9

Journal #545

Modern communications are a wonderful thing. They allow persons to wait endless hours for the download of information that the possession of a few choice reference books would put at their fingertips. They make it possible for salesmen and bill collectors to harrass their customers during the dinner hour or at other inconvenient times without the least risk of a poke in the snoot. They allow the young of both sexes to carry on endless conversations, if the term may be applied to a verbal exchange almost entirely devoid of actual content. All these are good things, especially if one is a stockholder in the communications cartels that provide these dubious services. Others will no doubt consider them in a less positive light.

Curiously, the petty annoyances of a civilized world are often precisely those things one most fervently desires when one is roughing it in the wilds of Zenobia, and they fail to function in the accustomed manner.

Word of Major Botchup’s arrival spread like wildfire through Omega Company. The new commanding officer had commandeered the office set aside for Phule, then summoned Lieutenants Armstrong and Rembrandt for a closed-door executive conference with him and his adjutant, Second Lieutenant Snipe. This left Brandy with the unpleasant task of trying to inform Captain Jester of Legion headquarters’ latest stratagem to counteract the innovations he’d instituted with Omega Company.

As usual, Comm Central had already heard the news. After all, Mother’s job was to monitor all communications and make sure that information got passed to those who needed it most. So when Brandy came into the equipment-crowded room, Mother had already taken it upon her own initiative to contact the absent captain. Tusk-anini was standing behind the desk, looking over Mother’s shoulder with an unusually deep frown as Brandy swept through the door.

“I can see you two are on the ball,” said Brandy, coming to a halt by the main comm desk. “Have you talked to the captain? How’s he taking the news?”

“wblftgrwmmmtfts,” whispered Mother, shrinking down behind her equipment as she was suddenly confronted with an actual person instead of a disembodied comm signal.

“Oh, damn, I forgot,” said Brandy. “Sorry, Mother, but this is priority one. Tusk, can you fill me in? What’s the story?”

“Is no story,” said the Volton. “Noise and more noise is all we receive. Some bad storm in desert, we think. Mother sends messages, but no way to tell if captain getting them.” As if to confirm his words, a rattle of static emerged from the speakers.

“Oh, great,” said Brandy. After a moment’s thought, she asked. “How about calling on the Zenobian military frequencies? They ought to be reliable, if anything on this planet is. Maybe you can get in touch with them and ask if they’ll relay a message.”

“Is good idea. Mother already trying it, too,” said Tusk-anini. “Having nothing for luck, is what happens.”

“Well, if that’s the deal, that’s the deal,” said Brandy. She stalked over to a nearby chair and took a seat. “I can probably hang out here until the major decides he wants me for something, which if I’m lucky won’t be until sometime tomorrow. Keep trying, OK, Mother? And let me know if you get even a momentary connection. The captain may not be able to do anything about this bird coming in over his head, but he at least deserves a chance to walk in with some advance notice.”

“brglyfrtz,” agreed Mother, and she went back to work adjusting dials and speaking the occasional test phrase into her microphone. The static fluctuated constantly, but there was never more than the bare hint of a coherent signal. The legionnaires’ faces got longer and longer, but they kept trying.

Finally, after several hours, Major Botchup called Brandy to order an inspection of all troops first thing next morning. She acknowledged the order, then turned to Mother and Tusk-anini and said, “Well, that’s that. I need to get some sleep, or I won’t be worth a bucket of sand in the morning. Keep trying, and call me to patch me in if you hear anything at all from the captain, OK?’

“,tbwfPlt,” said Mother.

Tusk-anini added, “You don’t worry Brandy, we tell you right away. Go rest, now.”

Much to her surprise, Brandy fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, to be awakened at last by her morning alarm. She leapt out of bed, ready to greet the day-until she remembered what she had to look forward to, and kicked the leg of her bed so hard that it slid half a meter across the floor.

If Omega Company had ever had a habit of turning out for inspection at six in the morning, it long since had broken that habit. Phule’s interest in that particular military custom had never been strong, and most of his subordinate officers and NCOs had followed his lead. Lieutenant Armstrong, Moustache, and a few others maintained a spit-and-polish personal appearance and a strong concern for military discipline and Legion tradition. But they were the minority and knew better than to try to impose their preferences on the rest of the company.

Major Botchup, on the other hand, had made it quite clear that this was one area in which he fully intended to change the Omega Mob’s image, and without delay. The major was personally rooting out every loose button, unkempt head, and slouching shoulder in the company, with the expression of a backyard gardener discovering vermin. And he was handing out reprimands at a record pace, spiked with blistering sarcasm. Next to him stood his adjutant, Second Lieutenant Snipe, smirking as he jotted down every demerit.

The newest recruits seemed to be particular targets of the major’s wrath. He stood in front of Roadkill for a good twenty minutes. “That’s not a military haircut,” he began. “You’ll report to the company barber immediately following inspection, and to my office as soon as he’s done, so I can determine whether you’re still in breach of regulations!”

“Uh, Major-“ Roadkill began.

“No back talk, legionnaire!” the major barked. “Perhaps that’s an unwarranted compliment-I don’t see anything that looks like a legionnaire here-you or anyone else in this formation. What’s that hanging from your ear?”

“It’s my club ring, Major,” said Roadkill. “Back on Argus-“

“A club ring is no part of your uniform,” said Botchup.

He reached up as if to snatch it off the ear. Lieutenant Snipe snickered.

Roadkill got his hand to the earring first and managed to remove it quickly without damage. “I’ll leave it off,” he said with a grin he meant to be conciliatory.

“You’ll leave it off, what?” roared Botchup.

“Off my ear,” said Roadkill. “That’s where it was, wasn’t it?”

“Off my ear, sir! And wipe that smirk off your face!” Botchup shouted. “Hasn’t anyone taught you how to address a superior officer?”

“Sure, but they didn’t bust balls about it,” said Roadkill. He looked at Botchup as if deciding whether he could take him in a fight. “At least not until you-“

“You better forget anything you learned before I got here,” said Botchup. “I’m the commanding officer, and you’re going to do things my way-starting now. Is that clear?”

“Yeah, I hear what you’re asking for, Major,” said Roadkill with a most unmilitary shrug. “They’ve been asking for ice cream in Hell for some time now, too. Doesn’t mean they’re getting any-“

“Sergeant, this man is confined to base for ten days,” said the major, turning to Brandy.

“Yes, sir,” said Brandy. She refrained from pointing out that there was no place outside the company perimeter worth visiting.

After nearly an hour of nonstop nitpicking and browbeating, Major Botchup finally stomped away from the troops and mounted a reviewing stand he’d ordered built the evening before. Chocolate Harry’s supply squad had worked into the wee hours getting it ready.

He stood and glared at the troops for a minute. Finally, he barked, “There’s an enemy out there, and we’re going to go hunting for him.” For the moment, the legionnaires, standing in formation, made no response. Botchup didn’t expect any. He’d made it amply clear by now that the only response he wanted from them was unthinking obedience. Perhaps he might have gotten that from most other Legion companies, but this was Omega Mob. Its members might not do much thinking, but they were not in the habit of obedience.

Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, standing beside the major, looked out at the formation. It would have been impossible to tell, by looking at Armstrong’s face, what he thought of his new commanding officer. Then again, his face did not reveal a great deal of emotion in any circumstances. Rembrandt’s expression, in contrast, was one of ill-concealed dismay. Botchup’s failure to notice this might have been no more than youthful arrogance; in any case, it was ample proof that General Blitzkrieg had chosen the perfect anti-Phule to undo his predecessor’s work.

“For a change, this company is going to do things the Legion way,” Botchup continued. “You people have been coddled and pampered, living like a bunch of playboys. Well, there’s no room for that in the Legion.”

“Where is there room for it?” came a voice from the back of the formation. “We wanna go there!”

“Who said that?” snapped Botchup. There was no answer.

“Who said that?” Botchup leaned forward on the podium, a snarl on his lips. When nobody responded, he continued, “First Sergeant, I want the legionnaire who said that brought forward to be disciplined.” Lieutenant Snipe pulled out his notebook again and stood poised to enter the offender’s name.

“Begging the major’s pardon, but I haven’t the faintest idea who said it,” said Brandy.

Botchup was incredulous. “You don’t know the voices of your own troops, Sergeant?”

“Not all of them, sir,” said Brandy. “We have new recruits in the company.”

“A good while since, if I recall,” said Botchup, frowning. He shook a finger at the sergeant. “You should know them by now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Brandy, spitting out the words as if they were burning her tongue. Her face was as expressionless as Armstrong’s, but even a new recruit would have spotted her blazing eyes, and-if he valued his hide-proceeded to make himself scarce. Very scarce.

An experienced officer ought to have spotted the eyes, too. But if Major Botchup was aware of Brandy’s eyes-or of what they might suggest-he gave no sign of it. Instead, he said, “If you can’t find the individual who spoke out, I’m going to order the entire company punished. A breach of discipline reflects on everyone, after all.”

“Yes, sir,” said Brandy, clenching her jaw. “What punishment does the major wish to impose?”

“Extra guard duty,” said Botchup. Snipe duly noted it in his little book. “Make it nighttime guard duty-and they’d better all stay awake, Sergeant. I’ve been known to make surprise inspections to make sure the troops are on their toes. If I catch someone asleep-well, this is a war zone, Sergeant. You know what that means.”

“Yes, sir,” said Brandy, coming to rigid attention and snapping off a brittle salute. “Understood entirely, sir.”

“Now, if the individual responsible wants to confess, he can save his comrades the punishment...” said Botchup, with an unpleasant smile.

“I did it, sir!” A voice came from the ranks-perhaps the same voice, perhaps not. Brandy and the major turned to see Mahatma stepping forward.

“Ah, so, you’re at least loyal to your comrades, if a bit stupid,” said Botchup. “You’re going to the stockade, boy-for ten days.”

“Yes, Major,” said Mahatma with his usual smile. “I didn’t know we had a stockade yet. Am I going to have one built for me?”

“That kind of impertinence will get you an extra ten days, legionnaire!” Botchup barked. Behind him, Snipe scowled.

“He’s full of crap, Major,” said another voice. “I’m the one you’re after.”

“Who said that?” Botchup whirled to look at the other legionnaires standing in formation.

Six legionnaires stepped forward. “We did, sir,” they chorused.

“No, it was me,” came a synthesized voice, and a Synthian slid forward on a glide-board. “Put me in the stockade, Major!”

Botchup turned to Brandy. “How do you explain this rank insubordination, Sergeant?”

Brandy favored him with a cool stare. “I don’t, Major. Never had any problem with it before. They usually look for ways to stay out of the stockade.”

“I believe that, at least,” said Botchup, frowning at the legionnaires who had stepped forward. Then, as if he was worried that the entire formation would step forward if he keep watching, he turned his back and pointed a finger at Brandy.

“I’m going to leave you to sort this mess out, Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t care how you do it, as long as the legionnaire responsible is properly disciplined. I’ll expect a report. And the entire company is confined to the post until further notice!”

“Yes, sir!” said Brandy stiffly, but the major had already whirled around and stalked off, with Lieutenant Snipe close behind.

Somehow, all the legionnaires managed to keep serious expressions on their faces. Except for Brandy. She didn’t have to try.

Chief Potentary Korg looked carefully at the list Phule had given him. Prepared in both Zenobian and Standard English, it represented an agreement for the Zenobians to supply the Legion company with certain essentials during its stay on the planet, as well as specifying the details of delivery. “Yes, this is all in order,” said Korg. The wattles at his throat shook as his head nodded-a gesture the Zenobians and humans had in common. “I will see to it that the first deliveries arrive at your camp within two cycles of the primary.”

“Excellent,” said Phule. “This will give us greatly improved logistics. Being dependent on material brought in from off-world is never ideal. We’re lucky that our two industrial bases are similar enough for us to exchange products.”

“Yes, except for discrepancies of measurement,” said Korg. “Your units have mystified our engineers. Why in Gazma’s name do meters and kilograms multiply by tens, and seconds by sixties?”

“Ancient Earth history,” said Phule with a shrug. “I’m a soldier, not an engineer. I just have to use the stuff, not make sense of it.”

“I foresee difficulties when trade between our worlds extends beyond raw materials,” said Korg, ambling over to stare out a window at the busy Zenobian capital city. “I assure you, our factories will not be happy if they must retool to match Alliance standards.”

“That won’t be as big a problem as you think,” said Phule. “We’re already dealing with four advanced races, each with its own standards-and nobody wanted to change, believe me. Most of the worlds still use their own standards for internal markets. But when you become a major player in interworld trade, you’ll find that the profits are significant enough to make retooling worthwhile. My father’s done it plenty of times in his munitions business. Just for one example, you’ll find that his copy of your stun ray is part-for-part interchangeable with your original.

Korg turned and looked at Phule with what appeared to be a puzzled expression. “Why would he do that? Would it not be easier to capture the market for himself if he made the copy to his own standard?”

“Maybe, but this way, your forces can become customers. He’s willing to bet he can match your quality-or top it. And having more than one source of standard replacement parts is a selling point. His customers are less likely to get hit with shortages. To take the obvious case, it’s a lot easier and cheaper for Omega Company to buy spare parts from you than to bring them in from off-planet. And if you send forces off-planet, odds are they’ll do business with Phule-Proof.”

“Very interesting,” said Korg, clapping his hands together. “This opens up possibilities I had not foreseen. Our economists will want to scrutinize this theory. Perhaps I will call you back to address a group of them, when you have settled your company in place.”

“I’m not an economic theorist, but I’d be glad to share a few ideas with your people,” said Phule. “But your mentioning my company reminds me. I do have work to do at the camp, and it’s past time I got down to it. Thank you for your hospitality, and I hope we can help you solve the problems you called us in about. I’ve got a couple of my best people working on possible answers, and we’ll let you know as soon as we have anything to report.”

“Very good,” said Korg. “Your vehicle has been fueled, and you should find all in readiness. I look forward to working with you and your people, Captain Clown.”

“The pleasure will be mutual, I’m sure,” said Phule. He snapped off a salute and gathered up his papers for the trip to camp. He was especially anxious to see how the new equipment was working in his absence-as well as how the company had handled its responsibilities under Rembrandt and Armstrong. He’d been delegating more and more responsibility to them, and they’d responded by growing into the expanded roles he’d given them. If this kept up, the company would be able to survive the worst assaults of its enemies, who, he increasingly suspected, were thicker in Legion Headquarters than here on Zenobia or anywhere else.

Major Botchup had ordered Lieutenant Armstrong to show his adjutant Lieutenant Snipe the camp, an assignment that Snipe took as license to treat Armstrong as his personal lackey. Armstrong was already silently fuming even before the pair arrived at Comm Central. He ushered Snipe through the door and said in a low voice, “This is the base’s real nerve center. With our wrist communicators, every legionnaire in the company can reach anyone else on a moment’s notice.”

“That sounds like a security risk,” said Snipe. “What if the enlisted men listen in on the officers’ communications?”

“Not a problem,” said Armstrong. “We have private circuits for the officers when we need to talk among ourselves.”

“As long as nobody’s eavesdropping,” said Snipe, tapping his finger on the top of a counter. “The major will want to take a good close look at that system. We aren’t in friendly territory here. The enemy could know every move you’re planning before your own men do.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Armstrong. “The captain’s brought in all the best new equipment. It’s got security features well above milspec.”

“Security features that anybody else with enough money can buy. Or buy the equipment to bug everything you say,” sniffed Snipe, clearly unimpressed.

While they’d been talking, Mother had been sinking lower and lower behind her equipment console. Finally, when Snipe turned and pointed at her and snapped, “Who’s that?” she gave a little cry and sank entirely out of sight.

Snipe turned to Armstrong and said, “Who is that person? Doesn’t she know the proper way to act when an officer enters the room?”

“Pgtkr,” said Mother, almost inaudibly, from behind the desk.

“Speak up!” said Snipe. “If you’re going to address an officer, do so in a proper military manner! What is your name and serial number, legionnaire?”

“Gmafngbrkshl,” said Mother, even more inaudibly. Suddenly she leapt up and bolted from the room.

“What the hell was that?” said Snipe, staring at the departing legionnaire.

