Phule Me Twice

Chapter 13

The Zenobian desert, like those on most other planets, was a far more diverse and fertile environment than most city-dwellers would have realized. Especially to the Zenobians, who were most at home in a swamplike setting, any large dry area seemed much like any other. But as the team sent out to search for the source of the alien signals quickly saw, this was no simple unbroken expanse of dry sand. There was life aplenty here, some of it very lively and very dangerous to the unwary.

Flight Leftenant Qual knew some of it; city-bred though he was, he'd seen desert wildlife both during his military training and in zoos back home. By default, he was their native guide. But even he admitted that much of it was new to him. "If you espy anything you don't comprehend, make your path distant from it," he said cheerfully. The others nodded soberly and did as he said.

This policy was not easy to follow since (following the practice of desert experts everywhere) they planned to travel at night when the heat was least oppressive and when they were least likely to be picked out by anyone watching. Because the indigenous animals were themselves nocturnal in their habits, chance encounters were more frequent than the legionnaires would have liked. Every now and then something close by would make an unexpected noise, and one of the off-worlders was likely to jump. Sometimes Qual told them the names of the creatures: There was a loud-voiced, squatty thing he called a grambler, a little burrowing creature called a western flurn, and a furtive thing with eyes that shone brightly in their Legion-issue night vision goggles, which Qual's translator solemnly informed them was a spotted sloon.

Most of these were no trouble, but there was a lizardlike thing with half-inch-long teeth that could leap high off the ground to attack whatever had disturbed it. That little pest had them flinching at the least sign of motion in their pathway, with vigorous cursing in three languages and several dialects. The hopper-biter blended invisibly into the low brush. Even with the night vision goggles, it was hard to spot it in time to avoid a nasty bite. After a couple of near misses, the team took to detouring around any patch of vegetation-a tactic which, the farther they got into the desert, cost them more and more time.

Finally, confronted with a nearly unbroken patch of ankle-high brush to cross, Qual called a halt and turned to face the others in the party. "We are making too slow advancement," he said quietly. "Here is a technique that may expedite our forward gains." He loosened the sling on his stun ray and took the weapon in both hands.

"Oh, wow, I get it," said Brick. "We hose the area we want to walk through, and that knocks out the varmints so we can get past. Why didn't I think of that?"

"It is not a technique to employ constantly," said Qual. "With many stunners firing, there is danger of hitting one's teammates. If one is essaying a stealthy approach, it may alert the adversary if small animals in the path of approach begin to fall from their perches or drop from the air. And it is predestinated that a few of the stunned animals will be killed by falling or will be gobbled by others that recover more swiftly. And last, constant use dissipates the energy of the weapon, and it takes a certain time to recharge-a poor situation if one expects to encounter hostility."

"Which might or might not happen to us," said Sushi. He looked uncomfortable in his desert gear, but he'd kept up with the group fairly well. City-bred or not, he was in excellent physical condition from his hours of martial arts training.

"In that case, we need to be ready for all possibilities," said Mahatma, smiling. "That's what the sergeants keep telling us. It's impossible, of course."

"Sure, and so's FTL. Just ask any classical physicist," said Sushi. "Of course, you'd need time travel to go find one-they're all dead-and that's impossible, too."

"Impossible is not a word I have heard Captain Clown use," said Flight Leftenant Qual. "Therefore you will not let it rule your speculations. `The gryff sees only gryffish things, and therefore knows not the mountain,' or so my egg-mother always proclaimed. Of course gryffs are very stupid."

"What's a gryff?" asked Double-X.

"A large, clumsy omnivore," said Qual. "They do not inhabit the desert, so we need not worry about them." He pointed his stun ray forward and depressed the firing button. "Come, I will clear the way for a while, and you will follow. When my weapon has used half its charge, another of you will take over."

He stepped to the front of the group and began sweeping his ray across the path. After a moment, he moved forward, and the team fell in behind him. They had no further trouble with hopper-biters.

There was nothing Major Botchup enjoyed quite as much as springing a surprise inspection. It gave him an exhilarating sense of power to see grown men and women cringing when he came unexpectedly into sight. They'd pretend they didn't see him, hoping he would go away. Sometimes he would just go about his business. But other times just often enough to be unpredictable-he would pounce.

