A Phule and His Money (7 page)

"Well, that figures," said Phule. "Security tells me she's not carrying anything that gives even a hint to her origins-unless she grew up in a spaceport convenience shop. And she's playing it like a complete innocent. All we have on her is the blackjack cheating-but we can make that stick, if we need to. Why should we let her go?"

"Because she really doesn't know anything, and because some of our people could get hurt if she decides to make a break for it. I've seen her fight. She's not worth the risk. Sir."

Phule rubbed his chin. "Hmmm-maybe that makes sense, but I'll have to think about it a little longer. Let's get back to the Yakuza. What did you and Nakadate talk about when you went off alone?"

"Well, sir, I thought I could convince him I was a legitimate member of a family he didn't know. That's the way the Yakuza is organized-there's no one central authority. But he wasn't ready to buy that without corroborating evidence. He wanted to know what I was doing in the Space Legion, instead of helping out in my family's business. And so I had to convince him I was stealing from you."

"Stealing from me!" Phule bellowed, grabbing Sushi by the shirt front. "Are you the one who's been monkeying around with my credit account?"

Sushi put a finger to his lips. "Calm down, Captain," he said quietly. "What if Nakadate brought along more backup than he's told me? I had to convince him I was stealing from you, but that doesn't mean I really was. Your money's protected better than an emperor's favorite daughter-you ought to know that."

"All I know is that my Dilithium Express account was frozen this afternoon," growled Phule. "If that was your doing..."

"Of course it was my doing," said Sushi. His voice was calm, but he spoke quickly, as if to forestall objections. "Look, Captain, I'm on your side-would I be telling you about this if I wasn't? I'd transfer as much as I could to my own accounts and get on the fastest spaceliner out of here. Besides, think of the possibilities. If I can hack your account, I can hack an enemy's account, too. If the other guy's troops aren't getting paid, or his supply orders aren't getting filled, that gives you a pretty big edge over him, doesn't it?"

"So why didn't you tell me about this before you went and did it?" Phule demanded.

"Because if you knew somebody could do it, you'd probably set up safeguards against it. It's what I'd have done if it were my account. And if you'd gone and done that, I might not have been able to convince Nakadate I was crooked. Besides, it's fixed, now, Captain. Check it-if there's a millicredit missing, you can take it out of my hide."

"Maybe I ought to do that anyhow," said Phule with a calculating stare. "Why couldn't you think up some less drastic way to keep the Yakuza off your back?"

"Because I saw an opportunity I couldn't turn down, Captain," said the young legionnaire. "I'd been thinking for some time what I'd do if somebody from the Yakuza ever showed up. We aren't talking a bunch of street-corner thugs here; these people take a very long view. Nakadate saw that my ability to hack your account made me dangerous to his family, too-he was thinking about finishing me off right then and there. I had to sell him the idea that I'm too important an asset to throw away. So I made him think I'm working for a super-family-somebody above everybody's head."

Phule looked skeptical. "I thought you said there wasn't any overall Yakuza organization-only the separate families."

"That's right, Captain," said Sushi. "At least, there hasn't been before now. I invented it just today."

"And you expect him to believe that? What happens when he checks back with his family and finds out you're pulling his leg?"

"I'm about to take care of that," said Sushi. "I need to use the comm center gear to get a message to my family. They're going to plant the rumor that there is a superfamily, working to make the Yakuza more powerful and profitable than ever. As I said, these people take the long view. If they think it's to their long-term advantage, they'll play along."

Phule stared at Sushi for a moment, thinking. "Maybe they will. But when they learn your super-family is phony as a Vegan kilobuck, what then? They'll be after you again, and this time you won't be able to talk your way out of it."

Sushi grinned broadly. "Ah, but it won't turn out to be phony, Captain. You see, that's the beautiful part of this scam. We're going to take over the Yakuza! Now, let's go down to Comm Central and get the ball rolling."

He started off down the corridor. For once completely speechless, Phule followed him.

