Legion Lost (6 page)

By
the time the report on the raid is over, there are about twenty nervous
recruits scattered around the small theatre. The last to arrive is my friend,
the dark-eyed boy, who quickly scurries across the room to take a seat beside
me. Behind him, I see Sheila entering the room with a sandy-haired man who is
shorter and older than her. He toys with his thick beard, surveying us as
Sheila moves towards a small computer screen embedded in the wall.

“That
guy’s Dr Bartlett,” my friend informs me with a whisper. “He kept me ages,
asked all sorts of questions. How about you?”

I
shake my head swiftly. “All Sheila was interested in was cutting my hair.” A thought
occurs to me as I look at my friend’s bright face. “Did you get a name?”

He
nods. He looks even smaller and younger in his sleek black uniform, holding out
a saffron-coloured hand for me to shake.

“Reece,”
he says proudly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Raja,”
I reply, shaking his hand in a rare moment of lightheartedness.

The
moment is cut short by the sound of gentle shushing, and Sheila looks us all
over as we settle into a silence as still as the grave. Then, she simply hits a
button on her screen, and my ears are suddenly under siege by an onslaught of
noise. The news report on the big screen is gone in a flash, replaced by
blackness. From that blackness, the System’s austere logo slowly fades into
view again. A voice speaks over the transforming emblem, and it is a voice that
spits its words out so coldly that the speaker could have a tongue made of ice.

“Our
beloved System, in its most prosperous, twentieth year, is a safe haven free of
crime and worry. We live in harmony because of our precious military heroes,
those brave souls who defend our borders from the constant rebel threat.”

As
the voice speaks, images of happy civilians are interspersed with those of
athletic, formidable-looking soldiers.

“You
are here because you belong to the Unfortunate Few, those communities who are
not privileged enough to live within the System’s protection.”

The
screen changes again, this time showing poverty-stricken people who are toiling
to farm on arid land.

“A
life in the System could be yours, if you are willing to serve your glorious
nation in your youth.”

And
then I see her. It surprises me, if only for a moment, to see the name
Governor
Prudell
beneath the form of a slim, blonde woman, but it only takes one
look at her eyes to be sure of who she is. Those eyes, filled with scorn and
judgement, seem to be burning out of the screen towards me. I have to remind
myself that the message is pre-recorded in order to calm the jumping pulse in
my twitching hands. Prudell is angular and hatchet-faced, even when she smiles.
If I hadn’t already been brought up to despise her, one look at her false,
tight-lipped smile would be enough to fill me with instant hatred.

“You
are the Legion,” she continues proudly. “A group of young people smart enough
to recognise the error of your ways. The training and orders you receive here
will prepare you for the ultimate reward. The promised land is waiting,
children, if you are willing to toil to reach it.”

The
screen turns black. Most of the new soldiers around me applaud right away, and
I force my hands to join them a few seconds later. They all seem grateful to be
here, so I need to blend in with that attitude as much as I can, so as not to
be singled out. The horrible thought occurs to me that this situation may not
be as temporary as I’d like it to be. Reece said that recruits weren’t let out
of the Legion until they turned twenty. Three-and-a-half years of taking orders
seems like an awfully long time to me. As the weight of that thought hangs over
me, we’re told to stand and follow Dr Bartlett out of the Bastion.

The
next order of business is a tour of the facility. On the other side of the
Bastion tower, the Legion expands into an open-air compound, surrounded by the
high concrete walls that I spotted from the outside. Inside its perimeter are
many fields, running tracks, and spaces where targets and dummies have been
erected for training, as well as dozens of low-lying cabins, made of the same
white metal siding as the medical building outside. At the doors to some of the
cabins, I can see kids and teenagers sitting together, deep in conversation.
Some cabins are populated with boys and others with girls.

