Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  “Critics of the House of Reason’s appointment program,” the governor said, “were quick to point out that most of the officers appointed to the Legion came from core worlds like Spilursa. They called it a social club for the elite. Painted the brave officers as spoiled children eager to play war for their own personal advancement.

  “But now, as we gather in memory of Major Berlin,” the governor gestured to a gleaming white coffin engulfed with colossal floral sprays gathered from every planet in the system, “we know… better.”

  Wash stared numbly at the coffin, his friend moldering inside.

  “Major Berlin has shown the galaxy that the desire to fight for our shared liberties and freedoms, the integrity required to lay down one’s life for the good of others, is something that transcends all social, economic, racial, and species distinctions!”

  The crowd gave respectful, but not boisterous, applause. It was a memorial service, after all.

  “His sacrifice is a reflection of the character embedded in the heart of the citizen. And faithful citizens of the Republic can be found from galaxy’s edge to the mid-core to the very core itself!”

  The governor paused, lowering his head in a practiced show of sorrow. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, so that you had to practically lean forward to hear the man. “I spoke today about a hero of the Republic. A man worthy of the respect afforded to the finest in our history. And now I leave you with this: the galaxy is worse off today for having lost Major D’lay Berlin…”

  The words sat there, soaking into the audience in a way that the rain could never hope to do.

  “… unless those of you hearing me today, wherever you are, follow Major Berlin’s example of sacrifice and harrowing courage. Think now, fellow citizens of the Republic, of yourself—yes—but only inasmuch as you can contribute to the greater good for all those who share in this one unified Galactic Republic.”

  The gallery huddling under umbrellas and personal weather shields applauded loudly. Wash noted the moment his friend’s memorial service crossed the line from reverential tribute to political rally.

  A marine honor guard took the stage, and the cheering died down. The marines were in their dress uniforms, swords gleaming, flags held proudly aloft. Wash looked to see if any of the marines he’d known were among them, but he didn’t recognize any of the men.

  Following the marines was a Legion general. The man looked as tough outside of his armor as he likely did in it. And though he gave no outward indication of it, Wash was sure that the general was less than pleased to be here. Berlin had been a point, and to some, that was a stink that could never be rinsed off, no matter what he had done.

  The general crisply saluted the governor and assumed control of the podium. “The Order of the Centurion is the highest award that can be bestowed upon an individual serving in, or with, the Legion. When such an individual displays exceptional valor in action against an enemy force, and uncommon loyalty and devotion to the Legion and its legionnaires, refusing to abandon post, mission, or brothers, even unto death, the Legion dutifully recognizes such courage with this award. Today, on behalf of the Legion and a thankful Republic, I award this honor to Major D’lay Berlin.”

  The audience applauded loudly.

  The general walked to Berlin’s parents.

  Berlin’s mother wept uncontrollably and buried her head in her husband’s shoulder. Berlin’s father did his best to hold back his tears as the general bent down to present the Order of the Centurion to him.

  Wash saw compassion in the general’s eyes.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Berlin,” the general said, his voice subdued and low, speaking for just the two of them to hear, “on behalf of a thankful galaxy, I award to you, in the place of your son, the highest honor the Legion can bestow: the Order of the Centurion.”

  And that was it.

  There was no mugging for the holocams while the people shouted and cheered. Just a somber silence as Mrs. Berlin continued in her sorrow, tears streaming into her husband’s chest. Wash could hear the rest of Berlin’s family—siblings and grandparents—weeping in the seats behind him.

  The Spilursan National Defense Force began to play an ancient piece of music known as “Taps”—its slow and haunting tune had supposedly played at the funerals of soldiers since the days of the ancients.

  Marines fired their blaster rifles in unison seven times.

  And then the crowd dispersed, leaving nothing but the echoing memory of the day’s pageantry to comfort Berlin’s grieving family.

  Later was the wake, which always struck Wash as an odd custom—he never felt like attending a party after burying a loved one. Berlin’s parents had accepted an offer to hold it at the capital’s extravagant council ball room. There were holocams present, and though none were live-casting, the footage would surely be expertly produced and used by the House of Reason in what was already a public relations campaign to make a hero of the first appointed Legion officer to die in service.

  No, Wash corrected himself. Not make a hero.

  Berlin, despite his faults, was a hero. No one would ever convince Wash otherwise.

  But he wasn’t the only hero from that day on Psydon. Other men had fought just as hard—harder—had suffered just as much, and were just as dead. There would be no medals for them, no grand ceremonies for their grieving families. Just heartfelt condolences, a Purple Heart, and—Wash hoped—financial support for the fatherless children left behind.

  Wash wondered if Berlin would have gotten the Order if he hadn’t been a point. If he had been just another legionnaire doing his job. He certainly wasn’t the first legionnaire to receive the honor for actions on Psydon.

  Regardless, Wash was certain the Legion brass wasn’t particularly happy about having to hang one under the name of a point. In fact, if Wash had to bet, he would guess the bestowing of this honor was merely a component of some backroom give-and-take between the House, Senate, and Legion in the halls of government.

