Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle by William C. Dietz

Silence could mean trouble, too, but seemed like the best alternative. The colonel stood, walked around the end of the table, and stood with her face two inches from his. Booly detected the faintest whiff of mint. She had a hard face and her good eye glittered with emotion. “Now, you listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen good. I think you’re a furry no-good freak conceived by a worthless NCO who went over the hill so he could screw the local wildlife.”
    Blood rushed to Boolyʼs face, the fur she had referred to stood on end, and adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. It was only through a major act of will that he kept his hands at his side and his eyes focused on hers. She might be the world’s worst bigot, or she might be jerking him around, but the results were the same. He hated her guts. To talk about his parents that way, to call his mother an animal, went beyond any possible justification. But an attack would give her an easy way to put him in prison.
    The colonel paused, her eyes still locked with his, well aware of his hatred. She clasped her hands behind her back and circled him. “See how easy it is, Lieutenant? See how easily I pushed your buttons? What the hell are you going to do next time? And the time after that? Are you going to fight every man or woman who calls you names? ’Cause if you are, Lieutenant, then you aren’t worth shit, and I should bounce your ass out of the Legion right now.”
    The colonel completed her circuit. Her eyes found his. “And guess what, piss ant, if it was up to me I would toss your butt out of here, because I don’t think you’ll make it. I think you’ll allow some two-bit asshole to lure you into one fight too many, or coddle your troops because you want them to fall in love with your furry ass, or make some other equally stupid mistake. But I don’t run the Legion, and for reasons I don’t understand, General St. James thinks you have potential. I just pray to God that he’s right, and this isn’t a manifestation of the political crap that generals swim through, the kind that gets a whole lot of good people killed someday. Do you read me, Lieutenant?”
    “Yes, ma’am!”
    Axler nodded grimly. “Well, I sure hope you do, because you are one sorry sonovabitch. Drinking is stupid, violating orders is stupid, and fighting is stupid. Even when they’re marines. Now, here’s the skinny. . . . You get to keep your shoulder boards, but I’m taking three months’ worth of your pay, and sending you to a planet where you will either lead or die. The second alternative being best for the Confederacy. Your shuttle lifts at twenty-three hundred hours tonight. Make damned sure you’re on it. Questions?”
    “No, ma’am!”
    “Then why are you still here? Get the hell out of my office!”
    “Yes, ma’am!” Booly snapped off a salute, did a perfect about-face, and marched to the door. It opened, then closed behind him.
    Axler watched the young man leave, waited for the door to close, and smiled. “He’s gone, sir.”
    A section of wood paneling swiveled out of the way and General St. James stepped into the office. He had watched the whole thing on closed-circuit video and carried two cups of steaming-hot coffee. One went to the colonel. “Nice job, DeeDee, you scared the crap out of him.”
    Axler took a sip of her coffee. It had too much sugar in it but she wasn’t about to tell the general that. “I thought he was going to take a swing at me when I insulted his mother.”
    St. James nodded. “Yeah, but it had to be done. The Legion needs to look more like the Confederacy that it’s fighting for. That means officers and legionnaires of every possible race. Or combinations of races, assuming the Naa aren’t of human stock themselves, which scientists are beginning to doubt. But we can’t afford hotheads. Lieutenant Riley swore that Booly walked away from a confrontation inside that nightclub but I had to know for sure.”
    Axler nodded. “Yes, sir. Well,