Honor of the Legion

by Leo Champion

  Mullins made out the shape of a refueling truck; the secessionists had blown the port’s massive underground fuel tanks, just like they’d cut down the floodlights and blasted the control tower during their brief insurgency. A portable construction-plastic room on tall stilts replaced the control tower for now; the floodlights were still on somebody’s to-do list.

  Other men were forming up, not far away, piling out of trucks and a few buses. Their own NCOs were shouting too, the same as 1/4/4’s:

  “Into formation! Drop your packs and bags, into formation for the division commander!”

  “Into formation!” came Senior Sergeant Williams. “Third, over here and into formation! Presentation kit!”

  Mullins dropped his pack and the duffel. Kept his antiquated M-16 and his combat load. Third Platoon was lining up, sorting themselves out. Duty uniform was the closest thing the Legion had to dress uniform: blue shirt, white trousers, Mullins’ single-chevron PFC insignia a sharp black contrast to the sky-blue shirt. It was what you wore for both special occasions and around the base on general duty, pretty much whenever you weren’t actively heading into a likely fight.

  Mullins drew himself up to parade rest; gun at port arms in front of him. To his left was First Squad’s leader, Sergeant Hill; to his right was Jorgenson, who was – present arms! – holding his issue submachinegun a bit out of line.

  He mentioned that to Jorgenson. Jorg murmured something about Mullins’ jig-line to him. Mullins corrected it. Williamson was going down the line, inspecting the men.

  There were times you could chill with your platoon jefe. Parade rest for a senior-officer inspection was not one of those times.

  Williamson nodded at Hill, then Mullins then Jorgenson.

  Croft came after the platoon sergeant, clearly in agreement with him; a platoon sergeant was going to know more about uniform details than a lieutenant.

  “Good job,” said Croft to Jorgenson as they fell into formation.

  “Now we wait,” said Williamson.

  * * *

  It was two hours later that the division commander arrived. They’d packed their shit, throwing things out in many cases, for the sake of saving a few minutes for a man who was two hours late himself.

  Mullins had spent his time on his phone, reviewing radio-man training materials. There was a lot to learn and the formal courses only covered some of it. The Legion had a whole company – part of the Zero Division on Chauncy – dedicated to producing training courses and apps; absently a part of Mullins’ mind noted that that had to be a pretty safe environment, which his skills as an advertising executive had to give him competence in.

  For now, though, his job was company-grade radio-man, which in the Legion meant, if you were escorting a platoon leader, both communications specialist and field intelligence guy. There was room to go up both paths; both led to relatively safe staff jobs, although in the United States Foreign Legion ‘safe’ was only ‘relative’.

  But he busied himself with technical specifications and communications protocols. He’d been an acting RTO, it was time to become a real one. And he was getting up to where he was doing well on the practice tests. In the Legion, at least for this qual, 90% was a passing grade and the questions weren’t designed to be easy.

  The others in the platoon focused on their own work, or at least their entertainment. Jorgenson was working on a medical degree, or at least the start of one; the first step was EMT. But the Legion did train its own doctors, qualified across the United States military; Jorgenson wanted to be one and he was pushing himself on anatomy right now.

  On his other side, Sergeant Hill was reading a superhuman-apocalypse novel on his phone. Williamson, who everyone knew was gunning for first sergeant, was immersed in an Army field manual – a printout, many pages from his pack.

  A rumor came along the line that food was coming. Food never arrived, but after a while somebody showed up with water bottles. People chugged them down. Mullins drank himself, although he was good; he could have been far worse about the drinking last night, and for now he was damn glad he had. Others were in real pain.

  But eventually Major-General Armstrong did show up, with an entourage of staff. He didn’t bother to inspect the troops, and spoke for a cursory five minutes across a fritzing loudspeaker. He said the same thing as Senior Lieutenant Gardner had earlier; US forces had beaten the secessionists on New Virginia and it was now time for some Legion units to move on to other things, better things.

