“Don’t complain,” said Paveryua. “You were plenty busy before. Not to mention the reams of work that are waiting for you once we get there. Why don’t you think of this as a chance to smell the roses?”
“Guess you’ve got a point,” nodded Samson, on a bitter note. Samson had been a busy beaver up until the flotilla took off. It was his job to gather the materials and the personnel necessary to construct and maintain both the antimatter fuel factories that were to encircle Hyde’s sun, and the refueling stations that were to be established on the gas planet apparently named “Behrgwit.”
It didn’t take too much doing to secure the materials. The Empire fervently desired for the Countdom of Hyde to become a stable strategic base, and spared no effort cooperating to make that happen. In fact, Samson hadn’t needed to do much of anything on that front. The Star Forces provided as many as twenty mobile antimatter fuel factories (which were perfectly functional, if old). Plus, he was able to purchase any other materials from the comfort of his room at the inn using his wristgear, and on a preferential basis at that.
It was the people that were the problem. The labor market at the imperial capital was a seller’s market of unprecedented proportions. Societal analysts had determined that this was the point in time when supply and demand were most imbalanced. Since the pre-war years, imperial citizens were experienced technicians in all sorts of fields, and were therefore in great demand. Meanwhile, the imperial citizens who’d been trained in large numbers since after the war began were starting to spill out of the military, but they couldn’t exactly be called rich in experience just yet. Collecting servant vassals through public recruitment was never going to cut it, forcing Samson to pull all the strings he could to gather the folks they needed.
Tinkering with machines was a great joy in life, and his hobby had turned into a job. But his work at the capital was different from what he was accustomed to. He’d endured, thinking he’d employ workers for his future farm, but his new mission had exhausted him utterly.
Upon turning to face Paveryua at last, Samson noticed his subordinate was holding a glass. He grabbed him by the arm to sniff the aroma of its contents. It smelled of wormwood and alcohol.
“Are you drinking on the job?” admonished Samson.
“I’m not drinking just yet. I don’t smell of alcohol myself, see?”
“Then you were planning to have your fill starting now. And here, of all places.”
“Aren’t you drinking, too, Inspector Supervisor?”
“Yeah. Tea.” Samson held out his cup.
“Yurgh, what is this stuff?” said Paveryua, after sniffing the way Samson had.
“Maxillon tea. I’ve taken a strange liking to it recently.”
“That is strange,” Paveryua concurred. “But never mind that stuff. How about a little of this?”
Like magic, a bottle and a second glass appeared in Paveryua’s hands.
“I’m on the clock, my friend,” said Samson.
“Didn’t you say you were bored?”
“I was, of course. That’s what work usually is. Boring. Not that it’s impossible to have fun at work.”
“You don’t have to pull a face like you’re chewing on a fistful of coffee beans, Inspector Supervisor. The work that’s waiting for you on the flipside is the kind you love. You know, shouting at your poor, pathetic subordinates, kicking them in the backside, et cetera.”
“I have never kicked a subordinate.” Funnily enough, Paveryua’s words of consolation failed to lift his heart.
“What, really?” Paveryua gently pressed the glass in his direction.
“On my home planet, if you take care not to break any bones, we don’t call it a kick,” he explained, accepting the glass. “Once, when I was under pressure, I used my toes to catch the attention of a dimwit, but I didn’t ‘kick’ him.”
“I see,” said Paveryua, pouring booze with a knowing grin. “It’s true that if you hadn’t aroused his attention, neither him nor me nor you would be of this universe. I do think you could’ve been a bit gentler about it.”
“You think I had that kinda time? My life was on the line, too.”
“Are you saying you didn’t have fun, sir?”
“Oh, Paveryua, my lad, don’t misjudge me. I’m actually a very gentle man at heart. Would I ever lay a hand on another soul, or do something that could be misinterpreted as such?”
“You’re not angry, are you, Inspector Supervisor?” asked Paveryua, a worried look on his face.
“Why would I be angry? It’s not like anyone’s insulted my cooking.”
“I could never insult your cooking if I wanted to. The meals you made me all those times were great. Oh, that reminds me, I have to warn my new colleagues never to speak ill of the meals you cook.”
“Don’t. I like it when people give their honest opinions. Complimenting me out of obligation won’t make me any happier.”
“But you said you’d get angry if your food was insulted, didn’t you?”
“If somebody tells me my cooking tastes bad, they are insulting something, but it ain’t the food.”
“What’re they insulting, then? Also, what do we toast to?”
“The Countdom of Hyde, obviously — the system of strange and bizarre creatures. Here’s hoping at least one species makes for some good booze.” They clinked. “And to answer your question, they’re insulting their own defective taste buds.”
“Gotcha.” Paveryua chugged, and mumbled to himself: “Glad I left the military. I’d never be able to stand above subordinates, not while I’m lacking your tremendous self-confidence, Inspector Supervisor. And I have a bad habit of viewing myself objectively, so I’m just not suited to rising in the Star Forces ranks. Actually, forget the Star Forces — I might not ever see a promotion anywhere.”
“Yep,” said Samson, drinking down his glass.
“I was kind of hoping you’d argue against that,” said Paveryua, visibly wounded even as he poured Samson some more.
“Argue against that? Why would I do that? You want me to say, ‘be more confident in yourself,’ or ‘three days and you’ll know the ropes of being a commander’?
