UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XVI - PLANET EARTH

There was no escaping his own inferiority, though. No matter what Marco did or where he went, he would never be able to smell what his peers could smell, map temperature gradients with the soles of his feet, or walk bare chested through a blizzard.

Yes, he could shoot just straight, had learned to beat older males by virtue of martial arts learned from his mother and father, and could run just as fast.

But none of those was enough, and when Goodear looked at him, it was the senior officer who broke the contact. Did the Naa know? Is that what Marco saw in those yellow-black eyes? Or was it something else? There was no way to be sure.

It took what seemed like a year before dessert arrived, final toasts were proposed, and the officers retired to their respective rooms. Dawn was less than four hours away, and would mark the beginning of what? Only time would tell.

* * *

The ceremony had been scheduled for 0800, a full hour before the sun would top the Eastern wall and fry the parade ground below. It was a small mercy, but one the legionnaires were thankful for.

Marco, who stood high on the battlements, watched his battalion pull itself into long, perfectly spaced ranks. Senior NCOs inspected the troop first, followed by their respective platoon leaders.

It was a common sight, one he had witnessed hundreds of not thousands of time, and found to be inexplicably moving. Why was that? Perhaps it was the fact that while much had changed over the last seven hundred years, this had remained the same, and it served as a link with the thousands that had gone before.

Men and women rolled out of the racks, performed the morning's ablution, donned clothing identical to everyone else's, laced carefully maintained boots, checked their weapons, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

None of it had changed and would be as recognizable to a Roman Legionnaire as they were to the men and women below. As would the feeling of comradeship that went with a place in the ranks, the relationships both good and bad, and the written as well as unwritten rule of conduct.

To that extent, the 17th was similar to a living organism, complete with hundreds of interdependent parts, all working in harmony.

That's the way it was supposed to be, anyway, but Marco knew it wasn't working. The sad fact was that the perfectly aligned ranks below him were a sham, like a weight-bearing beam that appears to be solid, but is riddled with rot.

Some of the signs were obvious, like the protection racket managed by the cyborgs, sentries who would desert for a beer, and officers who set the worst sort of example.

But there were other more subtle signs as well, small things for the most part, like the political graffiti on the walls, and the mess hall groupings.

Bio bods with bio bods, Naa with Naa, and borgs with borgs rather than by fire team, squad, and company, the way they would have to fight. Had Page known that? Was it part of his punishment? Or incidental to where he had been sent? There was no way to know, and it didn't make much difference. Marco's job was to find the rot, clean it out, and repair the framework.

Orders were shouted, boots stamped, and the battalion came to attention. Marco descended a set of circular stairs, strode across half the parade ground, and accepted Daniell's salute. "All present and accounted for, sir".

Marco nodded and saluted in return. His voice made its way through a wire-thin boom mike and out over the PA system. "Thank you, Major. Put the troops at ease".

Daniell did a perfect about-face, gave the appropriate order, and was rewarded with something less than perfection. The entire headquarters company seemed a little slow on the uptake, as if they hadn't drilled in quite a while, and the cyborgs, who backed the rest of the troops, made no move whatsoever. They'd been at ease from the start. Sloppiness? Or insolence? The first was regrettable, the second could be dangerous.

Marco cleared his throat, brought the orders up in front of his face, and read them aloud. The language, though stilted and somewhat archaic, still possessed power. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the thousands who had both spoken and heard them. Some had gone on to live long, happy lives. Many had not. They lay buried beneath thick jungle foliage, under piles of hastily assembled rocks, and in tidily kept cemeteries.

Finally, after all the words had been read, Marco added some of his own. He allowed his gaze to roam over the parade ground, finding as many eyes as he could, willing them to listen. The objective was to notify them that things were about to change, but to do so in a way that built morale rather than tore it down.

There were all sorts of incompetents, slackers, and worse out there, he knew that, but they would have to be rooted out one by one and dealt with individually. That being the case, he chose a positive approach, knowing that some were beyond his reach, and hoping to hearten the rest. An honest assessment of their position was a good place to start.

"17th is one of the oldest and most famous units in the Legion. The men, women, and cyborgs who fought in it won hundreds of battles, and lost some too, like Dien Bien Phu, where, on March 15th, 1953, the Viet Minh used artillery to open fire on strong point Beatrice. We lost thirty six men that day.

"A few days later, when it became apparent that Colonel Khalid Paroth, the Legion's artillery officer, had severely miscalculated the enemy's capabilities, he committed suicide.

"During the successive weeks, the Legion's position became little more than a killing zone. The airstrip was destroyed. The main road was cut off. No one could leave, not even the wounded. That didn't stop the men of the 3rd and 5th REI, though... None had parachute training, but they jumped anyway.