He didn't disguise the thrill he got from their panic as they realized they had no chance to conceal the things they'd let slide. And there were always things they'd let slide, things they wanted to conceal. That provided another thrill: finding all the evidence of their slacking off and wrongdoing and rubbing their noses in it, with ample punishment for every defect he found. Stern, unrelenting discipline was the best possible way to guarantee that the troops would live in fear of him, which was the only emotion the major wanted to inspire in his troops.

So there was a feral grin on his face as he emerged from the command entrance to the MBC first thing in the morning. This early, they wouldn't be expecting him. If he was lucky, they'd still be groggy from sleep. His eyes swung from side to side, his nose wrinkling as if he could sniff out his prey. He hadn't made up his mind just where he would strike today, but he knew he would eventually find a target. And then, his aim would be unerring, and those who had earned his righteous wrath would tremble at the memory for years to come.

There, in the shade of a tool shed across the central parade ground of the camp, he spotted a likely target. It was one of the sorry pack of aliens that had been exiled to this pariah company because they couldn't cut the mustard in the real Legion. A Volton, reading a book. There shouldn't be any time for reading. He could give the creature a good chewing out just on general principles.

But it wouldn't do to charge across the parade ground directly at his victim. If the Volton had something to hide, he might slink off when he saw Botchup coming, and that would make the major exert himself for no purpose. Better to take a roundabout approach and lure the loafing sophont into complacency. There was a small knot of legionnaires to his left, so he chose that direction.

As Major Botchup's eyes focused on the group he was approaching, they began to grow wider-and wider still. The group ahead of him was even worse than anything his previous experience of Omega Company had led him to expect. They were lounging idly, clearly doing nothing in particular. Worse, they were out of uniform! Instead, they wore a hodgepodge of civilian clothes, mixed with bizarre purple garments of various sorts. Most were unkempt and unshaven; in his entire career in the Space Legion, Major Botchup had never seen anything to approach it.

He swooped on the group like a tactical hoverjet discovering an unprotected ammo dump. "What the devil do you people think you're doing?" he snapped. "This is an outrage! Where are your uniforms?"

"We done took 'em off, Major," said one human in an accent that straddled the boundary between Standard and incomprehensible jargon. "Lieutenant Snipe's orders."

"What?" Botchup's face turned the same color as the antirobot camouflage the troops were wearing. "If Snipe said any such thing, I'll see him cashiered out of the service! Exactly when did he issue this order?"

"Well, it was just yesterday, Major," said a young woman whose face seemed vaguely familiar. "A bunch of us asked him about which orders we had to obey, and he said-"

"Which orders to obey? Preposterous!" By now, the major had gone well past the boiling point. "A legionnaire obeys all orders, or I'll know the reason why! Where are your sergeants?"

"I dunno, Major," said the first legionnaire-Street, according to his name tag: "They don't usually bother us long as we doin' the job-"

"They'll answer to me, then!" the major fumed. "What makes you think you can dress this way?"

The legionnaires all began talking at once. "Well, Major, Sarge said we was likely to see action against robots..."

"It was the captain told us to wear the uniforms he got us, so we figured we shouldn't keep wearin' 'em, 'cause he's not the CO anymore..."

"The captain said not to worry about the robots, but we aren't supposed to obey him..."

"I didn't have any of my old uniforms..."

"I didn't have anything but civvies, 'cause of when I joined up..."

"Quiet!" Major Botchup shouted. The entire group-indeed, the entire camp-fell into complete silence, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the steady gurgling of the company water pump, not far from where they stood. The major put his hands on his hips and said in a voice that could have air-cooled the entire camp, "I don't know what Lieutenant Snipe told you, but I'm not going to let that get in the way of proper Legion discipline. Every man jack of you is going to report yourselves to Lieutenant Snipe for conduct unbecoming a legionnaire, and then you are going to your quarters and get into proper uniform. And you are every one of you going to do extra punishment duty, and it will be damned hard duty, I promise you!"

"But Major-" came a voice from the back of the group.

"Oh, shut up!" said Major Botchup. He looked around the camp, ready to flay another victim. Much to his annoyance, the Volton he'd observed before had gone away. But he'd find somebody else. He was sure of that.

The search party had settled down after its first full night of desert travel. Soon the Zenobian sun would be rising, and when it did, they needed to be under shade. They'd set up in a pair of insulated tents on the north side of a small hill, where they'd get a bit more shade. They'd try to sleep through the daylight hours and get a fresh start when the sun had dipped low in the sky again.

