Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (10 page)

Conklin paused, killed the video pickup, and stabbed the “on” button. “Good morning, Veronica, how are you?” The answer was short and far from pleasant. It seemed that both of them had been fired and were to be off prem by noon. Not only that, but the luxuries they had afforded themselves would be deducted from their severance pay, and their benefits would end thirty days later. She didn’t say as much, but the production manager knew the real purpose of her call was to give him sufficient time to destroy certain files, ensuring their mutual safety.

Conklin hit the off button and felt his heretofore rock-hard member wilt. He barely had his pants on when the security team arrived, deactivated the android, canceled his access codes, froze his files, and inventoried his office.

No wonder, then, that neither Conklin nor Chien-Chu noticed the small eraser-sized spy-eye that inched its way off the production manager’s armored-glass window, onto a support beam, and out towards the main scaffolding. It was the same support scaffolding on which the industrialist was busily welding a support bracket into place.

 

William Booly, Jr., was in deep, deep trouble. Just how much trouble was underscored by the fact that half the people in the waiting area wore shock cuffs, leg chains, and in some cases both.

The room he and the other prisoners occupied was large, institutional, and intentionally intimidating. MPs in full combat rig stood next to the doors, surveillance cameras peeked out of corners, two-way mirrors punctuated glossy green paint, and a host of mass-produced heroes stared at Booly from behind layers of protective plastic.

The prisoners were called in what seemed like random order and marched, shoved, or dragged through a door marked Summary Court. They emerged fifteen to twenty minutes later. Some blustered, some whined, and some cried. Booly knew how they felt. The majority of the accused were enlisted personnel but a slack-jawed unshaven captain was led past as well. Not a good omen.

Having beaten the two legionnaires unconscious, the marine MPs had dumped them into the back of an armored personnel carrier and hauled them to the Academy’s dispensary. Once there, Booly surfaced long en
ough to watch a doctor put eight sutures in his arm before the combination of alcohol, drugs, and fatigue had pulled him under.

Morning arrived along with a blinding headache, a breakfast he couldn’t bear to look at, and a corporal who was so thin that he looked like a skeleton come to life. His name was Parker and he was a stem taskmaster. The first thing he did was to open the blinds and allow sunshine to flood the room. Booly didn’t recognize the room or its sparse furnishings but assumed it was the BOQ or something similar. The corporal was insistent. Beady eyes stared from heavily shadowed sockets.

“Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, sir, but Summary Court begins in an hour, and the lieutenant should be on time. Now lean on me, that’s it, and I’ll take you to the shower. Does the lieutenant need any help in the shower? No? Well, I’ll be outside just in case.”

In addition to the headache and the recently sutured arm, Booly had countless aches and pains. Some stemmed from his rooftop adventures but most were the result of the beating he had taken the night before. He made a side trip to the tiny sink, found the pain tabs the doctor had provided, and swallowed two.

Three additional steps took him to the shower enclosure. It was difficult to keep the bandage dry but he managed to wash without Parker’s assistance. The shower was followed by a shave and running commentary from the hollow-cheeked Corporal.

“The lieutenant might be interested to know that I held the rank of sergeant on six different occasions during the last fifteen years.”

Knowing an offer when he heard one, and eager to learn anything that might help him out of his present difficulties, Booly forced a smile. “Knowledge should be shared, Corporal . . . please enlighten me.”

Parker nodded, removed a heavily starched shirt from its hangar, and held it up. A set of lieutenant’s boards had been buttoned onto the shoulder straps and Booly wondered how much longer he’d be entitled to wear them. He stuck his left arm into the appropriate sleeve, fought to pry it open, and winced at the pain. Parker showed no signs of sympathy.

“The first thing to remember is that a Summary Court consists of a single officer, and the accused—that’s you, sir—must represent themselves. And that being the case, sir, you must look the exact
opposite
of the sort of person who would do what you are accused of doing, which is violating a standing order, assault on a member of the Confederacy’s Armed Forces, and conduct unbecoming an officer. Here . . . allow me to help with those buttons.”

