“Not enough slack, I notice, to keep you from filing reports with Legion Headquarters every time one of my crew puts on a command performance at the station,” Phule observed wryly.
Goetz sighed and shrugged.
“That’s the result of a direct request from your Headquarters, son. Came in about the same time you arrived. I don’t mean to butt into your business, but it would appear that somebody in the Legion’s upper echelons doesn’t like you much. Leastwise, they’re watching real close for you to make a mistake.”
The commander frowned. “I didn’t realize that. Appreciate the warning, though.”
“Warning?” The chief’s face was a picture of innocence. “I was just responding to an official request for information from one of the residents in the community I am sworn to serve and protect.”
“Got it.” Phule nodded. “Thanks, anyway … unofficially. I wonder if it would be possible for you to-“
“Captain!”
There was no denying the urgency in the voice that hailed him.
“Excuse me, Chief. What is it, Tusk-anini?”
“Spartacus going to shoot gun!”
A quick glance at the firing line was sufficient to confirm the information. The Sinthian was perched on his glide board, a shotgun tucked under his spindly arm, as Chocolate Harry explained the weapon to him with vastly exaggerated gestures.
“So I see,” the commander said. “It seems, however, that the situation is being handled by-“
“Not know Newton’s third law physics?”
Phule frowned. “What law?”
“Isn’t that the one that …” Chief Goetz started, but the sentence was never finished.