A Phule and His Money

3

Journal #285

Command of a military unit is no sinecure, even in the notoriously lax Space Legion. Put in command of a unit that had become a dumping ground for malcontents and incompetents, my employer knew he faced a formidable task in making anything of it-let alone an elite company. That he had accomplished as much as he had spoke highly of his determination. It goes without saying that the accomplishment was achieved at no small personal cost-especially considering that much of what he had accomplished had been opposed at every step by his superior officers.

As became apparent, his successes on Lorelei only gave his enemies more reason to hate him.

General Blitzkrieg stomped into his office. It was shaping up as another rotten day. There had been a lot of those lately-it was almost enough to make him opt for early retirement and accept the lower pension as fair trade for the aggravation. But he wasn't about to be eased out of the saddle. Not while his purpose remained unfulfilled.

"Here are your news printouts, sir," said his aide, a tired-looking major who'd held the position for three years. Being aide-de-camp to one of the three top generals in the Space Legion had looked like a brilliant career move a few years earlier: an ideal shortcut to promotion for an ambitious officer with neither political connections, personal wealth, nor military talent. But Major Sparrowhawk had been second-guessing her decision to take the assignment ever since. She handed the sheaf of customized, automatically-edited flimsies to the general. Most senior officers got their intelligence straight off the Net, but Blitzkrieg was a stickler for the ancient print technology-"good old hard copy," as he called it.

The general riffled through the printouts, and threw them into the trash. "Nothing worth a damn," he growled, and turned to go into his inner office.

Sparrowhawk cleared her throat. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I've been sorting your news printouts for you for the entire time I've been here. For the last year or so, you hardly glance at them before you throw them away. Perhaps I need to redefine the sort, or expand the coverage. What are you looking for that isn't showing up?"

Blitzkrieg stopped and scowled at his aide, who began to regret asking. "Don't you know by now? I'm waiting to see if that damned Captain Jester has finally done something I can cashier him for. You won't have to expand your coverage to find that-sooner or later, the idiot is bound to commit a blunder that'll put him in the headlines galaxywide, and I'll give him what he deserves. And then I can retire, knowing I've done the Legion a service for which my successors will be forever grateful."

"I thought as much, sir," said Sparrowhawk. Her brows knitted for a moment, then she said, "I think you might want to take another look through those flimsies, then. There's an article there I had to look at twice myself-it wasn't immediately obvious why your search parameters turned it up. But I think you'll find it very interesting indeed."

"Really?" Blitzkrieg bent over and retrieved the printouts from the trash. He flipped through them again, this time more slowly. His expression became more and more puzzled. Finally he looked up at Sparrowhawk and said, "Major, if you think I enjoy guessing games, you don't know me very well. What's the story, and why would I be interested?"

"The third one down, sir," she said, secretly pleased that the general had overlooked it twice. "The one about the new government on Landoor."

"Hmmm..." The general scanned the article, but his perplexity grew, and at last he held it up accusingly. "There's nothing about Jester here, Major."

"No, sir," said Major Sparrowhawk, patiently. She knew she'd have to explain it to him-Blitzkrieg's rise to the top of the Space Legion had nothing to do with intellectual eminence. "Do you remember the episode that first brought Jester-he went by the name `Scaramouche' then-to your attention?"

"Damned right I remember it, Major," growled Blitzkrieg. "The ignorant pup talked a pilot into strafing the signing of a peace treaty. Luckily there was enough warning for everyone on the ground to get to cover-or maybe not so luckily. A few casualties and we'd have put Jester behind bars."

"Exactly, sir," said Sparrowhawk. "It may have slipped your memory that Landoor is the world where that incident occurred."

"Yes, of course I knew that," said Blitzkrieg. "So, life goes on, and they've got a new government. Nothing to concern us, eh, Major?"

"Perhaps not," Sparrowhawk doggedly continued. "Nothing directly, of course. There was some information down in the fifth paragraph I thought you could turn to use, but perhaps I misunderstood its implications."

"Possibly you did," said the general, glancing at the sheet of printout in his hand. "Well, not everyone has the instinct for grand strategy, Major. But if you stick with me, you may have the opportunity to learn the rudiments."

"Yes, sir," said Sparrowhawk. Now she was certain he'd read the paragraph again. Perhaps he'd see how to bend it to his own ends without more prompting. He wasn't really all that stupid, she told herself. With her help, he'd eventually get his revenge on Jester-and then retire, and at last she'd be free of him.

