Contents

“All right, all right,” said Reverend Jordan Ayres, rubbing his hands together. He stepped out from behind the podium in the rented ballroom and made a beckoning gesture. “Who’s ready to make himself over in the image of the King? Step right up!”

Rev had been particularly successful in winning converts to the Church of the King, his own denomination, from among the rookie legionnaires. This might have been because the older legionnaires were more jaded, or perhaps the new crop saw him as one of their own in the way the veterans didn’t. Or it may simply have been the luck of the draw. In any case, the meeting room in the Landoor Plaza Hotel was nearly half full with those who’d come to pay their homage to the King; many local civilians in addition to the legionnaires.

“Uh, Rev-this isn’t gonna hurt, is it?” The quavering voice belonged to Roadkill, one of the new recruits who’d joined Phule’s Company at the same time as Rev’s assignment as the company chaplain.

“Hurt?” Rev scoffed. “Are you gonna worry about whether it hurts? This is one of the deepest mysteries of the faith. If you don’t love the King enough to put up with a little bit of hurtin’, I’m not a-gonna push you, son. You’re not doin’ this for me, you’re doin’ it for yourself-and for him. “

“The King sang about hurtin’,” said another of the recruits, Freefall. “He wasn’t afraid to walk down Lonely Street...” Her voice carried just enough of a hint of disapproval to suggest that Roadkill was being shortsighted and selfish-that Roadkill’s faith might even be open to question.

“He asked us not to be cruel,” riposted Roadkill. “Besides, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it. I just want to know ahead of time if it hurts, and you don’t know any more about that than I do. The only one here who’s gone through with it is Rev, and from what he said, I guess it does hurt.”

“It don’t hurt all that much, though,” said Rev, stepping forward and smiling. Then he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject. “Besides, there’s another choice you all need to make before you go any further-a choice you might not even realize you have.”

“Another choice?” Freefall raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it enough for us to give up our own appearance to take on His? A face none of us was born with?”

“That’s right, there’s still another choice,” said Rev. “ ‘Cause even the King had more than one way he looked. Why don’t y’all set down and let me show you some holos. There are a few li’l constraints on account of bone structure and all, but even with all that, you’ve got a bunch of different models to pick from.” He motioned toward the seats, and with only a little confusion, the disciples obediently took their places.

“All right,” said Rev. “I’m a-gonna show you what y’all’s choices are, and then we’ll start. It’s pretty quick, once we do. And by tomorrow morning, you’ll all be livin’ testimonials to the power of the King!”

A hush fell over the crowd as Rev picked up the remote control for the holojector.

“Now, here he is when he first started out,” said Rev. “This is a good one if you’re young and slim. Notice how the sideburns are narrower than mine...”

The audience stared at the holo, rapt. Rev droned on.

1

Journal #474

My employer’s company had achieved a very pleasant modus vivendi on Landoor, its most recent station. The company’s original responsibility as a peacekeeping team was quickly modified, as my employer decided to turn his efforts to helping the planet realize its potential as a tourist mecca. After considerable investment of time and money-and no little personal effort-he had achieved success.

The planet’s climate was gentle, its people easygoing by nature. And the legionnaires of Omega Company were never too busy to sample the entertainments of two Galaxy-class amusement parks. The officers were also pleased to be free of the corrupting influences to which the troops had been exposed on their previous assignment-not that many of them could have become much more corrupt than they already were. Without much question, Landoor was the healthiest place the company had been.

Relatively speaking, of course..

Sushi stared at his computer, which currently displayed a long list of names-a list that very few eyes other than his had seen. If some of those on the list had known just who was looking at it and why, there would have been interplanetary repercussions. One of those repercussions would undoubtedly have been a serious attempt to liquidate Sushi. Sushi knew this, of course. It didn’t bother him. It was just the downside of the gamble he was taking.

Taking over the Yakuza. It had seemed a ridiculous idea when he’d first come up with it, an inspired improvisation to save his hide when the Japanese mob had sent an assassin to punish him for impersonating one of its members. If he’d thought it all the way through when he first came up with it, he might have decided on something less audacious. After all, he already had what was supposed to be a full-time job-although being a legionnaire in Omega Company, even under Captain Jester, was a good bit less demanding than belonging to most military units. But running this conspiracy was more than a full-time job.

The basic idea was simple. He’d invented a phony super family that would unite the families on different worlds, allow them to mediate territorial disputes, and to trade useful information. It was an idea whose time had come a good while back; only the inherent conservatism of the criminal mentality had kept it from coming into being. But he’d done it, essentially with no help from anyone except a few of his own family members who had certain useful knowledge and contacts and had used them to slip him information. And it had worked.

The only problem so far was that the entire superfamily consisted of Sushi and his trusty computer, a Legion milspec model, but with lots of custom features installed by Sushi himself. Eventually, he was going to make a mistake, and he just had to hope it wouldn’t be a fatal one-especially not to himself. It was probably a shortcoming in a would-be criminal mastermind, but he really didn’t want anybody to get hurt if he could avoid it. He didn’t even really want to pocket more than a tiny fraction of the Yakuza’s income. The whole idea originally had been to keep himself alive, and he’d be perfectly happy if he could continue to achieve that goal over the long term-say, seven or eight decades.

Behind him a door opened, and almost by instinct he blanked the screen. Then a familiar voice said, “Yo, Soosh, Okie tells me Dunes Park has a new coaster. Wanna go give it the test?”

Sushi looked over his shoulder to see Do-Wop standing hipshot in the doorway of their shared room in the Landoor Plaza Hotel. “Maybe tomorrow,” said Sushi wearily. “Right now, I’m up to my ears in this project.”

“Ahh, c’mon,” said Do-Wop. “You’ve been busting your hump on that stuff all week. Time for a break, man.”

“Believe me, I’d love to take one,” said Sushi. “But this business of taking over the Yakuza is a lot more work than I expected. It wasn’t really that hard to get control, but keeping it is turning out to be real work.”

“And your ass is grass if it gets away from you,” said Do-Wop, nodding in sympathy.

“Right. I’ve got the families in the sector around old Earth playing along with me,” said Sushi, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “They recognize the need for a larger organization, and they aren’t picky about who’s running it, as long as it doesn’t cut their profits. That’s the good part.” He paused, then added, “At least there is a good part.”

“Can’t be all that good if it don’t leave you time to goof off,” said Do-Wop, sulking. “You’re startin’ to act like a freakin’ officer.”

“Who, me? Watch your mouth,” said Sushi with an indignant expression. “If I’d wanted to be an officer, I’d have had my father buy me a commission and gone to the academy.”

Do-Wop slouched against the doorway and crossed his arms. “All I know is what I see,” he said. “You’d think now that we’re in the theme park business, we’d get a chance to go on a ride or two. But no. This whole Yazooka thing has you tied up hand and foot.”

“Yakuza,” corrected Sushi. “Look, I’m sorry. I really have to finish this report, OK? Why don’t you get somebody else to go along on the new rides with you this time?”

“Like who?” asked Do-Wop. “Tusk-anini would go along for the ride, but what we gonna talk about while we’re waiting on line? He’d just pull out a book and start reading.”

“You could take Mahatma or the Gambolts,” said Sushi, looking up distractedly.

“Sure, except they’d have to cut out of training, which they wouldn’t do. I tell ya, Soosh, this new generation of legionnaires is going straight down the tubes. Ain’t a single one of ‘em that really appreciates the fine points of goofing off.”

Sushi chuckled. “I suppose not,” he said with a broad grin. “Remember, back on Haskin’s Planet, how we rigged the drinks dispenser in the Plaza Hotel to double as a slot machine? You had to push the button for Diet Prunola to get it to take your bet.”

“Yeah,” said Do-Wop. “Worked like a charm until Chocolate Harry found the machine and complained to the management when he couldn’t get a can of the stuff.”

“We should’ve figured there’d be somebody who’d drink that god-awful junk,” said Sushi, finally looking up from the computer and laughing. “But you’re right; none of these rookies would ever think up a trick like that. And none of them would set up a holo of themselves when they had to stand guard duty, so it’d look like they were walking their rounds when Lieutenant Armstrong came checking up on them.”

“I don’t think Armstrong would ever have found out about that one if I hadn’t forgot and left the projector running after I was supposed to come off duty,” said Do-Wop. “Yeah, those were the days, all right.”

Sushi chuckled. “They sure were,” he agreed. “We must have been the champion goof-offs of Omega Company-and if that’s not world-class, I don’t know what is.”

Do-Wop laughed and said, “Yeah, we had it down to a science back in the old days.” Then a troubling thought came to him, and he frowned. “So what’s wrong with us, Soosh? Why aren’t we out raising hell like we used to?”

Sushi’s expression was dead serious as he answered. “Maybe we’re just growing up, Do-Wop.”

“Growing up?” Do-Wop scoffed. “No freakin’ way.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I thought I was growing up.”

“That’s OK,” said Sushi, grinning again. “Nobody else can stand to look at you, so there’s no reason you should have to, either.”

Do-Wop punched him on the biceps and said, “See? You just proved my point. So, don’t you think we oughta go check out that new coaster?”

Sushi sighed and turned off the computer. “I guess I’m not going to get any more work done until I agree, am I? OK, then, let’s go.”

Journal #475

The Omega Company’s move to Landoor was not without its complications, primary among them the necessity of vacating the Fat Chance Casino on Lorelei, where the company had become majority stockholders. Leaving such a casino unattended would have been the equivalent of sending engraved invitations to every rustler in the galaxy. Even when the company had been on duty, organized criminal elements had tried to take over the casino. And while their attempts had failed, any sign of weakness would inevitably attract more predators.

