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“Think nothing of it,” said Fox. “I don’t like to see somebody get in trouble when I could have prevented it.”

“Grazie again, then,” said Pitti da Phule. “I will remember this.” He broke the connection.

Thumper and the other members of his training squad were well into an evening of creative goofing off when the captain walked into the Enlisted Legionnaires’ Lounge. By this time of day, they were usually free to follow their own routines-which, in the Omega Mob, included drinking, swapping stories, playing bar games, dancing to Roadkill’s band, or joking around. Unless there was a real emergency, sergeants and officers tended to leave them alone.

So nobody was expecting Captain Jester to order them to report to the gym, on the double. If he had been a mere sergeant, they might have complained. But the captain was a different story; not only was he the top authority on the planet-at least, when generals weren’t visiting-he also knew when to give his people a little slack. So Roadkill and his buddies shut off their instruments, and Omega Training Squad obediently trooped down to the gym. They lined up in a formation that would’ve made even Brandy proud. Or so Thumper thought, as he took his place at one end of the front rank, next to his buddy Mahatma.

Surprise! For the first time since he’d joined Omega Company, Thumper found himself being yelled at by his company commander. Not by a sergeant, which wouldn’t have been any surprise-yelling at the troops was what sergeants were supposed to do. Not even one of the lieutenants, who were usually too busy to bother. Nope, this was the CO himself, hollering and cussing worse than Sergeant Brandy.

“You look like a bunch of Fungolian weevils! Who taught you how to stand at attention ? Do you call that a regulation haircut? Wipe that smirk off your face, legionnaire!” The entire squad seemed stunned-they’d never seen the captain like this.

But after a little while, Brandy showed up, and things started looking normal again. Thumper wondered if this was some kind of training exercise; that was the best explanation he could think of for the way Brandy and the captain acted. After all, he’d seen a good bit of Captain Jester while he was caddying for Flight Leftenant Qual in the golf matches. He hadn’t expected the captain to act like this, not at all.

Then-surprise number three!-General Blitzkrieg walked into the gym! Thumper hoped the general didn’t remember that unfortunate incident with a bucket full of stinky stuff back in basic training. It hadn’t really been Thumper’s fault, but it sure looked like it when somebody handed him the bucket after emptying it over the general’s head while the lights were out. The general seemed to be the kind of human who remembered things like that. Or maybe he didn’t; at least he hadn’t said anything out on the golf course, while Thumper caddied for Flight Leftenant Qual. Still, the general might not pay attention to his golf opponent’s caddy; but here he was on Legion business. In spite of himself, Thumper shivered.

Sergeant Brandy called Mahatma forward, and told the general about the squad’s special mission. This was the first time Thumper had heard anything about it, but as he listened to her, he thought it would explain a lot of things that hadn’t made sense before. Even when Mahatma asked the general one of his pain-in-the-ass questions, Brandy explained it so the general seemed to understand it.

The only thing that didn’t fit was the captain’s reaction. Thumper thought he looked surprised. Was the secret mission supposed to be a secret from the captain? He certainly didn’t look as if he’d ever heard of it. Or was he worried that Mahatma wouldn’t be enough of a pain?

Thumper was still trying to figure it out when Brandy said, “Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills.” That caught Thumper’s attention, all right. Mahatma was the only member of the training squad close to Thumper’s size, so the two of them often ended up as sparring partners in hand-to-hand combat drills. Thumper had a lot of respect for Mahatma’s skills. The little human was fast, and sneaky, and a lot stronger than he looked.

So it was only natural when Sergeant Brandy pointed to Thumper, and said, “Legionnaire Thumper, front and center to spar with Mahatma.”

Thumper had taken two steps forward when the general barked, “Wait a minute! If you’re going to demonstrate this man’s military skills, I want to see a real opponent out here. You’re not going to match him with some fluffy bunny, Sergeant.”

Thumper thought he was a pretty decent opponent, but he could sort of see the general’s point. Even Brandy made sure each of them sparred against everybody in the squad. She always said, “You don’t get to pick out an opponent your own size in a real fight.” So he stepped back into the formation as Brandy asked, oh so politely, “Perhaps the general would like to select an opponent for Legionnaire Mahatma?” Only someone who’d watched her for weeks under the hot sun would have noticed a faint smile.

General Blitzkrieg scanned the training squad, a scowl on his face. After a moment, he pointed, and said, “That one looks fit enough. You, legionnaire. Front and center!”

“Yes, sir!” said a mechanical voice, and Thumper involuntarily turned to make sure he’d heard correctly. Sure enough, stepping forward came Rube, one of the three Gambolts assigned to Omega Company.

“Hello, Rube,” said Mahatma, waving. The Gambolt wasn’t a bad choice, if you were looking for the strongest possible opponent for Mahatma. Never mind Rube’s genial attitude; like most of his species, he was powerfully built, tachyon-fast, and loved nothing more than a good fight. He was more dangerous unarmed than most other sophonts would be with a full kit of advanced weaponry.

But Mahatma wasn’t about to let his opponent make the first move. Even as Rube opened his mouth to reply to the little human’s greeting, Mahatma was in action. It happened so fast that Thumper wasn’t quite sure what he saw, but it seemed as if Mahatma simply launched himself at the Gambolt’s head. Rube dodged, reacting instinctively, but Mahatma’s toe snaked out and caught the Gambolt under the chin, snapping his head back. As Rube fell backward, Mahatma’s arm came whipping down to strike a blow flat on the side of his head. Rube fell to the floor and landed on his back.

The Gambolt recovered almost instantly, but Mahatma was faster. He landed on his feet and, before Rube could get his feet under him, put a hand atop his opponent’s head and poised another at his throat to signal that he could strike a crippling blow.

Brandy clapped her hands once. “Halt!” she said. The two opponents relaxed, and Rube leapt to his feet, evidently unhurt by his fall. Then Brandy turned to the general. “Would you like another demonstration, sir, or is that sufficient?”

In the gaping silence that followed, it was easy to hear Mahatma’s cheerful voice, “Perhaps the general would like to demonstrate his own combat skills?”

17

Journal #866-

There are few experiences more flattering than learning that one has been missed. Being sought after may be among them; but it depends heavily on just who is doing the seeking, and why. Consider the different impressions one would have from learning one was being sought by an attractive person of the opposite sex, and by an armed band of revenue officers…

Sparrowhawk heard the office door open and quickly blanked her screen. Not for security-unless you included job security in that category. She did know Legion security officers who would argue that anything a general’s adjutant did had the potential to give an enemy valuable intelligence-even the games she played while she waited for the general to give her some actual work-but she didn’t buy that argument. No, she just had every office worker’s instinctive aversion to letting the boss look over her shoulder. And sure enough when she turned around, there he stood-looking somewhat dazed, she thought.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, automatically forcing herself to perk up. “Did you find out what the natives are up to?”