The general took the printout into his inner office, and closed the door. When he was gone, she turned back to her computer-her stocks had been doing nicely, but recent news suggested that they might have peaked. She wanted to see if it was time to sell and get into something else...

She managed to read nearly a dozen screens of financial analysis before the general buzzed her on the intercom and roared, "Sparrowhawk! Get me the General Staff office, right away! No, make that a conference call-add on Ambassador Gottesman, too. I've come up with the perfect answer to our problems with Jester!"

"Right away, sir," she said, smiling. She already knew exactly what the general would want from his superiors. Sometimes, the job had its rewards, after all.

"Hey, Do-Wop, how's it going?" said Mess Sergeant Escrima, looking up from a shipment of fresh asparagus that had just arrived. The sprouts were young and tender, a miracle of hydroponic agriculture and genetic tailoring, but Escrima was still inspecting them as critically as he did every item of food that passed through his kitchens. "Any sign of that partner of yours yet?"

"Nah, Sarge-wherever Soosh is hiding, it's a good spot," said Do-Wop, stopping at the end of the counter where the asparagus was laid out. He looked around the kitchen. "We're looking everywhere we can without spooking the customers. I guess you didn't see him?"

"Haven't laid eyes on him," said Escrima, waving a hand to indicate the whole kitchen. Two assistant cooks were at work slicing something, and several large pots were already boiling atop the luxury hotel's state-of-the-art TherMaster MultiRange. "Not today, at least. Last I saw him was Sunday-I needed to borrow a few bucks until payday. Bad run of luck..."

"Tell me about it, man," said Do-Wop, rolling his eyes. "I thought I knew my way around a card table-especially after the captain had those pro gamblers show us the ropes. There's not a card mechanic's trick I can't spot by now. But it don't make me a winner. I think my luck's even worse than it was before I knew what to watch out for."

"Ditto," said Escrima. "Without Sushi, I wouldn't have two nickels to rub together. With him bankrolling me, at least I've got something to get back to the tables with so I can try to reverse my luck."

"Yeah, he's been lending me enough to scrape through, too. I'm gonna owe him a bundle next paycheck, though. Maybe I'd be better off if he didn't come back." Do-Wop frowned, then blurted out, "You know I don't mean that, Escrima."

"I didn't think you did," said Escrima, nodding. "But he won't be going anywhere-too many people owe him. Let's hope he's not selling our markers to the Yakuza. I hear those boys play really dirty with deadbeats. So hurry up and find him-I don't like owing him three months' pay, and he's one of us. I'd hate to owe it to somebody who's only in it for the money."

"Yeah, at least Soosh won't break your legs if you miss a payment," said Do-Wop. "You spot him, let Mother know ASAP, OK?"

"Sure will," said Escrima, nodding. "Good luck."

"I could use that in more than one department," muttered Do-Wop as he went out the door. Escrima didn't answer; he had already turned his attention back to, that evening's meal.

"Come on, this is ridiculous," said Brandy. She stared at the harried desk clerk. Garbo stood next to her, drawing curious stares from customers standing in line at the registration desk. Everybody had seen the Gambolts on the trivid news; seeing a life-sized one standing two meters away, in full Legion uniform, was another story entirely. Especially if you knew the catlike aliens' reputation as the most deadly hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy...

But dangerous as the Gambolt looked, it was the undeniably human Brandy who was the real danger at this time, with her temper edging toward an explosion. "How hard is it to find me one regular room?" she growled, as the desk clerk tried to get his computer to cooperate. "Didn't anybody teach you how to charge it to the captain's account?"

"I'm very sorry, ma'am, but I keep getting some sort of error message," said the desk clerk. His eyes slid sideways to Garbo, who had stood like a statue ever since Brandy had brought her down to the desk. It had been no more than ten minutes, but it was unnerving.

"Maybe you're entering the account number wrong," said Brandy. "You do know the captain's account number for Legion business, don't you, Junior?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the desk clerk. He was a thin, nervous-looking young man, with a tasteful gold-plated ring in his left nostril and an asymmetrical, neo-Georgian blue-powdered wig. "The system has a macro to access the captain's Dilithium Express account without entering the number every time. There shouldn't be any problem with his credit. I'm not quite sure what..."

"Well, you better figure it out, Junior, or there'll be a Gambolt sleeping in the lobby," said Brandy. "I don't think she'd eat any customers, but she might take a bite or two out of the staff. So the sooner you get her a room, the better."

