As the teams and partnerships among the Legionnaires solidified, so, too, did their acceptance of themselves and each other. Countless feuds and disagreements were set aside as a new feeling of unity flourished within the company. Simply put, as each individual conquered his or her own feelings of inferiority or inadequacy, he or she in turn grew more tolerant of the shortcomings of the others.

For some, however, acceptance did not come so easily, occasionally pushing them to extreme measures.

It was the company's last night at the Plaza. The construction on their new facilities was complete, and orders had been passed to pack in preparation for relocation in the morning. By unspoken agreement, as they completed their packing most of the Legionnaires gathered in the Plaza lounge for a minor going-away celebration. Of course, there were not enough seats to accommodate the whole company at once, but the mood was jovial and most of the individuals were content to lean against the walls or sit on the floor in groups, or wander casually from conversation to conversation. As is common in such social, military gatherings, more than a few conversations turned into one-downmanship competitions as individual Legionnaires complained and bragged about who had stood the worst duty in the course of their careers.

"... you think swamps are bad?" Brandy grinned, gesturing for attention with her drink. "Listen, once I was assigned to a crew that had to guard-get this-a bloody iceberg! Never did find out why, but it was impossible to stay warm with the gear we were issued, unless you found someone to be real close to, if you get my drift. After a few weeks of freezing your tutu off, I'll tell you, some of the ugliest Legionnaires started looking pretty good!"

The knot of Legionnaires laughed appreciatively but briefly, as each leaned forward in eagerness to be next.

"Talk about hard duty," Super Gnat proclaimed, beating the others off the line. "My second assignment or was it my third?... whatever! Anyway, the CO had a real thing against short people, and, of course, the only way I get to play basketball is if they use me for the ball. So she calls me into her office one day and says-"

"I'll tell you what rough duty is!"

Annoyed at the interruption in midstory, the group glanced up to find Lieutenant Armstrong weaving his way unsteadily in their direction.

"It... isn't a matter of where you stand duty or what you've gotta do. When you're serving under a freaking ghost... and that ghost is your... father and one of the most highly decorated soldiers ever, then you... gotta spend your whole life trying to prove you're one tenth as good as everyone says he was. That's rough duty! I only wish the sonofabitch had stayed alive long enough to make a mistake."

The Legionnaires glanced at each other uncomfortably as Armstrong tried to get his lips and glass coordinated.

"Umm... don't you think it's time you got some sleep, Lieutenant?" Brandy said carefully, breaking the silence.

Armstrong peered at her owlishly, blinking fiercely as he tried to get his eyes in focus.

"You're... right, Sergeant Brandy. Mustn't say or do anything unbecom... unbecoming an officer. I... think I'll get some fresh air first, though. Good... night, everybody. "

The lieutenant drew himself erect and attempted a salute that came close to missing before lurching off toward the street door, steadying himself occasionally with a hand on the wall.

The group watched him go in silence.

"An officer and a gentleman... God help us," someone said, raising his drink in a mock toast.

"Umm... I hate to say it," Super Gnat drawled, "but it's awful late for him to be walking the streets in that condition."

"So what? He's a jerk!"

"Yeah, but he's our jerk. I'd just as soon not see anything happen to him while he's wearing the same uniform I am. C'mon, Gnat. Let's give the man a fighter escort until he crashes."

Leaning against the wall, unnoticed behind a potted plant, Phule smiled to himself at the exchange. More and more, the Legionnaires were starting to watch out for each other. Some of it was camaraderie, some a general defense of the company's reputation, but it all added up to esprit de corps. If this kept up, then eventually...

The beep of his wrist communicator interrupted his thoughts.

"Mother?" he said, keying the unit on. "What are you doing upstairs? Come on down and-"

"I think we got a problem, Big Daddy," the communications specialist announced, cutting him short. "The chief of police is on the line for you. Says it's urgent."

Phule experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with drinking.

"Patch him through."

"Here he is. You're on, Chief."

"Willard? You'd better get down here, pronto. A couple of your boys are in a jam, and there's no way I can cover for them. "

"What's the charge?" the commander said, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.

"It seems they were caught red-handed on a breaking-and-entering," the police chief informed him. "That might not be so bad, but it was the governor's house they were breaking into, and he caught them himself!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Journal #112

While it may seem that my employer has a greater tendency than most to "buy his way" out of problems and dilemmas, I have noticed that he invariably draws the line when it comes to dealing with politicians. This is not, as it might be supposed, the result of any distaste on his part for the influence of "special interest groups," nor does he subscribe to the "An honest politician is one who, once he's bought, stays bought!" school of thought. Rather, it stems from a stubborn belief on his part that elected officials should not have to be "paid extra" to do their jobs.

As he puts it, "Waitresses and card dealers are paid minimum wage in anticipation of their income being supplemented by tips, so if one doesn't tip them, one is, in effect, robbing them of their livelihood. Public officials, on the other hand, are expected to live within their salaries, so any effort on their part to obtain additional earnings for the simple performance of their duties is extortion at its worst and should be a jailable offense!"

Needless to say, this attitude does nothing toward increasing his popularity with the politicians he comes in contact with.

Governor Wingas, or Wind-gust, as he was known to his rivals, could not suppress a feeling of smug excitement as the commander was ushered into his study. Ever since reading in the media that there was a megamillionaire in residence in the settlement, the governor had been racking his brain for a way to entice a fat "campaign contribution" out of that noteworthy. All party and luncheon invitations had gone unanswered, however, as had his personal notes soliciting contributions and hinting vaguely at "beneficial legislation" for the Legionnaires.

Now, at long last, he was not only getting a chance to meet the munitions heir, but that chance was coming under circumstances that could only be viewed as "favorable for negotiation." In layman's terms, with two Legionnaires under lock and key, he had their commander over a barrel and had no intention of settling cheaply... or easily.

"So, we finally meet, Mr. Phule... or should I call you Captain Jester? The governor smiled, leaning back in the leather chair behind his desk as the commander settled in one of the guest chairs.

"Make it 'Captain Jester,"' Phule said, not returning the smile. "This isn't a social call. I'm here on official Legion business."