A hell of a place to hold a formation, thought Brandy, looking at the Grand Ballroom of the Fat Chance Casino Hotel. In front of her, over a dozen rookie Space Legionnaires stood at attention on the dance floor-three of them Gambolts. They had been aroused by automated early-morning wake-up calls from the hotel's central computer, for this, their first training session with Omega Company. A variety of exercise equipment had been brought in from the hotel's fitness center (an amenity that the visiting gamblers largely ignored). This session had been designed to incorporate physical training as much as basic indoctrination in military discipline.

Brandy stared at them with frank curiosity; it was unusual for the company to get recruits who hadn't already come through boot camp, learning the ropes of how to be a legionnaire-and, for the most part, convincing their drill instructors that they didn't have what it took. Or that they had an attitude that would make them a problem wherever they went. That was the raw material that had gone to make up the Omega Mob, and it had made the company the butt of every Legion joke-until Phule came, and showed that even the ugliest ducklings could grow up into something unexpected.

Could this crop of new recruits represent a change of course for Omega? Had the company's success under its new commander convinced the brass to start sending a better quality of raw material? Or had these newcomers somehow been diagnosed as likely misfits and malcontents even before they'd put on uniforms? Well, it didn't really matter. Whatever this crop of rookies had been before they got here, it was Brandy's job to make them into legionnaires. Might as well get started, she thought. If it's going to be bad news, waiting to fund it out won't make it any better.

"All right, rookies, listen up," she said, stepping forward and raising her voice to a penetrating bark. "You aren't going to like a lot of what's going to happen here, but I don't care whether you like it or not. It's my job to make you into Space Legionnaires, and I'll do it if I have to kill half of you. Do you understand that?"

The troops responded with a general murmur of acquiescence, certainly nothing approaching enthusiasm.

"What did you say?" Brandy demanded, at the top of her lungs. This was an old drill-instructor's game. Usually somebody would get flustered enough to say something she could take as an excuse for a first-class chewing out. Even an innocent reply would do-the point was to show the recruits that they were in a new environment, where rank and discipline and the rules were what mattered. Even if the recruits thought the rules were stupid (which they often were, given the quality of the Space Legion's top brass in recent decades), they were going to have to learn to pay them lip service. Eventually they'd figure out where the loopholes were so they could get through their hitches without being miserable the entire time. When push came to shove, a clever, resourceful legionnaire who could break the rules without getting caught was better to have in your outfit than a mindless rule-follower. But to get that kind of legionnaire, you had to start off by enforcing the rules with an iron hand.

"Well, Sergeant, we all said different things," said one man in the front row-a young, round-faced human, slightly below average height, with a bit of a potbelly. The recruit had an earnest expression, and the kind of patient smile a schooldroid might be programmed to use while teaching a slow class.

Well, it wasn't an ideal point of departure for a tirade, but it'd have to do. "You, there, what's your name?" Brandy snapped.

"Mahatma, Sergeant," said the recruit, still smiling. Brandy was disappointed that he didn't make the common rookie mistake of forgetting to call her "Sergeant," or the worse mistake of calling her "sir." But she'd have to make do with what she got. That was one of Phule's principles, too.

"And what the hell do you think is so funny, Mahatma?" said Brandy, stepping forward to confront the recruit face-to-face.

"Funny isn't quite the right word, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling dreamily. "Everything here is so...transitory."

"Transitory?" Brandy hadn't heard that one before, and for a moment it caught her off her guard.

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma. "We see things in such a short perspective, don't you agree? What's here today will be gone tomorrow, and we along with it. So why get disturbed at any of it? All will pass."

"Is that what you think?" snarled Brandy, moving to within inches of Mahatma's face. This usually had the effect of making even a tough case nervous, but Mahatma didn't even flinch. "You might have on a Legion uniform, but you look like a civilian and you talk like one. Maybe you should get down on the floor and do some push-ups for me-say about a hundred, for starters. That ought to give you the long perspective. And we'll see whether that smile's still there when you finish. Do it now!"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, still smiling as he got down on his hands and knees. "Do you want a hundred exactly, or will an approximation suffice?"

