“Nightingale,” said Beeker again. There was a faraway look in his eyes. That’s when Phule should have realized just how much trouble he was in.

In the open parade ground near the center of Zenobia Base, a dozen legionnaires stood chewing the fat. A heavy but muscular woman with first sergeant’s stripes on the sleeve of her black jumpsuit emerged from the barracks module and strode over to them. Several of the group glanced in her direction, but otherwise they ignored her approach until she shouted, “All right, squad, fall in. Let’s see if you can act like real legionnaires for fifteen minutes.”

To Sergeant Brandy’s surprise, the training group the captain had put her in charge of actually obeyed her order. This was unusual. There must be some insidious purpose lurking behind her trainees’ stolid expressions. They almost never fell in without some kind of argument or delaying tactic. She glared suspiciously-particularly at Mahatma, usually the head conspirator when the squad decided to show her its independence from military discipline. The squad seemed to think she needed some such demonstration two or three times a week… if not more often.

Brandy scowled. “I can tell you gripgrops are planning something,” she growled. “And unless you’ve suddenly gotten twice as clever as you think you are, you’re planning something really stupid.” That was an exaggeration-when pressed, Brandy privately conceded that some of the recruits’ stunts revealed a rare twisted creativity-but she didn’t want to give them any encouragement. They were doing just fine without her help. And if they’d focus the same kind of creativity toward their actual jobs… but in the Omega Mob, that was asking for too much.

A hand was raised: Mahatma’s. No surprise there, thought Brandy. For a moment, she considered ignoring the little legionnaire…but that would just be postponing the inevitable trouble. Best to get it over with. “You have a question, Mahatma?”