My employer’s solution was to give the impression that the casino was guarded as closely as ever, with a squad of actors impersonating Legion personnel (and a cadre of trained security personnel for the infrequent cases where real muscle was needed). And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

The tourist shuttle came to a stop in front of the Fat Chance Casino, disembarking a small crowd of sophonts of assorted shapes, sizes, and colors, with luggage to match. One thing they had in common: All were comparatively affluent. Otherwise, they could not have afforded the spaceship fare to the orbiting pleasure colony of Lorelei, the gambling center of the galaxy. Lorelei was in the business of separating tourists from their money, and it frowned on tourists who had no money to be separated from. This batch, being fresh off the ship and therefore presumably flush, was greeted at the door with the broadest of smiles.

A casino manager, dressed in an outfit that somehow gave the impression of style and sophistication while still remaining unmistakably a uniform, addressed the group. “Welcome to the Fat Chance, gentlebeings!” she said warmly. “You’ve chosen the friendliest destination on Lorelei, and we want all our guests to enjoy every minute of their stay with us. So, relax, put aside any worries you might have, and get ready for a great time. If you’d like to get to your rooms right away, please step into the hotel lobby to your left, where our clerks will register you and make you feel at home.”

She stepped back and gestured toward the elegant doors behind her, modeled after those of a famous resort on old Earth, and continued. “For those who’d prefer to get started having fun, you can step into the casino lobby to your right or go directly ahead to one of our Galaxy-class restaurants. Our staff will take care of your luggage, and if you’d like to have it checked into your rooms, simply give me a copy of your registration letter, and we’ll have it done for you while you enjoy yourself. We’ll bring your room key to you. Does anyone have any questions?”

A pink-faced human in a shirt that looked as if it glowed in the dark raised his hand and said gloomily, “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m not letting my luggage out of my sight. My brother went to New Baltimore on a vacation last year, and they stole his suitcase right out of the taxi-while it was moving!”

“Oh, Henry!” said the thin woman standing next to him. “This is the Fat Chance. Nobody would dare try something like that here. After all, the guards are from the Space Legion!” She pointed to the casino entrance, flanked by two black-uniformed figures. Both looked trim, fit, and alert.

“That’s right, ma’am,” said the casino manager brightly. “And not just any Space Legion company-we have Phule’s Company standing guard here. And as you may have heard, the legionnaires are all casino stockholders. It’s not just a job to them. It’s to their personal benefit to see that all of our guests have a safe, enjoyable experience-and come to visit us again.”

“And lose plenty of our money,” grumbled Henry. “Well, it won’t work this time. I’ve got a way to beat the house, and the Fat Chance is going to be the proving ground for my system!”

“That’s the spirit,” said a new voice. The crowd of tourists turned and saw an enthusiastic young man dressed in a Legion officer’s uniform. He was slim and energetic, with a smile that radiated sincerity. “If there’s one casino on Lorelei to test a system at, this is the one! For starters, we won’t throw you out if you start winning with it, the way some other houses will.”

“Captain Jester!” said the casino employee.

“I was just on my way back to the office from a lunch date,” said the smiling figure. “Heard this guest’s comment and thought I’d made sure he knew our policy. Carry on, Miss Shadwell, I’m sure you’re doing a fine job.” He turned to the guests and said, “Welcome to the Fat Chance. If there’s any trouble, my office door is always open.” He smiled, sketched a bow, and hurried off.

“That’s Willard Phule,” said one guest to a neighbor, a discreet hand muffling his words. “The munitions heir-richer than the mint, and cleaning up at the casino business, too, I hear.”

“What’s with the uniform?” said the other.

“Oh, he’s gone and joined the Space Legion,” said the first man with a chuckle. “I hear tell the Legion will never be the same.”

“That’s the truth,” said Miss Shadwell, smiling. “Nor will the Fat Chance Casino-as you’ll see when you get to the tables. Now, if there’s anyone who’d like to take advantage of our express registration, I’ll take your information here...” She pulled out a pocket computer and smiled. The tourists obediently got in line, smiling back at her.

But two figures watched the captain’s exit with narrowed eyes, then looked at each other and nodded.

First Sergeant Brandy looked at the line of legionnaires with some satisfaction. The new recruits had begun to shape up much more effectively than she’d have been willing to bet a few short months ago. She certainly hadn’t had much to work with in the way of raw material-always excepting the Gambolts, those catlike aliens who were reputed to be, as a species, the finest hand-to-hand fighters in the known Galaxy. Her three Gambolts-Dukes, Rube, and Garbo-had lived up to that image, without much doubt. Their natural ability had been evident from the day they’d arrived. Even if they’d made no progress at all in their training, they’d have been among the finest troops she’d ever seen.

The rest of the new troops hadn’t done too badly, either, and she took that as a personal accomplishment. They’d begun as the usual mix of rebels and rejects that enlisted in the Space Legion. Headquarters had culled out any who showed signs of competence and sent the rest to Omega Company. Brandy didn’t mind that; years with the Omega Mob had conditioned her to expect nothing better. But somehow this group had managed to rise above expectations. Now she was beginning to think they had the makings of a pretty good unit.

“OK, listen up,” she said. “Today we’re going to be working on a river assault simulation. How many people here have any experience with small boats?” This exercise was in response to a near fiasco late last summer, when a native guide ran a boat intentionally aground, spilling the legionnaires aboard it into the water, then easily capturing them. The captain hadn’t been happy to learn of that debacle. Thus today’s exercise...

As Brandy had expected, several legionnaires raised their hands. “Good,” said Brandy, looking around the group. “OK, that’s Slayer, Mahatma, Roadkill...”

“Sarge, I didn’t raise my hand,” came Roadkill’s voice, a nasal whine with a Parson’s Planet accent. The voice came from the opposite end of the fine from where Brandy had been looking.

“What?” said Brandy, doing a double take. “Step forward, you two. Let me look at you.” The two complied, and sure enough, the two faces were nearly identical. In fact, they both looked a good bit like Rev, the Omega Mob’s chaplain, who (Brandy now remembered) belonged to a cult that encouraged converts to undergo cosmetic surgery to make themselves resemble their prophet. “The King,” his followers called him, although his real name was Elvish Priestley, if she remembered right...

“I’m not sure I like this,” said Brandy, thinking out loud. “How the hell am I going to tell one of you from the other?”

“I don’t see where it matters, Sarge,” said Roadkill or...she looked at the legionnaire’s name badge...no, it was Freefall. “We’re aren’t breaking any regulations, are we?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Brandy, scowling. “I don’t have anything against Rev or his King, but this is going to cause a lot of confusion.”

“Legionnaire’s Bill of Rights, Article IV, Section 3-A, forbids any interference with religious expression, Sergeant,” said a voice from within the group. Brandy groaned. She recognized that voice. It was Mahatma, the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed perennial thorn in her side.

“Mahatma, nobody’s said anything about interfering with anything,” said Brandy wearily. “I’m just thinking that, in a combat situation, not knowing who you’re dealing with could be a real pain in the ass.” She knew she wasn’t going to convince Mahatma of anything with such a straightforward and reasonable argument, but she had to try. In the old days, she could’ve let her authority as sergeant settle the matter. Nowadays...well, on the whole, things were better nowadays, Brandy reminded herself. Nostalgia lost a lot of its attraction when there were so few things about the old days that any sane person could consider good.

Mahatma stepped forward. As usual, he had a broad smile on his round, bespectacled face. “If that’s so important, why do we have to wear uniforms?” he asked. “It’d be even easier to tell us apart if we all dressed differently.”

“Mahatma, there’s a time and a place for questions like that,” said Brandy. “Right in the middle of a training session isn’t it.”

“It’s not in the middle, Sarge, we just got started,” said another recruit. Brandy wasn’t sure who had spoken. Mahatma’s attitude was unfortunately contagious. Equally unfortunately, none of the others who’d picked up his habit of asking awkward questions and taking the answers literally were half as good as Mahatma was when he put his mind to actually doing his job.

“Quiet!” roared Brandy at ear-splitting volume. The silence that followed was the most gratifying thing she’d heard all day. She glared at the recruits for a moment, then said, “Now, as I was about to say, we’re going to be working with boats today. The three of you who said you have experience are going to be the squad leaders. The rest of you, count off by threes.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

The legionnaires began counting.

After a few moments, Brandy held up her hands and shouted, “Hold on! Freefall, you aren’t supposed to count.”

Freefall pouted. “But Sarge, I wanna count. I like counting. “

Brandy growled, “It doesn’t matter; you’re a squad leader. You don’t have to count.”

“I don’t see why Freefall can’t count,” said another voice from the back of the group. “Counting is fun.”

“If Freefall counts, it throws the count off,” said Brandy, glaring at the recruit who’d interrupted. “Now, everybody count off by threes-except for Freefall.”

Freefall sulked but remained silent while the others began to count again.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“One.”

“Two...”

Brandy held up her hands again. “Wait a minute! Mahatma, you’re a squad leader, too! You don’t count, either.”

“You said everybody except for Freefall, Sergeant,” said Mahatma, with his usual beatific smile. Brandy was convinced he practiced it in front of a mirror. “I was merely following orders.”

“OK, you don’t count, either,” snapped Brandy. “Everybody except the three squad leaders, count off by threes. And get it right this time!”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three...”

The count continued. This time, it came out right. Brandy sighed. It was days like this that made her think about the nice little nest egg she’d been building up since the arrival of Captain Jester (as Phule insisted on being called by his troops). On the other hand, here she was on a Galaxy-class resort planet, housed in a luxury hotel, eating three meals a day in a cordon bleu restaurant, and actually getting paid for the privilege. Crazy as it was to stay in this outfit, she’d be even crazier retiring. It had even crossed her mind that, when the time came around, she just might reenlist...and that was crazy.

