A Phule and His Money (5 page)

"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."

Journal #294

"The very rich, " someone once said, "are not like you and me. " Someone wiser than he knew replied to this, "Yes, they have more money. " My employer was very rich, and in that fact lies much of the secret of his success.

Where other commanding officers might have had many of the ideas that allowed Captain Phule to turn his Legionnaire company into an elite unit-housing them in first-class accommodations, giving them training facilities of the newest and finest quality, serving them meals of which a four-star restaurant would not be ashamed-only a very rich man would have had the ability to put those ideas into action without concerning himself with the military bean counters' objections. A man who can wave a Dilithium Express card and say "Put it on my account" can accomplish many extraordinary things.

So when a junior hotel clerk, making a routine charge against the card, was told that there was a problem with the credit, it threatened to bring down the entire structure my employer had so carefully erected. Worse yet, it suggested that someone very powerful indeed had entered the field against him...

"To sabotage a Dilithium Express account is no small feat," said Nakadate. He and Sushi sat in a vacant cubicle in the Fat Chance Hotel's business annex, an amenity provided by the hotel but rarely used by the vacationing gamblers.

"You've seen merely the tip of the blade," said Sushi. He put down the vidphone set he had used to hack Phule's account. "Freezing the account is only the start. If I want to, I can transfer funds out, then leave the account so nobody can even tell it's been hacked, let alone how or by whom. Is this not a talent our families could make use of?"

"I have seen these things done before, but never so quickly. And never without much more elaborate hardware." The Yakuza man's face bore an expression of grudging respect. The two men spoke in low voices-though it was unlikely that anyone overhearing would understand Japanese.

"The kind of hardware you're talking about is bulky, and it is a red flag if the wrong people know you have it," said Sushi, leaning back in his chair. "Everyone's eyes are on the man with a sword, while the unarmed man draws no notice. The fools forget that bare hands are deadly, too."

"Spoken like a ninja," said Nakadate. Then his brows creased. "But why have you put yourself in my hands? Knowing that you can do this, and that you are willing to betray your own captain, why should I not kill you before you turn this skill against me and my family?"

"A wise man does not break his sword because a fool has cut himself with his own blade," said Sushi calmly. "I will assume that you-and whoever may have sent you-are wise enough to see my value. If you do not, I am in no more danger than before, when you were ready to treat me as an impostor."

"I was surprised that you knew the passwords," admitted Nakadate. "No impostor could have known the signal you gave. On the other hand, we have not been able to verify your claim to be one of us. I am still not certain what to do with you."

Sushi spread his hands and gave a shrug. "Is it necessary to do anything at all with me? And even if it is, why are you the one who must decide?"

"I am sent by the family on Burning Tree, which has jurisdiction over this sector. For my misdeeds, they have given me the burden of solving the enigma your existence poses. It is tempting to take the easy road-but as you note, you may be an asset not easily replaced."

"And what if I can lift this burden from your back?" said Sushi. A hint of a smile played around the corners of his eyes, but it did not extend so far as his mouth.

If Nakadate noticed it, he gave no sign. "My back is strong," he said. "Therein lies much of my usefulness to the families."

"It is good to inure yourself to difficult work," observed Sushi. "It is not so good to make your work more difficult than it needs to be."

"That is often true," said Nakadate. "But to put it directly, I see no way to solve this problem without causing other, perhaps worse, problems. Perhaps it is best for me to watch and wait for a while."

"Perhaps," agreed Sushi. "But what I have in mind would make even that unnecessary."

"Perhaps," said the Yakuza man. "I will tell you, though, I am nicknamed `The Mule'. My brothers chose that name with excellent reason."

"You are justly proud of it," said Sushi, not smiling at all. "But let me tell you what I propose, and then you will be in a position to make up your own mind. First, I think you need to know that..."

Sushi talked for quite some time, and by the time he was done, Nakadate, who had begun listening with a very skeptical expression, was wide-eyed.

"Excuse me, son, do you have a minute to talk?"