Just before they'd halted, Garbo had surprised a small creature near the edge of a water hole, and she and Qual had run it down. Now she and Brick were stewing it, stretched out with Legion-ration dried vegetables, in a pot over a portable heating unit between the tents; it smelled delicious. Meanwhile, Flight Leftenant Qual, whose race preferred its food uncooked, had gone out into the desert to find a breakfast more to his liking.

In his tent, Sushi had set up his portable detector unit and strung out a few meters of antenna between the tent and a spiky plant a little distance away, trying to get a more precise fix on the signal they were homing in on.

"How much farther do we have to go, Soosh?" asked Mahatma, who was sharing the tent with Sushi and Double-X. "This desert travel is nowhere near as oppressive as Major Botchup, but it'll never be my idea of relaxation."

"Hard to get a precise reading," said Sushi, fiddling with the fine tuning. "If I knew how strong the signal is at its source, I'd have a better idea. At a guess, it's a couple more days of travel; but if the signal's an order of magnitude stronger than I think, it could be a lot farther."

"What do we do if it's halfway around the planet?" said Double-X, who lay on top of his sleeping bag, propped up on one elbow to play a handheld computer game. "I ain't walkin' all that far, even if it does get me out from under the major's nose for a while."

"That's for Qual to decide," said Sushi. "It's his people that are being invaded, and it's a fairly big priority for them, so I suspect he's not going to give up unless it's obviously hopeless."

"What if it ain't obvious to him?" said Double-X. "He can live off the land, but we're gonna run out of food sooner or later, even if we do catch one of these desert rats every now and then."

"After seeing Garbo hunt, I would think we'd catch one more often than that," said Mahatma. "She is very efficient once she spots a prey creature. And unless my nose is playing tricks on me, this one will make very good eating."

"Yeah, it does smell good," admitted Double-X. "That don't mean I wanna eat it every night for the rest of my life-"

Sushi raised a hand to cut him off. "Hold it a moment, I'm getting something," he said. The receiver had begun emitting a series of high-pitched squeals and beeps.

"Aww, give a guy a break, Soosh. That's just noise," said Double-X. "You been out in the sun too long if you 'xpect that to make any sense."

"Soosh can't find out if it makes sense if you don't let him hear it," said Mahatma, with an expansive gesture. "Why not give him the break?"

Double-X had already opened his mouth to reply when he grasped Mahatma's point and closed it again, nodding silently. The beeps from the receiver continued, getting louder and softer as Sushi continued to play with the fine tuning. "I'd swear there's a repeating pattern, but I can't quite put my finger on it," he said. "I wish I had the captain's Port-a-Brain."

"I wish I had the money to buy one of those mothers and then go spend it on other stuff," said Double-X, but he kept his voice low.

"It's fading out," said Sushi, leaning closer to the receiver. "I'm losing the signal, damn it! No-quiet, it's getting stronger..." The others held their breath, but a moment later, the signal faded out entirely and was replaced by obviously random noise. Sushi pounded a fist into his thigh and. said, "Well, it's gone again. We might as well eat."

"If these creatures are affected by the heat, they're probably getting ready to go to sleep, just as we are," Mahatma pointed out. "That could explain the signal fading in daytime."

"It doesn't fade every day," grumbled Sushi. "There must be some other explanation."

"And perhaps we will learn it," said Mahatma, getting to his feet. "But for now, I am interested mostly in learning how this stew will taste. Gambolt cookery will be a new experience."

"Hey, I helped cook it, too," said Brick with mock indignation.

"Then we will blame you equally with Garbo if it is inedible," said Mahatma, deadpan. Before Brick could react, he added, "It does not smell inedible, though. I don't think there will be any blame to apportion."

"Continue in that vein, and we will forget to include you when we apportion the stew," said Garbo. While translators were not at all reliable on the subtler nuances of alien speech, the statement was accompanied by a very good simulation of laughter. Grinning, the legionnaires filled their mess kits with the stew and were soon enjoying a meal that even Escrima might have taken some pride in serving them.

