Phule's Errand

16

Journal #852-

Phule’s trip back to his hotel was somewhat more of an adventure than he’d planned on. He’d been warned about Old Earth’s ubiquitous pickpockets, con artists, and identity thieves, as well as Pitti’s news about rumors connecting the Space Legion with the IRS-guaranteed to make the black uniform unpopular. Still, nothing he’d heard matched the experience of walking through the streets of Rome. In fact, the only thing that came close was spending an equivalent amount of time with some of the enlisted legionnaires of the Omega Mob.

Phule knew enough not to carry anything valuable when he went out on the streets. He knew more than enough not to fall for the myriad sob stories and come-ons that someone on every street corner seemed ready to offer to prosperous-looking passersby. And his personal information had been specially encrypted in the experimental Zenobian-based code that Sushi was developing. Sushi had assured him that only a native speaker of Zenobian was going to have any chance to crack the code. Earth’s hackers and crackers might be the best in the galaxy, but Agent Fox’s ignorance about Zenobia was a pretty good indication that nobody on Old Earth was likely to have the necessary knowledge to make use of his information, even if they did manage to steal it.

Meanwhile, he was enjoying the energy and the color of the bustling Roman streets, which had become far safer for pedestrians with the arrival of hovercars, which the Romans drove with the same recklessness they’d driven ground cars-but well above street level, and with better automatic safety devices. It might be fun to walk around the city with Samantha Beliveau, the pretty redhead he’d met going to the landing shuttle. He’d been meaning to call her and make a lunch date, possibly at the restaurant Uncle Pitti had mentioned-Trattoria something or another. They’d probably know at the hotel…

He was still trying to remember the name of the restaurant when he heard a woman scream. The sound came from an alley he’d just walked past. He turned and looked carefully down the narrow passageway-no sense sticking his neck out unless he knew what he was getting into.

Just as he looked, a weasel-faced man in a shiny dark suit struck a young woman across the face with a backhanded slap. The woman was nearly knocked off her feet by the blow. Only the man’s rough grip on her arm with his other hand prevented her from falling outright.

“What’s going on here?” shouted Phule. At the sound of Phule’s voice, the man turned and looked at him-. indignant at being interrupted, to judge from his expression. But at the same time, the woman broke the grip and stumbled toward Phule, who stepped forward to shelter her. He quickly pulled her out of the alleyway and onto the crowded street.

“What’s the matter?” said Phule. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, and wore something that Phule mentally classified as a “peasant dress”-not that he had any knowledge of what peasants wore these days, let alone whether any peasants were still around to wear it.

The woman cast her gaze back over her shoulder. There was a bruise starting to form under her left eye. “That man-he tried to kill me!” she gasped, turning to look up into Phule’s eyes. Her eyes were dark and pleading as she held onto his arm, obviously frightened.

“You get in my way, I kill you too!” said the man, waving a fist. He took a threatening step forward.

That made up Phule’s mind. “Come on!” He grabbed her hand and set off at a pace he hoped she would be able to keep up with. A block away, he looked back at the alleyway; Weasel-face was standing there, hands on hips, staring angrily at them. But he had made no effort to follow.

“I think we’re safe,” he said. “Do you have anywhere safe to go?”

“I do, but I am afraid of him,” she said. “What if he follows up?”

“Well, come along with me,” said Phule. “We’ll go someplace he can’t follow us, and then we’ll figure out how you can get away from him. I can’t really do much else for you-I’m just here for a short time, and have important business of my own.” He made a mental note to himself to stay alert for any funny business on the woman’s part; it wouldn’t be unheard of for an attractive “victim” to lure an off-world tourist into following her someplace where Weasel-face, who would of course turn out to be her accomplice, could rob him.

“Yes, I will come with you,” said the woman, darting another glance backward. “But hurry, please-I am afraid of him.”

