The sun rose blood red, threw shadows towards the Pacific, and bathed the campus in soft pink light. Colonel Marco "Bay" Dooley III left the BOQ, savored the crisp morning air, and looked across the quad. He was a tall man with his mother's steady gray eyes and his father's rangy body. The tan stopped at his collar. He nodded to a civilian and stepped onto a carefully maintained path.
The pavement was barely wide enough to accommodate four people running side by side, abreast, or two columns of two, which was the way that cadets moved from place to place. Just one of the methods by which they were taught to follow orders, work as a team, and focus on group objectives.The administration building, also known as Tonel Hall, lay directly ahead. His father had been the first person of Zuch descent to enter the academy, carry the class pennant over the rooftops, and collide with a general while making his escape. A story he had heard, what? A hundred times?A company of cadets crossed in front of the officer, and the commander, a skinny little thing who rarely saw a captain much less a colonel, salted, snapped her head towards the front and called the cadence, "Your left, your left, your left, right, left..." Colonel Marco smiled, returned the salute, and fell into step. It had been more than fifteen years since he had marched to class, but it might as well have been yesterday. He remembered how the door would slam open, the cadet leader would yell,"Hit the deck," and his roommates would groan. Then came the cold floor tiles, a hot shower, and the same old breakfast. All so he could become an officer in a military organization that had survived for more than seven hundred years. Not for a country, not for a cause, but for themselves. Legio patria nostra, "the legion is our fatherland." That was the Legion's motto, and in the minds of some, it's primary weakness. The administration building loomed above. A cadet snapped to attention, clicked his heels, and offered a rifle salute. The officer returned it and approached the door. The push panels glowed. Colonel Marco wondered if they were the same ones he had polished, or if the Daily friction eventually wore holes through solid metal. The lobby was enormous. A painting of King Louis-Philippe occupied most of the wall. A plaque was mounted below, and like every graduate, colonel Marco knew the words by heart:ARTICLE ONETHERE WILL BE FORMED A LEGIONCOMPOSED OF FOREIGNERS. THIS LEGION WILL TAKE THE NAME OF FOREIGN LEGION. The side walks were decorated with battle flags, some ragged and stained by what might have been blood, others as pristine as if just removed from the box. Not too surprising, since flags had very little place in modern battles, and were typically incinerated along with those who carried them. The air smelled of floor wax and something colonel Marco couldn't quite put his finger on. Mold? Rot? No, bricks don't decay, not Legion bricks. A corporal sat ensconced behind three hundred pounds of solid oak. He wore the insignia of the 3rd REI, two five-year service stripes, and a pair of campaign medals. He'd seen a lot of colonels and wasn't impressed by this one. "Good morning sir, can I be of any assistance?" The colonel looked into the scanner without being asked,"yes, thank you. Colonel Dooley Marco, here for Captain Young's court martial. Could you direct me to the proper room?" The corporal consulted his terminal, confirmed the officer's identity, and watched an icon twirl. He touched a key, "there's a message, sir. From General Page, please join him prior to the proceedings." General Samson T. Page, Commanding Officer, Earth Sector. He shared the building with the academy's commandant and was in charge of the court martial. Marco knew the officer's reputation if not the man himself. Medal of Valor, Battle Star, and Croix de Guerre. Some described Page as, "a hero of the Confederacy", and some called him, "the butcher of Hululia." Both views were probably true. The request could be routine, an administrative matter of some sort, or - and this was what Marco feared - the first sign of politics in what promised to be a highly charged proceeding. He nodded to be corporal."Top floor, south side?" The noncom nodded, "yes, sir. Some things never change." The corporal watched the officer climb the well worn stairs. Poor sod. Page would eat him for breakfast. The noncom savored the thought and chuckled. His coffee break was due on twenty minutes. That's what he liked about the Legion. Do what you're told, keep your nose clean, and things took care of themselves.* * *
General Page heard the knock and knew who is was. He rose from his chair, turned his back on the room, and looked out through the window. An important man thinking important thoughts. The pose had been calculated once, but that was a long time ago.