Mess Sergeant Escrima lifted the lid of the soup pot and took a deep sniff. He wrinkled his nose, trying to decide how it was coming along. Captain Jester had found him a source for several herbs and spices he'd been running short of. The shipment had come in just before they'd departed Landoor, and he'd left them unopened until their arrival at the new base. Now he was beginning to work them into his recipes. So far, everything had been good quality, but Escrima wasn't a man to jump to conclusions-at least, not when it came to cookery.

This was the first time he'd used the bay leaves, touted as being from the same grower who supplied the Alliance Senate dining hall. Escrima had heard that kind of puffery before and knew better than to put much weight on it. The aroma coming from the pot wasn't bad, he had to admit...but how was it going to taste? There was only one way to find out.

He'd been scowling at the slowly simmering liquid, trying to decide whether it was time yet to dip in a spoon and taste it, when he became aware of someone entering his kitchen. He turned and glared. Whoever it was might have legitimate business here, but he didn't want them to start thinking it was a place just anyone could walk into whenever they felt like it. He had a reputation to maintain.

It was the new CO, Major Ketchup, or something like that. He waved a sheaf of printouts and growled, "Sergeant, I see from these purchase orders that you've been going outside the Legion commissary network for supplies. That's a violation of policy, and an unnecessary expense to boot. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What the hell you doing in my kitchen?" said Escrima, his eyes glowing like red-hot coals. "You got a problem with my food?" His tone of voice made it clear that any such statement would be taken as grounds for a preemptory strike.

At that point, any person with the slightest sense of self-preservation would have contented himself with a very polite "No," and quickly left the kitchen, apologizing profusely and being especially careful not to expose his back to this obvious madman who had a large supply of knives and cleavers within easy reach.

Major Botchup was evidently lacking a sense of self-preservation. "I've had a look at your menus," he said. "You're coddling the troops with all this gourmet stuff, and wasting money besides. I'd be surprised if they can tell-"

"Can't tell?" Escrima's eyes bulged out. "You want me to tell you something? I tell you get the hell out of my kitchen before I put you in the soup pot. No, I don't do that; nobody eating the soup then." He began stalking toward the major, his voice growing louder with each sentence. "Maybe you just fat enough to cook down for lard, though-"

"Are you threatening a superior officer?" sputtered Botchup, but he backed away. "I'll have you in the stockade-"

"I'll have you in the stock pot!" shouted Escrima, and he grabbed a cleaver off the counter.

Whether or not the mess sergeant would have used it, Botchup never learned, for he turned tail and ran.

Lieutenant Snipe was feeling very unfairly put upon. It was bad enough taking the blame for his own foul-ups-that was part of being an officer-but somehow, Major Botchup had taken the position that Snipe was responsible for everything that had been going wrong. And, as Snipe had learned in a very unpleasant meeting with the major, quite a few things had gone wrong so far today. The chewing out he had just gotten was far from the first of his Legion career-working for Botchup, getting raked over the coals was par for the course-but it was by a good distance the most memorable.

Snipe was willing to admit that the major could hold him partly responsible for the troops' willful misinterpretation of his remark that orders given by the former CO might not be valid. But how could anyone have foreseen that they would take that as license to disobey all orders predating Major Botchup's arrival? And the mess sergeant's ferocious territoriality about his kitchen was certainly none of Snipe's doing; in fact, previous experience with mess sergeants might have in some part prepared the major for it. Admittedly, threatening to throw a superior officer into the soup pot was a bit extreme...

The final straw had been when the major had bolted from the kitchen into the outdoor sunlight, still in fear for his life, to collide with an oversized female legionnaire wearing only a bikini: First Sergeant Brandy. Never mind that the first sergeant was officially off duty, or that the climate conditions at this base amply justified her choice of attire and her decision to "catch a few rays," as she explained it, or that her considerable padding and quick reflexes in catching the major before he could fall prevented injury to either party. What mattered was that several nearby legionnaires had witnessed the incident-and laughed. Major Botchup could not tolerate laughter-at least not at his own expense. Lieutenant Snipe had been the first to pay for the major's humiliation, and he had paid a high price. His only recourse was to take it out on someone lower down the ladder. Luckily for him, there was a whole company of victims available.

