The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (16 page)

He looked around the table. Only Njangu appeared interested in the topic.

Angie yawned ostentatiously. “You’re raving, Garvin. Drink more beer.”

“Somebody’ll no doubt figure out something if that happens,” Erik said vaguely. “Besides we’re just line-slime. We’re not
s’posed
to worry.”

“But … aw, screw it,” Garvin said, and followed Angie’s suggestion.

“Let’s go back to my first question,” Ton said. “What about you, Garvin? What happens when they hand you the discharge?

“My fate is easily determined,” Jaansma said, striking a noble pose. “I shall return to my rightful place as the dauphin of the continent of France on Earth, and collect sluts by the score.”

“Yeh, Dauphin,” Milot said. “I was being serious.”

“So was I,” Garvin said, “but you won’t believe me. So how about this: I’m gonna find me a circus on hard times, buy it and make the damned thing go, and show the folks in the outback the biggest hooraw you’ve ever seen.”

Njangu was about to laugh, then saw Garvin’s expression. “Circus?” he said, before anyone else could try a wisecrack. “Sounds like a good way to go crazy.”

“It is,” Jaansma said, still serious.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Njangu said, standing and fishing in his pocket for money. “Let’s go make ourselves look pretty.”

• • •

Laughing, joking, none of the five noticed the unobtrusive man follow them down the beachfront walk.

• • •

“Well?” Angie said.

“Well,” Ton Milot said skeptically, “I don’t look like a fisherman … and I sure don’t look like a soldier.”

“Exactly what we wanted,” Garvin said. “You’re supposed to be one of the idle rich, assuming Erik gave us good advice on what’s fashionable here in the capital.”

All of them wore civilian sandals. Angie wore a multicolored short dress of a silky material that iridesced light reds, oranges, pinks. The men wore loose-fitting drab-colored pants, and brightly colored shirts in various styles. Garvin had chanced a floppy-brimmed hat.

“So what now?”

Njangu checked a watch finger. “Going on three … maybe back to the beach, then something to eat, then nap ‘til this party, which we were told not to show up for until midnight.”

“I’ve been thinking about tonight,” Milot said. “No offense, Erik, but I don’t want to go there and step on my dick.”

“You won’t, my man,” Penwyth said. “It’s just going to be a bunch of people relaxin', not some horrid sort of formal banquet.”

“People who’re all rich,” Milot said.

“Not all. Some of ‘em are just pretty an’ available.”

“That’s not my kind of thing,” Ton said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon slide on out.” He looked sheepish. “I kind of want to go see what my family’s doing.”

“I’m with you,” Angie said. “I’d prob’ly do something stupid, some asshole’d say something, and I’d have to do him. You want company?”

Milot looked surprised, then nodded. “It’s just a little village, on the other side of the peninsula.”

“Issus?”

“Sure,” Milot said. “You know it?”

“When I was a kid,” Angie said, sounding wistful, “my ma took me there for … I guess it was three days. She and Da were having some kind of trouble. I remember we stayed in this little hut, and ate a lot of fish, and nobody bothered us. I liked it a lot. I thought things were like they must’ve been in the old days, before … well, before things got weird.”

“Hey,” Milot said. “Nothing’s changed much. Come on. You’d be welcome.”

Angie looked at Njangu. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“What sorry? Sorry you didn’t invite me?”

“I thought — ”

“There you go,” Yoshitaro said, “thinking again. You’re only a striker, woman, and you’re trying to do Mark II thinking with a Mark I brain. I love the tules, and since Milot has the manners of a toad, I’m inviting myself to go fishing, ‘kay?”

Garvin made a face at Penwyth.

“How about
that
shit? Forsook and forlorn by my best comrade.”

“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” Erik said. “No one ought to do what she or he hasn’t the inclination.”

Garvin dug into his pocket. “Here’s two … three hundred each, children. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Thanks, Father,” Njangu said.

“Don’t thank me,” Garvin said piously. “It’s all to the good … having too many people around who know me cramps my style.”

• • •

The unobtrusive man followed them back to their hotel, then found an alcove and took out a small com. He keyed numbers. There was a click, and a woman’s voice said “Report.”

The man keyed a second set of numbers into the corn’s built-in scrambler.

