UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XIII - PLANET EARTH

The transport pushed its shadow ahead, followed ancient train tracks south, and over flew the air strip. The borg brought her ship around and flared into a perfect three-skid touchdown. Marco felt the gentle bumb and spoke into the intercom. "Nice landing... Who should I thank?"

"Morris, sir. Lieutenant Betty Morris".

"All right Lieutenant, fly safe, and remember the favour I asked for".

"No problem, sir. Good luck with the new command".

Marco grinned, released his seat belt, and turned. The corporal was already on his feet and standing at attention. He was at least forty, maybe older, and rail-thin. Though soiled, his uniform fit as if it had been painted on, his service strips spoke of more than twenty years in the Legion, and he wore a chest full of ribbons. Two of them stood in for major medals.

The legionnaire's face was long, narrow, and far from handsome. The handcuffs had disappeared. The officer raised an eyebrow, and the noncom replied without being asked.

"Sparrow, sir. Corporal Sparrow, till the stripes comes off".

"You've been broken before?"

"Yes, sir. Three times. Once from Sergent Major".

"For striking an officer?"

"Why, yes, sir," Sparrow answered cheerfully. "How did you know?"

"Just a guess", Marco replied dryly. "Are you reporting for duty, or returning from leave?"

"Both, sir".

"Ever served here before?"

The NCO shook his head. "No, sir".

"You up for a hike? Hangover and all?"

"Yes, sir. Just lead the way".

"Then grab your kit", Marco said. "It's time to reconnoiter".

Marco had two duffel bags, and both of them were heavy. Still, still he couldn't leave his gear behind, not in a place like Bajoti, so Marco hauled them along. The hatch whined up and out of the way. The heat pushed in through the opening. The men forced their way out, clanged down the retractable stairs, and marched the width of the apron.

Marco had already started to question the wisdom of the trip by the time they crossed into the shadow cast by a dilapidated hangar. Sparrow stuck some fingers into his mouth, issued a shrill whistle, and was almost immediately rewarded.

Two figures, both dressed in loose-fitting shirts, knee-length trousers, and worn looking sandals, separated themselves from the relative darkness and trotted forward. Both were tall, slender, and possessed of wide-set eyes.

The corporal said, "Galab wanaqsan", something about "Shan credits", and money changed hands.

One of the men, a toothless oldster, sported a wicked-looking knife. He waited for his companion to place a ninety-pound duffel bag on one of his frail-looking shoulders, grinned happily, and nodded his readiness.

The second man, who appeared to be the younger of the two, swung the noncom's bag up onto his back, jabbered something in Arabic, and waited for instructions.

The officer turned to Sparrow. "Well done, Sparrow. You're resourceful if nothing else".

The noncom grinned. "Some would say too resourceful, sir, but you can't please everyone".

"No", Marco said thoughtfully, "you certainly can't. Not in this man's army. Come on, let's see the sights".*

* * *

The problem with the scout car was that it had more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer, was specially equipped for arctic duty, and was in dire need of an overhaul.

Major Daniell occupied the passenger's seat, dogs everything he could to minimize the extent to which his back made contact with the sun-baked seat, and hung on as the vehicle lurched through one of Bajoti's legendary potholes. Mesh covered the windows and served to divide the world into hundreds of tiny squares. Not that the legionnaire minded, since the screening beat the heck out of looking down to find that a grenade had landed in his lap, a rather unpleasant tradition practiced by local youth gangs.

The driver, a private named Martin, honked at a Camel, scattered a flock of goats, and blew past the airport's fourteen-year-old security guard. He was armed with a rusty one-hundred-fifty-year-old automatic weapon. He pointed and yelled, "Bang, bang, bang!"

Martin gauged the distance to the transport, waited until the last moment, on stood on the break. Daniell threw his hands up, swore, and turned red in the face. Bingo! Two points.

The officer, not wanting to appear frightened, sent Martin a dirty look, made a note to get even, and opened the door. The tarmac was so hot he could feel the heat through the bottoms of his boots.

Daniell waited for a dilapidated cargo car to pass, followed the faded yellow line out to the fly form, and mounted the aluminum stairs. Chances were that Marco would be pissed and looking for someone to crap on.

Daniell plastered his best s**t-eating smile across his face, stepped into the relatively cool interior, and called the officer's name. "Colonel Marco? Mayor Daniell here, come to pick you up".

The response came from speakers mounted at the front of the cabin. "This is Lieutenant Morris, sir... The colonel left".

"Left?" Daniell asked. "How? Where?"

"Sorry, sir. I don't know".

"What about the prisoner? A corporal named Sparrow?"

"Don't know, sir. The two of them left together?"

Daniell called down a plague on pilots, corporals, and colonels, reentered the thick October heat, and headed for the scout car. It shimmered and threatened to disappear.

* * *

The hover truck had a distinct list to starboard. Hired for a modest ten credits, it dropped the foursome at the intersection of the boulevard de la Republique and avenue Loyri.

Marco had never been to Bajoti before, but the fort sat on top of a plateau and was difficult to miss. Finding it would be easy. That being the case, the legionnaire reserved most of his attention for the city itself, a place that might have seemed more foreign had he not spent so much time on other worlds.

Still, Bajoti had its share of quirks, not the least of which were streets that turned into passageways without the slightest rhyme or reason, French colonial architecture that stood shoulder to shoulder with concrete monstrosities, rickety cabs that vied with camels to claim the right-of-way, strange undulating music, and a mishmash of signs that seemed to alternate between French, Arabic, and standard.

Marco found that he actually liked the place, except for the nearly unbelievable heat and the stench of the urine-soaked alleyways.