Free The Lazarus War: Legion by Jamie Sawyer Page A

the stars. It had spread out from Old Earth, from the Core Worlds, and was enveloping the rest of us like a tsunami – like one of the Directorate’s lab-borne viral attacks.
    The preacher stared down at me, from atop a makeshift pulpit of cargo crates, and there was something almost knowing in his eyes.
    “There will be no resurrection,” he said, his voice lowering in pitch. “Those that have already been taken are lost to time…”
    I walked on. The sector was swarming with off-duty military personnel; full of light and sound.
    I used a comms-booth to put in a call to Kaminski, to see if he wanted to join me, but he didn’t answer. The same went for Jenkins and Martinez. They had other lives, I guessed, that didn’t involve fixation on the next resurrection. Maybe Martinez was more than a little fixated with that but not in the same way as I was. Although I thought about calling Mason, the idea of drinking alone with the young trooper didn’t appeal.
    So I pushed my way through the crowd, past the street hawkers and local marketeers. The throng parted easily: I’m a decent six foot even skinless, and although I’m past my physical prime I’m no slouch.
    But the reaction wasn’t about that, and I full well knew it.
    “Uh, sir,” someone said, pausing in front of me.
    A young-faced trooper saluted. He wore Sim Ops Programme fatigues; likely one of the newer recruits. He stood with three other troopers, all almost identical. Collectively, they looked a little shell-shocked by the District experience. One of the troopers pushed the leader in my direction, encouraging him, and he awkwardly took a step towards me.
    “Can I just say,” he started, “what a damned inspiration you are to us all, sir?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    He saluted as well. “I mean, two hundred and twenty-three transitions? Man, you are one mean bastard. We all heard about what you did on Helios – with the Krell, and the Directorate and all. Jesus Christo, that was some serious shit.”
    It was actually two hundred and twenty-four, including today, but I chose not to correct him.
    “As you were, troopers,” I said, trying to brush the group off.
    “Our outfit is new,” the kid called to me as I went. “Indigo Squad. Just got our approval from Command. We’re going to be just like you, sir.”
    I glanced back at him once, at the four identical faces. They were all younger than Blake when he had died; probably barely had a hundred transitions between them. They’d never be selected for an operation in the Maelstrom, probably hadn’t been soldiers before induction into the Programme.
    “Nice to meet you, sir,” the trooper said.
    I was already moving off into the crowds and the noise swallowed anything else that he had to say.
    I found myself in front of a wall-sized view-screen, showing President Francis’ disembodied head. Some things hadn’t changed at all. I sniggered to myself. President Francis was still in power; still head of the Alliance and all things good. It seemed that he was a constant, the rock around which the river flowed.
    “What’s the saying?” I asked the president as he griped about the free market conditions on the Core Worlds. “The best medication is self-medication?”
    Francis didn’t answer me. He just kept talking: that perfectly quaffed black hair, that award-winning smile—
    I was being watched.
    I clocked them before they saw me. From across the sea of faces, two familiar pairs of eyes peered back at me. I’d seen the guys before – down at the dry docks. They were good tails but not good enough.
    Before I could get a proper look they were gone again.
      
     
    I found a bar and went inside. My regular haunt had closed during my time on Helios, to be replaced by a fast-food joint with a fake attitude. So instead I just found somewhere that sold alcohol and would tolerate a tired old veteran.
    “Good evening, sir,” the robotic bartender said. It was just a mech-job; all gleaming steel and