“They now wear civilian garb,” he said, and described what the five were wearing. “No attempt made to communicate with anyone. I tried to get close to them in the bar, but all I could hear was they were talking about the Force. I don’t know if it’s important, but they were talking about military things I don’t think an average soldier would know about.”

“Was there any indication on what they hoped to achieve with that carefully planned rescue of that child of ours?” the woman’s voice asked.

“Negative,” the man said.

“Continue surveillance, but take no other action,” the listener ordered.

“Understood.”

• • •

Ton Milot had stubbornly insisted on changing back into uniform before they caught the ‘rail over the mountains.

“Twenty percent discount for people in uniform,” he said. “Plus my folks’ll be pissed if I’m not looking purty.”

“If they expect purty,” Angie said, “we better bring along a plastic surgeon,” but she and Njangu had done the same.

“We’ve got half an hour ‘til the pod goes,” Milot said. “I called my folks and told them we were incoming.”

“ Yeh,” Njangu said absently, staring at the glass window of a shop.

“Entranced by his own reflection,” Angie said. “That’s okay, ‘cause he is pretty.” She squeezed his arm.

“Pass on pretty,” Yoshitaro said. “Don’t look back, but check our reflection in this next window.”

“Definitely three good-lookin’ sorts,” Milot said.

“With a tail,” Njangu said. “See that little guy back there … no, goddammit, don’t look!”

“Looks like not much of anybody,” Milot said.

“Good beaks don’t,” Njangu said.

“You’re being paranoid.”

“He was with us the last two turnings,” Yoshitaro said. “I’m paranoid.”

“Who cares? We’ve got nothing to hide,” Milot said.

“I
always
do,” Njangu said.

“So what do we do? Dry-gulch him?” Angie asked. “If he’s copper, we’ll get our butts in a tangle.”

“No. We’ll turn right here, and go down this block,” and the two obeyed him. “Cut in this store, then we’ll go back out the other entrance. Come on now! Run!”

The three darted around a corner. A moment later, the unobtrusive man appeared, looked about, muttered under his breath, went into a doorway, and dialed numbers on his com. When the ringing stopped, he said, “Three-one-one-five.”

“Listening,” the woman’s voice said.

“I still don’t know what they are,” the man reported. “But they lost me, very neatly.”

“They’re professional?”

“Looks like it.”

“Go back to the hotel,” the voice ordered. “There’s still two of them there. Team with Lompa, and this time
stay with them
!”

“There’ll be no more surprises,” the man said grimly.

The silver monorails arced across the city, the center of the spiderweb a hangarlike stone building. The pod for Issus slid out of the station’s roof and the track climbed. Njangu saw the broad lawns around PlanGov Headquarters, then the Eckmuhl, the walled ’Raum quarter with its high-rising, shabby apartments leaning together, about to tumble into the narrow, winding streets.

The rail climbed the bluffs on nickeled pylons, passing close to the wealthy enclave of the Heights. Angie chattered away about the great mansions and the beautiful gardens. Njangu wondered for an instant why, if she were so fascinated by this wealth, she hadn’t wanted to go to the party tonight, somewhere down there.

Then he went back to worrying about that follower.
Who? Some friend of the idiots we gave lumps to? Not likely
—
if they’d been able to find out where Njangu and Company were staying, they might’ve gotten twenty other yutzes and lurked in an alley. But just trailing us? No. Who else? Coppers? But why? The police could give a shit if a few waterfront goons get their body structure readjusted.

Military Intelligence?
Njangu assumed, without any reason, the Force had spies. But he’d done nothing wrong, at least on this world.
What about the others? Ton Milot? Fishing without a license? Angie Rada? For being oversexed? Balls.
Which leaves … leaves nobody. At least nobody I can think of.

Njangu let it swirl around his brain once more, then dismissed the matter and looked out and down lush jungles, wondering what was hidden under the canopy, realized he’d no doubt find out shortly, either in the war games or the real patrols I&R ran against the bandits.

Njangu leaned back, and Angie put her head on his shoulder. That sparked another curiosity. Why hadn’t they just stayed in their hotel room if they hadn’t wanted to go to Erik’s friend’s party? Angie certainly was an interesting enough pastime. That
had
been a third option. Why hadn’t she suggested that? Did she think, maybe, Njangu wouldn’t have been interested. Why hadn’t
he
come up with the idea? Screwing was better than fishing from any perspective.

