“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 figur
e 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 glide-board. 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 comm screen.
Chapter Fourteen
Journal #573
One curious feature of life with a Legion company was that one was always being stationed in places where the normal amenities of civilization were rather thin on the ground. Of course, my employer had done what he could to alleviate this by moving his legionnaires into the best available accommodations on those worlds where he was assigned. For our stay on Zenobia, a planet with no human presence before ours, he had gotten a custom-made encampment module that supplied many of the essentials of the good life: running water, electricity, air-conditioning, comfortable beds, a thoroughly modern kitchen.
But some things could not be done simply by throwing money at them, and this turned out to be particularly true of the military aspect of our assignments. Like it or not, a decent system for the distant detection and identification of incoming spacecraft—something most real planets take for granted—was sadly lacking on Zenobia. And, to my employer’s chagrin, neither the Legion commanders nor the Zenobian military seemed to think a single Legion company really needed one.
This was to have consequences.
* * *
“The major wants me?” Lieutenant Snipe looked up from the bed where he’d been hiding for several hours, covers over his head, until Major Botchup had sent a legionnaire to find out where his aide-de-camp had disappeared to. It was probably mere chance that the major hadn’t sent one of the legionnaires who’d remade their faces “in the image of the King,” as his followers called it. But it was definitely the right choice. If Snipe had looked up and seen that face again …
“Yes, sir,” said the legionnaire, Koko, one of the crop of recruits who’d joined the company on Lorelei, a gawky but very polite farm boy from an agrarian community on the planet Roosha. “He says it’s very important.”
“Everything the major wants is important to him,” said Snipe. The lieutenant’s attitude toward his commanding officer was somewhat less adulatory than it had been at the beginning of the day. “Let me just wash up and straighten my uniform, and I’ll be right there.”
Despite his sour mood, Snipe took less than five minutes to freshen up, and shortly thereafter he followed Koko into Major Botchup’s office and saluted. “L
ieutenant Snipe reporting, sir!”
Botchup glanced up at his aide-de-camp and nodded. “Good, Snipe, about time you got here. Tell me what you make of these printouts.” He handed a sheaf of flimsies to the lieutenant and waited.
Snipe scanned the printouts and then looked up at the major. “When were these recorded, sir?”
“Within the hour,” said Botchup. Then he glowered at Snipe and said, “But I asked you what you make of ’em.”
“A ship in orbit around this planet, sir,” said Snipe. “I assume it isn’t one of ours.”
“It’s not Starfleet, anyway; it may belong to the natives,” said the major. “I’ve had that woman in Comm Central trying to raise the native capital, but there’s nothing but bloody interference. You’d think a race that has its own space fleet could get up a few comsats, make it easier to talk. Stupid lizards.”
“Yes, sir,” said Snipe, thinking. “What’s our status?”
“It’s not responding to attempts to hail it, so we’re treating it as hostile,” said Botchup. “The natives brought us in here because of aliens they’d found spying on them. Apparently, they briefed Jester about it, not that I can get much sense out of him. Any data they passed on to him probably went down with his hoverjeep. If things ever settle down, we ought to send a team out to look for it—try to recover the vehicle at least, if not the data. In the meantime, we don’t know any more about these damned aliens than we did before we landed.”
“Yes, sir,” said Snipe again, nodding. “Your orders, sir?”
“I’ve put the base on full alert,” said Major Botchup. “I want you to go out there and make sure these people are vigilant and totally prepared—no slacking off. I think this is the real thing, Snipe. Promotions could be at stake.”
Snipe nodded, a grim expression on his face. If there was one thing about the Legion he understood, it was promotions. “There’ll be no slacking off while I’m out there, sir!”
“Good man,” said Botchup. “I’ll be monitoring the situation from in here. Send me a report at once of anything you notice. Our remote systems are good, but a CO needs a trustworthy pair of eyes and ears, too. You’ll give me that—and more. Jester’s people are soft. They’ve never done anything more dangerous than riding roller coasters. Put them in a real firefight—and this might just be one, Snipe, it just might be one—and they’re a good bet to crumple. I need you to put some steel in their spines. If you have to make examples of a few slackers, don’t be afraid to do it.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 103