Still shaking his head, he left for his cabin.
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 my self 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.