"Yo," said a scrawny human with a shaved head and a bone through its nose--it was difficult to determine its gender, as well.
This was the kind of recruit Brandy was used to. "That's Yo, Sergeant to you, Slayer," she barked. The recruit flinched, and muttered something that sounded like an appropriate response. Brandy nodded--she'd have plenty of time to get into the fine points of Legion discipline, such as it was. For now, it was sufficient to establish who was in charge. She turned to the next name on the list. "Brick?"
There were a dozen more recruits, all present, though none looked anywhere near as promising as the Gambolts. She finished the list, then turned to Armstrong and said, "All new troops present and accounted for, Lieutenant."
"Very good," said Armstrong, but before he could say more he was interrupted by a new voice.
"I'm a-gonna hafta take exception to that, Sarge," said a deep resonant voice. "I'm as much a member of this here company as anybody, and by the captain's own personal request, as it happens."
Brandy turned to see a pudgy human, with long, dark slicked-back hair and even darker sunglasses. Like the others in the formation, the newcomer was dressed in black, although his jumpsuit was even more flamboyant than the version of the Legion uniform Phule's Company wore. And there was nothing at all military about the stranger's hip-shot stance and half-sneering expression.
It was Lieutenant Armstrong who broke the awkward silence. He pulled himself up to his full height and snapped, "If you're assigned to Omega Company, then fall in with the rest of the troops and report. This is the Legion, if you know what that means."
"Lordy, do I ever," said the newcomer. He sauntered up next to the Gambolts, drew himself more or less upright, and gave a passable imitation of a salute. "Reverend Jordan Ayres reportin' for duty, suh. But y'all can call me Rev."
"What the hell..." began Brandy, gearing up to give the new man a demonstration of how an angry top sergeant looked and sounded.
But Phule said, "Wait a minute, Brandy. Reverend..." Phule's puzzled expression suddenly transformed itself into a broad smile and the captain reached out a hand for Ayres to shake. "Of course! You're the chaplain I requested from headquarters. Welcome to Omega Company." He shot a quizzical look at Armstrong.
"A chaplain?" said Armstrong, staring at the newcomer. "I'd almost forgotten you'd asked. There wasn't anything about it in the dispatches from headquarters. I'm afraid you find us not properly prepared to greet you, Reverend Ayres. My apologies."
"Think nothin' of it," said the chaplain, falling back into his former posture. "And jes' call me Rev, Lieutenant. Why, the less fuss y'all make about me, the better. I'm jes' here to do a job, same as everybody else."
"Yes, that's the spirit," said Phule. "Now, I think it's time for us to get back to the Fat Chance where you people can meet your new comrades and get started on your duties. I can promise you a very interesting tour of duty with us."
"That's why we're here," said one of the Gambolts--Dukes, the biggest of the trio. His expression could have passed for a grin, although the large and very sharp canine (or were they more properly feline?) teeth made it far more ferocious than an equivalent expression from a human.
"Good, then let's go," said Brandy. "Follow me, on the double!"
The new members of Phule's Company shouldered their bags, and followed Brandy and their officers past the line of curious tourists at the immigration desk, out to a waiting hoverbus that would take them back to the Fat Chance hotel and their new assignment. They quickly stowed their bags and boarded, and the bus nosed out into the light traffic and headed away.
Neither they nor the tourists (who were after all most interested in getting to the casinos and spending their money) noticed the small figure in black that surreptitiously followed the legionnaires to the bus, and then set off on foot behind it, sticking carefully to the edge of the road and doing its best to avoid observation.
Chapter 2
Journal #281
The unsavory elements of society look upon gambling as their private domain. Legitimate businessmen who enter that field are likely to find themselves the object of unwanted attention from those who wish to take the lion's share of the profits without having worked for it. Needless to say, this is not comfortable.
The local mob on Lorelei was led by Maxine ("Maxie") Pruett. She had greeted my employer with a well-orchestrated campaign of strong-arm tactics to frighten away customers. She also sponsored an invasion of card-sharps and grifters intended to siphon off the casino's profits. She confidently expected these tactics to force the casino into bankruptcy, at which point she planned to foreclose on the substantial loans she had made the owners.