“He doesn’t look very frightening to me,” said Phule. “Just stay close to me and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.” He led her in the direction of his hotel, glancing over his shoulder to see if Weasel-face was following. Apparently not; so far, so good, he thought. He wondered if there was some way to give the woman any long-term security. She did seem to be genuinely afraid. Pitti da Phule might have some suggestions on that score…

Suddenly he realized that it seemed to be taking a long time to get to the hotel. It should be just a block or so ahead, on the right-hand corner… but no, it was nowhere to be seen. I ought to stop and get my bearings, Phule thought to himself. “Hold on a second, miss,” he said to the woman. To his surprise, she just kept walking-and he kept walking with her. His feet didn’t seem to want to stop…

“What’s happening?” he said. For some reason, he couldn’t raise his voice above a husky whisper. Then, he remembered: When she’d taken his arm after coming out of the alleyway, her nails had dug into his skin. A glance down showed a small red mark on his wrist. Putting two and two together at last, he blurted out, “You’ve drugged me! Where are you taking me?”

“Not to worry, signore,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt you. I’m sure you are worth very much more unharmed, and I don’t think you would enjoy it, either. Just come along quietly with me. Don’t fight the ‘zombie’ shot, and my friend Carmelo doesn’t have to do anything. He is so much happier when he doesn’t have to do anything, capisceT

Phule looked behind him, and saw Weasel-face- undoubtedly Carmelo-walking a short distance behind, a sardonic smile on his face. But whatever drugs the woman had given him, they seemed to work just fine. He followed her without question along the Roman streets, his feet moving steadily despite his urgent desire to turn and run away.

General Blitzkrieg let out a deep breath. The charging Zenobian monster hadn’t breached the base perimeter. And he felt good that he’d managed to sprint a solid thirty meters-or at least, as close to a sprint as was consonant with the dignity of a senior officer. His heart had stopped pounding after no more than five minutes, and he’d managed to avoid being seen by any low-ranking legionnaires. Only that phony chaplain, Rev, had seen him flee in panic, and Rev had looked genuinely scared himself when the beast put on its charge. So the story wasn’t likely to leak out from that quarter.

He still hadn’t figured out what the damned Zenobians’ spy apparatus was all about. With their impenetrable jargon, the little lizards had managed to keep him from learning anything about it. And then that monster had shown up… just in time to keep him from asking the pertinent questions he’d had right on the tip of his tongue. Maybe the monster would attack the lizards. Or maybe they’d called it somehow-with the machine? Could they be training it to attack the base at their command?

Well, there was one person on this godforsaken base who’d better know what it was all about: Jester. The fellow was supposed to be in command here, not that Blitzkrieg had seen any sign of it. Had to admire the way the fellow hit a golf ball, though-that was quite an exhibition he’d put on today. The rap he’d taken on the noggin must’ve gotten him riled up. He’d made some spectacular shots, and with a few lucky breaks, he’d put together a round of golf a lot of pros would have envied. Of course, tomorrow was another day-and Blitzkrieg knew that, except for today, he’d more than held his own against the local talent. Luck had a way of evening out.

But he had other business with Jester, now. Serious Legion business. Time to take the gloves off and show Captain Smart-ass Jester who was in charge. And if the little rich brat didn’t have some damned good answers, the general was going to make him wish he’d never heard of the Space Legion. There were a lot of Legion posts that could make this planet, even with its desert climate and alien monsters, look like a playpen. And Blitzkrieg was just itching to find an excuse to send Jester to one of them…

Blitzkrieg walked to the nearest door and entered the base module. He still hadn’t learned exactly how the thing was laid out-Jester had set the thing up according to some half-baked plan of his own rather than following the approved plans for Legion installations. Here was the enlisted men’s barbershop, closed for the evening now, and over there was a bank of vending machines-a small but lucrative profit center that no Legion base could afford to do without. If he turned left here, it ought to take him to Comm Central, and from there, Jester’s office was in easy reach. Assuming the fellow ever spent any time at all in the office-it was beginning to look as if he was a full-time golfer, with Legion responsibilities a distant second. Probably just as well, considering that Jester was a lead-pipe cinch to screw up any Legion work that came his way…

Halfway down the hall to Comm Central, General Blitzkrieg stopped as a familiar sound caught his ear. He’d been hearing it for his entire Legion career, on bases spanning half the galaxy. It was such an inevitable part of the usual background noise of a Legion base that he’d almost failed to notice it-except that here, here on rich-boy Jester’s custom-built base, it seemed out of place. It was the sound of a squad being chewed out by a superior. And to his utter astonishment, the voice doing the chewing out was none other than Jester’s!

