UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XV - PLANET EARTH

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.

Marco, 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 Daniell, 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. Daniell, 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 Marco... And a successful tour".

There were three usual number of "Hear, hear"s, followed by formal sips of wine. Marco 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 17th 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 Liukin's much discussed s*x organ.

Marco sampled each dish, drank sparingly, and tried to peg his officers. Daniell 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 Lucy, 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 Galaxy. He liked her reliable-looking face, the calm green eyes, and the sound of her laugh. They were early times... But Lucy had possibilities.

The command and services company, which included the headquarters staff, medical personnel, and supply folks, was under the command of Captain Anderson Cara, 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 Sandys Walker, though... C company's commanding officer, better known to her as "the Eagle", was a class-A, dyed-in-the-wool, a*s-kicking leg officer who had either been sent to the 17th 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. Marco turned to find that his other ground pounder, Captain Simon Olmsted III, commanding officer of D Company, 2nd REP, was facedown on the table. A steady expanding red stain indicated where his wine had gone. No one seemed surprised. That spoke volumes... And Marco made a note.

The next officer, Captain Gandhi 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 Marco 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 17th 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 Goodear Misha. A full-blooded Naa, with features that reminded Marco 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 at well.

The group consisted of two platoons, both under the command of a senior NCO and consisting of minty 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 Goodear know about Marco'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 Marco's features, or the mane of fur that ran down the back of his neck.

Suddenly their eyes met. Marco 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 Elgiron 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.