loyal—crew of
renegade Sentinels. Somehow, Joe had not only inexplicably stayed alive, but
had kept some of the Dhasha and Jreet on his own team alive, as well,
and that feat had apparently impressed the bureaucrats enough that they had
belatedly offered him Phoenix’s ill-begotten Corps Directorship. The kasja that came with it hadn’t mentioned subduing the Aezi rebels or helping Flea
uncover yet another Huouyt conspiracy—it had been given to him for ‘uniting
great warriors with extreme differences using pitiable natural resources.’
Something that, of course, had only added to his legend. He hadn’t received
his commendation for stopping a Congress-wide war or saving the Ze’laa family
or the surviving Aezi from extermination. He had gotten it because he managed
to convince a Dhasha and a Jreet not to kill each other over who got to sleep
on which side of the transport ship.
Accepting his
Corps Directorship had been done with more than a little righteous
vindication—and it was the worst mistake Joe had ever made. He had hated the
office, and after one and a half turns of driving a desk while his friends and
peers were off fighting battles and getting themselves killed, Joe had gone to the
Galactic Corps Director and asked her nicely for a demotion. When that hadn’t
worked—and she’d given him a line of soot about Congress needing its heroes to
lead the next generation—Joe had punched her in the face.
They probably
would have left him driving a desk after that, anyway, but Joe had then
intercepted and disabled a four-member Jreet Directorate squad that had been
sent to babysit him under the guise of ‘bodyguards,’ stolen a ship at gunpoint,
gone AWOL, shown up on Rastari with a biosuit and plasma rifle, and had
incapacitated or assimilated the first, second, and third Peacemaker team that
had been sent to retrieve him. All the while, he was killing renegade Jikaln,
Hebbut, and Dreit; leading a hand-picked multi-species groundteam through the
mountainous woodlands of Rastari; and taking over and commanding a besieged
Congressional outpost in his spare time, holding it against all odds and
turning the tide on yet another war.
After that,
Congress left him alone. Joe wasn’t quite sure what his official rank was
anymore, since they had stopped paying him around the same time he’d busted the
Galactic Corps Director’s prissy snub nose, but everyone except the hardcore
bureaucrats simply called him ‘Commander Zero.’ To the people who drove desks
or spent their time rubbing elbows with fame and fortune, however, he was
always ‘Director Zero.’ It was one of the first and easiest ways for Joe to
tell if he was dealing with honest-to-God hero worship or an ambitious
sleazeball looking for a leg up.
The man standing
in front of him, as if the fake grin, posing for the cameras, and plaster-cast
courtesy wasn’t a dead giveaway, had already named himself the scum of the
Corps with his officially-brisk-but-oozing-fake-cheerfulness ‘Director Zero,’
spoken in the overly friendly tone that made Joe’s guts twist with the need to
punch something. Joe continued to ignore the Secondary Overseer, pretending to
analyze the recruits as they departed, hoping the leech would take a hint and
go away.
He didn’t. The
man continued standing there, hand out like he expected Joe to take it, a
stupid, sycophantic smile on his face. Because Joe had ascended .
Because he’d left the Corps behind. Because he’d survived two unsurvivable
wars. Because he’d road-burned a Dhasha and lived to tell about it. Because
he’d turned three squads of Peacemakers to fight with him. Because he was alive .
Joe wasn’t a
mortal to them anymore. Mortals died. Mortals got paid. Gods got worshipped.
When he was
bored, Joe wondered what kind of robotic Joe Dobbs Congress would fabricate to
continue his legend once he finally put Jane to good use. Congress, after
renegade Sentinels. Somehow, Joe had not only inexplicably stayed alive, but
had kept some of the Dhasha and Jreet on his own team alive, as well,
and that feat had apparently impressed the bureaucrats enough that they had
belatedly offered him Phoenix’s ill-begotten Corps Directorship. The kasja that came with it hadn’t mentioned subduing the Aezi rebels or helping Flea
uncover yet another Huouyt conspiracy—it had been given to him for ‘uniting
great warriors with extreme differences using pitiable natural resources.’
Something that, of course, had only added to his legend. He hadn’t received
his commendation for stopping a Congress-wide war or saving the Ze’laa family
or the surviving Aezi from extermination. He had gotten it because he managed
to convince a Dhasha and a Jreet not to kill each other over who got to sleep
on which side of the transport ship.
Accepting his
Corps Directorship had been done with more than a little righteous
vindication—and it was the worst mistake Joe had ever made. He had hated the
office, and after one and a half turns of driving a desk while his friends and
peers were off fighting battles and getting themselves killed, Joe had gone to the
Galactic Corps Director and asked her nicely for a demotion. When that hadn’t
worked—and she’d given him a line of soot about Congress needing its heroes to
lead the next generation—Joe had punched her in the face.
They probably
would have left him driving a desk after that, anyway, but Joe had then
intercepted and disabled a four-member Jreet Directorate squad that had been
sent to babysit him under the guise of ‘bodyguards,’ stolen a ship at gunpoint,
gone AWOL, shown up on Rastari with a biosuit and plasma rifle, and had
incapacitated or assimilated the first, second, and third Peacemaker team that
had been sent to retrieve him. All the while, he was killing renegade Jikaln,
Hebbut, and Dreit; leading a hand-picked multi-species groundteam through the
mountainous woodlands of Rastari; and taking over and commanding a besieged
Congressional outpost in his spare time, holding it against all odds and
turning the tide on yet another war.
After that,
Congress left him alone. Joe wasn’t quite sure what his official rank was
anymore, since they had stopped paying him around the same time he’d busted the
Galactic Corps Director’s prissy snub nose, but everyone except the hardcore
bureaucrats simply called him ‘Commander Zero.’ To the people who drove desks
or spent their time rubbing elbows with fame and fortune, however, he was
always ‘Director Zero.’ It was one of the first and easiest ways for Joe to
tell if he was dealing with honest-to-God hero worship or an ambitious
sleazeball looking for a leg up.
The man standing
in front of him, as if the fake grin, posing for the cameras, and plaster-cast
courtesy wasn’t a dead giveaway, had already named himself the scum of the
Corps with his officially-brisk-but-oozing-fake-cheerfulness ‘Director Zero,’
spoken in the overly friendly tone that made Joe’s guts twist with the need to
punch something. Joe continued to ignore the Secondary Overseer, pretending to
analyze the recruits as they departed, hoping the leech would take a hint and
go away.
He didn’t. The
man continued standing there, hand out like he expected Joe to take it, a
stupid, sycophantic smile on his face. Because Joe had ascended .
Because he’d left the Corps behind. Because he’d survived two unsurvivable
wars. Because he’d road-burned a Dhasha and lived to tell about it. Because
he’d turned three squads of Peacemakers to fight with him. Because he was alive .
Joe wasn’t a
mortal to them anymore. Mortals died. Mortals got paid. Gods got worshipped.
When he was
bored, Joe wondered what kind of robotic Joe Dobbs Congress would fabricate to
continue his legend once he finally put Jane to good use. Congress, after
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