“Uh, Mr. Snipe, the comm engineer is rather sensitive,” said Armstrong, leaping to Mother’s defense. “She really isn’t at her best in a face-to-face situation with superior officers-“

“Well, it’s time she got over that quirk. If she won’t talk to her officers, she should be replaced with somebody competent,” barked Snipe. “Whose idea was it to put her in such a critical position?”

“Captain Jester’s, of course,” said Armstrong, uncomfortably aware that Snipe was likely to take it as evidence in the case the new regime was obviously building against the captain. “You see, she’s really completely different on the air-“

“No reason to coddle her neurosis,” said Snipe, looking around. His eye focused on a doorway at the end of the counter where they were standing. “Ah, there’s someplace I want to see. I hope this is more in keeping with the Legion tradition than the rest of the base.”

“That’s the officers’ lounge,” said Armstrong.

“Yes, of course,” said Snipe. “That’s why I wanted to see it. Or did you forget that I am also an officer?”

“Lieutenant, you hardly give me a chance to forget it,” said Armstrong, attempting a rare ironic sally.

Snipe ignored him and made a beeline for the lounge. But he stopped at the door with an astonished expression on his face. There on the couch sat Tusk-anini, seven feet tall with the face of a giant warthog and a thick book in his hands, taking up half the room. “What on earth are you doing here?” said Snipe after gaining his composure.

“Am reading Seven Types of Ambiguity,” said Tuskanini, peering truculently at Snipe. “Your-planet people never read twentieth-century Earth books?”

“Is this...sophont an officer?” Snipe turned to Armstrong and asked, quite unnecessarily.

“No,” said Armstrong. “We let Tusk-anini come in here to read when he’s not helping Mother. He’s the only one who uses the place much, late at night.”

“A very bad precedent,” said Snipe, peering at the Volton.

Tusk-anini peered back at him. “What you got against new critics?” he growled. “You deconstructionist?”

“I am an officer,” sputtered Snipe. “And you are not. “

“Noticing that already,” said Tusk-anini, closing the book but keeping his place with a large foredigit. He stood up, looming over the two lieutenants. “You making a point, or you just like a lot talking?”

“This is insubordination!” said Snipe, turning to Armstrong. “And he’s threatening an officer, as well! I want this legionnaire arrested!”

Armstrong blinked. “Tusk-anini? Threatening you? That’s preposterous, Mr. Snipe. Why, he wouldn’t harm a fly-“

“Would, too,” said Tusk-anini pedantically. “But only if fly biting me.”

“I want this legionnaire confined to quarters!” howled Snipe.

“Lieutenant, you’re overreacting,” said Armstrong. “I’m as much a rulebook man as anybody, but you have to make allowances. Tusk-anini’s been an asset to the company, and his reading doesn’t lower our effectiveness in any way.”

“I see, Lieutenant, “ said Second Lieutenant Snipe. “Well, if that’s the way the wind blows, I’ll just take the matter up with Major Botchup. And if he sees things my way, I suspect you’ll have something to answer for, as well.”

“Mr. Snipe, I’ll take my chances,” said Armstrong. “Would you like to finish inspecting the base before you report to the major?”

“Very well,” snapped the other lieutenant. He stomped out the door, and a keen nose would have detected smoke coming from his ears.

Armstrong turned to Tusk-anini and shrugged. “Things are going to be tricky until the captain gets back,” he said quietly. “Until then, I suggest you lay low.”

The Volton nodded but said nothing, and Armstrong hurried to catch up with Lieutenant Snipe. He managed to avoid any overt confrontations for the rest of the inspection tour, but he knew very well that Snipe would concoct some pretext to find fault.

Chocolate Harry flipped through the pages of his latest issue of Biker’s Dream. Somewhere, he’d seen an ad for a new modification package that sounded like just what he needed to get that extra millimeter of performance out of his hawg. Thanks to the traffic in antirobot camouflage, he’d accumulated a nice bit of spare change for just such a purpose. The ad had been somewhere in the back of the mag...

He was still searching when a voice broke through his concentration. “Yo, Sarge, I gotta have a couple of reels of sixteen-gauge copper wire!”

With a sigh, Chocolate Harry set down the magazine. “Couple of reels? What for you need all that copper, Do-Wop?” He didn’t bother shifting his feet from off the desktop.

“Captain’s orders, C. H.,” said Do-Wop, leaning over the supply sergeant’s desk. “Me and Soosh gotta find the Hidden Ones, special assignment, top priority. Just ask the captain, you don’t believe me-“

Chocolate Harry held up a hand for silence. “I know all about the special assignment, dude, that ain’t what I asked you. What for you need that much copper? That’s damn near a year’s supply for the whole company, and we aren’t exactly where I can resupply all that easy. If there’s somethin’ else you can substitute I-“

“Nah, Soosh says it’s gotta be copper, Sarge,” said Do-Wop; a distinct whine in his voice. “You don’t wanna mess up this special assignment Captain Jester gave us, do ya? He’ll be really mad if it don’t get finished because you wouldn’t give us the stuff we needed.”

“Ain’t nobody said I wouldn’t give it to you,” said C. H. He swung his feet off the desk and sat up straight in the chair. “But you do have to give me all the right paperwork, cap’n’s orders or not. Now, for starters, where’s your Form SL-951-C-4? Can’t give out strategic supplies without that one, in triplicate.”

“Man, nobody told us we needed no forms,” said Do-Wop, a look of dismay on his face. “Can you give me the wire and the forms, and I’ll bring ‘em back later?”

Chocolate Harry shook his head gravely. “Not unless I want to get in a heap of trouble, myself. This new major’s a stickler for routine. Forms first, then your copper. That’s definitely strategic supplies. Unless maybe you’re gonna use it for some nondesignated strategic purpose, in which case maybe I can dispense with the SL-951-C-4. But I gotta know up front.”

“Uh, yeah, nondesignated strategic purpose, that’s the ticket,” said Do-Wop, grinning. “Got yer strategic purpose right here. Soosh tells me, he’s gonna set up a biomass detector to search for the Hidden Ones the lizards have been trying so hard to catch, which they ain’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em except their comm signals.”

“Biomass detector?” The supply sergeant frowned. “With two whole reels of copper wire; you oughta be able to track a stray geefle bug halfway across the galaxy. What do you clowns think you’re looking for?”

“All we know is it’s too hard to find by bare eyeball,” said Do-Wop. “That’s why Soosh decided to rig something special. He dug out the designs from some old program, and he’s doin’ some custom mods...”

Chocolate Harry rubbed his bearded chin, speculating. “Man, I know you’re just followin’ the captain’s orders, but maybe you should look around a minute before you get in over your head. Have you dudes ever thought that maybe the reason the Zenobians can’t find no enemy is that the enemy ain’t alive?”

Do-Wop frowned. “Ain’t alive? You mean we’re looking for spooks?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” said Chocolate Harry. “I’m thinkin’ robots.”

Do-Wop laughed. “Robots! You trying to run that crazy scam on me? Half the company must be wearin’ that purple junk you’re sellin’.”

Chocolate Harry’s face turned solemn. “Do-Wop, it pains me to have you question my good intentions. This here robot camo is guaranteed effective. Ain’t a robot in the Alliance can spot you, if you’re wearin’ it. If one of those renegade robots gets you in its sights, and you ain’t camouflaged-“

“Aww, save the scare stories for the rookies, Sarge,” said Do-Wop with a wave of his hand. “Now, are you gonna make me fill out twenty pages of papers, or can I get that copper Soosh wants? Or do we have to call the captain and tell him you won’t let us have it?”

“All right, all right,” said Chocolate Harry. He thought a moment about making Do-Wop go to the major to get the papers signed, but on second thought decided there was no percentage in calling the new CO’s attention to Supply just yet. That round of trouble could wait indefinitely, as far as he was concerned. He shrugged and said, “I’m just tryin’ to make sure my buddies’ behinds are covered, is all. Go on around back and tell Double-X what you need. If he gives you any hassle, tell him it’s cool with me, OK?”

“OK, Harry, I knew you’d see it my way,” said Do-Wop, grinning. “I’ll tell Soosh about that robot theory, and maybe we’ll add metal and plastic detectors to what we’re setting up. Thanks!”

“Think nothin’ of it,” said Chocolate Harry. He picked up his copy of Biker’s Dream and began looking for the ad again. Maybe this time he could find it without being interrupted for company business.

Phule had booted up his Port-a-Brain and settled back to look over his investments-there were a couple of items in his portfolio that hadn’t been performing well, and he thought it might be time to divest them-when the hoverjeep’s engine alarm began to beep. “What does that mean, Beeker?” he said, looking up from the screen. They’d put the vehicle on automatic for the trip back to base, expecting no traffic or weather problems. Now, halfway home, something was going wrong.

“We seem to be approaching a magnetic anomaly, sir,” said Beeker, who was sitting in the front seat near the instrument panel. He peered at the readout and said, “Power seems to be dropping abruptly.”

“That’s not good,” said Phule. “Let’s find someplace to set down before power runs out entirely. If worse comes to worst, we’ll call base and have somebody take a run out and pick us up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beeker. “There’s a clear area just ahead. I’ll put us down there.” He slid into the driver’s seat and flipped the control switch over to manual. After a moment, he said, “The controls aren’t responding, sir. Shall I activate the emergency signal?”

Phule nodded and took up an extra notch in his safety belt. “Yes, and I’ll try to raise the base on the comm.” He touched the On button on his wrist communicator and lifted it closer to his mouth. “Mother, come in. This is Jester with a priority call. Mother, come in.” The communicator emitted aloud burst of white noise but nothing resembling a coherent signal. “Mayday, Mayday, Mother, can you hear me?”

Beeker turned around to look at him. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion, perhaps you should continue to transmit, on the chance that she can hear you but cannot reply. Tell them our position, and perhaps they can send someone to aid us. I will attempt to regain control of the vehicle.”

“Good plan,” said Phule. “If you can just get the thing stopped, at least we won’t have to worry about hitting anything.”

“That is what I have been attempting, sir,” said Beeker. He returned his attention to the controls. After a few moments he said, “We are veering off course, sir. The vehicle appears to be under external control. Should we abandon it?”

Phule looked at the boulder-strewn ground passing beneath the jeep and shook his head. “We’re still moving too fast,” he said. “I think we’re better off riding it out-unless something happens to make staying aboard worse than jumping. If we do get stranded out here, we’ll probably need the jeep’s emergency kit.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beeker, reaching up to hold his hat.

“The power readout’s still dropping, sir. I don’t think we’ve slowed down, though.”

If anything, it felt as if they’d picked up speed. The jeep was headed almost at right angles to its original. course, now, and none of Beeker’s efforts made any apparent difference. In the usual course of things, if power failed, the grav units would’ve lowered the hoverjeep gently to the ground-but at this speed, there would have been nothing gentle about it. The only thing to do was hold on and hope the crash protection was up to its job if they hit anything too solid.

As the jeep sped onward, Phule kept sending his Mayday message, while Beeker kept a lookout for any sign of imminent collision or other danger. But neither the jeep’s built-in comm unit nor Phule’s wrist communicator showed any sign that it was in contact with the base. Phule was still trying to give Mother (who might or might not have been able to hear him) his best guess of where they were and what was happening, when the jeep suddenly lost speed and came slowly to the ground.

10

Journal #550

Second Lieutenant Snipe was almost instantly dubbed “Lieutenant Sneak” by the Omega Mob. He was, if possible, more cordially hated by most of the enlisted legionnaires than even his superior, Major Botchup. And while the two other lieutenants were more or less forced to tolerate him, they were unable to find even the smallest ground for camaraderie with him.

This no doubt derived in large part from their having seen the transformation of Omega Company, under my employer’s guidance, from the least desirable billet in the Legion into a place where one might build a career. Botchup and Snipe had not been part of that transformation; instead, they were seen (quite accurately) as being sent to tear down everything that Captain Jester had built.

Neither the callow major nor his smirking subaltern-and certainly none of the brass who had sent them on their mission-quite understood that before they could persuade the newly liberated genie to return to its bottle, they would have to reconstruct the original bottle, which had long since been broken into a million fragments.

“Well, Snipe, what do you think of this outfit?” said Maor Botchup. He was firmly established in Phule’s office, which was specially set up as a command center in the event of military action. A thick stack of Omega Company personnel dossiers was on his desk, and the screen of the major’s computer was already filled with his notes.

Snipe twisted his mouth. “A very poor excuse for a combat unit, sir,” he said. “It’s even worse than I expected. There’s no sign of proper discipline, not even among the officers. Half the personnel is totally unsuited or the jobs they’re doing. Believe it or not, the woman running communications can barely speak a coherent sentence. I suspect we’ll want a psychological evaluation here, sir. The supply sergeant is grossly out of shape and its around reading hovercycle magazines. The enlisted personnel have no respect at all; there’s a Volton who insulted me directly and tried to browbeat me when I nailed him on it.”

“We can’t allow that,” said Botchup. “Give me a written report with the details, and I’ll take care of it. Just looking at these files, I can see that Jester has let them run amok.” He shook his head. “They’re lucky they’ve lever had to deal with any real threats.”

“Yes, sir,” said Snipe. “It’s a good thing General Blitzkrieg assigned you to set them right, sir. Captain Jester has let the company go completely to seed.”

“I’ve been going over Jester’s file in particular,” said Botchup. He pointed toward a shipping box sitting on a hair by the door. The box was marked Captain Jester: Personal. It had been brought from Phule’s office in the Company’s Landoor headquarters. Now that the CO’s office belonged to Botchup, these personal effects would normally be removed to Phule’s quarters, but the sealing tape was cut and the top lay open. “No warm laser crystals yet, but with all you’ve told me, it’s just a matter of time before I find something big enough to have him booted out of the Legion entirely.”

“None too soon, sir, to judge from what I’ve seen,” said Snipe, nodding vigorously. “I suspect their combat readiness is as pathetic as everything else Jester’s had a hand in. It’s appalling that Omega company was given a mission as crucial as this one.”

“Chalk that up to Jester’s being in bed with the politicos,” said Botchup. “He pulled the wool over some ambassador’s eyes and talked him into backing this company for Zenobia. I’m surprised he wanted it. Really-you’d think he’d have been happier with a soft billet like Landoor.”

“Sir, perhaps Jester’s angling for a political career after he leaves the Legion,” said Snipe. “There’s nothing quite like leading a unit in battle to convince the voters you’re leadership material. They never ask how many casualties your unit took.”

“That’s the way of it,” said Botchup. “The dilettantes get all the credit, while the real legionnaires do the dirty work. Well, this time, the real legionnaires are going to take back command of the company before the dilettantes know what hit ‘em. And if I have to put half the company in the stockade to turn it around, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Starting with the captain, sir?” Snipe grinned maliciously.

“Starting with the captain,” agreed Botchup. “As soon as he gets back from his little junket to the native capital, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Very good, sir,” said Snipe. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “Should we order him back to base, sir? I’d think the sooner you can make him an example, the sooner this company will toe the line.”

“No, I want time to build my case against him,” said Botchup. “Besides, there’s nothing he can do from a distance, and by the time he gets back, I’ll have gone a long way toward establishing my own authority.”

Snipe leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice. “Should we take any steps to prevent the other officers from warning him, sir?”

“No,” said Botchup with a nasty smile. “Let them yell their heads off, Snipe. If Jester realizes just what’s in store for him, he may just cut and run. That’s the usual way with his kind, and it’d suit me fine. Then I could get down to the business of turning this company around without any interference from him-or his cronies.”

“Very good, sir,” said Snipe. “I can see you’re not going to be satisfied with half measures.”

“Not at all,” said Botchup. “Now, why don’t you get started on your report. I want to know every single rotten spot in this particular apple, Snipe. You name the names, and I’ll kick the asses.”

“Yes, sir!” said Snipe with a salute that could have been molded in plastic and used as a model in the Legion Academy. He turned and strode out of the command center, grinning like a madman. It didn’t matter at all to Snipe that he was planning to take the best company in the Legion and return it to the mediocrity from which it had arisen. His orders said to do it, and the last thing Snipe would ever do was question an order...Unless, of course, it was to his personal advantage to do so.

