A Phule and His Money (9 page)

"Is method for this in military textbooks," said Tusk-anini. The giant Volton legionnaire had been spending late nights poring through books on every conceivable human subject, especially Lieutenant Armstrong's library of military history texts. "Hold position against one enemy while concentrate strength against another. Defeat in detail, is called. Work good in theory, maybe not so easy in practice."

"Not so easy in practice," repeated Super-Gnat. "That ought to be the Legion motto-at least, the way most of the Legion runs. We're lucky to have a commander who doesn't do things the regular way, you know, Tusk?"

Tusk-anini snorted-it was a very piglike snort, which somebody not used to Voltons might have taken wrong. Super-Gnat knew it was the equivalent of a low chuckle in humans. "Is more than luck," he said. "Captain had to make some bad mistake to get sent to our company. But he no fool-and that no joke, either. He show us we can be best company in Legion, and make us work hard to do it. He got to be best commander in the Legion."

"I'm with you on that one," agreed Super-Gnat. "But remember, he didn't get here without making enemies-and not all of them are outside the Legion. Mother told me that the top brass think the captain's showing them up, and they want to put him in his place. That's bound to mean trouble for the rest of us, too. We've come through everything OK so far, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I no hear shoe drop," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "When this happen?"

"Uh, that's not meant literally, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "What I mean is, I keep expecting them to send the company someplace really rotten, like the middle of a war zone or something, to get the captain in trouble."

"That not going to happen, because there no wars going on right now," said Tusk-anini, patiently. "You worry too much, Gnat."

"Maybe I do," said Super-Gnat. "But remember, it hasn't been so long since there was a war-in fact, I hear tell that's where the captain pulled the SNAFU that got him sent here. I don't know whether you were paying attention to the scuttlebutt, but word was that he talked a couple of pilots into strafing an enemy position-except he didn't know that's where the peace talks were going on. And it's a big galaxy-there could be another war breaking out almost anywhere, and we could find ourselves being sent to fight."

"Who we fight?" Tusk-anini looked skeptical-not easy behind his specially fitted dark glasses, worn to protect his sensitive eyes from normal light. "No enemies around to fight-plenty of room for all species, not like old Earth before space flight. No reason for wars."

"So why's there a Space Legion, then?" Super-Gnat put her hands on her hips and stared up belligerently at her big partner. "For that matter, why's there Regular Army or Starfleet? Seems to me the government's paying a lot to keep fighting forces around if there aren't going to be any more wars. But that's not what I'm getting at. Even if' there's not a war, there are ways the brass could try to shaft the captain-and believe you me, Tusk, they'll be trying to find them."

Tusk-anini snorted again. "Captain not alone. Maybe generals find some way to get captain in trouble, but we no let it happen because trouble for captain mean trouble for us."

"You've got the right idea there, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "But there's one thing you should never forget: Generals usually don't care about whether they get regular troops in trouble. We're warm bodies to throw at a problem until it goes away. That's what makes our captain different-he cares about us because somehow, deep inside, he knows he's like us. So we have to take care of him, too."

"We take care of him," agreed Tusk-anini. "So let other shoe drop-we catch it before it hit the floor."

"That's the right idea," said Super-Gnat. "Now that we've got that much figured out, why don't we go down to the pub and see if we can figure out which foot the other shoe is on?"

The Omega Mob had never formally adopted the Olde English Pub, in the basement of the Fat Chance Casino, as the company watering hole. Nonetheless, at any given hour you could find legionnaires hanging out there-sipping a drink, playing games, or tossing darts, and talking about the things that off-duty military personnel have talked about from time immemorial. The legionnaires didn't keep the civilian casino customers from using the Pub-the captain would have frowned on any attempt at that-but they clearly set its tone.

The Pub was especially noisy tonight, with several groups of legionnaires, in and out of uniform, gathered in different sections. There was a serious game of Tonk going on at one table; Street was the big winner so far, but Double-X had been on a hot steak for several hands, and the banter between the two was getting louder as the stakes got bigger. At the corner table farthest from the blaring trivid set, Doc and Moustache were playing a quieter, if not necessarily calmer, game: blitz chess. Two or three other legionnaires looked on, waiting to play the winner.