The young Legionnaire looked up to see a man in a black jumpsuit and dark sunglasses his hair combed back in a thick pompadour with long sideburns. Spotting the Legion insignia at the collar, he relaxed. "Sure, I guess so," he said. "I go on casino duty in half an hour, but until then I'm free. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I reckon the shoe's on the other foot, young fella," said the newcomer. "I'm assigned to this here outfit, and I need to find out just where and how I can be of most use. The name's Rev." He extended a hand and the young Legionnaire shook it. "What's your handle, son?"

"You can call me Gears," said the young Legionnaire. "Mechanic's mate first class is my rating, and I'm pretty good at it, if I have to say so myself."

"Good, good, a fella should take pride in his work," said Rev, rubbing his hands together. "I take a lot of pride in my work, too. That's why I was so pleased to be assigned to this company-your captain's gettin' quite a reputation for findin' fresh answers to old problems, and I'm the same sort of guy."

"That's good to hear," said Gears. His eyes fell on the other insignia on Rev's collar, indicating the wearer's specialty-astylized musical instrument of antique design. He seemed to remember it was called an "eclectic gutter," or something of the sort. "What's your line, Rev? I don't recall what that particular insignia means. You aren't a musician, are you?"

Rev responded with a low chuckle. "In a sense I am, son-I play sweet music for the soul. But that's just the insignia for my particular denomination. I'm your new chaplain. Now, you know that means I serve the whole company-Christian, Jew, Greater Holistic, Pagan, Muslim, Anti-Norfian-all can come to me for advice or consolation. Back home, my denomination is Church of the New Revelation, which some call Church of the King."

"I guess that makes sense," said Gears politely. "Now, what was it you said you wanted to talk about?"

"Why, I need to know what your troubles are," said Rev. He squatted down next to Gears, bringing his face level with his listener's. "Your troubles in particular, and the troubles other folks are having. 'Cause that's my mission here-to help you all with your troubles."

Gears smiled wearily. "Well, I guess I know what my biggest trouble is, but I doubt there's much you can do to help with it."

"You'd be surprised, son," said Rev. "The King saw more trouble than you and I will ever know, and yet he rose above it and raised his voice for the world to hear-until he had to Leave the Building. Tell me what bothers you, and if there's a way to fix it, we can find that way-you, me, and especially Him."

"Well, I guess you could say I'm unlucky, Rev. That about sums it up."

"Well, we're all a bit unlucky sometimes, aren't we? But anybody's luck can change. We can all make a comeback and be bigger than ever, the way the King himself did."

"Well, I'd sure like that," said Gears. "But I'm afraid it'll take a big comeback to get me out of the hole I'm in."

Gears paused and looked Rev up and down; evidently satisfied with what he saw, he continued, "When we came to Lorelei, all the guys were excited-not just me. We'd been stuck on a backwater world where there wasn't any real action, and now we figured we could build up a bit of a nest egg for after the service, y'know? And when the captain brought in all those professional gamblers to show us their tricks, we figured we couldn't be beat. So naturally, when we're off duty, a lot of us wander over to one of the casinos and give it a whirl-at blackjack, or craps, or poker, or magic-any game that gives a guy a chance. We know enough to lay off the slots, or superstring roulette."

Rev nodded solemnly. "I know what you mean, son. The King Himself spent many years in the casinos, and was faced with great temptation every day."

The young legionnaire nodded, not really listening. "Anyhow, it isn't as easy as it looks. It all seems pretty clear when you've got a pro there, showing you how to spot tricks and how to figure odds, but when the chips start piling up on the table, it's not easy to think straight. We've been here seven Standard months, and I've probably lost four months' pay. Some guys are willing to front a few bucks, so I'm not hurting too bad. Besides, the Legion covers food and housing and all the stuff you need to get along. But I sure could use a change of luck to get my head back above water."

"Well, that's something to think about," said Rev, standing up straight again. "I reckon the King would understand that kind of thing from his days as a common soldier, like any other boy called to service. I can see there's plenty of good work I can do here, and now I've got an idea where it might start. Thank you, son-we'll be talking again."