The Zenobian desert baked under its glowing primary, a hot, yellow G star. Until recently, humans had looked at the system and seen only worthless real estate: all the planets were in orbits either too close to or too far away from the primary for the system to be of interest. Except for one very useful space station, there was no Alliance presence here. Only when a Zenobian scout ship had made an emergency landing on Haskin’s Planet, halfway across the galaxy, did the Alliance learn the real story of this unappealing world-unappealing to human beings, but not to the lizardlike race that called it home.

The Zenobians were swamp dwellers, evolved from quasi-saurian stock. In the manner of all intelligent races, they had transformed much of their world into the sort of environment they favored. But much still remained in a state of nature, inhabited only by untamed indigenous lifeforms. A good third of its land surface was in fact arid, similar to this patch perhaps a hundred kilometers from the Alliance camp.

Neither the Zenobian astronomers nor human lookouts observed the fireball cross the, sky. After all, there were dozens of such events on any given day, far too many to be of interest, unless the objects causing them were large enough to damage a populated area. But this object was no threat, and so nobody even noticed when it rotated and fired braking rockets, or when, in the lower atmosphere, it popped a hatch and deployed a drogue parachute.

And when the escape capsule settled to the ground in a shallow depression that in the rainy season would briefly become a lake, only a few dull-witted desert creatures were there to see the main hatch spring open and a lone figure emerge.

This was just as well, since the figure that emerged looked ill prepared for the environment it had arrived in. Dressed in a white dinner jacket and starched shirt, it looked as if it had come directly from a formal dance at some exclusive country club. Its highly polished shoes were obviously designed for a polished parquet floor or at worst a well-manicured lawn-hardly for a trek across untracked wilderness. Any man with a lick of sense would have been sobered by his first glimpse of the forbidding desert that stretched away from the escape capsule in all directions.

Of course, this was not a man but a custom-made Andromatic robot, designed and programmed to impersonate its owner, Willard Phule in his role as owner/manager of the Fat Chance Casino on Lorelei. The Zenobian desert held no more fears for it than the hotel corridors from which it had been kidnapped. In fact, it had very few fears at all. In this detail, it was more like its human model than perhaps its builders realized.

After scanning the horizon in all directions, the robot Phule’s delicate sensors detected a signal of human origin from a not-unreasonable distance. Without a glance at the considerable stock of survival gear with which its escape capsule had been supplied, the robot turned in the direction of the signal and began walking. There was an incongruous grin on its face.

The unimaginative desert creatures, having decided that the robot was neither a threat nor a potential meal, turned back to their business.

Double-X crossed his arms and stared at Brandy. “OK, Sarge, what’s the story?” the legionnaire demanded. “Who’s getting punished and how?”

Brandy stared back at him from behind the desk. In a lot of circumstances, she’d have bitten his head off for the impertinence. But this wasn’t a lot of circumstances; the major’s heavy-handed discipline had made her as angry as any of her troops. “The story is, the major’s sticking to his guns. Which means punishment for the whole company.”

Double-X’s face turned red, and he angrily blurted out, “Yo, Sarge, you saw what the major did to Roadkill. I’m here to tell you, everybody in the company says that stinks.”

“Tell me about it,” she said wearily. “While we’re telling each other about things, the major’s pissed about discipline-like you guys talking back when I say something. He hears you interrupting me or griping about his orders, he’s likely to bust humps a good bit more. Not that I can’t handle it, or even worse, but a word to the wise, Double-X, a word to the wise.”

Double-X looked around as if to check for eavesdroppers before answering. Then he put his hands on the desktop, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “Man, that stinks even worse,” he said.

“A brilliant deduction,” said Brandy, slapping her hand on her desktop. “Just what do you suggest doing about the problem?”

Double-X fidgeted, his face screwed up in a frown. “I dunno, Sarge,” he admitted at last. “If the cap’n was here, I bet he’d have some way to get us out from under this mess.”

“I wish he was here, myself,” said Brandy. “I don’t think he’d be any happier than the rest of us with what’s going down, but I know he’d have some ideas for fixing it.” She paused and lowered her voice. “But don’t get your hopes too high, Double-X. Botchup is the latest dirty trick from Headquarters, and he’s got the full authority of the top brass backing him. I’m afraid not even the captain’s going to be able to flick him aside all that easily.”

Double-X shrugged. “All I know is, the captain’s took ‘em on and won before. If anybody can do it again, he’s the man.”

“Well, then you better hope he gets back soon,” said Brandy. She paused a moment, then said, “You got anything else to gripe about, or are you going to hang out here until the major notices and puts you down for extra punishment?”

“Man, I don’t need no part of that,” said Double-X. “Catch you later, Sarge.”

“Yeah, see you on punishment duty,” said Brandy. She didn’t laugh, and neither did Double-X.

“Where are we?” asked Phule. He had opened the jeep’s canopy and was standing up, scanning the horizon for signs of...He realized he wasn’t sure what he was scanning for, but at the moment there was nothing noteworthy in sight, unless the boulders and scrubby vegetation concealed secrets beyond his guessing.

Beeker looked up from the map he had taken out. “Very approximately, sir, we are midway between the Zenobians’ capital and our own base. We have strayed some distance off our original course, however, and I cannot locate us exactly. Our instruments are not providing meaningful information at the moment.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” said Phule. He sat down in the seat and looked over Beeker’s shoulder. “Does the map show any landmarks in this general area?”

“Nothing, really,” said the butler. “But this is an ordnance survey map provided by our hosts. They could conceivably have omitted items they preferred not to let us know about.”

“That’d be a lot of trouble to confuse an ally,” said Phule, although even as he said it, he remembered being ordered to provide similarly doctored information to Leftenant Qual when the Zenobian had been an observer with Omega Company. He shrugged. “Anyway, there’s nothing obviously military in eyeball range. Unless they’ve got it pretty well camouflaged, that is.” He paused. “Hmmm...we are trying to locate an invader that appears to have unusually effective camouflage...”

“You don’t think the Hidden Ones brought us down here, do you?” Beeker laughed. “What reason could they have for that? Although I don’t pretend to comprehend the psychology of an alien species; quite frankly, the human race gives me enough trouble.” He accompanied this remark with a meaningful nod in Phule’s direction.

Phule ignored the nod-or perhaps he simply missed it. “There’s not much research on the psychology of interstellar warfare,” he said, seriously. “There haven’t been a whole lot of examples to study, partly because it’s usually not cost-effective. But any race that gets cheap FTL has at least the capability to wage interstellar war. That’s why there’s a Legion-so that if some rogue species tries to attack another race’s world, we can stop it.”

“In theory,” said Beeker, peering nervously at the landscape beyond the hoverjeep. “Still, someone appears to have invaded this world. Unless the Zenobians are deceiving us for some reason.”

“I’ve considered that,” said Phule. “Even the ambassador had some suspicions on that score. Don’t worry, old man, I’m keeping an open mind about it. On balance, I think they’re telling the truth about the invasion. There are still some questions I haven’t gotten good answers to...”

“Sir...” said Beeker, tentatively.

Phule ignored him. “The ambassador was worried they might be trying to get a fully equipped Alliance military unit on-planet, so they could knock us out quickly and gain access to our equipment. But that assumes that our equipment is superior enough to theirs that they’d risk an interplanetary incident to get some, then expect to be able to replicate it before the Alliance could respond. I can’t see that.”

“Sir!” said Beeker, touching his employer’s elbow.

“Not that it wouldn’t be a good idea to develop some defense to the stun ray,” Phule continued. “I’ll bet you they have one, even though they haven’t mentioned it to us. You don’t deploy a weapon that powerful without some...What is it, Beeker?” The butler was now tugging on Phule’s sleeve.

The butler pointed abruptly to the left. “Sir, that boulder over there iust moved.”

Phule turned abruptly. “What boulder?” he said, reaching for his side arm.

But it was too late.

“Don’t like Major Botchup,” said Tusk-anini with characteristic bluntness.

“Well, that puts you with the majority,” said Super-Gnat, sitting at the far end of the mess hall table. “He’s about as popular as the itch.”

“Itch not popular,” said Tusk-anini, squinting at his partner.

“Sure it is,” said Do-Wop, scratching his left armpit. “Everybody’s got it, ain’t they? If it was a vid show, it’d be numero one-o.”

“Having it doesn’t mean you like it,” said Super-Gnat. She took a spoonful of soup and continued, “Besides, Do-Wop, you shouldn’t confuse Tusk. It just makes him ask more questions.”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking questions,” said Mahatma, setting down his tray at a vacant spot at the table. “It’s the best way for people to learn things. I have to keep telling Sergeant Brandy that.”

“The NCOs aren’t sure your main reason for asking questions is to learn something,” said Super-Gnat with a frown. “Then again, maybe you’ve got a better reason.”

Mahatma shrugged. “I didn’t say that the one asking the question was the only one to learn things, did I?”

“Well, I wish you’d go ask Major Botchup some questions, then,” said Do-Wop. “That sucker’s got a lot to learn, and I hope he learns it fast.”

“I hope he learns it without getting anybody hurt,” said Super-Gnat. “That kind of ignorance is dangerous-and not just to the ignoramus, if you know what I mean.”

“Who you callin’ ignoramus?” said a booming voice. They jumped and looked up to see Chocolate Harry, balancing a mess tray and grinning at them. After they relaxed, he said, “Mind if a sergeant sets his tray down?”

“What we gonna say if we do mind?” said Do-Wop. “Hey!” he added as Super-Gnat elbowed him in the ribs.

“Sure, C. H., join the party,” said Gnat, acting as if nothing particular had happened. Do-Wop glared at her for a moment, but he knew better than to say any more.

Chocolate Harry slid his tray onto the table and settled into a chair. He took a sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. “Man, Escrima is a genius,” he said. “Dude can cook as good a meal in the middle of no place as in the best hotel you ever saw.” He paused and thought a moment, then added, “Course, on this planet, maybe we’re in the best hotel there is.”

“Well, I’m not griping about the food,” said Super-Gnat.

“Right,” said Chocolate Harry. “So what are you gripin’ about?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as the group around the table glanced at one another. Even Mahatma, who was usually eager to make his opinion known, seemed reticent. At last, Tusk-anini broke the silence. “New major making everything worse,” he said with characteristic directness.

“Everything?” said the supply sergeant, raising an eyebrow. “Hell; the food ain’t any worse. What else?”

When Do-Wop muttered something foul sounding, Harry turned to him and said, “Yo, Do-Wop, either tell me what you wanna say or keep it buttoned. I can’t fix somethin’ I can’t hear about.”

“Maybe you can’t fix this, neither, so why tell you?” said Do-Wop. Harry just stared at him. After an uncomfortable couple of moments, Do-Wop shrugged. “OK, man, it’s just all the chicken shit. You’re outta uniform, you gotta shave, you gotta salute your officers, you gotta get up at O-five-hundred hours, you gotta say ‘sir’ when you talk to me, yada yada yada, blah blah blah. We were doin’ fine without that crap, so what’s the major gotta bring it in for?”

“He does not respond to questions,” added Mahatma.

“He says he going to break up partners,” said Tusk-anini, glowering as only he could. His huge hand rested on Super-Gnat’s shoulder.

“That’s his rights, you know,” said Chocolate Harry reasonably. “Most other Legion units, they ain’t got partners.”

“We Omega Mob, not other Legion,” said Tusk-anini. “Omega Mob better than other Legion. Don’t care about other units. Major take good company, make it bad again. Don’t like that.”

Chocolate Harry looked at Tusk-anini, then at the other faces all turned toward him, awaiting his answer. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I hear ya. Now, bein’ a sergeant, there ain’t much I can say against the major. But maybe there’s a few things people could do. You didn’t hear it from me, but think about this...”

The supply sergeant spoke briefly and quietly. By the time he was done, his little circle of listeners was nodding in approval. “Yeah,” said Super-Gnat. “I think you’ve got an idea or two there, Sarge. I’ll pass word along to a couple of people, and we’ll see what happens.”

“You’re on your own. You know that,” cautioned Chocolate Harry. “Remember, you never heard anything from me.”

Super-Gnat grinned. “Heard from you? I haven’t heard anything from you except that spiel about renegade robots, and we all know better than to believe that stuff.”

Perimeter guard duty was assigned on a rotating basis. Tonight, Garbo and Brick had drawn the first nighttime watch. They’d come on board at the same time, new recruits assigned to the Omega Mob at Lorelei. Noticing that both of them were standoffish in the company of their own kind, Phule decided to try the two of them as a team. Surprisingly, after a brief period of awkwardness, the two loners-one Gambolt, one human-had forged some sort of bond and were now almost inseparable, off duty as well as on.

Lieutenant Armstrong met them at their post and checked their equipment. “Most of this is standard Legion issue,” he said. “Brandy should’ve shown you how it works. Have you had a chance to check out the new night goggles, though?”

“Yeah, they’re super triff,” said Brick, who’d picked up a fair share of Landooran slang during their stay on that planet. “I don’t think Garbo likes ‘em, though.”

“Really?” said Armstrong. “Why not?”

“They hurt my eyes. All the colors are wrong,” said the Gambolt, speaking through the translator. “Besides, they don’t show me anything I can’t already see.”

“Ah, that’s right,” said Armstrong, snapping his fingers. “Our Terran cats can see in the dark. Stands to reason that you Gambolts can, too.”

“She sees as much without ‘em as I can with ‘em,” said Brick, her voice showing pride at her partner’s abilities. “And she’s right about the colors-they are weird, but I can see so much more, I don’t mind.”

“Well, you’re not likely to see much tonight,” said Armstrong. “We’ve swept the area for a kilometer in all directions, and there’s nothing bigger than a floon out there-and none of it is dangerous to something humansized. So stay alert, but don’t get trigger-happy.”

“Yes, sir,” said Brick. “What if something unexpected shows up?”

“As long as it doesn’t attack, let it be,” said the lieutenant. “We’ve got a perimeter fence set to give a little warning zap to any local vermin that try to cross it. Anything that keeps coming in spite of the zap, don’t be heroes. Hit it with the stunners, then call Mother, and she’ll get you backup pronto. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Garbo. “Stun and call in. Will do, sir.”

“Carry on, then,” said Armstrong, and he strode back to the MBC.

After the lieutenant was out of earshot, Brick peered out into the brush and said, “fbis place gives me the freddies, Garbo. I’ve never been anyplace where it gets so dark at night.”

“You grow up in the city, no?” the Gambolt asked.

“Yeah, sure did,” said Brick. “Plenty of light, plenty of people. This place is just too...empty for me.”

“City’s scarier, if you ask me,” said Garbo. The two sentries began walking slowly along the perimeter, keeping their gaze turned out into the dark around the camp.

“You get too many beings in one place, some of them are going to be bad ones. Out here, just a few animals to worry about, and mostly they mind their own business.”

“Just a few animals?” Brick stared out into the darkness. “Maybe. But if there’s just animals, why’s the major got us out on guard duty? There’s got to be something else out there-maybe those Hidden Ones the Zenobians are talking about.”

“If you ask me, I think the Hidden Ones will stay hidden,” said Garbo, scoffing. “They have no reason to bother us-“

There was a loud crack from somewhere in the dark outside the perimeter. “Ssst! What’s that?” Brick hissed suddenly. She turned and pointed into the darkness, crouching to present a smaller target.

“Something moving,” said Garbo, ducking down beside her partner. “Something big. Wind’s the wrong way to pick up scent.”

“There’s not supposed to be anything big out there,” said Brick, her voice a whisper. “What do we do?”

“Remember orders,” murmured Garbo. “First wait and see. It might not come any closer. If it does, we use stunners and call for backup.”

“Stunners, right,” said Brick nervously. She clicked off the safety on her stunner and peered over its sights toward where the sounds had come from. Not for the first time, she wished she had the Gambolt’s hypersensitive ears and nose. Even with the night vision goggles, it was hard to make out anything beyond the edge of the camp. The landscape appeared in false colors, according to temperature; in Earth-like ecologies, that meant that large lifeforms generally stood out in bright contrast to the cooler background. But here, with only a few warm-blooded native life-forms, the colors were uniformly muted. And despite the noise they’d heard, nothing seemed to be moving.

