A Phule and His Money (22 page)

"Oh, you won't need weapons," said Phule. "I'd hardly waste my money on that. What I'm going to do is show you how to win without firing a shot. Here's what you're going to need..."

As Phule outlined his plan, the rebel leader began to nod his head. Le Duc Taep and Buster-evidently a very senior officer in the guerilla band-interrupted from time to time with questions. Soon Phule had laid out a sheet of paper on the folding table and started making sketches. The afternoon wore on...

"Yo, Remmie, you gotta let us in on this rescue operation," said Do-Wop.

Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up from her drawing pad at Do-Wop and Sushi. Even now, with command of the entire company thrust upon her, she made herself take a few minutes to keep her eyes sharp. It gave her a way to sidestep the worry about what kind of trouble the captain had gotten into, this time. "No," she said.

"Whattaya mean?" said Do-Wop. "We got a right to volunteer, don't we?"

"Sure, you've got a right to volunteer," said Rembrandt, putting aside the drawing pad. "But I've got to choose a team I think will do the job without getting anybody killed-and I mean the captain, in particular. You two don't fit the mission specs, this time."

"Why not?" said Do-Wop. "We're as slick as you've got-even the captain knows that. Besides, we owe him-nobody else ever cut us half the breaks the captain has."

"Well, I'm glad you appreciate that," said Rembrandt. "I know you two are slick-God, are you ever stick-but you're not jungle scouts, and that's what we need this time."

Do-Wop snickered. "I ain't worried about the jungle. You drop me down anywhere on this planet, I'll be the baddest thing for a hundred kilometers."

Rembrandt shook her head. "The answer is no. There'll be plenty of other missions..."

"Not if these guys don't rescue the captain," said Sushi. "What are they going to do, anyway? Rush in and start shooting? Or maybe something smart, like trying to persuade the rebels to let him go? That's about the only way I can think of to make sure the captain doesn't get hurt. You'll admit we're the only ones who could do that. We can sell sneakers to snakes, if you give us the chance."

"What's a snake?-oh, never mind, I get the idea," said Lieutenant Rembrandt. She stood up and planted a finger in the center of Sushi's chest. "Maybe you can, but that's not the point. This team's going out in the jungle. They'd spend so much time bailing you two out of trouble they'd never get around to rescuing the captain."

Sushi didn't budge. "They're still going to need somebody like us at the other end," he said. "What about this-the jungle scouts find the captain, then you send us in to negotiate? Once we know our goal, you can send us by hovercar, if you want. That way you don't have to worry about all the jungle thingies getting us."

"I ain't scared of no jungle thingies," Do-Wop reiterated.

"I'm sure you're not, which is another good reason you're not going to be a jungle scout," said Rembrandt. Do-Wop opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand and continued, "Sushi's idea has some merit, I have to admit. But I'm not going to give a thumbs-up until I know where the captain's being held. Until then I don't even know whether he needs rescuing, let alone what the best plan will be. Maybe it's sending you in to bamboozle the rebels or going in with force or something else we haven't thought of yet. The one thing I do know is that you're not going out in the jungle. Get used to it."

"Well, Lieutenant, I think you're being too cautious," said Sushi. "But if you promise you'll keep my plan in mind, we'll let you get back to work. And thanks for listening."

"I won't forget your plan," said Rembrandt. "No other promises, though. Now, aren't you two supposed to be on duty someplace?"

"Uh, like Soosh said, we'll let you get back to work," said Do-Wop, and the two legionnaires, beat a hasty retreat. Rembrandt sighed and reached for her sketchpad again. Sushi had given her a potentially useful idea. She'd have to think about a way to make it work...

"Lieutenant, got to talk," came a familiar voice. "Rebels holding captain prisoner. Got to be on team rescuing him."

Rembrandt sighed. "Tusk-anini, I don't remember anything in your file about you coming from a jungle world," she said. She began to suspect that she was going to have a lot of discussions like the one just concluded in the time before the jungle team set out.

Eventually, Armstrong and Rembrandt cobbled together a two-stage mission for rescuing Phule. First Qual and the Gambolts would use their skills to find the rebel camp at which Phule was presumably being held prisoner, and report its location to base. If Quals report convinced the officers that Phule actually needed rescuing, a fighting force of volunteers would go in to do the job.

