March of the Legion

do.'

'Go to it, One,' Psycho said dreamily. 'Go to it. We find Warhound! That's our mission.' He looked over his Manlink, holding it up to the light. Sometimes I thought Psycho was just as dangerous to us as to the enemy. But he had held together so far, I had to admit.

I turned my attention back to the datapak, browsing through the entries. It quickly became apparent that Karmion had some problems with the mission.

1444/02/01 SS. They awarded us a unit citation today. What reeking hypocrisy. A unit citation, for Vulcan Station. Conspicuous prudence, above and beyond. A unit citation awarded to slaves by cowards, from a very safe distance away. A justification for their own crimes. Why don't our leaders present the citation in person? It's for them, not for us. It's a unit citation for the System. This makes us physically sick. We'd rather die with what's left of our honor than live like this.

'Full pressure,' Redhawk announced. 'Air is pure, full normal. Take a bite!'

Snow Leopard straightened up before the control panel. 'I'll try it.' He cracked the visor of his faceplate open and took a breath. We all watched him silently.

'Tastes fine to me,' Snow Leopard concluded. 'I'll take first watch—the rest of you can off helmets, but keep them within reach. Have we got water in the lines?'

'That's a ten.'

'All right, one at a time can wash up in the heads. One at a time. Get it all done, 'cause we're not staying long.' Snow Leopard closed his visor again and turned back to the control panel.

'Redhawk,' Priestess said, 'I want you naked. I've got to work on your wounds. You should be first in the shower.' We all laughed at Priestess's comment. When it came to her medical duties, Nine was so serious she sometimes did not seem quite real.

'A tempting offer, Priestess,' Redhawk responded. 'But I'm too damned busy right now. Why don't you go first, and call me when you finish. Oh, and, uh…I want you naked, too.'

We popped our helmets, still laughing at Priestess's remark. The air stunk, a strange heady perfume, but we knew it was really us who stunk. I removed my helmet and hooked it on my u-belt. The air lanced through my nostrils and mouth like fire. My eyes stung and watered. We were all gasping, taking deep breaths. I looked at the others and grinned.

Psycho was a mutant werewolf with yellow fangs and glittering lunatic eyes. Redhawk was a savage hairy gargoyle, bleeding and covered with slime. Priestess was a vaguely female zombie, dead pale splotchy skin and cold glazed eyes and dirty matted hair. Snow Leopard was still in helmet so we could not see him. I did not want to know what I looked like but judging by the others, I imagined I had lost my dashing good looks.

'Psycho, stay here,' Snow Leopard ordered. 'We're going to use this screen to search for Warhound. Thinker, accompany Priestess and secure the area while she cleans up. Redhawk, you're next after Priestess. Now, tell me how you work the zoom. I want to search every fraction of this crater for Warhound.'

I accompanied Priestess into the living quarters. The lights were on and the floor was sticky. Priestess chose a cube at random. The door was open, as we had thoroughly searched the area. It was even smaller than a Legion cube—there was barely room to turn around. The head was a tiny closet with a toilet, sink, and shower. Priestess tossed her helmet and E on the bed. She reached into the head and hit the shower tab. The line coughed once and then a needle spray of water hissed steadily from the nozzle. It was so lovely a thrill ran over my skin.

'Help me out of this A-suit, Thinker. Lord, I stink like a cesspool. Look at that—soap! Towels! Oh, save me!' I helped her unlink. She was sticky with sweat and trembling with anticipation.

'Wait for me, Thinker—don't go. I may be awhile,' she said.

'I'll be right here,' I replied, taking a position in the doorway to the cube. Priestess flashed me a weary smile and stepped into the head and the door slid shut.

I expected a long wait. Fortunately I had some good reading material. I sat in the doorway, my E strapped to my chest, and read through the next entry in the datapak.

1444/02/07 SS—Frantic activity, and all of it correct, all by the regs. We are doing terrific work, but we keep asking ourself how this benefits the System. We have concluded that the System wants the status quo maintained in this sector. And it is willing to sacrifice us for the status quo. But surely STRATCOM realizes that our activities here are not maintaining the status quo—to the contrary, as soon as these creatures are ready, the System will have to deal with its monstrous creation.

So what is our mission? It is to strengthen the V until we are no further threat to them. It is to betray our own, in the name of galactic peace. We are Peacemakers, they tell us, holding the Dogs of War at bay. But the dogs are growing stronger, for we feed them with our flesh and blood.

Soon they will tear out our throats. Why are we here? We must be cursed by the Gods!

'Well, I don't see a thing.' It was Redhawk, muttering to himself.

'Not a sign of life!' Snow Leopard, in awe. 'This is really strange.'

'He's out there,' Psycho declared. 'He's out there somewhere.' They were searching for Warhound on the screen. I felt sick inside. How could he have survived? It was a miracle that any of us did. How could we hope for more?

We'd have spotted him by now if he had survived. No, Warhound was gone—at the bottom of the lava. A black depression settled over me. Beta Six, Warhound—he was as faithful as a dog. He was young and trusting, always did what he was told, a good and dependable soldier of the Legion. How could it end like this? He had his whole immortal life ahead of him. He had a crush on Gamma Five, Scrapper, but she didn't like him. He'd tell me his troubles, and I'd give him advice. And now he was gone. He was a friend; I should have told him how I felt, but we never did that in the Legion. Now I regretted it. I gazed blankly at the datapak. I had been reading it without thought.

…death, death, death! Every day, hovering right outside. Black ships, and black skies. Lunacy! To think we have any control over events, or that we are accomplishing anything at all, except for the V. Lunacy! We are slaves, trapped and terrified. Abandoned, by STRATCOM, by the System itself. We are still useful, we know, to the V, but the instant that ends, we will all die like bacteria. The Old Man is already gone. It called a meeting—fool! We told it not to do so, but it insisted, and now it's gone. A troublesome bacteria. That was five full days ago, and we just huddle here, terrified. We don't even dare ask about it. The V can have us for lunch, whenever they want.

The V—that was Systie slang for the O. We called them the Omnis. The System called them the Variants. It would never have occurred to the Legion to try and communicate with the O—except with antimats. But then we had a lot more experience fighting the Omnis than the System did. It was becoming increasingly clear why that was—the Systies had done a deal with the O's, a dirty, secret deal, right here on Andrion 3. And the unitium mines on Andrion 2 were part of it. Genetic suicide, for our species—death to the children! I got dizzy just thinking about it.

'Thinker.' The door to the head slid open. Priestess posed in the doorway, completely naked, soapsuds glistening all over her heavenly body, long dark hair clean and wet, her skin glowing with life, sparkling angel eyes and a pink tongue teasing me behind even white teeth. Her breasts were perfect, rosy pink nipples, long slim lovely legs knocking my eyes out. The shower was still on behind her. She pirouetted once, showing me her petite, tender rear, smiling back over her shoulder. I dropped the datacase and scrambled violently to my feet, armor ringing against the door frame.

Nine giggled once and disappeared as the door to the head slid shut abruptly. I hurled myself against it.

'Priestess! Open up! Open up!' I pounded on the door with my armored fists, leaving dents in the