Legion Lost (13 page)

South
Tower Squadron.

We
are the scavengers. In two days’ time, the Legion is sending me home. I will
have to see what has become of the only home I’ve ever known, and the thought
sends a sickly quiver burrowing deep into my stomach. I pray that the System’s
military were decent enough to remove the ‘eight collateral’ from the scene. If
the bodies of people I know are still lying there in the Underground, I don’t
think I can trust myself to keep my cover any longer. Worse still, if one of
those bodies belongs to Bhadrak, I cannot predict what having a firearm in my
hands might prompt me to do when I next see Briggs’s smug, steely face.

The
other screens I tried have all reverted to darkness now, leaving me surrounded
by shadows as I stare at the mission plan. What are they looking for in the
remains of the raid? Do they think that the Underground runaway might return to
the tunnels after a week of hiding somewhere else? Whatever the case, Stirling
and the others are about to discover where I come from, whether they realise it
or not.

One
last burst of curiosity hits my mind as I stand before the computer. I open a
new search, gingerly typing the words
Malcolm Stryker
into the flashing
box. I am stunned by the hundreds of records that compile themselves before my
eyes, for the list flashes and alters itself for several seconds before the
search is complete. There is far too much here for me to take it all in, but with
a quick tap I open a document near the top titled
BATTLE SUMMARY.

The
System has a picture of Stryker’s face, though here his black hair has not yet
started to turn grey, and his features are less lined and harsh. The text
confirms Stryker’s involvement with the West Highland Revolt, and it lists a
series of encounters dating back over the last twenty-something years. The oldest
entry on the list is
01JAN2100—THE FALL OF LONDON
. From the stories I
was told in the Underground, I know that the great city of London was the first
to be destroyed by the System’s weapons. Malcolm Stryker has been fighting this
war from the moment it began, more than twenty-six years ago. Some of the other
battle entries have starred footnotes, typed in bold red text.

01APR2101—THE
SIEGE OF GLASGOW *ENEMY VICTORY

17OCT2102—STAND-OFF
AT HADRIAN *STALEMATE

08FEB2104—ATTACK
ON MOFFAT *ENEMY VICTORY

29NOV2105—DESTRUCTION
OF CARLISLE *ENEMY TACTICAL VICTORY

Scrolling
through the dates, there are plenty of victories against the System, marked in
the colour of blood. It’s no wonder that Sheila doesn’t want us spreading the
news of Stryker’s presence so close to the Legion. It looks like he’s a very
successful rebel leader, one that might easily apprehend a Legion full of
half-trained children. When I return to the full search list, I notice that
there’s no mention of Stryker from yesterday’s date. Either Sheila is late in updating
the records, or she’s even gone so far as to keep Stryker’s name out of the
computers too.

A
sudden thumping noise jolts me, and I quickly shut everything down on my
screen. I pace with light steps toward the information room’s exit, peering
down the stairwell and listening hard for a moment. There is a loud creaking
sound, and a slice of yellow light tells me that the door of the room on the floor
below must be open, though I cannot see the doorway itself from here. A deep
voice hisses into the echoing air, and I hear every word as though it were
being whispered into my ear.

“Crawl
back home, you worthless piece of scum. And I want to see you bright and early
at breakfast, to make sure the others know what happens if one of you dares to try
and take me on.”

“Yes,
Commander Briggs,” chokes a voice in reply.

My
heart leaps into my throat as I recognise Stirling’s accent. The door below
slams shut, and I listen to the sound of Stirling's ragged breathing as he
struggles down the stairs below me. Slowly, I creep down to the next landing,
waiting tensely outside Briggs’s door until Stirling has made it to the exit of
the West Tower. Then, with more silent steps, I follow him down and out into
the corridor.

The
sight of him brings burning tears to the corners of my eyes instantly. The
usually-tall figure is bent double, clutching his stomach and chest with both
hands as he hobbles forward. He is leaning on the wall for support as he walks,
heaving his body along with sudden, painful gasps. I hurry up to him in the
shadows, reaching out for his shoulder as I whisper, “Hey.” Stirling flinches,
breathing sharply as he tries to turn and see me.