  Yeah. Whatever Dinqing was like, thought Mullins, it couldn’t be any better than the safe posting New Virginia had finally become.

  No wonder they’re shipping us out.

  * * *

  Battalion supply officer Captain Damaskinos Diodorus addressed Fourth Battalion after the division commander, managing to make his words carry across several hundred men without the need for a loudspeaker, fritzing or otherwise.

  “Your transport is scheduled for departure at midday. Until then – rumors are finally true! Your new weapons have come through and are ready for issue!”

  Mullins found himself cheering alongside the rest of Third Platoon. About time!

  * * *

  “This is your M-25,” said supply Senior Sergeant Alonzo. He handed Mullins a solid black gun, curved lines with Standard Data/Power ports on the stock and a small built-in scope on top. Sticking out from the bottom was an uncharacteristically straight magazine, discordant relative to the rounded lines of the rest of the gun.

  Mullins took it, nodded in thanks to the man from battalion supply – the man he’d come to know decently, but now wasn’t the time for resuming friendships; besides, Alonzo looked as hungover as everyone else in 1/4/4 – and sat down on the floor like a kindergarten child with the rest of Third Platoon.

  They were in a side-room of the port’s passenger facility, and some other awesome genius from battalion supply had managed to round up donuts and baconburgers, distributed once the division commander had left. Mullins had scarfed his down hungrily, but others were taking their time. He sipped water instead and waited for the last guys from the platoon to be issued their new rifles.

  A supply lance-corporal Mullins didn’t know – he was one of the replacements – had taken the M-16s earlier, carefully inspecting each one before signing for them.

  Alonzo held up one of the guns. People shushed themselves.

  “This is the Queensland Industries Standard Infantry Rifle, sold to the United States Foreign Legion as the M-25, also known as the SIR and to some wiseasses as the Black Knight. It is a gas-operated gunpowder assault rifle firing caseless 5.56mm rounds…”

  Mullins’ attention faded for a bit; he sipped on his water as Alonzo went over the technical specifications.

  “The gun has a built-in scope,” Alonzo said, “powered internally. In the stock is nanofoam, high-end nanofoam that absorbs some of the energy from recoil and uses it to charge the gun’s battery. You can also charge the battery by shaking the gun.” The supply sergeant demonstrated by vigorously shaking his gun.

  “Or for that matter just walking with it; it’ll be bumped, the nanocells will be bumped, and energy will be generated. You can then use the SDP ports to power add-ons to the weapon, such as improved scopes, or to power your personal electronic devices if the battery is already maxed. Power won’t go external until then. Any questions?”

  Private Simon Reuter raised a hand, like a schoolchild. The big heavy gun sat across his crossed legs.

  “You, blond man. What?”

  “If I may ask, Senior Sergeant,” said Reuter in his guttural South African accent. “I am – was – an engineer. There’s nothing about the M-16 that hadn’t been thoroughly superseded a hundred and fifty years ago, if not two hundred. Why the hell were we ever were issued those antiques to begin with?”

  “Because someone fucked up,” said Alonzo. “Ran with assumptions and didn’t double-check their research.”

  “Who, Senior Sergeant?” Reuter demanded.r />
  Alonzo looked into the middle distance. So did Mullins, Croft and Williamson. The platoon sergeant glared.

  “Some idiot,” said Alonzo.

  "Some lazy-ass fucking jerk of a total idiot," said Buckley.

  “Anyway,” said Alonzo firmly, turning back toward the platoon. “Now, there’s been a temporary range set up—”

  Lieutenant Croft, who’d apparently just heard something on his phonebud, stood up.

  “Sorry, Senior Sergeant. Not the case. Just got word from S-1, we’re being shipped out sooner than planned.”

  The lieutenant turned to address his platoon.

  “Shuttle at Bay B-2, gentlemen. We’re to board in ten minutes.”

  “Move!” said Williamson.

  Chapter Two

  “This is a Qing,” said the US Air Force first lieutenant, a young blond man in dress blues, to Third Platoon in a conference room aboard the liner Star of Dantilus.

