Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  Wash knew he should just end the conversation and try to get caught up on his work before the end of his shift—not that anyone else was assigned to help with the flow of work that would come in overnight. This suck-fest was all Washam’s. But the thought of actually getting out there and using the training he’d received at the Academy, of showing the legionnaires that he should rightly be called a brother and a fellow leej—the chance was too enticing to ignore.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say you’re not lying,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Fine. How can you pull something like that off? And don’t tell me the Legion is on board.”

  Berlin sat on Wash’s desk, removing his helmet to reveal a Cheshire grin. “Like I said earlier, the other branches, they don’t see an appointee. They only see a Legion major.”

  Wash nodded. He’d experienced the same among the Republic’s soldiers.

  Berlin continued. “I was talking to some marine pilots—the ones flying the SLICs. The guys are pretty much just flying legionnaires all over the place, dead and alive. Other than some gun runs, that’s their life—taxi service to the Legion. And the thing of it is, they have no idea. A lot of ’em are on standby because everything in this fight is so fluid. A Legion officer tells them where to go, they go.”

  Wash could see where his friend was headed with this. “And so your plan is to order a couple of pilots to take you out on a nice hike into the jungle, rifles on our shoulders. No thanks.”

  “First, you’re way off base.”

  “So that’s not it?”

  “Well… it is. But we’ll have a marine recon team with us, too.”

  Wash rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Berlin, this is stupid. And trust me, I get it. We go out, make the checkpoints, and the leejes give us some recognition, acknowledge we’re willing to put in our share.”

  “No, that’s what you want,” Berlin said, the smile not fading from his face. “I want something a lot bigger. You know the score in this program: we serve, and then we use our time in the Legion to secure a seat on the planetary council. Maybe a governorship or a Senate seat. But I’ve got my eyes on a prize grander than local legislation. I’m going straight from Psydon to the House of Reason.”

  Wash clucked his tongue. The last place he wanted to be was the House of Reason, though he understood the drive. Becoming a delegate in the House of Reason was the be-all-end-all for those with political aspirations. A life achievement. But no one as young as him and Berlin—neither of them thirty standard years—had ever made it in. Even those few “young bucks” who had made it at not-quite forty had only done so by way of a hereditary hand-me-down. A delegate gets old, decides to retire, endorses a great-grandson or niece, and the adoring populace of their galactic sector votes in the chosen one out of gratitude. Just like they’re told to. But what Berlin was talking about… that would require an honest-to-goodness power play. Going hard against an entrenched incumbent who was willing to do whatever it took to keep power.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched. But think about this with me for a minute. What do we know about the delegates from our sector?”

  “They’re exceedingly rich and powerful, they’re friends of both of our families, and they get whatever they want?”

  Berlin smirked. “Okay. What else?”

  Wash shrugged and raised his hands.

  “They’re positioning themselves more and more as anti-war. And I know it’s all part of a broader plan of theirs—I do listen at those boring cocktail parties—but they’re miscalculating, badly. The pain of the Savage Wars is still fresh in people’s minds; the average citizen is not ready to turn up their noses at the military. So with me running as a former officer in the Legion who, unlike my opponent, actually fought, I know I can swing the delegate seat.”

  “Okay,” Wash said, somewhat reluctantly. “That’s actually a surprisingly good strategy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I don’t think a quiet recon patrol is going to hold much water in the war hero department. And the Legion will never let you do anything bigger than that. It’s not like you can order a company of legionnaires to get on the SLIC with you.”

  Berlin’s smile faded, replaced by a gravity that, though not menacing, sent a chill up Wash’s spine. “I know all that. And so here’s the workaround: one, we’re the only legionnaires on the mission. Everyone else is a marine. And two… it’s not just a patrol. I looked at some theoretical Dark Ops intel, and we’re going to take a stab at finding and destroying the doros’ mobile artillery.”

  Wash felt the blood rush from his face.

  “And so what I need from you, buddy,” Berlin said, not unkindly, “is to tell me—are you coming with me, or have I got to go do this alone?”

  02

  The next morning brought Wash little more than nervous anxiety. Before leaving the hab the day before, Berlin had explained his plan two more times, and had then pressed his friend to give an answer.

  “I’m not sure” was the best, most diplomatic answer Wash had been able to offer. “No way in the seven hells” would have more accurately captured his feelings on the matter.

  And yet, when Berlin had sent him a text message in the wee hours, telling him to go to work prepared for a mission… Wash could still only give a noncommittal reply.

  He felt like a deserter as he walked the short distance from his hooch to the steamy office hab that morning, and he couldn’t make eye contact with any other being, humanoid or bot. Like he was preordained for some guilt and felt the heaviness of his sin weighing on his soul.

  For that brief walk, he was going with Berlin.

  But then, in the familiarity of his hab, he realized how massively stupid that was. He would stay.

  As he scrolled through endless requisitions, audits, and angry messages about some supply problem or other, he began to feel normal again. He cruised through the first hour of work, and soon he was laughing at the idea that anyone would ever miss him, a point.

