Outside, Beeker could see that word of the attack had already gotten out. A small pack of legionnaires was milling about on the south edge of the base, many of them carrying weapons and wearing helmets, others looking as if they’d been dragged out of the showers by the alert. Spotting them, Moustache nodded and strode off purposefully in their direction. For his part, Phule was sprinting toward a short observation tower at the center of the base. Again, Beeker followed, attempting to make as much speed as he could without abandoning the last vestiges of dignity.
By the time the butler reached the base of the tower, Phule was already at its top, shading his eyes with one hand and staring out into the desert. Resignedly, Beeker put the strap of the stereoculars case over his shoulder and began climbing the ladder. Below, he could hear voices shouting, and a vibration in the ladder indicated that someone else was climbing up behind him. Gritting his teeth, he finished the climb and put the case in Phule’s outstretched hand. Looking to the south, just over a kilometer away, he saw a small cloud of dust—or was it smoke?—along a line of native “trees,” but nothing else he could clearly identify.
“What can you make out, Captain?” said Lieutenant Armstrong, who was the one who’d followed Beeker up the ladder.
“Not much, yet,” said Phule, peering through the stereoculars. “Hard to see through the heat haze and dust …” He was interrupted by his communicator’s buzz. “Jester here, go ahead,” he said, lowering the stereoculars and boosting the volume so the others on the tower could hear clearly.
“I’m getting a signal from the desert search team, Captain,” said Mother’s voice, now more urgent than sultry. “Stand by …”
“Captain, do you read me?” a voice crackled through the speaker. It had the kind of mechanical inflection characteristic of an autotranslator, and Beeker thought he recognized it as Spartacus, one of the two Synthians with the company. Sluglike aliens, they were dependent on mechanical transportation to keep up with their fellow legionnaires of other species. Phule had discovered that glide-boards, a common children’s antigrav toy, gave them maximum mobility at a bargain price.
“Loud and clear, Spartacus,” said Phule. “What’s your situation there? Anybody hurt?”
There was a blare of noise that Phule couldn’t quite identify, then Spartacus’s voice came through again. “…has us treed. Don’t … hostile sophont or …” More noise drowned out whatever Spartacus said.
“There shouldn’t be this much interference over such a short distance,” muttered Armstrong. “If it weren’t for that damned stand of trees, and all the dust, I think we could see them directly from here.”
“Spartacus, I can barely follow you,” said Phule, raising the communicator to his mouth again. “If you can hear this, just hold tight. Don’t fire unless fired upon. I’m sending out a rescue party. Do you read?”
“… Captain …” came the Synthian’s voice, in a cloud of static.
“All right, Mr. Armstrong, I’m going to lead the relief party,” said Phule, thumbing the communicator’s “off” button. “With comm on the fritz, we’ll have to rely on visual signals. If I fire a green flare, everything’s under control. If I fire a white one, send the autodoc. A red one …” He paused.
“Yes, sir?” said Armstrong. “A red one means?”
“I’m hoping I won’t need a red one,” said Phule. “But if you see it, come after us as fast as possible with everything you’ve got.” He tucked the stereoculars under his arm and began climbing down the ladder, two rungs at a stride.
* * *
“Victor Phule!” said Lola, staring at the readout of the hotel room’s Netlink. “That’s the fellow playing the high-priced slots!” She’d run a routine ImageBase search on the stealthcam image she’d acquired of the man she’d met in the casino, but she knew better than to expect any clear result. To her surprise, it had given her an 83% positive ID almost at once—Victor Phule, munitions tycoon.
“Stuck-up-looking old bugger,” muttered Ernie, lying back on the hotel bed and peering around Lola’s shoulder at the computer screen.
“More to the point, he’s the father of the man we’re looking to grab,” said Lola, pointing at the text underneath the picture. “Not to overlook the fact that he’s one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy. You can think what you want about him, but he can afford to be stuck-up. And we can’t afford to ignore what it must mean for him to be here.”
