Legion Lost (27 page)

Stirling
crosses them on the path, making his way down towards me. Every step he takes
matches a deep, thumping beat of my heart, until he’s standing right before me.
His eyes are fixed on the grappling gun as I busy myself retracting its wire
back into the barrel. We haven’t been alone like this since before Malcolm’s
meeting, and I have no idea what he expects me to say.

It’s
fortunate that a wild, roaring sound suddenly breaks our silence. The shudder
of mechanisation rips across the mountainside, forcing us both to gaze up into
the cloudy blue sky. If Prudell’s three white copters were deafening before,
then the horde of black flying machines overhead now are enough to split my
eardrums ten times over. A dozen dark helicopters, twice the size of the
System’s, zoom clean over the mountain and out of sight. Behind them, four more
machines follow, but they are slowing, as if ready to land.

“The
clan leaders are sending their men ahead to scope out the mission tonight,”
Stirling explains. “Only the leaders themselves are landing, and we’ll travel
on with them at first light tomorrow.”

We.
The word sounds foreign on his lips.

“You’re
coming with us then?” I ask. “You’re coming to aid the rescue?”

“’Course
I am,” Stirling answers briskly. “Malcolm sent me to fetch you. You’re meeting
the leaders up in the fish tank.”

It’s
clear that there is to be no more discussion. He’s here because he has to deliver
his message, and nothing more.

“Right
then,” I say, shifting my gun to start the long march up the mountain.

“There
was something else,” Stirling adds hesitantly.

I
wait, watching him with a flood of hopeful emotions stirring in my chest.
Stirling fumbles in his trouser pockets, eventually unearthing a crumpled scrap
of paper. He barely looks at me as he hands it over. I unfurl it gingerly,
studying the austere, capitalized writing with interest.

THE
PILL BARTLETT GAVE LUCRECE WAS A PLACEBO. I SWITCHED THE REAL THINGS OUT A LONG
TIME AGO. I COULDN’T TELL HER WITH BARTLETT THERE IN THE ROOM. I’D HOPED SHE
WOULD FIGURE IT OUT. I HAD NO IDEA WHAT SHE WAS PLANNING TO DO. YOU DON’T KNOW
HOW SORRY I AM.

“It’s
from Sheila,” I say in amazement.

Stirling
nods, his words coming out a little choked.

“She
left it for us before Prudell took her back. I was getting around to showing it
you. Sorry it’s a bit late coming.”

Stirling
gives a shrug, and I scan the words again quickly.

“So . . . she’s
against the System?” I ask. “She’s on our side?”

Stirling
nods again.

“Then
why did she go back with Prudell?” I question. “She could have stayed here. She
could have helped us.”

Stirling
steps closer as the clouds draw in overhead, bathing us in shade on the
secluded slope.

“I
wasn’t the only spy who joined the Legion after the firestrike,” he reveals.
“Sheila is Malcolm’s sister. She’s my mother.”

The
hints of compassion beneath the medic’s austere exterior suddenly make sense to
me. She looked out for the rejects, and she leaked Briggs’s information to us
in a seamless, casual way at every opportunity. And we had all condemned her
for what happened to Lucrece, Stirling included. Sheila had been by her son’s
side for seven years under the Legion’s control, looking out for him and
keeping him alive. Now, he’s alone, and I can see that loneliness in every move
he makes.

“Why
would you tell me this?” I ask him. “Why would you trust me with this
information, if she’s gone back there to continue being a spy for the
Highlanders?”

Stirling
sighs, his stony expression replaced by a sad, regretful look.

“Because
if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s that you’re impossibly good
at hiding things,” he replies.

The
hopeful feelings within me sink down—I can see that that overwhelming
disappointment is back in his sea-green eyes. Stirling starts to walk up the
path again, and I follow him with quick steps. Time between us is painfully
short.

“Stirling,
please,” I call, but he shakes his head.

“No,”
he replies. “Get out there tomorrow and show me that you can be more than a
liar and a sneak. Show me who you really are, and then we’ll see.”