After dark, a hoverjeep swooped low over the waves and put Qual's team ashore on the mainland in the area in which the rebel camp was rumored to be located. The Zenobian and the three Gambolts melted into invisibility almost before they had reached the dark line of brush a few dozen yards above the high-tide mark on the sand. As soon as they were out of sight, the hoverjeep turned back to the island, and the Legion base.

Qual watched from the shadows, then turned to the Gambolts. "Now we travel softly," he said to them, and they nodded; Qual's dark-adapted vision registered the nods, as theirs registered his silent "follow me" gesture. They followed.

They were travelling light, planning to live off the land rather than slow themselves with unnecessary food and equipment. All were from hunting races, and experiment had proven that they could eat the native wildlife as well as the earthling species introduced by the original settlers. The Gambolts, in fact, were especially fond of nutria. When Escrima first offered that dish on the Legion menu, Duke had sampled it and said approvingly, "It tastes much like rodent-but of unusual size." The others had nodded. Brandy, who overheard the compliment, had very carefully made sure it did not get back to Escrima-at least, not accurately translated.

At first the team followed a broad stream that took them west and north into the interior. Qual set a rapid pace, and the Gambolts followed him easily. Toward midnight, they came to a natural-looking log bridge across the stream, with a narrow game trail leading off in either direction. They examined both banks for traces of human passage.

"The odor of humans is stronger to the left," murmured Garbo. "There must be a settlement in that direction." She lashed her tail in involuntary excitement.

Qual pulled out a map and examined it. "The humans' chart does not illustrate a town in this vicinity," he said after a moment. "However, there are shown a few trappers' camps, and a trading post that seems more continuous."

"I smell too many humans for a camp or trading post," said Garbo. "But perhaps they hunt in large packs, like the goulfes of our world."

Dukes and Rube nodded their agreement. "There are males and females both," Rube added, wriggling his nose.

"Do their trappers hunt in mixed-sex groupings?" asked Qual. "Our people hunt alone, so I cannot judge humans by our customs."

"Their military mixes the sexes, as ours does. Perhaps they hunt together as well," said Garbo. "If we moved closer, perhaps we could distinguish the captain's scent."

"Gazma's tail! I find it quaint that such a meagerly toothed species hunts at all," said Qual, with a grin that brought a feline gurgle of amusement from the Gambolts. "We shall do as Garbo suggests and explore the trail to the left."

They set off into the darkness again. Along toward dawn, they surprised a small, leaping creature; Rube captured it before it took two bounds, and they breakfasted quickly before moving along. Ahead, the scent of humans grew stronger.

Lieutenant Rembrandt was toweling off from her morning shower when her communicator alarm went off. She dropped the towel and picked up the communicator. "Rembrandt here," she said. "What's cooking, Mother?"

"Hot stuff, Remmy," came the saucy voice. "Our little lizard wizard and the three pussycats have found the rebel camp, and the captain's there."

"Is the captain free or a prisoner?" asked Rembrandt.

Mother paused before saying "Well, honey, that's the tricky part. You know how Qual talks kind of strange..."

"Great Gazma, do I ever!" said Rembrandt, laughing. Then her voice turned sharper. "What are you telling me, Mother?"

"Well, they found the captain. But they only saw him for a moment before they set off some kind of alarm. A patrol came out looking for them and they had to skedaddle. So they didn't see enough to figure out whether he's free. Qual said one of the rebels was always there with a gun, but that doesn't prove Cap's a prisoner, does it?"

"Not necessarily, no," said Rembrandt. "Damn-now I realize it was a mistake not to have sent at least one human in the scout party. Then we'd have a better idea whether the captain was under duress. Now I've got to read a Zenobian's mind to decide whether to send the rescue party or stay clear."

Mother's voice cut through her spoken-aloud thoughts. "Any orders, Remmie? I've got other calls coming in."

Rembrandt answered without hesitation, "If one of them's Qual, patch him straight through to me. If not, keep trying to raise him. And put the rescue team on alert. I want them ready to go on a moment's notice. I'll be over to Comm Central as soon as I get my uniform on."