The sound came from a side corridor leading to a set of double doors. A small printed sign above the doors identified the room as the gym. His curiosity running rampant, Blitzkrieg pushed open the doors and stepped inside. There stood Jester, bracing a motley collection of Omega Company legionnaires with their first sergeant-the fat woman who’d taken a Legion name after some kind of liquor, exactly in character for this sorry outfit. And for once, Jester was the perfect image of an officer-his uniform immaculate, his posture exemplary, and fire in his eye. And for all their shoddy appearance, the grunts were showing something resembling respect, as well. It was so completely out of character for Omega Company that General Blitzkrieg was speechless for a moment.

He watched in shocked silence as the sergeant called forward one of the recruits-a little, round-faced fellow with eyeglasses. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Well, well, Captain-what the devil’s going on here?”

Cool as a comet at the farthest reaches of its orbit, Jester turned to face him and snapped off a crisp salute. “General Blitzkrieg!” Behind him, the sergeant barked “Ten-hut!” and the legionnaires straightened up-about as well as he’d expect from their sort. The open fear on their faces was a sight the general had never tired of seeing. Involuntarily, he felt an evil grin spread across his face. He’d come all the way from Rahnsome to Zenobia to strike fear and awe into these third-rate legionnaires. Up to now, he’d frittered away his stay playing golf with Jester-not that he hadn’t enjoyed it.

Now he was really going to have some fun. “On second thought, don’t mind me, Captain. The sergeant was about to give some kind of demonstration. By all means, carry on. I’m just as eager to see it as you are.”

And when it collapsed into an utter fiasco, as it was bound to do now that he’d scared the crap out of these lowlifes, he’d show them what a real chewing-out was like. He could barely keep himself from laughing out loud with anticipation…

“Very well, Sergeant,” said the robot, raising an eyebrow. “You heard General Blitzkrieg. Proceed with your demonstration.”

Brandy struggled to keep from showing her chagrin. She’d meant to lead Mahatma through just enough of a show to support her pretense that she’d been training her legionnaires in espionage skills, then dismiss the squad and cut short the robot’s attempt to enforce Legion discipline. Mahatma was enough of a natural actor to bring it off without the rest of the squad figuring out what had happened-in fact, they’d probably just be grateful to go back to their bunks. And if she played her hand right, she could shepherd the robot off so Gears could begin work on repairing it.

But the general’s arrival changed everything. Now she had to make the demonstration convincing enough that the general wouldn’t smell a rat, while maintaining the pretense that the gung ho robot really was Captain Jester. She also wanted to keep her legionnaires from taking any more flak than they absolutely had to. This meant fooling not only the malfunctioning robot but the general, who despite his recent good mood was infamously hostile to Omega Company and Captain Jester. And she was the only one here who knew what was really going on, not that there was anybody who could help her if the general decided to fly off the handle.

I’ve just got to tough it out, she thought, turning to face Mahatma again. The little legionnaire was actually standing at a pretty fair semblance of attention; that might prevent the general from losing his temper prematurely. He was going to lose his temper; that much Brandy took for granted. Especially since the robot had picked today to hand him a beating on the golf course…

“Legionnaire Mahatma!” she barked, in her best parade-ground voice. “You heard the captain. We are going to demonstrate your infiltration and intelligence-gathering training for the general.”

“Yes, Brandy,” said Mahatma. “May I ask a question?”

All right, Mahatma! Brandy thought. I hope you make it a good one, this time. “Permission granted,” she said, crisply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the general’s jaw drop. If this didn’t work, she could forget the remainder of her Legion career. So she might as well have as much fun as she could, while it lasted.

“Thank you, Brandy,” said Mahatma, still maintaining an almost acceptable military stance. He shifted his eyes toward the general, who was still wearing his golf togs, and asked, “Why is the commanding general so fat and out of uniform?”

