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  Order of the Centurion Citation:

  About the Authors

  Honor Roll

  THE RESERVIST

  ORDER OF THE CENTURION

  BY J.R. HANDLEY

  WITH JASON ANSPACH & NICK COLE

  Copyright © 2019

  by Galaxy’s Edge, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by David Gatewood

  Published by Galaxy’s Edge Press

  Cover Art: Fabian Saravia

  Cover Design: Beaulistic Book Services

  For more information:

  Website: GalaxysEdge.info

  Facebook: facebook.com/atgalaxysedge

  Newsletter: InTheLegion.com

  01

  Gray skies over Utopion wept as I stood at attention in the pouring rain. I was receiving an award—the award—for living when so many of my brothers hadn’t. A pompous affair, the Order of the Centurion ceremony was equal parts beautiful and grotesque—beautiful because of the bravery and heroism shown in combat, when life was as chaotic, dangerous, and real as it ever would be. Grotesque because of the self-satisfied officers who wore more medals than Oba aimed to hang their award around some fool’s neck, and that fool was me.

  The survivors of the 9th Legion were on Utopion for the festivities, and it was the usual Repub dog and pony show. We stood under an awning on Virtue Plaza, trying to pretend that it was a good day. If the torrential downpour was any indication, Mother Nature knew better. Thunder and lightning punctuated my gloomy thoughts and hid my tears. It was like the weather had confirmed that Oba was on the side of the Legion. If there was justice in the universe, it’d sure as hell never side with the political class.

  Gritting my teeth, I tried to contain an anger that had been swelling in my chest since I put on my dress uniform that morning. I couldn’t dishonor the ghosts of my friends. They were counting on me to bear their standard, to ensure their lives mattered. With the specter of my brother leejes peering over my shoulder, the ceremony felt like a cruel farce. Its very existence mocked the real heroes who’d bled out on the rocky Bevak Mountains. I’d stood under the shadow of truly valorous men, the sort that these mincing politicians couldn’t hold a candle to.

  I hated it, all the showmanship.

  They didn’t care about those who died. And they didn’t care about me. This was for them. And their disgusting pageantry tarnished the memory of those who’d sacrificed their lives to protect the corruption on Utopion. Rather than give those heroes their due, we survivors were patted on the head by a bunch of pansy admirals who’ve never gotten their dress whites dirty. Never even left the core.

  We were an island of Legionnaire dress blues among a sea of naval whites. That pompous gaggle of biddies with soft hands and calloused hearts sickened me. I remember, I could barely stomach them as they told us what great warriors for democracy we were.

  Truth be told, though, I was barely listening. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be dead… just a pile of bones. Like the others.

  The betters.

  We stood there, all of us survivors from the 9th, waiting for it to end. Because we had to. Because it was our duty.

  Time dragged by. We disconnected from reality until we could salute and be dismissed. When it was finally over, I excused myself from the cluster-hole of diplomats and big brass. I had a new mission: oblivion.

  And I knew just how to accomplish that mission. I changed into civvies and then headed to the nearest leej bar I could find. The sign above the entrance said Sleeping Legion. It looked low class. That’s saying something, when it’s coming from a leej. It was the kind of run-down dump which spoke of hard times, hard booze, and harder patrons. The kind of place that promised trouble. I wasn’t looking for any, but I didn’t care if I found it.

  I walked in to see a burly barkeep rubbing a dirty rag over the counter. He stood out; scars marred his face like he’d gotten too close to a plasma grenade’s flash-burn. If this guy wasn’t ex-military, I’d eat my bucket. Not that I bothered asking him. Instead, I ordered a Sible whiskey on the rocks, which he quietly poured.

  Drink in hand, I walked over to a booth in the farthest, darkest corner of the bar. I slid onto the bench and did my best to look uninviting. I wanted solitude.

  But it wasn’t meant to be. I’d only just sat down when some wannabe thug slid into the booth with me. This guy was everything I wasn’t. Brutish and crass. A brawler who was used to letting his muscles do his talking. I preferred to outthink my opponents, it made life easier.

  Work smarter, not harder, my Ama always said.

  Which isn’t to say I couldn’t throw down if that’s what it came to. I’m still a legionnaire, after all.

  “My table,” the guy said. “Move, if you know what’s good for you.”

  I knew where this was going. It’s all the same in every dive bar from here to galaxy’s edge. The guy was looking for trouble.

  And while I wasn’t, it had come. And I was in an obliging mood.

  I slammed my whiskey and stood up, not saying a word.

  For all this man’s bravado, he lacked the killer instinct that I’d had beaten into me when I’d joined the Legion. With his bulging muscles, thick neck, and scowl, the dude looked physically tough. The muscles were pretty, like he’d spent a lot of time on them, but he was weak where it counted. Mentally, he was a cupcake.

  I could see it in his eyes.

