Chapter Ten

It takes an iron hand to bend such diverse elements into the same mold.

—Comte Pierre de Castellanne,
French Foreign Legion, 1845

“All right, you straks, ten-HUT!”

The recruits had been milling around the parade grounds on their own for the better part of an hour, and the sudden shout caught most of them by surprise. Wolf found a spot in the second row as they formed up into three lines in an approximation of military attention. One hundred twenty men, women, and nonhumans stood sweating in Devereaux’s afternoon sunlight, assembled for their first official muster as Training Company Odintsev. They still looked more like a motley assortment of convicts than a military unit, with their secondhand coveralls and sloppy, unmilitary bearing, but from this moment the process of turning them into legionnaires would begin.

The arrival of the transport Sevastopol had ended three long weeks of boredom. It hadn’t come a moment too soon as far as Wolf was concerned. Ortega had decided he was best suited for latrine duty, and five days of scrubbing out the facilities with a toothbrush and a pile of rags was enough to make almost any other duty sound attractive.

The shuttle from Sevastopol had touched down shortly before noon, and while the new batch of recruits was going through the processing routine, Wolf and the others had been drawing their Legion kits and getting ready for the changeover from boredom to Basic. Almost everything he’d need for the next five years was stowed in the bulky kitbag beside him—shoes, boots, five grades of uniform from duraweave battledress up to the khaki shirt and trousers of full dress, a canteen and mess kit, and other accoutrements, including the white kepi that was the Legion’s unique badge of office. None of them would be allowed to don the sacred headgear until they had convinced their instructors that they really were Legion material.

Those instructors were standing in a cluster behind the stocky figure of Gunnery Sergeant Ortega. Unlike the recruits, they wore comfortable gear for Devereaux’s mid-afternoon heat, shorts and T-shirts in khaki and green with the Legion motto Legio Patria Nostra emblazoned in bright scarlet letters across their chests. The casual rig revealed that Ortega had a tattoo on his forearm even gaudier than Kern’s, a skull and crossbones with the motto “Living by chance, soldiering by choice, killing for fun” running under the picture.

A pair of stiff figures emerged from the administration building behind the noncoms and crossed the street at a leisurely pace. They wore crisp khaki uniforms and black kepis, and the one in the lead had hauptmann’s—no, captain’s—bars. Behind him was a woman wearing a lieutenant’s insignia. Gunnery Sergeant Ortega saluted, and the captain returned the gesture casually.

“I am Captain Dmitri Odintsev,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the whining turbofans of a passing MSV cargo carrier. “Today you will begin your Basic Training as members of Training Company Odintsev. I expect good things from the recruits under my command. My units have won the Training Company Commendation three terms running, and I intend to make it a fourth time with your help. You will find the work here hard, and not all of you will finish the process. That is only to be expected. Even the ones who wash out of Legion training should hold their heads up high, because as long as you give us your best you will know that you’ve been part of something special, something ordinary soldiers will never understand. Regardless of what some people claim, the Fifth Foreign Legion is a good outfit … the best outfit … and for those of you who do measure up I can promise that you’ll find a home for life.”

Odintsev paused. “As Company Commander, most of my duties are strictly administrative, and the same goes for Lieutenant DuChateau, my Exec.” His gesture took in the woman beside him. “Most of your training will be directly supervised by Gunnery Sergeant Ortega and the rest of the Training Company’s noncommissioned officers. In addition, some of you may be assigned instructor duties in areas where you have demonstrated particular proficiency. However, even though the lieutenant and I won’t be directly involved in day-to-day training, we’re still available if you need us. The Legion looks after its own, and even though you aren’t full legionnaires yet rest assured that I take care of my recruits … for good or for ill.

“Most of the academic work you do in Basic will consist of chip education coupled with practical applications classes,” the captain continued. “Part of your screening included tests on your tolerance for chip learning, so none of you need to be concerned by any stories you might have heard about some people being unable to handle chip learning. You should, though, keep in mind that training through direct mind-computer links may be faster and easier than any other form of education, but will still vary in quality according to your individual aptitudes and desire to learn. Don’t expect to retain everything perfectly just because you review a chip on a subject. You may have to repeat a chip several times before you fully understand the material.”

He paused again before continuing. “The purpose of applications classes is to put some of what you learn from adchips into actual practice. You will find that you’ll retain information much better when you do it, as opposed to merely studying it. Your progress will be monitored, and where necessary you may be assigned extra course loads or the assistance of a tutor to help you. Do not be discouraged by any problems you may have. I’ve known old legionnaires from Neusachsen and Beaumont who never learned Terranglic well enough to shed their native accents, even after years in the Legion and plenty of chip instruction. They muddle through. So will most of you.”

