Phules Paradise

CHAPTER SEVEN

Journal #212

Even as the company was settling into their new quarters and beginning to stand duty, their undercover colleagues were filtering into the space station.

I have endeavored to keep these events as sequential as possible to avoid confusion. This effort has been hampered, however, by the sketchy nature by which the facts have been reported to me-directly or indirectly-as well as by the previously noted timelessness of life in the casinos. Much of the difficulty in chronicling the company's arrival on Lorelei is due to the fact that its undercover members were traveling as individuals by a wide variety of transports independent of the "official" group, and were establishing their presence both before and after the company's formal, publicized entrance.

Often, my only clue as to "what happened when" is by chance passing reference to an event known to me, or which, by simple logic, would have had to take place prior to an event which I was aware of.

Such was the case regarding Chocolate Harry's arrival ...

Although Lorelei was known mostly for its famous Strip, which ran down the center of the station for its entire circumference, there were back streets as well. These housed the businesses necessary to keep the casinos operating, such as laundries and warehouses, as well as the hole-in-the-wall hotels where the minimum-wage employees made their homes. Also found here were the mini-hospitals and pawnshops, carefully hidden away to avoid reminding the space station's visitors of the less frivolous side of life on Lorelei. This off-Strip area, though lighted adequately by normal standards, always seemed dark in comparison to the gaudy light displays along the Strip proper, and tourists needed no warnings to give it wide berth, clinging instead to the better-traveled areas which clamored for their attention and money.

It was along one of these back streets that Harry tooled his hover cycle, enjoying anew the freedom from his normal Legion duties. Though he genuinely liked the uniforms Phule had provided for the company, it felt good to be back in his denims, threadbare but velvet soft from years of hard wear.

His arrival on Lorelei had been surprisingly easy, especially considering his current, disreputable appearance. The only difficulty he had encountered was in off-loading his beloved hover cycle. The spaceport officials were noticeably reluctant to allow it in the space station, and he had had to spend several hours filling out forms, initialing tersely phrased lists of rules and regulations, and, finally, paying several rounds of fees, duty charges, and deposits before they grudgingly cleared it for admission.

It didn't take a genius to realize that much of the ordeal was specifically designed to frustrate the applicant to a point where he would be willing to simply store the vehicle until his departure, but Harry had used every trick in the book, as well as a few new ones, to keep his hover cycle while he was in the Legion, and he wasn't about to pass using it now that he was back in civilian garb.

The reason for this "screening" was quickly apparent. All the air on Lorelei was recycled, and while the support systems were efficient enough to handle the monoxide generated by the people on the station, excessive engine use would have taxed it severely. Consequently there were few vehicles on Lorelei aside from the electric carts that shuttled gamblers back and forth along the Strip. The formula was simple: The limited air supply could support people or vehicles-and vehicles didn't lose money at the tables.

Despite his apparent nonchalance, Harry knew exactly where he was going. In fact, he had known since before he left the ship. His information had come in the form of a warning from one of the ship's porters.

"Goin' to Lorelei, huh?" the man said as they were talking one night. "Let me tell you, brother, you keep yourself out of a place there called the Starlight Lounge. Hear? Bad enough to lose your money at those places where they smile and call you `sir' while they rake in your chips. There's bad folks hang out at the Starlight. More trouble than the likes of us can afford."

Casual pressure had yielded no more details, as the man was apparently passing along hearsay rather than firsthand experience. Still, it told Harry what he needed to know.

The Starlight Lounge itself looked harmless enough as Harry parked his cycle in front and pushed through the door. If anything, it seemed to be several cuts above the average neighborhood bar. Rather than being disappointed, he was heartened by the place's appearance. It was only in the holo-movies that criminal hangouts looked like an opium den in a bad cartoon strip. In real life, those who successfully worked the nonlegal side of the street had money and preferred to do their drinking and eating in fairly upscale surroundings.

"Gimme a draft," he said, sliding onto a stool at the bar.

The bartender hesitated, running an appraising eye over Harry's clothes until the Legionnaire-in-disguise produced a thick wad of bills from his pocket, peeled one off, and tossed it casually on the bar. The bill was of sufficiently high denomination that it would have been noticeable most places in the galaxy, but this was Lorelei, where gamblers often preferred to make their wagers in cash, and the barman barely gave it a glance before going off to fetch his drink.