"I said a hundred and I meant it," said Brandy. "I want to see that back straight, rookie. And if you stick your fat civilian butt up in the air, I promise you I'll kick it. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Mahatma, looking up at her. "Thank you for giving me the chance to make myself stronger."

"Get going!" shouted Brandy, who was starting to feel as annoyed as she was pretending to be. Mahatma started doing push-ups. Very slowly and calmly, without looking up and without bending his waist. There was a patter of laughter from the ranks. Brandy glared at them. "So, you think it's funny, hey? OK, all of you-a hundred push-ups! Now!"

The recruits scrambled onto their hands and started doing push-ups. Most of them were nowhere near as calm as Mahatma. That was good-they would make better targets than the unflappable Mahatma. The morning was finally promising to go as she'd planned it. "Keep those backs straight!" she yelled, at nobody in particular, and began looking for someone to make an example of.

"Excuse me, Sergeant, what shall we do now?"

Brandy recognized the translator's intonations even as she turned to see the three Gambolts standing behind her in a group. She frowned. "Push-ups," she said. "One hundred push-ups. That order was for you, too."

"Yes, Sergeant," said Rube. "We did one hundred push-ups. What should we do while the humans are finishing?"

"You did the hundred? That's impossible," said Brandy. She looked at her watch; it had been less than two minutes since she'd ordered the squad to do push-ups. Her frown got deeper. "You must be doing them wrong. Show me how you do push-ups."

"Yes, Sergeant," said the Gambolts in chorus, and all three began doing push-ups in unison-at something like two per second, with straight backs, full arm extension, chests brushing the floor without resting there...Brandy watched in fascination while the three Gambolts blew off another hundred. They weren't even breathing hard. Behind them, the human recruits were floundering through the routine, most of them barely halfway to their quota. She knew from experience that most of them wouldn't be able to reach it.

A second glance showed her Mahatma, still doing his push-ups very slowly and calmly, as if he had no other concern in the world. He wasn't breathing hard either. Right then, Brandy decided that this had to be the weirdest training squad she'd ever seen. At least, the Gambolts weren't going to be a problem, she decided. And with their example, maybe the rest would shape up even faster.

She didn't realize until a good bit later that the Gambolts' example might not have the effect she anticipated.

"Live chicken?" Escrima wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "Sure-it'll cost a bit, but I can get it. What would I want it for, though? There's not a man in the outfit-me included-who can taste any difference between ClonoBird cutlets and the stuff you have to peel the feathers off of. I can even get ClonoBird with bones, if the recipe calls for it. So why stretch the budget for the old-fashioned stuff?"

"It's not a man we're looking to feed," said Lieutenant Rembrandt, looking every bit as fussy as the Mess Sergeant. "And there's no recipe. It's for that Leftenant Qual, the Zenobian. He's used to live food."

One of Escrima's subcooks looked up from the mouth of the oven, which she'd been loading with trays of croissants. "Live food?" she said. "Eeuww!"

"My reaction exactly," said Rembrandt. "But the captain wants to make a special effort for Leftenant Qual. He's here as a military observer from his planet, and apparently his word on how we treat him could make a difference in whether they sign a treaty or decide to fight us."

Escrima leaned over the counter, his hands and lower arms covered with flour. "Is the lizard going to eat his live birds right in the mess hall?" he asked. He was not smiling.

"I hope not," said Rembrandt, shaking her head. "That stunt he pulled yesterday, running around and making people chase him, made him unpopular enough."

"I heard the Zenobian is a spy," chimed in the subcook. "That's why the brass sent him here-they figure he'll get caught, and it'll give the captain a black eye."

"How will it give the captain a black eye if we catch the Zenobian spying?" said Escrima, turning around to face her. He looked down at the open oven door and said, "Better get the rest of those trays in-we want 'em all ready at the same time. Your job's cooking, not counterspying."

"Yes, Sarge," said the subcook, and resumed her task.

