Chapter Twenty-one

I started out a soldier of this Foreign Legion, and now that we are reunited once more I know that nothing can defeat us.

—Marshal F’Rujukh’s Order of the Day,
Battle of Frenchport, Ganymede,
Third Foreign Legion, 2419

A holiday air filled the familiar confines of the mess hall. According to the intricate conversion of the standard Terran calendar and clock to local Devereaux time, Christmas Eve had started at 0934, and had run for over twenty hours now. Legion tradition guided the celebration of the holiday as it did so many other things, and according to that tradition four training companies and the entire staff of Fort Hunter had gathered in the mess hall at 2630 hours local—about 1700 hours GMT, Christmas Eve, according to Terrestrial timekeeping—to start an ongoing round of eating, drinking, and partying punctuated from time to time by more serious or ceremonial moments. This was the Christmas vigil, and everyone not on duty was expected to attend.

Wolf sat in a dim corner of the hall, feeling out of place amid the merrymakers. At the far end of the huge room a space had been cleared. At “midnight” an improvised altar would be moved into place so that Father Chavigny could hold mass. For now, though, the area was a stage where groups of recruits were putting on skits or singing Christmas carols to entertain the audience. Right now six recruits and Corporal Vanyek were singing a haunting holiday song that had originated with the noncom’s Slavic ancestors. Another group was huddled to one side hastily improvising the skit they were supposed to do next.

He took a long swig of punch and set the empty cup on the table beside him. Ever since the excursion with Lisa Scott he hadn’t been able to put his feelings in order. Part of him still wanted to make it through Legion training, to prove that he really did have what it took … but he was growing more aware each day of his inadequacies as a soldier. A very basic part of him resisted the entire process of giving up his individuality. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be a cog in the Legion machine.

On the maglev tube car heading back from Villastre he’d asked Lisa for advice. Somehow she seemed able to deal with the situation even though her background, like his, had been one of privilege and ease.

“It’s all a matter of giving them what they want,” she said with a shrug. “I got used to that from years of pleasing my father. It isn’t an all-or-nothing proposition, Karl. You can bury your individuality far enough to please the powers that be without losing sight of who you are entirely.”

Watching the other recruits mingling amid the Christmas festivities, he wondered again if he’d ever be able to strike that balance.

“You’re quiet tonight,” her voice broke in on his sour thoughts. He looked up to see her standing behind his chair, sipping a glass of wine and watching him through thoughtful eyes.

“Yeah. Still a lot on my mind.”

Lisa smiled. “The least you could do is let down for Christmas! What’s it take to put a smile on that face, anyway?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Did you see the cribs? They’re really incredible!”

Each company had entered one Nativity crib in competition, and the four entries were lined up along one wall. Wolf had been drafted into the work party Sergeant Ortega had put together to set them up. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Er, they’re not … not exactly in the holiday spirit, some of them.”

She flashed another smile. “I’ll say. Especially ours.”

Training Company Odintsev had submitted a crib that showed three bearded legionnaires abseiling from a hovering transport lighter into the midst of a typical Nativity scene. Volunteer Hosni Mayzar, who’d been in charge of the project, had entitled the composition “The Hostage Rescue of the Magi.” No one was entirely sure if the Moslem recruit was having his own little joke at the expense of his Christian comrades.…

But it was eye-catching, intricately detailed, and Vanyek thought it stood a good chance of winning Father Chavigny’s First Prize award despite—or perhaps because of—the unusual blend of theology and small unit tactics.

The thought made Wolf smile despite himself. Mayzar, at least, had kept part of his own individuality intact. And Antonelli had played a big part in the design and execution of the crib before his untimely end. Maybe Lisa had been right after all.

“Did you see the one Schiller’s bunch did?” he began, trying to keep up this end of the conversation. “It’s—”

He was interrupted by a disturbance at the double doors ten meters away, where a cluster of officers and noncoms had suddenly stopped comparing notes on the training program so they could greet a new arrival. Wolf had to strain to see through the throng.