Journal #480

As attractive as staying on Landoor would have been, my employer was subject to the whims of the Legion’s commanders, who had their own priorities. These differed in several crucial details from his. The concept that having achieved success in some endeavor entitled a person to enjoy the fruits of that success seemed foreign to them. This should surprise no one who has had to deal with governments.

At least, my employer had managed by now to enlist a few allies among the ruling elements of society. Not that he had any fewer enemies.

“Wake up, lover boy, there’s somebody here to see you,” came the saucy voice in Phule’s ear. It was Mother, the voice of Omega Company’s Comm Central, of course.

Phule looked up from the screen of his Port-a-Brain computer, where he was running a financial spreadsheet showing the company’s investments, and said, “Who is it, Mother?” The omnidirectional pickup on his wrist communicator picked up his voice at normal volume.

“That cute Ambassador Gottesman,” came Mother’s voice. “Maybe you could take your time getting here.”

Phule laughed. “Tell him I’ll be right there, Mother. Sorry to break up your rendezvous.” Actually, he was doing Mother-whose original name was Rose-a favor. For all her brassy personality over the comm system, Mother was impossibly shy when dealing with someone face-to-face. Getting the ambassador out of her presence and into Phule’s office would let her relax again-no matter how cute she thought he was.

A few steps down a short corridor took Phule into the Comm Center. The handsome, impeccably groomed ambassador had taken a seat and was making himself as unobtrusive as possible behind a news printout, so as not to set off Rose’s defensive reaction. He was, after all, a diplomat, and he had met Rose before. Gottesman rose to his feet when the captain entered.

“Hello, Ambassador, come right on in,” said Phule, shaking the older man’s hand.

“It’s good to see you again, Captain,” said the ambassador with a warm smile. “I hope you’re getting a chance to enjoy yourself after all your work getting the park running.”

“Thanks,” said Phule. “I am, a little bit-in between the usual unrelenting work. He showed the ambassador to a seat, fixed drinks, then settled back behind his desk.

After a few minutes of conversation on general topics, Ambassador Gottesman set down his drink and said, “You’ve been doing a great job here, certainly from State’s point of view.”

“Thank you,” said Phule. “It’s been an interesting experience. I hope some of the other branches share your appreciation for our work.”

“Meaning Legion Headquarters in particular, I take it?” Phule gave just the tiniest nod of acknowledgment, and the ambassador shook his head. “I suspect you’re no better off there than before,” he said. “They have their own way of seeing things, and it doesn’t necessarily mesh with what those of us outside the service see. Of course, I suspect the rest of the government would say pretty much the same about State. But being on our good side is definitely an asset, I can promise you. If nothing else, it’ll get you on the short list for some very interesting assignments. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

“I suspected something like that,” said Phule. “Now that we’ve got the planetary economy on a fairly steady upward course, there’s not a whole lot of work for a peacekeeping force here. I’d been wondering how long it’d be before somebody else came to that conclusion.”

“Well, that may have occurred to somebody, but it’s not why I’m here,” said the ambassador. “To get down to it, we’ve got a pending request from a friendly government for military advisors, and they indicated a strong preference for your company. Before I took definite action on the request, though, I wanted to find out how the assignment looked to you. We don’t want to throw you into a situation you don’t think your company is prepared to handle.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Ambassador Gottesman,” said Phule, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “I don’t think there’s anything my people can’t handle, if I have sufficient opportunity to prepare them for it. So I appreciate the chance to see what we might be getting into, ahead of time.” He paused and leaned forward, his right hand on his chin. “This friendly government you’re talking about-is it by any chance the Zenobian Empire?”

“You got it in one, Captain,” said the ambassador with a chuckle. “Flight Leftenant Qual’s report on his stay with your company must have made a strong impression on his government. If I were you, I’d see this as a chance to make a similar impression on the powers that be in the Alliance. This would be a very good career move.”

“I can see that,” said Phule, rubbing his chin. He thought for a moment, then said, “But I have to wonder. A government doesn’t ask for military advisors when everything is going smoothly, does it? There’s some sort of trouble brewing for the Zenobians, or they’d never have put in the request. I’d prefer to have some idea what kind of trouble it is before I put my people in the middle of it. Or is that an undiplomatic attitude for me to take?”

“It’s a damned sensible attitude to take, Captain,” said the ambassador. “I wish I could answer you, but we’re as much in the dark as you are. Our mission to Zenobia is still being organized, so we don’t have any useful intelligence presence there. Right now, the timetable has the military mission landing on Zenobia before we diplomats are even in place. I don’t like it, but I didn’t get a vote. Anyway, I’m afraid I’m offering you the chance to bid on a pig in a poke. Are you interested, on those terms?” This time Phule didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’m interested. We’d be crazy to pass it up. If we can’t handle it by now, I don’t think there’s an outfit in the Legion that can.”

“Great. That’s what I was hoping to hear,” said Ambassador Gottesman. He raised his glass. “Here’s to opportunities and to those who make the most of them!”

“I’ll take that as a personal compliment, if you don’t mind,” said Phule, smiling as he clinked his glass against the ambassador’s.

“And why shouldn’t you?” said the ambassador. “That’s certainly how it was intended.” They both drank.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Phule. “But do me a favor. If you find out anything about why the Zenobians really want us, let me know, will you? If there’s real trouble there, we could use a little advance warning.”

“Don’t worry, Captain; the minute I know anything, you’ll be the next to hear it,” said the ambassador. He sipped his drink again, then added with a wry grin, “But let me tell you this, based on my own experience: You probably won’t know you need to duck until the first ray gun beam flashes past your head. So prepare your people for anything and everything-and then expect a few surprises.”

Phule grinned. “Ambassador, I think my people can deal out a few surprises of their own. In fact, they do it to me almost every day.”

“This is why we at State have such confidence in you, Captain,” said the ambassador, swirling his drink. His smile could have meant anything.

2

Journal #489

Without intending it, my employer had become a symbol. And in the nature of all such things, that meant that he represented different things to different people.

To one faction in the Space Legion, he was the bright hope for the future; the (literally) fair-haired young captain who would restore the Legion to its former prestige. This image was shared by a number of supporters in the Alliance government, particularly those who had long chafed at seeing progress stalled by Legion Brass. And to his own men and women (and alien members of his company, as well) he was a hero, the first CO who’d ever really given them a chance to be something.

But to another faction, a very powerfully entrenched one, he was a threat to everything the Legion had become. He was a boat-rocker of the worst sort. Chief among these enemies was General Blitzkrieg.

“Military advisors? Over my dead body!” roared General Blitzkrieg. He put enough vehemence into the roar that his listeners, veterans of the rough-and-tumble of General Staff infighting, fell back from his wrath for a moment.

But only for a moment. “This is a signal honor to the Legion,” growled General Havoc, the Legion’s representative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking that he meant every syllable. “The Legion doesn’t get a whole lot of honors, Blitzkrieg-in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ll be damned if we’re going to turn this one down just because it puts one officer’s nose out of joint.”

“I’m afraid you don’t get it, General,” said Blitzkrieg, his brow wrinkled. He’d realized belatedly that he couldn’t bully Havoc, but it took him a moment to decide on alternate tactics. He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with people he couldn’t bully. “It’s nothing to do with getting my nose out of joint. Captain Jester is a troublemaker and an incompetent, and his troops are the dregs of the Legion. We can’t risk sending him someplace where he could damage relations with an important ally.”

“Colonel Battleax tells me he’s had a number of remarkable successes,” said General Havoc, looking at the officer in question.

“That’s correct, General,” said Battleax. She hefted a thick portfolio meaningfully. “Not only has his company handled its assignments with complete success, he’s gotten the Legion the most positive publicity we’ve seen in years. It’s only fair to send his company on this assignment. They’ve earned it.”

Blitzkrieg pulled himself up to his full height. “Earned it? Earned it?” He pointed to the service stripes on his uniform and put all the scorn he could muster into the question. “Their captain has been in the Legion what, three years? And you’re telling me that Jester somehow deserves more than an officer who’s served the Legion through good times and bad for the better part of four decades?”

“Quite frankly, General, I don’t see how this new assignment for Jester in any way diminishes your status,” said General Havoc. “It’s a feather in the Legion’s cap, and that goes to all our credit. As Jester’s commanding officer, you have the right to oppose this assignment. But I would very strongly advise against it. Not only does it deprive the Legion of the chance to score points with State-they haven’t been our strongest allies in the past-but if you veto State’s request for Jester’s company, they’ll give the assignment to a Regular Army unit-probably the Red Eagles. We can’t allow that to happen.”

Blitzkrieg walked over to his office window, a scowl on his face. He stood staring at the view-the jagged skyline of the old city, with the snow-capped North Rahnsom Mountains as backdrop-for a long moment before answering. “All right, damn it,” he said. “Send them on this assignment. But let the record show that I opposed it. When Jester gets himself into the kind of trouble he can’t buy his way out of and gets half his company wiped out by hostiles or causes some diplomatic catastrophe, it’s his doing, not mine. I want it on record that I opposed the operation from the word go. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” said General Havoc, peering intently at Blitzkrieg. After a pause, he added, “You realize, of course, that if we put that on record, you’ll be in no position to claim credit for a successful mission.”

“There is no way in hell Jester’s luck will hold out that long,” snarled Blitzkrieg. “That weasel has gotten out of one fix after another by the skin of his teeth. Sooner or later, class will tell-and Omega Company is the Legion’s worst outfit. Oh, they’ve managed to pull off a couple of coups, but the day of reckoning will come. Send them into a real fight, and there’s going to be nothing left but crumbs.”

“That’s bullshit, General,” said Colonel Battleax with a grim smile. “You’ve been dead wrong about Captain Jester all along, and he’s going to prove it again on Zenobia.”

“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars he falls flat on his face,” said Blitzkrieg.

“Done!” said Battleax gleefully. “General Havoc, you’re our witness.”