"I'm trying, ma'am," the desk clerk repeated. "If this try doesn't go through, I'll enter it manually." His expression was sulky and put-upon, but by the way his fingers flew over the cyborged touchpad imprinted on the skin of his left forearm, he was taking Brandy's threats very seriously indeed. Brandy continued to scowl, although she suspected she was already getting all the mileage she could out of sheer intimidation.

So it was purely by chance that she happened to look away from the registration desk just in time to see a small, black-clad figure round the corner of the counter and sprint toward her. This must be the intruder Mother had warned everyone about!

Whether by instinct or training-after so many years in the Legion, it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began-she dropped into a defensive crouch. Her attention now focused, she registered consciously what she'd been hearing in the background-voices raised, and feet hurrying in pursuit.

"He went through there!"

"Hurry, before he gets away!"

And louder than the rest, "Spy!"

"Hold it right there," she said in a voice that radiated the authority of a veteran top sergeant. To anyone with the barest minimum of military training, that voice was nearly impossible to disobey. And sure enough, the black-clad figure came to a momentary halt. In that frozen fraction of a second, she saw a meter-tall lizard, dressed in a miniature Space Legion jumpsuit. They stared at each other for perhaps a full second.

Brandy was already in motion before the lizard broke out of its frozen stance. She dove straight toward its midsection. But the lizard was quicker than she was. It sidestepped to the left, watched Brandy sail past it to land flat on her belly, and turned to dash off toward the open door across the lobby. "Get him, Garbo," barked Brandy, sprawling at full length on the floor.

The lizardlike alien, which had appeared to accelerate to top speed in two strides, made a feint to the left, then dodged back to the right, and leaped its own height into the air. Brandy's mouth fell open just watching the alien move.

Garbo was quicker.

Without seeming to have moved at all, the Gambolt was waiting when the lizard came down, and calmly placed one paw on the lizard's collar, the other in the middle of its chest. Her claws were visible, spread wide on the lizard's chest. "Do not move," said Garbo. The look that accompanied the words was pure feline anticipation. It was difficult for a human observer familiar with cats to escape the impression that, if the lizard attempted to escape, Garbo would have a great deal of enjoyment recapturing it, and the lizard would not.

"Very good, you have apprehended me," said the lizard, in a translator-generated voice. "That is first-class work, and I am impressed indeed. Now, I wish to report to Captain Clown."

Brandy had managed to recover her breath and climb to her feet. The troops who had been in hot pursuit of the lizard had lined up behind her, waiting for her orders now that the fugitive was apparently captured. She looked at the lizard in disbelief.

"Captain Clown?" she asked, frowning. "There's no such person. Who the hell are you, anyway? You're not any member of this outfit, but you're wearing our unit patch."

The lizard assumed a more upright posture-difficult, with the Gambolt still keeping it under close guard. "I am Flight Leftenant Qual, Zenobian Space Command," it said. "I am attached to this company as military observer. Orders require me to report to Captain Clown, and I hereby request to be taken to him."

"Military observer?" said Brandy. She motioned to Garbo, who slightly relaxed her grip on the Zenobian's collar. "I do remember something about that, now. But why were you sneaking around the place and running away from my people when they spotted you?"

"I am observing," said Qual. "Part of this job is to cipher out how troops are ready for surprises, so I make a surprise. You catch on very quick, especially this one." He indicated the Gambolt who had collared him.

"I still think he's a spy, Sarge," growled Gabriel, who looked winded from the chase. There was a mutter of agreement from the others who'd been pursuing the Zenobian.

"Quiet," ordered Brandy, turning around. "We'll let the captain figure that out. You all return to your posts; we've got this under control. Dismissed."

"Right-o, Top," said one of the troops, but there didn't seem to be much enthusiasm in it. They turned and headed back to their posts.

Brandy turned back to Qual and Garbo. "OK, we'll bring you to the captain to report in as soon as we finish here. By the way, his name is Jester, not Clown. Garbo, make sure he stays put."

"Yes, Sergeant," came the translated voice, almost purring this time.

The Zenobian seemed calm, as far as Brandy could tell, not that she had much practice reading the facial expressions of a scaled-down dinosaur. But the Gambolt was ready for anything, and that was all that mattered right at the moment.

Brandy turned back to the desk clerk, who stood gaping at the scene in front of him. He wasn't alone; so were most of the customers. They'd come to the Fat Chance looking for excitement, but none of them had quite bargained for what they'd just seen. It was hard to tell whether they were favorably impressed or not.

