Escrima bobbed his head in quick accord.

"Good," he said curtly. "It's about time."

"Then I'll consider the matter handled." The commander nodded, crossing off an item on his notepad. "That will be all for now, Sergeant. "

Once again the sergeant gave his exaggerated salute, which Phule started to return when another thought struck him.

"Oh . . . one more thing. Am I also correct in a.s.suming you would not have taken your name, Escrima, from the Philippine stick-fighting form unless you were skilled at it?"

The modest smile and shrug flashed past again.

"Then I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd consent to teach it to the interested members of the company, myself included. I don't know that much about it, but any stick form that can take out Magellan and his men while they were armed with swords, and armored to boot, is worth studying."

"Have a seat, Sergeant . . . Chocolate Harry, isn't it?"

"Just 'Harry' will do, Captain," the sergeant said, easing his ma.s.sive bulk carefully into the indicated chair. " 'C.H,' to my friends. "

"All right. We'll make it C. H."-Phule nodded, jotting a quick note on his pad-"seeing as how I think we're going to become fast friends over the next couple months."

"Now, how do you figure that?" The sergeant frowned suspiciously. "No offense . . . sir . . . but to my recollection officers aren't noted for chummin' around with us enlisted types."

"Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself," the commander answered absently, flipping through his notes. "That was a.s.suming you're as crooked and conniving as I think you are.

The supply sergeant's eyes narrowed, all but disappearing into his fleshy face as he leaned back in his chair.

"You know, Captain, that remark could be taken as more than a little racist. Are you sayin' that you think all us colored folk steal?"

As might be implied by his name, Chocolate Harry was black, though his skin tended toward a soft brown rather than the deeper black sometimes a.s.sociated with his race. He was also hairy, but it was in the form of a fierce, bristly beard, offsetting his close-cropped hairstyle. A pair of thick-lensed spectacles pushed up onto his forehead completed the picture he presented as he regarded his commander with a scowl that on a smaller person would have looked melodramatic.

"Hmmm?" Phule said, looking up from his notes at last. "Oh. Not really, C. H. I was basing my a.s.sumption on the fact that your files show that you're well above average in intelligence. My thinking is that anyone with even half a brain in charge of supplies for this outfit would be supplementing his pay by at least dabbling in the black market. If I'm wrong, you of course have my apologies. "

Harry smiled broadly. "Thank you, Cap'n. An apology from an officer is something a grunt like me don't get every day."

"Excuse me, Sergeant," the commander interrupted, returning the smile tooth for tooth, "but 'l said 'if I'm wrong.' Before I'd feel right about extending that apology, I'd have to ask you to wait here while your files were confiscated and the supply warehouse padlocked so that an item-by-item physical inventory and audit could be performed to determine whether or not I was wrong."

The supply sergeant's smile vanished like a mouse at a cat show, and he licked his lips nervously while his eyes darted from the commander to the door.

"That . . . won't be necessary, Captain," he said carefully. "I'm willing to admit, just between the two of us, of course, that there might be a few items that have been, shall we say, misplaced over the last few months. If you want, I can see if the missing equipment can be found again in the next couple of weeks."

"That wasn't what I had in mind, C.H." Phule smiled.

"Okay, then." Harry hunched forward conspiratorially in his chair. "I suppose you and I can work out some kind of profit-sharing agreement . . ."

The commander gave a short bark of laughter, cutting the sergeant short.

"Excuse me, Harry, but you're getting the wrong message here. I'm not trying to shut you down . . . or shake you down, for that matter. If anything, what I want is the exact opposite. I want you to expand your operation, and I think I can help you do that. You can start by clearing out most of the stock you've got in the warehouse right now."

The supply sergeant scowled. "How do you figure that, Captain? I mean, I sure do like your style, but it occurs to me that if we clean this outfit out, someone's bound to notice. You got some plan to hide the fact I'll be sittin' on an empty warehouse?"

"First of all, we're not going to try to hide it. " Phule grinned. "We'll be doing this strictly by the book . . . specifically Section 954, paragraph 27, which states: 'The supply sergeant may dispose of any surplus or outdated equipment by destroying or selling such equipment'; and Section 987, paragraph 8: 'The commanding officer shall determine if any item of the company's equipment is suitable for repair or upgrade, or if it is to be deemed sc.r.a.p and disposed of.' Now, to my eye the bulk of our equipment is more suitable for a museum than a fighting force, so I figure your work is going to be cut out for you."

Harry nodded. "Very nice. I might even say 'sweet' . . . 'cept for one thing. That still leaves me with an empty warehouse. "

"Not really. I think you'll find that the gear that'll be arriving over the next few weeks will more than fill the empty s.p.a.ce. As I told the company, I've taken the liberty of upgrading the quality of our equipment . . . at my own expense, of course."

