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.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
The tone was cheerful, deceptively so, and Quinn responded with that in mind. "I don't blame you for being angry, sir, but I can put things right, and double the company's revenue within the next twelve months".It was an absurd claim, but delivered with such sincerity that Zuon was intrigued. He perched on a corner of the conference table. The sarcasm was obvious. "Really? How fascinating! Tell me more".So Quinn did, starting with the macro socioeconomic situation, and going on to knit the various pieces of the scheme together. Zuon, who didn't impress easily, found himself growing increasingly excited.The plan would not only improve the companies bottom line, but put the screws to Doug Douglas Enterprises, something Zuon had long wanted to do.The industrialist sent Quinn on his way, summoned his secretary staff, and ordered them to disrobe. The clones complied, which was nice for Zuon, and for those scheduled for the pit. Their presentation went off without
A check confirmed that a Midvalian seat frame had been flown in, a top-of-the-line holo tank sat ready for use, and there were plenty of refreshments, including some grublike creatures that wriggled in the bottom of a bowl.The staff, all of whom were androids, would be brain-wiped the moment the meeting was over, reduced to their component parts, and fed into an electric arc furnace. A rather expensive precaution, but necessary nonetheless.It took fifteen minutes to complete the necessary introductions and dispense with the small talk.The guest took their seats, all but the War Vaano that is, who loomed behind Vaano's chair, and stood ready to defend him. It was a relationship that neither one of Midvalians could break, and extended to the Egg Vaano, deep in her distant cave.The group had chosen Governor Usmos to act as moderator, a role that she relished. The politici
Ishimoto-Seven came to his feet. His fingers opened and closed. "I didn't come here to take insults from corporate whores! Perhaps Citizen Quinn would like to take it outside, where I would be pleased to kick his pompous ass!"Usmos started to intervene, but Luton beat her to it. His voice was low but carried to every corner of the room. "Stow the bullshit".The room fell silent as the officer stood and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were like lasers and probed the faces around him. "Let's get something straight.... Every damned one of you has an axe to grind. Fine. I accept that. But nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to happen unless my people put their lives on the line and manage to win one hellacious battle."If we survive, if we win, the lot of you can squabble over who gets what, so long as you remember one important fact: We have the weapons, we have the know-how, and we have the final say. Question