“Here are your news printouts, sir,” said his aide, a tired-looking major who’d held the position for three years. Being aide-de-camp to one of the three top generals in the Space Legion had looked like a brilliant career move a few years earlier: an ideal shortcut to promotion for an ambitious officer with neither political connections, personal wealth, nor military talent. But Major Sparrowhawk had been second-guessing her decision to take the assignment ever since. She handed the sheaf of customized, automatically-edited flimsies to the general. Most senior officers got their intelligence straight off the Net, but Blitzkrieg was a stickler for the ancient print technology-“good old hard copy,” as he called it.
The general riffled through the printouts, and threw them into the trash. “Nothing worth a damn,” he growled, and turned to go into his inner office.
Sparrowhawk cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve been sorting your news printouts for you for the entire time I’ve been here. For the last year or so, you hardly glance at them before you throw them away. Perhaps I need to redefine the sort, or expand the coverage. What are you looking for that isn’t showing up?”
Blitzkrieg stopped and scowled at his aide, who began to regret asking. “Don’t you know by now? I’m waiting to see if that damned Captain Jester has finally done something I can cashier him for. You won’t have to expand your coverage to find that-sooner or later, the idiot is bound to commit a blunder that’ll put him in the headlines galaxywide, and I’ll give him what he deserves. And then I can retire, knowing I’ve done the Legion a service for which my successors will be forever grateful.”
“I thought as much, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. Her brows knitted for a moment, then she said, “I think you might want to take another look through those flimsies, then. There’s an article there I had to look at twice myself-it wasn’t immediately obvious why your search parameters turned it up. But I think you’ll find it very interesting indeed.”
“Really?” Blitzkrieg bent over and retrieved the printouts from the trash. He flipped through them again, this time more slowly. His expression became more and more puzzled. Finally he looked up at Sparrowhawk and said, “Major, if you think I enjoy guessing games, you don’t know me very well. What’s the story, and why would I be interested?”
“The third one down, sir,” she said, secretly pleased that the general had overlooked it twice. “The one about the new government on Landoor.”
“Hmmm…” The general scanned the article, but his perplexity grew, and at last he held it up accusingly. “There’s nothing about Jester here, Major.”
“No, sir,” said Major Sparrowhawk, patiently. She knew she’d have to explain it to him-Blitzkrieg’s rise to the top of the Space Legion had nothing to do with intellectual eminence. “Do you remember the episode that first brought Jester-he went by the name `Scaramouche’ then-to your attention?”
“Damned right I remember it, Major,” growled Blitzkrieg. “The ignorant pup talked a pilot into strafing the signing of a peace treaty. Luckily there was enough warning for everyone on the ground to get to cover-or maybe not so luckily. A few casualties and we’d have put Jester behind bars.”
“Exactly, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “It may have slipped your memory that Landoor is the world where that incident occurred.”
“Yes, of course I knew that,” said Blitzkrieg. “So, life goes on, and they’ve got a new government. Nothing to concern us, eh, Major?”
“Perhaps not,” Sparrowhawk doggedly continued. “Nothing directly, of course. There was some information down in the fifth paragraph I thought you could turn to use, but perhaps I misunderstood its implications.”
“Possibly you did,” said the general, glancing at the sheet of printout in his hand. “Well, not everyone has the instinct for grand strategy, Major. But if you stick with me, you may have the opportunity to learn the rudiments.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. Now she was certain he’d read the paragraph again. Perhaps he’d see how to bend it to his own ends without more prompting. He wasn’t really all that stupid, she told herself. With her help, he’d eventually get his revenge on Jester-and then retire, and at last she’d be free of him.
The general took the printout into his inner office, and closed the door. When he was gone, she turned back to her computer-her stocks had been doing nicely, but recent news suggested that they might have peaked. She wanted to see if it was time to sell and get into something else…
She managed to read nearly a dozen screens of financial analysis before the general buzzed her on the intercom and roared, “Sparrowhawk! Get me the General Staff office, right away! No, make that a conference call-add on Ambassador Gottesman, too. I’ve come up with the perfect answer to our problems with Jester!”
