Phule Me Twice

Chapter 12

Journal #569

Being in command of Omega Company had greatly broadened my employer's horizons. For one thing, he had become familiar with members of several other intelligent races, from the sluglike Synthians to the feline Gambolts. He had even been so fortunate as to make the human race's first contact with the Zenobians, whom he subsequently helped bring into the Alliance. And he had been given ample opportunity to observe their differences from humanity, a species that was not by any means uniform in its culture or psychology.

But nothing had quite prepared him for the job of trying to understand a race that neither he nor anyone else had ever seen.

"Still no sign of them," said Phule. He had been pacing the small confines of their prison for the last hour. "When are they going to show themselves?"

"Perhaps they have, sir. Perhaps we're incapable of seeing or hearing them," suggested Beeker. The butler had scrunched into a corner and drawn up his legs to stay out from under the nervous captain's pacing.

"I still don't see how that could be," said Phule, stopping and turning to look at him. "The problem of invisibility has been pretty thoroughly investigated. Believe me, if there were some workable technique for it, every military unit in the galaxy would be using it. It only works in special circumstances, like on a magician's stage set."

"That is not an inapt comparison, sir," said Beeker. "Our captors may have set up almost any imaginable kind of equipment beyond these walls. Nor can we guess what substances they may have put into our air, our food, or our drinking water. One wonders what benefit they derive from the deception. It must cost them a fair amount of time and effort, if not actual money-assuming they use any such thing."

Phule paced around the cell a moment, then said, "You know, Beek, maybe that doesn't bother them. The biggest thing I learned from the Landoor mission was to stop worrying about money. That was the first time I've ever let the projected cost of something bother me, instead of just trusting my instincts to keep me in the black. And I didn't need to worry at all. With the people I had on the job, you among the most important, I ended up with more than I started out with."

Beeker frowned. "Yes, sir, but it was a very close thing..."

"And we came out the other side just fine," said Phule, waving the objection away. "The worrying didn't make a nickel's worth of difference, in the long run. All it did was make me unhappy, when I should've trusted my people to get the job done. Well, I can draw a conclusion as well as anybody else. I've got Sushi and Do-Wop on the job of investigating the Hidden Ones, and that means they'll eventually figure out what's happened to us. And once they know that, they'll find a way to get us loose. So why worry about it?"

Beeker clasped his hands together. "I am glad that you have stopped worrying about money, sir." He smiled. "If that is the case, and considering that you evidently value my suggestions, I think it is high time for us to discuss an increase in my salary."

"We can talk about that if we ever get out of this place," said Phule, "Not much you can do with money in here, is there?"

Beeker's face was stoical. "The accumulated interest from the date of the raise could be significant, sir."

"You do have a point there," admitted Phule. Then his eyes grew wide. "Wait a minute...It's opening again."

They turned to see a portion of the wall again darkening and becoming porous, as it had when their captors had fed them. Were they going to see their captors at last? Or were they simply going to be fed again? The Hidden Ones did not necessarily have any notion how frequently humans needed to eat, although the food they had provided before indicated familiarity with their nutritional requirements.

Phule stooped, trying to see if he could detect anything from a lower angle. But, as before, the opening stayed opaque, although apparently perfectly transparent to material substances. Through it, a round object about the size of a person's head came bouncing, making a jingling noise as it rolled across the enclosure and came to a stop at Beeker's feet. The butler bent to pick it up. "What in the world is this, sir?" he asked, holding it balanced on his palm.

Phule looked at the object, then said, "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a gravball. Except they've put a bell inside it for some reason."

Rembrandt had taken advantage of an hour off duty to sketch the rugged terrain just beyond the Legion camp's perimeter. As always, she found that the challenge of turning blank paper into a recognizable picture of a specific landscape helped clear her mind of other matters-of which there were far too many at present-for a short time. But, as too often happened, other matters had come looking for her, and now she was going to have to deal with them.

"OK, Sushi, tell me what you've found," she said, wearily setting aside her sketchpad and pencil. "I won't even ask where you and Do-Wop have been hiding."

