The officer, not wanting to appear frightened, sent Mesker a dirty look, made a note to get even, and opened the door. The tarmac was so hot he could feel the heat through the bottoms of his boots.
Judd waited for a dilapidated cargo tug to pass, followed the faded yellow line out to the fly form, and mounted the aluminum stairs. Chances were that Booly would be pissed and looking for someone to crap on.
Judd plastered his best shit-eating smile across his face, stepped into the relatively cool interior, and called the officer’s s name. “Colonel Booly? Major Judd here-come to pick you cup.”
The response came from speakers mounted at the front of the cabin. “This is Lieutenant Barr, sir ... the colonel left.”
“Left?” Judd asked. “How? Where?”
“Sorry, sir. I don’t know.”
“What about the prisoner? A corporal named Fykes?”
“Don’t know, sir. The two of them left together.”
Judd called down a plague on pilots, corporals, and colonels, reentered the thick October heat, and headed for the scout car. It shimmered and threatened to disappear.
The hover truck had a distinct list to starboard. Hired for a modest ten credits, it dropped the foursome at the intersection of the boulevard de la Republique and avenue Lyeutey.
Booly had never been to Djibouti before, but the fort sat on top of a plateau and was difficult to miss. Finding it would be easy. That being the case, the legionnaire reserved most of his attention for the city itself ... a place that might have seemed more foreign had he not spent so much time on other worlds.
Still, Djibouti had its share of quirks, not the least of which were streets that turned into passageways without the slightest rhyme or reason, French colonial architecture that stood shoulder to shoulder with concrete monstrosities, rickety cabs that vied with camels to claim the right-of-way, strange undulating music, and a mishmash of signs that seemed to alternate between French, Arabic, and standard.
Booly found that he actually liked the place, except for the nearly unbelievable heat and the stench of the urine-soaked alleyways.
The officer left the relative coolness of a well-shadowed passageway, turned a comer, and heard voices raised in anger. He raised his hand. Fykes stopped and motioned for the porters to do likewise. They obeyed.
There was a commotion, followed by rapid-fire Arabic and the whine of servos.
The officer peered around the comer of a stall and watched a pair of Trooper IIs swagger down the street. Shops lined both sides of the thoroughfare, each with its own sun-faded awning. Long, flimsy poles held them out and away from the buildings they served.
One of the cyborgs extended an armlike laser cannon. The support sticks crackled as they shattered. Awnings fluttered and floated to the ground. The voice was amplified and echoed off the surrounding storefronts. “We want cash, and we want it on time. We’ll be back tomorrow-so don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Booly retreated to the shadows and motioned for the others to do likewise. The officer caught a whiff of ozone as the machines lurched past. “Corporal Fykes ...”
“Sir?”
“Take their numbers.”
“The legionnaire looked at the officer, realized he was serious, and reached for the data pad buttoned into his left shirt pocket. “Sir, yes, sir.”
The journey resumed once the cyborgs were gone-and Booly was pleased to note that the fort was closer now. It loomed over them as they entered the maze of passageways collectively known as Scam Town.
Here were the brothels, eateries, and yes, if Booly’s nose was any guide, the bars typical of most fortress towns. All of which was fine, except for the fact that alcohol was offensive to the local population and should have been banned.
As if to emphasize the point, a legionnaire stumbled out of a doorway with a scantily clad woman under each arm, saw Booly, and struggled to disengage. His salute would have been more convincing had the bill of his kepi been toward the front instead of the back. He swayed alarmingly, tried to say something, and collapsed facedown. The whores looked amused and made no attempt to help.
Booly didn’t have to ask this time. Fykes rolled the legionnaire over, winced at the smell of his breath, and fumbled for his dog tags. The name went into his computer.
Shopkeepers, thieves, and whores called to the legionnaires as they made their way out of the souk, and it was some of the latter who managed to grab Booly’s attention.