The drink appeared and the bill vanished in the same motion, only to be replaced a few moments later by a stack of bills and change. Harry carefully separated a bill from the stack before pocketing the rest, pushing it forward on the bar as a tip. The bait worked, and the barman materialized again to claim the perk.

"Excuse me, my man," Harry drawled before the man could retreat again. "I was wonderin' if maybe you could help me out?"

"Depends on what you need," the bartender said, his eyes wary, but he didn't leave.

Moving slowly, Harry withdrew a wristwatch from his pocket and laid it gently on the bar.

"What can you give me on this?"

Shooting a quick glance around the bar, the man picked up the watch and examined it, front and back.

"This came from off station, right?" he said.

"Does it make a difference?"

The bartender looked at him hard.

"Yeah, it does," he said, and tapped a finger on an inscription on the watch's back. "I figure you aren't Captain Anderson or his grateful crew. If you picked it up here on Lorelei, I'm holding trouble in my hand. They come down hard on pickpockets and muggers up here-bad for the tourists."

Harry held up both hands with the fingers spread like a magician accused of cheating at cards.

"The captain misplaced that beauty before our last stop," he explained, "and stopped askin' around about it two days out. By now, he and his ship should be well on their way. If there was a chance he was still lookin', I wouldn't be showin' it around like this."

The bartender studied the watch again.

"Tell you what," he said at last. "I'll give you twenty for it."

Harry rocked back on his stool like the man had taken a swing at him.

"Twenty?" he echoed. "Excuse me, but that's a pretty steep cut. I knew I wasn't gonna get a one-for-ten deal, bein' new here and all, but that's barely one for a hundred!"

"Suit yourself." The bartender shrugged, setting the watch down. "Take it back if you think you can get a better offer. Let me show you something, though."

He ducked out of sight under the bar, then emerged again and plopped a cardboard box next to Harry's beer.

"Take a look," he said.

The box was two-thirds full of wristwatches and jewelry.

The bartender smirked. "This is Lorelei, my friend. Gamblers will hawk or pawn anything to raise money for a ticket off-station-or, more often, another pass at the tables. When the box gets full, I run it over to one of the pawnshops, and I'll be lucky to get back what I paid for most of it. I just do this as a public service for our customers."

Harry didn't bother to express his disbelief at this, but he found it hard to believe the Starlight had a Boy Scout working its bar. More likely, the man shipped his booty off-station and split the take with whoever did his selling at the other end.

Instead, he picked up his beer, took a sip, then smiled.

"All of a sudden, twenty sounds real good," he said.

The man picked up the watch again and tossed it into the box, replacing it under the counter before turning to the cash register and ringing up a "no sale" as he extracted a twenty.

"Tell me," Harry said as he accepted the offering. "Any chance of finding some work around here? I got a feeling that, between the casinos and the prices up here, my roll isn't gonna last all that long without some help."

"You'll have to talk to the manager about that," the bartender said. "There's a lot of turnover up here, but he does the hiring and firing. He should be in in an hour or so, if you can hang around."

"I gots nowhere to go," Harry said, flashing his teeth. "Is my hawg okay out front there?"

For the first time the bartender showed surprise, raising his eyebrows.

"You got a hover cycle up here?" he said. "I thought I heard one right about the time you came in, but I figured it was my imagination. That or wishful thinking."

"You sound like you used to ride yourself."

"Sure did." The man grinned. "Didn't you notice the bugs in my teeth?"

Harry threw back his head and gave an appreciative guffaw, slapping his thigh with one hand. It was a very old joke, probably predating hover cycles themselves: How do you tell a happy cyclist? By the bugs in his teeth!

It was still around, though, and served almost as a recognition signal between hover-cycle enthusiasts, since no one else remembered it, much less laughed at it.

"That was a long time ago, though," the bartender said, his eyes looking into the distance as he smiled at the memory. "I rode for a while with the Hell Hawks."

"That's a good club." Harry nodded approvingly. "I rode with the Outlaws myself."

"No foolin?" the man said, recognizing the name of one of the oldest, largest hover cycle clubs in the galaxy. "By the way, my name's William. Used to be `Wild Bill' when I was riding."

"Just call me C.H.," Harry supplied.

The two men shook hands solemnly, though the Legionnaire-in-disguise was mentally groaning at his slip. He was supposed to be working under a different name for this caper, but in the enthusiasm of talking hover cycles, his Legion name, which happened to also be his old club name, just popped out before he thought. He would have to pass the word to Mother that he wasn't using his planned alias and hope that the word of his whereabouts didn't reach the Renegades.