General Blitzkrieg’s face turned crimson. He took two steps forward and began to bellow, “Why, you impertinent-”

The robot stepped ahead of him and cut him off, barking out, “Sergeant! I have never seen such flagrant insubordination! How do you explain this?”

“Sir!” said Brandy, keeping a straight face. “Nobody who saw this legionnaire’s disrespect for authority could possibly believe that he has any military training. That is Omega Company’s secret weapon. Because the enemy underestimates this man-and most of our legionnaires-they can exercise their military skills in conditions where they have the element of surprise completely on their side.“

“Military skills!” This time it was Blitzkrieg who spoke. “Military skills, my blinking arse! What possible military skills could this grinning imbecile have?”

“With the general’s permission, Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills,” said Brandy.

The robot looked at the general, who clenched his teeth and nodded, turning a beady-eyed stare toward Mahatma. “Carry on, Sergeant,” said the robot, crossing its arms over its chest.

Brandy suddenly realized that the robot had an expression that she had never seen on the real Captain Jester’s face. It took her a moment to figure it out, doing her best not to stare, which the general was sure to consider insubordinate, whether the robot noticed it or not.

The robot didn’t have real emotions, as far as she could understand. (Roboticists apparently had long, ongoing arguments on the subject.) Apparently, all the robot could do was display the external appearance of the human emotions it was programmed to simulate. Brandy had no idea whether these were installed from some standard menu at the factory or customized for each model. Given the amount of money the captain had spent, the latter was a good bet. But whatever the case, the robot shouldn’t be showing any emotion it wasn’t already programmed to show.

So why did she get the distinct impression it was doing its best to hide utter irrational fear?

Phule came to his senses in a small room with a south-facing window. Actually, he’d never really lost consciousness- he’d just been unable to exert his own will power, following the woman who’d somehow managed to drug him. But he’d sat in a kind of stupor for an unknown time in this little room-wherever it was. Still somewhere in central Rome, he figured-he couldn’t have walked any real distance, and he had no memory of entering any kind of vehicle. On the other hand, he had only the vaguest memory of the last… how long was it, anyway? And he didn’t have to try the door to have a very good idea he was for all practical purposes a prisoner.

He got up and tried the door anyway, careful not to make any noise in the process. Whatever had happened to him, it had no obvious aftereffects; his head was clear, and his balance and coordination seemed to be fine now.

At least, his muscles seemed to be under his own control again. On the downside, the door was very definitely locked. So was the window, he quickly learned-locked and fortified on the outside with bars that looked quite sufficient to hold in one lone Space Legion captain. And it looked onto the blank wall of another building about five meters away, so there was no easy way to signal anyone.

Signaling… he quickly looked at his wrist. Sure enough, his communicator was gone. His pockets had been emptied, too. That gave him a brief moment’s panic. Then he remembered that he’d left his Dilithium Express card and other items of value in the hotel safe; at most his captors would have a couple of hundred euros and his Legion ID card. Nothing he couldn’t get replaced quickly enough. So-what now?

He did a quick search of the room, looking for anything he might be able to turn to his advantage. A makeshift weapon, an alternative way out, even some clue as to his kidnappers’ identity. He turned up nothing besides the furniture he’d already seen-a bed, a chair, a side table. In a real pinch, he supposed he could club someone with the chair, or tie them up in the bedsheets. But those were desperate plays, to be saved for a desperate situation. The easiest way out of the room looked as if it started with getting the door opened. He went over and knocked.

After a moment he heard footsteps on the far side. “All right, stand-a back from-a the door,” said a raspy voice with a thick Italian accent. Weasel-face, thought Phule, moving back as requested. He heard keys rattle in the lock, and then the door swung partway open; Weasel-face looked inside, squinting suspiciously. “What do you want?” he said, in an accent several degrees more educated than Phule expected. Behind him was another man, large and frowning-presumably the one who’d answered first.

“Giving my property back would be a good start,” said Phule, in as even a voice as he could manage. “Then you really ought to let me go-I have important business that can’t wait.”

“Funny man,” said Weasel-face, sourly. “What, do you think we locked you up for our own entertainment?”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t do it for mine,” said Phule. “Just what do you think you’ve got to gain by holding me prisoner?”

