Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle by William C. Dietz Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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a long time before I see him again. Who knows where they’ll send us.”
Windsweet knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. Her son was a warrior now and beyond her reach. She allowed herself the smallest of frowns. “You’ll be careful? Celebrations get out of hand sometimes.”
Bill Booly, Jr., took her hand in his. “Don’t worry, Mother. Tom and I are straight-arrow types. We’ll have some dinner, drink a couple of beers, and go to bed early.”
Windsweet nodded agreeably, but doubt tickled the back of her mind and refused to go away.
The Kepi Blanc was located in the seedy area south of San Diego’s main spaceport. It had been in business for more than a hundred years and catered entirely to legionnaires. Made from what looked like tan adobe, and topped with a crenelated roof line, it had the look of a nineteenth-century Algerian fort. A grove of bottom-lit palm trees surrounded the structure and added to the desertlike ambience.
Booly was halfway up the walk when the front door opened and a trio of legionnaires stumbled out. They staggered, saw Booly, and managed some sloppy salutes. Booly grinned, returned their salutes, and entered the restaurant. Smoke swirled, music pounded, and a scuffle broke out. Bouncers converged on the offending parties and order was restored.
The Kepi Blanc was packed, and Booly was busy working his way through the crowd when a waiter decked out in the red hat, blue cutaway coat, red pantaloons, and soft boots worn by legionnaires back in 1835 intercepted him. “Welcome to the Kepi Blanc, sir. Please follow me.”
Booly obeyed and was soon steered out of the great room down a hall and into a series of interconnected lounges and dining rooms. The noise level dropped considerably. He saw plenty of senior officers, many of whom regarded his half-human, half-Naa features with open curiosity, but no enlisted personnel. A new waiter took over, this one attired in the khaki duster and cartridge belts worn in 1954 Algeria. He had just steered Booly towards a long wooden bar when a voice yelled, “Hey, Bill! Over here!”
Booly turned to find Riley seated about ten feet away. Two of the more cerebral members of their class—numbers ten and fourteen, to be exact—shared his table. Number ten was a rapier-thin woman named Kathy Harris, and number fourteen was a rather genial young man named Tony Lopez. They waved him over. Booly thanked the waiter, circumnavigated a portly colonel, and claimed a still-vacant chair. Harris offered her hand and he took it. She smelled like soap. “Nice going on the pennant, Booly . . . the entire class is proud of you.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. “The entire class?”
Harris shrugged. “Most of the class. The ones who count. Hey, waiter! Yeah, you in the pith helmet, meet the man who hoisted our pennant! He needs a drink.”
A waiter, fully rigged for combat in Tonkin circa 1885, took Booly’s order and disappeared. He returned two minutes later. Booly tried to pay but the waiter shook his head. “Not tonight, sir. Congratulations on your accomplishment.”
Surprised, and somewhat embarrassed by the praise, Booly thanked the waiter, pointed out that Riley deserved a lot of the credit, and changed the subject. “So, Tom . . . how did the afternoon go?”
Riley winced. “Mom and Dad got into a fight, the food was lousy, and I left as soon as I could. How ’bout you?”
Booly sipped his gin and tonic. The truth was that he had enjoyed the time with his parents but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “It was fine. Say, have you people ordered yet? I’m starving.”
It turned out that they hadn’t ordered, so the next hour and a half was spent ordering food, eating it, and downing rounds of free drinks, so that by the time the desert tray finally arrived, Booly was light-headed. It was then that a hand fell on his shoulder and a voice he both feared and hated filled his ears. “Well, if it isn’t the brain trust of Booly,
Windsweet knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. Her son was a warrior now and beyond her reach. She allowed herself the smallest of frowns. “You’ll be careful? Celebrations get out of hand sometimes.”
Bill Booly, Jr., took her hand in his. “Don’t worry, Mother. Tom and I are straight-arrow types. We’ll have some dinner, drink a couple of beers, and go to bed early.”
Windsweet nodded agreeably, but doubt tickled the back of her mind and refused to go away.
The Kepi Blanc was located in the seedy area south of San Diego’s main spaceport. It had been in business for more than a hundred years and catered entirely to legionnaires. Made from what looked like tan adobe, and topped with a crenelated roof line, it had the look of a nineteenth-century Algerian fort. A grove of bottom-lit palm trees surrounded the structure and added to the desertlike ambience.
Booly was halfway up the walk when the front door opened and a trio of legionnaires stumbled out. They staggered, saw Booly, and managed some sloppy salutes. Booly grinned, returned their salutes, and entered the restaurant. Smoke swirled, music pounded, and a scuffle broke out. Bouncers converged on the offending parties and order was restored.
The Kepi Blanc was packed, and Booly was busy working his way through the crowd when a waiter decked out in the red hat, blue cutaway coat, red pantaloons, and soft boots worn by legionnaires back in 1835 intercepted him. “Welcome to the Kepi Blanc, sir. Please follow me.”
Booly obeyed and was soon steered out of the great room down a hall and into a series of interconnected lounges and dining rooms. The noise level dropped considerably. He saw plenty of senior officers, many of whom regarded his half-human, half-Naa features with open curiosity, but no enlisted personnel. A new waiter took over, this one attired in the khaki duster and cartridge belts worn in 1954 Algeria. He had just steered Booly towards a long wooden bar when a voice yelled, “Hey, Bill! Over here!”
Booly turned to find Riley seated about ten feet away. Two of the more cerebral members of their class—numbers ten and fourteen, to be exact—shared his table. Number ten was a rapier-thin woman named Kathy Harris, and number fourteen was a rather genial young man named Tony Lopez. They waved him over. Booly thanked the waiter, circumnavigated a portly colonel, and claimed a still-vacant chair. Harris offered her hand and he took it. She smelled like soap. “Nice going on the pennant, Booly . . . the entire class is proud of you.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. “The entire class?”
Harris shrugged. “Most of the class. The ones who count. Hey, waiter! Yeah, you in the pith helmet, meet the man who hoisted our pennant! He needs a drink.”
A waiter, fully rigged for combat in Tonkin circa 1885, took Booly’s order and disappeared. He returned two minutes later. Booly tried to pay but the waiter shook his head. “Not tonight, sir. Congratulations on your accomplishment.”
Surprised, and somewhat embarrassed by the praise, Booly thanked the waiter, pointed out that Riley deserved a lot of the credit, and changed the subject. “So, Tom . . . how did the afternoon go?”
Riley winced. “Mom and Dad got into a fight, the food was lousy, and I left as soon as I could. How ’bout you?”
Booly sipped his gin and tonic. The truth was that he had enjoyed the time with his parents but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “It was fine. Say, have you people ordered yet? I’m starving.”
It turned out that they hadn’t ordered, so the next hour and a half was spent ordering food, eating it, and downing rounds of free drinks, so that by the time the desert tray finally arrived, Booly was light-headed. It was then that a hand fell on his shoulder and a voice he both feared and hated filled his ears. “Well, if it isn’t the brain trust of Booly,
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