Brandy made sure each of them sparred against everybody in the squad. She always said, “You don’t get to pick out an opponent your own size in a real fight.” So he stepped back into the formation as Brandy asked, oh so politely, “Perhaps the general would like to select an opponent for Legionnaire Mahatma?” Only someone who’d watched her for weeks under the hot sun would have noticed a faint smile.
General Blitzkrieg scanned the training squad, a scowl on his face. After a moment, he pointed, and said, “That one looks fit enough. You, legionnaire. Front and center!”
“Yes, sir!” said a mechanical voice, and Thumper involuntarily turned to make sure he’d heard correctly. Sure enough, stepping forward came Rube, one of the three Gambolts assigned to Omega Company.
“Hello, Rube,” said Mahatma, waving. The Gambolt wasn’t a bad choice, if you were looking for the strongest possible opponent for Mahatma. Never mind Rube’s genial attitude; like most of his species, he was powerfully built, tachyon-fast, and loved nothing more than a good fight. He was more dangerous unarmed than most other sophonts would be with a full kit of advanced weaponry.
But Mahatma wasn’t about to let his opponent make the first move. Even as Rube opened his mouth to reply to the little human’s greeting, Mahatma was in action. It happened so fast that Thumper wasn’t quite sure what he saw, but it seemed as if Mahatma simply launched himself at the Gambolt’s head. Rube dodged, reacting instinctively, but Mahatma’s toe snaked out and caught the Gambolt under the chin, snapping his head back. As Rube fell backward, Mahatma’s arm came whipping down to strike a blow flat on the side of his head. Rube fell to the floor and landed on his back.
The Gambolt recovered almost instantly, but Mahatma was faster. He landed on his feet and, before Rube could get his feet under him, put a hand atop his opponent’s head and poised another at his throat to signal that he could strike a crippling blow.
Brandy clapped her hands once. “Halt!” she said. The two opponents relaxed, and Rube leapt to his feet, evidently unhurt by his fall. Then Brandy turned to the general. “Would you like another demonstration, sir, or is that sufficient?”
In the gaping silence that followed, it was easy to hear Mahatma’s cheerful voice, “Perhaps the general would like to demonstrate his own combat skills?”
Sparrowhawk heard the office door open and quickly blanked her screen. Not for security-unless you included job security in that category. She did know Legion security officers who would argue that anything a general’s adjutant did had the potential to give an enemy valuable intelligence-even the games she played while she waited for the general to give her some actual work-but she didn’t buy that argument. No, she just had every office worker’s instinctive aversion to letting the boss look over her shoulder. And sure enough when she turned around, there he stood-looking somewhat dazed, she thought.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, automatically forcing herself to perk up. “Did you find out what the natives are up to?”
General Blitzkrieg shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen the like,” he said. He shuffled over to the large easy chair at one end of Zenobia Base’s VIP quarters, turned around, and plopped into it.
Worried in spite of herself, Sparrowhawk broke the growing silence by asking, “The likes of what?”
“Excuse me, Major?” The general looked up in bemuse-ment.
“You said you’d never seen the like of…
“Oh, Jester, of course,” said the general. He still looked a bit dazed. Sparrowhawk looked at him closely and made a decision. She quickly splashed two fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to the general. He took it in his hand and sat swirling the glass, so far without taking a sip.
“Jester’s got a squad training for infiltration work,” said Blitzkrieg, in a flat tone of voice. “Who’d have thought it? But after seeing them, I’m almost ready to believe it. Why, there’s one little devil who could make you think he’s a store clerk, or maybe a waiter-almost anything but a legionnaire…”
“Very interesting,” said Sparrowhawk, trying to figure out where the general was going.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Blitzkrieg, still swirling the glass. “But I’m beginning to wonder… What do you know about bugs, Sparrowhawk?”
“Bugs?” Sparrowhawk frowned. “I guess I know as much as anybody who’s not a scientist. What were you thinking about?”
“Way back when, on Old Earth, there was a time when bugs were the main cause of lots of diseases. So they invented chemicals to kill ‘em.“
“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” said Sparrowhawk. “Some of the chemicals were apparently worse than the bugs.”
Blitzkrieg went on as if he hadn’t noticed her comment. “Thing is, some of the bugs were immune to the chemicals, so they invented more chemicals. And some of the bugs were immune to the new chemicals, too…”
“I think I’ve heard that story,” said Sparrowhawk. “Instead of getting rid of the bugs, they ended up breeding a new kind of superbug that was worse than the ones they’d started with.”
“That’s right,” said Blitzkrieg. “My point is… This legionnaire Mahatma-believe me, I’m going to remember that name-is damn near the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever had to deal with-and that’s saying a mouthful. Perfect fit for Omega Company, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “That’s pretty much the whole purpose of Omega, isn’t it? A place to send the problems, get them off everyone else’s back.”
“Of course, of course,” said the general. “But I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t created a monster, here.”
“A monster, sir?” said Sparrowhawk, frowning. “Surely one smart-mouth legionnaire can’t amount to that much of a problem.”
“Oh, it’s more than just one,” said Blitzkrieg. He finally seemed to notice the glass he held, and took a long sip. “The sergeant was doing her best to cover up just how widespread insubordination has become in Omega, but I haven’t spent this much time in the Legion without figuring out how these noncoms think. I’ll guarantee you, she picked out that Mahatma rascal because he’s one of the best recruits in her squad!”
“I suppose that makes sense, General,” said Sparrowhawk. She wasn’t convinced, but she had long ago learned that contradicting Blitzkrieg was pointless.
“But do you see what that means?” the general continued. “By concentrating all the bad eggs in Omega, we’ve created a breeding ground for even worse eggs-this Ma-hatma may be the first of a new breed of super- pain-in-the-ass legionnaires! My God, I tremble to think what could happen if this spread to the rest of the Legion!”
“Well, there’s only one answer to that,” said Spar-rowhawk. “It’s a good thing you’ve already anticipated the answer.”
“Excuse me, Major? I’m not sure I follow you,” said the general. It was some measure of how disoriented he was that he actually admitted his confusion to her.
It gave her considerable satisfaction to explain the whole thing to him. The best part about it was that it would get her exactly what she wanted, without requiring her to do anything beyond convincing the general that the problem was already solved. Which, as far as she was concerned, it was.
“This is stupid,” said Do-Wop. He looked around the little moonlit plaza, empty except for the two