“OK, I’ll bite,” said Ernie, managing to look somewhat more interested. “What do you think it means that he’s here on Lorelei? Rich guys like to gamble, too—like I been telling you, Lola. If you’d give me enough money to get into a few of the big-money games …”
“Oh, encapsulate it,” said Lola. “The point is, there can only be a few possible reasons why he’d be at the casino. And the most likely is that young Phule himself is out of commission somehow—in fact, that would explain why the casino had set up that robot to impersonate him.”
“Maybe,” said Ernie, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “But what about all those newstapes we keep seeing, of Captain Jester at the Landoor amusement park, and Captain Jester greeting those mechanical beings on some three-for-a-buck planet way the hell off the main space-lanes? Those can’t all be fakes, can they?”
Lola frowned. “Well, maybe not all of them. But one thing I’ve learned, over the years—when you want to find out what’s really going on in some racket, always look at where the money comes from and who it goes to. We all know the Fat Chance is the place where one enormous pile of money comes from. And if the people it goes to aren’t right here to make sure they get what’s coming to them, they’re too stupid to deserve any of it. That means Willard Phule has got to be here somewhere. All we have to do is figure out where, and then make our snatch.”
“Yeah, like it’s that easy,” said Ernie. “Why don’t we snatch the old man, instead? Hell, he’s got more bucks than the kid—and he ain’t got the whole army guarding him, either.” He began picking at an annoying nose hair, squinting at himself in the bedside mirror.
“Stop that,” said Lola, swatting at his hand. Then, recalling her encounter with Victor Phule, she added, “And don’t be sure the old man’d be so easy to snatch. When I spotted him, he had at least one obvious bodyguard with him—and I don’t know how many more that I didn’t spot. The man can afford the best, and he’s in a business where he probably has plenty of job applicants with relevant experience. And I wouldn’t bet a nickel that the Legion guards don’t have special instructions about keeping an eye on their boss’s father, either.”
“No bet,” conceded Ernie. Then, turning his hands palm up and spreading them apart, he said, “But if the job’s that tough, what the hell are we even doin’ here? We oughta just head for the most back-ass planet on the map, or maybe even off the map, and go to cover. I don’t see no percentage in sticking around here if we can’t do the job—especially with the enforcers looking to wale on us if we can’t deliver.”
“Oh, I’m not giving up on the job,” said Lola, placing a forefinger against her cheek. “In fact, I think it looks better than ever for us, with the father here as well as the son. That gives us two likely targets, instead of just one. And it boosts our chances another way, too—because there are twice as many of them to guard, there’s more chance for their security to slip up. We’ve got to study the situation just a little more, and then I’ll come up with a plan …”
“You’ll come up with a plan?” said Ernie. “It was your brilliant plan that backfired the first time and got us in this mess to begin with. Why don’t I ever get to make the farkin’ plans?”
“Because you’d fark ’em up,” said Lola, bluntly. “I mean, I won’t claim everything’s been a screaming success, or any other kind, so far. But if you’d been in charge, we’d both be behind bars somewhere—assuming Mr. V and his goons didn’t catch with us first.”
Ernie scowled. “That reminds me. I never did figure out why, if Mr. V and whoeve
r he works for—”
“Which, believe me, you don’t want to know,” interjected Lola.
“OK, OK,” said Ernie. “But tell me this: if those wise guys can run us down anyplace we escape to, why the hell do they need us to snatch Willard Phule? Why don’t they just go snatch him themselves?”
Lola shook her head. “You really don’t understand that? Just think about it. What goes wrong if we get caught?”
“If we’re lucky, we get a vacation on some prison colony, making rocks into sand,” said Ernie. “If we’re unlucky, we get made into sand.”
“That’s about right,” said Lola. “But the people who are springing for us to kidnap Phule have got a lot to lose. So they’re deflecting the risk by hiring us, and making sure there’s no paper trail back to them. And that’s why we can’t afford to know who they are—because if we do, we’re too dangerous.”
“Hey, dangerous—that’s me, all right,” said Ernie, puffing up his chest and striking a muscle-man pose.
