“Nobody except you,” said Beeker, straight-faced.
“Nobody except me,” Phule agreed. His smile was the epitome of self-satisfaction.
“You were sent here to keep the locals from killing one another, not to ruin yourself trying to bail out their economy.”
“Well, they aren’t trying to kill each other, so I must be doing something right,” said Phule.
“They haven’t been trying to kill one another since the war ended,” Beeker pointed out. “On the other hand, someone definitely tried to kill you.”
“That’s not proven,” said Phule. “The government wants me to think the rebels did it, in hopes that I’ll send out my people to suppress the rebels for them. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past Colonel Mays to send one of his own men to fire off a couple of shots in my direction.”
“Of course, that does not mean the rebels wish you no harm,” said Beeker. “They evidently have learned of your responsibility for the strafing incident.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I was going to have to confront that part of my past sooner or later,” said Phule. “Nobody was really hurt, you know … I guess it’d be better to tackle it head-on than to keep dodging it … Say, that’s not a bad idea, come to think of it. I wonder where the rebel headquarters is?”
Beeker’s jaw dropped. “Sir! It was bad enough when you contemplated throwing away your money, but I really must advise against throwing away your life as well.”
“Don’t be such a nanny, Beeker,” said Phule. He was on his feet and pacing, a sure sign that his mind was racing at top speed. “We’re not here to work for the current government, whatever they want to think. My orders are to help all the people, and that certainly includes the rebels, if they want to take advantage of my generosity.”
“So you mean to offer them the opportunity to put a noose around your neck,” said Beeker. “Sir, you cannot expect me to stand aside and allow you to do this.”
“No, of course not,” said Phule. “I was planning on taking you along when I go to meet them. You and the chaplain, I think.”
“What?” Beeker’s eyes went wide. “What good can the chaplain possibly do?”
Phule spread his hands. “Why, he’s a man of peace—what better symbol of my peaceful intentions? And you’re obviously a noncombatant—no kind of threat. Unless everything we know about them is wrong, neither of you will be in the least danger. And you’ll serve as insurance for me—even if they have a grudge against me, I don’t think they’ll act too hastily if there are innocent witnesses.”
“Very well, sir. You have obviously made up your mind,” said Beeker, rising from his chair. “I suppose I had best prepare for the journey. When do you intend to leave? And will you at least inform your officers of your intentions? Perhaps they can offer some competent military advice.”
Phule shook his head. “Their advice would be to take along a squad of armed legionnaires, and that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. This needs to be a secret mission. I’ve found a young civilian who’s got a cousin in the rebel camp, and he claims to know the way. And unless we want to lose valuable time, we should leave as quickly as possible.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Beeker. “I only hope you have some idea what you are doing.”
“Of course I do,” said Phule brightly. “I’m going to save the entire planet. Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
Journal #406
Our departure from Lorelei had left behind an unstable situation, and potentially a very dangerous one. My employer’s confidence in the android double he had programmed to impersonate himself seemed to me excessive. Eventually, the local gangsters were bound to see through the deception. What would happen then was anyone’s guess.
Maxine Pruett glared at the holoscreen. “That conniving son of a bitch!” she shouted. The scene had only been in view for a moment, but she knew that face almost as well as the picture on a dollar bill. In all the years she’d been running the Syndicate on Lorelei, he was the one person who’d thwarted her. Captain Jester, AKA Willard Phule, the munitions heir.
There he was on some planet a quarter of the way across the galaxy. She hadn’t caught exactly what it was he was doing. In fact, she’d only had the news on out of a sense of guilt. Laverna had been her eyes and ears on the outside world, the one who kept her apprised of things that might affect her while she paid attention to running the business and enjoying the fruits of her hard-won (albeit ill-gotten) gains. Now Laverna had run away from her, and she had nobody to monitor outside events for her. Phule was responsible for that, too.
What she couldn’t figure out was how he’d managed to get off-station without her knowing it. Her snoops had reported seeing him in the Fat Chance nearly every day, and there were plenty of uniformed legionnaires on guard—so what did it mean that he and his company were on Landoor, or whatever that place was in the news story? The answer must be that one of the Phules was a double. It made sense—there’d been times she’d had the “same” act booked in two or three of her casinos at once, with the star making token appearances in each show, and using doubles to make it appear he was onstage more than he really was. Phule must be running a hustle like that.…
So how was she going to take advantage of her discovery? There was no question that she was going to take advantage of it—you get an edge, you take it. That was how the game was played. It would be sweet revenge to finally take the Fat Chance away from him after all he’d done to balk her.
A lot depended on which “Phule” was the impostor, of course. She wasn’t about to make an overt move against him if he was actually here to counter it. She’d already had a lesson in the Legion’s brand of hardball, and didn’t want to repeat it. But if the fellow over in the Fat Chance was the double … well, that might be a very different story.
It shouldn’t be hard to figure it out. Phule could afford to hire somebody good enough to pass a fairly close inquisition. Still, there’d be things Phule hadn’t briefed the double on, questions he wouldn’t be able to answer if somebody caught him off his guard. She wouldn’t even have to confront him in person. A phone call could tell her who she was dealing with, if she knew the right card to play. But she had to have the right card before she called.