"Ooooh, should I send somebody over with a camera?"

Rembrandt chuckled. "Not if you want the camera back in one piece," she said. "Remember, hook me up right away if you get Qual. Rembrandt out." She grabbed the towel again and finished dressing in a hurry.

"Sir, I am concerned that you have not communicated with Headquarters," said Beeker, coming into the tent assigned to him and his employer. "If I were your lieutenants, I would be concerned about your safety."

"This is one of those operations where secrecy is the most important concern, Beeker," said Phule. He saved the work he had in progress on his Port-a-Brain computer, then leaned back in his seat to look his butler in the eye. "If the government learns we're out here, they're likely to see what we're doing as aiding and abetting the rebels."

"Isn't that precisely what you are doing, sir?"

"Only in the narrowest sense, Beeker," Phule said. "I can make an excellent case that what we're doing will benefit the entire planet. But that case will look a whole lot stronger if we've made reasonable progress toward getting the project under way when somebody starts asking questions."

Beeker's face took on a faintly disapproving expression. "I expect the government to judge that case by its own lights, sir. If they can represent your actions as taking the rebels' side, they're likely to petition for your company's removal from the planet. You'll have invested a great deal of time and effort only to get a black eye. More to the point, I'm afraid that something like that would give General Blitzkrieg exactly the pretext he's been looking for to cashier you from the Legion."

"Blitzkrieg and his ilk have made the Legion the laughingstock of the Federation," said Phule. "Luckily, there are some good officers at the top of the Legion. Some of them must have noticed that I'm getting them favorable press coverage, which is a novelty for the Legion. I hope they'll listen to my case before they do anything they'd regret, Beeker. They've got too much invested here for them to toss me overboard at the first sign of a little rough weather."

"In fact, they strike me as likely to do exactly that if you push them too far," said Beeker. "I must caution you not to overestimate your value to the Legion, sir-the generals do not necessarily share your view of what is best for them."

Phule leaned farther back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind the nape of his neck. "Good old Beeker, always the mother hen. Don't worry, old fellow, I know what I'm doing this time. We'll come out with flying colors."

"Perhaps, sir," said Beeker, stiffly. "Still, I feel it my responsibility to call your attention to another scenario you may not have taken into account."

"What's that?"

"Suppose that when the government learns of your involvement here, they decide not to protest to the Federation, but to launch a preemptive strike against this base? If they have managed to conceal any significant military resources, they could destroy this camp in an afternoon. You would be a regrettable collateral victim-or they might claim that the rebels killed you when they came under attack. Naturally, there'd be no one to contradict their account. The Legion could award you a posthumous medal, if it were so minded."

"Well, that confirms my belief that we need to keep this operation secret," said Phule. "Don't worry, old fellow, we'll get out of this one all right. If you want, I can have the rebels smuggle you back to Headquarters so you can get out of danger."

"Sir, I resent the implication that I am motivated primarily by a fear of danger."

Phule's eyebrows went up a notch. "You mean you're not? I'm surprised, Beeker. I thought you considered self-preservation a cardinal virtue."

"And so I do, sir," said the butler. "But protection of my assets is also a considerable factor in my course of action at any given time. In fact, I have not necessarily rejected your offer of an escort back to civilization. But it strikes me that what you are planning here, should it succeed, would be an excellent investment opportunity for me, as well. Thus, I would like to have a degree of input into its planning that my absence would render impractical."

Now Phule broke into a broad grin. "Aha. I knew you had some sort of agenda. In that case, why don't you help me look over these plans, and let's see if we can get this project under way before the government decides to try stopping us?" He pointed to the Port-a-Brain computer, and Beeker leaned forward to examine the screen. Within a few minutes, the two were exploring the best ways to advance the project. Nothing more was said of Beeker leaving.

Journal #412

In the end, Lieutenant Rembrandt decided she would have fewer regrets sending the rescue team than waiting to hear from Phule. Flight Leftenant Qual had remained out of communication, and lacking any report from him, it was reasonable for her to assume the worst.