That was scary enough, but making the situation even worse was the knowledge that here, somewhere among all of those hostile beings, were the roughly twenty-four men, women, and cyborgs who would accompany him to Jericho. Because Booly and the other members of the sub-rosa group that Santana reported to knew any effort to recruit legionnaires from regular line units would be reported to Vice President Jakov.
Bester eyed the six pintle-mounted machine guns trained on the fl?oor below and confi?rmed that all of them were properly manned before speaking into a wireless microphone.
“Atten-hut!” The process of coming to attention took at least fi?ve seconds and could only be described as sloppy. But that was to be expected, and Bester was reasonably happy with the extent of their compliance as he eyed the inmates below. “The man standing next to me is Captain Antonio Santana. You will listen to what he says and keep your mouths shut until he is done. Is that understood?”
The response was automatic and something less than enthusiastic. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Like the guards, Bester didn’t rate the honorifi?c “sir,” outside of the pit, but he was god within it. “I can’t hear you!”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” the crowd roared.
“That’s better,” the blocky noncom allowed grudgingly. “Because even though you might be scum, you’re Legion scum, and therefore the best goddamned scum in the galaxy!”
Surprisingly, in spite of the fact that every single one of the people in the pit had been sentenced to prison by the organization to which they belonged, such was their overriding sense of pride that the response caused the railing under Santana’s right hand to vibrate. “Camerone!”
It was amazing that an ancient battle in a small Mexican village could still evoke such passion. But it did, and Santana was moved by the strength of the response. Moved, and to some extent reassured, by the knowledge that the Legion had always been a refuge for criminals, who often fought valiantly in spite of their sordid backgrounds. Bester turned to Santana, assumed a brace, and saluted.
“They’re all yours, sir.”
The legionnaire nodded gravely and returned the salute.
“Thank you, Command Sergeant Major.”
Santana raised his own microphone as he turned back toward the pit. “Stand easy. . . . I know you have important things to do—so I’ll keep this session short.”
That comment produced snorts of derision, some catcalls, and outright laughter from the assemblage below. Santana’s eyes roamed the crowd as he waited for the noise to die down. Most of the inmates were bio bods, but scattered here and there among the beings who looked back up at him were the bland metal faces that belonged to the cyborgs. Twicecondemned creatures with nowhere left to run. “I’m here because I need to recruit some legionnaires for a very dangerous mission,” Santana said honestly. “I can’t divulge the exact nature of the mission, other than to say that it’s very important to the Confederacy, and the chances of success are slim. That’s the bad news,” Santana concluded. “The good news is that any legionnaires who volunteer, and are selected for the team, will be pardoned. Regardless of their crimes.”
There was a stir followed by the rumble of conversation as the prisoners reacted to the offer. “As you were!” Bester ordered sternly, and targeting lasers swept back and forth across the formation. The talk died away.
“But I won’t take just anybody,” Santana cautioned.
“And there are only twenty-six slots. That means thirteen bio bods—and thirteen cyborgs. But if you want to see some action, and if you’re interested in the possibility of a pardon, then give your name to the guards. Interviews will begin later this afternoon. That will be all.”
Bester said, “Atten-hut!” and there was a loud crash as the multitude came to attention. “Dismissed!”
Orders were shouted, and bodies swirled, as segments of the inmate population were sent back to their cells. Bester turned to Santana. The noncom’s deeply seamed face bore a look of concern. “I don’t know what you’re up to, sir, but surely you can do better than this lot. . . . Whatever the mission is will be dangerous enough without having to watch your back all the time. Why half that bunch would slit your throat for the price of a beer!”
“I hear you, Sergeant Major,” Santana replied. “But there’s no other choice. The interviews will begin at 1400
hours assuming that we have some volunteers.”
“Oh, you’ll have them,” the noncom allowed cynically.
“The question is whether you’ll want them!”
Maria Gomez had been laying on her rack, snatching some extra Z’s, when the order arrived. And now, as the noncom followed the shock-baton-toting guard through a maze of passageways into the heart of the infamous pit, the legionnaire wondered what the hell she was doing there. Having cleared the last checkpoint the soldier led Gomez out into the open area beyond. “The captain is in room two,” the private informed her, and pointed his club at a door on the other side of the hall.
Gomez thanked the guard, straightened her uniform, and approached the open door. She knocked three times, took two steps forward, and snapped to attention. “Corporal Maria Gomez, reporting as ordered, sir!”
Santana looked up from the printouts laid out in front of him to the noncom who was framed by the doorway. The legionnaire’s face was expressionless, and she was staring at a point about six inches above his head. He could use Gomez, that was for sure, but would that be fair? Sergeant Major Bester felt sure that at least some of the pit rats would volunteer. And, given the long sentences that many of them faced, would consider themselves lucky to escape the pit, no matter how dangerous the mission might be.
But, outside of a few run-ins with offi?cers, Gomez had a clean record. Should he accept the noncom if she volunteered? Or fi?nd a reason to disqualify the legionnaire because he liked her? And would that be wrong? Such were the questions that swirled through Santana’s mind as he said, “At ease, Corporal. Come in and take a load off. I have some interviews to conduct—but I wanted to speak with you fi?rst.”
Gomez didn’t know what to think as she entered the room and took the seat opposite Santana. That was when she became fully aware of the pistol, the cyborg zapper, and the shock baton that were laid out next to the offi?cer’s right hand. An interesting array of tools for a man who was about to conduct interviews. “Okay,” Santana began,
“here’s the deal.”
Gomez listened attentively as the offi?cer glossed over what he described as “. . . a top secret mission,” emphasized how dangerous it would be, and told her about the need to recruit prisoners. The enterprise was clearly hopeless. As was the way she felt about the serious-looking offi?cer. But Santana was going to need someone to cover his six, so when he offered to fi?nd her a slot in another outfi?t, the noncom shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but no thanks. I like a good fi?ght, you know that. So I’ll go along for the ride.”
Santana felt a surge of gratitude. Because he would have to sleep sometime, and without dependable noncoms to keep his team of cutthroats under control, he could wake up dead. He looked her in the eye. “You’re sure?”
Gomez nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Then welcome to Task Force Zebra, Sergeant. I can use the help.”
Gomez was visibly surprised. “Sergeant?”
Santana nodded. “The team will be made up of two platoons—with two squads in each platoon. I’m putting you down to lead the fi?rst squad in the fi?rst platoon. Have you got any objections?”
It was a signifi?cant increase in responsibility, and to the noncom’s surprise, she welcomed it. “No, sir. No objections.”