"Tell you what," the bartender said, leaning close. "When the manager comes in, let me talk to him first ... maybe put in a good word for you."

"Hey. I appreciate that."

"And let me get you another brew while you're waiting ... on me."

As the bartender headed off, Harry turned on his stool and rested his elbows on the bar, surveying his new home.

There was a small dining area attached to the bar, not more than a dozen tables, though those tables were widely spaced, leading Harry to believe it was more of a gathering point than a profit generator. Only a few of the tables were occupied, and those customers, by their dress and manner, seemed to be locals rather than tourists.

One group in particular drew his attention. The only man at the table had the broad-shouldered no-neck look of an astroball player, and he was listening intently to a woman old enough to be his mother-if not his grandmother. What really caught his eye, however, was the third member of the party. Sitting beside the old lady was a tall lean black woman whose severe, angular features failed to hide the fact that she was bored with or disinterested in the discussion of the other two.

As if she felt his eyes, she glanced over to where Harry was sitting and their eyes met. He raised his beer in a silent toast to her, showing all his teeth in a friendly smile. Rather than responding, however, she let her eyes go out of focus, her face impassive, looking right through him as if he wasn't there. A near-physical chill swept over Harry like a wind off a glacier, and he turned back to the bar where the bartender was just delivering his fresh beer.

"Say, Willie," he said. "What's the story on the group against the far wall? They look like regulars."

"I don't know who you're talking about," the bartender replied without looking.

"The monster and the two women," Harry clarified. "The ones sitting right over ...

He started to point, but William snaked out a hand and caught his wrist.

"I said `I don't see anything,'" his new friend intoned, staring hard into Harry's eyes as he emphasized each word. "And if you're going to work here, you don't, either. And you sure don't point at them. You catch what I'm sayin'?"

"Got it." Harry nodded slowly. "They aren't here tonight. Never have been, never will be. Casual conversation or under oath."

"Good," William said, releasing his wrist. "I thought you'd understand. Sorry to grab you like that, but you almost bought into some big trouble before I could give you a full briefing."

Harry picked up his beer and propped his elbows on the bar.

"No problem," he said easily. "I appreciate your watching my back for me. Speakin' of briefings, though, just between the two of us, my vision is a lot more selective when I know just what it is I'm not seein'."

William moved a few steps away and leaned casually against the bar.

"Well," he said, talking prison-style, without looking directly at Harry, "what you aren't seeing is the Main Man on this whole station."

The Legionnaire-in-disguise frowned slightly.

"That's funny. I always thought that kinda dude usually kept a low profile, but I could swear I've seen him somewhere before. Has the media been shootin' him or somethin'?"

The bartender let out a snort. "If you're an astroball fan, you've seen him, all right. Remember Ward Stilman?"

"Sure do!" Harry said, sneaking another look at the group in question, but using the bar mirror this time. "So that's him, huh? Damn! I used to love to watch him bust up people before he got tossed out of the pros."

"That's him," William confirmed. "But he's not the one I was talking about. The old biddy's the real mover and shaker on Lorelei. Stilman's just her chief muscle."

Harry's eyes flickered over to the older woman he had been ignoring so far.

"Her? She's `the Man' up here?"

"Be-lieve or be dead," the bartender said, flashing a tight smile. "You may have heard that someone called Max is running things. Well, that's short for 'Maxine,' and that's her. She's got a piece of every casino on this station and is real good at keeping the tourists in and the competition out. I'll tell you, C.H., if you start thinking about picking up some extra change with a bit of part-time larceny here on Lorelei, you don't worry about the cops-you look over your shoulder for Max. She does hire free-lancers from time to time, by the way, but ain't real tolerant of independents, if you know what I mean."

"How 'bout the stone mama sitting next to her?" Harry said, shifting the conversation to the original object of his attention.

"That's the Ice Bitch." William grinned. "Some say she's the actual brains of the operation, others say she's just a walking calculator for Max. Everybody says that if you want to make a pass at her, you'd best have your frostbite insurance paid up."

"I can believe that," Harry said, shaking his head. "I damn near caught cold from across the room a minute ago when she looked at me."

The bartender's smile evaporated.

