Chapter Nine

The curious thing was that the regiment, which formed a compact unit because of an esprit de corps which bordered on fanaticism, was composed of the most diverse elements.

—Legionnaire Charles-Jules Zede,
Souvenirs of My Life,
French Foreign Legion

It took half an hour for Hauser and the others to reach the actual grounds of Fort Hunter’s Recruit Training Center, a huge, semi-independent compound surrounded by its own security fence and linked to the main fort by a maglev tube network. Nothing in the orientation sessions had prepared Hauser for the full scope of the Legion facilities, and in answer to another recruit’s comments on the subject Colby had just laughed and pointed out that there were several other Legion bases scattered around Devereaux just as large if not quite so important. Devereaux was the Legion’s headquarters and administration center, the planet every legionnaire called home regardless of where duty might take the individual unit. A large percentage of the civilian population on Devereaux directly supported Legion activities, from the food processing workers who produced their rations to the factory technicians who turned out munitions and other supplies to the prostitutes, male and female, who worked the off-base brothels. And there were no small number of former legionnaires on the planet as well, veterans who had chosen to invest their stake in this adopted home planet rather than seeking a post-Legion life on some other developing world.

Colby formed the recruits up into a double line outside the tube station and led them at a trot across the RTC compound toward the cluster of large buildings near the center of the complex. Hauser was surprised to note that the structures at the very hub of this fort-within-a-fort were not barracks or administration buildings, but rather an imposing museum which faced a monument across a reflecting pool. The familiar slogan Legio Patria Nostra, in two-meter tall letters, frowned down from above the entrance to the museum. Without breaking stride, Colby informed the jogging recruits that the museum was devoted to the history of the Legion and its four predecessors, while the other structure was reputed to be an exact replica of the original Monument aux Morts—the Monument to the Dead, a raised globe guarded by four stern-faced soldiers of the old French Foreign Legion. In the days before Mankind had left Mother Terra, such a monument had stood, first in the old Legion’s headquarters in the colony of Algiers, later in a camp in southern France. The original had been destroyed in the fighting that ended the Second French Empire, defended to the last by the Third Foreign Legion. This replica, though, carried the tradition down across the centuries. It wasn’t an exact duplicate, though. At the four corners of this monument were modern additions, further statues depicting soldiers of each of the four Legions that had followed the original.

Finally, Colby signaled a halt outside of a long, low building near the edge of the central sprawl. The sign outside the door proclaimed that they had arrived at Hut 4, Processing.

“All right, you slugs!” Colby shouted. “You’re ready for the final stage of processing, starting now. First order of business is to file inside that building in an orderly fashion. When you get inside, stow your luggage in the bins by the door. Make sure they’ve been tagged with your assigned serial numbers. If you don’t have ’em tagged, you won’t get ’em back!”

The sergeant paused, glaring fiercely. “Next item. Once you’ve stowed your luggage, peel down to your underwear. Keep your clothes with you until you’re told otherwise. You may want to make sure any personal effects you want saved get stowed in your bags. That includes wristpieces, pictures or holocubes, and other mementos. Keep your ident disks on you until someone says different. When you’ve done all that, your troubles are over. All you have to do after that is wait. Listen for the last two digits of your serial number to be called. Keep the noise down so everyone can hear their numbers called. Think you straks can handle all that?”

A ragged chorus of voices answered him. Colby exchanged a weary glance with one of the corporals and then shrugged. “Right, then get moving! Now!”

Hauser was one of the last ones inside, and he found that even the straightforward instructions Colby had issued had produced chaos among the recruits. Voices were raised in noisy complaints or questions, and several recruits had simply found a corner and sat down to wait, fully dressed and with luggage close at hand. Others were wrestling with bags too large for the bins.

Here and there Hauser caught sight of a few who had managed to get everything right, but even a few of these were generating their share of disorder. A pretty blond woman unzipping her shipsuit was the object of comments from a small male audience led by a dark, good-looking kid who looked even younger than Swede Carlssen … certainly too young to be a legionnaire recruit. “Sì! Sì! Spogliarello!” he said with a whistle. Then, in Terranglic with a thick accent Hauser couldn’t identify, he continued. “Take it off!”

“Quiet!” A new voice bellowed, cutting through the hubbub with the quality of a spacecraft launching with booster assistance. “I said QUIET!”

The room fell silent as a squat, stocky man with a bullet head emphasized by his short haircut strode from the inner door. Though physically almost the opposite of the massive Chief-Sergeant Colby, the newcomer had the same air of self-assured competence Hauser would have recognized even if the man’s uniform had not been marked with a sergeant’s stripes.