Fykes watched amusedly as the unpredictable officer stepped into a brothel, haggled with the khat-chewing madam, and gave her some money.
Then, just when the NCO expected to see the officer enter one of the curtained booths, he was joined by four heavily painted female prostitutes, along with an equal number of joy boys. Two of them shared the weight of a cooler. A handful of words was sufficient to send the whole lot scrambling up the trail.
Booly saw the corporal’s expression and laughed. “Enemy infiltrators, Fykes-and heavily armed at that. Come on-let’s check our security.”
Fykes took note of the word “our,” realized that the colonel had already assumed responsibility for the fort, and felt sorry for the unsuspecting sentries.
The trail switchbacked up the side of hill, and Booly, his uniform dark with sweat, still managed to whistle. And he was still whistling, still grinning, when they arrived at the first checkpoint, heard some rather curious sounds emanating from the vicinity of a machine gun emplacement, caught a whiff of cheap perfume, and continued on their way.
They encountered two additional guard stations, both of which were deserted, before arriving at the foot of the fort’s thirty-foot-high whitewashed wall. This particular sentry had at least taken the precaution of locking the durasteel side gate prior to abandoning his or her post. Booly tried the handle, but to no avail.
Fykes, who was rather enjoying himself by this time, stepped forward. The pick, which appeared to be little more than a sliver of steel, gleamed between his fingers. “Sir? Would you care to enter?”
Booly remembered the vanishing handcuffs and understood why. “Why yes, Corporal, if you please.”
Fykes grinned, fed the specially programmed strip of “live” metal into the appropriate slot, and waited for the device to figure out which of the more than one hundred thousand possible shapes programmed into its memory would handle this particular lock. He had won the tool in a poker game-and used it ever since. Less than three seconds had elapsed when Booly heard a decisive click, saw the noncom turn the handle, and watched the door swing open.
The sentry, plus a couple of her buddies, were seated around the cooler, sipping from cold bottles of beer. She went for her rifle, but Booly was quicker. “Sorry,” the officer said, “but I’ll take that. Finish the beer and report to the sergeant at arms when you’re done.”
The legionnaires were still sitting there, staring at the place where the officer had been, when the porters marched by. “Who the hell was that?” Private Hosko asked of no one in particular.
“That was your new commanding officer,” Private Laraby replied. “You heard the colonel ... let’s finish the beer. I’ve got a feeling it’ll be a long time before we have another.”
A set of spiral stairs carried Booly up and into a heavily shadowed alcove. It looked out onto the sun-baked parade ground. It was deserted except for the orderly waves of heat. “Time for our big entrance, Corporal ... are you ready?”
“Ready when you are, sir.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Booly, with Fykes at his side, marched to the center of the fort’s parade ground, stopped, levered a round into the sentry’s assault rifle, released the safety, and pointed the weapon out toward the gulf. The weapon chattered, brass arced through the air, and a pair of doves fluttered out of hiding.
Heads appeared first, quickly followed by bodies and a broadside of orders. “Place the weapon on the ground! Put your hands on your head! Now! Now! Now!”
Booly complied, as did Fykes.
The porters, both of whom had developed a seemingly miraculous understanding of standard, dropped the duffel bags and placed their hands on their heads.
The first legionnaires on the scene saw that Booly was a colonel, or was dressed in a colonel’s uniform, and sent for higher authority.
It took the better part of five minutes for Major Judd to get off the commode, pull up his pants, and arrive on the parade ground. He blinked into the harsh sunlight and frowned. “What the hell is going on? Who are these people?”
Corporal Fykes gave himself permission to speak. “Begging the major’s pardon, but it’s my pleasure to introduce Colonel William 'Bill’ Booly, the newly arrived commanding officer, 13th DBLE. May we lower our hands?”
The officer’s mess was long and narrow. The walls were covered with ancient battle flags, antique weapons, countless photographs, plaques, and similar memorabilia, many of which went back hundreds of years.
