I was just a regular guy, I thought. Perfectly normal. Except for being immortal. And being a professional killer. And being insane! But, aside from that, I was perfectly normal. Just like the rest of the guys! So why did I feel that Deadman had me in his sights?
No, the rain was not enough to wash away our sins, I concluded. Not nearly enough. Maybe a tacstar would do it, or a laser track through the brain—but nothing less. Until then, we remained immortals, survivors, sinners in the eyes of the Gods of Fate.
"Three, One." That's how it started, a call from Snow Leopard. Just another call. We are microbes—we are clay. Immortal, for an instant. The Gods breathe, and we die.
"One, Three," I answered.
"Report to Opcen."
"Tenners." I turned back to the main entrance. There was no rush. Perimeter duty was just make-work for us. Nothing was going to come at us on Veda 6. And if it did, Snow Leopard would know about it without my help. Perimeter duty was just therapy, I thought, for Beta. Whether it would help or not was debatable.
Inside I walked empty halls, boots echoing down gleaming, half-lit corridors. Dark doorways lined my path like crypts. I felt like an intruder in the tomb of a long-dead emperor. Minos Station was a top-line Legion base—they didn't make them any better than this. The Legion was not into opulence, but the cold stark beauty of a major Legion station always gave me a charge. There was a sense of limitless power in a Legion station. And to see it as it was then, completely deserted, was downright eerie.
I took an elevator to topsides. It was silent except for a faint whistle as I shot upwards. The floor numbers flashed past on the panel. My camfax leaked water all over the deck. I made sure the E was set to safe.
Beta One sat alone in the Station opcen, a pale statue in a little pool of blue light surrounded by a vast darkened room of sensors and comsets and megadeath weapons systems. We were atop the base. Armored plex gave us the view, a dark morning, low grey clouds shedding rain over our own jungle. Once this opcen had teemed with life, once this had been the heart of a vast Legion hive. But now it belonged only to us, only to Beta.
Snow Leopard looked up as I approached. He was pale as death, hot pink eyes blinking at me under long straight blond hair, hair so blond it was almost white. Faint blue veins throbbed at his temples. He was dressed in a camfax litesuit. Beta One, our own Snow Leopard. Our heartbeat, our brain—our soul. Speak, One, and it will be done. Without thought, without regrets. We had all been together too long, and seen too much. We were in it now to the end, and Snow Leopard was on point. We had almost lost him on Mongera. We had all left little pieces of ourselves on Mongera, but Snow Leopard had left more than the rest of us, I knew.
"You've got a message," Snow Leopard said. He sat before the Station Commander's conmod. He slid a datacard to me along the console without further comment.
"A message?" I picked up the card and stared at it stupidly. "What kind of message?" I was truly mystified.
"A personal message. Star tracer." Snow Leopard looked up at me briefly, then turned back to the screens, vaguely troubled. "What's the latest on the port?"
"Merlin is still working on it," I responded. "Says he'll be done soon." It was not easy to keep a full Legion station functioning smoothly at low power with only one squad. The problem at the port was one of many. The war was stretching the Legion's resources, and Veda 6 had been stripped of almost all personnel. We were on hold, far from anywhere even remotely important—a ghost squad guarding a dead station, standing night watch for a deserted world.
I left Snow Leopard behind me alone with his own phantoms and took the elevator down to ground. I walked through a cavernous cold hall wreathed in shadows and found my way to the library. It was dark. I found a cube and hit the lights and sank into the airchair.
I was tired. We were only wasting time here, I knew. I wasn't sure if we deserved it or not. I placed the datacard on the desk before me. A personal message, from the unknown. A personal message, hurtling through the light years, sparkling through alternate worlds, blasting past all the magical barriers of reality and extinction, into the out and out to the in, matter and antimatter, all the way to Veda 6, all the way to Beta Three. Who did I know who would send me a personal message across the galaxy? Who did I know who could afford it? A star tracer could eat up your life's savings. My past was dead—I could think of no one from the past who would want to contact me, for any reason. Joining the Legion was like dying—you left the world of mortals, for some other place. People did not normally send messages to the dead.
The card had my Legion serial number glowing on the address line. It was for me, all right. I placed it on the tray and pressed it on. It was a genetic ID—for me alone. More expense. The message came up immediately in cold white light on the cube screen: "Come quickly. I need you now. Mica 3, 252-042211. Cite private A/C Black Rose 172472, valid CR 66,000. Tara."
Tara. Tara! I should have known. Who else? Tara, coming at me like a nightmare. My very own past, coming right at me again. A wave of cold prickled over my skin. I had thought I would never see her again. She last appeared to me through a fever dream, when I was down and out in the body shop of the P.S. Maiden. She was pale and weak, standing only by sheer willpower, her brow beaded with cold sweat. Her humanoid pet was hovering by her side, anxious to hold her up but forbidden to touch. That was vintage Tara.
"Goodbye, Wester," she said softly. "It's a big galaxy. I doubt we'll meet again. I hope you will remember Cintana Tamaling, who came to you when you needed her, on Mongera. I'll be out there somewhere—and thinking of you." She blinked hot smoky eyes and reached out her hand and touched my sweaty forehead and made the sign of the Legion. It was a blessing.
"Tara," I said groggily, "call me. If you need me…call me. I'll be there!" I was not sure if she was really there, or if I was hallucinating, but that's what I said, and that's what I meant. She smiled a sad little smile and turned away with the beast. And when I awoke I was in the C. S. Spawn, and she was gone.
I need you, the message said, now. This was Tara at her very best. No please, no explanation. You've said it, boy, now let's see it. Lord, what did it mean?
I knew immediately I had to go, no matter what. It was surely impossible, but I had to do it anyway. Somehow. Mica 3—where the hell was that? It was a Legion world, I knew. And a number to call, upon arrival. Now what was the rest—an account number, an access code—66,000 credits! What the hell! That had to be for the passage. It was personal business, not official. Oh Tara, what are you doing to me? I'm a soldier of the Legion; I can't go shooting off across the galaxy on personal business whenever the mood strikes me.
My mind flashed with frenzied images of Tara, exotic Assidic eyes blinking at me in the dark, long luxuriant auburn hair, pale brown satin skin, and teeth like white pearls. Stone cold beauty. It was an image I did not need, haunting me forever. What could she want? What could she possibly want? Only my soul. I was sweating, cold sweat on my brow. I accessed Center.
"Give me route and costs, here to Mica Three, personal travel." The screen flickered and glowed with the data. Twenty-two thousand credits. Pricey. So what was the rest of the money for? That was Tara, too—it was a test. Figure it out, Wester—then do it! I could still hear her voice. She was always playing with me. I wasn't as bright as Tara. I knew it and she knew it. It had never mattered, in the beginning. But that was long ago—we had taken different roads to the present.