Legion of the Damned

For on men in general this observation may be made: they are ungrateful, fickle, and deceitful, eager to avoid dangers, and avid for gain, and while you are useful to them they are all with you, offering you their blood, their property, their lives, and their sons so long as danger is remote ... but when it approaches they turn on you. Any prince, trusting only in their words and having no other preparations made, will fall to his ruin....

Angel Perez stepped out of the troop carrier and fell towards the planet below. Others were all around him. Some were cyborgs, some were bio bods, all were soldiers.

It was night, but that made little difference, because the objective was radiating enough heat to cook breakfast for a brigade. Heat that his electronics could detect, sort, and integrate with surveillance photos taken days and weeks before. The result was an image similar to what he’d see during the day, except that a blue grid overlaid everything, and a bright red X floated across the landscape. Altitude, rate of fall, and a variety of threat factors appeared in the lower right-hand corner of his vision.

The aliens had been working on their stronghold for more than a thousand years. The fortress rambled all over the place, a maze of walls, streets, and buildings. And now, as Perez fell towards it, the structure grew larger with each passing second.

Perez waited for the chute to open but nothing happened. His chute would deploy when the auto timer told it to do so and not a moment before. It was for his own safety. The longer he fell, the harder it would be for the computer-controlled AA batteries to hit him.

Perez didn’t know how he knew these things, only that he did. His chute opened, jerked him upwards, and formed a rectangular canopy over his head. It was black like the sky above it, and steerable, like the parasails you could rent at resorts. He looked down, saw a darkened area that might be an open field, and banked in that direction.

Lights snapped on, tracers ripped the night into a thousand abstract shapes, and energy beams stuttered towards space. Some of the legionnaires fired back, but Perez concentrated on the chute and ignored the ground fire. Or tried to anyway.

Tracers drifted past, seemingly harmless but very deadly. The ground rushed up to meet him. He saw a building. It boasted three spires. There was a surface-to-air missile battery located between them. A radar-seeking rocket roared past Perez and homed on a troop carrier. A spire lurched up at him. He tried to avoid it, failed, and gritted his nonexistent teeth.

The impact was horrible. A metal rod hit the lower part of his abdomen, passed up through his reserve ammo bin, power storage module, and on-board processor. He screamed and the world went black.

The night, the battle, and the pain faded away. Perez found himself at the center of a huge parade ground. He occupied a body similar to the one in the dream. A small but dapper man stood before him. The man had beady little eyes, an oversized nose, and sun-reddened skin. His arms were decorated with colorful tattoos. His white kepi sat square on his head, his khakis had razor-sharp creases, and his boots boasted a high-gloss shine. His eyes moved from right to left and Perez realized that others were present as well. The man spoke in a conversational tone, but his words carried across the parade ground nonetheless.

“Each and every one of you was tried for a crime, sentenced to death, and executed. This is your last chance. If you follow orders, if you learn what we teach you, and if you are very, very lucky, you could become legionnaires. With that honor comes a new name, a better life, and the opportunity to make something of yourselves.”

Perez remembered the stainless-steel room, the red dot on his chest, and the certain knowledge that he was going to die. Had died, and wound up here, wherever he was.

The man smiled. “Some of you will die in training accidents. Some will commit suicide rather than face another day. And I’ll kill three or four of you just for the fun of it.”

“Many of you don’t believe that. You think the rights you once had still apply. Wrong. You are legally dead, and until such time as you are formally listed on the Legion’s rolls, you have no existence other than the one that I grant you.”

“There was a time when it took months to train a good soldier. Well, not anymore. You are cyborgs. Little more than brains encased in machines. The hair, eyes, noses, arms, hands, tits, ovaries, cunts, cocks, balls, legs, and feet by which you knew yourselves are gone. You won’t have to eat, breathe, sleep, shit, or fuck. All you will have to do is train. Twenty-four hours of each day, seven days of each week, until you either learn or die.

“If you learn, the Emperor is one legionnaire better off. If you fail, and I pull your plug, it doesn’t matter, because you were dead to begin with, and in most cases deservedly so. The empire benefits either way.”

“Most of your learning will take place through a neural interface. The battle that you just experienced was the first of hundreds. By experiencing real battles and real deaths, you will learn very quickly. Does anyone have any questions?”

Perez found that peripheral vision was better than it used to be and saw a cyborg raise an arm. A distant part of his brain noticed that the arm had a pincer-like hand.

The noncom smiled, pointed a black box in the recruit’s direction, and pressed a button. The cyborg screamed, convulsed, and fell to the ground.

Sir looked from right to left. “Lesson number one. I don’t like questions. Questions imply thought. Thought implies intelligence. And intelligent recruits are a contradiction in terms. Would anyone like to discuss that? No? Good.