“Holo off,” snapped Maxine. The picture abruptly winked out of existence, and the room fell silent. The holo hadn’t used to interfere with Maxine’s thinking, but that had been when she’d had Laverna to do a lot of that thinking for her. Now she realized that she’d been an idiot to buy Phule’s line about his butler eloping with her assistant. Most likely he’d taken them both with him. Well, that wouldn’t be hard to find out, either. And when she’d found them, there were favors she could call in. That was one of the advantages of running the Syndicate’s favorite resort. She’d been generous with free rooms, free meals, special seats at shows for visitors from other Syndicate families—paying forward in anticipation of future need. Now it was payback time, in more ways than one.
She tried to remember who she knew on that planet—what was its name again? She must not have been paying close enough attention. Well, if she turned the holo back on and watched another twenty minutes the news story would cycle back again. No—she hired people to do that. She’d order somebody to turn on the news and take notes while she figured out what to do about Phule. She picked up the comm handset and pressed a button.
Unexpectedly, it didn’t ring. Instead, after a few moments, a synthesized voice came on. “There is no answer at the extension you are calling. If you wish to leave a message, please wait until …” She broke the connection, cursing. She wasn’t used to getting recorded messages, or waiting. What the hell was she paying these clowns for, if they weren’t there when she needed them? That had never happened with Laverna.
She thought a moment about trying another extension, then slammed the handset down. She felt like shaking things up, and she was going to start by finding the lazy goon who’d been supposed to answer that call a
nd reminding him who was boss here. It had been a while since she’d had to do that, but she hadn’t forgotten how. The guy on the other end wasn’t likely to forget it, either, once she’d finished with him. She stepped toward the door, a grim smile on her lips.
The door opened before she reached it.
She stopped, astounded. Nobody else was supposed to be able to open that door. She was reaching for her weapon when a man stepped forward and said, “I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Pruett. We have the place surrounded, and the penalties for attacking a Federation agent are very severe.”
“Federation agent?” she gasped. She recovered her aplomb almost immediately. “What the hell are you doing in my private quarters? You’re out of your jurisdiction. Lorelei law says I’m justified in blowing you away for breaking and entering. Get out before I do just that.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken—this is my jurisdiction,” said the man, and he flipped open a wallet to show a holo-ID. Below the letters IRS it read, Roger Peele, Special Agent. “The Federation allows localities a good bit of autonomy in criminal and civil law,” said Peele solemnly. “But the tax code applies everywhere.”
“Tax code? You can’t bust me for taxes,” said Maxine. “I’m the one who called and tipped you off about the Fat Chance. It’s those damned Legion crooks you should be after, not me.”
“We make our own decisions about whom to go after,” said Agent Peele. “We are looking into the situation at the Fat Chance, and we will deal with it in our own time. Meanwhile, we have good reason to believe that you are systematically underreporting your income. I will ask you to come with me, Mrs. Pruett—we have quite a few questions to ask you.”
“I’m not answering any questions till I see my lawyer!” shouted Maxine. “Now get out of here before I call Security.”
“We have your lawyer and your security people already in custody,” said the agent. “You can talk to them down at headquarters.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Now, I suggest you surrender your weapon before you find yourself in even more serious trouble.”
Maxine cursed. But she handed over the weapon and went quietly. She’d owned a casino long enough to tell when her luck had run out. Today, it had come up snake eyes.
* * *
General Blitzkrieg knew he was in trouble the minute he heard the commotion in his outer office. There was only one person with the chutzpah to charge into his office and demand to see him without an appointment. “I know he’s in there, Major. Now, you can stand in my way and get run over, or you can step aside and let me in. Either way, I’m going to see him, whether he likes it or not.”
Blitzkrieg wished, not for the first time, that he had gotten an office with an emergency exit for these situations. But that would only postpone the inevitable. Like a trip to the dentist, this confrontation could be put off only at the price of worse pain later on. He pushed a button on his intercom and said, doing his best to sound nonchalant, “Major, no need to detain Colonel Battleax. Send her right in, if you will.” It sounded phony even to him.
The door opened and Colonel Battleax marched in. Through the open portal the general caught a glimpse of Major Sparrowhawk, whose expression indicated that she was no happier at being made the scapegoat for the delay than Colonel Battleax was at being made to wait. He was going to pay for both those mistakes, he realized. Sometimes he wondered what good being a general was if it afforded no protection from subordinates.
“Good morning, sir,” said Colonel Battleax. That was some small relief, he thought as he returned her very proper salute. At least she was going to observe the forms of military courtesy. Beyond that, he was unlikely to find this a pleasant interview.
“Have a seat, Colonel,” he said, returning the salute. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Keep up the fiction that you’re glad to see her, he thought, and maybe she won’t bite your head off this time. He didn’t put much trust in that notion, though.
Colonel Battleax settled into the chair facing Blitzkrieg’s desk. “I’ve been watching the news, General,” she said. “You’ve been pulling strings again.”
Blitzkrieg feigned surprise. “What are you referring to?”