“Ridiculous,” said General Havoc, pursing his lips. “The bet is much too vague. How do you decide who’s won?”

“Phule’s orders will include a list of objectives for the mission,” said Battleax. “I’ll pay up if his company leaves the planet without fulfilling ninety percent of those objectives.”

“Hah!” said Blitzkrieg. “Jester will be lucky to get anything done. General Havoc, I trust you to make an unbiased decision. Will you be our arbiter?”

“Oh, very well,” said Havoc. “But that’s a lot of money to ride on one man’s decision. I suggest you find at least one more arbiter, preferably someone outside the Legion.”

“He’s right,” said Colonel Battleax. “Why don’t we choose a panel of three, two of whom will have to agree on whether Captain Jester has met his objectives. Since the general is your choice, I should choose the second; then let them choose a third, who won’t be beholden to either of us.”

“Who’s your second?” asked Blitzkrieg, frowning.

“As General Havoc suggests, it should be someone from outside the Legion,” said Colonel Battleax. “I was thinking of Ambassador Gottesman.”

“There’s a fine choice,” scoffed Blitzkrieg. “State’s completely hoodwinked by Jester. Gottesman’s likely to give him the win without even bothering to look at the list.”

“The ambassador isn’t quite as gullible as you paint him,” said General Havoc. “I saw him make some very hardheaded decisions when we negotiated the Landoor peace treaty. But even if he does go easy on Jester, there’ll be a third judge to convince, and I can promise you it’ll be somebody impartial.”

“Who did you have in mind?” said Colonel Battleax.

General Havoc shook his head. “The ambassador and I need to decide on that, and when we do, I don’t think we ought to tell you. If you know who it is, you may try to influence him. If you’ll accept those terms-and if the ambassador agrees to judge-then I’m your man. If not, then find yourself another boy.” He smiled at his joke.

“I can live with those terms,” said Colonel Battleax.

“I suppose I can, as well,” said Blitzkrieg. “Very well, then, do we have any other business to attend to today?”

The three officers busied themselves with other details for another half hour, and then Battleax and Havoc took their leave. The general saw them to the door and then closed it behind them with an evil smile upon his lips.

“What’s the secret, General?” asked Major Sparrowhawk, his adjutant, who’d been present taking notes during the entire meeting. “I’ve known you long enough to know you wouldn’t offer a bet for that kind of money unless you were sure of winning. How can you be sure the judges will agree?”

“Easy, Major,” said Blitzkrieg, rubbing his hands. “Battleax seems to have forgotten that I’m the one who makes up the list of mission objectives for any Legion unit under my command. And I’m going to make damned sure that nobody in the galaxy can complete the list-not even their precious Captain Jester.”

Sushi and Do-Wop had called together the original ridetesting squad from the days when Landoor Park was being built with the help and protection of the Omega Mob. With Mahatma, Tusk-anini, and Rube in tow, they’d taken a hoverjeep over to the gates of Dunes Park, where they were met by Okidata, the local friend who’d tipped them off about the new ride.

“Glad you all could make it,” said Okidata, shaking Sushi’s hand. “This looks like a really triff ride-not as hot as any of ours, but one you’ll want to ride a couple of times.”

“What’s it called?” asked Do-Wop, who was perhaps the most avid connoisseur of thrill rides in the company.

“The Snapper,” said Okidata with a shrug. “Dumb name, but you can’t judge by that. Dunes Park always has dumb names.”

Dunes Park was one of the older and smaller amusement parks on Landoor, a child’s playpen in comparison to the gigantic parks that had grown up in more recent years, especially the ones built by the government and by the ex-rebels working with Phule. But the older parks were still popular with many of the locals, and they had made an effort to keep their audience with a string of new rides, of which the Snapper was the latest.

Do-Wop laughed. “Yeah, almost as dumb as some people’s Legion names. Who makes ‘em up, anyway?”

“Hieronimus Ekanem, the owner,” said Okidata, rolling his eyes. “Guess the guy’s got no imagination.”

“So why doesn’t he hire somebody?” asked Sushi. He pointed toward the park entrance. “Hey, we’re wasting time. We can talk about this while we’re waiting in line, if it’s so fascinating.”

“Sushi right,” said Tusk-anini. “Can talk anywhere. But longer we talk here, longer line keeps getting and we aren’t in it. Let’s going.”

The group headed through the gates, drawing stares from the other customers. The two aliens, Tusk-anini and Rube, were unusual enough to turn heads anywhere, but on Landoor, a world settled almost entirely by humans, a giant warthog and a human-sized cat couldn’t walk the streets without being targeted for rubbernecking and finger-pointing by local youngsters. While the aliens in Phule’s company were used to being singled out for attention, the humans in the group didn’t like seeing their comrades treated as exotic specimens.

“Mommy, Mommy!” cried a small voice to one side. “Look at the monster!”

“Be quiet, Nanci, that’s not a monster,” said a woman in hushed tones. “It’s an alien soldier.”

“Hello,” said Tusk-anini, waving. With his alien dentition, he couldn’t manage anything a human would recognize as a smile, but he made his voice as friendly as he could manage. “Not soldier-we Space Legion. Better than soldiers!”

“Funny mans,” said the child, sticking its finger in a corner of its mouth and smiling shyly. The mother smiled, too, and the legionnaires relaxed. The Volton couldn’t change his fearsome looks, but that didn’t mean he thought it necessary to go around frightening babies, either. Tusk-anini had learned that talking to children could let him cross the line from “monster” to “man,” and become something to smile at. He waved again, and the group headed on toward the rides.

The line for the new ride was already long. Landoorans considered thrill rides their national art form, and a new one was always an event. It looked as if a fair number of the locals had taken days off from work and pulled the kids out of school, as well. There was probably going to be nearly an hour’s wait for the ride. But the park’s management sent a series of strolling entertainers to work the line jugglers, clowns, antigrav dancers, musicians, thimbleriggers, and snack vendors-so the crowd wouldn’t notice its slow progress. Strategic glimpses of the ride-usually as the cars plunged down a steep incline, bringing excited squeals from the riders-helped build the anticipation.

The legionnaires were nearly to the front of the line when Do-Wop said, “Look, there’s Rev. What’s he doing in the park?”

“Goofing off, same as you,” said Sushi, elbowing his partner.

“Chaplains ain’t supposed to goof off, they’re brass,” said Do-Wop. “I gotta give him a hard time.” He grinned and punched Sushi in the arm, then waved to catch the chaplain’s attention. “Yo, Rev,” he called. “Yo, over here! We caught ya!”

Several passersby turned their heads, but when they saw who was waving, they went about their way. The one who looked like Rev passed within a few paces of them and looked directly at Do-Wop. Becoming aware that he was the one being called, he stopped and spread his hands apart. “Sorry, you must be making a mistake. That’s not my name.” If his words hadn’t been enough, the thick Landooran accent made it perfectly clear this wasn’t Rev.

“Whadda ya mean? Cut the jive, Rev,” demanded Do-Wop as the passerby turned to leave, but Sushi put a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, Do-Wop,” said his partner. “That’s some local guy who looks like Rev, is all.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Do-Wop. “Damn, he’s a dead ringer, though.”

“Hey, it could be worse,” said Sushi.

“How’s that?” asked Do-Wop, frowning.

“The guy could look like you, “ said Sushi, grinning. He ducked as Do-Wop threw a punch in mock indignation. Just then, the line moved up, and the laughing group of legionnaires edged closer to their ride.

Journal #492

My employer had thought he was filling an important void in his people’s spiritual life by requesting that a chaplain be assigned to the company. But the doctrines of Reverend Jordan Ayres had given him second thoughts. Not that the chaplain had in any way attempted to undermine what he was doing, but the influence of his doctrine on the legionnaires did take one confusing direction.

“Captain, this has got to stop. It’s driving me crazy,” said Brandy. “Don’t get me wrong-I don’t have anything against the chaplain. Rev’s done a pretty good job, building morale. But you can’t expect me to do my job when I can’t tell one of my people from another.”

“I can’t see any big problem, Captain,” said the chaplain. “You know we ask our disciples to emulate the King, on account of he’s such an inspiration. A poor boy, climbed right to the top, without no help from anybody...Why, that makes me feel like I can do the same myself. Ain’t that exactly the kind of spirit that makes a good legionnaire, now?”

“Maybe it makes a good legionnaire, but if enough of your disciples look alike, you’re going to make one crazy sergeant,” said Brandy, crossing her arms. She stared at Rev, who had arrived at the company already made over to resemble his sect’s prophet: a dark pompadour with long sideburns, a classic profile, full lips with a tendency to an ever-so-slight sneer.

Phule fidgeted with a pencil, looking back and forth between his top sergeant and the chaplain. “I see your point, Brandy,” he said. “But the chaplain’s got a point, too. The company’s morale is the best it’s ever been. And there is that clause in the Legionnaire’s Bill of Rights...”

“Why, thank you, Captain,” said the chaplain. “I didn’t want to have to mention that clause myself. A feller shouldn’t haul out the heavy artillery first thing out of the box, y’know. But it certainly fits, if you look into it. We’ve got plenty of precedents on our side.”

“So I’ve got to train and evaluate a batch of recruits that all look exactly alike?” Brandy put her hands on her hips and leaned over Phule’s desk. “Maybe I’m going to have second thoughts about that early retirement option.”

“Now, Brandy, don’t blow this out of proportion,” said Phule, rising to his feet. “How many of our legionnaires have had their appearance altered, anyway? It surely isn’t more than three or four, is it?”

“Eleven,” said Rev proudly.

“Eleven?” Phule asked, suddenly dubious.

“Eleven,” said Brandy. “And two more have applied for it.”

“Eleven.” Phule drummed the pencil on the desktop for a moment; then, with a start, he put it down and clasped his hands together. “Well, that’s a surprise,” he said. “You seem to have been getting your message across very effectively, Rev.”