“Here’s lesson number two. I am a sergeant. That means I am god. I can walk on water, piss whiskey, shit explosives, and speak with officers. Are there any questions?”

Incredibly enough, Perez saw an arm go up off to his right. He winced as the sergeant pointed the black box in that direction and pressed the button. The cyborg screamed and fell writhing to the ground.

The sergeant shook his head in amazement. “They get dumber every day. All right, enough screwing around, company ... attenshun!”

Perez had seen troops come to attention on the news and in countless holo dramas. He did his best to comply. The result was more parody than the real thing. The others were little better. Perez expected the sergeant to lash out, to punish them for their clumsiness, but he seemed unaware of transgression.

The Emperor was lost in reverie. The voices squabbled amongst themselves. Some favored an immediate response to the Hudathan attack and others didn’t. They wanted to pull back, retrench, and defend the empire’s core.

The Emperor knew that he should listen to them, should make some sort of decision, but found it hard to care. Caring involved an expenditure of energy and a certain amount of risk. People who cared got hurt. No, it was better to remain separate from the process, to float along the surface of things, bobbing and twisting while the current carried you along.

And that’s where the voices came in. They cared, they argued with each other, and they did all the things he sought to avoid. They enjoyed it, and more than that, thrived on it.

The Emperor couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t been there, urging him to do what they wanted, arguing amongst themselves.

They had been real people once, with flesh-and-blood bodies, until his mother had selected them as his advisors. Some were scientists, some were military officers, and the others were politicians. There were no artists, philosophers, or religionists, since his mother felt they were little more than gilt on the carriage of state.

He’d been six months old when the advisors arrived. All felt honored to be among those selected, were cheered by the prospect of lifelong employment, and had no idea what they had let themselves in for.

It was, the Emperor reflected, a miracle that he had grown at all, surrounded as he was by eight contentious minds. The fact that his mother had each and every one of them murdered so they couldn’t scheme against him didn’t help either. The copies, as they referred to themselves, felt a kinship with the originals, and looked for opportunities to make him feel guilty about it.

But they did like to work, which left him free to do what he did best: enjoy himself. Something he had done less and less frequently since his mother’s death.

The Emperor opened his eyes. Four people stood before him: Admiral Scolari, dressed in an absurd set of medieval armor; General Worthington, wearing little more than a G-string; the merchant, Sergi Chien-Chu, swathed in a Roman toga; and the recently arrived General Marianne Mosby, her breasts seeking to escape the almost nonexistent confines of her gown.

The Emperor brightened and motioned the group forward. He’d been present as Mosby had accepted command of her troops but had little chance to talk with her. The meeting would be tiresome, but her presence would serve to brighten it. The copies faded into the background.

“I hope you will accept my apologies for calling you away from the festivities. It seems as though the affairs of state are almost always inconvenient. May I summon refreshments? Some food perhaps? Or wine?”

It was a small room by palatial standards and decorated in masculine style. There were high arched windows, entire walls full of old-fashioned books, a real log fire burning in an open fireplace, and a massive desk that served as a barrier between the Emperor and his guests. Their chairs were arranged in a semicircle and fronted the desk.

Mosby chose a chair, sat down, and subjected the Emperor to a lightning-fast evaluation. She’d seen thousands of pictures, ranging from holo vids to stills, and glimpsed him from a distance. But this was the first time that she had met the man face-to-face and had the chance to size him up.

The Emperor was handsome and very athletic. It was common knowledge that some of his good looks were real, and the rest were the result of surgery, but it made little difference. His hair was dark, parted on the right side, and swept back to touch the top of his shoulders. His eyes were brown and very intense. He had a high forehead, a well-shaped nose, and a strong chin. The weakness, if any, was around the mouth. Mosby thought his lips were a shade too sensual and likely to pout. His mouth was acceptable, though, very acceptable, and worth further consideration.

Mosby decided that the Emperor’s chair must be resting on some sort of platform, because he was higher than she was, and had already used that advantage to peer down the front of her dress. Far from disconcerted, she was pleased, and shifted slightly to give him a better view. Their eyes met, electricity jumped the gap, and an unspoken agreement was reached. Later, when the affairs of state had been resolved, they would have an affair of their own. And it would be anything but boring.

The Emperor smiled, leaned back in his chair, and threw a pair of highly polished boots onto the corner of his desk. He nodded towards the right and said, “Watch this.”

The air shimmered, filled with motes of multicolored light, and coalesced into a picture. The picture was of a planet called “Worber’s World,” and the narration was supplied by a militia colonel named Natalie Norwood. What followed was some of the most disturbing footage any of the group had ever seen.