The object of all the attention was an unprepossessing sight, a frail, white-haired woman in a life-support chair. Her legs and lower torso were completely enclosed by the chair’s mechanism, but she wore a Legion uniform jacket. The rank device was like a sergeant-major’s, but with an extra rocker and a black star added, and a long strip of chevrons denoting her time in service. Wolf wasn’t familiar with any such insignia, but plainly the legionnaires around her, even the officers, were treating the old woman with considerable deference and respect.

She had a right to respect, Wolf thought, just on the basis of age. Regen therapy could extend life by a fair number of years, and bionic and geriatric medicine could do even more. But sooner or later—say after a hundred and twenty-five or so—the human body just couldn’t keep repairing itself no matter how much artificial assistance the high-tech doctors could bring to bear. At that point, full-support wheelchairs or beds were the only way to keep the aging body alive. More often than not the mind went first, though.

But this woman’s eyes were sharp, almost supernaturally alert and bright. And, frail though she looked in that chair, it was plain that she wasn’t ready to give up the fight for life just yet.

“Who the hell is she?” Wolf asked aloud. Beside him, Lisa shrugged.

“Keep your voice down, nube,” another voice countered in a hoarse stage whisper. It was Sergeant Konrad, leaning against the wall nearby. He moved forward and took a seat beside Wolf. The platoon NCO had plainly been drinking and looked as unsteady as he sounded. “Show some respect. That’s Aunt Mandy.”

“Aunt?” Wolf asked, raising an eyebrow. “Whose aunt?”

Konrad looked disgusted. “That’s what we call her in the Legion. That’s Amanda Hunter, for God’s sake.”

“Hunter…. You mean, as in Fort Hunter?” Lisa asked, echoing Wolf’s thought.

The sergeant nodded curtly. “Of course. Commandant Thomas Hunter’s wife. She was hiding out up in the hills of the Nordemont range when her husband died in the attack on Villastre.”

“That was a hundred and twenty years ago.…” Wolf said softly. “That means she must be … what? A hundred and fifty?”

“One hundred fifty-three last month,” Konrad said with an air of pride. “She’s the last surviving member of the Hunter family. And the only living link to the Fourth Legion. When they ordered the Fifth established, she was given the honorary rank of chief-sergeant-major. When she finally dies it will really be the end of an era.”

“But what’s she doing here?” Wolf pressed. “A woman with her name could have her pick of the high society balls on Devereaux. Age and a historical name are always a sure route to invitations.”

“She’s here, nube, because this is where she wants to be,” Konrad hissed. “Every year since the Fifth Legion was formed she’s attended one of the Legion Christmas vigils at Fort Hunter. This year she chose the Training Battalion. You should count yourself lucky, nube. Aunt Mandy might not be around too many years longer.” The tough sergeant looked like he was about to break down and cry at the thought.

Gunnery Sergeant Ortega got behind her chair and helped guide the old lady toward the front of the mess hall. Vanyek and the other carolers had finished, and the recruits preparing for the next skit looked relieved at the interruption.

Long minutes went by as the officers and NCOs arranged themselves around the life-support chair. Then an officer, resplendent in dress uniform and heavy braid, stepped forward and nodded to the legionnaire at the sound systems panel. The technician adjusted the directional sound pickup, and the officer cleared his throat.

“Good evening and Merry Christmas,” he said. His voice was clear throughout the mess hall, but didn’t sound distorted or amplified. “Many of you don’t know me by sight, but you’ve cursed my name often enough. I’m Commandant Stathopoulos, commander of the Training Battalion here at Fort Hunter. Tonight we have been honored by a visit from a very special lady we fondly call Aunt Mandy. Every year she picks out one unit at the base to share Christmas with. This year it’s our turn, and as usual Aunt Mandy has picked out some presents for all of you here. When you hear your name called, come up to the front and take your gift.”

A sergeant took over, bawling out a name at a volume louder than any technical augmentation would have allowed. Wolf tuned out the proceedings and muttered an excuse to get away from Sergeant Konrad. The NCO was fearsome on the parade ground. Half-drunk and maudlin he represented an entirely different set of problems.

Lisa Scott followed him to the door. “You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked. “You’ll be in trouble if they call you up and find out you wandered off.”