"I wouldn't tell you," said Sushi. "Major Botchup hasn't found out about us yet, but somehow, I don't think he'd authorize us to continue the search. And we have every intention of keeping it going. As Do-Wop says, `If the major don't like it, he can shove it.'"

"Sounds just like what he'd say," said Rembrandt. "But maybe you should ask yourself, what if I don't like it?"

"Well, we'd have to take that pretty seriously," said Sushi. "But as far as I'm concerned, the person with the final say is Captain Jester. If he tells me to give it up, that's final. Anybody else, I reserve the right to disagree."

"And what has the captain said?"

Sushi paused, then admitted, "I haven't talked to him. But from what I hear, he's acting very strange. Maybe being lost in the desert threw him into a loop-I don't know. Anyhow, I think my best move is just to keep on with the job he gave me."

Rembrandt sighed. "Sushi, even in Omega Company you can't just ignore a superior officer's orders. I wish the major had never been sent to us, but that doesn't change the rules. He's still our commanding officer, no matter how you feel about it."

Sushi winked at her. "I'm not ignoring his orders, Lieutenant. He hasn't given me any yet."

"Because Do-Wop and you have been AWOL ever since the major stepped out of his lander," said Rembrandt. "In fact, I'm technically violating the Legion Code of Conduct myself, for failing to report you two."

"We won't report you if you don't report us," said Sushi. "Now, why don't I tell you what I came here for, and get away before somebody else sees us and has to agonize over whether to report us both?"

"You know I wasn't going to report you," said Rembrandt. "But yes, if you've come out of hiding to tell me something, I'd better hear what it is. And then you'd better take off before somebody does see us together."

"Ah, you anticipate my plan," said Sushi, in a mock-villainous accent. He leaned forward and said, "Our new apparatus has picked up a signal from out in the desert; I'm pretty sure it's the aliens the Zenobians have been looking for."

Rembrandt sat up straighter. "A signal. I'll take it for granted you've eliminated other local sources. So, if you're right about what you've got, you and Do-Wop have just accomplished one of our main mission objectives, all by yourselves." She stopped and looked him in the eye before continuing. "Why are you telling me, anyway, instead of taking it to the CO? He's the one who needs to know it. Hey, he might even give you a citation."

"Whoopee," said Sushi, twirling a finger in the air. "Seriously, Remmie, I don't think so. The major got sent here for just one reason: to undermine Captain Jester. And the captain's got Do-Wop and me working on just the kind of wildcat scheme the brass hats hate. The major would rather fail doing things the Legion way than succeed any other way, especially if it comes from the captain. The best that could happen if I told him what I've got is that he'd ignore me. No, the best that could happen would be that he'd go ahead and let me finish up and do his damnedest to steal credit for it. Then, at least, something would get done."

"What needs doing?" asked Rembrandt.

"What needs doing is tracing that signal and seeing where it comes from," said Sushi. "I think that when we do that, we'll find the captain's hovercar, and Beeker, and maybe we'll learn what happened to the captain and how to fix it."

"That's worth doing," said Rembrandt, nodding. "Chocolate Harry already asked for a team to go find the hovercar, but the request is backed up in the paperwork on the major's desk. Meanwhile, everybody in the company knows the captain's not acting like himself, but he won't let the autodoc check him out, and the major's not interested in helping him. And most of the troops think the captain's getting away with something they wish they could do themselves, and they root for him when they think the major's not paying attention. Probably the only person with any chance to get him to take care of himself is Beeker."

"Right," said Sushi. "That's why we need to find Beeker and bring him back-if we can."

"I see," said Rembrandt. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Sushi smiled and said, "Here's my plan..."

Lieutenant Snipe squinted into the blazing sun. His brow was already covered with sweat, and he could tell that his uniform was going to be soaked if he spent more than a few minutes outside his air-conditioned office.

The Legion might have picked a somewhat more comfortable place to send him, he thought with some annoyance. If the brass had its mind so set on replacing Jester, why hadn't they come up with the plan while Omega Company was still at the luxury resort that had been its barracks before this assignment? The MBC was more comfortable than any standard barracks, but still...