The captain moved on to other topics, touching a number of subjects briefly. “Now as far as the overall training program goes,” he said at last, “I’ll lay out what you can look forward to in the months ahead. For the next three weeks you will undergo your initial indoctrination here at Fort Hunter. This will consist of physical conditioning, courses in military discipline and etiquette, Legion background, singing, first aid, basic weapons familiarization, and so on. At the end of that period you will have two more weeks at Hunter in intensive training with Legion equipment, including weapons, some vehicles, and your combat helmet and battledress capabilities.

“Following this will be a series of two-week courses designed to familiarize you with various environments and to give you actual field experience. Fort Kessel in the Nordemont mountain range, Fort Marchand in the jungles of the Archipel d’Aurore, Fort Souriban in the deep desert, and the orbital station of Fort Gsell will each serve in turn as your home base during the appropriate stages of training. As Christmas falls within this period, many of you will also be participating in extracurricular activities related to the holiday, and training will be interrupted for a week around Christmas so that the entire training battalion can celebrate together here at Hunter. The final two weeks of your basic training will consist of a series of tests to determine your fitness to graduate the course and receive the white kepi of the legionnaire.”

He studied the recruits for a long moment. “That’s all I have to say for now … except for one more thing. Welcome to the Fifth Foreign Legion.” He smiled, then turned toward Ortega. “All right, Gunnery Sergeant, they’re all yours.” They exchanged salutes again, and the two officers headed back for the admin building.

Ortega waited until they were inside before raising his voice again. “Let’s get a few things straight right now,” he shouted. “Captain Odintsev is listed as Training Company Commander, but you’ll find that you’ll see a hell of a lot more of me than you will of the officers. When you address me you will salute and call me ‘Sergeant.’ Do you understand?”

There were sprinkled replies, a ragged and discordant chorus. Wolf didn’t join in. Behind Ortega the other noncoms were fanning out to move through the ragged formation, dressing the lines and frowning at the recruits.

“Do you understand?” Ortega repeated, sounding menacing.

More soldiers answered, but it was still a dispirited response. Wolf chuckled … until the numbing shock of a stun baton across his shoulders made him gasp. Other recruits were getting similar treatment up and down the line from the corporals moving among the ranks.

“We’ll keep this up until you get it right,” Ortega announced loudly. “You will salute and say ‘Sergeant’ when addressing me. The proper answer to any question asked of you is ‘Yes, Sergeant’ or ‘No, Sergeant,’ DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

This time Wolf joined in the chorus, all too aware of the hovering noncom near him. “YES, SERGEANT!”

Ortega nodded, a quick, curt gesture. “You straks … no, that’s an insult to every damned strak that ever jumped into the Mistfloor Gorge. You lot aren’t straks … and you certainly aren’t men, so you must be the lowest form of life. Nubes. Newbies. Recruits. You nubes are the best of a bad lot, the sorry-assed few the processors couldn’t get rid of any other way. So now you’ll spend fifteen weeks finishing your basic training here and elsewhere … unless you screw up first, and I’m sure most of you will! While you’re here you’ll learn how to be a legionnaire, but odds are none of you will ever be fit to breathe the same air as a real legionnaire. By the time it’s over every last one of you’ll be wishing you had just signed up for Hell, ’cause pitchforks and eternal flames would be comfortable compared to what you’ll be doing!”

He paused, looking them over slowly, contemptuously. “For the rest of the day you’ll be settling in to your permanent quarters. The company will be divided into four platoons of thirty recruits each, and each platoon will be assigned to one barracks building. Those of you who’ve been with us for a while will be glad to hear you’ll be getting more locker space and semiprivate cubicles. After we’ve divvied you up by platoons, sections, and lances, you’ll spend the afternoon getting squared away. Evening mess is at 1800 hours. After that you’ll have two hours of free time, with retreat and lights out at 2100. Reveille is at 0300 hours.”

Ortega checked the tiny screen of his wristpiece computer. “In addition to myself, twelve NCOs are responsible for the bulk of your training, though you’ll also be given specialized lectures by other officers and noncoms as necessary. You will obey these men at all times. If you have a problem, you go through the chain of command. That means you see the corporal in charge of your section first, and if he thinks it’s worthwhile you see the sergeant in charge of your platoon. Heaven help you if they think it has to be brought to me … or if you bother me with some damned complaint without seeing them first!” Ortega gave a savage little smile and made a gesture to the NCOs nearest him. “All right. Tell ’em off by lances and sections and get ’em moving. This isn’t some strakking picnic!” He turned on his heel and stalked off.

