“Well, Snipe, what do you think of this outfit?” said Maor Botchup. He was firmly established in Phule’s office, which was specially set up as a command center in the event of military action. A thick stack of Omega Company personnel dossiers was on his desk, and the screen of the major’s computer was already filled with his notes.
Snipe twisted his mouth. “A very poor excuse for a combat unit, sir,” he said. “It’s even worse than I expected. There’s no sign of proper discipline, not even among the officers. Half the personnel is totally unsuited or the jobs they’re doing. Believe it or not, the woman running communications can barely speak a coherent sentence. I suspect we’ll want a psychological evaluation here, sir. The supply sergeant is grossly out of shape and its around reading hovercycle magazines. The enlisted personnel have no respect at all; there’s a Volton who insulted me directly and tried to browbeat me when I nailed him on it.”
“We can’t allow that,” said Botchup. “Give me a written report with the details, and I’ll take care of it. Just looking at these files, I can see that Jester has let them run amok.” He shook his head. “They’re lucky they’ve lever had to deal with any real threats.”
“Yes, sir,” said Snipe. “It’s a good thing General Blitzkrieg assigned you to set them right, sir. Captain Jester has let the company go completely to seed.”
“I’ve been going over Jester’s file in particular,” said Botchup. He pointed toward a shipping box sitting on a hair by the door. The box was marked Captain Jester: Personal. It had been brought from Phule’s office in the Company’s Landoor headquarters. Now that the CO’s office belonged to Botchup, these personal effects would normally be removed to Phule’s quarters, but the sealing tape was cut and the top lay open. “No warm laser crystals yet, but with all you’ve told me, it’s just a matter of time before I find something big enough to have him booted out of the Legion entirely.”