Brandy had other business to worry about. "Well, Junior, have you got that problem with the room fixed yet? Or do I tell the Gambolt she's sleeping with you tonight?" The clerk turned white, and frantically began punching keys again.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Lieutenant Armstrong looked at the supply depot, a hotel delivery bay modified to the Legion's specifications. The depot had looked perfectly ordinary when Armstrong had come by early that morning. Now, the entire area resembled an armed camp. There were cartons of field rations and heavy-machine oil piled up as barriers, with razor wire strung between them. Farther back was a bunker made of soap boxes, the peak of a helmet visible just above it.

Despite himself, Armstrong felt a touch of pride that the Omega Mob could accomplish something so quickly. It had never been that way before Phule had arrived.

"Halt and identify yourself," came a mechanical voice from behind the barbed wire barricade. "Keep your hands in sight, and make no sudden moves."

"It's Armstrong," said the lieutenant, straining to see the speaker. "Louie, is that you? You know me, Louie. What's the situation here? It looks like you're ready for an invasion."

"Do not approach closer," said the voice. "What is the password?"

"Password?" Armstrong frowned. There'd been no password needed to enter the supply depot before-in fact, there'd been nothing to stop any curious passerby from walking up to it from the street beyond. Something must have changed. "Chocolate Harry, are you in there?" he called. Perhaps the supply sergeant would let him in and explain this strange game-whatever it was.

"There is nobody named Chocolate Harry here," said the voice. "Do not approach closer, and keep your hands in sight."

Armstrong raised his hands, putting his mouth within range of the wrist communicator. "Mother, there's something strange going on at supply," he said softly. "Can you patch me through to Chocolate Harry?"

"If I can't do it, nobody can," said Mother's voice. "Keep your pants on, sonny, and we'll hook you right up."

After a moment, another voice came through the speaker. "Who's there? Make it quick, I ain't got much time."

"Harry, is that you? This is Armstrong. What in the world is going on here?"

"You sound like Armstrong, all right, but I gotta be sure," said Chocolate Harry's voice. There was a brief hesitation, then "OK, who led the Galactic League in free flies last season?"

"Huh?" Armstrong thought frantically. Finally he said, "I don't know. Harry, this is ridiculous-I don't know anything about gravball."

"Hah! It's not gravball, it's scrumble. That's enough for me, though-you gotta be Armstrong. Ignorantest dude I ever saw when it comes to sports. What you want, Lieutenant?"

"Harry, I'm right outside the supply depot. The place looks like a fortress. What are you guarding-chips from the casino?"

"Right outside, hey? You see anybody suspicious out there, Armstrong?"

"There's nobody here except me! Tell your guard to let me in-I'm on company business."

"OK, Lieutenant, but hurry-and don't make any funny looking moves. Louie's got an itchy trigger appendage."

Lieutenant Armstrong stood up and smiled, waving to the Synthian on guard. He moved gingerly through the hastily implanted barriers outside the door to the supply depot, uncomfortably aware of Louie's shotgun aimed at him the entire time. Finally, he reached the door; it opened a crack and he saw the muzzle of a splat gun pointed at him briefly before the door opened wider to admit him. "Come on in, man, have a seat. Fix you a coffee?" Chocolate Harry said, beckoning; his gaze remained fixed on the area outside. Armstrong dashed through the door and plopped himself onto the proffered chair.

"What the devil is going on here?" demanded Armstrong. "Are we expecting another raid from the Mob?"

"No, worse than that," said Chocolate Harry, throwing a heavy metal bar into place across the door. "They've finally found me. I knew it was comin', I knew it all along. But they're not gonna just walk in and take me, Lieutenant. They got a fight on their hands if they try that."

"What in the galaxy are you talking about?" demanded Armstrong. "Who are they, and why are they after you?"

"It's a long story, Lieutenant," said Harry. "I'll give you the quick run-through. You know I used to ride with the Outlaws?"

"Yes, of course, we've all heard the story," said Armstrong.

"Well, then you know the part about me dissing the Renegades, right? The part where I got in so much trouble I had to run off and join the Legion-and before the captain took over this outfit, that was a mighty desperate thing to do."

"Yes, I've heard that, too," Armstrong began. "The one thing..."

Chocolate Harry interrupted him. "Well, man, my chicken's done come home to roost. The Renegades are here, and they're gonna fry me good and crisp. Ain't no mistake-Louie heard 'em talkin' to the captain, and he came here and told me right away." Harry was cleaning a Rolling Thunder automatic shotgun while he spoke; nervously peering out the slit between the boards he'd nailed over his window.