He shrugged and sat on the floor beside the open doorway. A cool breeze was coming off the desert, and it felt good after the heat of the crowded mess hall. “More of their precious tradition,” he said gruffly. “They trundle this woman in here and get her to hand out little trinkets to make the recruits think somebody really cares.” He shook his head sadly. “They fall for it, too.”

Lisa slipped her hand inside her uniform jacket and drew out a flat package. “Well, here’s one trinket that comes from somebody who does care,” she said. “Go ahead … open it.”

The plain wrapping paper covered a plastic case. Inside rested a silver medallion. He drew it out and squinted at it in the poor light.

On one side the medallion bore the tricolor-and-V of the Fifth Foreign Legion. On the other …

“How in the name of God did you find this?” he demanded. The reverse side bore the stylized coat of arms of the Hauser family. “I never even told you my name…!”

“No,” she admitted. “But you had that crest stamped on the inside of your wristpiece. I … er … exercised my reconnaissance skills one night when you were showering, and a craft house in Villastre did the rest.”

“It’s … great.” Words weren’t adequate.

“When you look at it, think of it as the balance you’ve been looking for, Karl.” She smiled. “I just hope you don’t opt out now. Not after I had them put the Legion emblem on it.”

He swallowed. “I’ll have to keep that in mind. Thanks, Lisa.” He smiled at her. “Alyssa. I don’t feel right thanking someone who doesn’t really exist, you know.”

Wolf spotted a silver chain coiled in the box and went through the motions of attaching the medallion to it. With Lisa’s help he settled it in place around his neck and tucked it under his uniform shirt.

“I bought you a present, too, but I’m afraid I can’t give it to you for a few weeks,” he told her.

“What is it?”

He grinned. “A knife, to replace the one our beloved corporal took that first night.”

“A knife. Now there’s a fine present to give at Christmas!”

“Well, if you don’t want it … I mean, it’s just a Novykiev Spring Knife, no big deal.”

“A Novykiev …” Her eyes were wide with surprise. “How did you lay your hands on one of those?”

The lineal descendent of a weapon first used on Terra before starflight was born, the spring knife combined a fine hand-to-hand edged weapon with a powerful spring mechanism that could propel the blade thirty meters or more with deadly accuracy. The best were made on the colony world of Novykiev, where they had enjoyed considerable vogue as a hunting weapon for a time. Since the Riots of 2839 and the imposition of martial law, though, Novykiev Spring Knives had become scarce as hens’ teeth.

“Found an old legionnaire who’d picked up a couple as souvenirs back in thirty-nine,” Wolf said with a smile. “He decided he could afford to part with one.”

He didn’t mention the fact that it had taken most of the credit in his ident disk to buy the weapon from old Corporal Souham in town. He had gone back to the bar the day after the fight specifically to get the weapon for her. The cost hadn’t seemed important even though he had nothing left now but his meager Legion salary … and if he ended up resigning he wouldn’t even have that.

But he owed this woman his life … and more. The knife was perfect for Lisa Scott.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” Lisa told him. “You shouldn’t have gone to that kind of trouble.…”

He touched his jacket where the medallion lay. “I thought it was the best way I could pay you back after you helped me start to sort things out the other day. Among other things. And whether you stay in the Legion or your father pulls you out, you’ll need the extra edge. A very sharp one.”

Lisa made a face at the pun. Before she could reply. Kern’s gentle voice interrupted her. “They’re going through the gifts up front by units,” he said quietly. “Our platoon is up next, and it might be a good idea if we were ready for it. If it wouldn’t be interruptin’ anything important here, that is.” Wolf looked up to see the big redhead favoring them with a suggestive leer.

There was a line of recruits moving past the officers and NCOs by Aunt Mandy’s life-support chair. Lisa and Wolf joined the line.

They moved forward slowly, but eventually they approached the old woman. Wolf couldn’t hear what was said to Myaighee or Kern, but as Lisa’s turn came he heard Gunnery Sergeant Ortega say her name and saw Amanda Hunter nod. She looked up at Lisa and held her eyes for a long moment before speaking.