The table was more than half empty and covered with crisp white linen. The battalion’s silver, handed down by generations past, gleamed with reflected light. Candles flickered, wine bottles stood in orderly ranks, and music played in the background.
Booly, who sat at the head of the table, did his best to look cheerful. It wasn’t easy. The dinner, given in his honor, felt somewhat awkward, especially in light of the manner in which he had humiliated not only Major Judd, but to a lesser extent, the rest of the officers as well.
The mitigating factor, if it could be regarded as such, was the fact that most of the battalion’s officers hated the major’s guts and were happy to see him fail. Not a good sign.
Tradition must be observed, however, no matter how painful the process may prove, and the dinner was held.
The fort’s air-conditioning equipment had received more maintenance during the last year than had the SAM batteries, so the air was chilly and the high-collared mess jackets actually felt comfortable.
Someone tapped a glass with a spoon. Judd, who would have preferred a computer-controlled shelling to the task before him, rose to make a toast. Light sparkled off his wine glass. “To Colonel Booly ... and a successful tour.”
There were the usual number of “Hear, hear”s, followed by formal sips of wine. Booly knew he was expected to make the next toast, and struggled to come up with something appropriate-something that wouldn’t sound disingenuous after the day’s events. He stood and raised his glass. “To the 13th DBLE ... may it live forever.”
There were more “Hear, hear”s, accompanied by head nods. The first of what turned out to be an interminable fourteen courses arrived. The conversation veered from topic to topic. It had a forced sound, was almost entirely unleavened by laughter, and was dull beyond belief. Unless one really cared about the Blumenthal theory of forward supply, or the size of Sergeant Domo’s much discussed sex organ.
Booly sampled each dish, drank sparingly, and tried to peg his officers. Judd was a given-or so it seemed. Three so-so fitness reports, three missed promotions, and three years on Earth. It suggested that the officer had enough influence to retain his commission while others were released.
The operations officer, Captain Winters, was something else again. She had come up through the ranks-and brought a Distinguished Service Medal with her. A decoration earned off-planet ... out on the rim. He liked her reliable-looking face, the calm green eyes, and the sound of her laugh. They were early times yet ... but Winters had possibilities.
The command and services company, which included the headquarters staff, medical personnel, and supply folks, was under the command of Captain Andre Kara, a bookish-looking man, who seldom spoke or smiled. His file, which portrayed the legionnaire as efficient but not especially distinguished, had little more to say. A mystery wrapped in an enigma. Asset or liability? The next few months would tell.
Not Captain Holly Hawkins, though.... C Company’s commanding officer, better known to her troops as “the Hawk,” was a class-A, dyed-in-the-wool, ass-kicking leg officer who had either been sent to the 13th as the result of some wonderful accident, or severely pissed someone off and been dumped in much the same way as he had. She owned three right hands, and this one had been chromed. A servo whined as the infantry officer took a sip of wine. She met his gaze, raised her glass, and drained it dry. Here at least was someone he could depend on.
There was a loud thump. Booly turned to find that his other ground pounder, Captain Henry Olmsworthy III, commanding officer of D Company, 2nd REP, was facedown on the table. A steadily expanding red stain indicated where his wine had gone. No one seemed surprised. That spoke volumes ... and Booly made a note.
The next officer, Captain Margo Ny, was something of a surprise. Given the fact that there was no way in hell that her ten-ton, tractorlike body was going to fit inside the mess, and the rest of the officers weren’t likely to dine in her vast underground garage, the cyborg had elected to have her brain box delivered to the table.
And not just delivered, but delivered on a silver tray, which Booly found to be vastly amusing. It spoke of style, courage, and a good sense of humor.
Ny’s brain box, which was covered with a custom-tailored dress uniform, plus rows of decorations, was equipped with a vid cam as well. It whirred as it panned. A good officer by all accounts-who had chosen the 13th rather than life as what? A deep-space miner? A cab in New York City? He was lucky to have her. The works company was well led.
