5

A hell of a place to hold a formation, thought Brandy, looking at the Grand Ballroom of the Fat Chance Casino Hotel. In front of her, over a dozen rookie Space Legionnaires stood at attention on the dance floor-three of them Gambolts. They had been aroused by automated early-morning wake-up calls from the hotel's central computer, for this, their first training session with Omega Company. A variety of exercise equipment had been brought in from the hotel's fitness center (an amenity that the visiting gamblers largely ignored). This session had been designed to incorporate physical training as much as basic indoctrination in military discipline.

Brandy stared at them with frank curiosity; it was unusual for the company to get recruits who hadn't already come through boot camp, learning the ropes of how to be a legionnaire-and, for the most part, convincing their drill instructors that they didn't have what it took. Or that they had an attitude that would make them a problem wherever they went. That was the raw material that had gone to make up the Omega Mob, and it had made the company the butt of every Legion joke-until Phule came, and showed that even the ugliest ducklings could grow up into something unexpected.

Could this crop of new recruits represent a change of course for Omega? Had the company's success under its new commander convinced the brass to start sending a better quality of raw material? Or had these newcomers somehow been diagnosed as likely misfits and malcontents even before they'd put on uniforms? Well, it didn't really matter. Whatever this crop of rookies had been before they got here, it was Brandy's job to make them into legionnaires. Might as well get started, she thought. If it's going to be bad news, waiting to fund it out won't make it any better.

"All right, rookies, listen up," she said, stepping forward and raising her voice to a penetrating bark. "You aren't going to like a lot of what's going to happen here, but I don't care whether you like it or not. It's my job to make you into Space Legionnaires, and I'll do it if I have to kill half of you. Do you understand that?"

The troops responded with a general murmur of acquiescence, certainly nothing approaching enthusiasm.

"What did you say?" Brandy demanded, at the top of her lungs. This was an old drill-instructor's game. Usually somebody would get flustered enough to say something she could take as an excuse for a first-class chewing out. Even an innocent reply would do-the point was to show the recruits that they were in a new environment, where rank and discipline and the rules were what mattered. Even if the recruits thought the rules were stupid (which they often were, given the quality of the Space Legion's top brass in recent decades), they were going to have to learn to pay them lip service. Eventually they'd figure out where the loopholes were so they could get through their hitches without being miserable the entire time. When push came to shove, a clever, resourceful legionnaire who could break the rules without getting caught was better to have in your outfit than a mindless rule-follower. But to get that kind of legionnaire, you had to start off by enforcing the rules with an iron hand.

"Well, Sergeant, we all said different things," said one man in the front row-a young, round-faced human, slightly below average height, with a bit of a potbelly. The recruit had an earnest expression, and the kind of patient smile a schooldroid might be programmed to use while teaching a slow class.

Well, it wasn't an ideal point of departure for a tirade, but it'd have to do. "You, there, what's your name?" Brandy snapped.

"Mahatma, Sergeant," said the recruit, still smiling. Brandy was disappointed that he didn't make the common rookie mistake of forgetting to call her "Sergeant," or the worse mistake of calling her "sir." But she'd have to make do with what she got. That was one of Phule's principles, too.

"And what the hell do you think is so funny, Mahatma?" said Brandy, stepping forward to confront the recruit face-to-face.

"Funny isn't quite the right word, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling dreamily. "Everything here is so...transitory."

"Transitory?" Brandy hadn't heard that one before, and for a moment it caught her off her guard.

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma. "We see things in such a short perspective, don't you agree? What's here today will be gone tomorrow, and we along with it. So why get disturbed at any of it? All will pass."

"Is that what you think?" snarled Brandy, moving to within inches of Mahatma's face. This usually had the effect of making even a tough case nervous, but Mahatma didn't even flinch. "You might have on a Legion uniform, but you look like a civilian and you talk like one. Maybe you should get down on the floor and do some push-ups for me-say about a hundred, for starters. That ought to give you the long perspective. And we'll see whether that smile's still there when you finish. Do it now!"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling as he got down on his hands and knees. "Do you want a hundred exactly, or will an approximation suffice?"

"I said a hundred and I meant it," said Brandy. "I want to see that back straight, rookie. And if you stick your fat civilian butt up in the air, I promise you I'll kick it. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, looking up at her. "Thank you for giving me the chance to make myself stronger."

"Get going!" shouted Brandy, who was starting to feel as annoyed as she was pretending to be. Mahatma started doing push-ups. Very slowly and calmly, without looking up and without bending his waist. There was a patter of laughter from the ranks. Brandy glared at them. "So, you think it's funny, hey? OK, all of you-a hundred push-ups! Now!"

The recruits scrambled onto their hands and started doing push-ups. Most of them were nowhere near as calm as Mahatma. That was good-they would make better targets than the unflappable Mahatma. The morning was finally promising to go as she'd planned it. "Keep those backs straight!" she yelled, at nobody in particular, and began looking for someone to make an example of.

"Excuse me, Sergeant, what shall we do now?"

Brandy recognized the translator's intonations even as she turned to see the three Gambolts standing behind her in a group. She frowned. "Push-ups," she said. "One hundred push-ups. That order was for you, too."

"Yes, Sergeant," said Rube. "We did one hundred push-ups. What should we do while the humans are finishing?"

"You did the hundred? That's impossible," said Brandy. She looked at her watch; it had been less than two minutes since she'd ordered the squad to do push-ups. Her frown got deeper. "You must be doing them wrong. Show me how you do push-ups."

"Yes, Sergeant," said the Gambolts in chorus, and all three began doing push-ups in unison-at something like two per second, with straight backs, full arm extension, chests brushing the floor without resting there...Brandy watched in fascination while the three Gambolts blew off another hundred. They weren't even breathing hard. Behind them, the human recruits were floundering through the routine, most of them barely halfway to their quota. She knew from experience that most of them wouldn't be able to reach it.

A second glance showed her Mahatma, still doing his push-ups very slowly and calmly, as if he had no other concern in the world. He wasn't breathing hard either. Right then, Brandy decided that this had to be the weirdest training squad she'd ever seen. At least, the Gambolts weren't going to be a problem, she decided. And with their example, maybe the rest would shape up even faster.

She didn't realize until a good bit later that the Gambolts' example might not have the effect she anticipated.