“Captain Odintsev tells me there has been a request for a certain Lisa Scott to be released from her provisional contract immediately,” she said in a dry but surprisingly firm voice. “From what I hear there is quite a lot of pressure being applied from a very high level indeed.”

He could see Lisa’s shoulders slump in defeat. The old woman gave a dry chuckle, and it was all he could do to keep from stepping forward and shouting at her. Why had she ruined Lisa’s Christmas this way?

Then he caught a glint of gold in her hand as she held something out to Lisa. “My gift to you is a choice, my dear. The ident disk you’re wearing is about to be updated with new orders requiring your discharge. This one, on the other hand …” She chuckled again. “The Lisa Scott this one describes has a different serial number, a whole different background. We don’t often change a legionnaire’s identity again so soon after starting Basic, but if you don’t want to leave the Legion … Well, by the time anyone found out and started searching for you again, you’ll have the white kepi, and no one can make you leave then, my dear. No one.”

For the second time that night Wolf saw Lisa speechless. She took the gleaming ident disk and finally managed to stammer out an awkward thanks.

Then it was his turn.

“Volunteer Karl Wolf,” Ortega said. At Amanda Hunter’s gesture he backed away out of earshot.

When the old woman looked up at him, Wolf could see her eyes glittering with something that might have been amusement … or understanding. She nodded slowly. “I’ve seen your file,” she said. “Your real one, not Karl Wolf’s recruit file. I like to know a little something about the people I give gifts to, you see, and I’m old enough and respected enough to get my way.”

She held out a flattened box, an adchip module. “You’ve come to the Foreign Legion from a culture that’s quite different from your own, Wolfgang Alaric Hauser von Semenanjung Burat,” she went on. “Not as different as some alien ones, admittedly, but still …” She seemed to pause to gather her thoughts. “It may seem like you’re facing pressures no one else has ever had to meet. When my husband was alive … but that’s a different story. The fact is, the path you’re on now has been well trodden over the centuries, young man. You might benefit from seeing how one of the ones who went before walked that path. A merry Christmas to you … Karl Wolf.”

He smiled and nodded and mumbled something he hoped was appropriate and moved on, surprised at what she knew about him and hardly aware of the gift in his hand. The old lady had put a lot of thought and effort into these gifts, more than he would have believed reasonable. Earlier he had sneered about the Legion snaring foolish recruits with worthless trinkets. Now he knew better.

Wolf found a chair and touched the chip module to the side of his head, just behind and below his left ear. The chip clung there after he released it from the module. He closed his eyes and triggered it with a thought.

For a moment he was far from Devereaux, on an empty, airless plain below a cluster of half-ruined domes. Without being told he knew this was Ganymede, a colony known as Frenchport, and the end of the French interstellar empire was drawing near.

A figure was visible in the scene, only vaguely humanoid with four arms and a low, domed sense-organ cluster instead of a head. Even clad in an old-fashioned vacuum suit the alien seemed to exude an air of authority and competence.

“In 2419 AD the only nonhuman ever to hold the rank of Marshal of France faced his last and greatest challenge,” a voice only Wolf could hear said deep in his mind. “Marshal F’Rujukh, outnumbered, outgunned, without hope of retreat or relief, led a mixed army of Imperial forces into combat in a campaign that would cost him his life. But in the process he earned a place few can match in the annals of military history.”

There was a fanfare of music. “F’Rujukh ended his life a Marshal of Imperial France, but his beginnings were by no means so auspicious. Forced to flee his homeworld of Qwar’khwe when the planet fell under the sway of a military dictatorship, F’Rujukh entered the Third Foreign Legion as a common soldier. Years later he lived up to an ancient Legion saying: ‘The only way for us foreigners to repay our debt to France is to die for her.’

“Though not of Terra, he shed his blood for Mankind’s sake.”

Wolf terminated the biochip and returned from Dreamland bemused. A few weeks before he would never have thought that he could be interested in the career of an alien, no matter how distinguished his place in history.

Now he was looking forward to studying that career in the hopes that it might help him shape his own.