"Steer clear of that one, C.H.," he said earnestly. "In fact, you're wisest not to mess with any of them. I'll tell you, when those three get together-like they aren't right now-it means someone is about to get put through the grinder. Whatever it takes, just be sure it's never you."

It has been accurately observed in military history that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. Such was the case in the opposition's first attempt to 'feel out" my employer's troops.

Accounts of the incident vary, which is not surprising, as it was a brief skirmish that was over almost before it began ...

Huey Martin, manager of the casino portion of the Fat Chance complex, did not bother trying to hide his disdain as he surveyed the Legionnaires wandering through what used to be his unchallenged domain. His feelings went unnoticed, however, as they were next to impossible to distinguish from his normal, dour expression.

At first he had been more fearful than resentful when his wet-behind-the-ears employer informed him that he was bringing in a Space Legion company to serve as security guards. What had looked like a pushover job was suddenly jeopardized by an unknown factor.

Watching the Legionnaires since their arrival, however, the concern he felt gave way to amusement and, eventually, contempt. Far from being experienced casino guards, they seemed to be no more knowledgeable about the table games than the average tourist. One by one, Huey let his planted dealers shift back to their normal grifting routines, and so far not a one of them had been detected by these uniformed clowns, even when they were seated at the table with the hustle going on literally under their noses. Instead, they cheered and clapped like children as they raked in their winnings, apparently oblivious to the fact that their winning streak was being boosted by dealers who were working to empty the casino's coffers.

A faint smile drifted across the manager's face.

It would be deliciously ironic to use the Legionnaires to break the casino, but the Max had her own timetable for that, and Huey would never have the nerve to try to deviate from her express orders. Besides, it was easier to pass big winnings to big bettors, and the Legionnaires all seemed content to cling to minimum bets at the low-stakes tables-at least, so far.

A small flurry of noisy activity drew his attention, and his smile tightened again.

Some of the Legionnaires, among them the two sluglike Sinthians, were posing for pictures, pointing their guns at a slot machine as the cameras gobbled up film recording the scene: guards holding up a one-armed bandit. The tourists loved it.

With only a small portion of the casino open, the Legionnaires had far less to do than they would after the grand opening. In the meantime, they had lots of time on their hands to explore the space station or, as they were more inclined to do, hang around the Fat Chance and pose for the tourists who came nosing around looking to meet this highly publicized force.

As, far as Huey was concerned, that was all they were good for, and even there he firmly believed the job could be done better by models in hula skirts. Models would be more fun to look at, and cheaper.

A familiar figure entering the casino caught his eye, and Huey realized it was time for him to slip out of the complex for a walk. It would be best if he wasn't on the premises for what he had been warned was about to transpire.

Contrary to popular belief, planned violence is usually much more effective than the spontaneous, berserker variety. The main difficulty, of course, was finding personnel capable of the former. Ward Stilman, Maxine's field general when it came to physical action, had thought long and hard before selecting just who he wanted to carry out this mission. Lobo was far and away the best choice.

Though not particularly imposing physically, Lobo's work as a baggage handler at the spaceport had given his long, simian arms deceptive strength. Even more important for this assignment, however, was his eerie ability to soak up punishment without apparently feeling it or losing his head. In fact, he was something of a minor legend on Lorelei after he successfully took on three soldiers on leave in a fight. The brawl had lasted nearly fifteen minutes-long for a no-holds-barred dispute-but at the end of it Lobo had emerged victorious, though more than a little battered, while his opponents had to be carried to the Lorelei hospital.

The job as given to him by Stilman was simple enough, though slightly puzzling. He was supposed to try to goad one of the Legionnaire guards into a fight, both to test their effectiveness as fighters and to see how much provocation was necessary for them to take action. Above all, Lobo had been cautioned numerous times not to strike the first blow-not to fight back at all, for that matter. Supposedly this was to minimize the chance that the Legionnaires would simply resort to using the tranquilizer dart sidearms they were carrying, and instead be forced to try to subdue him physically.

Though he hadn't said anything at the time, Lobo wasn't wild about being assigned to play punching bag for some uniformed jerk. Not that he minded the possibility of pain or injury; it was the idea of not fighting back that bothered him. Still, it wasn't often that Stilman came to him with work, and he was eager to prove himself.

Lobo was impressed by Ward Stilman as he had rarely been impressed with anyone in his life, and wanted to move up in that notable's esteem. If the man wanted him to take a dive, he'd do it, but he wanted to be sure it was as spectacular as possible.

