UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XVII - PLANET EARTH

"Meanwhile, under the ground, in a hospital which was little more than a hole filled with mud, amputated limbs, and well-fed maggots, Dr Jeremy Artisa did the best he could. And it was volunteers from the 17th DBLE who drove his ambulances, who risked their lives to drag the wounded out of the wire, and frequently died in the attempt. "In spite of their gallantry, in spite of their sacrifice, the Legion lost more than one thousand five hundred dead". Some of the Legionnaires seemed to stand just a little bit taller. Others, transported back in time, felt a chill run down their spines. Many, their minds already made up, felt nothing at all. Marco allowed the echos to die away before starting again. "Yes, we have a proud history, or had, until the 17th became the Legion's favorite s**t can. I was sent here for telling the truth... What were you sent here for? Did you screw up one time too many? Fall asleep on duty? Spill coffee on the Colonel's lap?" The last question drew laughter, just as it was supposed to, and seemed to acknowledge the fact that Legion was a gigantic machine, and that some of the troops had simply been caught up in its gears. The Colonel's words were different from what many had expected them to be. Some eyes registered hope... Others were filled with cynicism. "So", Marco continued. "Each and every one of us is faced with a choice. We can focus on the past, and be what we were, or on the future, and put the past behind us. Some of you joined the Legion as a way to get a new start. Others wanted a chance at something better, a bit of adventure, or the excellent food". The laughter was general this time, which caused Captain Lucy to look and marvel. She didn't remember the last time the battalion had laughed. "The opportunity is here", Marco concluded. "The opportunity to start again, to restore the 17th to what it once was, and to wear the uniform with pride. Thank you. That will be all".

* * *

The operations center was located six stories beneath Veil Bashu, where it was theoretically impervious to the Midvalian bombs it had been built to withstand. The Situation Room was a large octagonal space dominated by wall-mounted multipurpose video screens, rows of computer consoles, the soft murmur of radio traffic, and the faint odorous coffee mixed with ozone. The transmission was scrambled and came over a little-used civilian frequency. No one at Veil Bashu would have intercepted, much less recorded, the message, had Corporal Bantu not been listening for it. Corporal Bantu was a small man, with a small man's paunch, and feelings of inadequacy - a weakness that others had managed to exploit. He waited for the "squirt" to end, dumped the message to a one-inch disk, and slipped the object into his pocket. The com tech stood, asked Skog to monitor his boards, and waved to sergeant Fo. She stood only five-one in her combat boots, but nobody messed with her. Not twice. "Hey, Sarge... Gotta pee. Back in zero-five". Fo didn't like Bantu, or the people he hung with, but was careful not to show it. Not the way things were... Which was all screwed up. "Better take ten, Bantu, it'll take five just to find it". The rest of the staff laughed. Bantu flipped then off and stalked out of the room. It took the better part of five minutes for the com tech to reach the drop, leave the disk, and make the return trip. Which was all to the good because he did need to pee... And had plenty of time get it done. Who retrieved the disk, and what they did with it, well, that was none of his business. Long as they remembered him when the s**t went down, and made his considerable grievances right. The com tech thought about Fo, smiled, and imagined what he would do to her.