Oh well
, he thought.
Nobody’s dumber than a soldier. Of any sex.

• • •

“Good gods,” Njangu shouted, leaning close to Ton Milot, “did you tell them you’d been made commander of the fleet or something?”

“We’re pretty patriotic,” Milot shouted, and the band broke into another ragged but enthusiastic march. A very pretty girl, about two years younger than Milot, with brown wavy hair, clung to the soldier’s waist like a limpet. She’d been introduced as Lupul.

“Isn’t that the national anthem again?” Angie asked.

“I think so, so maybe we better stand up,” Njangu said. They did, weaving just a little bit.

Issus sat around a nearly enclosed bay, on a low cliff twenty meters above the water and docks. The houses were hardly Angie’s remembered “huts,” but simple wood-framed shelters with sharp-angled roofs. The center of the town was a turf-paved square with businesses, the monorail station, and the town hall around it. Njangu guessed it was some sort of D-Cumbre custom to put a park in the town center, and thoroughly approved.

It seemed every one of the village’s two-thousand-odd people were packed into the square, cheering their son who’d made good.

“Yeh,” Njangu agreed. “Patriotic. Pass the jug.”

“Better not,” Ton warned.

“Why not? Everybody’s a
lot
drunker’n we are.”

“Yeh,” Ton said. “But they ain’t going fishing. We are.”

“What’s this
we
shit?” Angie said, grabbing a passing flask and inhaling the clear, slightly oily-tasting local distillation with enthusiasm. “You got a midget in your pocket?”

“You don’t have to,” Milot said, “if you want to play the old weak, feeble, helpless woman excuse.”

“Uh-uh,” Angie said. “I’m no dummy. Water’s fine for a bathtub, but there’s waaaaaaaaaay too much of it out there for me. You big bwave men go into the vasty deeps.” She fluttered her eyebrows. “I’ll stay here and worry myself drunk.”

“Any possibility I could get away with the same line?” Njangu tried.

“Not a chance,” Milot said. “I’ve got to prove that I haven’t forgotten my roots, and you’ve got to prove your worthiness to be honored by Issus. First we fish, then we come back and there’ll be a big celebration.”

“What do you call this?” Njangu asked, waving a hand at the crowd.

“Just warming up,” Milot said.

“And what’re we fishing for, anyway? It’s getting dark.”

“We’re going after
barraco
,” Milot said. “They’re big, nasty mothers, carnivorous, that’ll go about, oh, eighty kilos or so. We harpoon ‘em.”

“Are they good eating?”

“The best.”

“What do they think about us?”

“The best.”

“Whyn’t we think about something a little smaller … and, maybe, safer,” Njangu suggested.

“Don’t worry,” Milot said. “I’ll be the one with the harpoon.”

“What do I do? Hold your hat?”

“Nope. You’ll be bait.”

• • •

Milot wasn’t being funny. Njangu Yoshitaro clung precariously to the pulpit railing, gently moving a lantern back and forth, while the lifter floated slowly just above the calm, phosphorescent sea. Ton Milot was beside him, a long, barbed spear roped to floats in one hand. Alei, Milot’s brother, was at the controls of the lifter.

Neither soldier wore his uniform, only a singlet and ragged shorts.

There were twelve other fishing craft out, lights gleaming, reflecting in flashing lines across the water. Behind them were the lights of Issus.

“Movement,” Ton warned. “Move the lantern around some more, like you’re a worried bird with a flashlight up its butt.”

“Why?” Njangu said. “I’m real happy with him staying down there.”

“Don’t you want dinner?”

“Sure,” Yoshitaro said. “A nice, yummy piece of fruit’ll suit me just — ”

He jumped as a slender silver arrow, teeth gleaming, came out of the water at him.

“Shit!” Njangu shouted, as Milot hurled the spear into the monster’s mouth. He staggered back, flailing for the railing, and toppled overboard. As he hit the water, something landed on top of him, something cold, smooth, and deadly. He kicked wildly, and the
barraco
hit him with his tail, and was gone. Njangu dived deep, kicking hard, then ran out of air and went for the surface. The lifter was about five meters away, and between him and it the
barraco
thrashed in its death agonies.

Milot and his brother clung to the lifter’s safety cage, roaring with laughter.