  Just the way business was done.

  It didn’t matter, though. Berlin deserved it.

  In spite of Wash’s best efforts to stay out of the limelight—standing away from the high-traffic areas like the bar and refreshments table, while trying not to stand out in a secluded corner—a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers approached him. It was as if his Legion uniform were a magnet.

  It was no secret that Wash had been with Berlin when he died. No secret that Wash had been part of the mission that, while not ending the war directly, had opened the way for Legion General Umstead’s final push. The doro resistance was utterly destroyed, allowing Psydon to return to its rightful place in the Republic. A sizeable Legion garrison would likely remain on planet to make sure things never got so out of hand again.

  “What really happened out there?” was a question Wash heard often that night.

  Those who asked it meant well enough, but a truthful answer was one they would never be able to fully comprehend. Because it involved something deeper than a series of orderly facts. To know what really happened on Psydon required not a state of knowledge so much as a state of being. Either you were there, and you got it, or you didn’t.

  And that was that.

  But Wash could hardly say as much to a mourner dressed in their best clothing inquiring—sometimes earnestly, and sometimes out of a morbid sense of curiosity—about the final minutes of their friend’s, or acquaintance’s, life.

  In the end, Wash gave a stock answer: “He died a hero. He died trying to save the rest of us.”

  Usually that was the point where the small talk would end, because what else can you say?

  Wash felt like he’d been holding the same snifter of brandy in his palm for hours. He made an effort to actually finish the thing and then see about getting out of there. But as he tilted it back, he saw through the orb-like distortion of the glass that the planetary governor was coming his way with a small entourage.

  “Captain Washam, I believe it
now is? Congratulations on a well-deserved promotion.” The governor gave a warm smile and extended his hand.

  “Yes, sir,” Wash answered, feeling a new bout of depression coming on. Berlin was in the grave, and Wash was moving up. The Legion probably weren’t crazy about the new rank, either.

  The politician gave a knowing nod. “Well, let me express my gratitude for what you did on Psydon. I know that your friend paid the ultimate sacrifice, but that shouldn’t diminish your own contribution. What I said about Major Berlin is just as true of you. I daresay more so, if the rumors about you actually completing Legion Academy training on your own merits are to be believed.”

  Wash nodded. They were true and would never be believed. “Thank you, sir. I don’t think I did anything that anyone else dedicated to the Republic wouldn’t have done. Certainly the marines served with great sacrifice of their own.”

  “Indeed.” The governor moved to stand at Wash’s side, looking down pensively, like they were two friends traveling down a road together, lost in conversation. “However, you say what you’ve done is what anyone dedicated to the Republic would do. Sad to say, such is not the truth. Or at least, not as true as it ought to be.”

  “Sir?”

  The governor seemed lost in consideration of his own words. Then he waved forward a young man from his entourage. A handsome fellow, perhaps three years younger than Wash. “I’d like you to meet this sector’s junior delegate, Orrin Kaar.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Captain,” said Kaar in a manner that made Wash instantly feel he was with a friend. Someone who understood… everything. “I’m terribly sorry about the loss of your friend. I daresay, if I may be so bold, that had he survived, he would be able to stand against foolish men such as Horkoshino—and win—this very cycle.”

  “I believe so,” said Wash. “D’lay wanted very much to run once his time in the Legion came to a close. He felt Delegate Horkoshino’s rather… pronounced disavowals of the military, and the Legion in general, were a denial of the will of the people.”

  The governor laughed into his glass of wine. “Major Berlin was a discerning man. In time, I think Horkoshino’s undoing will be exactly as you say. And the sooner the better to make way for people who understand how the galaxy works. People who understand that it requires sacrifice to maintain unity in a Republic. Such is the very fabric of the freedoms and liberty we enjoy. It’s truths like these that men like Major Berlin—may he rest in eternal slumber—fought and died for.”

  Wash felt like he was a test subject for the governor’s next State of the Planet address. He nodded politely.

  Kaar raised a glass of champagne. “To the major.”

  The entourage and the governor repeated the toast. Wash sipped his brandy.

  The planetary governor beamed at Kaar like a proud father, then turned his attention back to Wash. “That brings us to some other business, and I do hope you’ll forgive me for it, given the nature of this gathering. However, who can say when all of us will be gathered together again?”

  Wash nodded, inviting the governor to continue, though he couldn’t imagine what more there was to talk about.

  “We want you to stand for the House of Reason in Major Berlin’s place.”

  Wash nearly spit out his drink.

  “We believe your service record and your close relationship with the major will bring you to an easy victory over Horkoshino. The time is right, and we need men like you in the house, Captain Washam. We’ve been at war with the Savages for over a millennium. The Republic needs men such as yourself to lead us into a new age.”

  Wash was stunned. He hadn’t expected this, not by a long shot. And the House of Reason had never been something he aspired to. That was Berlin’s dream, not his.

  “I know this is sudden, Captain. But… there it is. Out in the open. I only ask that you consider it.” The governor smiled, as did Kaar. They both seemed genuinely interested in Wash’s potential future as a politician.