  Now I’m not saying the guy was afraid. He was too stupid to be afraid. No, this chump’s eyes were mean. Which told me that he was the type who got off hurting people and never went for the coup de grâce. My instructors at the academy would’ve laughed him off the dojo mat. With someone like this, they’ll usually back down or leave when you show them that you ain’t playing. That you don’t mind getting a little hurt so long as you can hurt them back.

  I should’ve walked off and been the bigger man, but I was in a mood to play. I tilted my head and let out a derisive snort.

  The guy made a move right away, and if I’m being honest, it surprised me. He grabbed my shirt with both of his big, meaty hands. And then just… held on. I guess I was expecting too much.

  Such a weak opening attack.

  But he seemed pleased with himself as he held onto the front of my ragtag band tee. Like that would do something. Maybe bother me, my precious shirt getting all wrinkled and stretched. The shirt was cheap garbage I’d purchased from a street vendor after realizing everything else I had was Legion standard-issue. It was literally the first thing I could find.

  The black shirt ripped with ease the moment the dude tried to use it for leverage.

  And I started laughing. Belly shaking laughter.

  He looked at me for a second, confused. “You think this is funn—”

  I went in close and kneed him in the groin. A low blow, granted, but I fight to win. I laughed again as the guy bent over, hands on his package.

  He didn’t join me in laughing. Guess he didn’t get the joke.

  Still gasping for air, my visitor got a knee to his face. The satisfactory sound of his nose breaking made me smile. This would do for a little fun. A little steam that needed letting off. It could almost dull the pain of losing my fellow leej brothers.

  Almost.

  A well-aimed elbow strike later, and Mr. Brute was out cold.

  Just like that.

  I picked up my second shot of whiskey and drained it before realizing that this place was pretty cold without a shirt. I looked down at my unconscious friend to see if I might liberate his. To the victor go the spoils. But it looked a size too large and the blood stains weren’t my style.

  “You do okay for a tubby fella,” the barkeep shouted at me. “If I hadn’t seen the tatt on your arm, I wouldn’t have believed it. Marine, maybe… but not a leej! House of Reason really lowered them standards, huh?”

  I get this a lot. This time I didn’t feel like answering.

  “Another shot’ll warm you up,” said the barkeep, probably a way of telling me he meant no harm. Or maybe just because he wanted a few more credits. His voice was gravelly, and I struggled to understand him at first.

  While my mind processed what he said, I pulled off the remains of the rag that was once my shirt. Balling u
p the fabric in my hand, I sauntered toward the bar.

  “Whiskey, yeah?” he growled. “On the house.”

  Well, all right. I’d never met a leej who’d turn down a free drink. I wasn’t gonna be the first. I walked over to the bar and slammed my palm down flat. “Sounds good.”

  I knocked back another tumbler full of the finest whiskey the Siblians could make. It burned going down, just like the good stuff was supposed to. I visited the distillery once. The Siblians looked freaky; that third eye, the horns, and scaly gray skin. It gave me the heebie-jeebies. But hot dog, those freaks made some smooth hooch.

  The barkeep slid another round across the bar, interrupting my contemplation.

  “This round’s on your tab,” he said. “Ain’t runnin’ a charity.”

  He poured one for the house and stared at me as he took a sip, then watched me down the shot I’d just bought. I had the distinct feeling of being sized up, but his face gave nothing away.

  Had I been found wanting?

  I nodded at the man and took a swig of my whiskey. Drink fast on someone else’s credit; drink slow on your own. I savored the balanced flavor, it had just a hint of warm, smoky goodness. Worth every credit. On a day like this, I wanted the top shelf stuff. It seemed right. Seemed a fitting way to honor my friends.

  “Thanks, barkeep.”

  “Name’s Kylie. Call me Wetmore.”

  I smiled. “Legionnaire Lieutenant Benjie Ocampo, but my friends call me Fetch. Thanks for the whiskey, and I’m sorry about the mess.” I gestured toward the crumpled jerkwad still unconscious on the floor.

  “Don’t be,” said the barkeep. “Had it coming. Up for another round?”

  I was.

  “To the Caledonian Corps!” Wetmore shouted.

  We slammed back the shots and he immediately poured another. This was getting expensive. I waved him off.

  “On me. So, was you with them?” asked the barkeep. “The 9th Legion?”

  I didn’t answer outright. Just grunted as I sipped the strong whiskey. The smooth liquid warmed its way down my gut and left the taste buds in my mouth tingling. The barkeep stared at me, patiently waiting for an answer. I didn’t want to talk about it, but the man was paying for every other round.

  “Yeah, I was with Rage Company, 9th Legion,” I finally replied.

  “So… was Rhyssis Wan as bad as the holos suggested?”

  Shaking my head, I answered the barkeep. “Worse. They sanitized the reports while the politicos decided how to spin it. And our losses, we lost so many. They had to hand out medals, or the piles of dead leejes would look meaningless on the evening news.”