Then, slowly, from a small arroyo a short distance away, a large form loomed up and began advancing toward them. In the night goggles, it stood out as a bright, throbbing presence, big as a man, moving directly toward the waiting sentries. “Gemini!” said Brick, and without waiting, she raised her weapon toward it.

“Hold it; that’s a person,” said Garbo, but she was too late: Brick had already depressed the firing stud.

In the night goggles, the stun ray appeared as a narrow cone of blue green light expanding toward the target. The cone enveloped the approaching figure, which was suddenly surrounded by a haze of reflection, and Brick lowered the muzzle of her weapon, waiting for the target to fall.

Except, this time, nothing happened.

The figure continued to advance on them. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” shouted Brick, now thoroughly befuddled by her stunner’s failure. “Put your hands up!” She aimed the stunner toward its head, even while she wondered what she was supposed to do now that the weapon wasn’t working. It must be broken; she’d seen it hit the target, no question at all. But if it wasn’t working, what was she going to do if the intruder attacked? Then it came to a stop, facing them, and raised its hands.

“Identify yourself!” she shouted. Behind her, Garbo was calling Mother, asking for backup.

“No reason to shoot,” came an eerily familiar voice. “I’m not armed. Can I come closer?”

“The captain!” Brick said, standing up to look more closely. It was impossible to make out facial features at this distance, especially with the odd color substitutions she saw in the night goggles; but the voice was undeniably Captain Jester’s.

Garbo turned to look. “It can’t be,” the Gambolt said; then, after a long stare into the darkness, she whispered, “Let’s play it safe. Keep him covered till the backup gets here. We’ll let somebody else decide.” She raised her voice. “Stay right there; we’ve got you covered. Don’t move, and we won’t hurt you.”

“I won’t move,” came Phule’s voice, sounding far more cheerful and reasonable than someone stopped at gunpoint by his own troops ought to sound. “I hope your backup comes before too long, though. It’s no fun waiting in the dark.”

“It’ll be here,” said Brick, trying to sound tougher than she felt. “You just stay put till then.”

The captain’s voice chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere,” it said. “Not yet.”

Brick barely had time to start wondering about that before the backup arrived, and she and Garbo were off the hook.

11

Journal #560

The Andromatic robot duplicate of my employer was programmed to impersonate him in his role as casino owner. It had seemed sufficient to give it only a perfunctory knowledge of military protocol. After all, the “troops” at the Fat Chance Casino were in fact actors, most of them without actual military experience. On the off chance that the casino might play host to a current or former Legion officer, the robot was programmed to sidestep any talk of military matters in favor of more general topics. To date, nobody had noticed the impersonation.

It was only when the robot walked into a Legion camp, where its real-life counterpart was a key figure, that these omissions became critical. And, of course, the one person who could have set things straight was a considerable distance away.

Phule came awake to find himself in a tentlike structure, except that the walls and roof seemed to be made of something other than cloth. There was a dull ache at the base of his skull, as if he’d been drinking at the kind of place the enlisted Legion frequented. “Where am I?” he asked, aware even as he said the words that he was acting out the oldest cliché in the books.

“Sir, we seem to have been taken prisoner by the Hidden Ones,” said Beeker’s voice, close to his right ear. “They apparently used something much like the Zenobian stun ray to subdue us.”

“Have you seen them?” Phule sat up and reached out to touch the walls of their current lodging. The material was soft and smooth but had very little give to it. There was no sign of any opening to the outside, although the air seemed reasonably fresh.

“Not a glimpse of them,” said Beeker. “But I haven’t been conscious much longer than you, sir. Perhaps they’ll make their appearance now that we’re both awake.”

“I hope they’re going to make an appearance,” said Phule, experimentally poking another portion of the walls. “I can’t see any way out of here.”

“One would assume we’ve been kept alive deliberately, sir,” said Beeker. “Had our captors intended our demise, I doubt we would have awakened at all.”

Phule grimaced. “That assumes a lot. If we’ve been captured by aliens of an unknown race, we can’t take anything for granted. Remember, the Zenobians like their meat freshly killed...”

“I should certainly hope we aren’t being saved for that purpose, sir,” said Beeker, his face unperturbed as ever, although Phule thought he noticed an unusual degree of stress in the butler’s voice.

“I’ll settle for not being starved to death,” said Phule. “Whoever’s captured us doesn’t necessarily know what we like to eat-or how often. We could be in a real pickle.”

“Sir, I should consider our present situation to be a ‘real pickle,’ as far as I understand the term,” said Beeker. “It is not too early to begin thinking of escape.”

“Yeah, we’ve got to look into that,” said Phule. “But we’re not going to rush into it. We’ve got a golden opportunity to find out who these Hidden Ones are-or whatever they call themselves. It’s a good thing we have a couple of translators in the jeep; at least, when they do show up, we’ll be able to communicate with them.”

“A very debatable assumption, sir,” said Beeker. “Why, I find some of your legionnaires all but incomprehensible, despite our nominal possession of a common tongue. But above and beyond that question, we cannot take it for granted that our captors will allow us to retrieve our equipment from the hovercar.”

“Hmmm...that would complicate things,” said Phule. “How are you at sign language?”

“Quite competent within a very narrow range, sir,” said Beeker. “I am certain that I can communicate hostility and frustration with no risk of misunderstanding. More complex matters might exceed my abilities.”

Phule nodded. “Well, I might not be able to do much better. But between the two of us, we’ll have to figure out how to convince them to let us get hold of those translators. Once I can actually talk to them-“

“Sir!” said Beeker, in an urgent whisper. “Something’s happening.”

“Where?” said Phule. Beeker’s pointing finger gave him the answer. One end of the enclosure was turning darker and becoming porous, as if it were made of some fibrous substance. Together, they backed off and stood watching. Whatever was going to happen to them, it was evidently happening now.

“What were you doing in the desert out there?” said Lieutenant Armstrong. He and Phule were huddled together in the comm center, just out of sight of Mother. Cool drinks had been brought out, and both were slaking their thirst-though the captain was taking only small sips. Satisfied that the captain was displaying no evidence of physical distress, Armstrong began a rapid-fire series of questions. “Did something happen to your hovercar? Are you hurt? And where’s Beeker?”

“Slow down, Lieutenant, slow down,” said the captain with an easy smile. “That’s a lot of questions to throw at a fellow all at once. But no, I’m not hurt, just a little dusted up, is all. I’ll be fine after a shower and a change of outfit-and a cool drink. As for Beeker, the old rascal’s off-station, taking care of some business for me. He’ll be back as soon as he’s got it all wrapped up.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt, Captain,” said Armstrong, somewhat reassured. “How did the negotiations with the Zenobians go? We’re starting to wonder if-“

“Don’t worry, old fellow. Everything’s under control,” said Phule, still smiling. “Now’s when you should be relaxing, letting yourself enjoy things. There’ll never be a better chance.”

“Do you really think so, sir?” said Armstrong, surprised. “I know you think I’m a bit inflexible sometimes, but with a new CO on board, this hardly seems the time to slack off-“

“No time better, Lieutenant,” said Phule. “Here we are jawing at each other, when you could be out winning yourself a fortune. And I need to get that shower.”

“A fortune?” Armstrong frowned. “Well, perhaps I haven’t paid as much attention to my investments...not that this seems quite the proper time for that...Besides, we need to get you ready to meet the new CO as soon as possible.”

But even as he spoke, Phule clapped him on the back and winked at him. Then the captain turned and headed back toward the center of the camp, leaving Armstrong to puzzle over what he’d meant. Since Armstrong had been trying, without notable success, to figure out his captain ever since Phule had first arrived at Omega Company, Phule’s words set off no alarm bells in his head.

The fact that they didn’t goes a long way to explain why, after three years in the Legion, Armstrong had risen to no higher rank than Lieutenant.

“We’ve got some kind of signal,” said Sushi. His gaze was fixed on the primitive instrument sitting atop the makeshift desk in the room he shared with Do-Wop.

“Y’know, that’s about the tenth time you’ve said that,” said Do-Wop, looking up from the handheld action game he was playing. “Last about nine times, what you got when it was all over was nothin’. Flat-out, I mean, nothin’. And that’s just with this gizmo-what is it, the third different one you’ve built?”

“I really appreciate the support,” said Sushi, his gaze still on the readouts. His hand moved a potentiometer a tiny notch higher, and one of the readouts registered an increase in the signal. “It’s times like this, when a man starts to think he’s completely on the wrong track, that positive input from coworkers is so important.”

“Huh?” said Do-Wop.

Now Sushi looked up at his partner. “What I’m saying is, you’re part of this project, too. And this isn’t just some wild-banth chase; we’re here to help the Zenobians find those invisible aliens. The captain gave us this job, and until he tells us to quit, we’re going to keep working on it. Even if there are a few false starts.”

Do-Wop scratched his head. “What about the new major? He’s pretty much thrown the captain’s ideas out the window.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Sushi. “He hasn’t told us to quit, and until he does, we don’t worry about what he thinks. In fact, since what we’re doing is a direct part of our mission, maybe the major will let us keep doing it even though he didn’t think it up himself. I hope so, anyhow, because I think there’s more to be found out there than just those aliens.”

“Yeah? Such as?”

“Beeker,” said Sushi. “The captain’s back, but he hasn’t said much about Beeker, and that’s suspicious, in my book. Maybe he’s putting on an act, trying to make the major underestimate him. Maybe when he’s ready, he’s going to spring a surprise. He’ll solve the Zenobian mystery all by himself and make the major look like a nineteenth wheel. That’ll show the brass that we didn’t need a new CO after all, and they’ll give the company back to him.”

“The Legion don’t work like that,” said Do-Wop dubiously.

“No, but the captain does,” said Sushi. “And if you ask me to bet on whether the captain can outsmart the Legion, I’d put my money on him every single time.”

“I still don’t get it,” said Do-Wop. “If the captain’s playing some kinda game, what’s Beeker gonna do out there in the brush?”

“I think the captain and Beeker found the aliens,” said Sushi. “And at just about the same time, they found out the brass had sent the major to take over the company. I bet the captain got the news and decided to come back on his own. He left Beeker behind to negotiate with the aliens-in fact, I bet the signal we’re picking up has something to do with that-it’s sure not anything on our usual frequencies.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right,” admitted Do-Wop. He bent over and looked over Sushi’s shoulder at the readout, then said, “But what if this signal’s as bogus as the others? You can’t get anywhere if all you’ve got is phony signals that disappear right after you discover ‘em.”

“I spent last night putting in a refinement to the system,” said Sushi. “Last night, when you were sleeping like a log. Now, with any luck, I can get a fix on these signals before they fade out. In fact...” He reached out and pushed a button on the console. A light started blinking.

“What’s that?” said Do-Wop.

“You should’ve paid more attention when we were setting this thing up,” said Sushi. “It’s a recording disc, and with the information we’ll have saved on it, we can pinpoint the origin of this signal, even if it fades out.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s it from?”

Sushi looked at his readouts. “I have to do the math to be sure, but at a guess, I’d say just about halfway between here and the Zenobian capital city. Right on the captain’s course.”

The opening in the wall had revealed only two dishes containing food and two cups of water. The food was warm, if a bit bland. One dish could have been passed off as mashed potatoes with a dash of cinnamon, and another was a sort of meat that tasted remarkably like...baked chicken. The water was cool and fresh. At least their captors did not intend to starve them.

The question remained: What kinds of creatures had taken them prisoner, and why? The evidence remained scanty; even the dishes were of unexceptional design, made of a ceramic material that could have been produced on any of a hundred worlds. And they had still seen nothing of the creatures who made them.

“It’s amazing that the Hidden Ones have managed to avoid detection by the Zenobians,” said Phule. “Why, they must have been right under their noses-“

“Not necessarily, sir,” said Beeker. “If you remember, the Zenobians avoid the dryer areas of the planet. They’re no more familiar with them than humans are with the polar regions of our own worlds. We’ve sent out a few exploring parties, but we can hardly claim to know them intimately. An alien race adapted to arctic conditions that landed near the South Pole of Landoor or Haskin’s Planet could escape notice for many years. In fact, on many worlds, there are reports from sparsely inhabited areas of large animals that have not yet been seen by scientists.”

“Large animals are one thing,” said Phule. “An invasion by a space-going race is something else entirely.”

“In theory, sir, I agree,” said Beeker. “But if the aliens were not aggressive, there might be a considerable interval before they interacted. Especially if the invaders find the swampy areas of this world as unattractive as the natives do the deserts, there is no reason they would have come into contact before now.”

Phule grimaced. “They’re welcome to the swamps and deserts both,” he said, fanning himself with his hat. “Anyhow, we know for a fact they’re here, just not what they look like. Now, if we can get them to return us to the hoverjeep, we can use the translator instead of trying to communicate by gestures and guesses. Any ideas how we can do that?”

Beeker leaned his chin on the back of his right hand. “We appear to need the translator to communicate, yet we cannot communicate to our captors that we require it. This is the sort of circular logic puzzle that one might find diverting if one were to read about it in a story.”

“Maybe you like that kind of puzzle, but it’s driving me crazy,” said Phule. “If you find it so diverting, you’re welcome to solve it yourself.”

“Alas, sir, I have already devoted considerable thought to it,” said Beeker imperturbably. “As yet, I have not obtained a satisfactory result. I continue to ponder the question.”

“Ponder faster, Beek,” said Phule. “Getting out of this cell may depend on it. Not to mention getting something better to eat...” He pointed at the remains of their meal.

Beeker shrugged. “I find it as bland as you, sir. But for all we know, from our captors’ point of view, this may be the equivalent of five-star cuisine.”

“Nobody gives prisoners five-star cuisine,” said Phule. “Not even the condemned man’s last meal.” He stopped and looked at his butler with sudden apprehension. “I wish I hadn’t thought of that.”

“One would not expect an alien race to be cognizant of that tradition,” said Beeker. “We need not fear on that account, sir. Nor, I think, do we need to fear that they are fattening us for the slaughter.”

“Beeker, you can’t imagine what a relief it is to hear that,” said Phule. “My whole outlook on life just brightened, you know? Why, I can almost reconcile myself to spending the rest of my days locked up in this...whatever it is.”

“You really shouldn’t attempt sarcasm unless you have a proper sense how to deploy it, sir,” said Beeker. “Sarcasm ought to come from a position of assured superiority. It undermines the entire effect to end a sentence with a phrase that so openly admits one’s ignorance as ‘whatever it is.’ “

Phule stared at the butler a moment, then sat down in a corner of the enclosure. “The ironic thing is, I’ve just figured out what this place is, five seconds too late to get any use out of it.”

“Really, sir?” Beeker’s eyebrow went up a notch. “What, pray tell, would you call this place, then?”

“A torture chamber. What else would you call a place you have to share with somebody who corrects every remark you make?”

“Perhaps you are right, sir,” said Beeker. “I hadn’t seen it in quite that light. And after all, it does work both ways.”

Phule looked up. “Both ways? What do you mean?”

“What else would you call a place where your only companion is constantly making remarks that cry out for correction?”

“Where is Captain Jester?” demanded Major Botchup. His tone suggested that anyone who couldn’t answer was in trouble. “Mr. Snipe tells me the fellow’s come sneaking back. Why hasn’t he reported to me?”

“Yes, sir, the captain has returned,” said Armstrong. “His hoverjeep malfunctioned out in the desert, and he walked into camp-“

The new officer grunted. “Malfunctioned, hey? Sounds as if somebody’s slacking off in your motor pool, Lieutenant.” It was clear he considered it Armstrong’s fault.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Armstrong, beginning to sweat. “Our motor pool is up to Legion standards-“

“We’ll see about that, “ said the major. “When the CO’s personal jeep breaks down in the boonies, what kind of attention are the other vehicles getting, I wonder? Omega Company’s not drawing soft barracks duty anymore, Lieutenant. This planet’s at war, you know.”

“Not exactly a war, is it, sir?” said Armstrong meekly. “We were asked in to help the locals find out-“

“Not a war?” the major stopped and turned on his heel to face Armstrong. “That’s naive of you, Lieutenant, wouldn’t you say? These lizards bent over backward to get into the Alliance, and the ink was barely dry on the treaty when they asked for this outfit-which they seem to think is some sort of elite company, God help ‘em-to come in as military advisers. What other than a war could be so urgent, hey?”