“You should be able to figure that out by yourself,” said Weasel-face. “But I’ll save you the time, because I want you to know where things stand. You’re a rich off-world snot, and we’re underprivileged locals. Your people pay us, and we let you go. If they don’t pay us quickly enough, maybe Vinnie and I get annoyed. Vinnie can be nasty when he’s annoyed, and then you’d have something to worry about besides being late for your important business. Capisce?” Vinnie continued to frown, deploying what looked to be the preferred weapon in his arsenal of facial expressions.

Phule shrugged. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on collecting any ransom money. There’ll be people coming to look for me, and they aren’t amateurs. Or haven’t you figured out who I was visiting earlier today?”

“Pitti da Phule doesn’t frighten us,” said Weasel-face, with a quiet smile. “If he tries to interfere in our business, we can call on people who’ll make him think again.”

“Well, it’s not so much a question of interfering in your business,“ said Phule. ”I believe Pitti’s approach is more likely to be total cancellation of your business plan.“

“My friend, you aren’t in a position to be issuing threats,” growled Weasel-face. Phule remembered now that the woman who’d tricked him had called the man “Carmelo,” although there was no guarantee that was the man’s right name. He’d remember it, anyhow-just in case.

“Two points,” said Phule. “First, I am not your friend. And second, what I just said wasn’t a threat.”

“Oh yeah?” said Weasel-face. “What do you call it, then?”

Phule smiled, and said softly, “In my line of business, we call that an ultimatum.”

“Carmelo” just snorted and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Agent G. C. Fox drummed his fingers, waiting. The number he’d called rang for the fifth time, then a voice came through Fox’s earplug: “The party you are calling is not available. Please leave a message and your call will be returned.” A cacophonous beep followed, but Fox had already started the disconnect process. This was his fourth attempt to reach Captain Jester, and the message he’d left the first time had not been returned. Considering the message, it should have been.

So what did that mean? Fox took a sip of shandygaff, wiped the foam from his moustache with the back of his sleeve, and thought. The more Fox thought about it, the more convinced he was that the captain was already in trouble-and that he was going to need help getting out of it.

Helping off-worlders get out of trouble wasn’t really Fox’s job at all. He wasn’t any kind of cop or a detective- just a customs inspector. But he made it a point to keep track of interesting visitors to Old Earth. Sometimes, he could steer them to a business or service they could benefit from. His friends who ran those businesses benefited from it, too-and so did Fox, thanks to the finders fees and commissions his friends passed along to him. They helped stretch the customs agent’s not-so-grand salary enough to bring in a few of the better things of life.

He’d made it a point to look up Willard Phule on the newsnets, after he’d seen him come through customs. He’d learned a fair amount about the captain’s background, and his career on the various worlds Omega Company had been posted to. It might or might not turn out to be profitable-but it never hurt to do the research. Fox had learned that knowing something always paid better than not knowing it.

He’d liked the Legion captain when they’d talked. And right after Phule’s passage through customs, he’d read over a list of recent immigrants to Old Earth-all agents got the lists, and some of them-like Fox-made it a point to read them. Later, when he did his research on Phule, one name had jumped out at him. He had an excellent memory for names. A particular person had arrived on Old Earth two days before Phule. Her presence here might be a coincidence, of course. On the other hand, this was somebody Phule had bumped heads with in the past. That, Fox figured, was exactly the kind of information that a prudent man like Willard Phule would want to have. He might even find it in his heart to reward the person who’d brought it to him. Why shouldn’t Fox be the one to reap the reward?

The only problem was, he couldn’t get in touch with Phule…

There was someone else he could call, though. Someone who might be very grateful for advance warning of possible trouble for the young Space Legion captain. Fox picked up his vidphone, entered a number, and in a moment a face appeared on the screen. For a moment the other party frowned, reacting to Fox’s uniform. Then the man relaxed, recognizing his caller. “Ah, Signore Volpone, what can I do for you today?”