Well, if he'd missed one opportunity, it was all the more reason to seize the one that had come along. Major Botchup was Snipe's first-class ticket to favor with Legion Headquarters, and he'd be an idiot if he didn't make the most of it, scorching climate be damned. And the first step on the ladder he meant to climb was making himself as useful as possible to the major. That meant discovering as many ways as possible for the major to discredit-and, ultimately, to destroy-his predecessor in command. Luckily, that part of the job was turning out to be quite easy.

Snipe spotted a group of legionnaires busy at some task or another and strode over to inspect what they were up to. It was almost a given that there'd be something to find fault with, and he could add another item to the list of failures being chalked up against Captain Jester's record. He smirked. Chewing out these sorry specimens would almost make up for the despicable heat.

The legionnaires noticed the lieutenant's approach, for he heard a low voice mutter, "Yo, here come Sneak." Snipe frowned; his hearing was good enough to make out the words, but he couldn't be certain which legionnaire had said it. Well, no officer worth his salt would let his inability to spot the offender keep him from imposing proper discipline. It would be even more satisfying to make them all pay. For the moment, he'd pretend to ignore the insult.

"What are you men doing?" he snapped, balling his fists and putting them on his hips. The posture, intended to establish his authority, instead made him look faintly ridiculous. Even so, the group of legionnaires stopped whatever they'd been doing and turned to face him.

"We workin', Lieutenant," said one man. He was a lanky fellow whose name tag read Street, and his accent was so thick that Snipe had to think a moment before he realized what the man had said.

"Working?" Snipe stared at the group. "You'd better be working. This isn't a leisure club, you know."

"Man's a genius," muttered somebody just out of Snape's direct line of sight.

Snipe decided to ignore the sally, which after all might be interpreted as a compliment of sorts. "Exactly what sort of work are you doing?" he asked.

A young, round-faced legionnaire with old-fashioned eyeglasses answered him. "That is an excellent question, Lieutenant. Perhaps if we all inquire carefully, we will learn the answer."

"What do you mean by that,"-Snipe peered at the legionnaire's name tag-"Mahatma?" Snipe looked took a closer look. The name and face seemed familiar now. Wasn't this the legionnaire who'd been impertinent at inspection? "Are you saying that you people don't know what you're doing?"

"Does any of us really know what we are doing?" asked Mahatma, a faint smile on his face. "The simplest action has consequences no one can foresee."

"Deep, Mahatma, deep," murmured Street, nodding appreciatively and rubbing his hands together.

"This is the Legion," said Snipe, directing what he hoped was a steely gaze toward Mahatma. "It's your officers' job to think about consequences. Your job is to follow orders, and if you do, everything will be fine." He left it to the legionnaires' imagination to conjure up what would happen if they didn't.

Snipe had not reckoned on Mahatma's imagination, which was more than equal to the task. "Lieutenant Snipe, may I ask a question, sir?" Mahatma was holding up his hand, like an eager schoolboy. It was almost impossible to ignore him.

"What is it, Mahatma?" asked Snipe. He frowned, vaguely aware that the confrontation was leading away from his original purpose. Well, he'd get it back on course quickly enough, once he'd dealt with this digression.

Mahatma asked, with a very serious expression, "Lieutenant Snipe, should we not know who is giving us an order so we can determine whether it is correct to follow it?"

Snipe favored Mahatma with a glare and said, "I don't see how that applies-"

"Oh, but it does very much apply, sir," said Mahatma, so polite it was impossible to find fault with him. "It is not always easy to tell one person from another, and what if one of those persons is an officer and another is not? If a person we do not know comes and says he is an officer, should we obey him, or should we learn what his authority is before following his orders?"

"Oh, no, you won't catch me on that one," said Snipe with a ferocious grimace. "The major was given command of this unit by Legion Headquarters. He showed his orders to Captain Jester."

"But Captain Jester was not here when the major came," Mahatma pointed out. "He did not show the captain his orders, and yet he assumed command immediately. How do we know his orders were legal?"