But things did not go as Maxine had planned. Her takeover attempt was thwarted by my employer's access to the firepower of a fully equipped Legion company--as well as to a degree of advance intelligence provided largely by myself. But her failure did nothing to deter outside criminals from their own forays. My employer knew that such attempts were inevitable. What he didn't know was how quickly the predators would begin to circle... or to what extent they had Maxie's aid and comfort in their unsavory ventures.
"You're underestimating Jester again," said Laverna, looking up from the book she was reading. Out of habit, she used Phule's Legion pseudonym, although she and her boss both knew his real name by now. "Or have you forgotten how lucky you were to get away with your skin all in one piece?"
"I haven't forgotten," said Maxie Pruett. "You need a good memory to stay in this business as long as I have--or have you forgotten that?" Her piercing eyes glared at her chief advisor, but she knew and respected the tall black woman's talent for assessing risks unemotionally--an ability that had earned her the grudging nickname, "the Ice Bitch."
"Point taken," said Laverna, holding her place in the book with a forefinger. "But remember this: Jester's troops will eventually be rotated out. When somebody else has the post, Jester may lose interest in the place, and move his money someplace he can keep an eye on it more easily. You can afford to bide your time, see who comes in next, and make your move then. You're here for the long term--unless you make a serious mistake."
Maxie nodded. "And you think going after the Fat Chance again is a mistake."
"I know it is," said Laverna. She leaned forward in her chair. "The first time you tangled with Jester, you had all the advantages, and he still managed to come out ahead. And you were lucky, at that--all you lost was your bid to take over the Fat Chance right away. Next time, the consequences are likely to be permanent. He's got a pretty good idea who's behind any trouble that shows up at his door--and he's got the ability to hit back a lot harder than you can hit him."
"That's how I like it," said Maxie. "All the money on the table, and no backing out. It's easy for you to say 'take the long view'--you don't have to watch that joker pocket all the profits from the Fat Chance while you're waiting for him to go away."
"I'm here, aren't I?" said Laverna. "I'm here for the long run, too. It's in my best interest to keep your business healthy. That's why I'm advising you to let things take their natural course. The odds always favor the house--and on Lorelei, the house means you. Let the odds do the work for you, and you'll eventually win everything."
"I know that," said Maxie. She went over to a window and looked out at the streets below. The view from the penthouse suite was spectacular, with all the lights of Lorelei's casinos twinkling below her. Actually, since the hotel was on an orbiting space station, the "outdoors" was as much "indoors" as the room itself. But there was something comforting about the illusion of an actual "world" outside, and the casinos wanted their customers to be comfortable--at least, as long as they had money to spend.
Maxine looked out the window for a moment, leaning her hands on the sill. Then she said, without turning around, "But there's another problem. Success breeds success, and if Phule can keep the Fat Chance successful, it'll start cutting into everybody else's profits. Even after his unit gets transferre
d out, he'll leave somebody sharp in charge of it, somebody we'll have a hard time getting to. And the momentum will keep going his way. We need to stop that momentum now. That's why I've done a few things to stir the pot--things they won't be ready for."
"Yes, I hear that the Yakuza team is already on-station," said Laverna. "There was a dustup at the blackjack tables in the Fat Chance this afternoon--I think that may have been their work."
"Yes, I heard about that little ruckus," said Maxie. "I am taking your advice, by the way. None of my little plans can be traced to me--it's all going to look like somebody else's doing. I can just sit back and collect my regular percentage, and watch the sharks begin to circle around Jester's little empire. I think I'm going to enjoy this, Laverna."
"I hope you do, boss," said Laverna, but her expression suggested that she still saw trouble ahead. Of course, that was part of her job--anticipating trouble and finding ways to head it off. She wished that Maxie would stop finding ways to borrow trouble... but if Maxie had been like that, she wouldn't have needed someone like Laverna. They give you lemons, you make lemonade, thought Laverna, and went back to her book.