"She's right about one thing, though, Escrima," said Rembrandt. "The Zenobian asked to be sent here because we were the first human outfit he encountered, back when he came exploring for new worlds and landed on Haskin's Planet where we were stationed. Qual figures he'll get a friendlier reception from the captain than he would somewhere else. Maybe he figures he can spy on us more easily. He even said that part of his mission was to study our tactics. That sure sounds like spying-especially if he goes back home and gives his general staff chapter and verse on how we fight."

"Somebody could arrange it so he doesn't go back home," suggested Escrima. His fingers brushed the handle of a cleaver, perhaps accidentally, but Rembrandt noticed and shook her head.

"That kind of accident would put the captain in even hotter water," she said firmly. "Qual spelled it out plain and clear at our dinner last night. We've got to play along with him, because his report could make or break the treaty negotiations. He can saunter around and take notes to his heart's content, and we can't do a thing about it."

"So we're right between the frying pan and the heating unit," said Escrima. "Tell me again why I should go out of my way to get this lizard special, tasty food while he's spying on us?"

"Captain's orders," said Rembrandt glumly. "I don't like it much myself, to tell you the truth, Escrima-either we ruin the whole company's appetite so one alien envoy can eat as he pleases, or we risk going to war because we won't give him his favorite dish. The captain thinks we're better off treating with Qual in good faith, which is why I'm here. Get us those live birds-I'll do what I can to make sure he eats them where none of us have to watch it. And Escrima-make sure your people keep this quiet. The Zenobian's unpopular enough as it is. No point throwing more fuel on the fire."

"You got it, Lieutenant," said Escrima. He favored Rembrandt with a crooked grin. "You know me better than to think I'm going to spread stories about how some tasteless alien prefers live bait to my delicious cooking, don't you?"

"I guess so," said Rembrandt, chuckling. "It was bad enough having to eat in the hotel restaurant last night. Maybe if this Zenobian gets a taste of your stuff he'll switch to human food and never look back."

"He will, he will," said Escrima, with the confidence of a true artist. "And the first taste is free!"

"Excuse me, do you belong to the Legion company?"

Flight Leftenant Qual looked up at the two humans. "Most assuredly," he said. "It gives me great satisfaction to affiliate myself with the notorious band of Captain Clown."

The taller human-Qual had trouble telling them apart, they were so similar-said, "It is the captain we need to ask you about. I am Special Agent Peele, and this is my partner, Special Agent Hull." He showed an identification card that meant nothing to Qual, although the Zenobian could see that the holo on the card matched the face in front of him.

"You may ask as you wish," said Qual, displaying his teeth in the friendly gesture humans called a smile. "Ignorance can be remedied. Such is my reason for being here."

"Very well," said Peele, gesturing to Hull, who opened her briefcase and took out a compact multicorder. "We have reliable reports that your captain has been concealing large amounts of income. Our preliminary investigation suggests that the casino operation here generates substantially more revenue than its competitors. Is that true?"

"I certainly hope so," said Qual, looking back at the casino, which towered over the three of them out on the public street. "It is a distinct pleasure to see one's benefactors prosper. Is that a recording device?"

"Yes, regulations require us to make accurate records of all our interviews," said Peele. "Do you have any information that would indicate that the captain has skimmed off a portion of the profits for his personal use?"

"I really have not been here long enough to know that," said Qual. "Does your recorder register images as well as sounds? My people would be interested in such a device."

"It's a standard, government-issue multicorder," said Hull, somewhat defensively. "We are not authorized to discuss our equipment with civilians."

"I see," said Qual, smiling again. "But you recognize, I am not a civilian, but a soldier, hence the uniform. Is it not so?"

"The distinction is complex, and your conclusion is in this case inaccurate," said Special Agent Peele. "Besides, we are here to discuss your captain's finances, not our equipment. Now, if you don't mind..."

"I could utilize such a recorder in my work," said Qual, reaching for the unit in question. "Will you sell it to me? I have many of your dollars."