This was the first time he'd used the bay leaves, touted as being from the same grower who supplied the Alliance Senate dining hall. Escrima had heard that kind of puffery before and knew better than to put much weight on it. The aroma coming from the pot wasn't bad, he had to admit...but how was it going to taste? There was only one way to find out.

He'd been scowling at the slowly simmering liquid, trying to decide whether it was time yet to dip in a spoon and taste it, when he became aware of someone entering his kitchen. He turned and glared. Whoever it was might have legitimate business here, but he didn't want them to start thinking it was a place just anyone could walk into whenever they felt like it. He had a reputation to maintain.

It was the new CO, Major Ketchup, or something like that. He waved a sheaf of printouts and growled, "Sergeant, I see from these purchase orders that you've been going outside the Legion commissary network for supplies. That's a violation of policy, and an unnecessary expense to boot. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What the hell you doing in my kitchen?" said Escrima, his eyes glowing like red-hot coals. "You got a problem with my food?" His tone of voice made it clear that any such statement would be taken as grounds for a preemptory strike.

At that point, any person with the slightest sense of self-preservation would have contented himself with a very polite "No," and quickly left the kitchen, apologizing profusely and being especially careful not to expose his back to this obvious madman who had a large supply of knives and cleavers within easy reach.

Major Botchup was evidently lacking a sense of self-preservation. "I've had a look at your menus," he said. "You're coddling the troops with all this gourmet stuff, and wasting money besides. I'd be surprised if they can tell-"

"Can't tell?" Escrima's eyes bulged out. "You want me to tell you something? I tell you get the hell out of my kitchen before I put you in the soup pot. No, I don't do that; nobody eating the soup then." He began stalking toward the major, his voice growing louder with each sentence. "Maybe you just fat enough to cook down for lard, though-"

"Are you threatening a superior officer?" sputtered Botchup, but he backed away. "I'll have you in the stockade-"

"I'll have you in the stock pot!" shouted Escrima, and he grabbed a cleaver off the counter.

Whether or not the mess sergeant would have used it, Botchup never learned, for he turned tail and ran.

Lieutenant Snipe was feeling very unfairly put upon. It was bad enough taking the blame for his own foul-ups-that was part of being an officer-but somehow, Major Botchup had taken the position that Snipe was responsible for everything that had been going wrong. And, as Snipe had learned in a very unpleasant meeting with the major, quite a few things had gone wrong so far today. The chewing out he had just gotten was far from the first of his Legion career-working for Botchup, getting raked over the coals was par for the course-but it was by a good distance the most memorable.

Snipe was willing to admit that the major could hold him partly responsible for the troops' willful misinterpretation of his remark that orders given by the former CO might not be valid. But how could anyone have foreseen that they would take that as license to disobey all orders predating Major Botchup's arrival? And the mess sergeant's ferocious territoriality about his kitchen was certainly none of Snipe's doing; in fact, previous experience with mess sergeants might have in some part prepared the major for it. Admittedly, threatening to throw a superior officer into the soup pot was a bit extreme...

The final straw had been when the major had bolted from the kitchen into the outdoor sunlight, still in fear for his life, to collide with an oversized female legionnaire wearing only a bikini: First Sergeant Brandy. Never mind that the first sergeant was officially off duty, or that the climate conditions at this base amply justified her choice of attire and her decision to "catch a few rays," as she explained it, or that her considerable padding and quick reflexes in catching the major before he could fall prevented injury to either party. What mattered was that several nearby legionnaires had witnessed the incident-and laughed. Major Botchup could not tolerate laughter-at least not at his own expense. Lieutenant Snipe had been the first to pay for the major's humiliation, and he had paid a high price. His only recourse was to take it out on someone lower down the ladder. Luckily for him, there was a whole company of victims available.

Snipe emerged from the MBC with a fierce grimace on his face, looking around for someone to oppress. Any excuse would do. And knowing what he already knew about Omega Company, he would find plenty of excuses without having to search very far. Sure enough, there came a legionnaire; Snipe didn't know his name yet, but he recognized the face: dark greasy hair, sideburns that just stayed within the limits of regulations, thick lips that hinted at a sneer. He didn't like the fellow on general principles, but if memory served, he'd talked to this legionnaire yesterday. He'd been one of the group who'd gotten him into this trouble by taking his comments on orders literally. He owed this one a special reaming out. Snipe descended on the unfortunate victim like a ballistic missile on its target.

"You, there. Didn't you get the major's orders?" the lieutenant barked. "Uniforms to be worn at all times when on duty!"

"Sir, I am wearing my uniform," said the legionnaire with a bewildered look. Good; he was already on the defensive.

"If it's not worn in the regulation manner, it's the same as not wearing it at all," said Snipe, pointing to the legionnaire's upper chest. "That top button's open!"

"Sir, in this heat I thought-"

Snipe cut him off in midsentence. "I don't want to hear any of your excuses. You'll report for extra KP-on the double! And your regular job better get done, as well, or you'll get yourself another round of extra duty! Go on, get out of my sight."

"Yes, sir!" said the legionnaire, and he quickly turned away in the direction of the kitchen.

Snipe smiled-not a pretty smile, but a sincere one nonetheless. Sending the offending legionnaire for KP was a stroke of genius. If Snipe could find half a dozen more to punish the same way, he'd have the kitchen filled with superfluous personnel, and that'd give the mess sergeant the headache of finding something for them to do that didn't interfere with his precious kitchen. He began a leisurely stroll around the compound, looking for more offenders to punish.

To his surprise, he'd barely gone a dozen paces before he ran into the same legionnaire! There was no mistaking that face, especially not the annoying sneer. "What do you think you're doing, legionnaire? Didn't I tell you to report for KP?"

"Sir, it's not my day," said the legionnaire, a puzzled look on his face. "I'm not on until tomorrow."

Snipe thought the fellow's voice sounded somehow different, but that didn't matter. It was obviously the same man. "Are you crazy or just stupid?" he barked. "I ordered you to extra duty less than two minutes ago. Now get down to the kitchen before I throw you in the stockade instead!"

The legionnaire spread his hands. "That wasn't me, sir, it must have been-"

"Get out of my sight!" shouted Snipe, his face turning red. The legionnaire, evidently deciding not to press his luck, saluted and went off quickly toward the kitchen.

Snipe was starting to get into his stride now. He found another' legionnaire with a loose button, and one who hadn't polished his boots sufficiently for Snipe's taste, and he sent them both to KP. But his jaw nearly fell when he rounded a corner of the MBC and found the same legionnaire there again, sitting in a chair and reading!