But Thorella obliged her with what she had to consider an intellectual tour de force, at least for him. “There are a lot of things I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Mackenzie,” he replied calmly. “But I would think that the fact that our race needs people like me to survive against an enemy like the Kreelans would be self-evident, even to you. The trouble is that you’re soft and malleable, like wet clay. I realize that people like you would like nothing better than for the rest of us to just roll over or turn the other cheek as the Kreelans send in their seed to poison us, but that’s not how it’s going to be.” He turned to face her, his face a cold mask of hatred. “There are a lot of people who never wanted that half-breed to contaminate our population, to disgrace the Corps, and I’m one of them. Where there’s one, there’s more, and pretty soon we’ll be overrun with half-breeds spreading their ideas and their genes through our population.” He leaned closer to her. “And I’ll do anything I can to stop that from happening.”
Thorella’s use of “half-breed” was not lost on her. With black skin and blue eyes, her own racial lines were far from any measure of purity people like Thorella seemed to find acceptable. But her own personal anger took second place to her growing suspicions that Reza’s mishap had not been an accident. “Does that include murder, captain?” she asked quietly, waiting tensely to see if Thorella would attack her.
Slowly, he smiled. “I don’t know what you mean, lieutenant. And if you accuse me of anything, I certainly hope you have a lot of evidence to back it up. Because if you don’t,” the smile evaporated, “you can kiss your career goodbye.”
“No,” Jodi said as she casually began to step away from him, “just wondering.” He’s insane, she thought. But his warning struck a chord of truth in her. How had he managed to stay out of trouble, despite the numerous allegations of disgraceful conduct that had been levied against him, all of which eventually were dismissed? He must have some sponsorship from higher up the chain. The question was, how high? And could they get away with trying to kill Reza, or anyone else, for that matter? “I think I’ll just go and check on my ship, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Thorella said flatly.
Watching her go, he knew she would have to be taken care of. When this little exercise was over, he would have to talk to his mentor again. He would know just what to do.
Smiling like the Dark Angel, he busied himself with the exercise unfolding around him, seemingly oblivious to Reza and Eustus. One of them he hated, the other was simply in the way.
Senator Strom Borge’s face was a mask of contemplation. It was the face he often wore while jousting with his colleagues over the many issues of state and war the Confederation Council faced each day. The men and women he secretly loathed. They were weak and foolish, leading the Confederation into genocide at the hands of the blue-skinned alien horde. But he knew better, and worked diligently each day to set things right, biding his time until the day that he would no longer feel compelled to conceal his true goals, his real ambitions. Power was his sole reason for existence, and to exercise unlimited power was his ultimate goal. Someday, he thought. Someday soon.
A small sheaf of genuine paper slipped from the slender fingers of his hands as he gazed out the window that took up the entire wall of his office suite in the Confederation Plaza, as his thoughts wandered among the myriad lights that shone in the evening darkness outside. The paper contained a message from his protégé in the military, Markus Thorella, requesting guidance as to how to pursue the matter of dealing with Reza Gard. Thorella’s initial attempt at quashing their unsuspecting enemy, while imaginative and seemingly foolproof, had nonetheless been thwarted, and the senator was not willing to put Thorella at risk again. At least, not yet.
Tapping a finger to his lips, an idea came to him. “Maria,” he said.
“Yes, senator,” the disembodied voice of his secretary outside answered immediately from unseen speakers in the room.
“Inform General Tsingai that Reza Gard is to be assigned to the Red Legion,” he told her, “on order of the Chairman of the Confederation Council’s Military Oversight Committee.”
“Immediately, senator,” she replied.
He sat back, smiling. Tsingai would protest, of course, but he would not press the issue after he, Senator Strom Borge, threatened to expose his little ongoing extramarital affair in public. Borge knew everything about everyone, and considered no one beyond his reach or influence.
Outside, his secretary carried out his instructions, silently wondering at the terrible fate that awaited Reza Gard.
Twenty-Six
The day Reza had looked forward to as a boy, and then again when he rejoined humanity, had finally come. He stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, alongside his peers. The four companies of the graduating training battalion stood in mass formation on the parade ground as the post commandant gave his graduation speech, but Reza paid him little attention. His thoughts focused on the single stripe now on his sleeve that, lowly in rank as it was, signified that he was worthy to be a Confederation Marine. He had made good Wiley Hickock’s faith in him from those bittersweet days that he had once forgotten. Past that, he thought of the future, of the time – soon, now – when he would be cast into battle and his blood would again sing in time with his sword.
The pomp and ceremony of graduation finally came to a close, the last comments and speeches rendered. It was now time for the trainees’ last act as a battalion.
“Battalion…” he heard Eustus’s voice boom over the field. He had been chosen as battalion trainee commander for this final day, and had loved every minute of it.
“Company…” each of the trainee company commanders echoed.
“Atten-SHUN!” Over five hundred pairs of boots stomped the ground, heel to heel, as the battalion came to attention.
“Dismissed!” Eustus’s final command was drowned out by a sea of jubilant cries as the former trainees voiced their thanks that the hell of the last weeks was finally over. Hundreds of hats flew into the air, and the once orderly formation broke down into a riotous mob that surged toward the barracks area to prepare for whatever Fate had in store for them.
No longer old or young, man or woman, rich or poor: they were Marines.
Reza’s platoon stood at attention before Sergeant Major Aquino in what they knew was a private ceremony he conducted for every platoon that graduated under his tutelage. Out in a far corner of the post, arrayed before an abandoned storage building that was away from any prying eyes, he began the ritual.
“Listen up, Marines,” he bellowed in the tinny, heavily-accented voice that they had all come to respect, a note of pride in his words that he was no longer addressing recruits, but young warriors ready for battle.
“Some of you now will be going on to more training, to be specialists of some kind. The rest of you will be going straight to a combat regiment somewhere. But all of you, sooner or later, will be out in the fleet. And in the fleet there is no room for petty personal problems or grudges. Life, as you will soon find, is too short for that, and there is no room for it on a warship or in battle.”
He held up an electronic notepad that they already knew was their unit roster. “When I read your name, you are to go into the building,” he nodded to the door behind him, “and wait. Then anyone who wants a piece of you will get their chance, and all of you can get any hard feelings out of your systems now and leave them here, where they belong. We want you to take out your aggressions on the enemy, not on each other.” He paused, surveying his audience, looking for squeamish faces. He saw none. Good. “When you’re done, come back out and take your place in formation, then we will go on to the next one. I will observe to make sure no one gets carried away. Any questions?”