Chapter Two
Journal File #013
I was not personally present at the assembly where my employer first addressed his new command. Though I had complete knowledge of the Legionnaires’ personnel files, and was later to get to know many of them intimately, not being officially in the Legion would have made it inappropriate for me to attend the meeting.
I therefore took it upon myself to eavesdrop on the proceedings by tapping into the compound’s two-way paging system. This is merely a high-tech improvement of the time-honored tradition of listening at key holes. While one’s employer is entitled to his privacy, it is next to impossible to meet, much less anticipate, his requirements without proper knowledge of his activities and the pressures at work in his life.
(Admittedly I have never discussed this openly with my employer, but while I have often acted on information I was not given directly, he has never commented on or chastised me for my having that knowledge.)
* * *
The company recreation hall, though the largest room in the compound, was usually virtually deserted evenings. At one time it had merely been depressing in its lifelessness, but over the last several months the Legionnaires had stopped picking up after themselves, and a litter of moldy, half-eaten food added a new air to the environs. More simply put, it stank.
Tonight, however, it was full to capacity. Word had been passed that the new company commander wanted to address the troops, and the possibility that a roll call might be taken was sufficient threat to guarantee everyone’s attendance.
There were not enough seats to go around, even including the perching points on the pool table and radiators, and the pecking order among the company could be readily seen by who yielded their spot to whom as the room slowly filled. Though they tried to maintain an air of bored cynicism, the Legionnaires were nonetheless curious about the new commander, and that subject dominated the conversation, particularly among the younger, more clean-cut segment of the group.
“It’s sure taken him long enough to call this meeting,” one such was grumbling. “He’s been in residence almost a week and hasn’t talked to anyone…just keeps sending that butler of his to the mess hall for food or into town on errands.”
“Anyone ever hear of an officer having his own butler?”
“Who cares? They’re all spoiled rich kids, anyway. Whatdaya expect in an outfit where ya gotta buy a commission?”
“What do you think he’s going to say?”
This last comment proved to be too tempting to pass on for the company’s first sergeant, who had been lounging nearby, eavesdropping on the conversation. She was a rough-complexioned woman in her early thirties, and of normal enough proportion that it wasn’t until she stood up that one realized how large she was.
“I’ll tell you what he’s going to say,” she announced with theatric boredom.
“What’s that, Brandy?”
Aside from her rank and size, the first sergeant had an easy smoothness and confidence in her movements that earned her deferential treatment and attention whenever she chose to speak.
“It’ll be the same as any CO would say taking over a new outfit,” she said. “First, he’ll tell a joke. I think it’s written in the Officer’s Manual that you have to open with a joke when you’re addressing enlisted personnel. Anyway, he’ll start with a joke, then tell us that whatever’s happened before is in the past, that he’s going to make this the best unit in the Legion. Of course, he won’t say how, just that he’s going to do it…which means we get drills and inspections for a few weeks until he gives up on this ragtag bunch and starts trying to pull strings to get transferred out.”
A few of the more seasoned Legionnaires within earshot grunted their agreement or simply grinned in amusement at the top sergeant’s analysis. They, too, had heard it all before.
“Basically you’ve got two choices,” Brandy continued. “You can wait him out, or you can toady up to him and hope he’ll take you with him when he transfers out of this sewer.”
There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before one of the newer Legionnaires voiced the thought that was on all their minds.
“Do you think we could get a better deal in another outfit, Sarge?”
The top sergeant spat noisily on the floor before answering.
“That all depends on what you think a better deal is. Standin’ guard in a swamp is no picnic, but it beats getting shot at. As far as the company itself goes…”
She shot a glance at the company’s two lieutenants fidgeting in opposite corners across the room and lowered her voice.
“…all officers are pretty much the same, and none of them are good for much except signing reports and holding the bag. If you’re asking what I think of the working end of the company, the grunts, well…do you know what an Omega Company is?”
The sudden crash of chairs being knocked about and voices raised in cheers and catcalls drew the attention of everyone in the room, at least momentarily. That was all the time it took for most of the company to realize it was only Super Gnat on another one of her rampages and return to whatever they were doing before.