Snipe emerged from the MBC with a fierce grimace on his face, looking around for someone to oppress. Any excuse would do. And knowing what he already knew about Omega Company, he would find plenty of excuses without having to search very far. Sure enough, there came a legionnaire; Snipe didn't know his name yet, but he recognized the face: dark greasy hair, sideburns that just stayed within the limits of regulations, thick lips that hinted at a sneer. He didn't like the fellow on general principles, but if memory served, he'd talked to this legionnaire yesterday. He'd been one of the group who'd gotten him into this trouble by taking his comments on orders literally. He owed this one a special reaming out. Snipe descended on the unfortunate victim like a ballistic missile on its target.

"You, there. Didn't you get the major's orders?" the lieutenant barked. "Uniforms to be worn at all times when on duty!"

"Sir, I am wearing my uniform," said the legionnaire with a bewildered look. Good; he was already on the defensive.

"If it's not worn in the regulation manner, it's the same as not wearing it at all," said Snipe, pointing to the legionnaire's upper chest. "That top button's open!"

"Sir, in this heat I thought-"

Snipe cut him off in midsentence. "I don't want to hear any of your excuses. You'll report for extra KP-on the double! And your regular job better get done, as well, or you'll get yourself another round of extra duty! Go on, get out of my sight."

"Yes, sir!" said the legionnaire, and he quickly turned away in the direction of the kitchen.

Snipe smiled-not a pretty smile, but a sincere one nonetheless. Sending the offending legionnaire for KP was a stroke of genius. If Snipe could find half a dozen more to punish the same way, he'd have the kitchen filled with superfluous personnel, and that'd give the mess sergeant the headache of finding something for them to do that didn't interfere with his precious kitchen. He began a leisurely stroll around the compound, looking for more offenders to punish.

To his surprise, he'd barely gone a dozen paces before he ran into the same legionnaire! There was no mistaking that face, especially not the annoying sneer. "What do you think you're doing, legionnaire? Didn't I tell you to report for KP?"

"Sir, it's not my day," said the legionnaire, a puzzled look on his face. "I'm not on until tomorrow."

Snipe thought the fellow's voice sounded somehow different, but that didn't matter. It was obviously the same man. "Are you crazy or just stupid?" he barked. "I ordered you to extra duty less than two minutes ago. Now get down to the kitchen before I throw you in the stockade instead!"

The legionnaire spread his hands. "That wasn't me, sir, it must have been-"

"Get out of my sight!" shouted Snipe, his face turning red. The legionnaire, evidently deciding not to press his luck, saluted and went off quickly toward the kitchen.

Snipe was starting to get into his stride now. He found another' legionnaire with a loose button, and one who hadn't polished his boots sufficiently for Snipe's taste, and he sent them both to KP. But his jaw nearly fell when he rounded a corner of the MBC and found the same legionnaire there again, sitting in a chair and reading!

"You!" he sputtered, walking over to the sideburned malefactor. "You..."

The legionnaire looked up at him and said with a smile, "Howdy, can I he'p you with anything, son?"

"That's sir to you," screamed the lieutenant. "And you'll stand at attention when you speak to an officer. You're in deep trouble now, if you don't know it..."

The legionnaire closed his book and stood up, more or less at attention. For some reason, he looked taller than before-and a bit older. "Why, sir, I didn't think we was standin' on protocol quite so much in this outfit. Captain Jester never did get around to decidin' jes' what my rank oughta be. But seein' as how you're new, I'm happy to oblige. Now, jes' what can I do for you, today, Lieutenant?"

Snipe's jaw fell to his chest. The fellow was acting as if nothing at all had passed between them earlier, and yet it was no more than fifteen minutes since he'd last reprimanded him. The fellow must be mentally unsound; it wouldn't surprise him, having seen the kind of material this company was made up of. Perhaps he was even a multiple personality. How else to explain the complete change in his expression, even his voice and accent? In any other outfit, the fellow would doubtless have been discharged as unfit for military service.

Snipe was still trying to figure out what to say when another legionnaire strode up to them and said, "Excuse me, Rev, do you have a minute to talk?"

The man he'd caught reading turned to the newcomer and said, "Not right this second, son, the lieutenant has something he wants to talk about. But if you'll come back in maybe fifteen minutes, I'm sure I can spare the time."

The newcomer nodded, snapped off a very decent salute to Lieutenant Snipe, and turned to leave. The man who had been reading turned back to Snipe with an expectant smile. "Now, sir, what was it you wanted?"