“Preventing one might be, Major,” said a new voice, calm and genial. “That’d be at the top of my list of priorities, anyway.”

Major Botchup whirled. “Captain Jester!” he said. He drew himself up to military posture and said, “I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to report, Captain. As you must have heard, I have been assigned by Legion Headquarters to take over command of this company. Frankly, I don’t like what I’ve seen so far.”

His glower made it obvious that he included Phule in this assessment. The captain was wearing a white dinner jacket with a plaid bow tie and matching cummerbund-appropriate attire for greeting customers at the Fat Chance Casino, but a bit out of place in the field. And he was carrying a martini glass in his left hand. The major’s eyes settled on it in an instant, and radiated disapproval.

Surprisingly, Phule showed no reaction to the criticism implicit in the major’s voice. He reached out his right to shake hands with the officer. “Armstrong, see if the major wants something to drink,” he said, then grinned and added, “it’s on the house.”

The major stiffened. He looked down his nose at Phule and said, “Captain, I had heard appalling stories about this command, but I thought they had to be exaggerated. I’ll grant you, Legion tradition allows a certain degree of liberty. But our officers are supposed to be gentlemen, and that implies a degree of discretion. Here you are, in a combat zone, out of uniform and-not to put too fine a point on it-soused before noon! I can see the general was right to relieve you of command. You will return to your quarters at once and make yourself presentable. Then report to me to be assigned your new duties. I’m sure we can find something you can do without screwing it up. If not, I may have to send you back to headquarters as unfit for duty!”

Phule grinned inanely. “Now, Major, let down your hair and relax a while. This is a place to forget your troubles.”

The major turned to Armstrong and barked, “Lieutenant, put this man under house arrest! And make sure he doesn’t drink any more until he’s in shape to understand the trouble he’s in!”

“Yes, sir!” said Armstrong, saluting. His expression was troubled, but he took Phule’s elbow and said as gently as possible, “Captain, it’s time for you to get some rest. Let me help you to your quarters.”

“The cashier will give you quarters,” said Phule, grinning like an idiot. “But I’ll give you a tip. The dollar slots give better odds. Why not go for the gold?”

“Get him out of my sight!” bellowed the major. Visibly disturbed, Armstrong somehow managed to lead Phule away, and the major turned and stomped off toward the command center. It was time to determine just what was needed to get this company into shape and to bring it unequivocally under his own control. Grim-faced, he marched through the entrance to the MBC. There was work to do.

It was the second day since Phule had returned to the company and had been relieved of command by Major Botchup. A group of legionnaires stood outside the MBC; breakfast was over, and there was a little time still to shoot the breeze before they had to report to morning duty. Being Omega Mob, they were not about to let a chance to do nothing in particular escape them.

As they milled about, forming into groups for talk and banter, the entrance to the MBC opened and Captain Jester emerged, carrying an attaché case. He went over to a table in the shade of a canvas awning and sat down.

It had become obvious even to the major that a certain amount of routine administrative work that needed to be done could most easily be performed by the captain, who after all knew the company’s personnel and history. So the confinement to quarters was modified to allow him to do routine paperwork. With the major having taken over the commanding officer’s office, the captain was allowed to work wherever he could find space. And, as it happened, there was plenty of space in the open air. He opened the case and began to leaf through its contents, not paying any attention to the group of legionnaires a few meters away.

After a minute or so, Brick noticed him sitting there. She nudged one of her companions and said, “Be back in a minute. I’m going to go ask the captain about those renegade robots Chocolate Harry says we might have to fight. He’ll give us the straight story.”

“Sure, let me know what you find out,” said the other legionnaire. Phule had always been open to questions and suggestions from the troops.

“Captain? I’m sorry to interrupt...” Brick hovered near the camp stool where Phule sat, a stack of printouts on the table in front of him.

Phule looked up with a quizzical expression. “Yes, who is it?” he said.

“Oh, I’m Brick, Captain,” she said. “I’m new with the company, so I guess you don’t know me yet...”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Phule, flashing a fixed smile even as his head swiveled from side to side, as if trying to locate the source of Brick’s voice. “What’s the problem, uh, Brick? You don’t have to hide-come on out where I can see you!”

“Excuse me, sir?” said Brick, puzzled. She was right in front of the captain, so he must be playing some kind of joke. Either that, or his ordeal in the desert had taken far more out of him than anyone had at first thought. Come to think of it, his behavior had reportedly been a bit strange ever since he had arrived back at the Legion camp. After a moment, she decided she was better off just asking her question. “It’s like this, sir. There’s a rumor we might be facing renegade robots here. As you can imagine, all of us want to know the straight dope on that, as far as you can give it. We understand the need for security-“

“Renegade robots?” Phule scoffed, even while his eyes kept flicking this way and that. “Now, I can tell you with pretty solid authority there’s no such thing. Robots are fine machines, Brick, made to exacting specifications, incapable of error. Except human error-you’ll get that every now and then, of course. You can trust robots, Brick. Anybody who tells you otherwise is dead wrong-dead wrong, I tell you. Take my word for it. I ought to know!”

“Yes, sir,” said Brick, somewhat surprised at Phule’s sudden vehemence on the subject. “Then you don’t think we’re likely to see any combat against them?”

“Combat? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Phule. “That’s off the charts, Brick, completely off the charts.” He paused a moment, then said, “What’s going on, anyway? Are you hiding from me?”

“Hiding?” Brick took off her purple robot camouflage cap and said, “No, sir, I’m not hiding. Maybe you need a cool drink of water, sir. The desert heat may be affecting you-“

“Oh, there you are!” said the captain, suddenly looking her straight in the face. “Well, the heat isn’t really that bad, but it’s a good idea to take sensible precautions, isn’t it? Well, if you don’t have any other questions, I have these reports to go through...”

“Yes, sir!” said Brick, replacing her cap and saluting. She turned and went back to her comrades, shaking her head.

“So, what’s the word?” asked Roadkill. “We gonna fight the robots or not?”

“Captain says no,” said Brick. “Problem is, I’m not sure just how far to trust his word, Roadie. I think that desert heat has cooked his brain. He was acting as if he couldn’t even see me.”

“Wow, that’s a shame,” said Roadkill, turning a sympathetic glance toward the captain, who was riffling through papers. “Let’s hope he gets back to his old self. We sure need him to set things right. Maybe he could even figure out how to get the major off our backs.”

Before Brick could reply, Brandy strode up to the group and barked, “Okay, okay, don’t you birds have jobs to do? This is the Space Legion, in case you’ve forgotten it.

“Lord help me, Sarge, how could I forget it?” groaned Roadkill. He and the other legionnaires scattered to their morning assignments, and Brandy nodded. As long as the troops looked busy, the major had one less excuse to bust chops. She’d thought the days were long over when her main concern was keeping officers off her back.

Well, maybe the problem would be short-lived. She glanced over at Phule, who sat there grinning as he shuffled papers. Roadkill had been right about that; he was their best hope to figure out a way to reduce the major’s influence. And until that happened, Omega Company was going to be a lot less fun than it had been, even for top sergeants.

A knock came at the door. Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up and smiled. “Chocolate Harry! Come in and sit down,” she said. She put down the report she’d been reading. Before Major Botchup had arrived, she’d had the occasional report to read, usually something of importance to the company. Now she was drowned in reports, most of them irrelevant and unreadable. Any break from this routine was welcome. Any kind of break at all.

The supply sergeant nodded and took a seat opposite her. “Got a problem, Remmie,” he said without prelude.

“I figured as much from the way you look,” said Rembrandt. “What’s up, C. H.? Don’t tell me those bikers are after you again. We must be a dozen parsecs away from them. “

“Nah, nothin’ that simple,” said Chocolate Harry. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward. “I’m worried about the cap’n,” he said in a lowered voice. “We all are,” said Rembrandt, also quietly. “He’s let this new CO’s being appointed over his head throw him for a loop. It can’t be easy having your command taken away from you.”

“Yeah,” growled Harry. “That really stinks-not that it surprises me, knowin’ the Legion like I do. This new major is pure chickenshit, the kind they only make at Legion Headquarters. He hasn’t started messin’ with my end of things so far, except for asking for a bunch of fool reports. If he never gets around to me, that’ll be damn soon enough. But that ain’t what I was worried about.”

“You said it was the captain...” Lieutenant Rembrandt paused and looked inquisitively at Chocolate Harry.

“That’s right. He’s actin’ kinda flaky, Remmie.”

“Flaky? How?”

Chocolate Harry rubbed his beard, considering his words. After a moment he said, “I dunno. He’s acting like he’s back at the Fat Chance. I mean, he’s walking around wearin’ that monkey suit, like he was gonna have dinner with the ambassador, and there’s no ambassadors here that I can see. Looks mighty like a desert out there, in fact.”

“Yes, that is unusual,” Rembrandt admitted. “He’s always told us to be proud of our uniform, and he’s set an example by wearing it.”

“Right, and he talks like we’re at the casino, too,” said Harry. He paused again and said, “I think somethin’s touched his brain, Remmie.”

“The heat out in the desert could have done that,” said Rembrandt. “The sentries who met him when he came in said he was already acting strangely, and Armstrong confirmed it. They fired the Zenobian stun ray at him before they knew who he was. Maybe that could’ve had an effect...”

“It could be the heat,” said Chocolate Harry. “But I’ll tell you what I think.” He leaned closer and whispered, “It was right after he got back from that conference with the Zenobians, Remmie. And Beeker ain’t come back yet. What do you want to bet they’ve got some game goin’?”

“What do you mean?” asked Rembrandt, surprised. She hadn’t even considered that the planet’s natives might have had something to do with the captain’s strange behavior.

“I think they slipped somethin’ into his food or maybe a drink, that’s what I think,” said the supply sergeant. “We’re sittin’ here with a camp full of state-of-the-art Alliance military equipment, and if they can get their claws on it, they’ll have a real edge on us. That business about invisible aliens-that sure sounds like jive to me. I bet the lizards figured they’d dope up the captain and he’d just hand it over to ‘em.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” said Rembrandt. “We’d need something more to back it up before we took any action on it.”

“That’s why I’m talkin’ to you, Remmie,” said C. H. “Major Botchup, I don’t know how he’d act. Except he’d try to do everything by the book, and that ain’t gonna work. We gotta figure out what’s really goin’ on before we tell the major.”

Rembrandt didn’t answer right away; withholding something potentially so explosive from her commanding officer was asking for a court-martial. And like him or not, Botchup was her commanding officer now. On the other hand, he’d already decided there was something wrong with Captain Jester and taken the steps he considered appropriate. So there was no need to tell him that. All she’d be doing was refining the diagnosis. Until she knew for a fact that there was some external threat to Omega Company’s security, she didn’t need to get Botchup involved. But unless she was going to dismiss Chocolate Harry’s suspicions out of hand, she needed to find out what was really going on, and she couldn’t wait much longer.

“All right,” she said. “Where do we start?”

“Damn good question,” said Chocolate Harry, but he didn’t volunteer an answer.

12

Journal #569

Being in command of Omega Company had greatly broadened my employer’s horizons. For one thing, he had become familiar with members of several other intelligent races, from the sluglike Synthians to the feline Gambolts. He had even been so fortunate as to make the human race’s first contact with the Zenobians, whom he subsequently helped bring into the Alliance. And he had been given ample opportunity to observe their differences from humanity, a species that was not by any means uniform in its culture or psychology.

But nothing had quite prepared him for the job of trying to understand a race that neither he nor anyone else had ever seen.

“Still no sign of them,” said Phule. He had been pacing the small confines of their prison for the last hour. “When are they going to show themselves?”

“Perhaps they have, sir. Perhaps we’re incapable of seeing or hearing them,” suggested Beeker. The butler had scrunched into a corner and drawn up his legs to stay out from under the nervous captain’s pacing.

“I still don’t see how that could be,” said Phule, stopping and turning to look at him. “The problem of invisibility has been pretty thoroughly investigated. Believe me, if there were some workable technique for it, every military unit in the galaxy would be using it. It only works in special circumstances, like on a magician’s stage set.”

“That is not an inapt comparison, sir,” said Beeker. “Our captors may have set up almost any imaginable kind of equipment beyond these walls. Nor can we guess what substances they may have put into our air, our food, or our drinking water. One wonders what benefit they derive from the deception. It must cost them a fair amount of time and effort, if not actual money-assuming they use any such thing.”

Phule paced around the cell a moment, then said, “You know, Beek, maybe that doesn’t bother them. The biggest thing I learned from the Landoor mission was to stop worrying about money. That was the first time I’ve ever let the projected cost of something bother me, instead of just trusting my instincts to keep me in the black. And I didn’t need to worry at all. With the people I had on the job, you among the most important, I ended up with more than I started out with.”

Beeker frowned. “Yes, sir, but it was a very close thing...”

“And we came out the other side just fine,” said Phule, waving the objection away. “The worrying didn’t make a nickel’s worth of difference, in the long run. All it did was make me unhappy, when I should’ve trusted my people to get the job done. Well, I can draw a conclusion as well as anybody else. I’ve got Sushi and Do-Wop on the job of investigating the Hidden Ones, and that means they’ll eventually figure out what’s happened to us. And once they know that, they’ll find a way to get us loose. So why worry about it?”

Beeker clasped his hands together. “I am glad that you have stopped worrying about money, sir.” He smiled. “If that is the case, and considering that you evidently value my suggestions, I think it is high time for us to discuss an increase in my salary.”

“We can talk about that if we ever get out of this place,” said Phule, “Not much you can do with money in here, is there?”

Beeker’s face was stoical. “The accumulated interest from the date of the raise could be significant, sir.”

“You do have a point there,” admitted Phule. Then his eyes grew wide. “Wait a minute...It’s opening again.”

They turned to see a portion of the wall again darkening and becoming porous, as it had when their captors had fed them. Were they going to see their captors at last? Or were they simply going to be fed again? The Hidden Ones did not necessarily have any notion how frequently humans needed to eat, although the food they had provided before indicated familiarity with their nutritional requirements.

Phule stooped, trying to see if he could detect anything from a lower angle. But, as before, the opening stayed opaque, although apparently perfectly transparent to material substances. Through it, a round object about the size of a person’s head came bouncing, making a jingling noise as it rolled across the enclosure and came to a stop at Beeker’s feet. The butler bent to pick it up. “What in the world is this, sir?” he asked, holding it balanced on his palm.

Phule looked at the object, then said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a gravball. Except they’ve put a bell inside it for some reason.”

Rembrandt had taken advantage of an hour off duty to sketch the rugged terrain just beyond the Legion camp’s perimeter. As always, she found that the challenge of turning blank paper into a recognizable picture of a specific landscape helped clear her mind of other matters-of which there were far too many at present-for a short time. But, as too often happened, other matters had come looking for her, and now she was going to have to deal with them.

“OK, Sushi, tell me what you’ve found,” she said, wearily setting aside her sketchpad and pencil. “I won’t even ask where you and Do-Wop have been hiding.”

“I wouldn’t tell you,” said Sushi. “Major Botchup hasn’t found out about us yet, but somehow, I don’t think he’d authorize us to continue the search. And we have every intention of keeping it going. As Do-Wop says, ‘If the major don’t like it, he can shove it.’”

“Sounds just like what he’d say,” said Rembrandt. “But maybe you should ask yourself, what if I don’t like it?”

“Well, we’d have to take that pretty seriously,” said Sushi. “But as far as I’m concerned, the person with the final say is Captain Jester. If he tells me to give it up, that’s final. Anybody else, I reserve the right to disagree.”

“And what has the captain said?”

Sushi paused, then admitted, “I haven’t talked to him. But from what I hear, he’s acting very strange. Maybe being lost in the desert threw him into a loop-I don’t know. Anyhow, I think my best move is just to keep on with the job he gave me.”

Rembrandt sighed. “Sushi, even in Omega Company you can’t just ignore a superior officer’s orders. I wish the major had never been sent to us, but that doesn’t change the rules. He’s still our commanding officer, no matter how you feel about it.”

Sushi winked at her. “I’m not ignoring his orders, Lieutenant. He hasn’t given me any yet.”

