"Of course," chuckled Simpson, "he's just covering the Old Bastard's ass. Navy takes care of its own. He didn't forget his serial number. I never thought to provide people with any."
Mike stared at him. Simpson shrugged. "What can I say? I screwed up. Guess we'll have to figure out a serial number system. Can't use social security numbers, of course, the way the old Navy wound up doing."
"To hell with a 'system,' " proclaimed Mike. "Later for that. Right now, we'll just have to wing it. Eddie needs a number right away."
The cheering crowd in the ballroom was starting to spill into the hallway. Mike knew he'd be surrounded by well-wishers in seconds, burying him.
Think quick.
He did. But-
Is Eddie bright enough? Stupid question.
Will he get reckless? That's the real problem. Ah, what the hell. He's lost a leg, what can he do?
Um. Eddie? Stupid question.
Piss on it, Mike. Go with the ones who got you here.
Just do it.
Pulling his ever-present notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his fancy clothing-another reason he'd insisted on his own modifications-Mike hastily scrawled a message. He just had time to hand it to Simpson before the mob swept him back into the ballroom. Dignitas be damned. Let's have a party!
Simpson didn't read the message for perhaps half a minute, until he was sure he had himself back under control. When he did read the message, however, he promptly burst into laughter again.