But
his words aren’t enough, and I run up the stairs to grab his sleeve. Stirling
shakes me off, the first time he’s ever refused my touch, and it shocks me how
much anger that small move instils in me. When he turns to stare me down, I
stare back, determined to make him see sense.

“What’s
your name?” he asks, and the question takes me by surprise. “What’s your real
name, Raja? The one that your mother and father gave you, all those years ago
when you were hiding from this war?”

My
name. No one has spoken it since the days when my family was peaceful and
happy. When I hear my true name again, I want it to be from my mother’s lips,
when she sees that I have come to free her and my brothers. Can I betray that
dream now, for the sake of the stubborn boy before me, whose comforting arms
and cocky smile I crave so badly?

“Forget
it,” Stirling says, laughing piteously at himself.

I’ve
hesitated too long, and the decision is made for me. One more secret to keep
that barrier up between us. I watch Stirling leap up the steps, striding with
those long legs to escape me, and this time I let him go. I know that I’ll regret
that decision in every moment that follows it.

*

Once
again, I am the last to arrive at the glass office for Malcolm’s meeting. To my
great surprise, Malcolm rises from his chair this time, pushing back the fish
tank’s sliding door to welcome me in. It’s strange to feel his arm grasping my
little shoulders, and even stranger to see the pride-fuelled smile on his
usually harsh face. He takes the grappling gun from my grip, his tone like that
of a proud father as he chuckles.

“She’s
always training, this one,” he quips. “Can’t get the kid away from the
battlefield. A born fighter!”

I
could challenge him on that, but I don’t, because I can see what his odd
behaviour is in aid of. Three men are rising to greet me, with three of the
harshest expressions I have ever seen. These are the men that Malcolm and I
must impress, for the sake of recovering my people from the System’s
high-security prison.

“Raja,”
Malcolm begins. “I want you to meet the three great leaders of the Upper
Highlands. Brock Cawdor, Andrew Glamis, and Hamish MacDuff.”

The
first of the men, Cawdor, is a wide-set fellow with a bristly brown beard. His
hand extends for me to shake it, and I look like a baby in the grip of a bear
when we make our greeting. Glamis, the second man, is sandy-haired and the
youngest of the three, but at his belt there dangles a keychain filled with
what appear to be teeth. I greet him quickly, trying not to think about whether
they might be human or not. The third man, MacDuff, is older than Malcolm, with
a bald head and a rich outcropping of wiry silver hairs on his neck and
shoulders. He wears only a vest on his torso despite the cold nip of the air
conditioning, and one of his eyes is afflicted with the same white blindness
that has befallen Vinesh.

With
three Highland warlords staring me down, I’m suddenly glad to have Malcolm latched
onto me. Stirling was right, the rebel leader isn’t so bad, especially when you
compare him to the vicious visages of his peers.

“Short,
aren’t you?” MacDuff barks at me.

“Aye,
but I’ll bet she’s speedy as a hound,” Glamis adds, winking one of his blue
eyes.

“And
not at all feminine,” Cawdor surmises. “I like that in a revolutionary.”

I’m
not sure who to be more insulted by, but Malcolm squeezes my shoulder, as if to
remind me to keep my mouth shut. He leads me to a second chair that he’s placed
on his side of the desk. I feel strangely protected sitting beside him, like
we’re facing the other leaders together. I soon see the reasoning behind the
seating arrangement, however, as Malcolm leans forward to slide a sheet of
paper off his desk. The little note flutters inconspicuously into my lap, where
Malcolm’s scrawled writing glares up at me.

You’re
here for show. Be seen and not heard, and we might just get your people out
alive.

Any
sense of self-importance I might have entertained deflates, and I settle in to
hear the four fearful Highlanders rattle out the details of the mission ahead.
I can grin and bear their railing and the way they try to outdo one another
when they boast about their forces. I can even stand the creepy eyes of Glamis,
which keep wandering in my direction when he’s supposed to be looking at the
terrain map. I can play this part for just one day longer. One more day, and this
life I’ve been trapped in will be over. One last mission, and I’ll be free.