“Communal
living,” explains Dr Bartlett. “It breeds excellent solidarity between squads.
There are twenty recruits per cabin, and communal showers and ablutions are in
the West Tower, that’s just over there. You train together, eat together, sleep
together, and bathe together. Your lives belong to one another.”

The
short doctor begins to talk about the training fields, but my mind is wandering
as we continue to pass the rows of cabins. I’m no stranger to living in groups,
but the words “communal showers” have struck a whole new chord of fear in my
heart. If I have to sacrifice my privacy in a shower room full of boys, then my
oh-so-brilliant disguise plan is going to be over when it’s hardly begun. If
questions are raised as to why I was pretending to be a boy, Briggs is sure to
put the facts together, and I’ll find myself transported to wherever the rest
of my people have been taken.

“Cabins
and training go hand in hand,” Bartlett says as I tune back into his speech.
“After a good, hearty meal, you’ll be put through your paces this afternoon by
Commander Briggs. Your physical abilities will determine which cabin you’re
placed in to begin your time here.”

I’m
starting to notice the truth in his words as we move farther along the cabin
line. Where before, I was observing somewhat ordinary-looking kids and teens,
now the figures hanging around outside their cabins are a more impressive
sight. Thickset and broad, even the girls in these dwellings have muscles that
bulge against the stretchy black fabric of their uniforms. Feeling the sudden
lightness of my hollow, underfed body, I picture myself as a twig that warriors
like these could easily snap in two.

“Well,
we’re almost at the dining hall,” Bartlett says, pointing to indicate an
archway in one of the concrete walls ahead. “Can I answer any questions for
anyone?”

The
crowd is silent. The doctor rubs his beard with a tight-lipped smile.

“I
won’t be with you again, except for health checks,” he continues, “and
Commander Briggs is hardly the caring, sharing type. This really is your only
chance, if there’s something on your mind.”

More
silence, but now my lips are itching to move. Dr Bartlett gives a slight shrug,
starting to turn back toward our destination, and I find that I have to speak.
I clear my throat loudly, forcing the old doctor to pause midstep. So much for
blending in.

“This
afternoon with the Commander, sir,” I begin. “It’s kind of like an assessment?”

“That’s
right, son,” he says with a nod.

Bartlett’s
eyes narrow on me, and I can’t tell if he thinks I’m suspicious or just slow on
the uptake.

“Well,”
I continue, “what happens if we don’t pass it?”

Bartlett
furrows his brow, lips pursed among his bristly beard.

“You
mean, what happens if you’re found to be unfit for Legion service?” he asks.

I
nod shakily. Bartlett smiles, but it’s one of those false fixed-on smiles like
Sheila wears.

“We
have a special facility for that,” he explains, “in the South Tower. There
aren’t many soldiers who don’t fit our bill, but there’s a place for everyone
here at the Legion.”

The
doctor’s smile fades as quickly as it had appeared, and we’re on the march
again towards the strengthening scent of cooking in the air.

*

The
dining hall has more food for one lunchtime than I’ve ever seen in my life.
With eyes too big for my stomach, I accept everything that’s offered to me,
settling down with a tray full of dishes and packets. I’ve eaten dried beef in
the Underground, but now butter-soft chunks of the real thing melt in my mouth
as I explore the possibility of mixing rice and potatoes in the same mouthful.
For one grief-stricken moment, my mother’s voice is in my head, chiding “Only
one staple carbohydrate per meal.” That was the ration at home, but now that
time has passed. Now, I have the chance to be well-fed and strong, and I’m
going to need to be if I ever want to get out of this place in one piece.

The
table where Reece and I have chosen to sit soon fills up with other people,
some soldiers and some recruits like us. It’s startlingly easy to tell the
difference between the categories, especially since the Legion’s soldiers
aren’t as desperately grateful to receive their meals as we are. Whilst we
poverty-fuelled newbies are wolfing down our dishes, the soldiers idle and toy
with their packets, chatting to one another with casual ease. A muscular boy at
the end of my table even tips his rice dish all over the floor with a
deliberate grin.

