Now the dust had settled enough for her to make out the figures more clearly. "What the hell?" she said. "Hold your fire, people; those are Legion uniforms." What Legion officer-she had no doubt these were officers, to justify a special ship to bring them here-would be coming here? She waited as the two men came closer. Steadily they marched toward the camp, the smaller figure behind carrying a couple of briefcases and a computer bag. Behind them, a robot baggage handling cart was emerging from the open hatchway, piled high with luggage.
Straight ahead came the two Legion officers. At last, perhaps a dozen paces from the perimeter, the lead figure stopped and looked at the startled Omega Company defenders. "Well, it looks like a Legion base," said a high-pitched, whining voice. After a suspenseful pause, it added, with a definite snarl, "Enough to fool a civilian, maybe," and started forward again.
Brandy still didn't know who she was looking at, but she stood up and said, "Halt and identify yourself."
The lead figure didn't even slow down. Instead, it said, "Major Botchup, Commanding Officer, Omega Company, Space Legion." It kept on coming.
"Commanding officer?" Brandy's jaw fell. "Sir, the CO of Omega Company is Captain Jester."
"Was Captain Jester," said Major Botchup. He was now close enough that Brandy could make out his sneering face. He was surprisingly young, she thought. He looked up and down the line and made a sour face. "You clowns have had your little picnic long enough. I'm your new CO, by orders of General Blitzkrieg, and things are by God about to change around here!"
Chapter 9
Journal #545
Modern communications are a wonderful thing. They allow persons to wait endless hours for the download of information that the possession of a few choice reference books would put at their fingertips. They make it possible for salesmen and bill collectors to harrass their customers during the dinner hour or at other inconvenient times without the least risk of a poke in the snoot. They allow the young of both sexes to carry on endless conversations, if the term may be applied to a verbal exchange almost entirely devoid of actual content. All these are good things, especially if one is a stockholder in the communications cartels that provide these dubious services. Others will no doubt consider them in a less positive light.
Curiously, the petty annoyances of a civilized world are often precisely those things one most fervently desires when one is roughing it in the wilds of Zenobia, and they fail to function in the accustomed manner.
Word of Major Botchup's arrival spread like wildfire through Omega Company. The new commanding officer had commandeered the office set aside for Phule, then summoned Lieutenants Armstrong and Rembrandt for a closed-door executive conference with him and his adjutant, Second Lieutenant Snipe. This left Brandy with the unpleasant task of trying to inform Captain Jester of Legion headquarters' latest stratagem to counteract the innovations he'd instituted with Omega Company.
As usual, Comm Central had already heard the news. After all, Mother's job was to monitor all communications and make sure that information got passed to those who needed it most. So when Brandy came into the equipment-crowded room, Mother had already taken it upon her own initiative to contact the absent captain. Tusk-anini was standing behind the desk, looking over Mother's shoulder with an unusually deep frown as Brandy swept through the door.
"I can see you two are on the ball," said Brandy, coming to a halt by the main comm desk. "Have you talked to the captain? How's he taking the news?"
"wblftgrwmmmtfts," whispered Mother, shrinking down behind her equipment as she was suddenly confronted with an actual person instead of a disembodied comm signal.
"Oh, damn, I forgot," said Brandy. "Sorry, Mother, but this is priority one. Tusk, can you fill me in? What's the story?"
"Is no story," said the Volton. "Noise and more noise is all we receive. Some bad storm in desert, we think. Mother sends messages, but no way to tell if captain getting them." As if to confirm his words, a rattle of static emerged from the speakers.
"Oh, great," said Brandy. After a moment's thought, she asked. "How about calling on the Zenobian military frequencies? They ought to be reliable, if anything on this planet is. Maybe you can get in touch with them and ask if they'll relay a message."
"Is good idea. Mother already trying it, too," said Tusk-anini. "Having nothing for luck, is what happens."
"Well, if that's the deal, that's the deal," said Brandy. She stalked over to a nearby chair and took a seat. "I can probably hang out here until the major decides he wants me for something, which if I'm lucky won't be until sometime tomorrow. Keep trying, OK, Mother? And let me know if you get even a momentary connection. The captain may not be able to do anything about this bird coming in over his head, but he at least deserves a chance to walk in with some advance notice."
"brglyfrtz," agreed Mother, and she went back to work adjusting dials and speaking the occasional test phrase into her microphone. The static fluctuated constantly, but there was never more than the bare hint of a coherent signal. The legionnaires' faces got longer and longer, but they kept trying.
Finally, after several hours, Major Botchup called Brandy to order an inspection of all troops first thing next morning. She acknowledged the order, then turned to Mother and Tusk-anini and said, "Well, that's that. I need to get some sleep, or I won't be worth a bucket of sand in the morning. Keep trying, and call me to patch me in if you hear anything at all from the captain, OK?'
",tbwfPlt," said Mother.
Tusk-anini added, "You don't worry Brandy, we tell you right away. Go rest, now."
Much to her surprise, Brandy fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, to be awakened at last by her morning alarm. She leapt out of bed, ready to greet the day-until she remembered what she had to look forward to, and kicked the leg of her bed so hard that it slid half a meter across the floor.
If Omega Company had ever had a habit of turning out for inspection at six in the morning, it long since had broken that habit. Phule's interest in that particular military custom had never been strong, and most of his subordinate officers and NCOs had followed his lead. Lieutenant Armstrong, Moustache, and a few others maintained a spit-and-polish personal appearance and a strong concern for military discipline and Legion tradition. But they were the minority and knew better than to try to impose their preferences on the rest of the company.
Major Botchup, on the other hand, had made it quite clear that this was one area in which he fully intended to change the Omega Mob's image, and without delay. The major was personally rooting out every loose button, unkempt head, and slouching shoulder in the company, with the expression of a backyard gardener discovering vermin. And he was handing out reprimands at a record pace, spiked with blistering sarcasm. Next to him stood his adjutant, Second Lieutenant Snipe, smirking as he jotted down every demerit.
The newest recruits seemed to be particular targets of the major's wrath. He stood in front of Roadkill for a good twenty minutes. "That's not a military haircut," he began. "You'll report to the company barber immediately following inspection, and to my office as soon as he's done, so I can determine whether you're still in breach of regulations!"
"Uh, Major-" Roadkill began.
"No back talk, legionnaire!" the major barked. "Perhaps that's an unwarranted compliment-I don't see anything that looks like a legionnaire here-you or anyone else in this formation. What's that hanging from your ear?"