I
am an Undergrounder. I am perfectly comfortable with the cramped, close
quarters of the encroaching earth. But I am not, in any way, suited to
travelling by sky. Malcolm, Stirling, and I sit in one of the big black
helicopters with the three Highland chiefs, and, for the sake of appearances, I
try desperately not to show my extreme fear of being airborne. The copter
shudders in the wind and I bump shoulders with the two tall males on either
side of me, wincing every time there is a stomach-sinking dip in the current of
air.

“We
mobilize as soon as we hit the ground,” Malcolm says, shouting at us over the
repeated swish of the copter’s blades. “Raja and I will take position with the
other grapplers on the crater’s edge. Stirling, you lead our guests down to
meet their men on the lower level.”

Stirling
nods, and I go over the plan to keep it clear in my mind. The grappling gun in
my hands is my contribution, and it is essential to the mission’s success. With
escape lines leading from the top floor of the prison to the crater’s edge, we
can transport scores of prisoners into the copters to fly them to safety. That
is, after Stirling and the Highlanders below have taken the attention of the
guards away.

“Coming
up!” Malcolm yells, sticking his head out of the copter’s open side. The craft
gives a queasy sideways lunge. “Duck and roll, gentlemen. We’re in for a rough
landing.”

The
funny thing about jumping from the helicopter is that I don’t even have enough
time to be afraid of what I’m doing. All I know is that I’m terrified of
spending even one more minute suspended in the air, so when the craft dips
toward the ground, I’m all too eager to get out. Malcolm makes the first jump,
and I see his dark-suited frame rolling along the dusty plain below. I make my
move to follow him, stopped for the briefest moment by a hand squeezing my own.

I
look deep into Stirling’s eyes, seeing the scared, but hopeful message written
there. After today, we can talk again. After today, we might be able to rebuild
some of what we’ve lost. I squeeze his hand back for only a few seconds, and
then I’m leaping from the copter and rolling to the ground.

The
landscape here reminds me of the wasteland that surrounds the Legion. It is a
barren space which the System has denied life to, and all the rocks and earth
that surround me are ashen and losing their vitality. Malcolm and I bolt across
the dying plain towards our target, a crowd of black-and-green suited figures
who are sporting cannons just like our own. As we run, I let my speed loose,
and I hear Malcolm laugh as I easily overtake him. It is a triumphant laugh,
filled with an overconfidence that puts me at ease. We are going to do this. We
are going to be successful.

The
grappling squad is poised at the very edge of the vast crater, which comes into
view as I skid to a halt beside it. Within the deep, ashen pit, the Valkyrie
containment facility rises eight storeys high, its topmost floor just barely
coming level with the ground on which we stand. It’s a square concrete tower
with open walkways on its upper three floors. If someone were to fall from
those balconies, survival would be virtually impossible. But, with our safety
lines, we should be able to transport prisoners to safety, provided they don’t
look down on the way.

“Positions!”
Malcolm orders as he arrives at the squad’s side. “Take aim above the balconies
across the whole east side of the building. When the shooting starts below,
fire at will and secure your lines to the ground behind us. We can’t afford to
lose a single line if this is going to work.”

A
chorus of approval follows, and a dozen determined Highlanders take up their
cannons. In the crater below, two tiny figures have emerged from the prison’s
front doors. I can see them pointing up at us, as though they’re about to sound
the alarm. But they are far too late to act. The deafening cries of the
Highlanders roar out as the foot warriors arrive in a massive, charging horde.
The swarm must be at least a hundred strong as it marches swiftly down the crater’s
southern slope, tumbling towards the two tiny men in a cloud of gunfire and
battle cries.

This
is our signal, and we take it all at once. The metal of our hooks and wires shines
in the spring sun, the essential rescue lines flying across the crater’s chasm.
My shot arrives with near-perfect aim on the corner post of the prison, where
an inmate could easily grab on and climb across it to freedom. All we have to
do now is wait for the Highlanders below to start freeing prisoners. They’ll
give the captives instructions to move up the building, not down, as they make
their escape.