The chaplain bowed his head. “I can’t take much credit for it, Captain,” he said with humility that seemed genuine enough. “My words have fallen on fertile ground, is all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Brandy, bristling.

“Easy, Sarge,” said Rev. “No criticism implied. Why, all I mean is, the King’s an inspiration for anybody what thinks they can better theirselves. I reckon that could be all of us, if we jes’ look at it right.”

“I don’t want to look at it at all,” said Brandy with a significant glance at the chaplain’s profile. “Besides, you still haven’t told me how I’m supposed to tell one of these eleven legionnaires from another when they all look the same.”

“Oh, it ain’t all that hard, Sarge,” said Rev. “You jes’ have to value each and everybody as an individual in their own right, you know? Once you get past the surface, there’s all kinds of differences between folks. How tall somebody is, or the exact color of their eyes and hair, or the shape of their hands. You learn pretty soon, Sarge, believe me. I’ve got plenty experience at it.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Phule, rubbing his hands. “I’ve been saying all along that we need to take advantage of the individual capabilities of our people, and this is a chance to learn even better what those capabilities are. And there may be advantages to having a group of legionnaires an outsider can’t tell apart. I’m sure we’ll think of a few now that we’ve got the capability, won’t we, Sergeant?”

“I guess so,” said Brandy, looking at Rev out of the corner of her eye. “Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, I guess I can handle it. I’ll have the recruits wear extra-large name tags while I’m learning to spot all these subtle differences between them.”

“Good thinking, Brandy,” said Phule. “I knew we could solve this if we put our minds to it.” His tone and manner made it clear that the matter was solved, as far as he was concerned, and the sergeant and chaplain quickly took the hint and left the office. And that, Phule thought, was the end of it.

Journal #497

The robot my employer had gotten to impersonate him at the Fat Chance Casino on Lorelei was a deluxe model from Andromatic, built to his specifications. Its range of behavior was limited but sufficient to convince people that my employer was still on the job. Generally, it would sit behind a desk and appear to be working. But it also walked around the casino, sat down for drinks with customers, carried on conversations-and broke off the minute the topic strayed beyond generalities. If anybody really needed to talk to Captain Jester, there was always the communicator.

What my employer left out of account was that his company had begun to attract attention in its own right. The success of the Landoor amusement parks-several lightyears away from Lorelei-had put his picture on holovid screens all over the Galaxy. While a certain amount could be explained by rapid travel, there was always the danger that somebody would realize that there had to be two Phules.

The danger had been pointed out to him, but of course he dismissed it. “Nobody takes the news seriously, “ he had argued when demonstrating the robot to the Fat Chance’s board of directors. “Half the time, they just use stock footage of public figures, and nobody notices. “ What he left out of account was that his enemies were paying particularly close attention to him.

Two shadowy figures had been lurking in the corridor leading from the Fat Chance Casino’s gourmet dining room back toward the Legion quarters for nearly an hour. Luckily for them, nobody had passed during the entire time. Or perhaps it was more than just luck; they’d scouted out the territory carefully in advance and knew the odds were in their favor when they decided to lay their ambush there. But it had been longer than they’d expected, and it was a definite relief when they finally heard footsteps approaching.

“Here he comes,” whispered the shorter of the pair, peering out from under the potted plant behind which they were hiding.

“About farkin’ time,” grumbled her companion. “Any longer, and I was gonna hafta water this here fern.”

“Shhh!” warned the other in a barely audible whisper. “We’ll blow the whole plan if he hears us.”

But their quarry showed no sign of having heard them. The footsteps came closer, neither hesitating nor deviating from their course. The two crouched in anticipation, frozen for a moment; then, as the footsteps came near the plant, the woman stepped quickly out into the corridor. “Captain, you have to help me!” she said.

The captain paused. “Excuse me, ma’am. What sort of help do you need?”

“A man’s been following me,” she said, looking behind her. The captain’s glance followed hers, and as he was distracted, her partner emerged from the shadows behind him, holding a large sack in both hands. He raised his arms, preparing to place it over the captain’s head and shoulders; but some slight noise must have given him away. The captain ducked and stepped to the left, and the would-be captor succeeding only in striking him on the shoulder. In an instant, the captain had turned and lashed out with a kick that the captor just barely eluded.

“That’s him!” cried the woman, stepping back. The man with the sack cursed and stepped backward. He dropped the sack and turned to run. The captain took a step in pursuit, but then the woman gave out a little cry and collapsed in a heap on the floor. As the captain turned to help her, the attacker escaped around the corner.

“Are you all right, miss?” said the captain. He threw a brief glance over his shoulder to make sure the attacker had not returned, then turned his gaze on her again. Even in the dim lighting, her thick dark hair and flashing eyes would have made a strong impression on any man not entirely devoid of feeling.

“I think so,” she said weakly. Her lashes fluttered, and she made a valiant attempt to sit up but slumped against his chest as her energy failed. “I think I’ll be safe if you can just take me to my room.”

“Yes, miss,” he said. “I’ll get you there, and I can have security keep tabs on you for the rest of your stay, if you’d like. We don’t want our guests to feel unsafe in the Fat Chance. In fact, I feel I should apologize for what’s happened so far.”

“No apology necessary, Captain,” she said. “If you could just help me up...”

Helping her get up and walking her to her room was a somewhat complicated process. The young woman was evidently weakened by her ordeal, since she continued to lean much of her weight on the captain as he led her down the corridor. At the door to her room, he waited while she found her key card and watched while she opened the door. “Do you need any more help, miss?” he asked.

“No, I should be all right,” she said, smiling.

“Good,” he said and took a step backward.

The young woman smiled bravely and began to close the door behind her, then suddenly said, “Oh!” and began to slump toward the floor again.

The captain stepped forward and caught her before the door closed. “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” he asked. “I can call the hotel doctor.”

“I don’t think I need a doctor,” she said, leaning her weight on his chest. “But maybe you could help me get to my bed.”

“Certainly, miss, and then I think I should call the doctor-just in case.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her through the door to the side of the bed.

“Oh, you’re so strong,” she murmured, her lips close to his ear. Her arms twined around his neck.

The captain put her onto the bed and, gently disengaging himself from her grasp, stepped back and said, “Now, I’m going to call the doctor.”

She began to protest, but he held a finger to his lips and said, “No-don’t say anything. I suspect you need to rest.”

He picked up the phone, touched a button, and spoke briefly to the person on the other end. After a few sentences, he nodded and hung up the receiver. “Dr. Gulkova’s on duty tonight. She’ll be right up. I’ll wait until she comes, and then I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. If there’s anything else I can do for you, please get in touch with me. Any hotel operator can connect you directly to my office.”

She lay back on the bed, listening. As he continued to speak, her face changed expression to a sultry pout. “You know what else you can do for me, Captain-don’t pretend you don’t. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”

The captain smiled. “Now, now, miss, don’t worry yourself. I know you’ve been through a lot tonight. We’ll make sure nobody annoys you for the rest of your stay with us.”

The woman sat up in the bed and barked, “If you don’t want anyone to annoy me, I suggest you get out of my room! I’ve had just about all of your goody-goody act I can stand.”

“Of course, miss,” said the captain, smiling. “I’ll wait outside the door, and when the doctor comes, I’ll leave.” He turned and started to leave.

With an inarticulate shout, the woman reached down and grabbed one of her shoes off her foot and threw it with all her might at his retreating. But by then, he had the door almost closed behind him, and the missile bounced harmlessly off onto the floor. She slammed both fists onto the bed in frustration. “You bastard!” she cried. “You’ll pay for this when we finally do catch you! You’ll pay!

But the captain was already gone, the door closed behind him. If he had heard her outburst, he gave no sign at all.

The two local policemen standing in front of Phule’s desk were obviously doing their best to stay calm and professional. The complainant, standing unsteadily on crutches between the policeman, wasn’t.

Phule massaged the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, filled with problems that required instant minute attention, and the burden of command was weighing particularly heavily on his shoulders this afternoon. Especially since, on top of everything else, he’d skipped lunch-not at all his usual routine. And now he had to deal with a civilian who insisted on having one of his men arrested. “Are you absolutely certain that the man who robbed you and damaged your restaurant was one of my legionnaires?” he asked.

“I seen him with these here eyes,” said the restaurateur, a small man with a heavy Landooran accent that seemed incongruous in conjunction with his Japanese features and immaculate dress. “He was Legion, all right-wore the same black uniform as yours. And he done more than damage the place. It’ll be a miracle if I can open up again any time this week.”

“Well, that’s serious enough to require some action, if it’s the truth,” said Phule. “But I can’t discipline the whole company for one man’s actions. We’ll have to see if you can identify the one who did this.”

“I’d know him anywhere,” said the restaurateur. “That long greasy haircut, and that smirk on his face. Ain’t a whole lot of people who’d look that way if they had any choice in it. My security holovid caught the whole thing, and there ain’t much mistake.”

A warning bell went off in the back of Phule’s mind, but he maintained a calm expression. “If that’s the case, I think we can take care of this business quickly. There are holo ID pictures of the entire company on file. Why don’t you and the officers look through them and see if you can identify the robber? Then we’ll call him in and see what he has to say for himself.”

“Oh, that’ll be just triff,” said the restaurant owner sarcastically. “He’ll lie and you’ll take his word for it, and I’ll end up springin’ for the doctor bills.”

Phule stood up abruptly and said coldly, “You don’t know who you’re talking to, do you, Mr. Takamine.”

“Sure I do,” sneered the restaurateur, drawing himself up to his full height-perhaps four inches shorter than Phule-and standing face-to-face with him. “You’re the captain of this here Legion company. And when it comes to a quarrel between Legion and us poor locals, Legion sticks up for its own. Nothin’ we can do but eat whatever shit you pile on our plate.”

