by RobertAsprin
“And if they didn’t shove your gear down your throat when you tried to take the pictures, I’d be inclined to take a personal interest in your career, as long as it lasted. Do we understand each other?”
Sidney met the commander’s gaze, and what he saw there made him decide that this was not the time to extol the virtues of freedom of the press.
“Understood, Mr. Phule,” he said, giving a quick salute that wasn’t entirely mockery.
* * *
Phule paid only distant attention to the antics of the photo session. Instead, he found himself watching the neighborhood rat pack of kids who interrupted their glide-board frolicking to investigate the gathering. After the reporter shooed them away from the shooting for the fifth time, this time threatening to call the police, the kids resumed their normal games, perhaps more energetically because of the nearby holophotographer.
Though best on hard, flat surfaces like sidewalks, the glide boards could work on anything, and the kids prided themselves in demonstrating their expertise in the face of adversity. They rode them over the tops of the park benches and across the uneven grass. Their favorite maneuver was to skim down one particular slope into a dip, then use their momentum to jump their boards over the hedge, coincidentally landing in the fountain the photographer was using for his backdrop. The boards were even faster over water, however, and they had no difficulty in gliding across the fountain and disappearing before the news team could do more than raise their voices in protest.
Phule watched them intently for a while, then drifted over toward where they were gathering to plot their next move. The kids watched his approach, ready to bolt for the safety of the alleys, but he smiled and beckoned to them, so they held their ground until he was in talking distance.
“Whatcha want, mister?” the apparent leader challenged. “Looks like you could use a dip in the fountain yourself.”
Phule grinned ruefully along with the titters of laughter. He hadn’t had a chance to clean himself up yet, and if anything he looked worse than the urchins.
“I was just wondering if you could tell me a little about your boards,” he said. “Are they hard to operate?”
The kids glanced at each other, torn between their love of their boards and the temptation to tease an adult. The boards won.
“They’re a little tricky at first,” the spokesman admitted. “You’ve got to learn to keep your center of balance low or they’ll toss you off.”
“With a little practice …”
“With a lot of practice …”
“You can make ’em do just about anything …”
“You want to give it a try?”
“Once you get the hang of it …”
Now that the barrier was broken, the information came in a torrent as the kids all tried to talk about their passion at once. Phule listened for a few moments, then waved them into silence.
“What I really want to know,” he said in a conspiratorial voice that brought the kids crowding closer, “is if you think you could teach a Sinthian to ride one of these things … Have any of you ever met a Sinthian?”
Chapter Eight
Journal #091
Their success on the confidence course, not to mention their pride in their new “uniforms,” seemed to mark a turning point in the attitudes of the Legionnaires. As a whole and as individuals, the company began to embrace their new commander’s belief that “we can do anything if we work together and are not too picky about how we do it!”
Like children looking for excuses to show off a new toy, the Legionnaires abandoned their previous habit of clinging to their home base during their off-duty hours, and instead were soon seen throughout the settlement looking for new challenges to apply their “togetherness” techniques to, whether it was called for or not! Many of the local citizens grew to believe that this extroverted crew was an entirely new force which had been imported, as most of their “projects” could be viewed as “good deeds” or “civic improvements.” Unfortunately, however, not all of their pastimes fell on the proper side of legality, a fact which kept my employer quite busy intervening between them and the local authorities.
Aside from this, the bulk of his time was occupied in a sincere effort to get better acquainted with the individuals under his command in preparation for the assigning of the company into two-man teams. Of course, his efforts only revealed what I had suspected since he first received this assignment: that Legionnaires relegated to an Omega Company are not the easiest individuals in the universe to deal with.
* * *
“Mind if I join you?”
Super Gnat looked up from her breakfast to find the company commander standing over her table. With a shrug, she waved him into the facing chair.
The smallest member of the company was not unattractive, though no one would call her beautiful. An obvious band of freckles across her cheekbones and nose combined with her heart-shaped face and short brown hair to give an impression of a pixie—a robust young farm pixie, not the cuter, more sophisticated Tinker Bell variety.
Phule stirred his coffee slowly as he tried to organize his thoughts into words.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time,” he began, but the Gnat stopped him, holding up a restraining hand while she finished chewing and swallowing her current mouthful.
“Let me save you a little time here, Captain. It’s about my fightin’. Right?”
“Well … yes. You do seem to be involved in more than your share of … scuffles.”
“Scuffles.” The little Legionnaire sighed. “If I was bigger, they’d be called brawls. Oh well. Let me explain something to you, sir.”
She re-addressed her food as she spoke.
“I was the littlest of nine kids in our family—not the youngest, the littlest. Our folks both worked and weren’t around much, so us kids were left pretty much to sort things out for ourselves, and like most kids, we weren’t big on democracy or diplomacy. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, nobody else would and you ended up at the bottom of the heap. Of course, me bein’ the smallest, I had to fight more than most just to keep my share of the grief and housework from getting too big. You know what it’s like to have a sister five years younger than you try to push you around?”
Phule was caught flat-footed by the question and groped for an answer. Fortunately none seemed to be required, as Super Gnat continued.
