Halfway down the hall to Comm Central, General Blitzkrieg stopped as a familiar sound caught his ear. He’d been hearing it for his entire Legion career, on bases spanning half the galaxy. It was such an inevitable part of the usual background noise of a Legion base that he’d almost failed to notice it-except that here, here on rich-boy Jester’s custom-built base, it seemed out of place. It was the sound of a squad being chewed out by a superior. And to his utter astonishment, the voice doing the chewing out was none other than Jester’s!
The sound came from a side corridor leading to a set of double doors. A small printed sign above the doors identified the room as the gym. His curiosity running rampant, Blitzkrieg pushed open the doors and stepped inside. There stood Jester, bracing a motley collection of Omega Company legionnaires with their first sergeant-the fat woman who’d taken a Legion name after some kind of liquor, exactly in character for this sorry outfit. And for once, Jester was the perfect image of an officer-his uniform immaculate, his posture exemplary, and fire in his eye. And for all their shoddy appearance, the grunts were showing something resembling respect, as well. It was so completely out of character for Omega Company that General Blitzkrieg was speechless for a moment.
He watched in shocked silence as the sergeant called forward one of the recruits-a little, round-faced fellow with eyeglasses. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Well, well, Captain-what the devil’s going on here?”
Cool as a comet at the farthest reaches of its orbit, Jester turned to face him and snapped off a crisp salute. “General Blitzkrieg!” Behind him, the sergeant barked “Ten-hut!” and the legionnaires straightened up-about as well as he’d expect from their sort. The open fear on their faces was a sight the general had never tired of seeing. Involuntarily, he felt an evil grin spread across his face. He’d come all the way from Rahnsome to Zenobia to strike fear and awe into these third-rate legionnaires. Up to now, he’d frittered away his stay playing golf with Jester-not that he hadn’t enjoyed it.
Now he was really going to have some fun. “On second thought, don’t mind me, Captain. The sergeant was about to give some kind of demonstration. By all means, carry on. I’m just as eager to see it as you are.”
And when it collapsed into an utter fiasco, as it was bound to do now that he’d scared the crap out of these lowlifes, he’d show them what a real chewing-out was like. He could barely keep himself from laughing out loud with anticipation…
“Very well, Sergeant,” said the robot, raising an eyebrow. “You heard General Blitzkrieg. Proceed with your demonstration.”
Brandy struggled to keep from showing her chagrin. She’d meant to lead Mahatma through just enough of a show to support her pretense that she’d been training her legionnaires in espionage skills, then dismiss the squad and cut short the robot’s attempt to enforce Legion discipline. Mahatma was enough of a natural actor to bring it off without the rest of the squad figuring out what had happened-in fact, they’d probably just be grateful to go back to their bunks. And if she played her hand right, she could shepherd the robot off so Gears could begin work on repairing it.
But the general’s arrival changed everything. Now she had to make the demonstration convincing enough that the general wouldn’t smell a rat, while maintaining the pretense that the gung ho robot really was Captain Jester. She also wanted to keep her legionnaires from taking any more flak than they absolutely had to. This meant fooling not only the malfunctioning robot but the general, who despite his recent good mood was infamously hostile to Omega Company and Captain Jester. And she was the only one here who knew what was really going on, not that there was anybody who could help her if the general decided to fly off the handle.
I’ve just got to tough it out, she thought, turning to face Mahatma again. The little legionnaire was actually standing at a pretty fair semblance of attention; that might prevent the general from losing his temper prematurely. He was going to lose his temper; that much Brandy took for granted. Especially since the robot had picked today to hand him a beating on the golf course…
“Legionnaire Mahatma!” she barked, in her best parade-ground voice. “You heard the captain. We are going to demonstrate your infiltration and intelligence-gathering training for the general.”
“Yes, Brandy,” said Mahatma. “May I ask a question?”
All right, Mahatma! Brandy thought. I hope you make it a good one, this time. “Permission granted,” she said, crisply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the general’s jaw drop. If this didn’t work, she could forget the remainder of her Legion career. So she might as well have as much fun as she could, while it lasted.
“Thank you, Brandy,” said Mahatma, still maintaining an almost acceptable military stance. He shifted his eyes toward the general, who was still wearing his golf togs, and asked, “Why is the commanding general so fat and out of uniform?”
General Blitzkrieg’s face turned crimson. He took two steps forward and began to bellow, “Why, you impertinent-”
The robot stepped ahead of him and cut him off, barking out, “Sergeant! I have never seen such flagrant insubordination! How do you explain this?”
“Sir!” said Brandy, keeping a straight face. “Nobody who saw this legionnaire’s disrespect for authority could possibly believe that he has any military training. That is Omega Company’s secret weapon. Because the enemy underestimates this man-and most of our legionnaires-they can exercise their military skills in conditions where they have the element of surprise completely on their side.“
“Military skills!” This time it was Blitzkrieg who spoke. “Military skills, my blinking arse! What possible military skills could this grinning imbecile have?”
“With the general’s permission, Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills,” said Brandy.
The robot looked at the general, who clenched his teeth and nodded, turning a beady-eyed stare toward Mahatma. “Carry on, Sergeant,” said the robot, crossing its arms over its chest.
Brandy suddenly realized that the robot had an expression that she had never seen on the real Captain Jester’s face. It took her a moment to figure it out, doing her best not to stare, which the general was sure to consider insubordinate, whether the robot noticed it or not.
The robot didn’t have real emotions, as far as she could understand. (Roboticists apparently had long, ongoing arguments on the subject.) Apparently, all the robot could do was display the external appearance of the human emotions it was programmed to simulate. Brandy had no idea whether these were installed from some standard menu at the factory or customized for each model. Given the amount of money the captain had spent, the latter was a good bet. But whatever the case, the robot shouldn’t be showing any emotion it wasn’t already programmed to show.
So why did she get the distinct impression it was doing its best to hide utter irrational fear?
Phule came to his senses in a small room with a south-facing window. Actually, he’d never really lost consciousness- he’d just been unable to exert his own will power, following the woman who’d somehow managed to drug him. But he’d sat in a kind of stupor for an unknown time in this little room-wherever it was. Still somewhere in central Rome, he figured-he couldn’t have walked any real distance, and he had no memory of entering any kind of vehicle. On the other hand, he had only the vaguest memory of the last… how long was it, anyway? And he didn’t have to try the door to have a very good idea he was for all practical purposes a prisoner.