In still another corner, Do-Wop was holding forth with a string of stories, most of which were of highly dubious veracity, although he swore up and down that he had been a witness, if not a personal participant, in all of them. The circle of listeners included Dee Dee, between sets on her evening show, Junior, Super-Gnat, and Tusk-anini. The latter, perhaps because of his limited experience of human ways, was the only one who didn't appear downright skeptical of Do-Wop's yarns.

"So then I say to the cop, `Yeah, I'm the owner of this whole building,'" said Do-Wop. "Well, I could tell he wasn't buyin' it..."

"Why you want cop to buy building?" asked Tusk-anini, his eyes riveted on Do-Wop.

"Not the building, Tusk-I wanted him to buy the story, see?" Do-Wop tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. This was not the first interruption from the giant Volton.

Tusk-anini's frown deepened. "You want him to buy story? Was cop magazine editor?"

"Aw, gimme a break, Tusk," said Do-Wop, while the ring of onlookers broke into laughter. "I might as well try sellin' hooch to robots. Just let me finish the story, and then ask your questions, capisce?"

"But I no capisce," said Tusk-anini, who had spent plenty of sessions listening to Do-Wop's stories in the past. "That why I ask questions."

Do-Wop threw up his hands. "Jeez, cool it with the questions for a while, will ya? Now, where was I?"

"Probably about halfway to getting yourself thrown in jail," said a new voice, and Do-Wop looked up to see Sushi, standing there with a broad smile.

"Yo, man, long time no see!" said Do-Wop, jumping to his feet and throwing an arm around his partner. "Last anybody heard, you was kidnapped by the Yazookas."

"Yakuza, and there was only one of them," said Sushi, laughing as he returned Do-Wop's hug. "And the guy didn't kidnap me-we went off to transact some business. Which went exactly the way I wanted it to, I might add."

"Knowin' you, it was some kind of monkey business," said Do-Wop, who'd been a complete stranger to the subtler forms of chicanery before Phule had teamed him with Sushi. "You gonna tell us the story?"

"Hey, you no finish your story!" protested Tusk-anini, as Sushi plopped himself in a vacant chair, signalling for the waitress.

"Later, Tusk, later," said Do-Wop, waving his hand at the Volton. "The man's been runnin' games, and I gotta know the score. Spill, buddy, spill!"

Sushi leaned forward and began, "Well, I guess everybody's heard about the start of it. I was on duty in the casino, in the blackjack section. The dealer spotted a couple of players passing cards..."

"Sssst! Careful what saying, here comes spy!" said Tusk-anini.

"Spy? Where?" Sushi looked puzzled.

"Quiet, he's coming this way," whispered Super-Gnat, putting a hand on Sushi's elbow. "Let us handle him, and we'll tell you what it's about later."

Sushi nodded just as Flight Leftenant Qual came up to the table. Agile as he was when running flat-out, his normal walking gait was a comic waddle. "Greetings, comrades," said the little Zenobian. "May I join your gathering?"

"Guess we can't stop you," muttered Do-Wop.

"Ah, that must be humor!" said Qual. His translator gave out a strange sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, which might have been its attempt to render Zenobian laughter into human speech. Whatever the meaning, it did nothing to ingratiate him with the legionnaires.

Qual pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table and seated himself between Tusk-anini and Do-Wop, both of whom cast baleful stares at him. "So, is this how Legion spends evenings?" he asked, looking around the group.

"Who needs to know?" asked Do-Wop. His tone did not invite further discussion.

Qual's translator was not set to make fine distinctions between tones. "Pardon, did I not introduce myself? I am Flight Leftenant Qual," he said, showing his teeth. "Military attaché from Zenobian Empire."

"We know who you are," said Super-Gnat, her voice dripping icicles. "And we know what you're here for, too."

"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table. "It is to be sympathetic, not so? Let this one purchase the next circle of drinks!"

"No want drink," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowed.

"Me neither," said Do-Wop, though his glass was empty. He was not often known to pass up a round when someone else was buying. The others who'd been sitting at the table all indicated their refusal.

The only exception was Sushi. "Well, I just got here, so I'm dry," he said. "If you're buying, I'm drinking."

"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table again. "I am doleful none of your comrades are thirsty, but perhaps some different time. I like your custom of having one bring the drinks-it makes more time for mingling than when each must go to the pool for itself."

"Assuming you want to mingle," commented Super-Gnat, casting a significant glance toward Qual. "And now that I think of it, I guess I've had all the mingling I want tonight. Tusk, are you ready?"

