Phule's Errand

“Ahh, that shows how much you know,” said Do-Wop, poking his finger at Sushi’s chest. “When I make a farkin‘ threat…”

“You make-um heap big noise,” came a deep voice from out of the dark. “Heard you both a long way off, bump and crash like drum roll-um downhill. You lucky no wild animals here look-um for nice rump of paleface for supper.”

“Who said that?” said Do-Wop, jumping. He peered out into the dark but could see nothing.

“I think the Indians just found us” said Sushi, standing up. “Hello, whoever you are. Can you take us to your leader?”

“What, you think we in some bad movie?” said the deep voice again. A towering figure glided forward from the shadows, its facial features still obscured by the darkness.

“What’s a movie?” asked Do-Wop, moving up alongside Sushi. Almost without thinking about it, he assumed a fighting stance.

“Like a tri-vee, only flat,” said Sushi, absentmindedly. He put his weight on the balls of his feet, not in as aggressive a stance as Do-Wop, but still ready to respond if the stranger made a hostile move.

“You paleface boys look like you get ready kick-um ass,” said the stranger, amusement in his voice. “Why you don’t come smoke-um peace pipe instead? We talk, eat some good food, maybe do some business…”

“Food?” said Sushi, suddenly aware of his nearly empty stomach. “Gee, I guess I could use a bite to eat.”

“Peace pipe?” said Do-Wop. “Yo, man, lead the way.”

7

Journal #793-

A man of fixed habits is thought by many to be unflappable, impossible to upset. As a man whom many would consider to be a prime example of that description, I can tell you frankly that the popular perception is only partly correct.

Granted, a regular routine is one of the best ways to prevent disturbance in one’s life. If one knows that the mail arrives at ten o ‘clock, and that dinner is served at six, such events serve as anchors for the day’s activities. Even when the mail is delayed, or when some family member is detained at work until past the dinner hour, one knows that these are aberrations. One adjusts to the variation, secure in the confidence that routine will reassert itself in due course. Indeed, this is one of the appeals of the military life-one of the few, I should add.

But there is an infallible way to disconcert a man of fixed habits, and that this is to deprive him of any routine whatsoever. The most insidious way to do this is to send him off on vacation…

Lieutenant Armstrong gritted his teeth, staring out into the Zenobian desert. There was a plume of dust rapidly approaching the camp across the arid landscape. General Blitzkrieg was here. And that meant that, for the foreseeable future, Omega Company was about to get some long-deferred experience in the ugly, side of life in the Legion.

Well, Armstrong had done his share of brownnosing and kowtowing to irrational brass; he could undoubtedly fall back into the routine if he had to. He’d never been particularly good at it, which is why he’d ended up in Omega Company instead of in some more desirable posting. That was before Captain Jester had come; back when Omega Company was the rathole of the Legion, the catchall for incorrigibles and incompetents no other unit wanted. Considering that the Space Legion was widely recognized as the rathole of the Alliance military, that was saying a lot.

It was well-known that General Blitzkrieg still looked at Omega Company as a rathole. In fact, he apparently preferred it that way. There had to be someplace so bad it could be used to threaten anyone who got out of line or failed to come up to the mark. As far as Armstrong could figure it out, the general considered Omega Company his personal property, and soundly resented Captain Jester’s turning it into the best outfit in the Legion.

It rarely occurred to Armstrong to question the wisdom of a superior officer, let alone that of a general of the Legion. But when it came to Omega Company, he’d seen the before and after versions with his own eyes and knew which was better. In his considered opinion, General Blitzkrieg was full of…well, “hot air” was one of the more genteel expressions that came to Armstrong’s mind.

Almost every member of Omega Company had a similarly low opinion of the general. That meant that Lieutenant Armstrong was going to have his hands full preventing the incident that the general had undoubtedly come here intending to provoke. And with the captain off-base- no, worse than that, completely out of reach-it was going to be a major chore to neutralize the general, even with Omega Company’s officers babysitting him for the entire length of his visit. Even with the help of the entire command cadre, there was bound to be somebody who snapped. It might be Sergeant Escrima; it might be one of the recent recruits; it might even be the usually phlegmatic Tusk-anini. The problem was that nobody knew exactly who the general was going to go after, or how, and that meant that nobody could completely prepare for it.

But the general’s hoverjeep had reached the perimeter of the camp. Now, it was too late for preparations. Anything that wasn’t already done wasn’t going to get done. Armstrong sighed, then pulled himself upright into his sharpest military posture and strode forward to greet the arriving vehicle.

Now that the dust cloud had begun to settle, Armstrong could see that the general’s hoverjeep was a deluxe ultra-stretch model, as much a limo as a jeep. Its exterior color was deep Legion black with tinted windows and antennas that, from their size and number, could pick up signals from all over the civilized galaxy. To judge by the size of the hood, it featured an especially powerful engine. On both sides and on the hood, an oversize Legion insignia was painted in gold, surrounded by general’s stars. Armstrong had heard some commentator claim that a man’s vehicle was an extension of his personality; if that was so, General Blitzkrieg was not a man to trifle with.

The hoverjeep slowed to a stop, settled onto its parking cushions, and the engine noise faded to a low hum. Armstrong stationed himself by the rear door, then nodded to Brandy, who’d brought along her training squad as an honor guard and reception party. “Ten-HUT!” barked the first sergeant, and to Armstrong’s relief, the legionnaires responded with almost commendable sharpness as a slim woman in a major’s uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat. She stepped around to the passenger side and opened the door for a heavyset man-General Blitzkrieg.

Armstrong snapped off his best academy salute and held it. But instead of returning the salute, the general glared around the assembled troops and bellowed, “Where the hell is that idiot Jester? He should have been here to meet me. There’d better be a damned good explanation, or I’m going to fry his ass!”

Right that moment, Lieutenant Armstrong knew it was not going to be one of his better days.

General Blitzkrieg was doing his best to conceal his glee as Sparrowhawk opened the door to let him emerge from his hoverjeep. He’d known better than to expect his arrival on Zenobia to be a total surprise. The damned military grapevine was far too efficient for a general to travel halfway across the Alliance without anyone’s noticing and warning his prospective hosts. So by all rights, Captain Jester should have had at least some advance notice of the general’s impending inspection tour. In any case an honor guard-if you wanted to dignify a couple dozen legionnaires by that name-had turned out to greet his arrival. So Jester did have advance notice. And by age-old military custom, Jester himself should have been at the landing site to greet the arriving brass-putting the best face on the situation, even if he knew his miserable outfit was going to fall short of the general’s standards.

But, to Blitzkrieg’s astonishment, Captain Jester was nowhere to be seen. Such a flagrant failure to kowtow to the Legion’s commanding general was exactly the kind of opening Blitzkrieg wanted-a lapse so blatant that even the most ardent of Jester’s supporters would have a hard time explaining it away. Normally he’d have to do some digging to come up with some suitable provocation; he might even have to magnify some molehill of imperfection into a mountain of culpability. But here was a major lapse in military courtesy-if not an outright dereliction of duty-being handed to him on a platinum-plated platter! Blitzkrieg was delighted.