"Enter."Marco opened the door and stepped through. The office looked as he had expected it to look - formal and somewhat spartan. The desk was huge, as if part of a barricade, and mostly bare. What momentos there were had been arranged like legionanaires on parade. The rest of the furnishings consisted of some heavily worn guest chairs, a credenza made of Turr wood, and a wall of carefully arranged stills. Page on Saturon, Page with the president, Page on Hululia. Not one single picture of someone else. Marco, hat held in the crook of his arm, snapped to attention, "Colonel Dooley Marco, reporting as ordered, sir." Page allowed a second to pass, turned, and stuck out his hand. The smile was genuine. "Marco! Good to see you. Here, have a chair. Coffee, perhaps? The best still comes from Earth." Marco shook the other man's hand and took a seat, "no, thank you sir. I topped my tanks half and hour ago." "A wise move", the general said, dropping into his chair. "How was the trip?" "Long and slow", Marco answered, wondering where the conversation was headed, "it seemed as if we stopped at every asteroid along the way". Page grimaced. "A sign of the times, I'm afraid. The bean counters cut the passenger flights six months ago. I wish the worst was behind us, but I don't think it is." Marco nodded dutifully, "yes, sir". Page had deeply set eyes. They were cannonball black. He made a steeple with his fingers and peered through the triangle. "The proceeding has attracted lots of attention. You should see the headlines. 'supplies stolen', 'officer loots Legion', 'weapons missing'. Terrible stuff. Especially now. It's been sixty years since the second Manilow war, and the public is soft. We could use a police action. Might wake them up". The meaning was obvious, even to someone who had spent the last couple of years on the rim. The Usmos case could be used to justify further cutbacks. Marco struggled to maintain his composure. "Sir? What are you suggesting? That I alter my testimony?" The general's face grew hard and foreboding. "I suggest you watch your mouth, Colonel... Lest you face charges. Sandral Usmos has Presidential ambitions, and could even win, unless this brings her down. That would be unfortunate, since the governor is one of our few supporters."Marco met the other man's eyes. He refused to make it easy. Page broke the silence."Usmos is guilty as hell, we both know that, and he deserves to be punished. Two years on Gaphas would serve the bastard right! But why punish the entire Legion for the actions of one man? The last thing we need is more negative publicity". Marco started to reply, but the general held up a hand. "Give it some thought, that's all I ask. See you in court".The dismissal was clear. Marco stood, said, "Yes, sir," and turned toward the door. Page saw the mane of silvery gray fur that ran down the other man's neck and winced. A half breed. What the hell was next? Officers with scales? It made him sick. The door closed, and Marco was gone.The Conference room was small, no more than twelve feet across, and painted bile green. There were no decorations other than a poorly executed portrait of Captain Jackson Morre and a neatly framed recruiting poster. It showed a trooper II, arms spitting death, with bodies all around. The caption read: "Last to fall". The furnishings consisted of a much abused wooden table, six mismatched chairs, and a government-issue waste paper basket.Sandral Usmos was beautiful in a hard, calculated way. Her hair was blonde, her her eyes were green, and her teeth were white. When she spoke, it was with the manner of someone in the habit of giving orders."Take a break, Bari. I want to speak with my son".Daniel Bari had dark skin and extremely intelligent eyes. They flicked from mother to son. He was a lawyer, one of the best, and worth every credit of his exorbitant fee."Tell him to get his shit together, Sandral, there won't be a second chance".
"The witness may be seated", Page said pointedly. Marco felt blood rush to his face and hurried to comply."Thank you", Page said sarcastically. "Please proceed".Harry nodded and said "yes, sir", turned to Marco. "Please give the court your name and rank"."Dooley Marco, Colonel, Commanding Officer, Rim Sector 872"."And the nature of the forces under your command?""I command a mixed battalion consisting of two infantry companies, two platoons of sentient armor, three batteries of artillery, and a headquarters group".Harry nodded agreeably. "And for those not familiar with Rim Sector 872, where is your battalion headquartered?""On Foxybro"."Are all of your troops stationed on Foxybro?"Marco shook his head, "no. We have outposts as well"."Outposts that can be resupplied and reinforced form your headquarters on Foxybro?""Yes, exactly"."
