be trying to kill…us, that it was a combat mission.” He sounded a little worried. Merlin was a tech’s tech, our own lab rat, an absolute genius. He had headed his own research effort before deciding to join the Legion as a common soldier and sure didn’t belong in an A-suit, but there he was, right beside me, peering into the dark.

“Getting scared?” I asked. My heart pounded. It promised to be one hell of a final exam. Planet Hell had been bad enough, but that had all been training. We hadn’t known about the Final Problem until the last moment. The problem would be different for every squad, of course-a whole lot of opportunities existed out there, a whole galaxy of problems.

“I’ve been scared since I walked through the Legion gate!” Merlin confessed.

A titanic blast lit up the night, casting an eerie electric green flash over the night sky. Blazing phospho gold tracers ripped over the forest, crackling and screeching. A series of deafening secondaries savaged the earth. Multiple micro-nuke tacstar clouds writhed into the heavens, glittering crimson and gold. Redhawk, Beta Ten, had just arrived in the aircar and made a good hit on the Ain’t No Lady. Scratch one slaver starship! The fools had softlanded it downside, but I guess it wouldn’t have lasted long in orbit, either.

Legion training took over. “That’s it!” I shouted.

Merlin and I bolted forward toward Slavebloc 1, smashing our way through the forest like a couple of human tanks. Xmax, explosive high velocity rounds set on maximum-yield, suddenly opened up ahead of us. That would be Coolhand, Beta Two and Warhound, Beta Six, hosing down Barracks 2 with their E’s. I saw them on my faceplate tacmap, riddling the building from outside, taking their time. Ironman, Beta Seven, and Dragon, Beta Eight, approached Slavebloc 2 from the North, opposite us. They held their fire. The tacmap also showed Beta Nine, Priestess, springing to her position where she could cover Barracks 1 when the slavers came tumbling out the doors.

A tacstar flashed and boomed to our left, that terrifying silken rip that always raised the hairs on the back of my neck, followed by an elemental blast from the gates of Hell. Snow Leopard and Beta Five, Psycho, attacked the Headquarters building in the center of the sprawling complex.

Slavebloc 1 stared out of the dark, brilliantly illuminated in green by my darksight. The luxurious prefab with four interlocking two-story residential blocs contained a central rec area. Painstaking recon showed that it held both female slaves and their male captors.

“Thinker and Merlin entering Slavebloc 1,” I announced, blasting the door to fragments with a burst of auto xmax. Merlin fired a starflash grenade into the doorway and it spewed about a million glittering white phospho tracers back out the door towards us. We jogged straight into it and I felt the debris ping harmlessly against my armor. The starflash would blind everyone unarmored inside.

“Slave!” Sweety announced, as a scantily-clad female stumbled out of the glittering white smoke, blinded and lost. I had been just about to blast her. Sweety was my suit tacmod. She had proven most useful on Planet Hell, saving my butt more than once.

Merlin crouched beside me, E up and scanning. We knew exactly how to clean this place-one slaver at a time. It was just like our training sims. Except that these were real people in front of us.

“Target!” I fired standard-yield x, and Merlin lased it just as glowing green x tracks flashed over our heads. A gory specter appeared out of the smoke, wide-open chest spraying black blood, forehead squirting a thin stream of blood from a single hole. He collapsed to the deck, dropping his DefCorps StarGuard rifle. He wore only shorts. Prominent cheekbones, sparse whiskers, slit eyes and long dark hair. An Assidic. The SG was functionally equivalent to our E, though it was more compact. It was an ugly reminder of System tolerance for the slave trade.

“Target!” Sweety announced again. I’m not sure if I fired or Sweety fired but the round took off the second enemy’s head. He had been stocky and powerful-evidently an Outworlder. He, too, wore only shorts.

Merlin forced a laugh. “We caught them with their pants down.”

“Targets in red!” Sweety colored them on my faceplate. The thick carpet beneath our armored boots probably cost more per square mike than a year’s earnings back in my civilian life. We barely noticed the luxurious surroundings, the carpet, rich tapestries, couches, canopied beds and abundant bowls of exotic fruits, all looted from countless worlds, along with the abundance of nubile slaves.

I shouted at the slaves and my suit amplified my voice to godlike proportions, “Get down!”

We advanced into a confusing tangle of female slaves and hostiles armed with SGs-they couldn’t see a thing, but the slavers fired x blindly, on full auto. Merlin and I shot short bursts of x, laser, x, laser, each round downing a target.