“That’s better,” the man said in a voice only slightly less penetrating. “I am Gunnery Sergeant Ortega, and I’m in charge, heaven help me, of your recruit training. I do not like noise, and I do not like disorder. Right now, that means I do not like you. Let’s see if you can improve my opinion of you straks before I get you out on a parade ground somewhere. Now go about your business in an orderly manner. If you have a question or need assistance, raise your hand and wait for me to help you. I’ll get to everyone in time, so be patient and we’ll make this as painless as possible.” He turned his glittering stare on the dark-haired youngster who had been voicing his approval of the blonde and raised his stun baton under the youth’s chin. It wasn’t switched on, but the sergeant’s thumb was less than a centimeter from the power button. “As for you, lover-boy …” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “What’s your name?”

“Antonelli, signore … sir,” the kid replied. Despite the menace of the baton his voice was cocky.

“You address me as ‘sergeant’ when you talk, boy,” Ortega said, his voice a whipcrack. “Now listen to me, Antonelli. The whores in town’ll be glad enough at all the things you can do—if you really can, that is. Save the enthusiasm for them and leave her the hell alone. Got it?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

Hauser’s bag was small, all he needed for the small kit he’d collected en route. He double-checked the label to see that the serial number was clear, opened it up long enough to transfer his wristpiece computer and a few odds and ends from his pockets inside, then sealed it and tossed the bag into a bin. He stripped off his clothes quickly and cast around in search of a place to sit.

He looked for MacDuff, but the Caledonian was surrounded by a mob of other recruits already, including the hannie Myaighee. Hauser didn’t care to mix with the ale again. He had tried to soften his resentment of the non-human after hearing Suartana’s advice on trying to adopt more Commonwealth-oriented attitudes, but that didn’t mean he liked the bald-headed little monkey any better. So far it had stayed away from him, and he didn’t intend for things to change now.

Instead, he finally found a cold metal chair next to another recruit, a big, raw-boned man with auburn hair and a collection of scars on his chest. A tattoo on one arm showed a crest of some kind, together with the words “Third Assault Marines” and the slogan “Death Strikes From Orbit.” Hauser hoped his own appearance wouldn’t stand out too much among the rough characters in the waiting room. Most of the skin displayed carried scars or tattoos of some kind, though there were others who looked more like Hauser than the big man next to him.

There was little conversation under the watchful eye of the sergeant. Periodically, someone would call out a number from the inner door, and another recruit would leave. Then it was Hauser’s turn.

“Number forty-eight! Forty-eight!” There was a pause. “Serial number 50-987-5648!”

Hauser suddenly realized the call was for him and stood up with a jerk.

“Waiting for a goddamned engraved invitation?” Sergeant Ortega asked him harshly. The NCO lashed out with a stun baton, and Hauser’s forearm tingled and burned as the blow landed. “Mag it, strak!”

As he crossed the waiting room, Hauser knew he was taking the last steps in his journey. He found himself hoping, too late, that his decision really had been the right one.

At the door, he was called upon to surrender his ident disk. Then the processing began, a seemingly interminable job that lasted more than four hours and left Hauser weary, discouraged, and less sure of himself than ever.

Despite weeks of preparation in transit, it seemed as if Hauser was starting from scratch. There was a fresh physical examination, with another long look at the lingering traces of his wounding and regen treatment. A psych team questioned him yet again, concentrating on his familiarity with chip training procedures. Then came a haircut, a sonic shower, vaccinations against various bacteriological and viral threats, and the injection of a five-year birth control agent. Legionnaires contracted for a term of five years and gave up all right to formally sanctioned marriages or any chance of children. In the Fifth Foreign Legion, personal ties were always frowned upon.

Through it all, the officers, noncoms, and civilians remained completely impersonal. The recruits had numbers and were never referred to by name. Hauser had never felt so completely removed from his aristocratic background. It rankled to be referred to by an ident number instead of a name, but somehow he held his tongue and avoided further trouble.

He had thought he’d be drawing a Legion uniform, but instead ended up in secondhand coveralls and boots a size too large. The explanation offered by a bored noncom at the supply counter was that uniforms and kits would not be issued until training actually began, perhaps as much as another two weeks off. ARISTOTLE had brought only about half of the recruits who would comprise Hauser’s training company. More would arrive to fill out the unit when the carriership PETRONIUS arrived in-system. Meanwhile he and the other recruits would wear these secondhand clothes. It was another Legion tradition. The new recruit made a clean break with his past. A fresh start. Though they would be allowed some personal effects, there was something symbolic in having the new arrivals start out this way, wearing used clothing as anonymous as the identification numbers and nearly as impersonal.

The process ended in a small office in the administration building, a large structure which faced the Monument aux Morts and the museum along the broad extent of the road the legionnaires referred to as “The Sacred Way.” Room 2312 was windowless, with the wall behind the desk dominated by the Legion colors. A woman with captain’s bars gestured to the lone chair beside the desk as Hauser was shown in.

