“Yes, ma’am,” said Brandy. “All present and accounted for. Say the word, and we can blow that ship to atoms.”
“I hope I don’t have to say that word,” said Rembrandt. Her voice was calm, but Brandy thought she detected an edge to it. There had to be some emotion at the prospect of facing combat after all their time in the Legion. Every legionnaire expected this moment, trained for it, knew it could come at any time. It was still an unsettling feeling, standing in a defensive perimeter, waiting to see if the hammer was about to fall.
“Ship’s landing,” said somebody in the defensive line ahead of Brandy. Sure enough, it had lost more speed and was descending steadily, under power but committed to a touchdown. Now was the point at which it could most easily be destroyed. Once it was down, almost anything could happen. Brandy wished it would identify itself. Failing that, all she could do was wait for word from Rembrandt—or outright hostile action by the ship. If it came to that, it might be too late to do anything useful. She clenched her jaw. The ship continued its descent.
“Still no response from the ship,” came Rembrandt’s voice from the wrist communicator. “Maybe their equipment’s just on the blink, or maybe it means something. We aren’t going to take any chances, Brandy. Anything that looks like an attack, don’t wait for word from me to defend yourselves. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Brandy. She turned and shouted to her squad, “All right, you bleepers. Get a bead on the exits from that ship the second it touches down, and be ready to take out anything you see moving. Nobody fires until I give the word, but everybody better have a target when I do give it.”
“Sergeant?” said Mahatma’s voice, not far away. “I have a question.”
“This isn’t the time for questions,” roared Brandy. “Get in your position and pick a target. And be ready for my signal. Do it now!”
The nervous tension along the line went up perceptibly. Out in the open, less than half a kilometer away, the ship was settling down, kicking up a cloud of dust. Brandy growled. The dust would make it harder to see what was going on. She hoped there wasn’t anybody aboard that ship planning to take advantage of that momentary cover. “Hold steady,” she muttered into her communicator. The ship was definitely on the ground now.
Through the cloud of dust she could make out a hatchway beginning to open. She lifted her stereoculars to her eyes, trying to make out more detail. This hatchway could be a decoy, with the main force unloading on the far side of the ship. Was there movement inside the ship? She fiddled with the resolution, trying to cut through the dust. Something was coming out the hatchway, down the ramp that had deployed beneath it. Something dark, and man-sized. “Brick, Slayer, Mahatma, take a bead on that hatchway,” she ordered—those were the squad’s best marksmen. “The rest of you, keep an eye out for anything coming from behind the ship.”
The figure exiting the ship was now all the way on the ground and moving steadily toward the Legion camp. Another figure, also clad in black, emerged from the hatchway behind it. “Keep a steady bead, but hold your fire,” said Brandy.
Now the dust had settled enough for her to make out the figures more clearly. “What the hell?” she said. “Hold your fire, people; those are Legion uniforms.” What Legion officer—she had no doubt these were officers, to justify a special ship to bring them here—would be coming here? She waited as the two men came closer. Steadily they marched toward the camp, the smaller figure behind carrying a couple of briefcases and a computer bag. Behind them, a robot baggage handling cart was emerging from the open hatchway, piled high with luggage.
Straight ahead came the two Legion officers. At last, perhaps a dozen paces from the perimeter, the lead figure stopped and looked at the startled Omega Company defenders. “Well, it looks like a Legion base,” said a high-pitched, whining voice. After a suspenseful pause, it added, with a definite snarl, “Enough to fool a civilian, maybe,” and started forward again.
Brandy still didn’t know who she was looking at, but she stood up and said, “Halt and identify yourself.”
The lead figure didn’t even slow down. Instead, it said, “Major Botchup, Commanding Officer, Omega Company, Space Legion.” It kept on coming.
“Commanding officer?” Brandy’s jaw fell. “Sir, the CO of Omega Company is Captain Jester.”
“Was Captain Jester,” said Major Botchup. He was now close enough that Brandy could make out his sneering face. He was surprisingly young, she thought. He looked up and down the line and made a sour face. “You clowns have had your little picnic long enough. I’m your new CO, by orders of General Blitzkrieg, and things are by God about to change around here!”
Chapter Nine
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 harass 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 wit
h 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 brow-beating, 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 circumstance. 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 lo
yal 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.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 95