Phule`s Company

CHAPTER SIX

Journal File #024

I will not attempt to capture the true feeling of what it was like for the company to stand guard duty in a swamp, though my employer's impressions of the duty the first day he joined them in that task would doubtless be of interest to some. This is not so much a lack of willingness or ability on my part to impart such details, but rather a simple lack of data, as I never actually accompanied the company into the swamp--a fact I became particularly appreciative of when I observed the condition of their uniforms at the end of the day.

Bombest had nearly resigned himself to the Legionnaires' presence in his hotel. There was no denying the welcome influx of rental monies during a normally slack period, and the troops themselves had proved to be far less raucous and destructive than he originally feared. He even made an honest effort to muster a certain amount of enthusiasm in his mind for their residence. What progress he had made along those lines, however, faded rapidly as he observed the Legionnaires' transports pull up to the front door late in the afternoon, disgorging what could only be described as "mudmen" onto the sidewalk.

From the waist-or, in some cases, the armpits-up, they were recognizable as the hotel's latest guests. From the "disaster line" down, however, any familiar detail of individual or uniform was lost in a coating of gray-green muck. As sticky as it looked, Bombest noted that the coating seemed to lack sufficient adhesion to fully remain on its hosts, disturbing quantities of it falling in flakes and globs onto the sidewalk and, with apparent inevitability, the lobby carpet.

"Hold it right there!"

The voice of the Legionnaires' commander, or, as Bombest tended to think of him, the Leader of the Pack, cracked like-a whip, bringing the mud-encrusted figures to a complete, if puzzled, halt on the lobby's threshold.

The hotel manager watched with some astonishment as Phule, his uniform displaying the same dubious collection of swamp mire as his followers, squeezed through the front ranks and advanced on the registration desk with the cautious tread of one trying to ease over a mine field.

"Good afternoon, Bombest," the commander said pleasantly upon reaching his destination. "Could you call housekeeping for me and see if they have... Never mind. These will do nicely."

So saying, he scooped up two of the stacks of the day's newspapers from the desk, the hard copies still preferred by many, piling them on top of each other, then slipping an arm under them as he fished some bills from the relatively clean shirt pocket of his uniform.

"Here... this should cover it. Oh, and Bombest?"

"Yes, Mr. Phule?" the manager responded absently as he tried to figure out how to count the money without soiling his hands. Delegation seemed the only answer.

"Do you know if everything's set up in the main ballroom?"

"In a way, sir. Yes. One of your sergeants thought it best if we erected the divider to allow some privacy between the men and women, and it was necessary to open one of the adjoining meeting rooms for additional space-"

"Yes, yes," Phule interrupted. "But they're set to go?"

"Yes, sir. If you wish, I'll inform them you've arrived."

"No need, Bombest. Thanks, anyway," the commander said as he began to retrace his steps toward the door.

"Okay! Listen up!"

The waiting Legionnaires lapsed into silence.

"I want the troops on point to take these papers and spread them out on the carpet between the door and the elevators. The rest of you move slow and stay on the path as much as possible. Any extra papers are to be left by the elevators, and I want you to grab a handful to spread ahead of you as you hit your floors. Let's try to keep the mess to a minimum until we get cleaned up. Understand?"

"YES, SIR!"

"What's wrong with room service?"

The catcall from the rear was greeted with laughter and a few scattered rude replies until Phule waved the company into silence once more.

"Let me answer that question once and for all," he announced. "While we're guests at this hotel, there is a housekeeping service as well as a laundry service at our disposal. I have also contracted similar services for us once we move into our new barracks."

A wave of enthusiastic cheers was cut short with another gesture.

"However, I remind you that this is a privilege, and it is not to be abused. If it comes to my attention that the personnel of these services are being forced to deal with any unnecessary unpleasantness or are putting in extra hours due to any laziness or inconsideration of anyone under my command, several things will happen. First, they will be paid a bonus commensurate to the work required. Second, the bonus will be deducted from your paychecks rather than included in the normal expenses I am covering personally. Finally, those services will be canceled and their work distributed among the company as additional duty until such time as I am convinced that you appreciate their efforts sufficiently to conduct yourselves with the appropriate courtesy and consideration. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"All right! I want you all to get upstairs and clean up, then report to the main ballroom for-"

A new eruption of catcalls interrupted the commander, though it was apparent that he was not the focus. Breaking off his briefing, he turned to see what had captured the company's attention.