One of the noncoms took Ortega’s place. “First Platoon!” he bellowed. A corporal took over with a shout of “First Section. Alpha Lance!” He recited five names, including Suartana’s, then added, “Form up over here. Now!”

The process seemed to go on interminably. There were a few mutterings in the ranks until the corporal who had hit Wolf lashed out a few times with his stun baton. Then the other recruits were quiet.

First Platoon was filled out, and the sergeant in charge was leading them away at a trot. After a few minutes more Wolf saw the corporal with the well-used stun baton stepping clear of the ranks.

“Second Platoon, Second Section, Delta Lance! When I call your names fall in behind me. Antonelli, Mario! Kern, Thomas! Myaighee! Scott, Lisa! Wolf, Karl!” He paused before starting in on Echo Lance.

As the corporal continued assembling his section, Wolf studied the recruits beside him. He knew Myaighee, of course, along with Kern and Antonelli from his transient barracks room. The redhead was friendly and good-natured; the young Italian’s brash manner made him unpopular, but for all that there was something about the kid that would have been engaging if he hadn’t been trying so hard to play the role of the cocky tough guy.

The last member of the group was the same blond girl Antonelli had been admiring in the processing hut that day. She was tall and slender, and moved with a catlike grace. Her short hair and worn coverall couldn’t hide the fact that she had once been used to power or money. Like MacDuff, she looked like an aristo. He wondered what her background was, what had led her to join the Legion.

The corporal finished calling names, and a tall, rugged sergeant with a face scarred beyond the ability of reconstructive surgery to repair bellowed for Second Platoon to follow him. They struck out at a brisk trot, following First Platoon through a gate into a fenced-off compound containing several buildings and a large central parade ground. They stopped outside a building labeled Barracks 18, where the two sections separated and were called to order by their respective corporals.

“All right, you miserable nubes, stand easy and listen up!” the NCO told them. “I am Corporal Stefan Vanyek, and until you put on the kepi or wash out of training the second section of this platoon is under my authority. For the next fifteen weeks you’ll be answerable to God, two sergeants, and me … but not necessarily in that order! When I say jump, you’d better ask how high. Screw up and I’ll be all over you like scales on an Ubrenfar. Got it?”

“Yes, Corporal!” the section members answered in unison.

“Good! Now … each of you has four lancemates. Think of your lance as your family. You’ll train together, march together, eat together, sleep together, and God willing fight together for as long as you’re here. Got it?”

“Yes, Corporal!”

Beside him, Antonelli smirked at Wolf and jerked his head at the blond woman. “Sleep together, huh,” he whispered. “Hey, man, maybe this ain’t gonna be so bad!”

Vanyek whirled and stalked toward them. “Who said that?” he demanded, looking at Wolf. No one answered.

“All right, nubes. Delta Lance, take a lap around the parade ground. Mag it!”

They fell out of ranks and started running. Antonelli set a brisk pace, and pulled out ahead almost at once with the girl following close behind. Wolf noticed Kern and the hannie holding back, choosing a steady ground-eating trot over Antonelli’s faster gait. Though he wasn’t sure about the alien’s reasons—perhaps those short legs just couldn’t manage anything better—Wolf decided Kern probably knew what he was doing and fell into step beside the big man. Although they weren’t pushing themselves particularly hard, they were soon drenched in sweat, and the dry, hot air seared Wolf’s throat before he had rounded the last comer of the field.

The run completed, they fell back into the line and Vanyek resumed his harangue.

“Next time one of you nubes mouths off in ranks you’ll get a real punishment, not just a warning.” He paused. “As I was saying, the lance is everything. Your best friends, your family. One of you screws up, the whole lance screws up. Keep it in mind.”

A shuttle roared overhead, drowning out the sounds of Fort Hunter. Vanyek waited until it was gone, then continued. “One recruit from each lance will be appointed as lance leader. The lance leader is responsible for discipline and all actions of the lance. You will obey your lance leader’s orders except as overridden by higher authority.”

He looked at Wolf’s lance with an expression of distaste that Wolf was coming to recognize as the standard look of the NCO instructors at Fort Hunter. As Vanyek called up information on his ’piece, Wolf suppressed a smile. Kern’s military background and aptitude would make him the obvious choice for lance leader, and that would suit Wolf well enough. Or perhaps his own education and Academy training would count for something, as Doenitz had suggested back on Robespierre. Although he had disclaimed any desire for a leadership role, he wouldn’t shirk the responsibility if it was offered.…

“Delta Lance,” Vanyek mused. “Hmm … you, the ale. Your file says you’ve already had Legion combat experience?”