Super Gnat was the smallest Legionnaire in the company, and had a fiery temper that exploded at any provocation, real or imagined. In particular, she was sensitive to any comments made about her height…or lack thereof.
“I wonder what set the Gnat off this time?” Brandy mused, half to herself.
“Who knows?” one of her listeners said. “The other day she jumped me in the chow line at breakfast. All I did was ask the cook for a short stack of pancakes.”
“That sounds like her.” The top sergeant nodded as the others chuckled appreciatively. “You know, with as much fighting as the little runt does, you’d think she’d be better at it. Look at that.”
The Legionnaire under attack was laughing openly, keeping Super Gnat at arm’s length by the simple tactic of holding his hand on the top of her head as she flailed away blindly with her fists.
Brandy shook her head sadly.
“It looks more like a schoolyard than a Space Legion company. That’s what I was starting to say about Omega Companies. Counting up all the oddballs and basket cases we’ve got in this outfit, it’s a cinch that—”
“Ten-HUT!”
Lieutenant Armstrong’s voice reverberated off the walls, but no one paid it much heed. He was rumored to be a reject from the Regular Army, and had never rid himself of the reflex of calling a room to attention when a superior officer entered. Such traditions were not practiced in the Legion. Courtesy between the ranks was a matter of personal preference rather than required performance, and as such was generally ignored. His eruption did call attention to the fact that the new CO had just entered the rec room, however, and all the Legionnaires craned their necks to see their new commander.
Framed by the door behind him and poised in a parade-rest stance that was at once relaxed and vibrating with restrained energy, the figure that had just entered the room dominated the assemblage with its mere presence. His uniform was a glowing black jumpsuit edged with gold piping and tailored to flatter his slim body. A rapier with a polished brass swept basket hilt that hung at his side by a baldric might have made him look comical if it were not offset by the icy gaze he leveled at the company. So unsettling was the stare and the silence which accompanied it that several Legionnaires nervously rose from their seats and drew themselves up into an approximation of the position of attention. The CO seemed not to notice, any more than he noticed those who remained seated.
“They tell me you’re all losers and misfits,” he said flatly without introduction. “I don’t believe it…though it’s clear most of you think you’re losers from the way you conduct yourselves.”
The company exchanged glances, suddenly self-conscious of their soiled uniforms and the garbage in the room. A few eyes were turned toward the first sergeant as if to ask what had happened to the expected joke. She ignored them, making a show of concentrating on the CO’s words as he continued.
“I’m aware that you are all lacking in the abilities or character traits that usually define the so-called perfect soldier. I’m also aware that the perfect soldier doesn’t exist in reality. I’m not looking for you to be perfect soldiers, just effective soldiers. ‘Effective’ means getting the job done with whatever or whomever you have handy…not letting the job or the world run over you while you moan about what you haven’t got. You’ve all spent so much time concentrating on your shortcomings that it’s hard for you to see your own strengths. That’s where leadership comes in.”
He swept the room with that gaze again.
“My name is Captain Jester, and I’m your new commanding officer. Since I’ve seen all of your files and know quite a bit about you, I thought I’d return the favor and let you know a bit about me…even if it means departing from the Legion tradition of secrecy. My actual name is Willard Phule, and my father owns Phule-Proof Munitions. As you might guess from that, I’m quite rich.”
There was a minor stir at this information, but most kept their attention on the captain.
“Some of you resent the practice the Legion has of raising money by charging a fee for the commissioned-officer examination…‘selling commissions,’ as it’s often referred to. I won’t apologize for the system or for using it to my advantage. Purchasing commissions was common at one time in the British Empire, and they did quite well militarily. There is another tradition from that time I intend to implement, however; that the commanding officer supplements the units under his command with his own finances. I’ll get to that in a moment, but first I’d like to make one point clear. I didn’t inherit my money. While my father provided some seed money at first, it was in the form of a loan, long since paid off. I was a multimillionaire before I was out of my teens, and I did it by buying companies and corporations that others thought were losers and turning them into winners. That’s what I intend to do with this unit. Developing and making use of raw material is the job of management, and if this company can’t become an effective force, it’ll be my fault, not yours.
“Now then, as to special gear…”
Phule held up one hand and used the other to pull back the sleeve of his uniform, revealing a wide leather band housing a watch-like mechanism.
