But the general’s hoverjeep had reached the perimeter of the camp. Now, it was too late for preparations. Anything that wasn’t already done wasn’t going to get done. Armstrong sighed, then pulled himself upright into his sharpest military posture and strode forward to greet the arriving vehicle.
Now that the dust cloud had begun to settle, Armstrong could see that the general’s hoverjeep was a deluxe ultra-stretch model, as much a limo as a jeep. Its exterior color was deep Legion black with tinted windows and antennas that, from their size and number, could pick up signals from all over the civilized galaxy. To judge by the size of the hood, it featured an especially powerful engine. On both sides and on the hood, an oversize Legion insignia was painted in gold, surrounded by general’s stars. Armstrong had heard some commentator claim that a man’s vehicle was an extension of his personality; if that was so, General Blitzkrieg was not a man to trifle with.
The hoverjeep slowed to a stop, settled onto its parking cushions, and the engine noise faded to a low hum. Armstrong stationed himself by the rear door, then nodded to Brandy, who’d brought along her training squad as an honor guard and reception party. “Ten-HUT!” barked the first sergeant, and to Armstrong’s relief, the legionnaires responded with almost commendable sharpness as a slim woman in a major’s uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat. She stepped around to the passenger side and opened the door for a heavyset man-General Blitzkrieg.
Armstrong snapped off his best academy salute and held it. But instead of returning the salute, the general glared around the assembled troops and bellowed, “Where the hell is that idiot Jester? He should have been here to meet me. There’d better be a damned good explanation, or I’m going to fry his ass!”
Right that moment, Lieutenant Armstrong knew it was not going to be one of his better days.
General Blitzkrieg was doing his best to conceal his glee as Sparrowhawk opened the door to let him emerge from his hoverjeep. He’d known better than to expect his arrival on Zenobia to be a total surprise. The damned military grapevine was far too efficient for a general to travel halfway across the Alliance without anyone’s noticing and warning his prospective hosts. So by all rights, Captain Jester should have had at least some advance notice of the general’s impending inspection tour. In any case an honor guard-if you wanted to dignify a couple dozen legionnaires by that name-had turned out to greet his arrival. So Jester did have advance notice. And by age-old military custom, Jester himself should have been at the landing site to greet the arriving brass-putting the best face on the situation, even if he knew his miserable outfit was going to fall short of the general’s standards.
But, to Blitzkrieg’s astonishment, Captain Jester was nowhere to be seen. Such a flagrant failure to kowtow to the Legion’s commanding general was exactly the kind of opening Blitzkrieg wanted-a lapse so blatant that even the most ardent of Jester’s supporters would have a hard time explaining it away. Normally he’d have to do some digging to come up with some suitable provocation; he might even have to magnify some molehill of imperfection into a mountain of culpability. But here was a major lapse in military courtesy-if not an outright dereliction of duty-being handed to him on a platinum-plated platter! Blitzkrieg was delighted.
The ranking officer here was a lieutenant, who was at least managing a decent salute. Blitzkrieg hadn’t bothered to look up the names of Omega Company’s junior officers. The simple fact that they were here meant that they were screwups, and that was all he needed to know about them. He hated screwups-they made the Legion look bad, and that made him look bad. He wouldn’t stand for that.
He stood scowling for a long moment before returning the lieutenant’s salute. “As you were, Lieutenant,” he grumbled. Then, leaning forward, he hissed, “Where’s that idiot Jester? And don’t tell me he didn’t know I was coming-even he isn’t that dumb. Where is he?”
The lieutenant-Blitzkrieg could now see his name tag, which read Armstrong-had almost imperceptibly relaxed from his rigid stance for a moment, but now was standing at attention again. “General Blitzkrieg, sir!” the lieutenant said. “With Captain Jester’s apologies, sir! The captain detailed me to greet you so that he could attend to urgent company business. He…”
“Oh, shut the hell up!” barked the general. He waved a hand and stepped past Armstrong, glaring around at the miserable hellhole of a desert world that he’d sent Omega Company to. “If I want any of Jester’s bullshit, I can get it directly from the horse’s ass.” Despite himself, the general chuckled. That was one of his better lines; he’d have to remember it for future use.
“Yes, sir, sir!” said Armstrong, frozen in position.
“That’s more like it, Lieutenant,” said Blitzkrieg. He made the rank sound like an epithet. “Now, I’ve had all the nonsense I can“stomach for one day. Take me to wherever Jester’s hiding-on the double!”
“Yes, sir,” said Armstrong, again, saluting. “If the general would be so kind as to follow me…”
“No need for that, Mr. Armstrong,” came a familiar jaunty voice. “Welcome to our humble establishment, General Blitzkrieg-I hope your flight in wasn’t too boring.”
“Captain!” said Armstrong, whirling around. His voice and his expression conveyed an unmistakable sense of relief.
“Jester!” snarled General Blitzkrieg, his face settling into a long-accustomed frown. If Armstrong was relieved, the effect on the general was the complete opposite. Here at last was the man he’d traveled halfway across the Alliance to wreak his vengeance on-and the very sound of his voice was enough to set Blitzkrieg’s blood pressure soaring.
Sure enough, there stood Willard Phule-or, to use his proper Legion name, Captain Jester, grinning as if he’d just seen his best old friend, instead of the commanding general who’d never made much secret of his desire to crush Phule and all he stood for. To Blitzkrieg’s utter astonishment, the fellow was out of uniform. Instead of the Legion’s standard-issue black jumpsuit, the commander of Omega Company was wearing a summerweight tuxedo, with a sparkling white jacket and an impertinent bow tie with matching cummerbund, in an eye-assaulting pattern of unmilitary colors. In his hand was a half-empty martini glass.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, extending his right hand. “How about you join me for a drink while one of the fellows takes your luggage to your quarters?”
General Blitzkrieg’s mouth fell open, but not a word emerged. It was with considerable astonishment that he realized that he’d actually taken Captain Jester’s hand and begun to shake it. A moment after that, the captain had put a friendly arm around his shoulders and begun to steer him in the direction of the sleekly contoured building that must house the Legion base here on Zenobia. And the whole time, Jester kept up a line of small talk, just as if he was about to plop a contract in front of him and sell him an insurance policy.
Somewhere in the back of Blitzkrieg’s mind there rested the thought that he’d come here to ream out Jester like no Legion officer had ever been reamed out in the history of the service.
But he had to admit, right now a drink sounded like just the thing he needed… There’d be plenty of time for reaming afterward.
“De Mon” turned out to be a giant dark-skinned man with a shaved head and eyes that seemed to look right through you. Rita ushered Phule into the circle of men, women, and robots sitting around him near a campfire. Like Rita, both sexes in this village dressed in colorful, flowing robes, and wore their hair in long braids. A distinctive odor of smoldering vegetation filled the air. The group broke into excited whispers as Phule came into view but fell silent as de Mon raised his hand.