  There were actually four of the aliens, distinctly different in appearance. The common factor was that they looked like bipedal ants, with narrow waists separating distinct thoraxes and abdomens. But the resemblance ended there.

  The one standing in front was shorter than the others, maybe five feet, with two-foot legs and squat feet wearing, of all things, xeno-fitted running sneakers with the distinctive Dominus-brand slashed gold cross on them. He wore an elaborately-embroidered silk robe and his body had a well-fed roundness to it.

  The one immediately behind, and Croft had the clear vibe that he was in charge of the other two, was leaner, seven foot tall, with longer legs and slimmer body. He wore boots that seemed to mesh with his feet and a kilt of some grey fabric. Over his body were sashes and bandoliers with weapons attached; three revolvers and a pair of long curved swords. His head, his face, was pointed; like the lead guy his eyes were big and multifaceted.

  The two others were about six foot tall, one a little taller than the other. Their boots and sashes seemed plainer, but they were just as well armed; flintlocks and revolving pistols, and a long sword each.

  “Specifically, this is Scholar-Aristocrat Second-Class Vungtao of Zhan, of the Chongdin Empire,” the first lieutenant said. “Returning from a trip to Earth.”

  “It iss good to eet our protectorss,” Vungtao of Zhan lisped, or rather hissed. Croft could tell that speaking English was work for him, a hard-mastered skill.

  “With him is his chief bodyguard – I’m sorry, commander of personal security – Santass of Llar.”

  The seven-foot-tall Qing nodded at the men of Third Platoon, who were seated on folding chairs in the room, packed tight. There was a big screen, currently blanked out, behind them. With the USAF lieutenant, a young man around Croft’s twenty-three who had the look of a fighter or attack-chopper pilot, were a pair of significantly older – early forties, the both of them – enlisted men.

  “And two of Vungtao of Zhan’s subordinate warriors. Their names do not need mention,” the lieutenant went on.

  “Do not. Their pllace is to sserve,” said Vungto of Zhan. “Thhank you, llieutenant officer.” The Scholar-Aristocrat Second-Class turned back to face Third Platoon.

  “I havve vissited New York City, Wasshington and Bosston where Harvvard is,” he said. “Your scholarsship is far beyond the heights of the old Empire. You are our rightful rulers and I thank you as our protectorrss.”

  “I thank you and your household for your loyalty,” said the USAF lieutenant. “I believe” – a look at one of the senior NCOs, and a nod from that grey-haired man – “we may thank you for your presence here.”

  “Leavve a grrunt?” Vungtao of Zhan asked.

  The lieutenant looked at his senior NCO – actually a chief warrant officer three, from the triple-dashed insignia on each shoulder. The other man was a technical sergeant, with three chevrons and two rockers below them.

  The grey-haired WO3 nodded.

  “Thank you, Scholar-Aristocrat,” said the lieutenant. “Leave one behind.”

  Vungtao of Zhan said something incomprehensible in the Qing language and stalked out a side-door, followed by his chief bodyguard and one of the men.

  “He doesn’t speak English, or much of the interlang,” said the WO3 with a head-gesture at the left-behind Qing bodyguard.

  The technical sergeant gestured for the Qing grunt to step to the side of things. He understood the gestures clearly enough.

  * * *

  “Quisling,” Private – striking for medic – Ryan Andrews muttered to Mullins. “Fucking quisling aristocrat.”

  Mullins looked at the tall brown-haired man he’d been through the later part of Chauncy with. Andrews had a master’s in pharmacology from the University of Vancouver, had been on his way to a Ph.D before pleading guilty to helping run a chain of meth labs across the Pacific Northwest. He’d taken a Legion hitch in lieu of hard time, with his citizenship busted down to colonial-subject status afterwards unless he did a second hitch to get it back. The usual deal for convicts.

  “Realist,” Mullins muttered back, although his buddy from the Wringer maybe had a point.

  “Quisling.”

  “Shut up and listen to the man.”