“Right away, sir,” she said, smiling. She already knew exactly what the general would want from his superiors. Sometimes, the job had its rewards, after all.
“Hey, Do-Wop, how’s it going?” said Mess Sergeant Escrima, looking up from a shipment of fresh asparagus that had just arrived. The sprouts were young and tender, a miracle of hydroponic agriculture and genetic tailoring, but Escrima was still inspecting them as critically as he did every item of food that passed through his kitchens. “Any sign of that partner of yours yet?”
“Nah, Sarge-wherever Soosh is hiding, it’s a good spot,” said Do-Wop, stopping at the end of the counter where the asparagus was laid out. He looked around the kitchen. “We’re looking everywhere we can without spooking the customers. I guess you didn’t see him?”
“Haven’t laid eyes on him,” said Escrima, waving a hand to indicate the whole kitchen. Two assistant cooks were at work slicing something, and several large pots were already boiling atop the luxury hotel’s state-of-the-art TherMaster MultiRange. “Not today, at least. Last I saw him was Sunday-I needed to borrow a few bucks until payday. Bad run of luck…”
“Tell me about it, man,” said Do-Wop, rolling his eyes. “I thought I knew my way around a card table-especially after the captain had those pro gamblers show us the ropes. There’s not a card mechanic’s trick I can’t spot by now. But it don’t make me a winner. I think my luck’s even worse than it was before I knew what to watch out for.”
“Ditto,” said Escrima. “Without Sushi, I wouldn’t have two nickels to rub together. With him bankrolling me, at least I’ve got something to get back to the tables with so I can try to reverse my luck.”
“Yeah, he’s been lending me enough to scrape through, too. I’m gonna owe him a bundle next paycheck, though. Maybe I’d be better off if he didn’t come back.” Do-Wop frowned, then blurted out, “You know I don’t mean that, Escrima.”
“I didn’t think you did,” said Escrima, nodding. “But he won’t be going anywhere-too many people owe him. Let’s hope he’s not selling our markers to the Yakuza. I hear those boys play really dirty with deadbeats. So hurry up and find him-I don’t like owing him three months’ pay, and he’s one of us. I’d hate to owe it to somebody who’s only in it for the money.”
“Yeah, at least Soosh won’t break your legs if you miss a payment,” said Do-Wop. “You spot him, let Mother know ASAP, OK?”
“Sure will,” said Escrima, nodding. “Good luck.”
“I could use that in more than one department,” muttered Do-Wop as he went out the door. Escrima didn’t answer; he had already turned his attention back to, that evening’s meal.
“Come on, this is ridiculous,” said Brandy. She stared at the harried desk clerk. Garbo stood next to her, drawing curious stares from customers standing in line at the registration desk. Everybody had seen the Gambolts on the trivid news; seeing a life-sized one standing two meters away, in full Legion uniform, was another story entirely. Especially if you knew the catlike aliens’ reputation as the most deadly hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy…
But dangerous as the Gambolt looked, it was the undeniably human Brandy who was the real danger at this time, with her temper edging toward an explosion. “How hard is it to find me one regular room?” she growled, as the desk clerk tried to get his computer to cooperate. “Didn’t anybody teach you how to charge it to the captain’s account?”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am, but I keep getting some sort of error message,” said the desk clerk. His eyes slid sideways to Garbo, who had stood like a statue ever since Brandy had brought her down to the desk. It had been no more than ten minutes, but it was unnerving.
“Maybe you’re entering the account number wrong,” said Brandy. “You do know the captain’s account number for Legion business, don’t you, Junior?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the desk clerk. He was a thin, nervous-looking young man, with a tasteful gold-plated ring in his left nostril and an asymmetrical, neo-Georgian blue-powdered wig. “The system has a macro to access the captain’s Dilithium Express account without entering the number every time. There shouldn’t be any problem with his credit. I’m not quite sure what…”