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, a
The ready room had been painted orange, green, and blue over the last thirty six years and all three layers of paint had started to peel. The names of long gone crew members had been stenciled over empty suit racks and never removed. Not out of respect, or sentiment, but because Jedidia Jyro didn't care.The space armor had clocked more than ten thousand hours and was no longer covered by anything other than carefully applied patches. The warranty was little more than a memory, nobody would write a policy on it, and Jyro was broke.That being the case, the prospector ran the diagnostics twice, mumbled "Good girl" when the read outs came up green, and entered the Pelocan's main lock.The name stemmed from the way the vessel was shaped. Unlike many of the ships owned and operated by Jyro's peers, the Pelocan had actually been designed for mining asteroids, which explained the big beaklike bow.Farther back, roughly halfway down the hull, two pylons extended at right angles
The human shuddered, released his grip on the withered limb, and felt his back hit the inside surface of the chamber. That was where the prospector was, still examining his discovery, when Herbert called. "Sorry to interrupt, but it appears as though a ship is headed our way, ETA three hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty two seconds".Jyro used the Lord's name in conjunction with a swear word, was ashamed of himself, and started over. "Blast! What kind of ship?""Too early to tell", the AI replied. "Looks big, though, judging from the amount of heat".Jyro swore once again. Just his luck... A company ship? Or a pirate? He wasn't sure which he dreaded more. Either would be happy to steal his prize. But not if he could take the drifter aboard, hide among the asteroids, and wait the heathens out.The prospector turned, grabbed hold of the tentacle, and pulled. There was no resistance. The far ends was free. Jyro swore, fired his thrusters, and caromed
There were fewer asteroids now, a fact that allowed Jyro to see his pursuer for the first time. It filed the main screen. He fell through the pit of his stomach. The situation was worse than he had supposed. This construct was as alien as the drifter that occupied his hold, only a lot more frightening!The oncoming vessel had the free-form bulk of a ship never meant for atmospheric use. It consisted of three cylinders, all mounted side by side, and surrounded by a framework of metal. The force field that protected the hull shimmered as rock fragments made contact with it.The human watched aghast as still another asteroid exploded and the alien vessel pushed its way through the resulting debris field.The Pelocan shuddered as alien tractor beams locked onto her hull. The drives screamed as they fought to pull the ship free, and junk avalanched off the control panel.Jyro sat transfixed as garbage tumbled into his lap. The Shem ship, for that's the name
The bar was located near the San Juan spaceport and catered to a wide variety of clientele. Smoke floated above the tables like neon clouds. There were patrons, plenty of them, including a group of cloned spacers, a pair of spindly Dwellers, something in a hab tank and some Cux legionnaires.Dancers, most of whom were humans, writhed within special designed holograms. The music, much of which was alien, throbbed within carefully engineered "sound cells".Legion Colonel Luton Arthur had been wearing uniforms for more than thirty years and felt uncomfortable when clad in anything else. Yes, there was some degree of correlation between civilian clothes and the status of the people who wore them, but you couldn't be sure.Not uniforms, though. Thanks to badges of ranks, service stripes, unit badges, decorations, and yes, the tattoos many choose to wear, a knowledgeable eye could read a legionnaire's uniform like a book. A single glance was sufficient to establ
The office, paid for by the good people of Earth, was enormous. Carefully tended plants stood just so, each in a matching pot, arranged to complement the cane furniture. The early afternoon sun filtered in through gauzy white curtains, a ceiling fan stirred the slightest scented air, and music, one of the arias for which Dwellers were justifiably famous, wafted from unseen speakers.The android looked exactly as she did, and, over a period of time, Governor Sandral Usmos had come to regard the robot as an extension of her own persona. They wore the same kind of clothes, jewelry, and makeup, walked with the same determined strides, and spoke in the same clipped syntax.A clone might have offered a more elegant solution, but would almost certainly object to the role of professional decoy. No, the robot made more sense, and would provide a much needed alibi should anything go wrong. Treason can be dangerous, after all - and is best practiced from the shadows.Sandr