"Tusk-anini ready," agreed the Volton, rising to his feet.

He nearly brushed the ceiling, towering over the little Zenobian. "Good seeing most of you," he said, and turned to follow Super-Gnat away.

"Time for me to get ready for my third set," said Dee Dee, standing up. One after another, the others at the table also made excuses and exited. Finally only Sushi sat there with Qual, waiting for their drinks to come.

"A shame so many had to leave," said Qual. "I will simply have to get to know them some other time."

"So it would seem," said Sushi. He pulled his chair up closer to Qual. "But there's no reason for us to be strangers. Tell me, Flight Leftenant, what kinds of things are you most interested in finding out about our people?"

"Why, almost everything," said Qual, his teeth gleaming in the flickering barroom lights. "You are much unlike my race in many ways. To begin with..."

The conversation stretched into the late hours.

Journal #310

The key to happiness in life is timing. This is certainly true in finance: Sell stock early or late, and you will always blame yourself. The same is true in military affairs: A general who commits his reserves too soon may see them beaten back by an enemy still strong, and one who delays is likely to find the battle already lost. Even a thing as trivial as entering a room can be done at better and worse times.

My employer had the knack of good timing. Perhaps it was inherited-his father had certainly been adept at timing the introduction of new products. Or perhaps young Phule had simply inherited a more mysterious, but even more useful, trait: the ability to convince everyone around that what one has just done was precisely the right thing to do at that particular time.

"Too good?" Armstrong guffawed. "Some of our troops are too good? That's the first time this company's been accused of that!"

"Lieutenant, I sincerely hope it's not the last time," said Phule, pacing behind his desk. "But if Brandy says it's a problem, I want to hear about it. Sergeant?"

Brandy had an unaccustomed worried look on her face. "Well, Captain, those Gambolts are so good that the other recruits can't keep up with them. I ask for a hundred pushups, and they finish them before the rest have done twenty. We practice unarmed combat and nobody can touch 'em. We haven't run the obstacle course yet-it's still being set up over in the park-but I'll bet my stripes that when we do run it, the Gambolts will make everybody else look sick."

Armstrong let out an appreciative whistle. "Great. This company's needed somebody to set an example for our people. Now the rest have something to emulate."

"Except they can't," said Brandy, shaking her head. "They might as well try to outrun a laser beam. Any time speed or strength or agility makes the difference, the cats have the humans completely outclassed. And the whole training platoon is starting to get discouraged. Unless we can figure out something, their morale's going to go straight down the pipes, Captain."

"It seems to me we had this same problem right after I came to the unit," said Phule. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, leaning forward. "It was the obstacle course that gave us all the answer, if you'll remember."

"Sure, I remember," said Brandy. "That turned the whole company around-showing us that working as a group we can accomplish things that only a few of us can do by ourselves."

"The recruits need to learn that lesson," said Phule. "And I think the Gambolts especially need to learn it. But for it to work, we'll have to change the exercise a little. Tell me what you think about this idea..."

He went to the sketchboard and began outlining a variation on the Omega Mob's obstacle course exercise. At first Armstrong and Brandy were skeptical, pointing out flaw after flaw. Phule adapted his plan in response to their objections, and soon the three were working together, eagerly designing the new exercise. It was late at night when they declared it ready, but they were convinced they had the answer.

Still, the whole plan depended on the new troops rising to the occasion. So far, there'd been no sign they were capable of it. Unless that changed, Phule's Company was in danger of returning to the mediocrity from which it had risen.

"What the hell's going on over there?" Maxie Pruett gestured toward the Fat Chance Casino. The gesture was unnecessary; everyone in the room knew exactly what she was referring to.

"As far as I can tell, Boss, not a damn thing," said Altair Allie. Maxie had sent Allie to keep an eye on the Fat Chance as soon as she'd heard that her plans for Phule's Company were ripening. "There was that one day when all hell broke loose, with the Yakuza guy starting a fight, and the little lizard playing chase through the casino, and the tax collectors and bikers showing up, and then nothing. The Army guys are acting like it's all routine."

"Not Army-Space Legion," said Laverna.

"Legion, schmegion," said Altair Allie with a dismissive wave. "They got guns and uniforms, and that's Army enough for me. Point is, they're acting like nothin's wrong."