"Yeah, Mahatma makin' sense," murmured the other legionnaires. "Deep, man, deep."

Snipe felt a slight tingling at the back of his neck. Were these men trying to work up a justification for mutiny? Should he try to talk them back into line or go inform the major and let him take whatever measures were necessary?

"Your other officers have accepted the major's authority," said Snipe, temporizing.

"I know they did, and that is why we have continued to obey orders," said Mahatma calmly. "But that was before the captain returned. Now, what if the captain tells us to do something? He is still an officer, is he not?"

"Captain Jester has been relieved of command," said Snipe, aware of a trickle of sweat on his forehead. "What is more, the major has placed him under arrest, pending investigation of his conduct in command. His authority is temporarily suspended."

"That is what we had heard," said Mahatma. "Does this mean we should not follow his orders?"

"You-" Snipe had opened his mouth to answer when he sensed another trap in Mahatma's question, and he bit off the answer. "That depends," he said, retrenching. "If his orders are legal, of course you should follow them. But if his orders go against the major's, you should not."

"Very good, sir, that is clear," said Mahatma, his smile even more beatific. "But one more question, please, Lieutenant Snipe. How do we know whether the captain's orders are legal until we know the major has approved them?"

"That's a good question," said Snipe. "I think, under the circumstances, that you should ignore Captain Jester's orders until you know that they have received the major's approval."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Mahatma. "I think I understand everything, now."

"Good. As you were, then," said Snipe, and took advantage of the opportunity to make his getaway.

Later, he was to regret not having stayed around to see the consequences of his advice. But of course, having little experience of either the Omega Mob or of Mahatma, he couldn't have been expected to foresee what they would make of it.

The Reverend Jordan Ayres blinked as he entered the lighted room and saw who was waiting for him. Armstrong and Rembrandt sat together on the couch, and Brandy was perched on its arm. "Have a seat, Rev," said Chocolate Harry, who'd called him to this clandestine meeting.

"Thanks, don't mind if I do," said the chaplain, pulling a straight-backed chair up to face the couch; Chocolate Harry perched his bulk precariously on the opposite arm of the couch from Brandy, making the two oversized sergeants bookends to the pair of lieutenants. Rev looked at the four faces staring back at him and said, "Must be somethin' important to bring all you together at once. Y'all gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?"

"I think you already know what our main problem is," said Rembrandt, taking the lead as the senior officer present.

"The major," said Rev, and the four heads nodded in unison. Rev nodded; but after a pause, he shrugged and said, "Well, I can sure sympathize with that, but I don't know what anybody here can do about it. The Legion done sent him, and I reckon we gotta put up with him."

"Ordinarily, I'd agree with you, Rev," said Armstrong. "He's our properly appointed superior officer, and if he has different ideas from what we're used to, we can either shape up or ship out. Especially since his ideas are strictly by the books."

"That's jes' the way I see it, Lieutenant," said Rev solemnly. "When the King got called into the Army, he done what he was told, like any other boy that went to be a soldier. No special favors for him. He even got his hair cut, and that wasn't no small sacrifice. If he could take it, I guess we can."

Rembrandt nodded. "That's a reasonable attitude to take," she said. "Our life would be easier if more legionnaires saw things that way. But, to tell you the truth, I don't know if it's what we need right now."

"Well, ma'am, I don't know whether I can accommodate you, then," said Rev. He stood up from his chair. "The King might have seemed like a rebel to some folks, but deep down inside, he was a great respecter of authority. Why, he even went to pay his respects to a man that-"

Brandy cut him off. "Sit back down, Rev. Let's get one thing straight. We don't need you to stir up the troops against the major. He's doing a pretty decent job of that all by himself. If they had any encouragement at all, they'd be doing everything they could to make him want to get transferred out. But the only man who could make them take that risk isn't saying anything, and until he does, they're afraid they'll hurt him more than they will themselves."

"You mean the captain," said Rev. He was still on his feet, but his hand rested on the back of the chair.