But the lieutenant was speechless now. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the man in front of him. The tag on his uniform said Reverend Jordan Ayres, and on his collar was some kind of badge Snipe did not recognize-an antique musical instrument, it appeared. But what gave Snipe pause was the fact that the man who'd just come up and saluted in perfect military form, said a few polite words, and turned to walk away wore the exact same face as the man now in front of him.

Snipe muttered something and walked away, shaking his head. Everybody in the company was starting to look the same to him. It must be the desert sun. Yes, that was it-the sun. He'd go back to his quarters, get a cool drink of water, and just lie down and rest a bit.

He managed to keep his composure reasonably well until he entered the MBC and found himself face-to-face with still another legionnaire, this one obviously female, with that same sneering face. That was when he lost it entirely.

Lieutenant Rembrandt was walking stiffly and a bit gingerly as she came into Comm Central. Her back injury was healing nicely, thanks to the pills she'd gotten from the autodoc, but even cutting-edge military medicine wasn't going to do much to speed up the process.

There was a vacant straight-backed chair behind the counter where Mother worked, and Rembrandt lowered herself into it with a sigh. Mother looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. In her quiet voice she said, "Still hurting, Remmie?" She could sometimes speak to another woman without the incapacitating shyness of her face-to-face interactions with male humans.

"Yeah," admitted Rembrandt. "Best prognosis is that I'll be close to a hundred percent by the middle of next week. Right about now, it feels as if I'm somewhere under fifteen percent."

"A bad back's tough," said Mother, nodding. "My dad hurt his when I was a little girl, and he was never the same after that. Hope you don't have that to look forward to.

"Thanks, so do I," said Rembrandt. "I might have been better off just to let Louie run me down on that glideboard. He couldn't have done much more damage than I did trying to dodge him."

"Yeah, that's how it is sometimes," said Mother. Her eyes kept shifting back and forth from Rembrandt to the readouts on her comm equipment. "But if he'd hit you, you both might be hurt."

"That's what I tell myself," said Rembrandt. "Anyhow, I'm getting along, and I guess I'm getting better." She paused a moment and asked, "Any luck with that message I asked you to send?"

"Answer came through just before you got here," said Mother. "I didn't print it out because you said it was confidential. Printouts can get read by the wrong people. Not much to report, anyhow. They acknowledged receipt, and said they'd see if anybody was available. No promises."

"You'd think they'd show more interest," said Rembrandt. "This company's been one of the hottest stories in the Alliance ever since the captain came on board."

"Sure, and that with a buck fifty will get you a one-minute local public comm call anywhere in the galaxy," said Mother. "Those people have attention spans in the nanosecond range, unless it's something they can use against you."

"Still, you'd think they'd be interested in what's happening to the company," said Rembrandt, her brows crinkling. "They wouldn't have to make any particular effort to get somebody here. Why, we're only a couple of days' sublight travel from Lorelei-"

"Couple of days probably seems like forever to them," said Mother, shrugging. "Don't get your hopes too high, Remmie. I know you're looking for some way to fight back against the brass hats, and I'm all for it. The captain would be fighting them, if he were himself. I keep hoping he'll snap out of it-"

"So do I, Mother," said Rembrandt. "Until then, we've got to try to guess what he'd be doing, and do the same ourselves. I just wish we were getting better results."

"You want results?" Mother scoffed. "Girl, those pills the autodoc gave you must be making you giddy. This is the Legion. They don't believe in results; they just say they do." She chuckled, but her face was serious.

"Except for Captain Jester," said Rembrandt, lifting her chin. "He not only believes in results, he gets them."

"I know what you mean," said Mother. "I just worry whether his luck's run out at last. I hope not, but I'm afraid to hope for too much."

"The captain wouldn't want us to give up," said Rembrandt. "He'd want us to start figuring out a way around the system, and that's what I'm doing."

"I know," said Mother. "More power to you, because I don't want to think about what happens if the brass hats win this one."

"Neither do I," said Rembrandt. "I'm doing what I can to keep the bastards from winning."

"And if it's not enough?"

Rembrandt stood up, wincing. She looked down at Mother and said in a resigned voice, "I don't know. I don't have much else to throw into the fight."

Mother sighed. "Well, let's just hope it's enough, then." Rembrandt just nodded and made her way slowly out of Comm Central. Mother watched her leave, then shook her head sadly and turned back to her comet screen.