“Oi!”
He calls out, snapping his fingers. “Oi reject! Clean this up!”

Weaving
among the tables, a girl approaches us. She has to pass sideways through some of
the gaps to fit her large frame past the diners, and her face is too chubby to
tell if she’s younger or older than I am. She wears black fatigues like us, but
they have stretched to a faded dark grey, and over them a bright green serving
apron is tied at her waist. In the Underground, some of the elderly people
developed larger, paunched stomachs, but nobody ever had enough food to grow to
this girl’s size. She’s the largest person I’ve ever seen, and I instantly envy
all the delicious things she must have eaten to grow so well. I continue to
devour my lunch as I watch her crouch at our table, sweeping the rice grains up
with a pan and brush.

“That’s
right, reject,” sniggers the boy who spilled them. “You clean it up like a good
little girl.”

At
the word “little,” the other soldiers at the table guffaw and almost choke on
their meals. Their eyes are gleaming with merriment, and I see Reece offering
them a nervous grin as he tries to get in on the joke. I turn away from him,
watching as the large girl gets to her feet again. The teasing boy is laughing
at her openly, and I see the girl’s fist turning red where she grips the pan
full of food waste, like she’s holding herself back from doing something with
it that she might later regret. She has short, blonde hair that swings over her
shoulder as her gaze changes abruptly. I follow her focus, craning my head back
over my shoulder to see what’s caught her eye.

At
the far end of the room, the tall, dark figure of Senior Commander Briggs
surveys us all. He stands with his hands behind his back, his steely eyes
picking out details everywhere as his head travels from left to right. When he
spots the big girl watching him, his eyes fix on our table. I look away
immediately so as not to draw attention to myself. The girl keeps watching him
for a few more tense seconds, then she gives our table a submissive little nod.
I recognise the defiance in her eyes as she does this, and she walks away with
a face that looks anything but fawning.

At
my table, the sniggering of the soldiers dies down, and I watch as Reece clears
his throat. He is plucking up the courage to join their conversation, puffing
out his small chest to look bigger than he is.

“Hey
fellas,” he says. “Who was that fat bird?”

The
giggles and snorts of derision return among the boys.

“She’s
nobody,” replies the soldier who teased her. “One of the South Tower rejects.”

There’s
a place for everyone here at the Legion.
Dr Bartlett’s speech is beginning to make sense to me.

“So
that’s what happens if we don’t pass the training this afternoon?” I ask. “We
become like servants?”

A
few of the soldiers nod, and the teasing boy points his fork at me with a more
serious look.

“Only
the most useless of you will end up there,” he warns. “They help serve and
clean at every meal, and they all crowd into one room in the South Tower, where
we don’t have to look at them or bother with them.”

“With
one bathroom,” another soldiers adds, stressing the words as though that
information is some vital fact.

“Oh
yeah,” the first boy agrees, starting to grin again. “They only have one, tiny
bathroom that they have to
wait their turn
to use. Squalid or what?”

I
nod, trying to grin back to placate the soldier. As I return to my food, my
stomach makes an aching gurgle of resistance. I push my plate away, feeling
suddenly sick. I don’t know if it’s the food, or the revulsion towards the boys
I’m sitting with, but I find my queasy gaze travelling over the room, looking
for the big girl once again. One of the newbies that came in with me has
vomited near the exit, and it’s the big girl’s job to mop it all up.

One
private bathroom. Being sent to the South Tower would make me into a slave for
the rest of these idiotic System-worshippers. I would be ridiculed every day
and put to work with aprons and brushes instead of fatigues and guns. But I
would be able to hide who I am from the Legion. If I go into one of the normal
boys’ cabins, someone’s going to notice my refusal to visit the showers, and
then I’ll surely be investigated. If I fail my training, however, I have the
privilege of hiding amongst people who may even resent the System as much as I
do.