"Of course," the sergeant echoed, leaning back in his chair to study the commander through half-slitted eyes. "That brings up another question completely, Captain. Now, if you're near as rich as you let on, I'm not exactly sure why it is you need me. I mean, what with you buyin' up the store for this outfit, why is it you want to fool around raising money havin' me sell off our surplus?"

Phule heaved a great sigh, as if losing patience with a child.

"C.H., you and I both know there are things you can't buy in a store. What I mean is, my money and methods may be fine for normal equipment and supplies, but I'm expecting that, from time to time, we may need a few items that can only be found on the black market. So I'm expecting you to get us a pipeline into the underground supply network by using the sale of our old equipment as a pa.s.sport. Get my drift?"

"Read you loud and clear, Cap'n," Harry said, his face splitting in a wide grin. "You know, I ain't never called a white man 'brother' before, but you just might qualify."

"I'm afraid I'll have to settle for just 'good buddies' for the time being," Phule corrected hastily. "You see, C.H., there are a few rules attached to this game-my rules, not the Legion's. "

"Uh-oh. Thought this was sounding a little too good to be true. "

"First of all," the commander continued, ignoring the sergeant's theatric aside, "I don't want you to sell anything that will come back to haunt us. If you make a deal for our automatic weapons, make sure it's after you've removed the selector switch that converts them to fully automatic-and that doesn't mean you have a sale on selector switches the next week. Our gear may be antique, but there's a lot of it I'd just as soon not have used against us . . . or the local police, for that matter. It'll be a bit difficult to play innocent if we're the only source on the planet for fully automatic hardware. That goes double for the new gear we're getting, including our wrist communicators. I suppose you can let a few of the regular units stray if it means opening the right doors, but the extra command units stay put. I don't want anyone but us to have the capacity to monitor the private lines. For that matter, if you think a bit, I'm sure you'll agree that it would be in your own best interest if no one could listen in to some of the private talks you and I will be having."

The supply sergeant made a face. "I suppose you're right, but it's gonna cramp my maneuvering a mite."

"Rule number two: The monies from these sales get channeled into the company fund. Now, I don't mind if you do a little skimming for your trouble . . . in fact, I expect it and consider it only fair reward for devoting a portion of your personal time to helping further the company. Just do a reasonable job of doctoring the receipts for the files, and you'll hear no complaints from me. Remember, though, that I have a fair idea of what the going prices of things are, even on the black market. If I get wind of your taking more than a fair commission, I'll cut you off cold."

"Cut me off from what, Captain?" Harry challenged. "It wouldn't break my heart to get transferred out, you know."

"I'm not talking about a transfer." Phule smiled. "I'd cut you off from your lessons. You see, C.H., right now you're a small-time chiseler and hustler. Stick with me, play the game my way, and I'll teach you to play in the big leagues, as well as show you how to build the kind of bankroll you'll need for seed money once your enlistment's up. Deal?"

"Have a seat, Brandy," the commander said, waving his top sergeant into one of the visitor chairs. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but for various reasons I wanted to save your interview for last."

"No problem, sir." The ranking noncom shrugged, sinking into the indicated seat. "If there's one thing I've learned in the military, it's how to wait for officers."

Phule ignored the blatant dig.

"Seeing as how it's late, and we're both tired, I'll try to keep this short and to the point." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as if hugging himself. "Tell me, Brandy, in your opinion, what's the biggest problem facing me in this company?"

The top sergeant widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows as she pursed her lips in a silent whistle.

"That's a rough one," she said, shifting her sprawl to a different position. "I really don't know where to start. If you've got any smarts at all, you don't need me to tell you this company's the pits, from top to bottom, inside and out. As far as any one problem being bigger than the others . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she shook her head.

"To me, there's one problem that stands out like a beacon," Phule said firmly. "In fact, it's the only one I'm not sure I'll be able to handle."

"What's that, sir?"

"You."

Brandy pulled her head back, frowning.

"Me, sir?"

"That's right. Now, don't get me wrong. You're good, Brandy . . . head, shoulders, and waist above any of the other personnel I've inherited. From your record, and from my personal observations this last week, you're an excellent leader, easily as good or better than me."

The commander shook his head slightly.

"The problem is that you're a cynic. If you had been around when the Wright brothers were designing their first plane, you would have been the one saying, 'It'll never fly.' Then, as it pa.s.sed overhead on its maiden flight, your only comment would've been, 'They'll never get it down!"'

A ghost of a smile flitted across the top sergeant's face.

"You got me there, Captain," she admitted.

Her smile wasn't returned.

"That's the one thing I can't have in this company . . . not in the top sergeant slot, anyway. I'm going to try to turn this company around, starting with getting every Legionnaire under my command to develop a better opinion of his or her self. I can't do that if the main leader for the enlisted personnel keeps telling them that they're dirt and there's no point in even trying. I'm already figuring on a two-front war: with Headquarters and with the Legionnaires themselves. I can't afford to open a third front by fighting with you as well."

The top sergeant gazed at him levelly. "Are we talking about a transfer, sir?"