"Precisely," said Laverna. "They've announced a major training exercise scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Open to the public-we'll be watching, of course. In fact, I plan to go see it myself. Still, they're carrying on as if they hadn't noticed any of the aggravation we've been sending them. We pulled a lot of strings to give them all that grief. Greased quite a few palms, too."

"And I expected a hell of a lot more effect," said Maxie, with a fierce frown. "They ought to be worried...No, more than that. Under that kind of pressure, they ought to be sweating bullets. What's wrong?"

"The Yakuza agent shipped out two days ago," said Laverna. "He and the woman who came with him left with out contacting us, so we don't know what happened there. But the impostor they came looking for is still very much alive."

"That's right, I seen him in the Pub last night," said Altair Allie. "Didn't look like he'd lost any sleep lately."

Maxie's frown deepened. "What about the Renegades?"

"They're still hangin' out," Altair Allie answered. "No action yet, far as I see. But part of the hotel is closed off to outsiders now, and it didn't use to be. It could be they're hidin' some new secret weapon or somethin', but I'd lay you two-to-one that big mug Chocolate Harry-the one the bikers are after-is hidin' out there."

"Well, if he is, he has to come out sooner or later," said Maxie, nodding. "All we have to do is keep those Renegades around to nail him when he does. And that won't be hard. A free first-class hotel room and meals on the house are a pretty good incentive, don't you think?"

"I'd hang around for that," said Altair Allie. "But not gettin' any action might get to 'em after a while."

"If they get antsy, we'll stir up some action for 'em," said Maxie. "A good old-fashioned smoke bomb in the right place can scare a lot of people out of hiding..."

"Legionnaires aren't a lot of people," said Laverna, shaking her head. "I wouldn't bet on that kind of trick working."

"And since when did you become such a legionnaire fan?" Maxie snapped. "Is that fancy-dressing butler sweet-talking you into double-crossing me?"

"You know better than that," said Laverna. "You pay me to tell you the truth, and that's what you're getting from me. The next time I pull my punches will be the first time."

"I didn't say you were pulling your punches. I said you were taking the Legion side," Maxie retorted, standing up and walking around the table. She aimed a finger at Laverna from point-blank range, and bellowed, "If you double-cross me, you're finished. Got it?"

"I knew that a long time ago," said Laverna, still calm. Her nickname, the Ice Bitch, had never seemed more appropriate. "I'm not under any illusions; my only insurance is being too useful for you to do without me. That's what I'm doing now-telling you something you need to know. I shouldn't even have to tell you-you should remember the last time you tried to play rough with Phule's people. You don't want to see what they can do if they get really angry-as I'm certain they would if you flushed Chocolate Harry out of hiding for the Renegades to catch."

"I didn't say anything about doing it ourselves," said Maxine. "I figured we might drop a little hint here or there..."

"I know what you meant, and so do you," said Laverna. "Do what you want to do-that's your usual way, anyhow-but don't pretend you'll like all the consequences. You might even try not to get angry at me for warning you."

Maxine glowered, but nodded. "OK, I get the idea. All right, then. We won't poke up that hornet's nest. Besides, we still have the IRS on his tail. Allie, any report on them?"

"They're poking around and asking people questions, but that's about it," said Altair Allie. "That's their game, though. Pop up out of nowhere with a piece of paper that says you owe 'em everything you got. If soldier boy ain't playing by their rules, he's a goner. And there ain't nobody in the casino game can play it straight enough for them buzzards-not and still make a buck, they can't."

"Tell me about it," said Maxine. "Well, now that they're on to him, we'll have to let them play it their way. And hope they don't notice anybody else on Lorelei."

"Present company, for instance," said Laverna grimly. Maxine looked at her intently, but the Ice Bitch's face betrayed no sign of emotion. Perhaps it was only an offhand comment-and perhaps it was a subtle hint that Laverna might have other kinds of insurance against her boss than she'd admitted. Whatever it was, Maxine didn't like it one bit. But there wasn't much she could say about it, for the moment.

"You bastards don't have any right to do this," shouted Gears, as two stone-faced bouncers unceremoniously hustled him out of the Three Deuces. Neither bouncer answered. At the doorway, they picked him up between them, gave him a couple of warm-up swings, and tossed him bodily into the street. He landed in a heap, but rose quickly to his feet, turning with raised fists to confront his adversaries. Too late: They'd faded back inside the door, not even waiting to see if he'd try to return.