The Hudathan fleet, the waves of assault craft, the swathes of destruction, the millions of casualties, and the seemingly pointless attacks that followed made Chien-Chu sick. They made him afraid as well, because his son, Leonid, was out on the rim and quite possibly in harm’s way. He pushed the thought away and forced his mind to the task at hand.

Norwood ended the report with a plea for help and her intention to surrender. The merchant admired Norwood’s cool, dispassionate narration and the control required to record it. The empire needed officers of her caliber and he hoped that she’d survive.

“So,” the Emperor said, making a steeple with his fingers, “we have a problem. I’d be interested in your reactions. Admiral Scolari, you’re senior, I look forward to hearing your thoughts.”

Scolari did her best to keep the eagerness off her face. She felt sorry for the people on Worber’s World but was eager to use the attack for her own ends. The fact was that the empire had grown too large, too fat to protect, and she favored a smaller, tighter grouping of systems that would make the Navy’s job easier. If colonists wanted to live out on the rim, then let them do so, but at their own risk. That a retrenchment would force the Legion off Algeron was frosting on the cake. The Emperor had been out of his mind to grant the Legion its own planet, and this was a chance to right that wrong.

-Scolari had other reasons as well. The stronger the military was, the higher taxes were, and there were some very powerful organizations that disliked high taxes. Organizations that would help those who helped them, and with only five years left to retirement, it was time for Scolari to consider the future. She chose her words with care.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll start by saying that all of your forces are on Level Five Alert, or will be, as soon as the message torps have had time to reach the most distant outposts.”

“Push their way towards the center of the empire,” Mosby predicted confidently, “destroying everything in their path.”

Scolari frowned. Her question had been rhetorical rather than real, and Mosby’s response had caught her by surprise. She forced a smile.

Mosby saw what she thought was a sympathetic look from the Emperor and inclined her head. “My apologies. I was thinking out loud.”

Chien-Chu’s respect for Mosby went up a notch. The woman might be a bit liberal for his tastes, but she was nobody’s fool, and knew her stuff. The Hudathans had created an advantage. Of course they’d follow up. To do otherwise would be stupid.

“So,” Scolari continued, “I have dispatched scouts to find the Hudathan fleet and report on its activities. Intelligence is critical to a well-reasoned response. We know very little about this race and their motivations.”

Scolari had lost control of the situation and knew it. She hurried into the alternatives in hopes of regaining the upper hand.

“The first alternative is to do nothing beyond what we’ve done already. Our forces are on the highest level of alert, our scouts are gathering intelligence, and the argument could be made that a reactive posture is best.”

“The second alternative is to assume that the aliens have ambitions beyond Worber’s World, and based on that, to pull our outlying forces back into a defensive posture. That would give us more strength with which to defend the empire’s more populated and industrialized systems.”

“It would also leave the rim worlds open to the kind of destruction we saw in Colonel Norwood’s report,” Mosby said grimly.

The Emperor raised a well-plucked eyebrow. The voices in his head had grown louder again, echoing the disagreement in the room, and vying for his attention. It was hard to think.

“Why do you consider an all-out attack to be the least desirable option? It’s the kind of advice that I’d expect from some of my more timid citizens. A great deal of blood was shed when my mother created this empire. Are you afraid to shed a little more?”

Scolari felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. The Emperor was more lucid than usual. It was a direct question and demanded a direct answer. An answer in which she would be forced to commit herself. Scolari took a deep breath.

“It is the empire that concerns me. It has grown since your mother pieced it together from the ruins of the Second Confederacy. Grown and prospered. But how large can the empire grow before its own weight pulls it down? That which expands must eventually contract.”

The Emperor nodded. He pressed fingertips against his temples. Many of his internal advisors agreed with Scolari and urged him to support her. But the Emperor sensed that to do so would severely lessen his chances of having sex with General Mosby. And that was something he looked forward to. No, it was better to say something sympathetic and let the debate continue.

“Thank you, Admiral. It’s refreshing to hear a military advisor propose something other than massive retaliation. However, duty requires that I hear all sides of an issue prior to a final decision, and I suspect that General Mosby has other views. General?”

For the first time that evening Mosby wished that she was wearing something less revealing. Scolari looked silly in her armor, but it did lend a martial air, and that served to support her arguments. Still, the Emperor had been careful to seek out her opinion, and that boded well. She made an effort to minimize her cleavage and summoned her most serious expression.

“With all respect to the admiral, I disagree with her recommendation. To pull our forces back, and abandon the frontier, would signal weakness and encourage the aliens to attack. We have other enemies as well, like the Clone Worlds, the Itathian Hegemony, and the Empire of Daath. One sign of hesitancy, one sign of weakness, and they could join forces against us.”