“Because Do-Wop and you have been AWOL ever since the major stepped out of his lander,” said Rembrandt. “In fact, I’m technically violating the Legion Code of Conduct myself, for failing to report you two.”

“We won’t report you if you don’t report us,” said Sushi. “Now, why don’t I tell you what I came here for, and get away before somebody else sees us and has to agonize over whether to report us both?”

“You know I wasn’t going to report you,” said Rembrandt. “But yes, if you’ve come out of hiding to tell me something, I’d better hear what it is. And then you’d better take off before somebody does see us together.”

“Ah, you anticipate my plan,” said Sushi, in a mock-villainous accent. He leaned forward and said, “Our new apparatus has picked up a signal from out in the desert; I’m pretty sure it’s the aliens the Zenobians have been looking for.”

Rembrandt sat up straighter. “A signal. I’ll take it for granted you’ve eliminated other local sources. So, if you’re right about what you’ve got, you and Do-Wop have just accomplished one of our main mission objectives, all by yourselves.” She stopped and looked him in the eye before continuing. “Why are you telling me, anyway, instead of taking it to the CO? He’s the one who needs to know it. Hey, he might even give you a citation.”

“Whoopee,” said Sushi, twirling a finger in the air. “Seriously, Remmie, I don’t think so. The major got sent here for just one reason: to undermine Captain Jester. And the captain’s got Do-Wop and me working on just the kind of wildcat scheme the brass hats hate. The major would rather fail doing things the Legion way than succeed any other way, especially if it comes from the captain. The best that could happen if I told him what I’ve got is that he’d ignore me. No, the best that could happen would be that he’d go ahead and let me finish up and do his damnedest to steal credit for it. Then, at least, something would get done.”

“What needs doing?” asked Rembrandt.

“What needs doing is tracing that signal and seeing where it comes from,” said Sushi. “I think that when we do that, we’ll find the captain’s hovercar, and Beeker, and maybe we’ll learn what happened to the captain and how to fix it.”

“That’s worth doing,” said Rembrandt, nodding. “Chocolate Harry already asked for a team to go find the hovercar, but the request is backed up in the paperwork on the major’s desk. Meanwhile, everybody in the company knows the captain’s not acting like himself, but he won’t let the autodoc check him out, and the major’s not interested in helping him. And most of the troops think the captain’s getting away with something they wish they could do themselves, and they root for him when they think the major’s not paying attention. Probably the only person with any chance to get him to take care of himself is Beeker.”

“Right,” said Sushi. “That’s why we need to find Beeker and bring him back-if we can.”

“I see,” said Rembrandt. “So, what do you want me to do?”

Sushi smiled and said, “Here’s my plan...”

Lieutenant Snipe squinted into the blazing sun. His brow was already covered with sweat, and he could tell that his uniform was going to be soaked if he spent more than a few minutes outside his air-conditioned office.

The Legion might have picked a somewhat more comfortable place to send him, he thought with some annoyance. If the brass had its mind so set on replacing Jester, why hadn’t they come up with the plan while Omega Company was still at the luxury resort that had been its barracks before this assignment? The MBC was more comfortable than any standard barracks, but still...

Well, if he’d missed one opportunity, it was all the more reason to seize the one that had come along. Major Botchup was Snipe’s first-class ticket to favor with Legion Headquarters, and he’d be an idiot if he didn’t make the most of it, scorching climate be damned. And the first step on the ladder he meant to climb was making himself as useful as possible to the major. That meant discovering as many ways as possible for the major to discredit-and, ultimately, to destroy-his predecessor in command. Luckily, that part of the job was turning out to be quite easy.

Snipe spotted a group of legionnaires busy at some task or another and strode over to inspect what they were up to. It was almost a given that there’d be something to find fault with, and he could add another item to the list of failures being chalked up against Captain Jester’s record. He smirked. Chewing out these sorry specimens would almost make up for the despicable heat.

The legionnaires noticed the lieutenant’s approach, for he heard a low voice mutter, “Yo, here come Sneak.” Snipe frowned; his hearing was good enough to make out the words, but he couldn’t be certain which legionnaire had said it. Well, no officer worth his salt would let his inability to spot the offender keep him from imposing proper discipline. It would be even more satisfying to make them all pay. For the moment, he’d pretend to ignore the insult.

“What are you men doing?” he snapped, balling his fists and putting them on his hips. The posture, intended to establish his authority, instead made him look faintly ridiculous. Even so, the group of legionnaires stopped whatever they’d been doing and turned to face him.

“We workin’, Lieutenant,” said one man. He was a lanky fellow whose name tag read Street, and his accent was so thick that Snipe had to think a moment before he realized what the man had said.

“Working?” Snipe stared at the group. “You’d better be working. This isn’t a leisure club, you know.”

“Man’s a genius,” muttered somebody just out of Snape’s direct line of sight.

Snipe decided to ignore the sally, which after all might be interpreted as a compliment of sorts. “Exactly what sort of work are you doing?” he asked.

A young, round-faced legionnaire with old-fashioned eyeglasses answered him. “That is an excellent question, Lieutenant. Perhaps if we all inquire carefully, we will learn the answer.”

“What do you mean by that,”-Snipe peered at the legionnaire’s name tag-“Mahatma?” Snipe looked took a closer look. The name and face seemed familiar now. Wasn’t this the legionnaire who’d been impertinent at inspection? “Are you saying that you people don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Does any of us really know what we are doing?” asked Mahatma, a faint smile on his face. “The simplest action has consequences no one can foresee.”

“Deep, Mahatma, deep,” murmured Street, nodding appreciatively and rubbing his hands together.

“This is the Legion,” said Snipe, directing what he hoped was a steely gaze toward Mahatma. “It’s your officers’ job to think about consequences. Your job is to follow orders, and if you do, everything will be fine.” He left it to the legionnaires’ imagination to conjure up what would happen if they didn’t.

Snipe had not reckoned on Mahatma’s imagination, which was more than equal to the task. “Lieutenant Snipe, may I ask a question, sir?” Mahatma was holding up his hand, like an eager schoolboy. It was almost impossible to ignore him.

“What is it, Mahatma?” asked Snipe. He frowned, vaguely aware that the confrontation was leading away from his original purpose. Well, he’d get it back on course quickly enough, once he’d dealt with this digression.

Mahatma asked, with a very serious expression, “Lieutenant Snipe, should we not know who is giving us an order so we can determine whether it is correct to follow it?”

Snipe favored Mahatma with a glare and said, “I don’t see how that applies-“

“Oh, but it does very much apply, sir,” said Mahatma, so polite it was impossible to find fault with him. “It is not always easy to tell one person from another, and what if one of those persons is an officer and another is not? If a person we do not know comes and says he is an officer, should we obey him, or should we learn what his authority is before following his orders?”

“Oh, no, you won’t catch me on that one,” said Snipe with a ferocious grimace. “The major was given command of this unit by Legion Headquarters. He showed his orders to Captain Jester.”

“But Captain Jester was not here when the major came,” Mahatma pointed out. “He did not show the captain his orders, and yet he assumed command immediately. How do we know his orders were legal?”

“Yeah, Mahatma makin’ sense,” murmured the other legionnaires. “Deep, man, deep.”

Snipe felt a slight tingling at the back of his neck. Were these men trying to work up a justification for mutiny? Should he try to talk them back into line or go inform the major and let him take whatever measures were necessary?

“Your other officers have accepted the major’s authority,” said Snipe, temporizing.

“I know they did, and that is why we have continued to obey orders,” said Mahatma calmly. “But that was before the captain returned. Now, what if the captain tells us to do something? He is still an officer, is he not?”

“Captain Jester has been relieved of command,” said Snipe, aware of a trickle of sweat on his forehead. “What is more, the major has placed him under arrest, pending investigation of his conduct in command. His authority is temporarily suspended.”

“That is what we had heard,” said Mahatma. “Does this mean we should not follow his orders?”

“You-“ Snipe had opened his mouth to answer when he sensed another trap in Mahatma’s question, and he bit off the answer. “That depends,” he said, retrenching. “If his orders are legal, of course you should follow them. But if his orders go against the major’s, you should not.”

“Very good, sir, that is clear,” said Mahatma, his smile even more beatific. “But one more question, please, Lieutenant Snipe. How do we know whether the captain’s orders are legal until we know the major has approved them?”

“That’s a good question,” said Snipe. “I think, under the circumstances, that you should ignore Captain Jester’s orders until you know that they have received the major’s approval.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Mahatma. “I think I understand everything, now.”

“Good. As you were, then,” said Snipe, and took advantage of the opportunity to make his getaway.

Later, he was to regret not having stayed around to see the consequences of his advice. But of course, having little experience of either the Omega Mob or of Mahatma, he couldn’t have been expected to foresee what they would make of it.

The Reverend Jordan Ayres blinked as he entered the lighted room and saw who was waiting for him. Armstrong and Rembrandt sat together on the couch, and Brandy was perched on its arm. “Have a seat, Rev,” said Chocolate Harry, who’d called him to this clandestine meeting.

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” said the chaplain, pulling a straight-backed chair up to face the couch; Chocolate Harry perched his bulk precariously on the opposite arm of the couch from Brandy, making the two oversized sergeants bookends to the pair of lieutenants. Rev looked at the four faces staring back at him and said, “Must be somethin’ important to bring all you together at once. Y’all gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”

“I think you already know what our main problem is,” said Rembrandt, taking the lead as the senior officer present.

“The major,” said Rev, and the four heads nodded in unison. Rev nodded; but after a pause, he shrugged and said, “Well, I can sure sympathize with that, but I don’t know what anybody here can do about it. The Legion done sent him, and I reckon we gotta put up with him.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, Rev,” said Armstrong. “He’s our properly appointed superior officer, and if he has different ideas from what we’re used to, we can either shape up or ship out. Especially since his ideas are strictly by the books.”

“That’s jes’ the way I see it, Lieutenant,” said Rev solemnly. “When the King got called into the Army, he done what he was told, like any other boy that went to be a soldier. No special favors for him. He even got his hair cut, and that wasn’t no small sacrifice. If he could take it, I guess we can.”

Rembrandt nodded. “That’s a reasonable attitude to take,” she said. “Our life would be easier if more legionnaires saw things that way. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t know if it’s what we need right now.”

“Well, ma’am, I don’t know whether I can accommodate you, then,” said Rev. He stood up from his chair. “The King might have seemed like a rebel to some folks, but deep down inside, he was a great respecter of authority. Why, he even went to pay his respects to a man that-“

Brandy cut him off. “Sit back down, Rev. Let’s get one thing straight. We don’t need you to stir up the troops against the major. He’s doing a pretty decent job of that all by himself. If they had any encouragement at all, they’d be doing everything they could to make him want to get transferred out. But the only man who could make them take that risk isn’t saying anything, and until he does, they’re afraid they’ll hurt him more than they will themselves.”

“You mean the captain,” said Rev. He was still on his feet, but his hand rested on the back of the chair.

“That’s right,” said Brandy, fixing Rev with her gaze. “This whole company-officers, noncoms, right down to the newest rookies-would jump into a black hole for the captain. But as long as they’re worried that they’d be hurting him, they won’t take the first step. And the captain’s acting pretty strange, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Why, I reckon I have noticed, Brandy,” said the chaplain. “He’s been mighty distracted ever since he came back from the desert. Word has it the heat must have touched his mind. Have y’ all found his butler yet?”

“No, Beeker’s still missing,” said Armstrong grimly. “We’re working on something that might tell us what’s happened to him, but I can’t give you details. I’m afraid it’s a long shot, though.”

“A shame. He was a good feller, mighty good feller,” said Rev, shaking his head. Then he sat down and looked at the four legionnaires. “But what do y’all want me to do, then?”

“We need you to go talk to the captain,” said Rembrandt. “He’s the one who asked for you to be sent to the company. We think maybe you have a chance to get through to him, even though he seems to have shut out the rest of us.”

“Do you really think so?” the chaplain’s expression took on a hint of soulful intensity.

“We do, Rev,” said Rembrandt. “This is one area where you’re the expert. We need you to help the captain. Once he’s back in command of himself, then he can decide whether to try to recover command of his company. Until that happens, our hands are really tied. But we don’t think that can happen without you.”

“Without me?” Rev sat up straight, and his chest expanded. “Well, if it’s a question of helpin’ the man get back to his right sense of himself, you can count on me. I’ll get right to it.”

“Good, Rev, we appreciate it,” said Rembrandt. “We knew you’d step up for us.” She shook the chaplain’s hand, and all the others shook his hand in turn. Then Rev turned and left the room, a man with a mission.

When he had left, Rembrandt turned to the other three and said, “All right, we’ve got Rev working on getting the captain back in shape. Now, what do we want him to do when we’ve got him back?”

There was a silence as they stared at one another, uncomfortable with the question Rembrandt had put on the table. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, they all began talking at once.

It took them several sentences before they figured out they all wanted exactly the same thing.

The Reverend Jordan Ayres was not, on the whole, a man who placed great value on subtlety. He had found his answers to the problems of life, and they were big answers, flamboyant, in-your-face answers. And, in the manner of all true believers, he tried to make those answers work for everyone around him. For the most part, they did work, if only because the way people usually solved their problems was to do something, almost anything, besides sitting and brooding on them.

However, it seemed to the chaplain that whatever was ailing Captain Jester was going to require a more subtle approach than usual with the legionnaires who had come to him for counseling. Here was a man who was used to being in control, a man rich in power and possessions. A man whose clothes always fit perfectly, whose expression rarely showed doubt or frustration. A man, it occurred to him, much like the King. What worked to console a homesick Legion recruit might not be appropriate for the captain. An amazing percentage of life’s little problems will shrivel up and blow away when one can wave a Dilithium Express card at them.

“Good mornin’, Captain,” said Rev, walking up to the bench where Phule sat riffling through a stack of Legion personnel forms.

“Why, good morning to you,” said the captain, looking up with a bright smile. “It’s great to see you again. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and talk?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Rev, sliding onto the bench next to him. “Been a while since we had a good jaw session. Course, you’ve been away for a while, too. Must have been a mighty...uh...interesting journey you had there.” Perhaps, thought Rev, talking about the journey would open the way for the captain to speak of his troubles.

“I suppose you could say so,” said Phule with a shrug. “There’s not much of a story to tell, though. I’m just as glad to be here at the end of it, if you want to know the truth.”

“Yes, I suspect you are,” said Rev. This wasn’t going quite the way he’d planned; he shifted his tack, hoping to bring the captain out. “The terrible depredations you went through out in the desert might have took more out of you than you realized at first-“

“Oh, I wouldn’t make a big thing of it,” said Phule. “Now, I bet you’ve got some interesting stories of your own.” He gestured toward Rev, as if inviting him to tell some of those stories.

Rev sighed. Maybe he was better falling back on his tried-and-true approach, despite the captain’s difference from his usual converts. “The best story I know ain’t about me, it’s about a poor boy on old Earth,” he began. “Didn’t nobody pay him much mind when he was a little lad, ‘cause his folks weren’t rich or important. They was jes’ plain folks, down on their luck-“

Phule held up a hand to break in. “Everybody has a streak of bad luck now and then. Best thing to do, if you ask me, is just keep plugging away and wait for it to change. Of course, you have to know the odds, and you can’t take foolish risks. We want you to play with your head, not over it.” He grinned as if he’d said something profound.

Rev frowned. “Why sure, Captain, jes’ like you say,” he said. He tried to steer the subject back to the point he was trying to make. “But this here boy I’m talkin’ about, he had a fire burnin’ inside him, sure ‘nuff.”

“That’s good, really good,” said Phule, nodding. “If you think he’d fit in with our operation here, that’s the kind of person we’re looking for. He could get in touch with personnel. Tell him to mention your name, and of course I’ll make sure his application gets taken seriously-“

“Well, that’s not really what I’m gettin’ after, Captain,” said Rev, scratching his head. Captain Jester didn’t seem to really be listening to him, and that was unusual, in his experience. Every boss he’d ever worked for claimed that listening to his people was a main priority, and almost none of them really did it. The captain had always been one of those who listened, and better yet remembered what he’d heard, and-best of all-followed up. But now...

“I’m glad you were able to stop by for a while,” the captain was saying. “I’ve gotten so busy I don’t have much time to talk to my old friends these days. But of course, for you, the door is always open.”