“Yeah, well just be careful you don’t get yourself in more trouble than you can get out of,” said Lola, exasperated. “These people play rough, or have you forgotten that?”
“All right, you win,” said Ernie. “But this time, if I don’t think the plan’s gonna work, I’m gonna let you know up front. I’m not as stupid as you think.”
“Oh, you couldn’t be,” said Lola, smiling broadly. Before Ernie could figure that out, she added, “But for now, I need you to stay out of sight and relax—I’ve got to run out and do some spying.”
“Spying? Who on?”
“Why, the big bird and the little bird,” said Lola, opening the door and turning back to face Ernie. “And with a little bit of luck, we may even catch them both.” Before Ernie could come up with an answer to that, she was out the door and gone.
* * *
Phule was pleased to see that Moustache had the rescue party lined up in good order near the camp perimeter. He was even more pleased to see how many of the company had turned out on such short notice, fully equipped and ready for action. But that posed a problem in its own right. Taking the bulk of his available force into an unknown situation was risking disaster.
“All right, people, listen up,” he said. “We’re going to break into two parties. One will go with me to see what’s happening out there in the desert. The other’s going to guard the camp in case this is some kind of diversion; Lieutenant Armstrong will command that party.”
Phule quickly chose a dozen legionnaires to join him in the rescue party. There were plenty of volunteers to choose from—every single legionnaire present wanted to go to the aid of their comrades. Phule made it a point to include the three Gambolts, whose speed and fighting ability would be a particular asset against an unknown threat. But he was careful to leave a core of proven legionnaires with Armstrong—not only to protect against a surprise attack, but to act as a reserve rescue party in case his group couldn’t finish the job. He didn’t think that was going to be necessary. On the other hand, he didn’t think a red flare was going to be necessary, either—but he had one in his belt.
“All right, people,” he said. “The plan is to get out there as quickly as we can, so we’ll take the personnel carrier. When we’re about a hundred meters short, I want you three Gambolts to get off and scout ahead on foot. We’ll come in at walking speed behind you. If any of you signals, or if there’s any sign of danger, we’ll pick up speed again and do whatever we need to. Since we don’t know what we’re getting into, be alert for my orders. Any questions?”
“I have a question, sir,” said Mahatma, raising his hand. The little recruit’s round face had its usual mellow expression, which, in combination with a raised hand, almost always spelled trouble.
Phule mentally chastised himself—he should have remembered Mahatma’s tendency to question everything a superior said to him. But he’d already opened that door by choosing the little recruit for the rescue team, so he had no choice but to deal with what came through it. “Yes, Mahatma, what is it?” he asked, as patiently as he could manage.
“I notice that we are heading in the direction of the AEIOU inspectors’ camp,” said Mahatma. “Should we not warn them that we are about to mount an operation in their vicinity?”
“Actually, that makes sense,” said Phule, nodding. He lifted his wrist communicator to his mouth, buzzed Mother, and quickly relayed Mahatma’s suggestion to her. “Tell them to keep their heads down,” he added. “If we have to engage in combat, there could be danger to civilians in the neighborhood.”
“Sure, sweetie cakes,” said Mother. “But wouldn’t it be so much better just to order them off-planet while you’ve got a good excuse? I wouldn’t mind seeing the last of that Chief Inspector Snieff.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Phule. “I don’t think we’re in quite that much trouble, though. But I’ll keep it in mind in case things get dangerous.”
“All righty, you’re a big boy—but don’t ever say I never gave you a chance to get rid of that pest,” said Mother. She cut the connection, and Phule turned to his crew. In moments, the rescue party was loaded on the personnel carrier. At Phule’s command, Slayer took the controls, lifted it off, and started moving forward at top speed.