“A news story from Landoor. It seems there were shots fired at the spaceport, presumably by antigovernment rebels.”
“Landoor … that name is familiar …”
“Of course it’s familiar,” said the colonel, losing patience. “You went horse-trading to the Joint Chiefs to get a Legion company posted there as the peacekeeping force. You don’t do that so often that you’re likely to have forgotten it, unless you’re getting senile even faster than anyone thought. You sent Phule’s Company—Captain Jester’s Company—to Landoor.”
“Why, yes, I suppose I did,” said Blitzkrieg. “It seemed a feather in the cap for the Legion …”
“Don’t pull that guff on me, General,” said Battleax. “Jester was a complete nonentity until he ordered that strafing on New Atlantis, as it was called then. You’ve taken his subsequent rise as a thorn in your side. Now you transfer him to the one place in the galaxy where there are people with a bigger grudge against him than yours. You expect me to believe this is unpremeditated?”
“Why, yes … er, no …” Blitzkrieg turned red. “Damn it, Colonel, what are you getting at?”
The colonel stood up and leaned forward over the general’s desk. “General, it’s time you realized that, whether or not you like Jester, he’s a rising star. If you’d accepted that all along, the entire Legion would have gotten credit for everything he’s done. Instead, he’s the shining exception. I can’t think of another Legion unit the Joint Chiefs would’ve been willing to put in such a sensitive position. Now if he falls on his face, he’ll take the entire Legion down with him. You may not be able to see beyond your own nose, but those of us who can aren’t going to let you get away with it.” She glared at him, then straightened up and added as an afterthought, “With all due respect, sir.”
“This is preposterous,” said the general. “I deny it all, of course.” He was sweating.
“Frankly, General, I didn’t expect anything else,” said Colonel Battleax. “If Jester comes a cropper on Landoor, there are some of us who will see that blame for it comes back to roost where it belongs. So, I suggest you do whatever you can to ensure that nothing untoward does happen to him.”
Blitzkrieg shrugged. “Really, Colonel, I don’t see where this is any matter for great concern. A Legion captain ought to be able to take care of himself. If he can’t, that’s a pity, but ultimately no reflection on us.”
The colonel nodded, grimly. “Very well, sir, if that’s how you intend to play the game, that’s how it’ll be played. Good day, sir.” She saluted and left the office.
Blitzkrieg leaned back in his chair. That hadn’t gone so badly, he thought. Still, best to keep a closer eye on the Landoor situation. If Jester got in trouble there, he might be able to devise a way to burnish his own reputation by riding to the rescue. Yes, that might be a very satisfactory way to profit from his enemy’s distress. He’d have to keep it in mind.
* * *
“He’s gone where?” Lieutenant Armstrong’s disbelief was written plainly on his face. He’d just poured his first cup of coffee, so his normal stiff bearing hadn’t quite had time to set in.
“Here’s the note he left with Mother,” said Lieutenant Rembrandt, shoving a piece of paper at her fellow officer. “At least he left a note—I’d have liked it a lot more if he’d told us in person, though.”
“We’d have tried to talk him out of it, which is why he didn’t ask us,” said Armstrong, glancing up from the note. “He has Beeker and Rev along, I see. Do we have any idea where specifically they’ve gone?”
“The rebel headquarters is somewhere on the mainland,” said Rembrandt. She waved a hand vaguely. “We don’t know exactly where. Mother couldn’t find any intelligence reports on it. The captain had already asked her. I was glad to hear that—at least he di
dn’t set out completely blind. But the rebels haven’t been enough trouble to justify close surveillance, up until now.”
Armstrong frowned. “No satellite intelligence?”
“The satellite network here is pretty rudimentary,” said Rembrandt, wearily. “The captain learned that when he was looking for that secret government project. There are a couple of old weather sats, dating back to the mining days, with add-ons for GPS and communications. But nothing military.”
“Nothing? Didn’t these people just have a war?”
“Sure,” said Rembrandt. She walked over to the coffee urn and topped up her cup. “But remember, with only one nation on this world, they didn’t have an enemy to keep tabs on. When that civil war broke out, their economy had collapsed, and neither side had off-world allies. It was a low-tech war all around—no armor, no air force, no long-range missiles. And no intelligence sats. Even after the war, the Army peacekeeping team never took the rebels seriously enough to spend the money on sats.”
“Well, I guess we should be thankful for small favors,” said Armstrong. “At least nobody’s got enough firepower to overwhelm a single Legion company if they decide to start shooting. I guess that’s an acceptable trade-off for the extra set of eyes.”
“I agree,” said Rembrandt, adding a dash of cream to her coffee. “Except we still need to figure out where the captain’s gone. If an emergency comes up, I want to talk to him before I do anything drastic.”
Armstrong looked up from his coffee cup. “I don’t see how that’s a problem,” he said. “We can zero in on their wrist communicators, right? Or is there something else you haven’t told me?”
“You got it. Everybody except the captain left their communicators behind,” said Rembrandt. “And he’s turned his off. I think he didn’t want the rebels to get their hands on advanced tech if they decided to take him prisoner. One communicator won’t do them much good; they need two or more to get any advantage from them.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 73