"Hoooo-eeee!"

"Ain't that purdy?"

"Look out, girls!"

"How 'bout a kiss, Slick?"

Chocolate Harry stood framed in the hotel door, though "stood" scarcely embraced the picture he presented. He was ramrod straight, despite his inflated-pear stature, and wore the smug smile of a rich baron surveying his peasants. The obvious reason for his self-pleasure, and the target of the catcalls, was his uniform.

In place of his normal faded and frayed uniform, Harry glowed in a velveteen jumpsuit of the purest midnight black. The change from his usual rough-and-tumble look was stunning, and the contrast between him and his mud-caked admirers made him look like he just stepped off a recruiting poster. Calf-high boots of what looked to be the supplest suede with low, broad heels added to his height as he drew himself up and fired a parade-ground salute at his company commander.

"Ready in the main ballroom, sir!"

Any annoyance Phule might have felt over his supply sergeant upstaging his announcement was quickly crowded aside by his amusement at Harry's obvious pleasure with the uniform. It was clear that the sergeant had been unable to resist the temptation to show off his new outfit, and had seized on the excuse of reporting in to parade it in front of the rest of the company. Stifling his smile, Phule returned the salute.

"Thank you, C.H. We'll be along momentarily. Tell everyone to stand by."

"Yes, sir!"

Again the flashy salute, which the commander was obliged to return before turning back to the company.

"As I was saying, once you're cleaned up, report to the main ballroom. As you may have noticed, your new uniforms have arrived today, and there are tailors waiting for your final fittings. Carry on."

His final words were nearly drowned out by a loud whoop of enthusiasm as the Legionnaires surged forward into the hotel, barely remembering their commander's order regarding the newspapers.

Following in their wake, Phule saw Chocolate Harry surrounded by a knot of Legionnaires admiring his uniform while waiting their turn at the elevators.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir?"

The supply sergeant broke away from his admirers and hurried to Phule's side.

"Relax, C.H. The uniform looks great on you."

"Thank you, sir. I mean... it do, don't it?"

Harry craned his neck around, trying to catch a reflection of himself in one of the lobby minors.

"I was under the impression that uniform was designed with sleeves, though."

"That's the way it come out of the box," the sergeant acknowledged, "but I had a few words with the man in charge and convinced him they could come off. I like it better this way-easier to move in."

He swung his arms back and forth, then flexed his substantial biceps as if to prove his point.

"I see what you mean, C.H. Maybe I'll try that with a couple of my uniforms."

Phule suppressed the visions flashing in his mind of the confrontation between Harry and the uniform's designer.

"Do that, Cap'n. It works great. Whoop! Got to go now. It's gonna be real busy in there for a while."

"Good. Carry on, Sergeant."

The commander watched him go, then tiptoed over to the front desk with the exaggerated care of a villain in melodrama.

"Excuse me, Bombest?"

"Yes, Mr. Phule?"

"There'll be a Charlie Daniels coming by in a bit looking for me. If he stops by the desk, just have him come right up to my penthouse. I'd appreciate it."

"Certainly, s-ah, would that by any chance be Charles Hamilton Daniels III?"

"That's the one. Send him up when he shows."

"Mr. Daniels?"

The wiry figure in the penthouse door nodded in response to Beeker's inquiry.

"Yes, sir. Here to see Captain Jester."

The butler hesitated only a fraction of a moment before stepping aside to admit the caller.

"Nice layout you got here," the caller said, peering about as he ambled into the salon portion of the penthouse. "Roomy, too. "

"Actually it's more room than I need... or am really comfortable with," Phule responded as he emerged from the bedroom, still toweling his hair from the shower. "I only rented it because we needed the space for our temporary headquarters. "

He gestured toward the tangle of communications gear at the far end of the suite where a Legionnaire sat idly sharpening a spring stiletto while minding the apparatus.

"Good." Daniels nodded approvingly. "Never did hold much with ostentatious displays of wealth. Either you got it or you don't, I always say."

Their visitor was clearly into practicing what he preached, as his dress for the meeting consisted of faded blue jeans, a plain gray sweatshirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. It was only when one studied his half-open eyes that danced alertly from the wrinkles of his sun-reddened face that one had a glimmer of the truth: that far from being a down-at-the-heels laze-about, Charles Hamilton Daniels III was easily one of the richest men on the planet.

"Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Daniels?" Beeker said, clearly reassured that he had, indeed, admitted the right man to his employer's quarters.

"Well, if you got a couple fingers of brandy in that wet bar I see over there, I wouldn't say no... And it's 'Charlie.' I'm only 'Mr. Daniels' to my lawyers-mine and other people's. "

"Very good, Mr... . Charlie.

"I'll take care of that, Beeker," Phule said, tossing his towel back into the bedroom and closing the door. "I want you to run down to the main ballroom and keep an eye on things."

"Yeah!" the Legionnaire on communications put in. "Tell 'em I'll be down for my fitting as soon as someone gets up here to relieve me."

The butler cocked a chilly eyebrow at him.

"...please," the Legionnaire added hastily.

"Very good, sir."

"Why don't you just go along with him now... Do-Wop, isn't it?" the commander suggested from the bar. "I can cover the console while I chat with Charlie, here."

"Thanks, Captain," the Legionnaire responded, uncoiling from his chair and slipping his knife into a pocket before following the butler out the door.

"That's a relief," Daniels commented, turning his head and craning his neck to see if Do-Wop was out of hearing. "For a while, I thought we were going to have our chat with one of your boys sharpening his knife at me. That would kinds give you an edge, if you'll pardon the expression. Assuming you invited me up here to talk a little business, that is."

"If that had occurred to me, I might have had him stay." Phule smiled, passing his guest a snifter of warm brandy. "I do appreciate your stopping by, though; Charlie. Normally I would have come to you, but I pretty much have my hands full trying to reorganize the company, and I didn't want to wait too long before talking with you."

"No problem, son. What all's going on down in the ballroom, anyway, that's got everyone so het up?"

"The new uniforms for the company arrived today. They're a good crew, but right now they're acting like a bunch of kids squabbling over who gets to play with a new toy. Everyone wants to be the first to be fitted so they can show off their new outfits. "

Daniels nodded sagely.

"Is that it? There were a bunch of 'em running around the lobby when I came in. Gotta admit, though, the uniforms they were wearing sure didn't look like any government issue I've ever seen."

He shot a sly, sidelong glance at Phule as he took a sip of his drink.

"Well, they aren't exactly standard uniforms," the commander admitted uncomfortably. "I had them designed especially for us-a full wardrobe, actually: field uniforms, dress uniforms, the works. You might know the designer. He's a local here... name of Olie VerDank. "

"Olie? You mean Helga's boy?"

"I... I guess so," Phule said. "He's the only designer in the settlement I know of with that name."

"Good." Daniels nodded. "He's a talented fellah and could use the work-and the exposure. I'll tell you, I always thought men who designed clothes were a little... well, you know... until I met Olie. Shoulders like an ox, that one. Got a pretty little gal he married, too. He's got a bit of a temper, though, and don't much like to be told what to design. I'm a little surprised you got him to work for you."

"I offered to match the profits of his fall line." The commander shrugged, looking into his own drink as he stirred it with a finger. "After that he didn't seem too inclined to argue."

"I'd have to say that was a fair offer. More'n fair, actually," Daniels said. "Course, I imagine with a couple hundred of your troops all wanted to be fitted at the same time, he's busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest down there."

Phule grinned openly at the colorful analogy before replying.

"It shouldn't be too bad. I've got a couple dozen tailors helping him-every one in the settlement, or, at least, every one I could find."

Daniels snorted loudly. "And I'm sure they all just love working together. You got style, son. I'll give you that. I believe there was some business you wanted to discuss with me, though?"

"That's right," the commander said, leaning forward in his chair. "I wanted to talk with you about today's performance in the swamp."

"Don't know about your crew," Charlie said, "but we had us a pretty good day. Got three nice stones. In fact, I've got 'em with me if you'd like to see."

He pulled a small cloth drawstring bag from his pocket and tossed it to Phule. The commander opened the bag and upended it, spilling three small pebbles into his hand.

"Very nice," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

In reality, he found the stones to be immensely unimpressive. They were small, the largest being roughly the size of a marble, while the smallest was barely the size of a pea. A dull, mottled brown, they seemed no different from any pebbles one might find in a garden.

