HALF BREED

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 ONE

THERE WILL BE FORMED A LEGION

COMPOSED 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.