“Anyway, I sort of got in the habit of going for anyone who tried to hassle me. You see, when you’re my size, you can’t wait for the other person to swing first, or it’s all over before it starts. You gotta go for them first if you want to get your licks in. Even then it doesn’t always work, but at least that way you’ve got a chance.”
She paused to sip her coffee, then wiped her mouth decisively with the napkin.
“I guess what I’m saying, sir, is that what you sees is what you gets. I can appreciate that my fighting all the time is disruptive, but it’s an old habit and I personally wouldn’t make book on its changing. If it really bothers you, I could transfer out. Lord knows it won’t be the first time.”
Despite his poise, Phule was a bit taken aback by the frankness of this little Legionnaire. While he was concerned about the conduct of the company, he found himself warming to the Gnat.
“I … really don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, dismissing the possibility offhand. “Tell me, doesn’t it bother you that you always get beaten? Why do you keep picking fights you can’t win?”
For the first time since the start of their conversation, Super Gnat looked uncomfortable.
“Well, you see, sir, the way I was raised, I’ve always figured the important thing is to stand up for yourself and what you believe in whatever the odds. If you only fight when you can win … well, then you’re just a bully takin’ advantage of weaker folks. I guess growin’ up the way I did, I never had much use for bullies, so I’m kinda sensitive about bein’ one myself.”
The commander was impres
sed. Enough so that the idea of the Gnat as a bully wasn’t even outlandish.
“But you would like to win more often? Or at least some of the time?”
“Of course I would,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. Just ’cause I’m not choosy about my fights doesn’t mean I’ve got a thing for losin’. You got any suggestions on that score, I’d appreciate ’em.”
“Well, I was thinking you might look into the martial arts … you know, like karate. A lot of them are designed by and for small people, and …”
He broke off when he realized Super Gnat was beaming at him with an impish grin.
“You don’t have to tell me about the martial arts, sir. You see, I’ve got belt ratin’s in three schools a karate—Korean, Japanese, and Okinawan—plus judo and some a the Chinese forms. The trouble there is that you’ve got to keep a level head for the forms to work, and when I get mad—and I gotta be mad to fight—it all just kinda slips away and I’m back to bein’ a scrapper.”
“Three schools,” Phule echoed weakly.
“That’s right. My first husband, he owned a string a dojos, so it was real easy for me to get lessons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m supposed to be helpin’ in the kitchen just now.”
She departed, leaving Phule gaping after her.
* * *
“Have you got a minute, Captain?”
Surprised, Phule looked up to find Chocolate Harry framed in the doorway of the penthouse. Actually the pear-shaped black supply sergeant did more than fill the doorway: he dominated it and the room with his bulk.
“Sure. Come on in, C.H. What can I do for you?”
Though deliberately casual in tone and manner, the commander was curious as to what had dragged Harry away from his normal lair in the supply rooms. They had not spoken more than in passing since the new uniforms were issued, and while the supply sergeant had been more than efficient in handling his expanded duties, Phule was curious as to his true reactions to the revitalization of the company.
Harry eased into the room, peering around through the thick lenses of his glasses as if he expected to find an intruder—or a bargain—lurking in the corners. Finally, he ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and began.
“Well, sir,” he said, that surprisingly wheezy voice of his emerging mysteriously from his dense, bristly beard. “I’ve been doing some thinkin’. You know the problems we’ve been havin’ comin’ up with weapons for Spartacus and Louie?”
Phule nodded carefully. Along with the problems of locomotion, the Sinthians had other difficulties in interfacing with the troops, not the least of which were armaments. Their spindly arms had enough wiry strength to handle most of the firearms in the company’s arsenal, but there was a problem with their eyestalks. It seemed that the sighting devices designed for eyes mounted side by side on a head, like on a human face, were somehow beyond the Sinthians’ physiology. They were issued weapons along with the rest of the company when they went out on exercises, but were under strict orders not to fire a round until they had demonstrated an ability to place their shots at least in the vicinity of their intended target.
“Have you got an answer, C.H.?”
“Mebbe so.” The sergeant fidgeted. “You see, before I signed up, I was a member of … a club. Pretty rough-and-tumble folks. Anyway, we had one guy, blind as a bat, who was one of the meanest dudes we had in a fight. What it was, was he got hold of a sawed-off shotgun and used that when things got rough. He didn’t have to be real accurate, just so long as he got the general direction right. I was thinkin’ … you know, with the Sinthians …”
Phule considered this. A sawed-off shotgun was a classic close-combat weapon, especially as an adaption to some of the new belt-fed models. There was no denying its effectiveness, though it was not usually issued in the military. Of course, the police still used them for really nasty situations, so it wasn’t entirely unprecedented. Then again, this was Harry’s first independent effort to help the company, and the commander was loath to discourage him.
“That’s an excellent idea, C.H.,” he said, reaching his decision. “As a matter of fact, we’re going to be getting a visit from a sales rep of old Phule-Proof Munitions in the next few days. We’ll have to see what he has in stock that can be modified to our purposes.”