“It’s
okay,” I whisper, grabbing him under one arm to support him. “It’s me.”

“Raja?”
he asks in the darkness. “What are you doing out here?”

“Poking
around,” I admit.

I
hear that little scoffing sound catch in his throat.

“You
picked a good night,” he tells me. “Briggs dismissed all the guards tonight, so
no one can prove what he’s done to me. The clerical and the military officers
here like to keep things very separate.”

We
limp along in the faint glow of the silent corridor until Stirling starts to
splutter, begging for a rest. He slumps to the ground near the corner turn,
where a window is letting in a slice of the bright floodlights out in the
compound. When the light illuminates Stirling’s battered, bleeding face, I fall
to my knees beside him. Unable to bear the sight of Briggs’s handiwork, I throw
my arms around Stirling’s shoulders and pull him into my grip. Tears tumble
down my face as I try to suck them back, shaking wildly from the shock of what
I’ve seen.

I
knew it would be bad, but not this bad. Stirling’s face is barely recognisable
beneath a sea of cuts and bruises. The image of his half-closed, swollen eyes
and split lip burns behind my eyelids as I keep them shut. Slowly, I feel his
arms come to rest at my sides, and I can tell by the silent heaving of his
chest that he’s trying not to cry too. He ought to cry. I would, if Briggs had
given me such a terrible beating.

“We’ll
get him,” I sob against Stirling’s ear. “We’ll get Briggs for what he’s done to
you.”

Stirling
says nothing. He just grips me tightly, letting the miserable midnight minutes
tick by.

Someone
is shaking me awake. For one blissful moment, I could be at home in my high
bunk, slapping at my brothers’ hands as they try to disturb my dreams. The
moment lasts mere seconds before I remember the truth. I mumble something
that’s incoherent even to me, and then a voice shushes me and I feel a hand
gripping my wrist. When my eyes flicker open, the first thing I see is a face
obscured by one of those black masks with only the eyeholes cut out. I want to
shout for help, but another hand covers my lips, fingers shaking unsteadily on
them.

“It’s
me, you dummy,” Stirling whispers, and I see his watery eyes and swollen skin peeking
out through the mask. “Come on.”

Stirling
perches halfway down the spiral stairs of the tower before he pulls off his
mask. It is still fairly dark—the late winter sun has yet to fully rise—but
even this meagre light is enough to make out yet more injuries that I missed in
last night’s darkness. There are half-moon grazes behind Stirling’s right ear,
where it looks like Briggs might have lifted him by his bright red hair, and
thick, crimson bands that stretch across his throat. If this is what he looks
like after six hours’ rest, then a part of me is glad that I couldn’t see him
properly earlier on.

“Did
you manage to treat the cuts?” I ask him. “I was going to wait up, but I must
have dropped off to sleep.”

Stirling
had refused to wake the others upon our return last night. He simply hobbled
into the bathroom to treat his wounds. Now, it looks as though there was very
little he could do but clean the cuts and cool the swelling.

“Aye,
I’m fine,” Stirling says gently. “Just didn’t want the others fussing right
now. I’ll give them a chance to be late for breakfast before I go back up, then
they won’t have time to spare for gawking at me.”

His
words are slurred by his swollen lower lip, which he keeps running a curious
finger over.

“I’ll
bet Sheila’s got something for that,” I suggest. “Why don’t we sneak off to
Medical now?”

“No,”
Stirling states in a louder, sterner tone. “Sheila doesn’t need to see me like
this. It’s bad enough giving the cabin scum something new to heckle at.”

“Well,
you’ll have to see her tomorrow,” I tell him. “She’s got a new mission for us.”

Stirling
turns to face me, and the full sight of his broken features threatens to bring
those wild tears back from last night. He smiles, then winces immediately from
the pain of the expression, and I have to look away to stop myself getting
choked up.