"Thanks, uh-Rev," said the Legionnaire. "If your King can do anything to change somebody's luck, there'll be a lot of fellows mighty obliged to him."

"I'll take it up with Him," said Rev with a deep chuckle. "I sure will, son."

Journal #298

One of my employer's primary qualifications for a position of command was his ability to project absolute confidence when it was time for an important decision. He did not always possess this confidence in private. Waiting with me for a court-martial to decide on his punishment for ordering a strafing run on a peace conference, he had been as nervous as a new recruit who feared that an inspector would deny him leave because his bed-making skills were deficient.

But whatever indecision he felt in private-or in my company, which amounted to the same thing-he had learned not to show it to subordinates. And now, when there seemed to be half a dozen crises coming to a head at once, I thought the time was more than ripe for him to take the bit in his teeth.

Thus, I was not surprised when he took me aside and began to talk through appropriate responses to his current problems. What did surprise me was his perception of the relative priority to be assigned to each of them. Needless to say, it differed considerably from mine...

Phule looked around the room at the four others there-his brain trust, a politician might have called it. There were his three direct subordinates in the chain of command: Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, and Top Sergeant Brandy, as well as his butler and personal confidant, Beeker. Beeker was perhaps the captain's most valuable asset-not only on account of his complete detachment from military matters, but because of his ability to go anywhere and speak to anyone in absolute confidence. The troops knew he wouldn't snitch, and so they told him everything.

Phule got straight to the point. "As you all know, there's trouble brewing in several areas at once. Let me make this clear at the outset: There's nothing happening that we can't handle-in fact, taken singly, none of these problems is any great threat to the company."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "It's been a very confusing day."

"Confusing ain't the word for it," said Brandy, who'd been in the thick of the action all afternoon. "Between Sushi going AWOL, the Zenobian playing spy, and the FUBAR at the hotel desk, I've had my hands full. And now I have to break in these recruits-though the Gambolts shouldn't be much trouble."

"Those aren't the worst problems," said Armstrong. He somehow managed to maintain an exemplary posture even sitting in an easy chair. "Chocolate Harry's digging in for a siege. Unless he's gone completely off the beam, I think we're going to see some fighting."

"Oh, C.H. has a phobia about those bikers," said Rembrandt, scoffing. "A few legionnaires should be enough to brush them aside."

"Take a walk down to supply depot and you'll change that tune," retorted Armstrong. "From the way Harry's fortified the place, he's not expecting us to brush them aside, and I think he knows what he's up against."

"Well, he did ride with the Outlaws," agreed Brandy. "If somebody's put a scare into him, I won't take 'em too lightly. But this isn't a street fight, here. Those bikers are on course to do battle with the best damn Legion company I've ever seen. Unless they've brought a few hundred armed Renegades onto the station with them, I can't see how they pose any real threat."

"The threat isn't to us, but to our operation," Phule pointed out. "Good as they may be at street fighting, it'd be suicide for them to meet us in a pitched battle. But we can't carry on combat operations in the middle of an entertainment complex without serious consequences. An occasional fistfight or two is inevitable in any place that serves liquor. But I don't want to try to tell a court-martial how the casino's customers-civilians-were caught in a cross fire between my troops and an attacking biker gang."

"No argument with that," said Brandy. "So if we can't outgun 'em, what do we do? I hear they've been nursing this grudge for years-and they wanted Harry's hide bad enough to spring for space-liner tickets to one of the most expensive resorts in the galaxy when they found out he was here. If they're that mad, we aren't going to buy 'em off just by having Harry come out and say, `Sorry, guys, it won't happen again.'"

"Oh, I agree," said Phule. "But let's put this problem aside for a minute. It's one of several things we're looking at here, and I think we need to go after them in the right order. Once we've got the first couple of pieces in place, the rest of the puzzle will sort itself out."

"That's as good an approach as any," said Rembrandt, who had shown in Phule's absence her ability to make tough decisions under pressure. "Where do we start? C.H. and the Renegades? Sushi's disappearance? The Zenobian spy?"