"Oh, they might not look like much now," Daniels commented, seeming to read Phule's thoughts, "but they polish up real nice with a little work. This is what they end up lookin' like. "

He held out his hand to display the ring he was wearing. The stone in the ring was larger than those Phule was holding, measuring nearly a full inch long. It was the same brown as the raw stones, but shone with a rich luster, and streaks of dazzling blue and red danced in its depths as Daniels moved his hand, making it look like the product of a successful breeding between tigereye and fire opal.

"Very nice," Phule murmured, and meant it this time. He had never seen anything quite like it before, and for a moment was unable to take his eyes from the play of colors in the ring.

"Thought you might like to see what we've been panning for while your crew stood guard. Course, what keeps the price up is their scarcity. That little stone you're holding will probably sell for enough to pay the bill for your Legionnaires for three months. "

"Really?" The commander was genuinely impressed. He carefully eased the stones back into their bag and returned it to Daniels. "I'll admit I had no idea they were so valuable. Umm... it might be wise not to mention their worth in front of my troops. I mean; I trust them, but..."

"No sense in puttin' needless temptation in their way. Right?" Charlie grinned. "Son, I appreciate the advice, but we already figured that out for ourselves. 'Sides, even if someone was to make off with a few of these beauties, it wouldn't do 'em much good. Everyone around here knows who we are, and any stranger who tried to sell one of these stones would stand out like a gorilla in a beauty contest. They couldn't sell 'em local, and we wouldn't let a ship or a shuttle get cleared for lift-off while there was one missing."

"Good." Phule nodded. "Then there's no problem. Actually, though, what I wanted to talk to you about was the way my crew stood duty today."

Daniels squinted his eyes in thought for a moment, then shook his head and took another sip of his drink.

"Okay. I can't recall 'em being any different today than usual, but then again, I'll admit I wasn't payin' much attention."

"Neither were they," Phule said flatly. "At least, not to anything except their scanners."

"Their scanners?"

"That's right. You know, the ones programmed to alert them if anything dangerous entered the area?"

"I know what you're talkin' about. Fact is, we provided 'em. It's another one of those conditions the insurance folks dreamed up especially for our operation. I'm just not sure why you have a problem with 'em."

Phule surged to his feet and started pacing the room.

"The problem is that they're relying too much on them, from what I can see. If they malfunctioned-or, more important, if anything wandered up that wasn't covered by the programmed data-we'd never notice until someone got bitten, or whatever. "

Daniels's face wrinkled in a scowl.

"Never thought of it, but you've got a point there, son."

"Even more important," the commander continued, "I don't like the idea of my troops being so dependent on machines to do their thinking for them. Now, I use computers all the time myself, but I'll still match the human mind against one every time when it comes to judgment calls."

"So what exactly is it that you propose instead?"

"I want to implement a training course to familiarize every Legionnaire under my command with the dangerous life-forms in the area. Once that's done"-Phule hesitated, then took a deep breath and continued with a rush-"I want to turn the machines off so that the crew are relying on their own observation and judgment to do their job. Realizing that if anything goes wrong the miners will be the ones to suffer, I wanted your approval as the head of the combine that hired us before putting my plan into motion."

"Heck," Daniels said, "I've got no problem with that, though I might have if you hadn't bothered to check with us first. There's not that much dangerous out there, anyway. Like I said, it was more to keep the insurance folks happy than anything else. Fact is, we used to get by without scanners or guards before folks zeroed in on us and started insisting we get civilized. You just go on ahead with your training. I'll take care of lettin' the other miners know what's goin' on."

"Thank you, Charlie." The commander smiled, relieved that his proposal had been accepted so easily. "Now then, as to the potential impact on your insurance rates..."

"Don't worry about that, either," the miner insisted. "Just tell your crew to keep those scanners handy even when they're turned off. Then, if we ever have problems or have to file a claim, we'll see about arranging a 'temporary equipment malfunction' or something. Much as those insurance types like to think up regulations for us, ain't seen one yet actually come out into the swamp to see if we're following instructions."

"I'd rather not start dabbling in insurance fraud," Phule said carefully, "but if instead we-"

The insistent beep of his wrist communicator interrupted him, and he broke off speaking to answer the call.

"Captain Jester speaking."

"Beeker here, sir. Sorry to intrude, but you might want to come down here when you have a moment."

"What's the problem, Beek?"

"Well, there seems to be some difficulty fitting the Sinthians with their new uniforms. Specifically the tailors are arguing with the designer that it can't be done."