"That's right," said Brandy, fixing Rev with her gaze. "This whole company-officers, noncoms, right down to the newest rookies-would jump into a black hole for the captain. But as long as they're worried that they'd be hurting him, they won't take the first step. And the captain's acting pretty strange, in case you haven't noticed."

"Why, I reckon I have noticed, Brandy," said the chaplain. "He's been mighty distracted ever since he came back from the desert. Word has it the heat must have touched his mind. Have y' all found his butler yet?"

"No, Beeker's still missing," said Armstrong grimly. "We're working on something that might tell us what's happened to him, but I can't give you details. I'm afraid it's a long shot, though."

"A shame. He was a good feller, mighty good feller," said Rev, shaking his head. Then he sat down and looked at the four legionnaires. "But what do y'all want me to do, then?"

"We need you to go talk to the captain," said Rembrandt. "He's the one who asked for you to be sent to the company. We think maybe you have a chance to get through to him, even though he seems to have shut out the rest of us."

"Do you really think so?" the chaplain's expression took on a hint of soulful intensity.

"We do, Rev," said Rembrandt. "This is one area where you're the expert. We need you to help the captain. Once he's back in command of himself, then he can decide whether to try to recover command of his company. Until that happens, our hands are really tied. But we don't think that can happen without you."

"Without me?" Rev sat up straight, and his chest expanded. "Well, if it's a question of helpin' the man get back to his right sense of himself, you can count on me. I'll get right to it."

"Good, Rev, we appreciate it," said Rembrandt. "We knew you'd step up for us." She shook the chaplain's hand, and all the others shook his hand in turn. Then Rev turned and left the room, a man with a mission.

When he had left, Rembrandt turned to the other three and said, "All right, we've got Rev working on getting the captain back in shape. Now, what do we want him to do when we've got him back?"

There was a silence as they stared at one another, uncomfortable with the question Rembrandt had put on the table. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, they all began talking at once.

It took them several sentences before they figured out they all wanted exactly the same thing.

The Reverend Jordan Ayres was not, on the whole, a man who placed great value on subtlety. He had found his answers to the problems of life, and they were big answers, flamboyant, in-your-face answers. And, in the manner of all true believers, he tried to make those answers work for everyone around him. For the most part, they did work, if only because the way people usually solved their problems was to do something, almost anything, besides sitting and brooding on them.

However, it seemed to the chaplain that whatever was ailing Captain Jester was going to require a more subtle approach than usual with the legionnaires who had come to him for counseling. Here was a man who was used to being in control, a man rich in power and possessions. A man whose clothes always fit perfectly, whose expression rarely showed doubt or frustration. A man, it occurred to him, much like the King. What worked to console a homesick Legion recruit might not be appropriate for the captain. An amazing percentage of life's little problems will shrivel up and blow away when one can wave a Dilithium Express card at them.

"Good mornin', Captain," said Rev, walking up to the bench where Phule sat riffling through a stack of Legion personnel forms.

"Why, good morning to you," said the captain, looking up with a bright smile. "It's great to see you again. Why don't you sit down for a minute and talk?"

"Don't mind if I do," said Rev, sliding onto the bench next to him. "Been a while since we had a good jaw session. Course, you've been away for a while, too. Must have been a mighty...uh...interesting journey you had there." Perhaps, thought Rev, talking about the journey would open the way for the captain to speak of his troubles.

"I suppose you could say so," said Phule with a shrug. "There's not much of a story to tell, though. I'm just as glad to be here at the end of it, if you want to know the truth."

"Yes, I suspect you are," said Rev. This wasn't going quite the way he'd planned; he shifted his tack, hoping to bring the captain out. "The terrible depredations you went through out in the desert might have took more out of you than you realized at first-"

"Oh, I wouldn't make a big thing of it," said Phule. "Now, I bet you've got some interesting stories of your own." He gestured toward Rev, as if inviting him to tell some of those stories.