Phule put his finger in the middle of the man’s chest. “You won’t gain anything by using that kind of language, Mr. Takamine. I’ve offered to give you a chance to identify and confront the person you claim is responsible for the robbery and damage and for the injuries to yourself. Do you want to go ahead with this, or are you just here to make a disturbance?”

“I’ll look,” said the man. “But I ain’t expecting much, I tell you for a fact.”

Beeker led the policemen and Takamine to an outer office, where they could browse though the ID files. But Phule had a sinking feeling. The description of the legionnaire responsible sounded far too familiar. He’d thought the man had finally outgrown his penchant for getting into trouble with the law-at least, this kind of trouble. Well, if he had to teach the legionnaire a lesson, he’d do it, that was all.

Phule was pacing nervously in front of his desk when the door opened and Beeker returned. “I’ve set the gentlemen up with the viewer and the appropriate files, sir,” he said. “I think we’ll have an answer soon.”

“Good,” said Phule. “I assume you disabled all features except the image viewer? We don’t want these people looking into the confidential portions of the personnel files.”

“I have done so, sir,” said Beeker solemnly. “But I’m afraid I know what the restaurateur will find.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Phule, shaking his head. “I’m disappointed, to tell you the truth. I thought Do-Wop had changed his ways. But the man they describe has to be him.”

“Perhaps he only got better at concealing his misdeeds,” said Beeker implacably. “The young man’s code of ethics seems primarily to consist of Thou shalt not get caught.”

Phule paced a few more steps, then turned and said, “Well, when they spot him, we’ll have to decide what to do with him.”

“I should think that would be the local authorities’ problem, sir,” said Beeker.

“No,” said Phule. “I can’t just turn a legionnaire over to civilian authorities. We take care of our own, and that means we discipline our own, too. But if these people don’t have a military tradition, they may not understand that. Why, we-“ He was interrupted by the intercom.

“Yes, Mother?” he answered.

“Those two cops and the hash slinger are back, sweetie,” came the sultry, mocking voice. “They don’t look happy. Shall I send ‘em in so you can cheer ‘em up?”

“I’m going to have to talk to them eventually,” said Phule. “Yes, send them in.”

The trio of Landoorans marched in, all three with frowns on their faces. Takamine opened his mouth to speak, but one of the policemen signaled to him to keep quiet and turned to speak to Phule. “Captain, that’s the damnedest trick I’ve ever seen. I thought a holo ID was supposed to be impossible to jigger, but it looks as if your boy’s figured it out, just to stall us. But it’s not gonna help him. If he sticks his nose outside this hotel, we’re hauling him in and asking questions later. I’ve got the security vids, and I’ll make sure everybody on the force knows that face. Now that I think of it, I’ve seen him around a few times, myself.”

“What are you talking about?” said Phule. “Nobody’s jiggered those files.” He was convinced that he was right until a tickle in the back of his mind that reminded him that Sushi, Do-Wop’s partner, was the company’s leading expert at electronic chicanery. If anybody on Landoor could alter a holo ID picture, it would be Sushi-or somebody he’d given lessons.

He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose again. “Let’s go see these jiggered pictures you’re talking about,” he said. He already had a very good idea what he was going to find when he got there.

But he was wrong.

3

“I told you these files had been jiggered with,” said the policeman disgustedly. “No such thing as identical eleventuplets, not when they’re from eight or nine different planets. That’s the face of the guy that robbed this citizen’s place and beat him up. I’ve seen the vids, and they’re pretty clear. Somebody’s put the same face on all those files. So which one of ‘em’s the original?” He pointed at the holofiles, showing the faces of the company’s converts to the Church of the King.

“It’s not that easy,” said Phule. “I think the original owner of that face has been dead for several centuries.”

Mr. Takamine leapt up and threw his hands in the air. “What, you’re tellin’ me a dead man robbed me? That’s the biggest load of-“

“I said no such thing,” said Phule, making shushing motions in hopes of calming the man down. “What I said was-“

“It was just a trick to make me give up,” the man shouted. “You’re gonna tell me that just because I can’t pick the guy out from the picture, I can’t get no satisfaction.”

“Sir, my employer has no intention of cheating you of your satisfaction,” said Beeker. “The fact is, these legionnaires are all members of some bizarre sect-“

“Well, I wouldn’t exac’ly call it bizarre, sonny,” said a new voice at the door.

“That’s the man!” shouted Takamine, turning to point to Reverend Jordan Ayres. “He’s the thug that robbed me! Arrest him!”

The policemen moved menacingly toward the chaplain, who raised his hands and said, “Hey, easy there, gen’lemen. I ain’t done a thing to this little fellow, and I reckon I can prove it. Just when and where is all this supposed to have happened?”

“Four days ago, in my restaurant over on Hastings Street,” the man said, still pointing at Rev. He stopped and frowned, then said, “You put on a hell of a lot of weight since then.”

“Ain’t put on a gram,” said Rev, striking a pose. “I’ve been workin’ out with the fellows, gettin’ in shape with a little bit of karate, jes’ like the King-“

“King?” said the complainant. “To hell with your king. We don’t have no kings here on Landoor and ain’t about to start-“

“Son, you’re makin’ a mistake,” said Rev, warming to his favorite subject. “The King’s comin’ to Landoor, no doubt about it. Why, he’s already here, if you look around you. Every true follower-“

“I’ll warn you, that sounds a lot like sedition to me,” said one cop. “Landoor’s got its own government, and we aren’t about to change.”

“That’s right, sedition!” said Takamine, his face lighting up. “I knew this man was a troublemaker when I first laid eyes on him. That greasy hair, that sneer-“

“But it weren’t me, I tell you,” said Rev.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, too,” said Phule. “There are at least eleven legionnaires who resemble this man, plus quite a few of your own citizens-“

“Dozens,” said Rev confidently. “Before long, hundreds of thousands will want to follow the King.”

“I’ve heard just about enough of that,” said the cop who’d accused Rev of sedition. “Mister, I don’t know whether you robbed this man or not, but I’m gonna take you down to the station for questioning.”

“One moment, officer,” said Phule, whose checkered history in relation to Legion brass had made him a pretty good barracks-room lawyer. He stepped forward between Rev and the policemen. “The Legion will always cooperate with civilian authorities, but I can’t stand by and see my company’s chaplain hauled away on an unfounded charge. If you file a formal complaint, a Legion board of justice will determine whether or not there’s been a breach of local law-“

“What did I tell ya?” screamed Takamine. “The minute you pin one of these occupying goons down for some offense, the rest of them close ranks to protect him. I’m gonna write the governor and have ‘em thrown off the planet. My cousin’s a big contributor to the Native Landooran Party. A big contributor.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’?” said the cop, raising an eyebrow. “Look here, Mr. Takamine, the captain here thinks we’re trying to railroad his man, and even you seem to have some doubt it’s the right guy. What we gotta do-“

The policeman was interrupted by a legionnaire who came into the records room and said, “Rev, Mother told me you were here-oh, hi, Captain. Can I talk to Rev a moment, or is this a bad time?” The legionnaire was one of Rev’s converts, and the facial resemblance was uncanny. His large name tag read Roadkill.

“Howdy, son,” said Rev, and the thought crossed Phule’s mind, He can’t tell the converts apart, either. Rev walked over to the legionnaire and put his arm around his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, you’ve come at the perfect time. Officer, I’d like you to meet my first line of defense.”

The two policeman and the civilian complainant stood openmouthed, staring at Rev and Roadkill, their eyes shifting back and forth between the two. This is going to be more trouble than I expected, thought Phule. This time, he was right-but not quite in the way he anticipated.

Journal #500

The attempt to capture the robotic duplicate of my employer should have alerted the Fat Chance Casino’s security teams to the danger of a repeat attempt. Considering the value of the robot and the information that close examination of it would give to any of the underworld groups that still lusted to take over the casino, the failure of anyone to realize that such an attempt had taken place was inexcusable.

Looking backward, the main reason for the failure was simple: The attempt had been such an abject failure that the robot itself had no inkling that anyone had even attempted to capture it.

As for the would-be abductors, they were apparently just as clueless as the robot itself.

“He didn’t react at all,” said the dark-haired young woman with a noticeable pout. “I tried every trick in the book, Ernie. It was as if he was a damned robot or something.”

“Well, Lola, maybe you ain’t as hot as you think,” said her partner with a sneer. He ducked under the roundhouse punch she threw at him and backed up a half pace, holding up his hands in mock-serious defense. It was an old game; the two of them had been trading insults and half-playful punches ever since they’d become partners. “What if he is a robot?” he asked after a moment’s reflection.

“Well, of course he could be one,” she said, nodding. “That’s not impossible. But think about it. If Phule’s got somebody-or something-impersonating him, is the real Phule going to be running around on some half-jungle planet, getting shot at by the natives, or here in a first-class hotel, keeping tabs on his money? The robot’s gonna be the one out in the boonies. Do you know how much money he’s got sunk into this casino?”

“I know how much I’ve sunk into it,” said Ernie, scowling. “I’ve lost enough to feed him and half his soldiers for a couple of days.”

“He gets that from you and the same from a couple of thousand other suckers every day of the year,” said Lola, pacing the hotel room floor. “So the real Phule’s got to be right here, keeping an eye on his money. But I never thought he’d have the discipline to resist me when I put the moves on him. I guess that’s what it takes to run a casino and not gamble away the profits.”

“His butler’s on that other planet, you know,” Ernie pointed out. He lowered himself into an armchair facing the holovision and picked up the remote control from a nearby table. “The reports claim he’s the brains behind Phule. So why’s he there instead of here?”