He pondered this as he ensconced himself at a table in the cocktail lounge that opened into the casino, the only lounge still open during the remodeling. This, too, was covered by his instructions: to establish his presence before starting trouble, so it wouldn't look like he walked in with that end specifically in mind.

Lobo had followed Stilman's career in astroball, as had most who loved that rough-and-tumble sport, until the league tossed him out for consistently exceeding the level of viciousness allowed by the rules, though the clamor from the media, not to mention several threatened lawsuits by hopitalized individuals who were unfortunate enough to have faced him on the field, doubtless played a factor in their decision. In person, however, Ward Stilman was even more intimidating than when viewed in the holos. The man had a disquieting habit, on the field or off, of standing absolutely motionless-not stiff or tense, but poised, as if he were waiting for just the right cue to spring for your throat. The media, of course, had picked up on this trait, calling him "the Statue" or, playing on his name "the Still Man," but watching him in a stadium or even in holo was not the same as trying to remain relaxed when he was looking specifically at you. Whenever they talked, Lobo found himself moving very slow and deliberately, hoping subconsciously that by making his own actions clear he would not trigger an attack accidentally. Not being used to feeling fear, Lobo at once admired and resented the effect Stilman had on him, and aspired toward the day that Stilman would view him as an equal. The trouble was, how could he demonstrate his own courage and effectiveness while keeping his hands in his pockets, soaking up damage from some Army amateur?

The answer came to Lobo in the form of two Legionnaires who ambled into the bar while he was waiting for his drink. In an instant, Lobo knew he had his target.

The woman was nothing much-short, with the soft curves of lingering baby fat. But her companion! Lobo mentally licked his lips in anticipation.

Even Stilman would have to be impressed that Lobo had chosen the monster to pick a fight with, especially a fight he was destined to lose. What was more, "monster" was an accurate description of the Legionnaire he was targeting. The guy was some kind of alien, huge with a big warthog head and all-black animal eyes. At a glance it was easy to see that he would have to be one of the "heavyweights" for the security force.

"That will be five dollars, sir," the cocktail waitress said, interrupting Lobo's thoughts as she delivered his drink.

The opportunity was too good to let pass.

"What do you mean, five dollars?" he snarled, raising his voice. "I thought drinks were free in these casinos."

Though she was small, easily as small as the uniformed Legionnaire accompanying the monster, the cocktail waitress held her ground, apparently used to dealing with loud drunks.

"That's at the tables, sir," she explained patiently. "Drinks are complimentary while you're playing, but here in the bar we have to charge you. If you'd like, I can take it back."

"Oh, hell ... here!" Lobo spat, fishing a bill from his pocket and throwing it at her. "Just don't expect a tip, too."

The waitress smoothed the bill, quickly checking its denomination, then retreated without another word.

Glancing around the bar in mock anger, Lobo caught the Legionnaires watching him, as he had expected.

"What are you looking at, freak?" he challenged, ignoring the woman to deal directly with the monster.

The massive Legionnaire shrugged and turned back to his companion.

"Hey! Don't look away when I'm talkin' to you, freak!"

Lobo pressed, rising from his seat and approaching the other table. "What are you doin' in here, anyway? Doesn't this place have a leash law for pets?"

The woman opened her mouth to respond, but the monster laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"Sorry ... not mean to stare," the monster said haltingly. "My eyes not like yours. Sometimes look like I stare."

"Hey! He even talks funny!" Lobo said, turning to make his appeal to the bar's other customers only to find the few occupied tables had been deserted, their occupants seeking quieter surroundings for their drinking.

"Tell you what, babe," he said, focusing on the smaller Legionnaire. "Why don't you send this freak back to his kennel and let me buy your next round?"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you," the woman shot back coldly.

"With him?" Lobo laughed. "You military chicks can't be that hard up! What you need is a real man."

"Not talk like that," the monster rumbled. "Dangerous."

"Oh yeah?" his tormentor sneered. "You want to try to do somethin' about it ... freak?"

Of course, what the Voltron was referring to was something that Lobo was missing completely, focused as he was on his target. The small waitress who had served him his drink was now marching toward him from behind, still holding her now-empty metal drink tray.

"Come on, freak!" Lobo taunted. "Let's see what you've got."

With that, he leaned forward and slapped the monster playfully on the side of its snout just as the waitress stepped in close behind him, raising her tray.