“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.
Chapter Twelve
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 of 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 look
ing 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 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?”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 100