“Sure, Captain, but like I was saying-“ Rev tried to get one last word in.

The captain cut him off. “I’m afraid I’ve neglected this pile of work as long as I can justify. So, as much as I’ve enjoyed it, I guess I’ll have to drag myself away for now.” He stood and extended a hand. “Be sure to drop in again, next time you’re in the station.”

“Uh, yes sir,” said Rev, taking the hand and pumping it almost by reflex. “Uh, one more thing-“

The captain wasn’t going to be swayed. “Why don’t you just head on out and enjoy yourself while you’re here? A chance to let your hair down and just be yourself is good for anybody. And one tip: Our dollar slots give the best odds on the station.” He winked and then sat down to his papers with an air that made it clear the interview was over.

Rev walked away in a daze. Things were even worse than he’d feared. He made his way to Rembrandt, saying not a word. The lieutenant looked up from her desktop, an anxious expression on her face. “Well, Rev, how’d it go?”

Rev shook his head. “I hate to say it, ma’am, but it ain’t good at all. Not one bit.” He paused and turned his eyes to the ground, then looked back at her. “If you’re expectin’ help from the captain, I’m afraid you got a long wait ‘fore it gets here.”

Rev’s report convinced Rembrandt that it was imperative to follow up on Sushi’s plan to find out what had happened to Phule’s hoverjeep-and to Beeker. With the plan jumped up to top priority, she began recruiting a search party.

Almost the entire company would have gone, if she’d asked them. In the end, she chose six, with a particular eye to scouting skills and wilderness survival experience. Several legionnaires that her criteria kept off the team besieged her with complaints that their other skills more than compensated for these lacks. Remembering what had happened when she’d deferred to the troops in making up a similar “rescue party” on Landoor, Rembrandt stuck to her guns.

Flight Leftenant Qual was an obvious choice for the team. His local knowledge was orders of magnitude beyond anyone else’s, of course, even when you remembered that he’d grown up in a swampy region rather than these semidesert conditions. Even then, she harbored some doubt whether the Zenobians were entirely trustworthy. After all, in one of his last messages, the captain had hinted that the local military was eavesdropping on him in between negotiating sessions. Also, considering how few members of his race were in camp, Qual’s absence would be more easily noticed than that of any other possible participant. In the end, she decided that his local knowledge trumped all the objections.

Tempted as she was to include all three Gambolts, she reluctantly decided that she couldn’t in good conscience leave the camp without any of the catlike aliens and their uncanny scouting abilities. So Dukes and Rube stayed behind, while Garbo-who, of the three, seemed best adjusted to working with humans-went with the team. So did Garbo’s partner, Brick. Not just because the two were inseparable companions; as it turned Brick came from a back-country region of her home world, an arid region known as Nueva Arrakis. She had the kind of instinctive knowledge of desert scouting that only comes to someone who’d spent their growing-up years in dry country.

Mahatma and Double-X had the skills she needed, while neither would be missed if they were away from base for a week or more. Except for the latter factor, Brandy and Escrima would have been her first choices for the assignment, but neither could just walk off without being missed. Well, she had the best team she could put together, and she’d have to trust it to do the job that had to be done.

She’d had the most difficulty deciding who was going to command the team. All three of the company’s sergeants had wanted to do it, but none of them could just disappear from the base without being missed fairly quickly. Finally, Rembrandt took the bit in her teeth. “The major isn’t any part of this mission, and the captain’s not himself right now,” she told them. “I’m next in rank, so it’s my job to make the decisions.”

That was before Sushi had stormed into her office, demanding to be put on the team. Her original instinct had been to leave him off the team, despite the fact that it was his idea to send the expedition out to begin with.

“Look, I can’t bring you along,” she told him. “You’re a city boy. You’d slow us down way too much in the kind of country we’ll be traveling in. Besides, we need you to monitor the alien signals so you can tell us about any changes in them. That means you have to stay behind and stay in touch via communicator.”

Sushi wasn’t budging. “Have you forgotten that the communicator’s on the fritz?” he pointed out. “We can’t pick up signals from more than a couple of miles beyond the perimeter, let alone where we’re going to be. Now that I’ve figured out what frequency the aliens are using, I can monitor it with a handheld unit, which is what I’ve been working on the last couple of days. I’ve got it down to three kilos in weight, and it’s no bigger than a shoebox.”

After he showed her the new unit, Rembrandt was convinced, and she added him to the team. But this meant she’d have to cut somebody else to keep the team to a manageable size. That was going to be tricky; all the members had useful skills, although only Qual seemed really indispensable. Cutting either Garbo or Brick probably meant she’d have to drop the other, and she couldn’t afford to lose both. So that left Mahatma and Double-X as the possible choices.

She agonized over it for a whole afternoon before a peremptory communicator message ordered the officers to the command center. Rushing to the meeting, she rounded a corner and nearly collided with Louie, speeding silently down the cross-corridor on his glide-board. The Synthian swerved just in time to avoid hitting Rembrandt; but in her abrupt stop, she wrenched her lower back. By the time she got to Botchup’s office, it was starting to stiffen up. By the time the meeting was over, she couldn’t stand. The autodoc scanned her, displayed a diagnosis of muscle spasm, and dispensed a bottle of pills that stopped the pain well enough for her to sit at a desk and work; but it was obvious she was in no shape to head a team into rough country.

That made Flight Leftenant Qual the de facto team leader. Now Rembrandt was glad she’d given in to Sushi’s demands to be included; of all the remaining team members, he had the most leadership potential and the clearest sense of their mission. And, perhaps most importantly, he seemed to have the best idea what Qual was talking about; the translator’s mangled renditions of the Zenobian Language were sometimes more impenetrable than the Alliance tax code.

She hobbled out to see the team meet at the perimeter for their departure. They slipped out of camp after midnight, with only the light of the gibbous Zenobian moon to guide them. (According to the books, the local moon-Vono, the Zenobians called it-was a bit smaller than old Earth’s famous Luna, but it was bright and impressive enough to these legionnaires, most of whom came from small-mooned or even moonless worlds).

Actually, the team could probably have made its move in broad daylight, since everybody in Omega Company except for Botchup and Snipe knew what was about to happen. Of course, if the major caught them and tried to make a big deal of it, they might have to break a few more regulations than they’d planned on breaking. Even the success of their decidedly nonregulation mission wouldn’t necessarily excuse the violations if the major decided to get vindictive, which struck everybody as exactly how he’d play it. Just to avoid unnecessary complications, they’d decided to go at night.

After a final check of equipment and supplies, Qual led them off into the dark. With luck, they’d reach their destination without being detected by the aliens or missed by the major. Standing there watching them fade into the darkness, Rembrandt had a twinge of regret at not being able to join them. But another twinge from her back told her in no uncertain terms that she’d made the right decision. She turned and walked slowly back to her bunk, hoping all her other decisions had been right. She’d know the answer soon enough.

13

The Zenobian desert, like those on most other planets, was a far more diverse and fertile environment than most city-dwellers would have realized. Especially to the Zenobians, who were most at home in a swamplike setting, any large dry area seemed much like any other. But as the team sent out to search for the source of the alien signals quickly saw, this was no simple unbroken expanse of dry sand. There was life aplenty here, some of it very lively and very dangerous to the unwary.

Flight Leftenant Qual knew some of it; city-bred though he was, he’d seen desert wildlife both during his military training and in zoos back home. By default, he was their native guide. But even he admitted that much of it was new to him. “If you espy anything you don’t comprehend, make your path distant from it,” he said cheerfully. The others nodded soberly and did as he said.

This policy was not easy to follow since (following the practice of desert experts everywhere) they planned to travel at night when the heat was least oppressive and when they were least likely to be picked out by anyone watching. Because the indigenous animals were themselves nocturnal in their habits, chance encounters were more frequent than the legionnaires would have liked. Every now and then something close by would make an unexpected noise, and one of the off-worlders was likely to jump. Sometimes Qual told them the names of the creatures: There was a loud-voiced, squatty thing he called a grambler, a little burrowing creature called a western flurn, and a furtive thing with eyes that shone brightly in their Legion-issue night vision goggles, which Qual’s translator solemnly informed them was a spotted sloon.

Most of these were no trouble, but there was a lizardlike thing with half-inch-long teeth that could leap high off the ground to attack whatever had disturbed it. That little pest had them flinching at the least sign of motion in their pathway, with vigorous cursing in three languages and several dialects. The hopper-biter blended invisibly into the low brush. Even with the night vision goggles, it was hard to spot it in time to avoid a nasty bite. After a couple of near misses, the team took to detouring around any patch of vegetation-a tactic which, the farther they got into the desert, cost them more and more time.

Finally, confronted with a nearly unbroken patch of ankle-high brush to cross, Qual called a halt and turned to face the others in the party. “We are making too slow advancement,” he said quietly. “Here is a technique that may expedite our forward gains.” He loosened the sling on his stun ray and took the weapon in both hands.

“Oh, wow, I get it,” said Brick. “We hose the area we want to walk through, and that knocks out the varmints so we can get past. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“It is not a technique to employ constantly,” said Qual. “With many stunners firing, there is danger of hitting one’s teammates. If one is essaying a stealthy approach, it may alert the adversary if small animals in the path of approach begin to fall from their perches or drop from the air. And it is predestinated that a few of the stunned animals will be killed by falling or will be gobbled by others that recover more swiftly. And last, constant use dissipates the energy of the weapon, and it takes a certain time to recharge-a poor situation if one expects to encounter hostility.”

“Which might or might not happen to us,” said Sushi. He looked uncomfortable in his desert gear, but he’d kept up with the group fairly well. City-bred or not, he was in excellent physical condition from his hours of martial arts training.

“In that case, we need to be ready for all possibilities,” said Mahatma, smiling. “That’s what the sergeants keep telling us. It’s impossible, of course.”

“Sure, and so’s FTL. Just ask any classical physicist,” said Sushi. “Of course, you’d need time travel to go find one-they’re all dead-and that’s impossible, too.”

“Impossible is not a word I have heard Captain Clown use,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. “Therefore you will not let it rule your speculations. ‘The gryff sees only gryffish things, and therefore knows not the mountain,’ or so my egg-mother always proclaimed. Of course gryffs are very stupid.”

“What’s a gryff?” asked Double-X.

“A large, clumsy omnivore,” said Qual. “They do not inhabit the desert, so we need not worry about them.” He pointed his stun ray forward and depressed the firing button. “Come, I will clear the way for a while, and you will follow. When my weapon has used half its charge, another of you will take over.”

He stepped to the front of the group and began sweeping his ray across the path. After a moment, he moved forward, and the team fell in behind him. They had no further trouble with hopper-biters.

There was nothing Major Botchup enjoyed quite as much as springing a surprise inspection. It gave him an exhilarating sense of power to see grown men and women cringing when he came unexpectedly into sight. They’d pretend they didn’t see him, hoping he would go away. Sometimes he would just go about his business. But other times just often enough to be unpredictable-he would pounce.

He didn’t disguise the thrill he got from their panic as they realized they had no chance to conceal the things they’d let slide. And there were always things they’d let slide, things they wanted to conceal. That provided another thrill: finding all the evidence of their slacking off and wrongdoing and rubbing their noses in it, with ample punishment for every defect he found. Stern, unrelenting discipline was the best possible way to guarantee that the troops would live in fear of him, which was the only emotion the major wanted to inspire in his troops.

So there was a feral grin on his face as he emerged from the command entrance to the MBC first thing in the morning. This early, they wouldn’t be expecting him. If he was lucky, they’d still be groggy from sleep. His eyes swung from side to side, his nose wrinkling as if he could sniff out his prey. He hadn’t made up his mind just where he would strike today, but he knew he would eventually find a target. And then, his aim would be unerring, and those who had earned his righteous wrath would tremble at the memory for years to come.

There, in the shade of a tool shed across the central parade ground of the camp, he spotted a likely target. It was one of the sorry pack of aliens that had been exiled to this pariah company because they couldn’t cut the mustard in the real Legion. A Volton, reading a book. There shouldn’t be any time for reading. He could give the creature a good chewing out just on general principles.

But it wouldn’t do to charge across the parade ground directly at his victim. If the Volton had something to hide, he might slink off when he saw Botchup coming, and that would make the major exert himself for no purpose. Better to take a roundabout approach and lure the loafing sophont into complacency. There was a small knot of legionnaires to his left, so he chose that direction.

As Major Botchup’s eyes focused on the group he was approaching, they began to grow wider-and wider still. The group ahead of him was even worse than anything his previous experience of Omega Company had led him to expect. They were lounging idly, clearly doing nothing in particular. Worse, they were out of uniform! Instead, they wore a hodgepodge of civilian clothes, mixed with bizarre purple garments of various sorts. Most were unkempt and unshaven; in his entire career in the Space Legion, Major Botchup had never seen anything to approach it.

He swooped on the group like a tactical hoverjet discovering an unprotected ammo dump. “What the devil do you people think you’re doing?” he snapped. “This is an outrage! Where are your uniforms?”

“We done took ‘em off, Major,” said one human in an accent that straddled the boundary between Standard and incomprehensible jargon. “Lieutenant Snipe’s orders.”

“What?” Botchup’s face turned the same color as the antirobot camouflage the troops were wearing. “If Snipe said any such thing, I’ll see him cashiered out of the service! Exactly when did he issue this order?”

“Well, it was just yesterday, Major,” said a young woman whose face seemed vaguely familiar. “A bunch of us asked him about which orders we had to obey, and he said-“

“Which orders to obey? Preposterous!” By now, the major had gone well past the boiling point. “A legionnaire obeys all orders, or I’ll know the reason why! Where are your sergeants?”

“I dunno, Major,” said the first legionnaire-Street, according to his name tag: “They don’t usually bother us long as we doin’ the job-“

“They’ll answer to me, then!” the major fumed. “What makes you think you can dress this way?”

The legionnaires all began talking at once. “Well, Major, Sarge said we was likely to see action against robots...”

“It was the captain told us to wear the uniforms he got us, so we figured we shouldn’t keep wearin’ ‘em, ‘cause he’s not the CO anymore...”

“The captain said not to worry about the robots, but we aren’t supposed to obey him...”

“I didn’t have any of my old uniforms...”

“I didn’t have anything but civvies, ‘cause of when I joined up...”

“Quiet!” Major Botchup shouted. The entire group-indeed, the entire camp-fell into complete silence, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the steady gurgling of the company water pump, not far from where they stood. The major put his hands on his hips and said in a voice that could have air-cooled the entire camp, “I don’t know what Lieutenant Snipe told you, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of proper Legion discipline. Every man jack of you is going to report yourselves to Lieutenant Snipe for conduct unbecoming a legionnaire, and then you are going to your quarters and get into proper uniform. And you are every one of you going to do extra punishment duty, and it will be damned hard duty, I promise you!”

“But Major-“ came a voice from the back of the group.

“Oh, shut up!” said Major Botchup. He looked around the camp, ready to flay another victim. Much to his annoyance, the Volton he’d observed before had gone away. But he’d find somebody else. He was sure of that.

The search party had settled down after its first full night of desert travel. Soon the Zenobian sun would be rising, and when it did, they needed to be under shade. They’d set up in a pair of insulated tents on the north side of a small hill, where they’d get a bit more shade. They’d try to sleep through the daylight hours and get a fresh start when the sun had dipped low in the sky again.

Just before they’d halted, Garbo had surprised a small creature near the edge of a water hole, and she and Qual had run it down. Now she and Brick were stewing it, stretched out with Legion-ration dried vegetables, in a pot over a portable heating unit between the tents; it smelled delicious. Meanwhile, Flight Leftenant Qual, whose race preferred its food uncooked, had gone out into the desert to find a breakfast more to his liking.

In his tent, Sushi had set up his portable detector unit and strung out a few meters of antenna between the tent and a spiky plant a little distance away, trying to get a more precise fix on the signal they were homing in on.

“How much farther do we have to go, Soosh?” asked Mahatma, who was sharing the tent with Sushi and Double-X. “This desert travel is nowhere near as oppressive as Major Botchup, but it’ll never be my idea of relaxation.”