“Because Phule wants everybody to think he’s really there,” said Lola, sitting on the bed and watching the holo picture shimmer into visibility. As usual, the default setting when the set warmed up was an advertisement for the Fat Chance’s various attractions, beginning with a closeup of Dee Dee Watkins impersonating a damsel in distress in a costume that managed to be revealing and vulnerable at the same time. Ernie let out a low whistle of appreciation, and Lola glowered at him. “Too bad you’re not the one I’m trying to kidnap: Your hormones outvote the brain every time. I wish it was as easy to get Phule interested in a few square inches of skin.”

“Hey, you can’t change human nature,” said Ernie, grinning. “Some guys are cold fish, like him. Other guys are natural lovers, like me. Which one would you rather have, babe?”

“Believe me, you really don’t want to know the answer to that,” said Lola, staring at Dee Dee’s performance on the screen. The diminutive starlet was singing, “Where is my knight in shining armor?” Her dance routine had her pursued by several performers dressed as dragons, ogres, and trolls. The music changed, and onto the stage danced a heroic figure in holochrome armor, to rout the evil creatures and carry Dee Dee off in triumph, still singing and smiling brightly at the cameras. “Say, there’s an idea,” she said. “It just might work, too.”

“What might work?” said Ernie.

She sat up and turned her gaze on Ernie. “Captain Phule’s a sucker for a damsel in distress. If he thinks I’m in danger, we can lure him off somewhere and nab him. So we have to make it look as if I’m in trouble and set it up so he’s the one who has to rescue me. And guess who gets to be the bad guy?”

Ernie frowned. “I ain’t so sure I like this,” he said.

“Like it?” Lola stretched like a cat waking up from a nap. “I don’t know whether you’ll like it, but I can guarantee you, you won’t like what happens if we don’t come up with some way to catch him before long. The guys that hired us don’t like spending the kind of money it takes to house us in the Fat Chance without getting some pretty convincing results for their payout. So if you’ve got any better strategy for catching our little prince, now’s the time to tell me.”

Ernie frowned but said nothing. After a long moment, Lola nodded and said, “OK, then, here’s my plan...”

After a few minutes of listening, even Ernie had to admit that it looked as if it might actually work.

Journal #502

General Blitzkrieg’s animosity to my employer had become his driving passion. There were rumors that he had passed up several opportunities to take early retirement in hopes of finding a way to “pay off Jester once and for all, “ as he had been heard to say. But when diplomatic circles began to bandy about the Zenobians’ request for Omega Company as military advisors, the general had to acquiesce in what the other Legion commanders saw as the first significant improvement in the Legion’s image in decades.

That did not prevent him from trying to find ways to sabotage the mission. As quickly became apparent, he had more than one ace up his sleeve.

The intercom buzzed. Warily, Major Sparrowhawk answered, “Yes, General Blitzkrieg?” The general already had his coffee, his news printouts, and the other routine items he wanted first thing every morning. That meant he’d come up with a brainstorm, and General Blitzkrieg’s brainstorms meant trouble for Major Sparrowhawk. She might have to spend the next few hours carefully convincing him to change his mind.

“Major, I want a search of Legion personnel files,” said the general. “I need a captain or a newly promoted major, somebody from an old-Legion, old-money background. Wouldn’t hurt if his family were hereditary nobility somewhere. And he’s got to be a stickler for regulations. Give me a dozen candidates, with full dossiers, hard copy, pronto.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She thought a beat, then said, “Male candidates only?”

Blitzkrieg grumbled, then said, “I’ll consider a couple of females if they fit the other criteria, but I think this is a job for a man. Oh, yes, and the younger and richer, the better.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She waited a beat, and when the general cut the connection, she began entering the search parameters. Idly she wondered what the general was working up this time. The search parameters were just odd enough that he had to have something particular in mind. Well, she’d find out soon enough.

It was too bad she didn’t fit the criteria. Despite the general’s lip service to considering a female candidate, it was perfectly obvious that he wanted a male. So much for any dreams she might have had of engineering a transfer and getting out from under Blitzkrieg’s thumb.

But she knew better by now than to hope for any such escape. Even in the unlikely case that Blitzkrieg approved the transfer, the other ranking Legion commanders would overrule it, knowing they’d have to ruin some other officer’s career to replace her. Nobody wanted the “opportunity” to be Blitzkrieg’s adjutant. Her chance to move on would have to await Blitzkrieg’s retirement-and she knew all too well that she wasn’t the only person in the Legion wishing for that particular event to come sooner rather than later.

She entered the final search parameters and checked to make sure she hadn’t made any obvious errors. There was next to no chance that the general would notice any problems on his own, unless the whole project blew up in his face, at which point, she’d get the entire blame. That was an implicit function of her position, minimizing the extent to which the general could foul things up by sheer laziness and inattention to detail. The general would still foul up plenty of things on his own, of course, but where it could be prevented, she was expected to do so. In five years on the job, she’d managed to prevent more than one disaster. Of course, it would only take one that slipped past her to ruin her career. But thinking about that was likely to give her ulcers, and so she did her best not to.

At last, satisfied that she’d set up the program properly, she launched the search, then called up another window to take a look at her stock portfolio. Eventually, she’d be able to retire, and even if the general went down in flames and took her with him, she intended to have a safety net waiting when she did get out. She had a couple of stocks that had been sluggish of late; maybe it was time to sell them off and reinvest in something that moved faster. Her broker had mentioned a company marketing a mini antigrav unit that might be a good short-term investment. She studied the figures until the computer signaled that the general’s search was done, then printed out the results (Blitzkrieg always wanted hard copy) and took them into the inner office.

Typically, once he had the information in front of him, General Blitzkrieg made his decision almost immediately. Sparrowhawk wondered if he thought that having the computer pick a list of candidates exempted him from having to put any real thought into making a selection among them. In any case, he flipped through the printouts, reading a few sentences here and there, and then pulled one candidate’s dossier off the pile with an air of triumph. The entire process took perhaps five minutes.

“Major Botchup,” purred the general. He handed the dossier to his adjutant and grinned wickedly. “Yes, this is precisely the man for the job.”

“What position did you have in mind for him?” asked Major Sparrowhawk, fingering the personnel dossier. She was somewhat surprised at the general’s enthusiasm. The officer in question fit all the search criteria, no question about that. But reading between the lines of his performance ratings-of course she’d already read the candidates’ dossiers-he seemed consistently to rub his superiors the wrong way. While performing strictly in conformance with regulations and Legion tradition (in its way, more important than any regulation), he’d managed to establish himself as a pain in the arse. Not that that made him different from most male Legion officers...She looked back at the general.

“He’s going to Zenobia,” said Blitzkrieg, smirking. “A mission of that importance can’t have a mere captain in command of it, let alone a bumbler like Jester. Botchup is due for an important command of his own. And if anybody can whip Omega company into shape, he’s the man for the job. A genuine respect for Legion traditions-you don’t see that very often these days, Sparrowhawk.”

“No, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. Herself, she was just as glad the old Legion ways were starting to die out. But that wasn’t something to admit to Blitzkrieg, who fancied himself the last bastion of Legion tradition-and the legacy of ineptitude that went with it. She was pretty sure that was the main reason he’d taken such a hatred of Phule, far beyond any provocation the captain of Omega Company had given his superiors. “Shall I cut orders for Major Botchup to join the company on Landoor, then?”

The general rubbed his chin, musing. “No, I think that’d give Jester too much time to get ready for him. We’ll have him join his new command at their destination on Zenobia. And we’ll keep it under our hats for now. No point in having somebody try to undercut the plan before it’s had a chance to work.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She knew the reasoning behind that one: easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission. It was no surprise to find out that Blitzkrieg operated on that principle. It was probably the oldest of all Legion traditions.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Phule. He shook Ambassador Gottesman’s hand. “I didn’t really want to get my hopes up for this assignment. Quite frankly, some of the top Legion commanders can be counted on to oppose anything that looks like a reward for this unit. But I must say, you came through rather quickly.”

“I made use of a few connections,” said the ambassador with a wink. “And I did point out that, if this assignment is in the nature of a reward, it’s by no means a sinecure. There’s some probability your people will face combat, Captain.”

Phule grinned and said as nonchalantly as possible, “Well, in the Legion we don’t necessarily see that as a liability, sir. But perhaps you can brief me on the situation we’ll be going into. All I really know is that it’s on the Zenobians’ home world-“

“Yes, and they say they’re trying to repel an alien invasion,” said the ambassador, spreading his hands.

“I see,” said Phule, leaning his elbow on his desk. “Who are the invaders, sir:”

“I wish I had a good answer to that, and I’m afraid I don’t,” said Gottesman. “The Zenobians are being closemouthed about it.” He paused and took a sip of his tea, then looked Phule straight in the eye. “I have the distinct impression they’re...well, embarrassed might be the best description of how they’re acting.”

“Embarrassed?” Phule leaned his other elbow on the desk. Now he was frowning. “Can you be more precise? Are they embarrassed because they can’t repel the invaders or because they need help or what?”

The ambassador shrugged. “I don’t really know. In fact, it’s just my interpretation of how they act. And you must know how hard it can be to read a nonhuman sophont’s emotions.” He set down the teacup with a wry smile and spread his hands. “I have enough trouble with my teenage daughters, half the time.”

“I can imagine,” said Phule, thinking that even parenting teenage girls might be easier than commanding the motley outfit he’d been put in charge of. “But this puts my people at a serious disadvantage, going into a possible combat situation without reliable intelligence. If we don’ know what we’re up against-“

“I understand, Captain,” said the ambassador. He stood up and put his hand on Phule’s shoulder. “We at State have our intelligence branch working overtime on it, believe me. We don’t want to send anybody into a booby trap. The minute we get something useful, you’ll get it from us. You have my word on that. Until then, just try to be ready for anything-anything at all.”

