"All right, all right," said Reverend Jordan Ayres, rubbing his hands together. He stepped out from behind the podium in the rented ballroom and made a beckoning gesture. "Who's ready to make himself over in the image of the King? Step right up!"

Rev had been particularly successful in winning converts to the Church of the King, his own denomination, from among the rookie legionnaires. This might have been because the older legionnaires were more jaded, or perhaps the new crop saw him as one of their own in the way the veterans didn't. Or it may simply have been the luck of the draw. In any case, the meeting room in the Landoor Plaza Hotel was nearly half full with those who'd come to pay their homage to the King; many local civilians in addition to the legionnaires.

"Uh, Rev-this isn't gonna hurt, is it?" The quavering voice belonged to Roadkill, one of the new recruits who'd joined Phule's Company at the same time as Rev's assignment as the company chaplain.

"Hurt?" Rev scoffed. "Are you gonna worry about whether it hurts? This is one of the deepest mysteries of the faith. If you don't love the King enough to put up with a little bit of hurtin', I'm not a-gonna push you, son. You're not doin' this for me, you're doin' it for yourself-and for him. "

"The King sang about hurtin'," said another of the recruits, Freefall. "He wasn't afraid to walk down Lonely Street..." Her voice carried just enough of a hint of disapproval to suggest that Roadkill was being shortsighted and selfish-that Roadkill's faith might even be open to question.

"He asked us not to be cruel," riposted Roadkill. "Besides, I didn't say I wasn't going to do it. I just want to know ahead of time if it hurts, and you don't know any more about that than I do. The only one here who's gone through with it is Rev, and from what he said, I guess it does hurt."

"It don't hurt all that much, though," said Rev, stepping forward and smiling. Then he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject. "Besides, there's another choice you all need to make before you go any further-a choice you might not even realize you have."

"Another choice?" Freefall raised her eyebrows. "Isn't it enough for us to give up our own appearance to take on His? A face none of us was born with?"

"That's right, there's still another choice," said Rev. " `Cause even the King had more than one way he looked. Why don't y'all set down and let me show you some holos. There are a few li'l constraints on account of bone structure and all, but even with all that, you've got a bunch of different models to pick from." He motioned toward the seats, and with only a little confusion, the disciples obediently took their places.

"All right," said Rev. "I'm a-gonna show you what y'all's choices are, and then we'll start. It's pretty quick, once we do. And by tomorrow morning, you'll all be livin' testimonials to the power of the King!"

A hush fell over the crowd as Rev picked up the remote control for the holojector.

"Now, here he is when he first started out," said Rev. "This is a good one if you're young and slim. Notice how the sideburns are narrower than mine..."

The audience stared at the holo, rapt. Rev droned on.

Journal #474

My employer's company had achieved a very pleasant modus vivendi on Landoor, its most recent station. The company's original responsibility as a peacekeeping team was quickly modified, as my employer decided to turn his efforts to helping the planet realize its potential as a tourist mecca. After considerable investment of time and money-and no little personal effort-he had achieved success.

The planet's climate was gentle, its people easygoing by nature. And the legionnaires of Omega Company were never too busy to sample the entertainments of two Galaxy-class amusement parks. The officers were also pleased to be free of the corrupting influences to which the troops had been exposed on their previous assignment-not that many of them could have become much more corrupt than they already were. Without much question, Landoor was the healthiest place the company had been.

Relatively speaking, of course..

Sushi stared at his computer, which currently displayed a long list of names-a list that very few eyes other than his had seen. If some of those on the list had known just who was looking at it and why, there would have been interplanetary repercussions. One of those repercussions would undoubtedly have been a serious attempt to liquidate Sushi. Sushi knew this, of course. It didn't bother him. It was just the downside of the gamble he was taking.

Taking over the Yakuza. It had seemed a ridiculous idea when he'd first come up with it, an inspired improvisation to save his hide when the Japanese mob had sent an assassin to punish him for impersonating one of its members. If he'd thought it all the way through when he first came up with it, he might have decided on something less audacious. After all, he already had what was supposed to be a full-time job-although being a legionnaire in Omega Company, even under Captain Jester, was a good bit less demanding than belonging to most military units. But running this conspiracy was more than a full-time job.

The basic idea was simple. He'd invented a phony super family that would unite the families on different worlds, allow them to mediate territorial disputes, and to trade useful information. It was an idea whose time had come a good while back; only the inherent conservatism of the criminal mentality had kept it from coming into being. But he'd done it, essentially with no help from anyone except a few of his own family members who had certain useful knowledge and contacts and had used them to slip him information. And it had worked.

The only problem so far was that the entire superfamily consisted of Sushi and his trusty computer, a Legion milspec model, but with lots of custom features installed by Sushi himself. Eventually, he was going to make a mistake, and he just had to hope it wouldn't be a fatal one-especially not to himself. It was probably a shortcoming in a would-be criminal mastermind, but he really didn't want anybody to get hurt if he could avoid it. He didn't even really want to pocket more than a tiny fraction of the Yakuza's income. The whole idea originally had been to keep himself alive, and he'd be perfectly happy if he could continue to achieve that goal over the long term-say, seven or eight decades.

Behind him a door opened, and almost by instinct he blanked the screen. Then a familiar voice said, "Yo, Soosh, Okie tells me Dunes Park has a new coaster. Wanna go give it the test?"

Sushi looked over his shoulder to see Do-Wop standing hipshot in the doorway of their shared room in the Landoor Plaza Hotel. "Maybe tomorrow," said Sushi wearily. "Right now, I'm up to my ears in this project."

"Ahh, c'mon," said Do-Wop. "You've been busting your hump on that stuff all week. Time for a break, man."

"Believe me, I'd love to take one," said Sushi. "But this business of taking over the Yakuza is a lot more work than I expected. It wasn't really that hard to get control, but keeping it is turning out to be real work."

"And your ass is grass if it gets away from you," said Do-Wop, nodding in sympathy.

"Right. I've got the families in the sector around old Earth playing along with me," said Sushi, leaning back in his chair and stretching. "They recognize the need for a larger organization, and they aren't picky about who's running it, as long as it doesn't cut their profits. That's the good part." He paused, then added, "At least there is a good part."