She consulted her wristpiece. “Number 50-987-5648. Hauser von Semenanjung Burat, Wolfgang Alaric.”

“Yes, Captain,” he responded. It was a relief to hear his name used at last.

“Good, good. Needless to say, you’ve been accepted for a five-year enlistment in the Foreign Legion. You are aware that you may take this enlistment under a pseudonym, a nomme de guerre, as the French used to call it?”

He nodded slowly. That, of course, explained the pointed avoidance of using names throughout the processing. From the time their ident disks had been taken, the recruits had been in a sort of limbo. Anyone who wanted to could take new names upon entering the Legion, to make the break with the past complete.

“It is not required that you change your name,” the captain went on. “In some cases it is essential, such as when we accept a recruit with a criminal record. The change of identity, which includes issuance of complete records—birth certificate, passports, everything—the change is designed to protect the Legion and the legionnaire alike. If you were wanted for murder on Caledon and we got a query regarding Wolfgang Hauser, we could honestly say there was no such person, and produce complete records to prove it. That’s been a basic building block of the Legion for hundreds of years.”

She looked at him with a smile. “That doesn’t apply to you, though. However, a lot of legionnaires choose to change their names just for the tradition, the romance, the sense of adventure … and frankly we encourage the change because it helps cement the new beginning you’re making with us. Have you given any thought to a nomme de guerre?”

Hauser shrugged. “Not really, Captain,” he said slowly. “I suppose a change might be a good idea. Even if I’m not considered a criminal, there’s a few Besarans who might not be too pleased to know that I’m here.”

She nodded. “The possibility had occurred to us, based on the background information you gave the testers aboard Kolwezi. Mind you, the Legion looks after its own, no matter what your name might be. But you could save yourself, and us, a lot of trouble. What name shall we enter you under, then? Or would you prefer we give you some random identity selected by computer?”

He looked away. The Hausers had always been known as the “Wolves of the West,” after their holdings on Java Baru’s Western Peninsula. His given name, Wolfgang, echoed the old nickname.…

And his father, Karl Hauser, had always called him “Little Wolf.”

“Legion tradition or not, I don’t like the idea of completely breaking with my past. My father’s memory, at least.” He spoke more to himself than to the captain. “I’d like the name Karl Wolf, Captain.”

She touched some keys on her wristpiece. “Karl Wolf. Very good. The name is now entered on your ident disk and in our files. You are now Engaged Volunteer Karl Wolf. Welcome to the Fifth Foreign Legion.”

* * *

The man who now called himself Karl Wolf leaned back in his bunk and stared at the tattered mattress slung above him. He barely noticed the noise made by the other recruits crowded into the transients’ barracks. For the moment he was too wrapped up in the gloomy knowledge that they faced yet another delay before the training would begin. It seemed that boredom was more likely to claim his life than any enemy on the field of battle.

After finishing in Room 2312 he’d been ordered to the barracks building. The assignment was temporary, until the new training company was fully assembled and settled into standard quarters. Twenty men shared this dormitory, mostly others from Wolf’s batch of new arrivals. There were a handful, though, who had been in residence for over a month already, some of the holdovers from the last training company which had formed at Fort Hunter. Wolf hoped he wouldn’t end up like them, forced to wait for yet another batch of new recruits to be assembled.

His bag had arrived ahead of him. There had been a few moments of worry over that, but the seals had been untouched and the contents all accounted for.

“This my bunk up here?” a gentle, lilting voice broke into Wolf’s private world. He turned his head to see the big redhead from the processing hut looking down at him, holding what looked like a military-issue kitbag in his beefy hands. The voice reminded him of MacDuff, and was completely at odds with the man’s powerful build and hard eyes, and Wolf wasn’t sure which to go by. He’d heard of bullies in situations like this forcing weaker men out of choice spots … like lower bunks.

Wolf raised himself on his elbows. “I figured we were supposed to sleep wherever they tossed our stuff, but I haven’t seen any sign that we’re actually assigned anywhere,” he told the big man in his most reasonable voice.

The redhead nodded. “That’s what I thought. They did the same thing at …” He trailed off. “At another military base I heard about once.”

The tattoo with the Assault Marine crest was hidden by the man’s coverall sleeve, but Wolf’s eyes strayed to the forearm anyway. When he met the recruit’s level gaze again he saw a tiny smile. “That’s my story and I’m sticking with it,” the redhead said in a quiet voice. “Look, boyo, I mass about twice what you do, and this bunk looks like it was part of the base they had here back when this fellow Hunter was stationed here. Would you rather sleep in the upper or run the risk of having me fall through and smother you in your sleep? Doesn’t matter to me.”

