“Poor old Beekie?” said Phule, even more confused than before.
“You heard me the first time, sweetie,” said Mother, and she broke the connection before Phule could ask her anything else.
In the hot midday sun at the edge of Zenobia Base, Flight Leftenant Qual and three members of his team worked to adjust the
A short distance away, a pudgy figure in a modified Legion uniform stood watching the Zenobians. Rev’s interest in the saurian natives of this planet had been piqued with the discovery that, somewhere in the distant past, Zenobia had been exposed to the charismatic presence of the King-the guiding figure on whose inspiring career his church rested its teachings. Some among Omega Company dismissed the event as a random electronic signal traveling across the limitless space between Zenobia and Old Earth. Others… well, Rev was one of those others. And he had long since decided that, when it came to the King, there was very little that could be called random.
And so he listened to the Zenobians’ chatter, hoping that a stray word might give him a deeper insight into the meaning of their experience. In his business, a stray word or gesture could mean worlds upon worlds…
“Did you witness Hrap’s presentation last twilight?” one of the Zenobians asked another. Their translators were always on, so an eavesdropping human could easily follow their conversations-well, at least more easily than if their conversation was left untranslated. The idiosyncratic character of the Zenobian language had been one of the oddball discoveries the members of Omega Company had made in the year or so its forces had been present on the planet. In fact, the Zenobian language was quirky enough that Alliance military intelligence had developed a strong interest in its potential as an unbreakable code.
“Hrap is well-known as an open cloaca,” said the second Zenobian. “It would be redundant to witness his giving extended proof thereof.”
The first riposted, “I will not contest his cloacahood, but balanced judgment would consider his favor with the masses.”
“The masses are themselves cloacae,” interjected a third voice. Curiously, as Rev had previously noted, even machine translations of Zenobian voices carried a strong hint of the individuality of the speakers. Rev would likely have had trouble telling the three Zenobians apart visually, but their voices were as distinctive as holos of three different landscapes.
“Take care not to swerve from your settings,” said Qual, who listened to the previous discussion without comment. “We approach the activation potential…”
“Amplitude settings in perfect alignment,” said the Zenobian who had begun the discussion. Rev thought he detected a note of condescension in the reply.
“Yo, Rev, you got a minute?” came a voice from the other direction. Rev turned to see Roadkill, one of the newer group of legionnaires, standing a short distance away. Roadkill was an occasional attendee at Rev’s services, though he hadn’t yet responded to Rev’s efforts to persuade the legionnaires of Omega Company to become full members of the Church of the King.
Perhaps this was the time, thought Rev. “Why, sure, son, what can I do for you?”
Roadkill looked down at the ground. “Well, Rev, I been thinkin‘.”
Rev nodded benevolently. “That’s good, son, that’s always good. A feller oughta think about things.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Roadkill. It wasn’t clear whether he really agreed or was trying to be polite. In fact, now that he’d gotten Rev’s attention, Roadkill looked as if he wanted nothing better than to escape. But after squirming and making several false starts while Rev waited with ostentatious patience, he finally blurted out, “It’s about the church, Rev.”
“Well, that don’t surprise me, Roadkill,” said Rev. “A lot of the troops like to talk to me about that.”
“Well, I’ve just been wondering…”
“Here, son, don’t be shy,” said Rev. “Whatever it is you want to ask, I’m here to answer it.”
“You sure?” asked Roadkill, looking sidewise at Rev. “I mean, I don’t want to embarrass nobody…”
“Go ahead, spit it out,” said Rev. “There’s not much a man in my shoes ain’t already heard a few times.”
“OK, then,” said Roadkill. “What I want to know is why the music’s so
“Well, son, we gotta go with the talent we have,” said Rev, trying his best not to show his dismay. “If you knew some good musicians on the base, I could maybe ask ‘em to play once in a while.”
“You mean that?” said Roadkill, his eyes lighting up. “Coz me and some of the guys…”
“You got a band?” Rev perked up. Attendance had been a bit slack lately; maybe this would be a way to spark interest among the younger legionnaires. “We can talk about you playin‘ for the King, if you can play somethin’ that fits in. You got somethin‘ I can listen to?”
“Sure,” said Roadkill. He reached in the front pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a plugin. “Listen to that, and if you like it, we’ll talk more.”
“Sure, I can’t wait to hear it,” said Rev. Secretly, he wondered just what kind of music the younger legionnaires were listening to these days. He’d always preferred the classics, himself: Jerry Lee, Gene Vincent, Sheb Wooley, and of course the King. But maybe it was time to open his ears a bit. That would be just what the King would tell him to do…
He tucked the plugin into his own pocket and promptly forgot about it.
“Neurons, spare, freeze-dried, three cases,” said the tall Black woman, bending down to look at the bottom shelf of the medical supply closet.
“Neurons, spare, freeze-dried, three cases-check,” said Beeker. He marked the item on the handheld electrotablet he was using to record the information for transfer to the medical supply database that had just been set up. Until just a day ago, Chocolate Harry had been in charge of the base’s medical supplies. With an autodoc taking care of the legionnaires of Omega Company, there hadn’t been any particular reason to separate the medical materials from the general supplies. But with a live medic on-planet, that was about to change.
Nightingale-formerly known as Laverna-stood up and stretched. “OK,” she said, tiredly. “Looks as if we’ve got almost everything a detached company is going to need. Unless you’re planning on some kind of war breaking out here, I ought to be able to do the job.“
“I would have expected that of you,” said Beeker, who’d volunteered to help the company’s new medic inventory her infirmary’s supplies.
“You’re a trusting sort, aren’t you?” said Nightingale, deadpan. But there was a noticeable edge to her voice.
“Yes, when circumstances justify it,” said Beeker, raising an eyebrow. “I trusted you to finish training and come join this company, and so you have. Show me the fault in that.”
Nightingale said, “Well-ll…” Then she fell silent, with a sidelong glance at the butler.
Beeker elevated his other eyebrow. After waiting a long moment, he said (with an unaccustomed show of impatience), “Are you going to continue your remarks, or am I going to be forced to rely on guesswork? I don’t pretend to be expert at interpreting silences.”
Nightingale shrugged. “If you really want me to point out a fault in your behavior, you might consider that some men would have been glad to come with me instead of waiting for me to come back to them.”