Last, but certainly not least, was First Lieutenant Goodeye Nightslip. A full-blooded Naa, with features that reminded Booly of his paternal grandmother, golden fur with flecks of white, and the body of a weight lifter. He served as the battalion’s intelligence officer and led the special reconnaissance squadron as well.
The group consisted of two platoons, both under the command of a senior NCO and consisting of ninety-eight percent Naa nationals. Not because of a bias on the Legion’s part, but because the aliens were good at what they did, and wanted to serve there.
Did Nightslip know about Booly’s ancestry? Yes, there was little doubt that he did. The family was well known, after all, and the other officer was unlikely to miss the cast to Booly’s features, or the mane of fur that ran down the back of his neck.
Suddenly their eyes met. Booly knew the other male could smell him from fifteen feet away, and felt the past pull him back. In spite of the fact that his grandfather and his mother had been born elsewhere, both took Algeron as their home, while he, who had been conceived, born, and raised there, never managed to fit in.
The Legion offered the perfect way out, the means to leave home while becoming a warrior, the very thing that his childhood tormenters respected most.
There was no escaping his own inferiority, though. No matter what Booly did or where he went, he would never be able to smell what his peers could smell, map temperature gradients with the soles of his feet, or walk bare chested through a blizzard.
Yes, he could shoot just as straight, had learned to best older males by virtue of martial arts learned from his mother and father, and could run just as fast.
But none of those was enough, and when Nightslip looked at him, it was the senior officer who broke the contact. Did the Naa know? Is that what Booly saw in those yellow-black eyes? Or was it something else? There was no way to be sure.
It took what seemed like a year before dessert arrived, final toasts were proposed, and the officers retired to their respective rooms. Dawn was less than four hours away-and would mark the beginning of what? Only time would tell.
The ceremony had been scheduled for 0800, a full hour before the sun would top the eastern wall and fry the parade ground below. It was a small mercy, but one the legionnaires were thankful for.
Booly, who stood high on the battlements, watched his battalion pull itself into long, perfectly spaced ranks. Senior NCOs inspected the troops first, followed by their respective platoon leaders.
It was a common sight, one he had witnessed hundreds if not thousands of times, and found to be inexplicably movi
ng. Why was that? Perhaps it was the fact that while much had changed over the last seven hundred years, this had remained the same, and it served as a link with the thousands that had gone before.
Men and women rolled out of the rack, performed the morning’s ablutions, donned clothing identical to everyone else’s, laced carefully maintained boots, checked their weapons, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
None of it had changed and would be as recognizable to a Roman legionnaire as they were to the men and women below. As would the feeling of comradeship that went with a place in the ranks, the relationships both good and bad, and the written as well as unwritten rules of conduct.
To that extent, the 13th was similar to a living organism, complete with hundreds of interdependent parts, all working in harmony.
That’s the way it was supposed to be, anyway, but Booly knew it wasn’t working. The sad fact was that the perfectly aligned ranks below him were a sham, like a weight-bearing beam that appears to be solid, but is riddled with rot.
Some of the signs were obvious, like the protection racket managed by the cyborgs, sentries who would desert for a beer, and officers who set the worst sort of example.
But there were other more subtle signs as well, small things for the most part, like the political graffiti on the walls, and the mess hall groupings.
Bio bods with bio bods, Naa with Naa, and borgs with borgs rather than by fire team, squad, and company, the way they would have to fight. Had Loy known that? Was it part of his punishment? Or incidental to where he’d been sent? There was no way to know-and it didn’t make much difference. Booly’s s job was to find the rot, clean it out, and repair the framework.
Orders were shouted, boots stamped, and the battalion came to attention. Booly descended a set of circular stairs, strode across half the parade ground, and accepted Judd’s salute. “All present or accounted for, sir.”
By Blood Alone Page 6