Wolf grinned back. “Put that way, I’m inclined to be generous,” he said, sticking out his hand as he swung his feet to the floor. “The name’s … uh, Wolf. Karl Wolf.” He had almost forgotten his nomme de guerre.

“Tom Callo—Tom Kern,” the other responded, taking his hand in a powerful grip. “The names take some getting used to, don’t they?”

Nodding, Wolf relinquished the bunk. He was surprised to find himself warming to this man even though he was obviously nothing at all like the people he’d been friendly with back home. There was something about Kern that made him almost instantly likable despite his fearsome appearance.

Kern didn’t sit down immediately. Instead he turned to the drab gray locker beside the bunks and started emptying his kitbag, staying well clear of Wolf’s meager possessions. That done, he dropped the bag into the bottom of the locker and stripped off his coverall, hanging it neatly. In fact, all his motions were precise and careful, further confirmation that he had plenty of experience living out of a military kit or a barracks locker.

A recruit stirred on the upper bunk next to them. It was Antonelli, the dark-haired kid who had been making trouble in the waiting room. “Hey, Red,” he said easily, a trace of accent overlaying his Terranglic. He pointed to the tattoo. “You a veterano, man? Why would an Assault Marine end up in a jerk-ass outfit like the Foreign Legion, huh?”

Kern shot him an angry look, but didn’t answer the boy.

“Hey, come on, Red,” Antonelli persisted. “We’re supposed to be compagni … comrades in arms, now!”

“Quiet, there!” The kid’s bantering tones were cut off by the harsh voice of Gunnery Sergeant Ortega. The NCO had come up behind the youngster as he was talking. Now he was peering up at the kid with an expression of supreme distaste. “Everybody, on their feet! At attention!” His stun baton lashed out to prod the kid, who scrambled out of his bunk hastily. The other recruits were falling into line beside their bunks, shaken out of their complaisance by the sergeant’s penetrating shout.

“All right, stand easy,” the sergeant growled. He surveyed the bunkroom with a withering look. “You lot will be spending two to three weeks in these transient quarters until the rest of your training company arrives. Until then, technically, you aren’t even part of the Legion, because your contracts don’t start until the company is formed.”

He looked straight at Wolf. “That means you still have a few days to back out if you want to. A five-year commitment to the Legion might sound exciting or adventurous back home, but I’m here to tell you it’s nothing of the sort. It’s not like some holovid or dreamchip scenario where the stalwart heroes fight it out on some sanitary field of honor, then go back to swap yarns over a bottle somewhere. Legion life is month after month of duty so boring it’ll drive you crazy, followed by a few days or hours when you’re too busy trying to save your ass to realize that you’re really in one of those exciting battles you heard about back when you were a civilian. Think about it.… Five years of whatever duty we think suits your qualifications. That’s what’s waiting for you even if you manage to make it through Basic.”

Antonelli spoke up. “Uh, Sergeant, what happens if we wash out of the training?” He managed to look brash and nervous at the same time.

Ortega glared at him. “There are just four ways out of the Legion once the contract is in force. You can wash out of Basic, or resign if you decide you can’t take it. Pass Basic and your options get slimmer. Then you can complete five years’ service and get your H-and-F stamp on your discharge papers, or you can take the Last March or get yourself wounded bad enough to pull a medical out, or you can desert. I wouldn’t recommend deserting. We don’t like deserters, and you won’t like what we do to you if we catch you trying.”

There was a stir in the barracks room, but no more questions. “In short, just remember one little rule and you’ll get along fine. Stay out of trouble. As long as you obey orders and don’t go screwing up we’ll all be one happy family.” Ortega looked around the room. “Just because you’re not official doesn’t mean you get a vacation. You’ll work until PETRONIUS brings the rest of the company in. That starts tomorrow. Lights out is at 2300 hours tonight, with reveille at 0430. Keep in mind that you’ve got a 27-hour rotation period here, and set chronometers accordingly.” He paused again. “Dismissed.”

Wolf followed the sergeant’s stocky form with wary eyes. The noncom made him nervous. Ortega seemed to look straight at him every time he spoke of people not measuring up. It reminded him of Colby, of the recruiting sergeant back on Robespierre. It was as if they all expected him to fail. Was he really too soft to be a part of the Fifth Foreign Legion?

A sign on the wall caught Wolf’s eye: YOU LEGIONNAIRES ARE SOLDIERS IN ORDER TO DIE, AND I AM SENDING YOU WHERE YOU CAN DIE. The sign attributed the words to a General Negrier of the old French Foreign Legion. The quote had been uttered over a thousand years ago, and it was still part and parcel of the unit’s tradition.

That said more about the Legion than anything Ortega or any other legionnaire had put into words.