Gears stood for a moment, pondering what he should do next. He wasn't drunk enough-though he was nearly angry enough-to charge back in and confront the bouncers. That game had only one likely outcome. He patted his jacket pocket. His wallet was still there, where the bouncers had shoved it after frog-marching him over to the cashier to collect his winnings. They'd cashed his chips honestly enough, then stuffed the money into his wallet and given him the heave-ho. But they'd made it clear he wasn't welcome to gamble in the Three Deuces again. No gambling house likes system players, especially not when their system actually wins.

What now? he asked himself. It was late-not that that made any significant difference on Lorelei, where the casinos and saloons were open round-the-clock, ready to take a sucker's money any time he appeared. But it did make a difference to Gears, who had to be ready for duty back at the Fat Chance in just under four hours. Some of that time ought to be spent sleeping-if he wasn't going to nod off on duty, and get yelled at by Chocolate Harry, which he wasn't anxious to try.

He sighed and looked down the street toward the Fat Chance, then shook his head. His luck was hot tonight-even with a system, you needed luck to win big. Tonight the dice had been coming up right. It would be a shame to quit when everything was in the groove. He turned the other way, and went looking for another casino.

Next thing he knew, he was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, with dimmer lights and fewer people than the ones he normally frequented. Belatedly, it crossed his mind that it might not be as safe, either...

That was when a large, dark shadow loomed from a nearby alleyway, and a gravelly voice said, "You just found the wrong part of town, buddy."

"Who's that?" said Gears, suddenly aware that he and this newcomer were the only ones on this side street.

"I'm not stupid enough to tell you that," said the stranger, in a surprisingly reasonable tone of voice. In the dim light, Gears could see that he was dressed in workman's clothing, and muscled like a man used to heavy physical work. He was also very big. The stranger stepped closer and said, "The less you know about who I am, the less you can tell." He reached out a huge paw. "Just give me your money and it'll go easy with you."

"No way in hell," said Gears, and he spun away from the man, already breaking into a run. He remembered an open saloon at the next street corner; he'd go there and call the Fat Chance for backup.

He'd barely taken two steps before something slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. His breath went out of him in a rush as the attacker landed on top of him, and the gleam of a blade in the other man's hand put a stop to any idea of fighting back. "What's the hurry, sonny boy?" said a voice in his ear. "We ain't done talkin' to ya."

"You really should have given me the money," said the big man, kneeling down next to Gears. His voice sounded genuinely sad. "Now you've got my friend involved, and he's a lot nastier than I am."

"That ain't no way to talk, Chuckie," said the second assailant. "You're likely to make sonny boy think we don't like his kind hereabouts. Truth is, we likes 'em fine."

"Long as they aren't stingy with their money, that is," said Chuckie. "OK, tourist, my friend's going to let you get to your money so you can hand it over, and then we'll all go our separate ways. Now, don't make any tricky moves. I don't think you want to find out what he likes to do with that vibroblade."

The second man sat up; this took his weight off Gears's chest and arms, but kept his legs pinioned. The blade hovered over his unprotected belly. "You heard Chuckie," he said. "Give us the money and nobody gets hurt."

Gears had won a lot of money that night-nearly enough to pay off his debt. But the blade was hard to argue with. "All right, take it easy," he said. "Just let me get to my pocket."

Gears reached for the pocket where his wallet was, but as his hand approached it, the man pinioning his legs brandished the knife and grabbed his wrist. "Hold still," the man said. "Let's see what's in there." He reached down and removed the wallet. "Well, sonny boy's a good boy after all," he said, handing it to his partner.

"You'd be surprised how many people my friend has had to cut because they thought they could outdraw him," said Chuckie. He opened the wallet and whistled. "Sonny boy's been lucky tonight."

The other man looked up at the money, and Gears saw his chance. A quick chop to the wrist sent the vibroblade flying, and Gears followed with a punch to the throat, throwing the man to one side. He pushed his way free of the choking assailant, and made a leap for Chuckie, who'd fallen back.

Chuckie held him off with a straight arm, long enough for the other man to recover first his breath and then his knife. He threw a crushing forearm around Gears's throat, and a moment later, the legionnaire felt the blade throbbing next to his rib cage. He went limp.

"Tsk, tsk. That wasn't very smart," said Chuckie, in a mock sympathetic voice. "Now we'll have to hurt you-it's bad business to let people think they can fight back without getting hurt, you know."