Fox smiled. “Actually, it’s the other way around this time,” he said. “I’ve learned something I think you’ll want to know…”

After Fox told his story, and added the fact that Phule hadn’t been answering his phone, the other party nodded. “This does not smell good,” he said. “Grazie, signore-if this is what it seems to be, I am in your debt.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Fox. “I don’t like to see somebody get in trouble when I could have prevented it.”

“Grazie again, then,” said Pitti da Phule. “I will remember this.” He broke the connection.

Thumper and the other members of his training squad were well into an evening of creative goofing off when the captain walked into the Enlisted Legionnaires’ Lounge. By this time of day, they were usually free to follow their own routines-which, in the Omega Mob, included drinking, swapping stories, playing bar games, dancing to Roadkill’s band, or joking around. Unless there was a real emergency, sergeants and officers tended to leave them alone.

So nobody was expecting Captain Jester to order them to report to the gym, on the double. If he had been a mere sergeant, they might have complained. But the captain was a different story; not only was he the top authority on the planet-at least, when generals weren’t visiting-he also knew when to give his people a little slack. So Roadkill and his buddies shut off their instruments, and Omega Training Squad obediently trooped down to the gym. They lined up in a formation that would’ve made even Brandy proud. Or so Thumper thought, as he took his place at one end of the front rank, next to his buddy Mahatma.

Surprise! For the first time since he’d joined Omega Company, Thumper found himself being yelled at by his company commander. Not by a sergeant, which wouldn’t have been any surprise-yelling at the troops was what sergeants were supposed to do. Not even one of the lieutenants, who were usually too busy to bother. Nope, this was the CO himself, hollering and cussing worse than Sergeant Brandy.

“You look like a bunch of Fungolian weevils! Who taught you how to stand at attention ? Do you call that a regulation haircut? Wipe that smirk off your face, legionnaire!” The entire squad seemed stunned-they’d never seen the captain like this.

But after a little while, Brandy showed up, and things started looking normal again. Thumper wondered if this was some kind of training exercise; that was the best explanation he could think of for the way Brandy and the captain acted. After all, he’d seen a good bit of Captain Jester while he was caddying for Flight Leftenant Qual in the golf matches. He hadn’t expected the captain to act like this, not at all.

Then-surprise number three!-General Blitzkrieg walked into the gym! Thumper hoped the general didn’t remember that unfortunate incident with a bucket full of stinky stuff back in basic training. It hadn’t really been Thumper’s fault, but it sure looked like it when somebody handed him the bucket after emptying it over the general’s head while the lights were out. The general seemed to be the kind of human who remembered things like that. Or maybe he didn’t; at least he hadn’t said anything out on the golf course, while Thumper caddied for Flight Leftenant Qual. Still, the general might not pay attention to his golf opponent’s caddy; but here he was on Legion business. In spite of himself, Thumper shivered.

Sergeant Brandy called Mahatma forward, and told the general about the squad’s special mission. This was the first time Thumper had heard anything about it, but as he listened to her, he thought it would explain a lot of things that hadn’t made sense before. Even when Mahatma asked the general one of his pain-in-the-ass questions, Brandy explained it so the general seemed to understand it.

The only thing that didn’t fit was the captain’s reaction. Thumper thought he looked surprised. Was the secret mission supposed to be a secret from the captain? He certainly didn’t look as if he’d ever heard of it. Or was he worried that Mahatma wouldn’t be enough of a pain?

Thumper was still trying to figure it out when Brandy said, “Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills.” That caught Thumper’s attention, all right. Mahatma was the only member of the training squad close to Thumper’s size, so the two of them often ended up as sparring partners in hand-to-hand combat drills. Thumper had a lot of respect for Mahatma’s skills. The little human was fast, and sneaky, and a lot stronger than he looked.

So it was only natural when Sergeant Brandy pointed to Thumper, and said, “Legionnaire Thumper, front and center to spar with Mahatma.”

Thumper had taken two steps forward when the general barked, “Wait a minute! If you’re going to demonstrate this man’s military skills, I want to see a real opponent out here. You’re not going to match him with some fluffy bunny, Sergeant.”

Thumper thought he was a pretty decent opponent, but he could sort of see the general’s point. Even 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?”