Four - EARTH

The next two days passed rather slowly. In spite of the fact that he had completed his testimony, there was the possibility that Marco would be recalled. That being the case, he was free to leave the campus so long as he stayed nearby. 

An autocab carried the officer to AL Patro, the heart of the old city, and the scene of many youthful adventures. The neighborhood opened gradually, like some exotic flower, complete with it's own doubtful perfume. 

The Legionnaire ordered the vehicle to a halt and walked the familiar streets. Many of his favorite haunts were gone, replaced by newer establishments, none of which felt the same. Here were the flop houses, cheap restaurants, and bars with names like Hananias Merry, the Corporal's Delight, and the White Jedi. 

And here too were the Legionnaires themselves, easily identifiable by their short haircuts, regimental tattoos, and flinty stares. 

Beggars who had fought under alien suns, looked death in the eye, and buried their friends. All for the stench of urine-soaked alleys, the contempt of those they had served, and the solace found in a bottle. Demobilized by the thousands, and with nothing to do, they stood in little groups. 

Marco watched a wiry little man, the emblem of the 1st REI still visible on his right forearm, approach a prosperous citizen. A civil servant, perhaps, or the owner of a store. Words were exchanged, the ex-legionnaire jerked as if slapped, and the man turned his back. 

The officer reached into his pocket, found a wad of bills, and peeled some off. "Corporal, a moment of your time, please". 

The legionnaire turned. His face registered surprise. "sir?", 

"I wonder if you would do me a favor. A platoon of the 1st REI saved my ass on Tabul IV, and I was never able to thank them. Perhaps you could host a few of the lads to dinner. I'd be grateful". 

Tears filled the legionnaire's eyes. "Why, bless you, sir. It would be my pleasure. I guess the tattoo is clear enough, but how did you scan my rank?" 

"From the way you carry yourself", Marco said truthfully, "and the chevrons on your sleeve". 

The Corporal looked, saw the dark patch of fabric, and laughed. "Once a Corporal, always a Corporal!" 

Marco nodded and walked away. 

Other legionnaires, curious as to what had transpired, drifted over. The Corporal showed them the money. "We're going to have lunch, lads... and some beer to wash it down". 

The men watched their benefactor cross the street. "I wasn't you to remember that one," the Corporal said thoughtfully. "Some need killing... and some don't". 

*    *    *

The summons came the way most military communications do, at an inconvenient time, and without prior warning. 

Marco had just stepped into the shower, and ducked his head under a blast of hot water, when his wrist term began to vibrate. The officer wiped water out of his eyes and squinted at the readout: "Report General Page at 1400 hours". Short and not especially sweet. 

Marco sent an acknowledgment and watched the time reappear: 1326". Not much response time. Why? 

The officer finished his shower hurriedly, made his way out into the simply furnished room, and spoke to the com center. "Holo vision, news channel". 

The all purpose Holo tank faced into life. Marco waited through the end of the sports report and was half dressed by the time the news summery came on. The computer animated news anchor looked a lot like the people who lived in the grid that surrounded the academy. Her expression was serious. 

"This just came in... A military court found Legion Captain John Usmos, son of Governor Sandral Usmos, guilty of stealing government property and has sentenced the officer to twenty five years hard labor at the Confederate correctional facility on Tabul II. 

"The conviction, which tested heavily on testimony provided by Usmos' commanding officer, seems proof of the Legion's ability to police itself. It does it? Critics wonder if Usmos war railroaded as part of an attempt to distract the public from other problems within the Legion.

"Now, with more from the man and woman on the street, here's..."

Marco didn't care about what the man or woman on the street had to say. He ordered the tank to turn itself off, and the image collapsed. 

So, the verdict was in. The thief would get twenty five on Tabul, and what would he get? Twenty on Foxybro? Probably, although there were worse things, like forced retirement. 

Having already accepted his fate, Marco found himself surprisingly cheerful as he made his way across the campus and up to General Page's office. He knocked, heard the traditional "Enter", and stepped inside. 

Page was seated at his desk. He no longer needed anything from Marco, and saw no reason to posture. His tone was neutral, and his face was impassive. "Excuse me for not inviting you to sit, Marco, but I'm late for a meeting. 

"You're familiar with the base at Bajoti? Yes, of course you are. Home to the 17th DBLE and all that. Well, it seems that the CO, a woman named Leenda, died in some sort of accident. Rough crowd out there, you might want to look into it. 

"In any case your presence is a godsend. We will slide you into Bajoti, promote your XO into the Foxybro slot, and have done with it. Questions?" 

Marco looked into the other officer's coal-black eyes and saw that they were easy to read. "Go ahead", the look seemed to say. "Question these orders and see what happens next". 

Marco thought about it. Bajoti. A pesthole located on the east coast of Africa. A place to stash trouble makers. Worse than that, an assignment without purpose, where each day would stretch into a long, monotonous hell. 

But to say that, or to give even the slightest hint of it, was to lose. Marco stood ramrod straight. "Sir! Yes, sir! Will there be anything else?" 

Page felt a slight sense of disappointment. Maybe the breed was stupid, or one hell of an actor. Bajoti was a master stroke. A punishment from which there was no appeal, and no possible escape. He nodded. "No, that should be all. Your gear would be shipped from Foxybro, and my adjutant has your orders". 

There was no "Good luck", no effort to ease the moment, so Marco said, "thank you, sir", did an about-face, and marched out of the room. They never saw each other again.