Phule grimaced. "All right. I'll be down as soon as I finish here... figure about fifteen minutes. Jester out."

"Which ones are the Sinthians?" Daniels said curiously'.

"Hmm? Oh. Sorry, Charlie, a little distracted there. The Sinthians are... well, you must have seen them on duty. They're the nonhumans with the eyestalks and the spindly arms."

"The little fellahs? Sure, I know 'em. Nice little guys once you get the hang of listenin' to 'em. Tell you what, Captain. Can I talk to that Beeker fellah on your communicator for a second?"

The commander only hesitated a second before agreeing.

"Certainly, Charlie. Just a second here."

He quickly punched Beeker's com number into his wrist communicator.

"Beeker here."

"Beeker, this is Jester again. Charlie has something he'd like to say to you."

He extended his arm to Daniels, pointing at the microphone with his other hand.

"You there, Beeker?" the miner called, unconsciously raising his voice as if trying to cover the distance with volume.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you happen to know if one of the tailors you've got down there is named Giuseppe?"

"I'm not sure, sir. If you'll hold for a moment, I'll-"

"Short little guy. His face looks like a raisin with a moustache."

"Yes, sir. He's here."

"Well, you go over there and tell him that Charlie Daniels says that if he can't manage to fit uniforms on those little aliens--or a bowling ball, or a pile of gelatin, for that matter-well, then, I guess I've been braggin' about the wrong tailor to the commander up here. You tell him that for me."

"Very good, sir."

Daniels leaned back and winked at Phule. "There. I guess that ought to do it."

"Jester out," the commander said into the communicator, signing off before shutting the unit down. "Thanks, Charlie."

"Glad I could help," the miner said, setting his glass down and rising to his feet. "Don't you go worrying about our insurance, either. I figure we'll be able to work something out if it ever comes to that. Seems to me like you're going to have all you can handle just worryin' about that crew of yours. On that little chore, I wish you luck!"

Of course, my employer did considerably more than simply worry about the Legionnaires under him. Particularly in those early days of his command, he pushed himself mercilessly in his efforts to learn about the individuals that made up the company. As an example, the same day that started early with the call from Headquarters and that he first stood duty with the company and issued their new uniforms and met with Charlie Daniels about the use of the scanners, rather than call it a day, and a busy one at that, my employer summoned his junior officers for a late night meeting.

"To get started," the commander said, leaning forward in his chair, "let me reiterate that the reason for this meeting is to gain further insight and understanding into the individual Legionnaires we command by pooling our thoughts and observations. While the Legionnaires themselves can pick and choose whom to avoid and whom to be friends with during off-duty hours, as officers we are not allowed that privilege. We have to work with and utilize every individual in the company, whether we like him or her personally or not, and to do that we have to know whom and what it is we're dealing with. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Phule hid his wince at the stiff response by rubbing his eyes as if tired-a gesture he did not have to fake. While he had tried to make his lieutenants comfortable on the penthouse sofa, and it was obvious they were more at ease with each other than when he had first spoken with them, it was equally obvious that they were still tense and nervous in the presence of their commanding officer.

"Also, let me apologize for the hour. I know it's late, but I wanted to do the first pass on the list while our memories were still fresh from today's duty, particularly mine."

He flashed a quick grin at the lieutenants, which was not returned. The commander sighed inwardly and abandoned his efforts to lighten the mood of the meeting. He'd just have to rely on time and familiarity to loosen the lieutenants up.

"All right. I notice you have quite a few notes, Lieutenant Rembrandt. Let's start with your observations."

Rembrandt stiffened slightly and shot a quick glance around the room as if either hoping he was addressing someone else or looking for an escape route.

"Me, sir? I... Where would you like me to begin?"

Phule shrugged. "Your choice. We're going to discuss everyone sooner or later, so it really doesn't matter whom we start with... And Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"Try to relax a little. This is just an informal chat to kick around our thoughts. Okay?"

Rembrandt drew a slow, deep breath, then nodded.

"Well, I should probably admit that a lot of information I have, I got from talking to Brandy, the first sergeant. I... I'm still trying to get a handle on a lot of the troops myself, and I thought it would be a good starting point."

The commander nodded. "Sound thinking. The noncoms work the closest with the Legionnaires, so we should listen to what they have to say whenever they're willing to share their thoughts. Go ahead."