"Well, if they're here, so be it," said Armstrong. "You know as well as I do that nobody can attack one of us without taking on the whole company. We're covering you, Harry. Anybody who thinks they can waltz in and take you has another think coming."

"Well, I sure appreciate that, Lieutenant," said Chocolate Harry. "Can't blame a fella for taking a few precautions himself, though, can you? These Renegades are mean mothers."

"Yes, I suppose I can't blame you-you'll have to make it a bit easier for the company to get its supplies, though. I'm sure the captain will help you figure something out. Still, there's one thing I don't understand."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"What in space did you do to the Renegades to make them pursue you halfway across the galaxy, years later, to get their revenge?"

"What did I do? Man, I did the worst thing anybody could have done. There's not a biker alive who wouldn't feel the same way, if you told 'em."

"And what was that?"

"I messed with their bikes," said Chocolate Harry, and his voice was like the sound of doom.

Phule burst into the Command and Communications Center like a man pursued by wolves-which, metaphorically at least, he was. "All right," he said, "I want to find out what's going on. Mother, how's the search for Sushi going?"

"mgdkjgisd," said Rose, mumbling almost inaudibly. Brazen as she was over the comm, she went into shrinking violet mode when faced with the necessity for face-to-face communication. She scrunched down, as if to make herself invisible behind the communications console.

"Oh, sorry, I almost forgot," said Phule, preparing to return to the hallway and resume the conversation via wrist communicator.

"I can answer that, sir," said Beeker, rising from a desk to one side of the room, where he'd been using his Port-a-Brain pocket computer. "I've been monitoring the situation since we learned of it. To put it briefly, security has reason to believe that Sushi and the man he ran off with remained within the hotel-casino complex."

"I heard the recording," said Phule. "It sounds as if the Yakuza have come to settle accounts with him. Somebody must have figured out that those tattoos he got aren't the real thing, and told the Japanese mob he was an impostor."

"Yes, that's the impression I get," said Beeker. "In which case he may be in very bad trouble. Those people take their secret protocols very seriously, and it's no laughing matter for an outsider to impersonate one of them. That makes it even more imperative to find him."

"They've checked Sushi's quarters, I assume? What about the other man's room?"

"Sushi's quarters are empty, sir," said Beeker. "As for the other man, we've tried to match the images of him from the blackjack room surveillance cameras against the registration desk surveillance records-as you know, every guest's face is recorded as they are issued a room key. I fear there were no matches. Either he is a master of disguise-not impossible, if he is a Yakuza-or he is not a hotel guest."

"Was the woman with him carrying any ID?"

"Nothing traceable, sir," said Beeker, with a disappointed expression. "Lieutenant Rembrandt supervised the search, and she says she's never seen anyone so clean. You wouldn't think somebody in this day and age could have bought clothes, jewelry, accessories, and a purse full of odds and ends, without leaving any traces in the vendors' computer systems, or buying anything that would give away her origins. If necessary, security can run a more thorough search, and perhaps we'll find something then."

"It'll be a waste of time," said Phule, shaking his head. "If she's gone to that length to conceal her identity, she's probably got the other bases covered. We'll do what we have to, though."

"I agree, sir," said Beeker. "But we can safely leave those details to the experts. For now, I believe there's at least one piece of good news to report."

"Well, it's about time-I was starting to think the day was going straight downhill," said Phule. "What's the good word?"

"We have identified the unknown intruder, who turns out not to be an intruder at all, but a military observer. You will recall Flight Leftenant Qual, sir?"

Phule's forehead wrinkled for a moment. "Qual, Qual-oh, yes, the Zenobian. General Blitzkrieg said Qual was going to be assigned to us as-say, that's right! You mean he's here? Where?"

"Brandy and one of the Gambolts finally caught him, down by the front desk," said Beeker. "He was observing our readiness by pretending to infiltrate. Some of our people took that amiss-as I think you'll understand, sir. They're saying he's some kind of spy."

"Well, no worry about that," said Phule. "The general sent him, so there's no question at all about his bona fides. Once our people know that, there won't be any problem."

"Yes, sir," said Beeker, but he did not look convinced. "There's one other problem, sir. When Brandy was trying to place the female Gambolt in a private room, there seemed to be a question about your credit."

"That can't be," said Phule. "We own the hotel, you know. They don't tell the owner his credit's no good-especially not when he's covering his account with a Dilithium Express card."

"That's precisely what the difficulty is," said Beeker.

"It looks as if there is a problem with your Dilithium Express card. And unless something very unusual has happened to the financial markets while we weren't looking, that is impossible."