"LISTEN UP, YOU FILTHY SKIME-EATERS," roared Sergeant Pitbull. Thumper wasn't sure what a skime was, but after hearing the sergeant, he knew he didn't want to eat one. Or maybe it was a filthy one he didn't want to eat... He had only a brief moment to meditate on that question, as the sergeant continued with his high-volume harangue. "TODAY WE'RE GOING OUT TO THE OBSTACLE COURSE," the sergeant boomed. "THAT'S WHERE WE SEPARATE THE REAL LEGIONNAIRES ..
FROM THE FARKING WEAK-SIBLING CIVVIES. DO YOU BUGS WANT TO BE REAL LEGIONNAIRES?"
"YES, SERGEANT PITBULL!" the squad shouted in chorus. They'd long since learned that any less enthusiastic response would be greeted with scorn. Privately Thumper wondered whether Sergeant Pitbull might have stood too close to an explosion at some point in his earlier career, damaging his ears in the process. If he were partly deaf, that would explain a lot... but no, the autodocs could fix that...
"FOLLOW ME, YOU BUGS!" said the sergeant, and he set off at a flat-out run--the only speed at which a Legion recruit was allowed to move. Luckily for Thumper, he could outrun everyone in the squad without particularly trying. It was one of the minor advantages of being a Lepoid. He hadn't found very many of them here in the Legion, so he had acquired a finer appreciation for the ones he'd found.
Running easily, he stayed just behind the sergeant until the squad arrived-many of them huffing and puffing despite several weeks of rigorous exercise-at the obstacle course.
In front of him, Thumper saw a tract of land that would probably feel flattered to be described as "ruined." Or even "devastated." It was a mud-filled morass with craters and chunks of broken stone wall or the jagged stumps of trees at seemingly random intervals. The few open stretches were strewn with skeins of ugly-looking barbed wire laid parallel to the ground. Here and there were wide waterfilled ditches and eight-foot wooden walls. At the far side Thumper could make out sandbagged bunkers, from which the muzzles of machine guns protruded.
"LISTEN UP, YOU BUGS," explained Sergeant Pitbull.
"THIS HERE IS WHAT WE CALL A STIMULATED BATTLEFIELD, WHICH IF YOU'RE EVER IN A FARKING SHOOTING WAR YOU'RE GONNA SEE A SHITLOAD OF 'EM. THE DRILL IS, WHEN I BLOW MY WHISTLE, YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE AS FAST AS YOU FARKIN' CAN. BUT CHECK THIS OUT THEM SKIME-EATERS WITH THE MACHINE GUNS GONNA SHOOT LIVE FARKIN' AMMO OVER YOUR HEADS, SO YOU BETTER KEEP 'EM THE HELL DOWN. WE LOSE A COUPLE-THREE STUPID-ASS RECRUITS EVERY MONTH ON ACCOUNT OF THEY JUMPED UP AND TRIED TO RUN AWAY"
Thumper nodded as the sergeant explained the drill. Looking at the course, he could see that the machine guns were limited to a narrow field of fire. Outside that area, the main problem was dodging around the craters and rubble, but if one didn't mind a bit of mud, there was no reason to go at less than full speed. After all, the sergeant had said that the point of the exercise was to get to the other side as quickly as possible.
So when the sergeant blew his whistle, Thumper was off and running...
Phule stared blankly at the sheaf of papers that had just landed on his desk. "What's all this?" he asked in an annoyed voice. It was obviously not the promotion papers he'd been expecting from Legion Headquarters.
"Environmental impact forms from those AEIOU guys," said Roadkill, one of the two legionnaires who'd carried in the mountain of paperwork.
"That Chief Inspector Snieff brought it over in some kind of wheelbarrow.
Street and I just happened to be the first legionnaires she saw, and she took that as a license to order us around."
"Order you around?" Lieutenant Armstrong looked up from the adjacent desk, where he was filling out work assignment forms. "I think I'm going to have to talk to her myself. I've been trying to get some of you rascals to follow orders ever since I became an officer in this outfit, with little or no sign that I'm getting anywhere."
"Jeez, some thanks we get for being good legionnaires," grumbled Street. "I'd have given her a piece of my mind, if she hadn't had that stupid dog with her. That ugly mutt looked at me as if it was gonna take a bite out of my tail end."
"Barky, the Environmental Dog?" asked Phule. "He seemed pretty harmless to me."
"I think he thought Street was a polluter," said Roadkill, deadpan. "Or maybe a litterer-it's hard to tell what that dog thinks when all he'll say is 'woof!'"
"Stupid mutt can't prove nothing on me:" said Street, scowling.
"Are you saying that because you haven't done anything, or because you think you've covered up your tracks?" said Armstrong, raising one eyebrow just a fraction. He pointed at the two legionnaires, and added, "Don't be too sure Barky can't sniff you out, if you've been polluting."
"I already told ya, I ain't done nothin'." said Street. He stared at the floor, squirming as if one of his schoolteachers had called on him to recite a lesson he hadn't studied.
"It's all right, Street, nobody suspects you of anything." said Phule. Then, remembering to whom he was speaking, he hastily added, "Not this time, anyway."
"Yeah, I was just joking," said Roadkill, punching his buddy on the biceps. "But we'd better get back to that job we were doing, before somebody notices we're gone then we might really get in trouble."
"Just tell them you were bringing me something," said Phule. "And thanks-I think." He looked at the pile of papers, and his expression was anything but thankful. But Roadkill and Street were already out the door.
Phule picked up the top sheet of one of the piles of papers and began to read it, but before he'd gotten more than a couple of lines, his wrist communicator buzzed.
"Yes, what is it, Mother?" he said, holding the device closer to his mouth and ear.
"Priority call from Lorelei, you silly thing," said Mother's teasing voice. "You must be an even bigger man than you look."
"Lorelei? Put them right through," said Phule. He wondered what was urgent enough for the team he'd left to run the place to call him about. Among them, there weren't many things he didn't think they could handle. He wouldn't have left the place in their hands if he'd believed otherwise.
"Tullie Bascomb here, Captain." came the familiar voice. "We've got-well, not really a problem, but a situation Doc and I think you need to know about."
"Go ahead, Tullie," said Phule. "Is it my father again?"
"Yeah, he's still being a pain in the butt," said Bascomb. "It was bad enough that he wanted to go over the casino's books...".
"You showed them to him, didn't you?" asked Phule.
"Sure, after you told me it was all right," said Bascomb.
"For a while I was worried he might really find something to raise a stink about, but I guess he didn't. But then he decided to stick his nose into the gambling operation."
"That's hardly in character," said Phule, rubbing his chin speculatively. "I never knew him to have any interest in gambling. Where is he now?"
"Playing quantum slots," said Bascomb. "Somehow, he got the idea our jackpots were too big. We tried to tell him about the odds, but he didn't want to listen. So now he's trying to win a big one to prove we're wrong."
Phule chuckled. "Tullie, if my father's determined to throwaway his ill-gotten fortune one token at a time, I'm not about to do anything to stop him. It's just that much more for the Company's retirement fund."
"Well, I'm glad you feel that way about it, Captain," said Tollie. There was a definite note of relief in his voice. "In that case, would you have any problem if we cooked up a way to get even more of his money out of his pockets?"
"Not in principle, I guess," said Phule. "What exactly did you have in mind?"
"Doc came up with the idea of adjusting some of the slots to take really big bets-up to a thousand bucks a pull," said Bascomb. "We'd advertise a monster jackpot, but set the odds so long nobody'd have the ghost of a chance to collect on it. What do you think?"