  The barkeep grunted. “I was with the 131st when I was young.” He pointed at his ears. “These are prosthetics, but I can still listen. I’ll even put our drinks on the Legion’s tab.”

  I chuckle, the rim of my glass millimeters away from my lips. “Legion has a tab with you?”

  “Someone from the Legion liaison office set it up. Just something to cover for the leejes that bail on their bill. It’s easier than getting bad publicity. Especially here, on the capital planet.”

  That made sense enough.

  The bartender planted his hands spread wide apart on the counter. Even at his age, I could see the muscle and definition of his forearms. His face went serious. Almost concerned, but not in a patronizing sort of way. Not like talking to someone who wants to help, but hasn’t been there. Hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. Done what you’ve done.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I finished my glass, grimacing against the burn, then looked up at the man. My voice was soft. Speaking of the dead, of tragedy; it’s a delicate matter. “One leej to another, I’ll tell you how it really went down.”

  02

  We were just starting to ramp up our training for the reality of a post-Kublar world when I was finally promoted. My superiors had pushed my advancement since I’d enlisted. I was a rarity, a legionnaire with an advanced degree. I’d graduated early and ended up with three degrees: hotel and restaurant management, baking and the pastry arts, and a general culinary degree.

  People called me a prodigy. I called myself weak. And I needed to do something about it.

  On my 17th birthday, I finished my master’s degree and got offered jobs working for the most prestigious dining establishments on Pictavia. Instead, I enlisted in the New Caledonian Reserve Corps. It’d been a lark, the chance to play leej without the full-time commitment. A chance to prove that I had the strength of character to stick it through. I’d been controlled for so long, the boy genius adults coddled. Enlisting was my first act of independence, somewhere to finally stand on my own two feet.

  I’d never thought I’d stick around. I’d be a once and done leej. Get in and leave after my first hitch was up.

  Life didn’t work out that way. When the Mid-Core Rebellion grew more active, I began paying attention to the news feeds. When the MCR atrocities occurred on Kublar, I reenlisted. And besides, New Caledonia had a reservist program held over from the end of the Savage Wars. The stuff on Galaxy’s edge… it was all far away from me, or so it seemed.

  I told my mom not to worry. A lot of us did.

  My college degree at the Pictavia Culinary Institute qualified me for the officer’s academy—I’d been too young for that at my first enlistment. And by the time that changed and I re-upped, I’d become jaded by one too many dismal point officers to want to try my hand at it. There are no points among the enlisted men.

  Shortly after I reenlisted, my company commander promoted me to full sergeant and placed me in command of Berserker Squad. I was comfortable, and managing the ten leejes in a Rage Company squad was infinitely less stressful than the restaurants I ran during the rest of the month.

  Life settled into a routine. They trained us nonstop when they had us, sometimes every weekend. As things on the edge got worse, it seemed the “one weekend a month” had gone away and our Reserve Company was on perpetual standby. The government of New Caledonia had gotten comfortable after the Savage Wars ended, but recent events convinced the elected officials that we weren’t as safe as we thought. How could anyone be when a bunch of primitives and the MCR were able to bring down a Republic destroyer and wipe out almost an entire company of full-time legionnaires?

  Funds for extra training were authorized, and I kept volunteering for all of it. I wanted a break from the stress of my day job and the chance to exercise in the fresh air. Time in the kitchen made me a little soft around the edges, as it tends to do, and even though I could outrun the entire platoon—genetically, I have an athlete’s heart and lungs—I’d gotten sick of the jokes about my weight.

  I heard ’em all, but my favorite was, “Holy hell, Sergeant, I think I can see the fat squeezing out of the seams of your armor.”

  I still don’t know who said it. And, truth be told, I still have a hard time not cracking up about that one.

  Something to know about New Caledonia is that we held our own during the Savage Wars. We worked hand-in-glove with the Legion and when it was our turn to face that nightmare from the stars that was the Savage marines, any Cally will tell you how we kicked their asses. We felt safe during the time of relative peace following the end of that conflict. We were close enough to the core that no one figured a threat capable of reaching us would ever be able to rise again.

  And our military spending reflected that. The Parliament shuttered all of our legions, until only the 9th remained. They supplemented our Reserve Corps with militia, forces cheaper to outfit and maintain. Even still, we were holding on to an outdated notion that we were still Legion—still what we once were—even though our tech and training were anything but. Our fighting force was a relic from our pre-Republic history, a budgetary line item that the politicians wanted to get rid of in favor of vote-buying programs.

  Legion reserve isn’t really a thing anywhere else. But it is here. The beauty of Republic political negotiations. New Caledonia has a Legion Reserve Corps that the House of Reason treat as the real deal—and flood with points too afraid of getting hurt—and the rest of the Legion… well, they tolerate us, I suppose. We don’t matter.