Phule grimaced. "I'll admit the possibility has crossed my mind . . . and you're the only one I've seriously considered it for. I don't like it, though. It's too easy, too much like quitting without even trying. I admire your abilities, Brandy, as well as your leadership capacity. I'm hoping we can work together, work with each other, not in opposition. The only way I can see that, though, is if there are some major changes on your part."

Brandy bit her lip thoughtfully before answering.

"To be honest with you, sir, I'm not sure I could change even if I wanted to. Old habits are hard to break, and I've been the way I am for a long time."

"I'm not asking for any guarantees," the commander urged earnestly. "For the time being, I'd be content if you were willing to give it a try. You see, Brandy . . . geez! I hate playing amateur psychologist, but . . . well, most of the cynics I've dealt with in the past, the hard-core 'Who cares?' types, actually care a lot. It's just that at some point they've been hurt, and hurt bad. So bad, they won't let themselves even hope anymore for fear of being disappointed and hurt again. I don't know if that applies in your case, and don't really care. All that I'm asking is that you give things a chance before you shoot them down. Give the Legionnaires a chance . . . and give me a chance."

Silence hung in the air for a moment as they both felt the awkwardness of two people sharing a sudden and unexpected closeness. It was Phule who finally pulled back, breaking the tension.

"Well, think it over, Sergeant. If, in the end, you figure it's not even worth a try, let me know and I'll arrange for your transfer. "

"Thank you, sir," Brandy said, rising to her feet and saluting. "I'll think about it."

"And Brandy . . .

"Yes, sir?"

"Think about giving yourself a chance, too."

"Sir?"

Phule opened his eyes to find his butler standing in the doorway of his office.

"Yes, Beeker?"

"Excuse me for intruding, sir, but . . . what with the relocation scheduled for tomorrow . . . Well, sir, I thought you should try to get at least a few hours sleep."

The commander rose, yawning and stretching his cramped limbs.

"Right, as always, Beeker. What would I do without you?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. Did the meetings go well?"

Phule shrugged. "Not as well as I hoped . . . better than I feared. There were a few moments, though. Brandy-that's the top sergeant-actually saluted me before she left."

"Quite an achievement in itself, sir," Beeker said, gently steering his charge through the door.

"And Rembrandt-that's the lieutenant who wants to be an artist after my interview with her and Armstrong, she hung back for a moment and asked if I'd be willing to pose for her. I thought she meant for a portrait . . . took me a bit aback when I realized she wanted to do a nude study."

"I see. Did you accept?"

"I told her I'd think about it. It's rather flattering, in a way, considering the number of subjects she has to choose from. Besides, it might be a nice gesture to help her with her art career . . .

I really didn't think it was my place to inform my employer . . . Actually I didn't have the heart or the courage to tell him, and so left it for him to discover on his own. I had already had the opportunity to study Lieutenant Rembrandt's work, both finished paintings and works in progress. Without exception, she had devoted herself to landscapes . . . until now, that is.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Journal File #019

Moving the company into the settlement so our normal quarters could be remodeled was an enormous undertaking. The Legionnaires themselves traveled light, as they had little personal gear to deal with. Packing and storing the company's gear, however, especially the kitchen, proved to be a time-consuming task, even with everyone pitching in. Thus it was that we did not begin our actual trek into the settlement until nearly noon.

Wishing to impress both the company and the settlement, my employer had shunned the practice of transporting troops in trucks like cattle (though, after having observed them dine, I had a new appreciation of the appropriateness of this practice), choosing instead to hire a small fleet of hover limos to move his new charges. While this might be seen as an extravagant gesture, I have noted before that he is not of a particularly tight-fisted nature, especially when it comes to making an impression.

During the trip, the Legionnaires seemed to be in uncommonly high spirits, skylarking like schoolchildren on afield trip and playing with their newly issued wrist communicators. The ones I shared a ride with, however, took the opportunity to test the claim my employer had made the night before: that I could be spoken with on a confidential basis.

"'Scuse me, Mr. Beeker."

The butler looked up from the screen of his portable computer to regard the Legionnaire who had addressed him with a look that was neither hostile nor warm.

"Just 'Beeker' will suffice, sir. No other t.i.tle is warranted or necessary. "

"Yeah. Whatever. I was just wondering . . . could you fill us in a little on the new commander? It sounds like you two have been together for a while."

"Certainly, sir," Beeker said, folding the screen and slipping the computer into his pocket. "Of course, you realize that my relationship with my employer is of a confidential manner, and that as such I feel at liberty to voice my personal opinions only. "

"Say what?"

"What the man's saying," Brandy put in from the other side of the limo, turning her attention from staring out the window to the conversation the other occupants were already listening to with rapt interest, "is that he's not going to blab any secrets or details . . . just what he thinks himself."

"Oh. Okay."

"Please be a.s.sured, however, that I will treat whatever discussions we might have now or in the future with equal confidentiality. "

The Legionnaire turned helplessly to Brandy.