Project Boussh: Data-Shuffling
by Policrat'

Scifantasy sat behind his big desk, looking at McEwok. For some reason, 
McEwok was still in his Imperial uniform, looking even more dishevelled than 
normal.

"Terra Seven," Sci said, laying a fat docket out in front of him. "I assume 
you know what insubordination is? If I mentioned certain disparaging remarks 
made about myself, the US dollar, the New Republic dactari, and two 
Rutullian Twi'leks, would you know what I was talking about? Or, for that 
matter, sexual relations with a mercenary who NRI has classed as an 
echo-level security risk?"

"Sir," McEwok agreed.

"Yes, I know you like to posture as a brave man, Pol," Sci said, his voice 
almost affectionate. "I can therefore tell you beforehand that I intend to 
convene a court-martial, and having reviewed the evidence, I can even tell 
you what the verdict will be."

McEwok's stiff facade broke, but to Sci's surprise, he just grinned 
hesitantly.

"Sir," he said. "An insubordinate man - Mike or Josh, say - might use this 
opportunity to point out that he had his pardon in his pocket. But I will 
content myself with saying: by your command, sir. I am ready."

"Your pardon?" said Sci, surprised.

"Yes, sir," said McEwok.

"And signed by whom? By Grand Admiral Thrawn?" And he pronounced these words 
with a singular expression of contempt.

"No, by you, sir."

"By me?" Sci laughed. "You are insane, Terra Seven."

"You will doubtless recognize your own handwriting, sir."

McEwok rummaged in the plastron-pocket of his Imperial tunic, and pulled out 
a folded flim.

Sci took the paper, and read it - in a slow voice, dwelling upon every 
syllable:

"Nov. 3, 2000," he read. "It is by my order and for the good of the New 
Republic that the bearer of this has done what he has done. Scifantasy."

Then, very slowly, he fed the flim into the shredder.

"Where did you get that from, Commander," he asked, a thougtful look coming 
over his normally inscrutable features.

"I am not at liberty to say, sir," McEwok said. "I suggest you take the 
matter up with Hiram Drayson. Sir."

"Very well," Sci said, tapping the docket with his stylus, but smiling as 
well. "I suppose I can feed this into the shredder too, then."

"It would be insubordinate of me to suggest what you might want to do with 
it," McEwok answered, with bland insolence. "Sir."

***

As the blast-doors slid shut behind him, McEwok leaned back, breathing 
slowly, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"That was too close," he muttered, and went off to look for another drink.