Phule nodded. “I guess we’ll have to be ready, then,” he said. He stood up and shook Gottesman’s hand. Then he added, “That’s what we’re supposed to do anyhow, isn’t it?”

“I have complete confidence in you and your people. Captain,” said the ambassador. Then he added darkly, “I wish I had the same confidence in your superiors.” He allowed himself a thin smile and left the office.

Beeker, who had sat silently listening to the entire interview, watched the ambassador leave, then said, “Are you quite certain you want to stick your head into this particular noose, sir?”

Phule turned to look at his butler. “Is that how you read it, Beeker?” He placed high value on Beeker’s opinions and advice-not that he always allowed them to influence his decisions. If he had, he’d never have joined the Space Legion. But when the butler smelled trouble, it was worth listening to him.

Beeker steepled his fingers. “Consider the evidence, sir. The Zenobians have asked for help against some sort of external threat that they cannot defeat with their own resources. Yet the Zenobians are remarkably competent warriors, both in their basic physical abilities and in their technological accomplishments. What kind of help is a single Legion company going to be able to provide?”

“Well, as much as we can, of course,” said Phule. “I suspect most of our role will be in training and in tactical and strategic consultation. After all, we’re being brought in as advisors, not to engage the enemy directly.”

Beeker’s face grew solemn. “Sir, I hope you have not entered into negotiations to purchase any bridges from the Zenobians.”

Phule laughed. “I leave that to State, Beeker,” he said. “With Ambassador Gottesman on our side, I’m not really worried about any surprises.”

“You should be,” scolded Beeker. “Ambassador Gottesman has done a great deal for us when it was to his advantage to do so. Now it is to his advantage to send us to Zenobia, but I have no idea whether it is to our advantage to go there. The Black Hills undoubtedly looked like a plum assignment to George Armstrong Custer.”

“Good old Beeker, always seeing the bright side,” said Phule, grinning. “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. And if I can’t, I’ve got a whole Legion company to do it for me.”

“Sir, that’s exactly what worries me the most,” said Beeker.

Journal #505

It did not take long for word of the company’s impending move to filter down to the rank and file. Indeed, within a few short hours of Phule’s conversation with the ambassador, the tables at the Landoor Plaza’s Poolside Bar were buzzing with speculation. As a rule, the better a position a person was in to know what was really likely to happen, the less they were willing to say about it. However, this rule could definitely be modified in the case of Chocolate Harry.

Chocolate Harry stared at Do-Wop and shook his head sadly. “Man, if you knew half as much as you think you know, you’d be a mortal danger.”

“He’s a mortal danger already,” said Super-Gnat, deadpan. “Just ask any woman who’s gone on a date with him.”

“Ahh, I got girls lined up ten deep waitin’ for the chance to go out with me,” said Do-Wop, swelling up his chest and making a perfunctory grab at Gnat, who ducked away and stuck out her tongue at him. Frustrated in his effort to demonstrate his appeal, he turned back to the supply sergeant. “But I can’t let you get away with that, C. H. I got inside info as good as anybody in the company. You don’t know who I been talkin’ to.”

“Don’t matter who you talk to, you wouldn’t understand it if they told you two and two is four,” said Chocolate Harry. “You’d figure it was six, and by the time you got done tellin’ the rest of us, it’d be fifteen or twenty.”

“And worth absolutely nothin’,” added Slammer, one of the new recruits who’d been assigned to the supply depot under Harry’s supervision. He’d quickly picked up the supply sergeant’s conversational style: half humorous insults, half bragging, and half plain lies. That’s three halves, but those who knew Harry were willing to make allowances for a good bit of surplus.

Carefully choosing his target-the whole company knew better than to try to beat C. H. at his own game-Do-Wop looked at Slammer and said, “Hey, Slammer, I been meaning to ask you-did you get that name because that’s where you belong, or because people slam doors in your face?”

“It’s because if anybody messes with me, that’s what I do to ‘em,” said Slammer, not taking particular offense.

“That’s no problem, nobody wants to mess with you,” said Super-Gnat with a grin that suggested she intended more than one meaning. “Besides, I want to hear where Harry thinks we’re going and why. What’s the word, Sarge?”

“I don’t think, Gnat, I know,” said Chocolate Harry. “We goin’ to Barriere to take on the renegade robots there. They got a big problem with those bots. And the reason they pick us is because they know of C. H. has got the know-how when it comes to fixin’ robots. Hell, a man that can customize a hawg the way I have ain’t gonna have any problem with a hot.”

“This is the first I heard about any renegade robots,” said Sushi, leaning his elbows on the table. “How long’s that been going on?”

“Man, you ain’t got my inside sources, that’s all,” said Harry, with a self-congratulatory grin. He took a deep swig of his beer and sighed in satisfaction. “Thing a lot of folks don’t realize, the supply lines are what the Legion runs on. Supply don’t do its job, you gonna have a bunch of people sittin’ on some bare asteroid, SOL.”

“What means SOL?” asked Tusk-anini, squinting behind his dark glasses.

“Somebody’s Obviously Loony,” said Super-Gnat with a sly grin. Her partner’s command of human slang was tenuous at best, and she enjoyed ribbing him about it. From her, at least, he usually took it in good nature. He wasn’t without a sense of humor, although it sometimes seemed very strange to his human companions.

“Nah, it means Salad Oil Liberation,” said Do-Wop, horning in on the game.

Tusk-anini’s squint narrowed into a frown. “I don’t think Do-Wop tells me right,” he said. “Salad oil is no part of it. Am I right, Gnat?”

“Hey, do you want to hear what’s goin’ on or not?” said Chocolate Harry, sensing his audience slipping away.

“We don’t wanna hear no crap about renegade robots,” said Do-Wop. “Everybody knows robots just follow orders. They got Asimov circuits that make ‘em do what people say.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody thinks, “ said Harry, taking the cue and launching into a new spiel. “That’s what the robot factories want you to think, on account of who’s gonna buy a machine that, you wake up one morning and it’s killed you and taken over your house?”

“I wouldn’t buy nothin’ like that,” said Slammer, obviously impressed by his sergeant’s logic.

“You got it,” said Harry. He slapped his palm on the table, sending splashes out of several drinks. “Thing is, nobody wants their robots to have a mind of their own, ‘cause if the bots figure out that us humans have everything and they got nothin’, what’s to stop ‘em from taking over?”

“I no human,” said Tusk-anini, irrefutably. “I no scared of robots, either.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t run across these-here renegades,” said the supply sergeant. “They’ll just naturally wipe out any kind of sophont. You think it matters to them how many legs or eyes you got on you? It’s the last thing they care about.”

“You sure this is the straight story from the brass?” asked Do-Wop. Almost automatically, not even watching, he slowly peeled the label off his beer bottle with his thumbnail.

“Pure gospel, man,” said Harry, holding up a palm as if taking an oath. “Rev himself ain’t ever said a word as true as this stuff I’m lettin’ you in on.”

Some of the listeners-mostly new members of the company unfamiliar with the supply sergeant’s ways-nodded and murmured words of approval. They’d been in the Legion a while, but they still had a tendency to believe everything they heard from a veteran, especially from a fast talker like Chocolate Harry. This made them welcome additions to the supply sergeant’s poker games and easy marks for his long string of scams.

But Sushi was a veteran and a first-class scammer in his own right. “It’s a triff story,” he said, grinning. “What I still haven’t figured out is how Harry thinks he’s going to make a buck out of it. I’ll admit he could be telling lies for free, just to keep in practice, maybe. But somewhere down the road, if we buy this line of stuff, it’s going to cost us. What’s the deal, Harry? Are you selling robot repellent or something?”

“You oughta know me better than that, Soosh,” said Harry, managing a hurt expression. “I’d never try to sell something like that. Why, a robot’s mechanical. You can’t run it off like you would some kinda bug.”

“That’s true,” said Do-Wop. “The robots I’ve seen, they just don’t let anything bother them. Sorta like Mahatma when he gets wrapped up in something. There’s no stopping him.”

“That’s right,” said Harry. “That’s why something like a repellent won’t work. But there is one thing-“

“Here it comes!” said Sushi, and everyone chuckled. Even Tusk-anini leaned forward in anticipation of Chocolate Harry’s spiel.

Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard Sushi’s stage whisper. “The thing is, robots can only see in certain frequencies. So if you’re wearing certain colors-stuff in the purple end of the spectrum, for example-they just naturally can’t see you, and you can sneak right up on ‘em. And it just so happens I’ve got in a supply of robot-proof camouflage...” He waved toward a large crate, marked Phule-Proof Camo.

“Which you’ll make available, at a price, to anyone who wants a little insurance,” prompted Super-Gnat.

“Why, sure,” said Harry, his face devoid of all guile. “I’d purely hate to see anybody get hurt if we ended up in a bad robot situation and they weren’t prepared, y’know? So who wants some?”

“I think I’ll pass,” said Do-Wop. “But somehow, I don’t think you’ll have any shortage of takers, Sarge.”

“Sushi, I sure hope you’re right,” said the supply sergeant. “In my job, you’ve got to think ahead, and I’m just glad I thought of this particular possibility before it turned into a real problem.”

“Harry, you’re a pure genius,” said Sushi, shaking his head with admiration. “I bet we’ll see half the squad wearing purple before we leave Landoor.”

“I hope it’s more than that,” said Chocolate Harry. “Why, I’ll hardly rest until I know we’re all safe from the robots.”

“Harry, somehow I know we will be,” said Sushi. He nodded in the direction of Stammer, who was already wearing a purple field vest over his fatigues. Stammer, noticing the attention, lifted his chin and favored his comrades with a satisfied smirk. “Yes indeed, Harry,” said Sushi, “somehow, I know you’ll be able to rest very comfortably.”

Harry’s broad grin left no doubt of that.

Prologue

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