That might have been a significant accomplishment for most officers; few sophonts are lucky enough to make a first contact with an alien race. But my employer managed to pyramid that initial success into a plum assignment as the commander of the Alliance military mission to Zenobia. A significant posting for a mere captain.
It seems almost irrelevant to note that his superiors believed that they were sending my employer into a position on a backward world from which they sincerely hoped he would never emerge. Little did they think that he would thrive in the post, and that, in the end, they would be coming to Zenobia themselves.
“Listen up, squad, here’s Lieutenant Rembrandt to tell us what we’ve been waiting for,” said Brandy, and Thumper was all ears. Everyone in the squad had been trying to guess what kind of exercise the top sergeant had planned for General Blitzkrieg’s visit to Zenobia Base. Some of the legionnaires said it was going to be an obstacle course demonstration-that being one of Omega Company’s specialties. Others expected some kind of live ammo drill simulating an attack on the camp, or perhaps a march into the desert around the camp, to show off the variety of Zeno-bian wildlife.
Lieutenant Rembrandt stepped forward, with a nice smile that Thumper thought didn’t entirely hide the worry on her face. “Good morning,” she said. “I guess you’ve all heard that we’re expecting an inspection by General Blitzkrieg.”
“Yeah, and the old wingnut thinks he’s gonna surprise us,” said a voice from behind Thumper-Street, it sounded like.
“Right,” said Rembrandt. “Except we’re going to have a few surprises ready for him. That’s where you guys come in…”
“Lieutenant Rembrandt, I have a question,” said Ma-hatma. The squad fell silent. Mahatma’s questions were always worth listening to-even though they made the noncoms and officers nervous. Now that he’d been partnered with Mahatma, Thumper had a better idea why. The little legionnaire was always looking for ways to shake things up-to keep everyone on their toes, he said. Asking a question that nobody had a good answer for was a sure way to do that.
“Go ahead, Mahatma,” said Rembrandt, nodding in the direction of the questioner.
“The captain is away from base, is that not correct?” said Mahatma.
“Yeah, everybody knows that,” said Rembrandt. “But he hasn’t gone far. He’s out in the desert, negotiating with the Namoids. I’ll need a party to go out into the desert-Flight Leftenant Qual will be in command. And I’d like the others to be Mahatma and Brick and Double-X and Garbo. You’ve all been to the area I’m interested in, so you’ll know the ground better than anyone else I could send.”
“Oh ho,” said Mahatma, stroking his chin and nodding. The others in the group Rembrandt had named were nodding, too. “I remember that area. It is where we went to rescue the captain when he was captured.”
“That’s right,” said Rembrandt, a twinkle in her eyes. “But you have to get out there and back without any wasted time so he’s here when the general arrives. I’d like you to be ready to leave by sundown tonight; Qual will meet you at Chocolate Harry’s as soon as you’re dismissed here, to pick up your supplies and get your final orders. You’ll have a little time to straighten out anything you need to take care of before you leave, and then you’re out of here. Got it?”
“Yes, Remmie,” chorused the group, in near unison.
“Now, the other half of my plan,” said Rembrandt. “Word from Headquarters has it that the general loves to play golf-which is an Old Earth game involving funny clubs and little balls and a lot of open ground with holes in it. I don’t know much about the game, but if what I hear is true, once the general starts playing, he hardly has time for anything else. So we’re going to give him a chance to play, to keep him off our backs.“
“How we gonna do that?” said Street, scratching his head. “Ain’t no golf field here, last time I looked-just lots of desert full of bugoids and funny lizards.”
“You’re right, Street,” said Rembrandt. “We don’t have a golf course-yet. But Lieutenant Armstrong’s played the game, and he knows what a course is supposed to be like. And from what he says, you can make almost any useless tract of land into a golf course, if you really want to. Harry’s also working on getting some clubs sent in. Anyhow, the rest of Brandy’s squad are assigned to Armstrong, and you’re going to build a golf course. You’ve got to build it in record time, too, because we want it ready to play on the minute the general gets here. The better the general likes it, the less trouble he’s likely to cause the rest of us.”
“Do we get to play on the course when it is built?” said Tusk-anini. “Some of the old books I have read mention golf, and I have often wondered how it is played.”
“Sure,” said Rembrandt, shrugging. “Once the general’s gone, it’s there for anybody in the company to play on. Which ought to give you even more reason to do a really good job, right? OK, all of you report to Lieutenant Armstrong, outside the Supply depot in fifteen minutes. Any more questions? No? OK, squad dismissed!”
Phule felt as if he’d been bouncing across the prairies of Cut ‘N’ Shoot on his robosteed for weeks without a rest. In reality, it was just a day and a half since he’d lit out in search of the Indians who had supposedly captured Beeker and Nightingale. Why the Indians would have kidnapped the butler and medic was beyond his ability to understand; but if the other locals with whom he’d had dealings were at all typical, logic didn’t have a whole lot to do with how people acted on this planet.
Fortunately, a stretch as a captain in the Space Legion, and commanding officer of Omega Company, had prepared Phule for dealing with illogic in all its glory. He chuckled as he thought of his crew of misfits and rejects, supposedly the dregs of the Legion-until he’d got hold of them and made them into a tight-knit crew that had overcome every obstacle put in their way. The Omega Mob had a distinctly unregulation way of dealing with its challenges; but the Omega way got results, and that was all that mattered to Phule. Now that he faced his own unexpected challenge, the least he could do was to overcome it in the same style and spirit as his own legionnaires.
Which he intended to do as soon as he reached the place Ol‘ Ben had told him the Indians camped this time of year. He’d have been there long since if he’d been able to take a hoverjeep-but the rulers of Cut ’N‘ Shoot were fanatics for authenticity, and nothing faster than a robosteed was permitted. He had no doubt that a few hundred credits in the right hands would have uncovered exceptions to that policy. But he’d been in too much of a hurry to catch the runaways to stop and feed the hungry bureaucratic maw- or so he’d thought. Now he was paying for his impatience with saddle sores.
All morning he’d been urging the robosteed westward through a particularly inhospitable landscape-01‘ Ben had referred to it as the “badlands,” and Phule could see why. But he had good reason to think he was nearing his destination. When he’d started out, there’d been the merest hint of a column of smoke on the horizon ahead. It had gradually grown thicker, and now the breeze carried a tantalizing aroma of mesquite-and something else. Somebody was cooking, and Phule had an idea that if he could just get his robosteed to move a little faster, he might be there in time for lunch. Whether anybody would offer him anything to eat remained to be seen, but he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by being a pessimist.