"Probably the best approach would be to start with some of our more unusual Legionnaires," Rembrandt began, starting to relax a bit. "It's my guess that we'll be spending a lot of time trying to figure out what to do with or about them, so we might as well start early."

She paused to flip through her notes, then settled on a page.

"Proceeding on that basis, the one I personally have the biggest problem getting a fix on is one of the wimps. She has-"

"One of the what?"

The words burst from Phule's lips before he actually had time to think. Both the lieutenants started visibly, and the commander mentally cursed himself. So much for a relaxed meeting.

"The... the wimps, sir. That's how Brandy refers to them, anyway. When we were talking, she separated the problem Legionnaires into two groups: the wimps and the hard cases. "

"I see."

The commander seesawed mentally for a few moments as the lieutenants watched him in silence. Finally he shook his head and sighed.

"It's tempting to let it go to keep the meeting relaxed," he said, "and I do want you both to feel comfortable speaking freely. You touched a nerve, though, Rembrandt, and I can't just ignore it. I don't want any of the company's leadership, officer or noncom, to fall into the habit of referring to the company or any subgroup in it by derogatory terms. It tends to influence our own views and attitudes, and even if we manage to resist that trap ourselves, anyone overhearing us will think, with some justification, that we hold the Legionnaires in contempt. I want you-both of you-to actively resist the temptation of forming that habit and to work at breaking whatever habits along those lines you've gotten into. Everyone in the company deserves our respect, and if we have trouble giving it, it's because we haven't studied them long enough, not because there's something wrong with them. Agreed?"

The lieutenants nodded slowly.

"Good. For that matter, Rembrandt, I want you to talk to Brandy about her speech patterns. She's probably the worst violator of all of us."

"Me, sir?" Rembrandt paled. It was clear she did not relish the thought of confronting the company's formidable first sergeant.

"I'll take care of it for you, Remmie," Armstrong volunteered, jotting a quick note on his pad.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Armstrong," Phule said levelly, "but I'd rather have Lieutenant Rembrandt handle it herself."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Phule studied Armstrong's stiff posture, then shook his head.

"No, Lieutenant, I don't think you do. I said thank you and I meant it. I really do appreciate your offer. It shows that the two of you are starting to help each other out, and normally I'd encourage it."

He leaned forward earnestly.

"It's not that I don't think you could handle talking to Brandy, it's that I specifically think Rembrandt should do it... for two reasons. First, she was the one who mentioned the labels Brandy's using. If you-or I, for that matter-approach Brandy on something Rembrandt said, it leaves the impression that she's reporting things to us for disciplinary action, which would undermine her efforts to establish herself as an authority figure. I need two junior officers, not one junior officer and an informer. Second, Rembrandt, it's important to you to address these problems yourself. Sure, Brandy's intimidating and I don't think anyone in the room would relish the idea of butting heads with her, but if I let you hide behind either Armstrong or me, you're never going to grit your teeth and take the plunge yourself, which means you'll never build the confidence you need to be an effective officer. That's why I want you to be the one to talk to Brandy."

He made eye contact with the lieutenants one at a time, and they nodded their agreement.

"As to how to talk to Brandy, if you'll accept a little unasked for advice, I'd suggest that you simply avoid approaching it as a confrontation. Oh, I know you'll be nervous, but make it casual and conversational. It's my guess she'll go along with it without realizing her habits have been a subject for conversation among us. The less we have to resort to orders and threats, the smoother this company will run."

"I'll try, Captain."

"Good. " The commander nodded briskly. "Enough said on that subject. Now then, before I interrupted you, you were starting to say something about the Legionnaire you have the most trouble getting a fix on?"

"Oh. Right," Rembrandt said, rummaging in her notes again. "The one I was thinking of was Rose."

"Rose?" Armstrong snorted. "You mean Shrinking Violet."

"That's what the other Legionnaires call her," Rembrandt agreed.

Phule frowned. "I don't think I've met her yet."

"Not surprising," Rembrandt said. "If you had, you'd probably remember her. Rose, or Shrinking Violet, has to be the shyest person I've ever met in my life bar none. It's impossible to carry on a conversation with her. All she does is mumble and look the other way."

"I've given up trying to talk to her," Armstrong put in, "and from what I can see, so has everyone else in the company. I mean, she's a good-looking woman, and when she arrived a lot of the guys tried to get to know her better, but you get tired of being treated like you're Jack the Ripper."

