“Considering the company’s safety record, I’m surprised they don’t station us in an emergency ward,” said Mother, dryly. “But there’s one more wrinkle you ought to know about, sweetie. Who do you think our new medic is?”
Phule frowned. “Good grief, Mother, how am I supposed to guess that? All I know is that it’s someone in the Legion, a female, and that she’s trained as a medic…”
Beeker, who’d been quietly working at his Port-a-Brain computer while Phule spoke to Mother, suddenly sat straight up in his seat, and exclaimed. “By Jove! You can’t mean… It couldn’t possibly be…”
Phule stared at him in confusion. “Gee, Beeks, do you know somebody who fits that description? I can’t for the life of me come up with any good guesses.”
“It’s not a guess, sir. It’s a near certainty,” said Beeker, swiveling his chair round to face his employer. “Perhaps you recall the circumstances of our departure from Lorelei. I came aboard the shuttle with a last-minute refugee…”
Phule turned an uncomprehending look on his butler. “A last-minute refugee?” he asked. Then his eyes opened wide. “Laverna?”
“Laverna,” said Beeker, nodding slightly.
“You got it, boys,” said Mother. “But don’t call her that; her Legion name is Nightingale.”
“How do you know it’s her, then?” said Phule.
“Silly, they sent her personnel file, with a holo,” said Mother. “I don’t care what name she’s using, there’s nobody else with that face.”
“Nightingale,” said Beeker, softly. Hearing the tone in his butler’s voice, Phule looked over at Beeker with raised eyebrows. A stranger might not have noticed anything. But to Phule, who’d had the butler in his employ for the better part of a decade, the softness seemed completely alien to Beeker’s normal brisk inflections.
“Nightingale,” said Beeker again. There was a faraway look in his eyes. That’s when Phule should have realized just how much trouble he was in.
In the open parade ground near the center of Zenobia Base, a dozen legionnaires stood chewing the fat. A heavy but muscular woman with first sergeant’s stripes on the sleeve of her black jumpsuit emerged from the barracks module and strode over to them. Several of the group glanced in her direction, but otherwise they ignored her approach until she shouted, “All right, squad, fall in. Let’s see if you can act like real legionnaires for fifteen minutes.”
To Sergeant Brandy’s surprise, the training group the captain had put her in charge of actually obeyed her order. This was unusual. There must be some insidious purpose lurking behind her trainees’ stolid expressions. They almost never fell in without some kind of argument or delaying tactic. She glared suspiciously-particularly at Mahatma, usually the head conspirator when the squad decided to show her its independence from military discipline. The squad seemed to think she needed some such demonstration two or three times a week… if not more often.
Brandy scowled. “I can tell you gripgrops are planning something,” she growled. “And unless you’ve suddenly gotten twice as clever as you think you are, you’re planning something really stupid.” That was an exaggeration-when pressed, Brandy privately conceded that some of the recruits’ stunts revealed a rare twisted creativity-but she didn’t want to give them any encouragement. They were doing just fine without her help. And if they’d focus the same kind of creativity toward their actual jobs… but in the Omega Mob, that was asking for too much.
A hand was raised: Mahatma’s. No surprise there, thought Brandy. For a moment, she considered ignoring the little legionnaire…but that would just be postponing the inevitable trouble. Best to get it over with. “You have a question, Mahatma?”
“Yes, Sergeant Brandy!” said Mahatma, with a beatific smile on his round, bespectacled face. “We have all heard that Headquarters is sending Omega Company a medic.”
“That’s the truth, I got it straight from Mother,” said someone else in the formation-Slayer, thought Brandy, who had learned to recognize the voices of the legionnaires in her training squad even when they muttered, or when several were speaking at once.
“Yes, we’re getting a medic,” said Brandy. “It’s a step up from the autodoc-a lot more personal treatment.”
“But the autodoc is very good,” said Mahatma. “I have used it, and so have most of the company. I don’t think anyone has complained that it didn’t heal us.“
“No, I don’t remember any complaints,” said Brandy. If past history was any indicator-and Brandy would have given good odds that it was-Mahatma was working his way slowly up to some still-unstated point. Just what the point was probably wouldn’t be clear until he got there. There probably wasn’t any way to hurry him, but still… “What are you getting at, Mahatma?” she asked.
The little legionnaire continued to smile, his round face and round glasses giving the effect of a bright-beaming sun. “If the autodoc does such a good job, there should not be any reason for us to get a medic,” he said. Heads around him nodded; Brandy had to give Mahatma points for persuasiveness. That, in fact, was the main problem of having him in her squad. She seemed to spend half her time trying to refute his points.
“Uh, the captain told us that this particular medic had requested assignment to Omega,” said Brandy. “So there isn’t any reason to go hunting for other reasons,” she concluded, realizing even as she said it that it sounded unconvincing even to her.
But to her surprise, Mahatma nodded. “Ah, very well, then,” he said. “If that is the entire reason, there is nothing to worry about.” And he shut his mouth and stood there. Brandy nearly fell over from the shock. Mahatma had to be planning something really obnoxious if he let her off the hook this easily…
Then she shrugged. Whatever it was would come along at its own pace, whether she knew it was coming or not. She looked down at her clipboard and went on to the first item on her agenda for the day. “One announcement,” she said. “The captain has assigned buddies for those members of the company not previously paired with someone. The following are now officially paired: Brick and Street; Roadkill and Lace; Mahatma and Thumper…” She ignored the exclamations from the troops, and finished the list. Then, not without some trepidation, she asked, “Any questions?”
Thumper’s hand went up. The little Lepoid was by a long shot the least likely to cause trouble on any given occasion, so Brandy gave an inward sigh of relief and pointed to him. “Thumper?”
“Sergeant, I don’t understand ‘buddies,’” said Thumper. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mahatma-it’s not as if I don’t think you’re a good legionnaire…”
“Brandy don’t think so, neither,” said a voice from the back. The rest of the squad broke out laughing as Thumper tried to recover.
“The idea of buddies is to give everybody in the company somebody to fall back on when there’s trouble,” said Brandy. “The captain tries to pick somebody you can learn from, too. That’s why Sushi and Do-Wop are partners…”
“Huh!” said Street, his eyes widening. “Buddies is partners. Now I understand. I always wonder why they two be buddies. Now it all makin‘ sense. That Sushi, he got a lot to learn…”
“The sheer impertinence of that damned SFer,” rumbled Blitzkrieg. It was the morning after the Officers’ Club encounter, but the incident still rankled. The general had been stomping around the office and haranguing his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk, for most of the morning. She’d barely had time to glance at her stock portfolio.
“I don’t know why you listen to that kind of thing,” said Sparrowhawk, who knew which side her bread was buttered on. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face-that Starfleet captain’s just jealous because the Legion’s grabbing the spotlight from his arm of the service.”
Blitzkrieg gashed his teeth. “I could deal with that, if it weren’t that imbecile Jester and his gang of incompetents who were getting all the publicity,” he said. “Jester’s idiots have managed to convince the media that they’re the best outfit in the Legion. Are those galactic newstapers blind? Or just terminally stupid?“