“That’s great, Cap’n. Wouldn’t mind browsing through their selection myself. Ain’t often I’ve had a chance to see the new stuff instead of hand-me-downs and black market rejects.”
“Oh, you’ll be involved in the selections, Sergeant.” The commander smiled. “Never fear on that score. Getting back to the shotguns, though, I only see one possible problem with issuing them to the Sinthians. Specifically it will be of the utmost importance that they’re pointed at least in the right general direction when they fire. That’ll mean being sure they’re teamed with someone reliable, and not that many of our more solid Legionnaires have expressed a willingness to accept them as partners. It seems that everyone’s afraid that their slowness would be a liability on combat. That may change if the glide-board idea works out, but in the meantime …”
“Shoot, that’s no problem, Captain.” The sergeant beamed, his teeth showing though his fierce beard. “I’d have room for one of ’em—mebbe both—in the sidecar of my hawg. I can keep an eye on ’em myself!”
“Your what?”
“My hawg … my hover cycle. I’ll tell you, Captain, I never have been able to figure out why the military doesn’t use ’em in combat. They worked fine for us in civilian life, and they can go anywhere one of those glide boards can.”
Phule had a vague feeling that he had just been maneuvered into letting Chocolate Harry ride his hover cycle into combat. Still, if it was efficient …
“Tell you what, C.H. Bring your … hawg … by after duty hours tomorrow. I want to take a look at it myself.”
“Right, Cap’n!”
“Oh, and C.H., while we’re on the subject of the nonhumans in the company, what weapon do you think would be best for Tusk-anini?”
“Tusk?” The sergeant blinked. “Heck, Cap’n. It don’t matter none what you have him carry. He ain’t gonna shoot it, anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I thought you knew, Cap’n. The Voltron may look like some kinda big stomper, but he’s a strict pacifist. Won’t even raise his voice to anyone, much less a weapon.”
* * *
It was late when the commander leaned back, stretching from the litter of notes on the table in his bedroom, and decided to call it a day. No sooner had he reached his decision, however, than he realized he was hungry. He had worked through the dinner hour (again) and knew that the hotel restaurant was long closed, as was the bar. Still, now that his concentration was broken, an emptiness in the vicinity of his stomach reminded him than he should feed it something or he’d have trouble getting to sleep.
There was a vending machine which dispensed snacks, but that was two floors down (apparently people living in penthouse suites weren’t supposed to patronize vending machines), but he had dismissed Beeker several hours ago, and was loath to call on the services of the Legionnaire who would be on communications duty in the main room with no justification other than his own laziness. It seemed he had no choice but to stir his stumps and run the errand himself.
Having reached that decision, Phule felt the momentary tug of politeness and chose to exit his lair through the duty area.
“I’m going down for some noshies,” he announced, opening the connecting door while feeling in his pocket for some change. “Can I get you anything while I’m at it?”
The Legionnaire on duty started and looked up from her magazine as if he had shot at her, then ducked her head, shaking it in a quick negative, but not quite fast enough to hide the fact that her face had colored with a blush like a tomato on a seed catalog before she did.
The commander paused, studying the woman as his memory flashed data from files and conversations across his mind.
&nb
sp; That’s right. This was the Legionnaire named Rose the lieutenants had been talking about. As they had noted, she was attractive enough, with ash-blond hair and the kind of figure usually described as willowy. Of course, her tendency to try to crawl back inside her uniform like a turtle when spoken to did nothing to enhance her appearance.
Brandy had suggested skipping over her when her name came up on the duty roster, but Phule insisted on letting her take her turn at communications like everyone else. Now, looking at her bowed head and averted eyes, he wondered if he shouldn’t have been more flexible. From the way she was acting, if a call came in she’d probably faint rather than answer it.
“Say, have you got change for a dollar?” he said, trying once more even if it meant ignoring the coins in his pocket.
The total reaction to his question consisted of a deepening of Rose’s blush and another quick shake of her head.
Tenaciously the commander wandered closer, trying to edge into her line of vision.
“While we’re talking, I’m curious about your reactions to my reorganization of the company. Do you see it as an improvement or just a waste of everyone’s time?”
Rose turned her head away from him, but finally spoke.
“Mmphl gump hmm ol.”
Phule blinked a couple times, then leaned closer.
“Excuse me … what was that again? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
The Legionnaire seemed to collapse in on herself, answering only with a feeble shake of her head and a shrug.
The captain abandoned his efforts, realizing that to push further would be, at best, a cruelty.
“Well, I’ll be off now,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll only be a few minutes if anyone calls in.”
Rose relaxed a bit as he retreated, acknowledging his departure with nothing more than a vigorous nod.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, Phule puffed out his cheeks in a long exhale as if he had been holding his breath. He realized, with no small surprise, that dealing with someone as shy as Rose had the effect of making him nervous. The bashful Legionnaire’s painful bashfulness made him immensely self-conscious, and throughout the “conversation” he had found himself trying to figure out what he was saying or doing to make her so uncomfortable. All in all, he came out of it feeling like he was the one who shot Bambi’s mother.