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"Why?" asked Mike.
"Because," answered the AID. If a black box could sulk, this one had its lip pouted.
Mike closed his eyes and counted to three. "Michelle, are we going to have to be debugged?" he said, mock sweetly.
"No," said the AID, in a more normal voice. "Oberst Kiel has communicated with the Indowy through the AID network. However, the Indowy captain has refused to provide more than he was specifically ordered to by the Darhel before they left. Furthermore, he has refused to meet directly with Oberst Kiel. As you know . . ."
"The Indowy have a real thing about face-to-face," Mike continued, nodding his head and meeting the captain's eyes again. "Okay, now I know what the problem is."
"Can you fix it?" asked the captain, puzzled.
"Yeah," said Mike. "Probably, sir," he qualified.
"I told you he was Mr. Fixit, sir," said Wiznowski.
"Why can you?" asked the captain, "when the German colonel and, presumably, the Corp commander ca
"Size partially, sir," Mike gri
"Probably the Corp commander has been communicating through Oberst Kiel, sir. I don't know why, but the Indowy will rarely do anything without at least one physical liaison. If I can secure a meeting with the ship's captain I can carry the message directly. So, if I meet with the captain, point out the pla
"Hmm," ruminated the commander. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then, sir, I go around getting all the areas adjusted one by one," answered Mike.
"Okay," said Brandon. Then, plaintively, "There's really fresh fruit on this ship?"
"And vegetables," Mike confirmed, "in stasis, so they'll keep fresh indefinitely. Would you like a salad?"
"No," said the commander. He glanced at Wiznowski, who was looking quizzical. "No. If we can't get it to the troops . . ."
"Yes, sir," said the NCO. "See, Mike, all the fruit we've had since the pogie bait ran out is the dried stuff in MREs. And can peas, can corn, can green beans. It's really getting to the troops."
"But not you, right Stork?" Mike smiled. "Scurvy?" he asked turning back to the commander.
"No." Brandon shook his head. "We're okay there. Everyone is taking vitamins and the food is loaded. Not to mention some of the drinks. But there is a hell of a morale problem. There have been riots among other contingents, even American." He shook his head again, this time in resignation.
"Well, we'll get it licked, sir," said the lieutenant, confidently.
The captain smiled. "Good to hear. But that brings me to the real reason I was here. Training."
It was Mike's turn to frown again. "I'm under orders, sir."
"And can you divulge the nature of the orders?"
"I am not to mingle for training. I'm not to discuss training with officers. I'm not to enter the battalion area or the training areas." Mike had brooded on those words for quite some time.
"Hmm," said the officer and smiled. "Good, I'm glad that my source had the wording right. As I said, I don't want you to disobey your orders . . ."
"Well, sir," said O'Neal, "since the orders were invalid on the face . . ."
"But you must remember, Lieutenant," said the captain, sternly, shaking his finger at the junior officer, "that the last order from a superior officer is to be obeyed."
Brandon dropped the humorous pose. "Besides, disobeying the colonel is bad for discipline and would destroy your career." The captain fixed him with a glance to ensure that his point was made.
"Yes, sir," said Mike. He could tell that the commander was headed somewhere but was not sure where.
The captain looked up and thought about what he was about to say. He closed one eye and wrinkled his forehead. The eyebrow of the open eye bounced up and down.
"Let me just be sure of something. Have we discussed training with combat suits or any other galactic equipment?" he asked. "At all," he emphasized.
"No, sir," said Mike after a moment's thought. Wiznowski just shook his head.
"Okay," the captain nodded his head in agreement. "And we're not going to discuss training. But let me ask you a hypothetical question. If the company was to have a company party, and you were `directing' it, would you have to be there? In person?" asked the commander with a leading tone.
Mike frowned more deeply in puzzlement then his eyes widened. He flashed a look at the Virtual Reality glasses on the table then started to say something. He thought about it for a moment then realized why the crafty old company commander had brought an NCO to the discussion.
"Hey, Wiz, you guys got any of these?" he asked, holding up the Milspecs.
Wiznowski's eyes narrowed in thought. "Yeah," he whispered with a slight smile. Then he gri
"Well, gentlemen," said the captain, quickly standing up and placing his hands on his hips. "I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do." He smiled beatifically at them, the image of bonhomie. "However, although I will permit Sergeant Wiznowski to visit with you briefly, since you are old friends, I hope that you will remain circumspect about your conversations. Don't ask, don't tell, doncha know." He winked, turned and whisked out of the cramped cabin.
18
Washington, DC Sol III
1424 EDT November 12th, 2002 AD
The group of military officers and civilians around the conference table stood up as the President entered the Situation Room. Since Tchpth never seemed to sit, but always bounced on their stumpy spider legs, it was difficult to tell whether the ten-limbed pseudo-arthropod was rendering proper respect to the leader of Earth's only remaining superpower. On the other hand, it was a senior philosopher-scientist among a race of superscientists and could be permitted a certain amount of indiscretion. It was now being indiscreet by dancing on the black glass table.
"Tchpth Tctchpah," aspirated the President, rather well everyone thought, "thank you for coming. You wanted to address us about our projected nuclear, biological and chemical policy for the upcoming conflict." He took his seat and waved for everyone else to join him.
The senior Tchpth waited for the group of advisors and military perso
"Yes, Senior Leader of this Archaic Group of Vicious Omnivores. And I thank you for the limited forum." At the form of address, everyone surreptitiously looked at the President. The light blue Tchpth used an AID for translation, just as everyone in the room. Whether the series of insults were overtranslation by the AID or a realistic translation of an intentional insult was unclear. The President decided to take it like a man and everyone else took their lead from him.
"Specifically, I wished to address your biological and chemical doctrine." The arthropoid danced sideways as a hologram formed.
"Your present doctrine is for a reestablishment of a biological and chemical warfare assault department, a group of chemical and biological weapons experts who work on weapons to be used offensively against the Posleen." The hologram started to show unedited scenes of chemical weapons tests: goats shivering and vomiting under the effect of Sarin, and movie footage from the First World War of soldiers coughing out their lungs from mustard gas.