all,
couldn’t have its legends dying on it. Bad publicity. When he was really
bored, Joe wondered if his double was already built, and whether it was getting
his paycheck.
Though, aside
from a little bitterness that he was perpetually stuck doing Congress’s work
for free, the lack of rank and pay didn’t affect Joe overly much. Three
billion credits went a long way, especially when he’d finally wised up and put
his last billion into the hands of a Bajnan stockbroker. Now, effectively
rankless and jobless, Joe took whatever Human assignment he wanted, whenever he
wanted it, with Congress kissing his ass every step of the way. He was
actually doing an old friend from Rastari a favor in going back to Torat and
taking on the current load of recruits, since she had a younger sister in the
batch and she wanted Joe to help get the kid up to snuff before they shipped
her off somewhere nasty, like Dravus or L-4.
Yet another
reason Joe had to keep putting Jane off. Some friend’s little sister. Great.
He wondered how many little sisters there were out there, and how many of them
he was going to end up ‘training’ in order to put off the inevitable.
Apparently, the
Secondary Overseer organizing that morning’s formation didn’t notice Joe’s
dismissive grunt or the fact Joe never took his hand, because the man’s
sycophantic smile never twitched. He dropped his arm back to his side. “Will
you be coming to join us for dinner in the officer’s club tonight?” the
grinning furg asked.
“I eat alone,
Overseer…” Joe squinted at the guy’s nametag. “Death.” He blinked and raised
a brow. “Death? Really?”
The sycophantic
smile slipped a little at the sarcasm in Joe’s voice. “It is customary for
Overseers and above to choose their own monikers.”
“Yeah,” Joe
snorted. “But Death ? Come on, man. You got raisins for balls?”
Even as the
Secondary Overseer was bristling, a curvy Prime Commander stepped up to him and
said, “Nothing escapes Death.” She winked at Joe. “Unless you’re the burning
First Citizen. Death’s got some good stories, if you care to hear them. Join
us for chow, Commander?”
Joe gave her
voluptuous body a less-than-polite once-over, then grunted at her, too. “I eat
alone.”
The Secondary
Overseer muttered something impolite and turned to leave. Joe thought he heard
‘drunken asher’ under the guy’s breath, but he wasn’t sure. And, frankly,
didn’t care.
“How about
dinner for two, then?” the woman asked, once the Overseer was out of earshot.
Her smile had broken and there was curiosity in her eyes more than anything
else.
“Sorry,” Joe
said. “Not interested.” He’d actually come to enjoy his quiet-time at night.
It was one of the few times he didn’t have to worry about turning a corner and
running into the paparazzi. Peacemaker propagandists loved his ass, and
paid top dollar for a good pic.
Then, at the
woman’s flicker of disappointment, he realized he was turning down a date with
a pretty lady because he wanted to play yet another game of solitaire with Jim
Beam. I’m getting to be an old man, he thought, with a start.
Congressional drugs and rejuvenation put his body physiologically at about
thirty to thirty-five Earth-years of age, but after so many pretty young girls
with hero-worship in their eyes hadn’t even so much as made his cock twitch,
he’d long ago begun to wonder if he even still had charges in his pistol.
Still, he’d
learned the hard way—again and again—that Congie women just couldn’t see past
the motivational vids, the heroic poses, the recruitment posters, the legends.
They didn’t care about him . They cared about his friend in the
Tribunal. They cared that he had once been Prime to the current Peacemaster,
who still visited him whenever his duties brought him through the area. They
cared that he had been one of only two legendary
couldn’t have its legends dying on it. Bad publicity. When he was really
bored, Joe wondered if his double was already built, and whether it was getting
his paycheck.
Though, aside
from a little bitterness that he was perpetually stuck doing Congress’s work
for free, the lack of rank and pay didn’t affect Joe overly much. Three
billion credits went a long way, especially when he’d finally wised up and put
his last billion into the hands of a Bajnan stockbroker. Now, effectively
rankless and jobless, Joe took whatever Human assignment he wanted, whenever he
wanted it, with Congress kissing his ass every step of the way. He was
actually doing an old friend from Rastari a favor in going back to Torat and
taking on the current load of recruits, since she had a younger sister in the
batch and she wanted Joe to help get the kid up to snuff before they shipped
her off somewhere nasty, like Dravus or L-4.
Yet another
reason Joe had to keep putting Jane off. Some friend’s little sister. Great.
He wondered how many little sisters there were out there, and how many of them
he was going to end up ‘training’ in order to put off the inevitable.
Apparently, the
Secondary Overseer organizing that morning’s formation didn’t notice Joe’s
dismissive grunt or the fact Joe never took his hand, because the man’s
sycophantic smile never twitched. He dropped his arm back to his side. “Will
you be coming to join us for dinner in the officer’s club tonight?” the
grinning furg asked.
“I eat alone,
Overseer…” Joe squinted at the guy’s nametag. “Death.” He blinked and raised
a brow. “Death? Really?”
The sycophantic
smile slipped a little at the sarcasm in Joe’s voice. “It is customary for
Overseers and above to choose their own monikers.”
“Yeah,” Joe
snorted. “But Death ? Come on, man. You got raisins for balls?”
Even as the
Secondary Overseer was bristling, a curvy Prime Commander stepped up to him and
said, “Nothing escapes Death.” She winked at Joe. “Unless you’re the burning
First Citizen. Death’s got some good stories, if you care to hear them. Join
us for chow, Commander?”
Joe gave her
voluptuous body a less-than-polite once-over, then grunted at her, too. “I eat
alone.”
The Secondary
Overseer muttered something impolite and turned to leave. Joe thought he heard
‘drunken asher’ under the guy’s breath, but he wasn’t sure. And, frankly,
didn’t care.
“How about
dinner for two, then?” the woman asked, once the Overseer was out of earshot.
Her smile had broken and there was curiosity in her eyes more than anything
else.
“Sorry,” Joe
said. “Not interested.” He’d actually come to enjoy his quiet-time at night.
It was one of the few times he didn’t have to worry about turning a corner and
running into the paparazzi. Peacemaker propagandists loved his ass, and
paid top dollar for a good pic.
Then, at the
woman’s flicker of disappointment, he realized he was turning down a date with
a pretty lady because he wanted to play yet another game of solitaire with Jim
Beam. I’m getting to be an old man, he thought, with a start.
Congressional drugs and rejuvenation put his body physiologically at about
thirty to thirty-five Earth-years of age, but after so many pretty young girls
with hero-worship in their eyes hadn’t even so much as made his cock twitch,
he’d long ago begun to wonder if he even still had charges in his pistol.
Still, he’d
learned the hard way—again and again—that Congie women just couldn’t see past
the motivational vids, the heroic poses, the recruitment posters, the legends.
They didn’t care about him . They cared about his friend in the
Tribunal. They cared that he had once been Prime to the current Peacemaster,
who still visited him whenever his duties brought him through the area. They
cared that he had been one of only two legendary
Similar Books