  “Quisling traitor to his people and his species,” Andrews insisted.

  “Andrews, can it,” Mullins shot back in turn. “Our lives could depend on this shit.”

  The fighter-jock Air Force lieutenant had left with the Qing aristo, leaving just the two senior NCOs. The chief warrant officer was talking now, in front of a map of a supercontinent that looked like a giant Eurasia – only giant, spreading halfway across the planet east-west, and from the north pole to past the equator.

  “…the major landmass of Dinqing,” he was saying. “Several continental plates wrestling for superiority, divided before the world’s human discovery and arrival into a set of kingdoms, lesser and greater, in the west. The Chinese took those over wholesale in the land grab – the usual land grab – that followed discovery in 2141.

  “Through good signals intelligence, we learned about their discovery within days of word getting back to their own outer colonies. Through good luck and planning, we were able to assemble a task force that moved in on them, and we took control of the Chongdin Empire in the east. Along the south coast of the supercontinent” – the warrant officer illuminated a chain of nations, the smallest the size of Texas, that included dense archipelagoes south of the main coast – “nobody has ever been able to establish full control. Historically, the western kingdoms and the Chongdin Empire have tried but without success; due to interference from third parties, neither we, the Chinese nor the Euros have been able to either.

  “In the center of the continent are vast plains, ranging from potentially productive farmland to desert, with most of it being pretty damn arid. The Chinese – later the Euros – and we have drawn an arbitrary line of control, but the vast majority of the central territories, as they’re called, are functionally left to the nomads that have ruled them for thousands of years.

  “When the Insurrection broke out in 2180, the Chongdins repudiated our treaty and declared independence, with the backing of the Provisional Unification Government and a lot of our local settlers. Eventually we bought out a cadet branch of the Chongdin imperial family and, with their backing and the colonial loyalists, got the place back under control.

  “Meanwhile in the west, the kingdoms China had taken control of were taken over by a European Federation effort, Chinese resources being consumed by other campaigns at the time. Paris took the western half of the world – a not uncommon occurrence in the later stages of the Insurrection, China did exactly the same thing to Europe on Alcubierre in May of 2184 and this may have been a payback for that – and refused to return it.”

  The warrant officer turned to look over the platoon, his eyes meeting Mullins’ for half a moment.

  “So we have local remnants, Chongdin loyalists who think we shouldn’t be on this planet and they should be independent. We have settlers whose
ancestors have been there since the middle of the last century and who also think they should be independent. We have a nominal remaining Chinese presence on some of the islands in the Great Ocean, and they do like to make nuisances of themselves from time to time – mostly to the Euros, but we’ve busted arms shipments from them to Chongdin troublemakers. There are known to be secessionist and dissident cells all across the former Chongdin Empire.

  “There’s a bush war going on in the nearest of the independent kingdoms as we try to secure our control over it, and raiding all across its west. The tribes in the center of the continent have been peaceful lately, mostly because they’ve learned they can’t touch our airpower. But they’re far from a united bunch and there’s always some young chief looking to make a name for himself by causing trouble. And on the southern archipelagoes, there’s constant trouble with pirates attacking the trade interests we’ve guaranteed the protection of.

  “So yeah, Dinqing’s an interesting place. You won’t see the kind of action you guys saw during your little Insurrection on New Virginia, but there’s a lot of little trouble going on in a lot of places; bust one cell and another arises. You’ll have fun there!”

  * * *

  The Star of Dantilus was a big liner, and – unlike the trip from Chauncy to New Virginia – there was no Army contingent aboard. Some Air Force people coming back from leave on Earth, but they were all senior enlisted who rode second class, unlike the steerage cattle-cabins the Legion enlisted men were packed into, in three-high bunks.

  The bunks had their own power outlets at least, which hadn’t existed on the ship they’d ridden on from Chauncy to New Virginia. It meant Mullins, who’d scored a middle bunk with Corporal Lennon on the bottom and Jeff Kiesche, a burly shaven-headed Southerner with crude prison ink across his chest and forearms, above.