“You
went up to Information?” he asks with a faint chuckle. “Well, good for you. But
don’t expect it to be so poorly guarded next time, unless I’m getting the
Briggs treatment again, of course.”

“No
need for a next time,” I reply. “I found what I was looking for.”

“Is
that so?” Stirling asks.

I’m
giving too much away. I can feel my secrets looming in the awkward tension
that’s driving a wedge of silence between us. Stirling must know that I’m up to
something, and he doesn’t strike me as the kind of boy to give up on finding
out what my secrets are. When I dare to look at him again, I expect to see his
eyes filled with suspicion, but instead find his gaze fuelled by unmistakable
concern. Stirling reaches our gingerly, his fingers almost black with bruising,
and rests his hand on my forearm.

“Raja,
if there’s something I can help you with—”

I
cut him off, shaking my head abruptly.

“I’m
fine, really.”

The
words come out far harsher than I’d intended them to sound. Stirling studies my
face, and in those few seconds, I find that I can see beyond his injuries. It’s
easy to imagine that cocky, amused smirk he’d be wearing now if he could, the
one that irritates me to no end.

“There’s
something strange about you, Raja,” he tells me. “I can’t put my finger on it,
but you’re not what you seem. What is it I’m missing about you?”

Now
that would be telling. It frightens me how right he is, when he’s only known me
for a few days. The desperation to find someone to confide in surges within me,
but the fear of being caught is just too great. I still have work to do here.
Before the long silence can tempt me to break it, I get to my feet and begin to
walk away. Stirling calls my name as I’m leaving, but I pretend not to hear it,
even though every muscle is commanding me to turn back and tell him everything.

When
I reach the rejects’ bunk room again, I’m greeted with the sound of someone’s
stomach being emptied. With no chance of using the bathroom to get washed or
dressed, I slump down onto Lucrece’s empty bed with a sigh. Stirling has me so conflicted
that I could really have used a few minutes locked away alone. Instead, I can
already sense Goddie and Apryl giving me those conspiratorial looks. They burn
like sunbeams into the top of my head, until I feel forced to lift my gaze and
meet their eager eyes.

“Stirling’s
back, right?” Apryl asks. “I heard him wake you. How’s he doing?”

“He
looks worse than he is,” I say truthfully. “Nothing to worry about.”

I
can see why Stirling’s hiding to avoid the fuss, because Apryl’s already
fumbling under her bed for medical supplies, placing them one by one on her
captain’s empty bunk. A sudden weight sinks me lower on the mattress as Goddie
settles beside me. He is half-dressed, nudging me with his bare shoulder and
nodding towards the awful sounds still echoing from Lucrece in the bathroom.

“She’s
gonna have to go to Sheila if dat keeps up,” he tells me. “If it’s contagious,
den we’re all in for trouble.”

Apryl
gives him a thoughtful look, then glances at the clock on the wall.

“I’ve
gotta try ‘n’ stop her,” she declares, “else none of us will be ready to go
serve up in the canteen.”

As
she approaches the door, Apryl pauses again, turning back to us with one of
those warm looks that always manage to lift the mood.

“Now
don’t y’all come barging in here with your man logic,” she warns us, waggling a
finger. “This here is a girl talk moment.”

I’d
quite like to know what ‘girl talk’ actually is. Though, growing up with four
brothers, I’m not sure I’d be much good at it even if I did know. In my boy
disguise, I’m left to the mercy of Goddie, who slides his heavy arm over my
shoulders in a way that makes my insides shiver. He runs the tip of his tongue
through the gap in his thoughtful grin, deep eyes roving over my face, as they
so often do.

“I
don’t get what kind of boy you are, Raja,” he concludes.

I
try not to chuckle at the prospect of what a truthful answer would sound like,
settling for a noncommittal shrug instead.

“What
do you mean?” I ask him.

“Well,
ya didn’t punch me in de face when I kissed ya,” Goddie continues, “which is
usually a tough guy sign, or a considerate straight guy sign. But now I see you
gettin’ dis obvious boy-crush on Stirling—”