The charges, and the certain knowledge that he was guilty, filled Booly’s stomach with lead. Unless he insisted on a court-martial, and the military equivalent of a jury trial, the officer in charge of the Summary Court could punish him in any way that he or she chose, up to and including a reduction in the rank he had worked so long and hard to achieve. What would his parents think? Not to mention the tribal elders. But everyone knows a court martial is a two-edged sword, ensuring fairness on the one hand, and by-the-book rigidity on the other.

“So,” the corporal continued, helping Booly into a pair of stiffly starched pants, “the lieutenant might consider the following advice: Accept full responsibility for your actions, look the presiding officer in the eye, and apologize for everything except hitting the marine. There ain’t an officer in the Legion that would punish a man for that.”

Booly laughed and fastened his belt. It glowed from a good polishing. “Thanks, Corporal . . . you give good advice. Can I ask a couple of questions?”

Parker nodded politely. “Lock and load, sir. Ready on the range.”

“What happened to Lieutenant Riley?”

“The powers that be decided to cut Lieutenant Riley some slack. He was verbally reprimanded, confined to quarters, and assigned to Legion Outpost NA-45-16/R. He lifts two and a half hours from now. Or so I hear.”

Booly damned himself for the idiot he was. Not only had he let himself down, and embarrassed his parents, he had betrayed his best friend as well. So much for Riley’s application to Staff College. He swallowed hard. “Thanks, Corporal . . . I appreciate your honesty. Now for my second question . . . How does a know-nothing, wet-behind-the-ears junior lieutenant rate help from someone like you?”

A smile stole over Parker’s tightly stretched face. “Some people are born lucky, sir, like a sergeant-major I once knew who ran through a hail of lead to save my ass and escaped without a scratch.”

Suddenly a whole lot of things made sense. “You served with my father?”

“Yes, sir, I had that honor,” Parker replied soberly, “and if ever you need a sometimes sergeant, keep me in mind. I like an officer who will stand and fight. That’s what they pay us to do. Now time’s a-wasting, sir . . . Let’s lace them boots, set that sling, and move out. It ain’t smart to be late.”

Booly wondered whether Parker had chosen to help an old friend’s son or been asked to do so by the ex-sergeant-major himself. There was no way to tell and he couldn’t think of a graceful way to phrase the question.

Booly donned his hat, checked the full-length mirror, and was surprised at how good he looked. Thanks to Parker’s preparations, and expert assistance, he could have passed a general inspection. Even with the khaki-colored arm sling.

They left the BOQ together, and it wasn’t until they were outside and quick-marching their way across the quad that Booly noticed Parker’s MP arm band and holstered sidearm. He was a prisoner! And only by the grace of the unofficial noncom network had he escaped the indignity of a jail cell and everything that went with it.

Cadets saluted smartly, frightened by the unexpected appearance of an honest-to-God officer, and the spectral MP. Booly returned their salutes, hoped he wouldn’t encounter anyone he knew, tried to look officerlike, and was relieved when they approached the admin building. He looked up and saw the pennant had been lowered. An omen? He hoped not.

Booly took his place in the green room and waited his turn. Time passed with excruciating slowness. The other miscreants were fascinated by the lieutenant in their midst. Some stared in openmouthed amazement, while others whispered among themselves and asked the guards for information. Parker used a series of narrow-eyed looks to intimidate some of the worst offenders but the sidelong glances continued.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was actually only forty-five minutes or so, the door opened and a private was dragged out of the inner office. She was livid with rage and it took two MPs to control her. “Screw you, bitch! I hope you rot in hell!”

Booly had spent the last six years in a tough but protected environment, an environment where this sort of discipline problem was discussed during leadership classes but never witnessed. He watched the private’s heels leave two black skid marks across the highly polished floor and heard his name called. “Lieutenant William Booly! This way, sir . . .”