"It's the same with the women," Rembrandt said. "Everybody seems to make her nervous. Heck, it's easier to deal with the nonhumans. At least they'll meet you halfway."

"Interesting," the commander murmured thoughtfully. "I'll have to try to talk with her myself."

Armstong grimaced. "Lots of luck, Captain. If you can get her to say half a dozen words, it'll be more than she's said since she arrived."

"Speaking of the nonhumans," Phule said, "I wanted to bounce a thought off the two of you. Specifically I want to split the two Sinthians when we assign team pairs. I figure it's hard for humans to relate to and interact with nonhumans. If we team the two of them, it will only make them that much harder to approach. The only problem is, I'm not sure how the Sinthians will react to being separated. What are your thoughts?"

"I don't think you have to worry about them complaining, Captain." Armstrong grinned, winking at Rembrandt. "Do you, Remmie?"

"Well," his partner replied in a mock drawl, "I don't expect it'll be a problem."

The commander glanced back and forth at the two of them.

"I get the feeling I'm missing a joke here."

"The truth is, Captain," Rembrandt supplied, "the two of them don't get along particularly well."

"They don't?"

"The way it is, sir," Armstrong said, "is that apparently there's a real class prejudice problem on their home world. Both of them headed off-world to get away from conditions."

"Their names kinda say it all," Rembrandt continued. "One of them, Spartacus, is a product of the lower class, while Louie, which I believe is short for Louis the XIV, is rooted in the aristocracy. Both of them joined the Legion thinking they would never have to deal with someone from the hated 'other class,' and you can imagine how overjoyed they were when they both got assigned to this outfit."

"I see. How much does their mutual dislike affect their performance?"

"Actually they're pretty civilized about it," Rembrandt said. "It's not like they get violent or anything. They just avoid each other when possible, and maybe glare and mutter a bit when they can't. At least, I think that's what they're doing. Between their eyestalks and the translators, it's a little hard to tell."

"The bottom line, though, Captain, is that I don't think they'll object to being assigned other partners." Armstrong grinned.

"Fair enough." Phule ticked off an item on his list. "All right. Who's next?"

The mood of the meeting had relaxed considerably when the commander finally called a halt to the proceedings. All three officers were punchy with fatigue and tended to giggle disproportionately at the lamest attempt at humor.

Phule was pleased with the results as he ushered his junior officers to the door. The long meeting had drawn them closer together, where it could just as easily have put them at each other's throats.

"Sorry again about losing track of the time," he told them. "Tell you what. Sleep late tomorrow and we'll pick it up again at noon."

The two lieutenants groaned dramatically.

"And hey! Nice work... both of you."

"'Nice work,' he says," Armstrong said, making a face at his partner. "I didn't think we were going to get a pat on the back until we fell over from exhaustion. Of course, tomorrow we get to pick up where we left off."

94

"He's just saying that because we knew some things he didn't," Rembrandt countered owlishly. "Once he's squeezed us dry, we'll be cast aside and forgotten."

Phule joined in their laughter.

"Go on, get some sleep. Both of you. You're going to need your strength before I get done with you."

"Seriously, Captain, what's the rush?" Rembrandt said, propping herself against the wall. "What happened to our relaxed, informal sessions of note comparing?"

"You put your finger on it a minute ago," the commander told her. "You two know some things about the troops that I don't. I want to get as much information out of you as I can before we run everybody through the confidence course day after tomorrow-well, tomorrow, actually."

He glanced up from his watch to find the lieutenants staring at him, all trace of humor gone.

"What's wrong?"

Armstrong cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Captain. Did you say we were running the confidence course the day after tomorrow?"

"That's right. Didn't I mention it to you?"

Phule tried to focus his mind to separate what he had and hadn't said during the last several hours.

"No, you didn't."

"Sorry. I thought I had. I told the construction crew to give top priority to completing the new confidence course, and the word is that they finished work on it today."

"You mean you expect our company to run a confidence course?" Rembrandt seemed to be hoping she had heard wrong.

"Of course. We've got them looking like soldiers. It's about time we started working toward getting them to act and feel like soldiers, don't you agree?"

For the first time that night there was no automatic chorus of assent. Instead, the two lieutenants just stood looking at him as if he had grown another head.