  He looked up at a Legion recruiting poster hanging on the hab wall. He wasn’t sure who put it there, but the honor and adventure promised in the poster seemed almost cruelly ironic for a point sitting in a sweatbox.

  Wash was convinced that his plight was likely shared by every other appointed officer on Psydon. They were a bunch of guys assigned to junk projects that probably didn’t matter. Things designed to make them feel like they were contributing. And for most of those points, that was probably good enough. They’d get their Legion crest for the rest of their lives, without ever having been asked to face the slightest bit of danger. None of his appointed peers had ever seemed interested in visiting the front lines. At least, not until the blaster fire stopped.

  But for Wash, it was all he could think about.

  What is combat like?

  Would I feel different for killing a humanoid?

  How bad would it really hurt to be shot?

  He had no answers. Only orders to stay in a sweltering hot box of an office hab. Those answers were for other young men. Legionnaires allowed to be Legion.

  They would see the elephant… and they would know.

  Wash’s datapad chimed, announcing another batch of messages. The sound was both mind-numbing and soul-crushing.

  Do everything as though your life depends on it.

  He reminded himself that he took pride in doing the job no one else wanted. In doing it well. He felt a sense of accomplishment in exceeding expectations and meeting all his obligations. No matter how mundane, the fulfillment of duty built character. Even if that meant sacrificing your own desires.

  Wash made a decision. He would stay. He would tell Berlin to leave him out of his schemes and self-aggrandizing adventures.

  At least this time. Maybe next…

  Wash got up and walked across his mobile office hab to the kaff machine. He had to push the temperamental machine’s brew button four times before
it shot a jet stream of rich, deep-brown liquid into his old college mug.

  Wash rolled his shoulders in an attempt to unstick his sweaty collar from his neck. Though the midday sun was still hours away, it was already hot enough in the hab to make him question why he would want another serving of the heated drink. A month in country, and a tech hadn’t even so much as come by to look at the hab’s busted climate control unit.

  Wash picked up the drink and blew across its surface. The hot liquid gave no hint of steam in the ever-more-oppressive heat of the office. His hands began to sweat.

  I wonder if there will be kaff in the field? he thought to himself. The standard leej kits had instant tabs, but…

  It didn’t matter.

  You’re staying, remember?

  As Wash returned to his desk, he saw his N-16 blaster rifle leaning against it. If he was staying, why had he bothered bringing the weapon to his office this morning? It would be of little use against relentless waves of paperwork. Although a few blaster shots into his datapad would give him some cathartic release.

  And then there was his ruck, which was filled with field macros, charge packs, rations, water…

  Just how long did you plan on staying in the office to fend off the assault of incoming notifications?

  “There’s a war going on,” Wash told himself. “Remember?”

  Wash spoke often to himself. If he didn’t, he could go entire workdays without ever having to use his voice at all. Which was probably exactly what the Legion wanted out of points like him. Out of the way, set aside, kept busy with some task so menial that they couldn’t possibly cause any damage to ongoing combat operations.

  For the first time, Wash felt disgruntled—if not actually angry. He didn’t deserve this. He was the only appointed officer who hadn’t taken a shortcut. He had gone through the Legion’s combat training school. And he had prepared himself for months beforehand—dieting, exercising, undergoing feats of endurance, putting on mile after mile in hikes and runs—all in the hopes of making the grade. For real. Not just as a point.

  He’d promised himself that if he didn’t pass on his own merits, he wouldn’t join the Legion at all. So while the rest of the appointees skipped the full Legion training or took the “appointed officer candidate course”—which was designed for men who had no business serving in the Legion—Wash endured the real deal. He suffered the indignity that came from being every Legion drill instructor’s pet object of derision. He bore the scorn of those legionnaires who felt that he was being provided special privileges, even though they saw him on every run and march, joining them each night in the mess hall, shoving as much food into his mouth as he possibly could before an instructor came in and flipped over the tables and ordered everyone to clean up.

  All of that Wash had done, and in doing so he had found an inner strength he hadn’t known existed. The House’s pilot appointee program consisted of five hundred men, and of those five hundred, he was the only one—at least that he knew of—who had become a legionnaire the right way.

  The hard way.

  The only way. As far as that old NCO who had given him his first lesson had been concerned.

  And what was his reward for not taking the easy way out?

  A broken-down mobile office hab. Sweltering Psydon heat without even the opportunity to see a shot fired in anger.

  No, he wasn’t going with Berlin. He wasn’t crazy. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about where he was sitting.

  He walked to the sink and dumped his new mug of kaff down the drain. He wasn’t in the mood.

  He pulled up the next item in his queue—a requisition form—and groaned. Whoever had written it had provided no clue to tell Wash why this form was even in front of him. Nothing about why it was in his system or why it was sent to him on an authorization channel. Every necessary field was either left blank or offered only some vague note like “New Order: One unit.”

  “One unit of what, kelhorn?” Wash growled.

  He knew what would come next. He could file the report as inadequate, which, in theory, meant it would go back to the sender to be corrected so it could be processed properly. But what would actually happen was that it would be ignored—and then, two weeks from now, Wash would receive an angry message from someone higher up in the chain of command wanting to know why the cargo container of mortar bots—or whatever the hell was being requested, only it never actually was requested—wasn’t where it needed to be.