  “For what it’s worth,” Kaar said demurely, “I think you would make a fine member of the House of Reason. That is… if you should decide that the House is where you can best serve the Republic, of course.”

  Wash smiled meekly and resisted the urge to shake his head in disbelief. “Thank you both. I’ll consider the matter with the utmost care.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” The governor looked over his shoulder and saw Berlin’s parents hovering outside of the conversation at a respectful distance. “Ah! I see Mr. and Mrs. Berlin are also eager for some of your time. I’ll not keep you from them any longer. It was a pleasure to formally meet you, Captain Washam.”

  With farewell handshakes, the governor, the junior delegate, and the rest of the entourage departed.

  Wash smiled forlornly as Berlin’s parents approached.

  “Did you ever think that you’d be rubbing shoulders with the planetary governor?” Berlin’s father asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Wash shook Mr. Berlin’s hand. The hand of the man who’d let Wash and Berlin run amok in his house as children during those long Spilursa summers. The man who had often taken time from his busy workday to take them to the park to play seamball or goof around with them after school. He’d always been a strong man. But now, his handshake felt weak and almost limp.

  “And if I’d have known what it would take to make it happen,” Wash continued, “never in a million years…”

  Mr. Berlin nodded and gave a sorrowful smile.

  Berlin’s mother wrapped her arms around Wash, hugging him closely and resting her head on his uniformed chest. “Oh, Wash,” she said. That was the name the family had always called him, because it was what Berlin called him. “Thank you.”

  Wash felt a lump grow in his throat. His voice was scratchy with raw emotion. “For what?”

  Mrs. Berlin looked up at Wash, tears welling in her eyes. “For being there. With him… at the end. There’s not much comfort that I can find, but knowing that he wasn’t alone is something I’m grateful for.”

  Wash felt as though he couldn’t say another word for fear of bursting into tears and making a scene.

  But somehow he managed. “My parents… hoped to be here. But matters outside of their control prevented them. They asked me to pass on their condolences.” He felt a gnawing sense of anger over their absence, but it was his duty to cover for them all the same.

  “Give them our best when you see them,” Mr. Berlin said.

  And then Mrs. Berlin brought out a black velvet box and opened it up so Wash could see inside. It was Berlin’s Order of the Centurion medal. A golden pentagon-shaped medallion with a stylized, ancient-looking legionnaire helmet. It was attached to a blue ribbon with black borders.

  Wash thought she was showing it to him so that he could see it up close. He was about to open his mouth to compliment its handsomeness when she said, “We want you to have this.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t die on that planet by himself. We know you were with him every step of the way. You always have been, Wash.”

  Mr. Berlin squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “We both feel that you deserve this as much as he did. And we want you to take it as a symbol of our gratitude for the friendship you always showed to our son.”

  This was a gift Wash couldn’t possibly accept. And yet it was also an offer he couldn’t refuse. He reached out and gently took the box from Mrs. Berlin, closing the lid. “We talked about the two of you while we were in the jungles,” he said. “After we’d rescued the woman from the doros. And I… I asked Berlin if he thought the two of you would be proud of us.” Wash gave Mr. and Mrs. Berlin a tight smile that just barely held back his emotion.

  “And what did he say?” Mrs. Berlin asked, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice quavering.

  “He said you would be,” Wash managed to choke out.

  Mrs. Berlin hugged him again, and then Wash felt Mr. Berlin come to his side and wrap his arm around his shoulders.

&n
bsp; “He was right,” Mrs. Berlin said.

  The three of them stood there together, relying on one another to help heal the pain of the love they’d lost.

  ***

  Wash sat in a busy terminal lounge at Dorn VI’s primary spaceport. He had flown in on a luxury liner—Berlin’s parents had connections that gave him a free flight. He had things to do: rent a speeder, buy some flowers, pick up an acquaintance. But he didn’t want to leave the port. At least, not yet.

  He was having doubts about whether this was the right thing to do, whether he was even really welcome in spite of assurances otherwise. But he was on the planet now. And short of buying a return ticket and disappearing, this was all he could do. And it was the thing that needed to be done.

  But… just not yet.

  Wash looked down at a steaming bowl of scarri—a local soup made with diced crustaceans and spiced enough to make you feel warm long after the contents in your stomach cooled. That would be a welcome thing—the warmth. Hyperspace travel always left Wash feeling chilly. And after all that time on Psydon, the whole galaxy seemed a cold place.

  Though the spaceport thoroughfares were busy with the bustle of travelers moving from docking gate to docking gate, the adjoining lounge Wash had found was relatively empty. And he had been the only patron at the restaurant. It wasn’t the local meal time, and Wash’s ship had had a farewell dinner an hour before arrival. He wasn’t actually hungry. Just… cold.

  The point was that there were lots of seats available. So it seemed odd when a man came up to Wash’s table to ask, “Can I sit down?”

  As though the place were so packed that strangers had to dine together if there was to be room for all.