Mosby shrugged her rather plump shoulders. “Nor is there any certainty that they wouldn’t. Why take the chance? Let’s find the Hudathans, hit ’em with everything we have, and settle the question once and for all.”

Worthington spoke for the first time, and in doing so, earned Scolari’s eternal gratitude. “I like your spirit, General, and am sympathetic to your basic instincts, but what makes you so sure that we can win? Wouldn’t it make more sense to see what the scouts are able to find out? And make a decision at that time?”

“No,” Mosby said stubbornly, “it wouldn’t. Weeks could pass by then, reducing the possibility of an effective counterattack, giving the enemy what they’re trying to take.”

“Yes,” the Emperor replied, “but so is information. And I want more of it before making a final decision. Thank you for taking the time to visit with me ... and I trust you will return to the ball. The evening is still young.”

The Emperor’s comments were an obvious dismissal. The advisors rose, made their way to the door, and turned to bow. Mosby had made her curtsey, and was about to back out of the room, when the Emperor lifted a hand.

Scolari had already made her exit but was close enough to hear the Emperor’s words and see Mosby reenter the room. Damn! It was her body that the Emperor wanted—there was little doubt of that—but would Mosby find a way to use the situation? She would certainly try.

Scolari, with Worthington at her side, and Chien-Chu trudging along behind, headed for the ballroom. Their thoughts were very different. Scolari’s seethed as she plotted a course through the obstacles before her. Worthington’s were more measured, considering, analyzing, and evaluating. Chien-Chu’s were uncharacteristically dark as he remembered what he had seen and worried about his son.

The marines who stood to either side of the Emperor’s door looked straight ahead. As with all such assignments, it was important to know what to acknowledge and what to ignore.

Mosby closed the door behind her. The Emperor got up, came around his desk, and crossed the room. He was a little shorter than she’d thought he’d be, but still over six feet, and slim. He was dressed in a high-collared jacket, a pair of bloused trousers, and the knee-high boots that she’d noticed before. He brought an aura of expensive soap and cologne with him. He stopped only inches away.

“You must call me Nicolai, and yes, there is little time to waste. I sense that you and I are alike in that respect. We know what we want and are not afraid to grasp it.”

Mosby stood on tiptoe, placed her hands behind his head, and kissed him. It was soft at first, and grew steadily more passionate, until both were short of breath. Mosby allowed a hand to slide down and rest between his legs. What she found was more than satisfactory. Their lips parted and their eyes met.

“Apparently not,” the Emperor responded dryly. “Come, let’s retire to my bedroom. We can be more comfortable there.”

The Emperor took Mosby’s hand and she followed him across the room. A sensor detected their approach, a section of bookcase slid aside, and a doorway was revealed.

“Yes,” the Emperor agreed. “Sneakiness is an extremely important prerequisite for the throne ... as my mother would have been happy to tell you.”

As with the Emperor’s study, one wall of his bedroom was taken up with high arched windows, but that’s where the similarity ended.

The walls, the carpet, and the enormous bed were white. The windows were open, it was raining outside, and the curtains billowed into the room. Music came from somewhere and blended with the sound of the rain to make new harmonies.

Mosby looked around but was unable to find any of the accouterments that she might have expected. No mirrored ceilings, specially crafted furniture, or camera arrays. She felt reassured and disappointed at the same time.

The Emperor was very gentle, almost surprisingly so, given the fact that he could take whatever he wanted. His hands were warm, slow, and patient. They removed her gown, panties, and stockings. And then, when she lay naked on the bed, he touched her hair.

Mosby looked up into his eyes. “That’s entirely up to you, Nicolai. Do you want me? Or the woman I chose to impersonate?”

The Emperor smiled and removed the wig. Her real hair was short, so short that it was little more than fuzz, and he ran a hand across it.

It took time to undress himself, to kiss her from head to toe, and to make long, slow love. And, when the climax finally came, it was like the first act of a two-act play. Satisfying, but lacking in finality, as though more could be said, done, and felt.

The Emperor nodded solemnly. “Of course. More than that, I would declare your opinion a state secret and swear you to silence.”

Mosby felt a momentary sense of alarm as another hidden door slid open and a second man entered the room. She didn’t recognize him at first, but that changed when he stepped into the light. The Emperor? Or an exact replica ... right down to the erection that jutted out in front of him.

The emperor ran a hand down her arm. “There’s no need to be alarmed. He’s a clone. You have no idea how many boring ceremonies he attends on my behalf.”

Mosby knew about clones, and had fought a brigade of them during a border dispute five years before, but had never interacted with any. She forced herself to sound blase. “He looks good ... but does he share your taste in women?”

“Oh, he most assuredly does,” the Emperor replied. “Now relax, while I show you that if one emperor is good, two are even better.”