The alien nodded, a completely human gesture. “Yes, Corporal. With Captain Fraser’s company on Hanuman and Polypheme—”

“Did I ask for a service history, nube?” The corporal cut the alien off short. His gaze swept over the rest of the lance. “When the Legion recruits locally, during a campaign, there isn’t always time for the regular training process. Myaighee here is an example. He has served in two campaigns already. Since you have combat experience, Myaighee, you’ll be the designated lance leader for Delta Lance. Understood?”

“Yes, Corporal,” the alien replied.

“But—” Wolf burst out. He stopped himself.

“What is it, nube?” Vanyek asked sharply.

“Uh … nothing, Corporal. Nothing …”

Vanyek gave him a long, speculative look. “I’ve seen your file, Wolf. It says you think you’re better than most people. Is that so, nube?”

“No, Corporal,” Wolf responded crisply.

“Ah … well, then that means you think the psych tester lied about you. Right?”

“No, Corporal,” he repeated.

Vanyek snorted and gave Wolf a brief touch of the stun baton on low power, making the muscles in his arm jerk spasmodically “Get something straight, nube. And the rest of you trash. If you’ve got any hang-ups about an ale as lance leader, you’d better swallow them double quick! We don’t worry about how many arms you have or whether you hatched from an egg or whatever. Anyway, all nubes are the lowest form of life, so trifling differences aren’t gonna bother you. You got it, nubes?”

“Yes, Corporal,” they all responded.

Vanyek shoved his stun baton under Wolf’s chin. “What about you, nube? You got any problems taking orders from a hannie?”

“No, Corporal. None.” Wolf swallowed, uncomfortably aware of how the man’s words were hitting home. He’d heard about Myaighee’s Legion experience back on the Kolwezi, but he’d assumed a nonhuman would never have a shot as a leader at any level.

“You think you could lead this lance better’n Myaighee, nube?” Vanyek persisted.

“No, Corporal!” he replied quickly … perhaps too quickly. Vanyek regarded him for a long minute before finally nodding. “Myaighee, Delta Lance.” He moved down the line. “Now, Echo Lance … hmmm …”

Wolf’s attention wandered as the corporal moved to the next group of recruits. It seemed the Legion wasn’t making any allowances for the differences between people, between whole cultures, even though it drew manpower from across the Terran sphere and beyond. He had expected to find differences, of course. His ancestors had emigrated to Laut Besar largely to get away from some of the stricter aspects of the Commonwealth, and in just over a hundred years the two cultures had diverged. Now he was expected to adapt, and with people like Vanyek pushing him it just made the job all the more difficult.

He glanced at Myaighee. Did the hannie find it hard to understand human ways? Of course the alien had already been exposed to the Legion before coming here. Alone of the recruits in Training Company Odintsev, Myaighee wore the insignia of a Third Class Legionnaire. He—Wolf refused to use the alien word ky—was already a veteran, and would probably go back to his old unit no matter what.

That was as galling as the hannie’s sudden promotion to lance leader.

Wolf felt his jaw tighten. He’d adapt to these Legion ways, all right … if only to see how Vanyek and Ortega reacted. If that meant treating an alien as an equal, even a superior, so be it.

A few moments later, Vanyek was finished with the lance leader assignments, and the section followed him into the barracks building. It was designed to hold an entire platoon of thirty men, with quarters on the ground floor and a basement gymnasium and exercise area underneath reached by a flight of stairs and an airlock arrangement. The exercise room, Vanyek explained, could be set for a variety of different environmental conditions, much like the training compartments in the transports.

The quarters block was divided lengthwise, with one section occupying each side of the main floor. Each lance shared a room with five semiprivate cubicles and a common room. At one end, near the only outside door, the Section NCO had an office and private room. The other end contained another office/quarters suite, slightly larger, for use by the platoon NCO, Sergeant Konrad, plus a large communal latrine and shower room that was shared by the entire platoon.

Delta Lance had the quarters adjacent to the shower. Initially, Wolf was inclined to grumble about the arrangement, especially when several First Section recruits started using the showers and he realized how much noise they could make. But Kern only smiled and pointed out that he’d be a lot happier with the arrangements when everyone in the building was eager for a shower and Delta Lance would have the advantage in getting there first.

The quarters themselves were comfortable enough, far superior to the transient’s bunkroom. Each cubicle had a cot, a small writing desk and computer terminal, and an individual locker, with a lightweight folding door that could give at least the illusion of privacy. The common area at the center of the room was as Spartan as the cubicles, with no more furnishings than a table and some chairs.

Compared to his private room at the Sky Guard Academy it was appalling, but judging from other aspects of Legion life, Wolf felt lucky to have such good quarters.

As he unpacked his kitbag, the memory of Vanyek’s words kept coming back. They were determined that he would fail, that he couldn’t handle life in the Legion. And maybe they were right.