  And the answer would be because some sket-shoveling space rat, ordering supplies back in the air-conditioned safety of the cities the Legion had stabilized at the start of the war, didn’t feel like typing those few extra characters to actually let Wash do his job. But that wouldn’t be good enough. Because those mortar bots would be part of an imminent operation, and Wash would have to bust his butt finding something right now by staying up until the long hours of the night calling supply depots and begging for favors.

  Well, not this time.

  Wash scanned the email, looking for the electronic signature bearing a unique alphanumeric identifier. He logged into the quartermaster’s personnel file and looked up the number. It belonged to a corporal. Probably some kid bored out of his mind just waiting for his tour to end, daydreaming about getting back home. Or some degenerate daydreaming about kicking out on a freighter to spend some time at an R&R port. The kid probably expected the requisition to be reviewed by another corporal. But Wash was the odd case of a first lieutenant assigned to this task. And while his rank didn’t mean anything to the Legion, it still carried weight among the Republic Army basics.

  Yeah, he called them basics. Just like the rest of the leejes did. And for the first time, he didn’t feel sorry about doing so.

  Stupid basic.

  Without taking a moment to cool off, Wash sent his fingers dancing across his projected keyboard, eviscerating the hapless supply clerk one keystroke at a time. He sent the message without pausing to reflect whether he really should, because he knew that if he did, he would yield to his better judgment and let the issue drop.

  “Take that, kelhorn!”

  Wash leaned back in his chair, mumbling curses in vulgar Standard that would make his parents flush with shame. He didn’t care. In fact, he almost wished someone would challenge him and test his mettle.

  His datapad chimed, heralding a new request. It would likely be more of the same. Perhaps not quite as egregious as this last one, but no less frustrating. That’s what his workday consisted of: skipped procedures and bureaucratic hassles that surely weren’t in place during the Savage Wars. As the Army and Navy grew, the endless paperwork grew with it. In triplicate. And Wash was the only legionnaire on hand to KTF the stack.

  He let out a sigh and felt his anger-fueled momentum fade away. These slackers deserved what they got. But with the number of notifications he had waiting on his datapad… He didn’t have the energy to chew that many butts before noon.

  Why not head back to your hooch and take a nap? It’s not like anyone would even notice you were gone.

  Wash shook his head, but internally he was thinking the option over.

  Through the thin walls of the hab came the sound of a single SLIC approaching. Wash stood up, his interest piqued. It couldn’t be the camp’s platoon of legionnaires—the ones who wouldn’t give Wash the time of day. They had all flown out on SLICs three days ago, but they were supposed to march back in—and even if that plan changed, it would take more than one SLIC to deliver them.

  Part of Wash wanted to go out and see who was touching down, but the larger part of him was in too foul of a mood to bother. He reached for his mug, then felt a pang of annoyed regret at finding it empty. He remembered how he’d dumped the kaff down the drain, a willful abuse of taxpayer money. It would’ve been just cool enough to enjoy by now, too.

  As he pondered whether to brew another mug, the door to the hab swung open, and the SLIC’s intense repulsor noise blasted in as though it was literally right ou
tside his door. It was close at any rate, and had to be kicking up a hell of a lot of dust in the camp.

  “Really?” said Berlin, standing in the doorway, his newly acquired legionnaire bucket tucked under one arm as he held the door open with the other. There was a wolfish grin on his face. “You mean to tell me we’re about to go on a recon patrol and you couldn’t even be bothered to put on your armor? I know the Legion at least gave you that much gear. It’s the buckets we have to find on our own.”

  Wash, who wore his usual gray fatigues, darkened by sweat, didn’t feel in the mood for Berlin’s levity. The truth of it was, he was surprised that his friend was actually following through on his plan, and he said as much. “You’re not actually doing this, are you? This is stupid, Berlin. A bad idea all around. If you don’t get yourself killed, you’ll definitely get yourself court-martialed. Call me crazy, but that’s not how I want to end my career in the Legion.”

  Berlin studied Wash a moment before saying, “Soooo… You’re not going?”

  “No, I’m not going!”

  The major looked down. “I really thought you’d come, Wash. You’re sure?”

  Wash nodded.

  Berlin turned, letting the door half close behind him. “Well, wish me luck, huh?”

  Wash nodded again as the door closed behind his friend. He felt sorrow clutching at him, threatening to drag him into a malaise. But… he was right not to go along with this. It was idiotic, and he would not be a part of it.

  He got up to make a new cup of kaff.

  He would stay.

  As the machine hissed out its brew, Wash crossed the room to grab his ruck. He threw it over his shoulder.

  This is stupid. You’re being stupid right now, Washam.

  Stay.

  He picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder, feeling that he’d reached a moment of decision. The SLIC outside cycled up its repulsors.

  You can still stay…

  Wash left his malfunctioning, oppressive office hab. He shouted for Berlin, who was walking toward the SLIC, but he couldn’t make himself heard above the noise. So he ran toward the aircraft. It was filled with Republic marines, their legs dangling over the sides.