“You will each be issued one of these. It’s a wrist communicator and can be used as either a paging system or a private phone. They will enable you to stay in touch with each other and with Headquarters at all times, and vice versa. As you notice, I’m wearing one as well. I will be available to any of you at any time, day or night. Obviously I have to sleep sometime, as well as take care of other matters of importance. At those times, my number will be monitored by either a clerk or my butler. I can be wakened or interrupted at any time if it’s important…but be sure it’s actually important or we’ll have a few words.
“Speaking of my butler, you’ve probably heard of him if not seen him by now. His name is Beeker, and in addition to being my employee, he’s also my friend and confidant. I have a great deal of respect for him, and would appreciate it if you treated him with the courtesy he deserves. I can’t and won’t order it, but I will ask it. Remember, however, that he is not in the Legion and therefore not in your chain of command. Anything he says should be treated as his opinion only and not an order or official policy statement from me or the Legion. Similarly, you will find that he will respect and keep any confidence you care to share with him, so feel free to speak with him or in front of him without fear of it being reported back to me or anyone else in the chain of command. If some of you feel that his job is demeaning or subservient, I’ll share with you the fact that after several years of working for me and investing his savings, he is currently independently wealthy in his own right. In short, he’s working for me because he wants to, not because he has to.
“That brings us to another point. I don’t know what plans any of you have for life after your enlistment is up, or if you’re saving any of your wages toward that day. I do know that if you aren’t preparing yourself financially, you should. Well, handling money is something I do well, and I hereby place that skill at the disposal of the company…just as I hope some of you will be willing to use your strengths and skills, however praiseworthy or dubious, to the benefit of all. I will be opening a portfolio of stocks to enable any of you who wish to participate to invest your savings or whatever portion of your pay you wish to assign to that purpose. While I can’t guarantee success, I have never managed a portfolio that lost money. Personally I would suggest setting aside one third of your wages for this purpose, but again the amount is completely up to you, as is your participation at all. If any of you have questions on this, feel free to talk to me during breaks or off-duty hours.”
The captain surveyed the room again.
“While there’s a lot more to cover, it can wait. I just wanted you all to get an idea of who I was and what I had in mind for this unit. We all know, however, that talk is cheap, and I’m sure you’re all more interested in my actions rather than my words, so I’ll keep the speeches to a minimum for the time being.
“I’ll be meeting with each of the officers and cadre members in my office after we finish here. Are there any immediate questions before we break up?”
There was a low buzz among the Legionnaires, then a voice floated up clearly from the back.
“We hear that the governor’s decided to post a color guard on his office.”
The commanding officer cocked his head.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it, but I’ll check into it first thing tomorrow. Off the top, however, I don’t see any problem with it. It could make a nice break from swamp duty.”
“Umm…excuse me, sir?” Brandy drawled. “I don’t think you quite understand. Scuttlebutt has it that he’s invited Regular Army to perform that duty instead of us. They get to show off their pretty dress uniforms in town while we sit out in the swamp…same as always.”
A low growl rumbled through the assemblage. Phule noted it, as his lips compressed into a thin line of annoyance.
“We’ll see about that,” he said grimly. “All right. Anything else that won’t keep until tomorrow?”
He waited a moment, then nodded at the silence.
“Very well, then. The last note is that I want you all to assemble your personal gear and stand by to move out first thing in the morning. We’re going to be moving out of these quarters for a while.”
Scattered groans greeted this announcement. It sounded like the new CO was going to make them camp out while taking their measure.
“Why? Are you going to have the place fumigated?”
Phule seemed not to notice the snickers that answered the question which had been shouted anonymously.
“Actually I’m going to have the place remodeled,” he said casually. “In the meantime, we’re going to move into the Plaza Hotel in town.”
Thunderstruck silence followed his words. The Plaza was the ritziest, most expensive hotel on the planet. The few times that Legionnaires had attempted to stop in the cocktail lounge for a drink, they had been driven out by the prices and dress codes.
For the first time since entering the rec room, Phule allowed himself a small smile.
“Like I said, gentlemen…and ladies…things are going to be different from now on. Officers and cadre…outside my office. Now!”