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

recruiting poster. Congratulations.”
    Bill Booly, Jr., accepted the hand-to-forearm grip common to adult males and looked at his father. He had aged during the three years since they had last met. The hair, close cropped as always, was thinner now and shot with gray. And the eyes, while no less blue, looked tired, and a bit distracted. He smiled. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot coming from you.”
    The elder Booly shrugged and smiled wryly. “I hope your career in the Legion goes better than mine did. Here . . . your mother has something for you.”
    Windsweet smiled and offered her husband a box. He removed the lid. A second lieutenant’s blue kepi and shoulder boards were nestled inside. The gift was expected, and identical to ones being received all around him, but it felt special nonetheless. As his mother buttoned the shoulder boards into place, and his father placed the hat on his head, Booly was transformed from cadet to officer.
    The moment felt good, so good he couldn’t stop grinning, and still had a grin on his face when they left the stands and headed for the long black limo that hovered at the curb. It was then that a corporal in the famed 1st REC crossed their path and snapped a salute in Booly’s direction. The young officer returned it just as smartly, asked the NCO to wait for a moment, and gave him the fifty-credit note he had pocketed for that very purpose. It was an old tradition that had originated in another army and been adopted by the first senior class. The corporal smiled, rendered a second salute, and did a neat about-face.
    There was no way of knowing whether the corporal had simply happened along, or timed his passage to coincide with the flood of new lieutenants, butBooly saw what seemed like an unusual number of enlisted people lurking in the area, all saluting like mad. He laughed, waved to a distant Tom Riley, waited while his parents entered the car, and slid into the rear-facing seat. It was dark and smelled of leather.
    A window sealed them away from the driver’s compartment. Booly had caught a glimpse of a Naa warrior called Knifecut Easykill at the controls and was reminded of his father’s unusual position as chief of chiefs, and ambassador to the Confederacy.
    Partly hereditary, and partly based on a sort of democratic consensus, the interrelated positions had been granted to the elder Booly when Wayfar Hardman, Windsweet’s father, had been killed in battle—a battle in which the Naa had joined forces with the Legion to fight the alien Hudatha. The senior Booly had then used that alliance to leverage a number of agreements, including formal recognition of the Naa race and the right of Naa nationals to enlist in the Legion if they so desired.
    But politics were no less rife than they had been during the emperor’s reign, which meant an appalling number of political assassinations and the precautions necessary to prevent them. Which was why Easykill was a highly qualified bodyguard as well as a driver and a loyal member of Windsweet’s tribe. The car tilted slightly and pulled away from the curb. The senior Booly smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, son.”
    Booly shrugged. “Thinking, that’s all. Where are we headed?”
    “Lunch at the beach . . . followed by whatever you want.”
    His mother was wearing one of the high-collared oriental sheath dresses currently popular with human females. It was jet black and looked wonderful against her light gray fur. Her voice was hopeful. “There’s a reception tonight . . . your father and I have been asked to go. . . . Would you like to come?”
    Booly had been dreading the moment and was just about to launch into a carefully prepared speech when his father rode to the rescue. “We’d love to have you, son, but it’s only fair to warn you that it’ll be pretty boring, so you might want to consider other invitations.”
    The younger man smiled gratefully. “Thanks for the offer, but Riley invited me to dinner, and it could be