Booly looked at Parker, got a thumbs-up, and nodded. “Thanks, Corporal . . . see you shortly.”

So saying, Booly placed his hat in the crook of his left elbow, marched through the open door, and stopped in front of an ancient desk. It was made of wood and was bare outside of a stylus and computer console. The colonel who sat behind the desk had a blond-gray crew cut, an undisguised bionic eye, and a ramrod-straight back. The name tag above her left breast pocket read D. A. Axler. Her face was devoid of all expression. Booly snapped to attention, used his right hand to salute, and ripped off the correct protocol. “Second Lieutenant Wil
liam B. Booly, reporting as ordered, ma’am.” He kept his eyes focused on the plaque over her head. It read Legio Patria Nostra, or “The Legion Is Our Country.”

The colonel returned the salute but took her own sweet time before saying anything. Booly heard a mosquitolike whine as the bionic eye zoomed in and tilted down along his uniform. Finally, when the view was obscured by the edge of her desk, the colonel spoke. “You look pretty good for someone who spent the night disobeying general orders, wallowing in booze, and getting into fights.”

It was a trap. Agreement would amount to a confession of guilt and denial could be construed as defiance. Silence could mean trouble, too, but seemed like the best alternative. The colonel stood, walked around the end of the table, and stood with her face two inches from his. Booly detected the faintest whiff of mint. She had a hard face and her good eye glittered with emotion. “Now, you listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen good.
I
think you’re a furry no-good freak conceived by a worthless NCO who went over the hill so he could screw the local wildlife.”

Blood rushed to Boolyʼs face, the fur she had referred to stood on end, and adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. It was only through a major act of will that he kept his hands at his side and his eyes focused on hers. She might be the world’s worst bigot, or she might be jerking him around, but the results were the same. He hated her guts. To talk about his parents that way, to call his mother an animal, went beyond any possible justification. But an attack would give her an easy way to put him in prison.

The colonel paused, her eyes still locked with his, well aware of his hatred. She clasped her hands behind her back and circled him. “See how easy it is, Lieutenant? See how easily I pushed your buttons? What the hell are you going to do next time? And the time after that? Are you going to fight every man or woman who calls you names? ’Cause if you are, Lieutenant, then you aren’t worth shit, and I should bounce your ass out of the Legion right now.”

The colonel completed her circuit. Her eyes found his. “And guess what, piss ant, if it was up to me I
would
toss your butt out of here, because I don’t think you’ll make it. I think you’ll allow some two-bit asshole to lure you into one fight too many, or coddle your troops because you want them to fall in love with your furry ass, or make some other equally stupid mistake. But
I
don’t run the Legion, and for reasons
I
don’t understand, General St. James thinks you have potential. I just pray to God that he’s right, and this isn’t a manifestation of the political crap that generals swim thro
ugh, the kind that gets a whole lot of good people killed someday.
Do you read me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Axler nodded grimly. “Well, I sure hope you do, because you are one sorry sonovabitch. Drinking is
stupid,
violating orders is
stupid,
and fighting is
stupid.
Even when they’re marines. Now, here’s the skinny. . . . You get to keep your shoulder boards, but I’m taking three months’ worth of your pay, and sending you to a planet where you will either lead or die. The second alternative being best for the Confederacy. Your shuttle lifts at twenty-three hundred hours tonight. Make damned sure you’re on it. Questions?”

“No, ma’am!”

“Then why are you still here? Get the hell out of my office!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Booly snapped off a salute, did a perfect about-face, and marched to the door. It opened, then closed behind him.

Axler watched the young man leave, waited for the door to close, and smiled. “He’s gone, sir.”

A section of wood paneling swiveled out of the way and General St. James stepped into the office. He had watched the whole thing on closed-circuit video and carried two cups of steaming-hot coffee. One went to the colonel. “Nice job, DeeDee, you scared the crap out of him.”