Rev sighed. Maybe he was better falling back on his tried-and-true approach, despite the captain's difference from his usual converts. "The best story I know ain't about me, it's about a poor boy on old Earth," he began. "Didn't nobody pay him much mind when he was a little lad, 'cause his folks weren't rich or important. They was jes' plain folks, down on their luck-"

Phule held up a hand to break in. "Everybody has a streak of bad luck now and then. Best thing to do, if you ask me, is just keep plugging away and wait for it to change. Of course, you have to know the odds, and you can't take foolish risks. We want you to play with your head, not over it." He grinned as if he'd said something profound.

Rev frowned. "Why sure, Captain, jes' like you say," he said. He tried to steer the subject back to the point he was trying to make. "But this here boy I'm talkin' about, he had a fire burnin' inside him, sure 'nuff."

"That's good, really good," said Phule, nodding. "If you think he'd fit in with our operation here, that's the kind of person we're looking for. He could get in touch with personnel. Tell him to mention your name, and of course I'll make sure his application gets taken seriously-"

"Well, that's not really what I'm gettin' after, Captain," said Rev, scratching his head. Captain Jester didn't seem to really be listening to him, and that was unusual, in his experience. Every boss he'd ever worked for claimed that listening to his people was a main priority, and almost none of them really did it. The captain had always been one of those who listened, and better yet remembered what he'd heard, and-best of all-followed up. But now...

"I'm glad you were able to stop by for a while," the captain was saying. "I've gotten so busy I don't have much time to talk to my old friends these days. But of course, for you, the door is always open."

"Sure, Captain, but like I was saying-" Rev tried to get one last word in.

The captain cut him off. "I'm afraid I've neglected this pile of work as long as I can justify. So, as much as I've enjoyed it, I guess I'll have to drag myself away for now." He stood and extended a hand. "Be sure to drop in again, next time you're in the station."

"Uh, yes sir," said Rev, taking the hand and pumping it almost by reflex. "Uh, one more thing-"

The captain wasn't going to be swayed. "Why don't you just head on out and enjoy yourself while you're here? A chance to let your hair down and just be yourself is good for anybody. And one tip: Our dollar slots give the best odds on the station." He winked and then sat down to his papers with an air that made it clear the interview was over.

Rev walked away in a daze. Things were even worse than he'd feared. He made his way to Rembrandt, saying not a word. The lieutenant looked up from her desktop, an anxious expression on her face. "Well, Rev, how'd it go?"

Rev shook his head. "I hate to say it, ma'am, but it ain't good at all. Not one bit." He paused and turned his eyes to the ground, then looked back at her. "If you're expectin' help from the captain, I'm afraid you got a long wait 'fore it gets here."

Rev's report convinced Rembrandt that it was imperative to follow up on Sushi's plan to find out what had happened to Phule's hoverjeep-and to Beeker. With the plan jumped up to top priority, she began recruiting a search party.

Almost the entire company would have gone, if she'd asked them. In the end, she chose six, with a particular eye to scouting skills and wilderness survival experience. Several legionnaires that her criteria kept off the team besieged her with complaints that their other skills more than compensated for these lacks. Remembering what had happened when she'd deferred to the troops in making up a similar "rescue party" on Landoor, Rembrandt stuck to her guns.

Flight Leftenant Qual was an obvious choice for the team. His local knowledge was orders of magnitude beyond anyone else's, of course, even when you remembered that he'd grown up in a swampy region rather than these semidesert conditions. Even then, she harbored some doubt whether the Zenobians were entirely trustworthy. After all, in one of his last messages, the captain had hinted that the local military was eavesdropping on him in between negotiating sessions. Also, considering how few members of his race were in camp, Qual's absence would be more easily noticed than that of any other possible participant. In the end, she decided that his local knowledge trumped all the objections.

Tempted as she was to include all three Gambolts, she reluctantly decided that she couldn't in good conscience leave the camp without any of the catlike aliens and their uncanny scouting abilities. So Dukes and Rube stayed behind, while Garbo-who, of the three, seemed best adjusted to working with humans-went with the team. So did Garbo's partner, Brick. Not just because the two were inseparable companions; as it turned Brick came from a back-country region of her home world, an arid region known as Nueva Arrakis. She had the kind of instinctive knowledge of desert scouting that only comes to someone who'd spent their growing-up years in dry country.