“Hard to get a precise reading,” said Sushi, fiddling with the fine tuning. “If I knew how strong the signal is at its source, I’d have a better idea. At a guess, it’s a couple more days of travel; but if the signal’s an order of magnitude stronger than I think, it could be a lot farther.”

“What do we do if it’s halfway around the planet?” said Double-X, who lay on top of his sleeping bag, propped up on one elbow to play a handheld computer game. “I ain’t walkin’ all that far, even if it does get me out from under the major’s nose for a while.”

“That’s for Qual to decide,” said Sushi. “It’s his people that are being invaded, and it’s a fairly big priority for them, so I suspect he’s not going to give up unless it’s obviously hopeless.”

“What if it ain’t obvious to him?” said Double-X. “He can live off the land, but we’re gonna run out of food sooner or later, even if we do catch one of these desert rats every now and then.”

“After seeing Garbo hunt, I would think we’d catch one more often than that,” said Mahatma. “She is very efficient once she spots a prey creature. And unless my nose is playing tricks on me, this one will make very good eating.”

“Yeah, it does smell good,” admitted Double-X. “That don’t mean I wanna eat it every night for the rest of my life-“

Sushi raised a hand to cut him off. “Hold it a moment, I’m getting something,” he said. The receiver had begun emitting a series of high-pitched squeals and beeps.

“Aww, give a guy a break, Soosh. That’s just noise,” said Double-X. “You been out in the sun too long if you ‘xpect that to make any sense.”

“Soosh can’t find out if it makes sense if you don’t let him hear it,” said Mahatma, with an expansive gesture. “Why not give him the break?”

Double-X had already opened his mouth to reply when he grasped Mahatma’s point and closed it again, nodding silently. The beeps from the receiver continued, getting louder and softer as Sushi continued to play with the fine tuning. “I’d swear there’s a repeating pattern, but I can’t quite put my finger on it,” he said. “I wish I had the captain’s Port-a-Brain.”

“I wish I had the money to buy one of those mothers and then go spend it on other stuff,” said Double-X, but he kept his voice low.

“It’s fading out,” said Sushi, leaning closer to the receiver. “I’m losing the signal, damn it! No-quiet, it’s getting stronger...” The others held their breath, but a moment later, the signal faded out entirely and was replaced by obviously random noise. Sushi pounded a fist into his thigh and. said, “Well, it’s gone again. We might as well eat.”

“If these creatures are affected by the heat, they’re probably getting ready to go to sleep, just as we are,” Mahatma pointed out. “That could explain the signal fading in daytime.”

“It doesn’t fade every day,” grumbled Sushi. “There must be some other explanation.”

“And perhaps we will learn it,” said Mahatma, getting to his feet. “But for now, I am interested mostly in learning how this stew will taste. Gambolt cookery will be a new experience.”

“Hey, I helped cook it, too,” said Brick with mock indignation.

“Then we will blame you equally with Garbo if it is inedible,” said Mahatma, deadpan. Before Brick could react, he added, “It does not smell inedible, though. I don’t think there will be any blame to apportion.”

“Continue in that vein, and we will forget to include you when we apportion the stew,” said Garbo. While translators were not at all reliable on the subtler nuances of alien speech, the statement was accompanied by a very good simulation of laughter. Grinning, the legionnaires filled their mess kits with the stew and were soon enjoying a meal that even Escrima might have taken some pride in serving them.

Mess Sergeant Escrima lifted the lid of the soup pot and took a deep sniff. He wrinkled his nose, trying to decide how it was coming along. Captain Jester had found him a source for several herbs and spices he’d been running short of. The shipment had come in just before they’d departed Landoor, and he’d left them unopened until their arrival at the new base. Now he was beginning to work them into his recipes. So far, everything had been good quality, but Escrima wasn’t a man to jump to conclusions-at least, not when it came to cookery.

This was the first time he’d used the bay leaves, touted as being from the same grower who supplied the Alliance Senate dining hall. Escrima had heard that kind of puffery before and knew better than to put much weight on it. The aroma coming from the pot wasn’t bad, he had to admit...but how was it going to taste? There was only one way to find out.

He’d been scowling at the slowly simmering liquid, trying to decide whether it was time yet to dip in a spoon and taste it, when he became aware of someone entering his kitchen. He turned and glared. Whoever it was might have legitimate business here, but he didn’t want them to start thinking it was a place just anyone could walk into whenever they felt like it. He had a reputation to maintain.

It was the new CO, Major Ketchup, or something like that. He waved a sheaf of printouts and growled, “Sergeant, I see from these purchase orders that you’ve been going outside the Legion commissary network for supplies. That’s a violation of policy, and an unnecessary expense to boot. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell you doing in my kitchen?” said Escrima, his eyes glowing like red-hot coals. “You got a problem with my food?” His tone of voice made it clear that any such statement would be taken as grounds for a preemptory strike.

At that point, any person with the slightest sense of self-preservation would have contented himself with a very polite “No,” and quickly left the kitchen, apologizing profusely and being especially careful not to expose his back to this obvious madman who had a large supply of knives and cleavers within easy reach.

Major Botchup was evidently lacking a sense of self-preservation. “I’ve had a look at your menus,” he said. “You’re coddling the troops with all this gourmet stuff, and wasting money besides. I’d be surprised if they can tell-“

“Can’t tell?” Escrima’s eyes bulged out. “You want me to tell you something? I tell you get the hell out of my kitchen before I put you in the soup pot. No, I don’t do that; nobody eating the soup then.” He began stalking toward the major, his voice growing louder with each sentence. “Maybe you just fat enough to cook down for lard, though-“

“Are you threatening a superior officer?” sputtered Botchup, but he backed away. “I’ll have you in the stockade-“

“I’ll have you in the stock pot!” shouted Escrima, and he grabbed a cleaver off the counter.

Whether or not the mess sergeant would have used it, Botchup never learned, for he turned tail and ran.

Lieutenant Snipe was feeling very unfairly put upon. It was bad enough taking the blame for his own foul-ups-that was part of being an officer-but somehow, Major Botchup had taken the position that Snipe was responsible for everything that had been going wrong. And, as Snipe had learned in a very unpleasant meeting with the major, quite a few things had gone wrong so far today. The chewing out he had just gotten was far from the first of his Legion career-working for Botchup, getting raked over the coals was par for the course-but it was by a good distance the most memorable.

Snipe was willing to admit that the major could hold him partly responsible for the troops’ willful misinterpretation of his remark that orders given by the former CO might not be valid. But how could anyone have foreseen that they would take that as license to disobey all orders predating Major Botchup’s arrival? And the mess sergeant’s ferocious territoriality about his kitchen was certainly none of Snipe’s doing; in fact, previous experience with mess sergeants might have in some part prepared the major for it. Admittedly, threatening to throw a superior officer into the soup pot was a bit extreme...

The final straw had been when the major had bolted from the kitchen into the outdoor sunlight, still in fear for his life, to collide with an oversized female legionnaire wearing only a bikini: First Sergeant Brandy. Never mind that the first sergeant was officially off duty, or that the climate conditions at this base amply justified her choice of attire and her decision to “catch a few rays,” as she explained it, or that her considerable padding and quick reflexes in catching the major before he could fall prevented injury to either party. What mattered was that several nearby legionnaires had witnessed the incident-and laughed. Major Botchup could not tolerate laughter-at least not at his own expense. Lieutenant Snipe had been the first to pay for the major’s humiliation, and he had paid a high price. His only recourse was to take it out on someone lower down the ladder. Luckily for him, there was a whole company of victims available.

Snipe emerged from the MBC with a fierce grimace on his face, looking around for someone to oppress. Any excuse would do. And knowing what he already knew about Omega Company, he would find plenty of excuses without having to search very far. Sure enough, there came a legionnaire; Snipe didn’t know his name yet, but he recognized the face: dark greasy hair, sideburns that just stayed within the limits of regulations, thick lips that hinted at a sneer. He didn’t like the fellow on general principles, but if memory served, he’d talked to this legionnaire yesterday. He’d been one of the group who’d gotten him into this trouble by taking his comments on orders literally. He owed this one a special reaming out. Snipe descended on the unfortunate victim like a ballistic missile on its target.

“You, there. Didn’t you get the major’s orders?” the lieutenant barked. “Uniforms to be worn at all times when on duty!”

“Sir, I am wearing my uniform,” said the legionnaire with a bewildered look. Good; he was already on the defensive.

“If it’s not worn in the regulation manner, it’s the same as not wearing it at all,” said Snipe, pointing to the legionnaire’s upper chest. “That top button’s open!”

“Sir, in this heat I thought-“

Snipe cut him off in midsentence. “I don’t want to hear any of your excuses. You’ll report for extra KP-on the double! And your regular job better get done, as well, or you’ll get yourself another round of extra duty! Go on, get out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir!” said the legionnaire, and he quickly turned away in the direction of the kitchen.

Snipe smiled-not a pretty smile, but a sincere one nonetheless. Sending the offending legionnaire for KP was a stroke of genius. If Snipe could find half a dozen more to punish the same way, he’d have the kitchen filled with superfluous personnel, and that’d give the mess sergeant the headache of finding something for them to do that didn’t interfere with his precious kitchen. He began a leisurely stroll around the compound, looking for more offenders to punish.

To his surprise, he’d barely gone a dozen paces before he ran into the same legionnaire! There was no mistaking that face, especially not the annoying sneer. “What do you think you’re doing, legionnaire? Didn’t I tell you to report for KP?”

“Sir, it’s not my day,” said the legionnaire, a puzzled look on his face. “I’m not on until tomorrow.”

Snipe thought the fellow’s voice sounded somehow different, but that didn’t matter. It was obviously the same man. “Are you crazy or just stupid?” he barked. “I ordered you to extra duty less than two minutes ago. Now get down to the kitchen before I throw you in the stockade instead!”

The legionnaire spread his hands. “That wasn’t me, sir, it must have been-“

“Get out of my sight!” shouted Snipe, his face turning red. The legionnaire, evidently deciding not to press his luck, saluted and went off quickly toward the kitchen.

Snipe was starting to get into his stride now. He found another’ legionnaire with a loose button, and one who hadn’t polished his boots sufficiently for Snipe’s taste, and he sent them both to KP. But his jaw nearly fell when he rounded a corner of the MBC and found the same legionnaire there again, sitting in a chair and reading!

“You!” he sputtered, walking over to the sideburned malefactor. “You...”

The legionnaire looked up at him and said with a smile, “Howdy, can I he’p you with anything, son?”

“That’s sir to you,” screamed the lieutenant. “And you’ll stand at attention when you speak to an officer. You’re in deep trouble now, if you don’t know it...”

The legionnaire closed his book and stood up, more or less at attention. For some reason, he looked taller than before-and a bit older. “Why, sir, I didn’t think we was standin’ on protocol quite so much in this outfit. Captain Jester never did get around to decidin’ jes’ what my rank oughta be. But seein’ as how you’re new, I’m happy to oblige. Now, jes’ what can I do for you, today, Lieutenant?”

Snipe’s jaw fell to his chest. The fellow was acting as if nothing at all had passed between them earlier, and yet it was no more than fifteen minutes since he’d last reprimanded him. The fellow must be mentally unsound; it wouldn’t surprise him, having seen the kind of material this company was made up of. Perhaps he was even a multiple personality. How else to explain the complete change in his expression, even his voice and accent? In any other outfit, the fellow would doubtless have been discharged as unfit for military service.

Snipe was still trying to figure out what to say when another legionnaire strode up to them and said, “Excuse me, Rev, do you have a minute to talk?”

The man he’d caught reading turned to the newcomer and said, “Not right this second, son, the lieutenant has something he wants to talk about. But if you’ll come back in maybe fifteen minutes, I’m sure I can spare the time.”

The newcomer nodded, snapped off a very decent salute to Lieutenant Snipe, and turned to leave. The man who had been reading turned back to Snipe with an expectant smile. “Now, sir, what was it you wanted?”

But the lieutenant was speechless now. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the man in front of him. The tag on his uniform said Reverend Jordan Ayres, and on his collar was some kind of badge Snipe did not recognize-an antique musical instrument, it appeared. But what gave Snipe pause was the fact that the man who’d just come up and saluted in perfect military form, said a few polite words, and turned to walk away wore the exact same face as the man now in front of him.

Snipe muttered something and walked away, shaking his head. Everybody in the company was starting to look the same to him. It must be the desert sun. Yes, that was it-the sun. He’d go back to his quarters, get a cool drink of water, and just lie down and rest a bit.

He managed to keep his composure reasonably well until he entered the MBC and found himself face-to-face with still another legionnaire, this one obviously female, with that same sneering face. That was when he lost it entirely.

Lieutenant Rembrandt was walking stiffly and a bit gingerly as she came into Comm Central. Her back injury was healing nicely, thanks to the pills she’d gotten from the autodoc, but even cutting-edge military medicine wasn’t going to do much to speed up the process.

There was a vacant straight-backed chair behind the counter where Mother worked, and Rembrandt lowered herself into it with a sigh. Mother looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. In her quiet voice she said, “Still hurting, Remmie?” She could sometimes speak to another woman without the incapacitating shyness of her face-to-face interactions with male humans.

“Yeah,” admitted Rembrandt. “Best prognosis is that I’ll be close to a hundred percent by the middle of next week. Right about now, it feels as if I’m somewhere under fifteen percent.”

“A bad back’s tough,” said Mother, nodding. “My dad hurt his when I was a little girl, and he was never the same after that. Hope you don’t have that to look forward to.

“Thanks, so do I,” said Rembrandt. “I might have been better off just to let Louie run me down on that glideboard. He couldn’t have done much more damage than I did trying to dodge him.”

“Yeah, that’s how it is sometimes,” said Mother. Her eyes kept shifting back and forth from Rembrandt to the readouts on her comm equipment. “But if he’d hit you, you both might be hurt.”

“That’s what I tell myself,” said Rembrandt. “Anyhow, I’m getting along, and I guess I’m getting better.” She paused a moment and asked, “Any luck with that message I asked you to send?”

“Answer came through just before you got here,” said Mother. “I didn’t print it out because you said it was confidential. Printouts can get read by the wrong people. Not much to report, anyhow. They acknowledged receipt, and said they’d see if anybody was available. No promises.”

“You’d think they’d show more interest,” said Rembrandt. “This company’s been one of the hottest stories in the Alliance ever since the captain came on board.”

“Sure, and that with a buck fifty will get you a one-minute local public comm call anywhere in the galaxy,” said Mother. “Those people have attention spans in the nanosecond range, unless it’s something they can use against you.”

“Still, you’d think they’d be interested in what’s happening to the company,” said Rembrandt, her brows crinkling. “They wouldn’t have to make any particular effort to get somebody here. Why, we’re only a couple of days’ sublight travel from Lorelei-“

“Couple of days probably seems like forever to them,” said Mother, shrugging. “Don’t get your hopes too high, Remmie. I know you’re looking for some way to fight back against the brass hats, and I’m all for it. The captain would be fighting them, if he were himself. I keep hoping he’ll snap out of it-“

“So do I, Mother,” said Rembrandt. “Until then, we’ve got to try to guess what he’d be doing, and do the same ourselves. I just wish we were getting better results.”

“You want results?” Mother scoffed. “Girl, those pills the autodoc gave you must be making you giddy. This is the Legion. They don’t believe in results; they just say they do.” She chuckled, but her face was serious.

“Except for Captain Jester,” said Rembrandt, lifting her chin. “He not only believes in results, he gets them.”

“I know what you mean,” said Mother. “I just worry whether his luck’s run out at last. I hope not, but I’m afraid to hope for too much.”

“The captain wouldn’t want us to give up,” said Rembrandt. “He’d want us to start figuring out a way around the system, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“I know,” said Mother. “More power to you, because I don’t want to think about what happens if the brass hats win this one.”

“Neither do I,” said Rembrandt. “I’m doing what I can to keep the bastards from winning.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

Rembrandt stood up, wincing. She looked down at Mother and said in a resigned voice, “I don’t know. I don’t have much else to throw into the fight.”

Mother sighed. “Well, let’s just hope it’s enough, then.” Rembrandt just nodded and made her way slowly out of Comm Central. Mother watched her leave, then shook her head sadly and turned back to her comet screen.