Phule stood on the forward bench, looking through his stereoculars in an attempt to see what was going on up ahead. He could hear what sounded like distant shouting, though not in any language he recognized. Had the Synthian lost his translator, or was there some other species there? He realized he didn’t know who else was on the original search team—he’d left it to Brandy to choose its members, and hadn’t thought to ask once the crisis had arisen. In a sense, it didn’t really matter who was out there. They were all valued members of Omega Company. Their comrades in arms would do whatever it took to bring them back safe. Omega Company took care of its own. And anyone who stood in the way … well, too bad for them, Phule thought.
The personnel carrier had quickly covered the ground between the camp and the trees, and was coming up on the position where Phule had decided to drop off the Gambolts. “Slayer, bring the vehicle to a halt,” he ordered. “Dukes, Rube, Garbo—make ready to dismount.”
Slayer expertly cut the vehicle’s speed and dropped it to within a hand’s breadth of the ground. The Gambolts quickly slipped off the tail end—protected from any possibility of hostile fire, although there had so far been no overt hostilities—and began working their way through the underbrush, quickly fading out of clear visibility. Phule waited until they were well clear, then signaled for the personnel carrier to move forward again. There was still no clear indication what sort of enemy had attacked the original search party. Evidently their comm units were still not working correctly—there’d been no further transmissions since the truncated conversation Phule had had with Spartacus.
It was quiet, Phule realized. Too quiet. The faintly purring engine of the personnel carrier was the only sound; even the shouting that Phule had heard previously had now faded into silence, leaving only an uncomfortable anticipation. Somewhere ahead of him, the Gambolts were noiselessly working their way toward the site of the disturbance …
Suddenly, a loud sound erupted from the underbrush perhaps fifty meters off the left front of the vehicle. As Phule stood up to stare—realizing even as he did so that he was exposing himself to possible enemy fire—a Gambolt jumped seemingly two meters straight up, yowling. It was Dukes, the largest of the three catlike aliens in Omega Company. As soon as the Gambolt landed on his feet, he let out another yowl and began sprinting for the nearest tree.
“What the hell?” said a voice somewhere behind Phule. Dukes reached the tree and, without losing any of his speed, made a right-angle turn and went at least halfway up the trunk before reaching a convenient branch and stopping, with a harassed air about him. The seat of his black Legion jumpsuit was torn, Phule noticed.
At the foot of the tree, now, Phule made out a squat creature, quivering with rage. When i
t spoke, everything became clear. He didn’t even need the stereoculars to recognize it, or to make out what it said.
“Woof!” said Barky, the Environmental Dog, taking off at top speed to find another Gambolt to chase up a tree. “Woof! Woof!”
Chapter Seven
Journal #681
There are few things more aggravating than a person whose opinions on some important subject are essentially correct, but who insists on subordinating all other matters to that one area of discourse. One might even say that, the more correct the opinion, the more annoying it becomes to see it drive out all other topics of conversation. The only remedy for such people is to avoid their company entirely. Unfortunately, they are often in a position such that avoiding them becomes difficult …
* * *
“I’ve never met such unreasonable people in my life,” said Phule, pacing around his desk. The meeting with Chief Inspector Snieff had not been productive.
“That’s a rather frightening assessment, sir. Especially considering that you’ve spent the last five years in the Space Legion …” Beeker left the thought unfinished.
Phule ignored him. “All I ask them to do is to keep their dog away from my people. You wouldn’t think that would be so hard, would you?”
“The dog cannot be blamed for its response, sir,” Beeker noted. “To put it frankly, sir, even a relatively sophisticated person such as I might find the, uh, characteristic odors of some races of nonhuman sophonts rather peculiar, if not downright unpleasant. You notice that it paid particular attention to poor Spartacus, and to the Gambolts. The poor animal, which has a far more sensitive nose than you or I, simply reacts to them as it has been trained.”
“It must have been raised in a humans-only environment,” said Phule. “But still—my legionnaires aren’t polluting the planet. I took special pains to get the most up-to-date ecological protection features built into the base. We recycle everything, Beeker. Nothing goes to waste in Zenobia Base. Our environmental policies are far greener than the Legion’s regulations for units in the field, and we stick to them, too.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 121