Mahatma and Double-X had the skills she needed, while neither would be missed if they were away from base for a week or more. Except for the latter factor, Brandy and Escrima would have been her first choices for the assignment, but neither could just walk off without being missed. Well, she had the best team she could put together, and she'd have to trust it to do the job that had to be done.

She'd had the most difficulty deciding who was going to command the team. All three of the company's sergeants had wanted to do it, but none of them could just disappear from the base without being missed fairly quickly. Finally, Rembrandt took the bit in her teeth. "The major isn't any part of this mission, and the captain's not himself right now," she told them. "I'm next in rank, so it's my job to make the decisions."

That was before Sushi had stormed into her office, demanding to be put on the team. Her original instinct had been to leave him off the team, despite the fact that it was his idea to send the expedition out to begin with.

"Look, I can't bring you along," she told him. "You're a city boy. You'd slow us down way too much in the kind of country we'll be traveling in. Besides, we need you to monitor the alien signals so you can tell us about any changes in them. That means you have to stay behind and stay in touch via communicator."

Sushi wasn't budging. "Have you forgotten that the communicator's on the fritz?" he pointed out. "We can't pick up signals from more than a couple of miles beyond the perimeter, let alone where we're going to be. Now that I've figured out what frequency the aliens are using, I can monitor it with a handheld unit, which is what I've been working on the last couple of days. I've got it down to three kilos in weight, and it's no bigger than a shoebox."

After he showed her the new unit, Rembrandt was convinced, and she added him to the team. But this meant she'd have to cut somebody else to keep the team to a manageable size. That was going to be tricky; all the members had useful skills, although only Qual seemed really indispensable. Cutting either Garbo or Brick probably meant she'd have to drop the other, and she couldn't afford to lose both. So that left Mahatma and Double-X as the possible choices.

She agonized over it for a whole afternoon before a peremptory communicator message ordered the officers to the command center. Rushing to the meeting, she rounded a corner and nearly collided with Louie, speeding silently down the cross-corridor on his glide-board. The Synthian swerved just in time to avoid hitting Rembrandt; but in her abrupt stop, she wrenched her lower back. By the time she got to Botchup's office, it was starting to stiffen up. By the time the meeting was over, she couldn't stand. The autodoc scanned her, displayed a diagnosis of muscle spasm, and dispensed a bottle of pills that stopped the pain well enough for her to sit at a desk and work; but it was obvious she was in no shape to head a team into rough country.

That made Flight Leftenant Qual the de facto team leader. Now Rembrandt was glad she'd given in to Sushi's demands to be included; of all the remaining team members, he had the most leadership potential and the clearest sense of their mission. And, perhaps most importantly, he seemed to have the best idea what Qual was talking about; the translator's mangled renditions of the Zenobian Language were sometimes more impenetrable than the Alliance tax code.

She hobbled out to see the team meet at the perimeter for their departure. They slipped out of camp after midnight, with only the light of the gibbous Zenobian moon to guide them. (According to the books, the local moon-Vono, the Zenobians called it-was a bit smaller than old Earth's famous Luna, but it was bright and impressive enough to these legionnaires, most of whom came from small-mooned or even moonless worlds).

Actually, the team could probably have made its move in broad daylight, since everybody in Omega Company except for Botchup and Snipe knew what was about to happen. Of course, if the major caught them and tried to make a big deal of it, they might have to break a few more regulations than they'd planned on breaking. Even the success of their decidedly nonregulation mission wouldn't necessarily excuse the violations if the major decided to get vindictive, which struck everybody as exactly how he'd play it. Just to avoid unnecessary complications, they'd decided to go at night.

After a final check of equipment and supplies, Qual led them off into the dark. With luck, they'd reach their destination without being detected by the aliens or missed by the major. Standing there watching them fade into the darkness, Rembrandt had a twinge of regret at not being able to join them. But another twinge from her back told her in no uncertain terms that she'd made the right decision. She turned and walked slowly back to her bunk, hoping all her other decisions had been right. She'd know the answer soon enough.