Phule stepped out of the hoverbus and into the front entrance of the Fat Chance Casino, leaving Sergeant Brandy to show the recruits to their quarters. He was followed by the chaplain, who ignored Brandy's icy stare and fell in behind the captain as if it were his place. Nothing had yet been said about Rev's nominal rank, so Brandy resisted the impulse to order him into line with the other new arrivals. There'd be time to talk to the captain when she'd finished her current job. After all, in the Omega Mob, a lot of the usual patterns of military life and protocol were--well, the only way to put it was different. Brandy liked it that way.
As he entered the casino, Rev cast a solemn eye upon the busy gambling tables, the scantily clad waitresses, the bustling bartenders, and the fevered patrons. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, conspicuous in their black Legion uniforms, were the guards--the ones he had been called to minister to. "This is my portion, then," he murmured to himself. "A chance to follow in the King's footsteps. Let me make the most of it." Then he said aloud to Phule, "Captain, I'll ask your permission to stop here for a while and meet the people I'll be serving. Plenty of time to find my quarters later."
Phule nodded, saying, "Sure, why not?" and Rev made a gesture that might have been mistaken for a salute before heading off into the crowd. Phule barely noticed the chaplain's departure; he had spotted Moustache striding purposefully toward him. "Yes, Sergeant, what's the situation?" he asked, as the older man fell in step beside him.
"Sushi's disappeared, sir," said Moustache, in his clipped, British accent. "The eyes spotted a pair of card cheats at one of the blackjack tables. Sushi and Do-Wop moved in to handle it; the man turned out to be a martial arts specialist, and they put up a bit of a fight."
"That's unusual," said Phule, his eyebrows rising. "Any injuries?"
"None reported, sir," Moustache said. "A bit of broken furniture, but that was replaced in no time at all."
"Well, that's good," said Phule. He stopped, and turned to face the older man. "How long ago was this?"
"Right after you left, sir," said the sergeant. "Coming up on forty minutes ago. After the first flurry, Sushi and the man left together. Sushi told Do-Wop he had things under control, but didn't give details. And he turned off his communicator as they left. We have the woman in custody--she turned tame as a puppy after the man stopped fighting--but she's not talking. I doubt she knows where they are, anyway. We certainly don't."
"Sushi turned off his communicator, you say?" A look of concern came over Phule's face. "That's not a smart move. I have faith in his judgment, but this..."
"I know what you mean, sir," said Moustache, grimly. "We can't always stick to procedures, but he should have given Mother a probable destination before dropping out of touch. I didn't see anything that justified that."
"What steps are we taking to locate him?"
"Very low-profile at present, sir," said Moustache. "Lieutenant Rembrandt was informed as soon as we learned of the incident. She ordered all personnel to report any sighting of either Sushi or the other man--so far no word. We're assuming that the other man could have taken control of Sushi's communicator, so we don't want to make a general broadcast that he might intercept."
"Is there any reason to believe that's the case?" asked Phule.
"None so far," said Moustache. "But you'd best talk to Rembrandt and Mother--they've been watching the situation develop ever since Sushi left the casino floor, and may know a fair amount they haven't passed on--the enemy may have ears."
"Yes, of course," said Phule. "Carry on, then, Sergeant--it looks as if you've done everything you could." He turned and headed for the comm center. If anyone knew anything more than Moustache, it would be Mother.
Neither he nor Moustache noticed the small figure in black that watched them from behind a large, potted Durdanian fern, then swiftly moved to follow Phule toward the elevator bank.
"These will be your quarters, for the time being," said Brandy, opening the door to a suite on the third floor of the hotel. One of Phule's innovations had been abandonment of the normal Legion barracks system. Almost immediately upon taking over the Omega Mob, he had moved the troops out of their quarters, lock, stock, and barrel, and checked them into the best hotel in town while the quarters were rebuilt to his specifications--which were, if anything, even more comfortable than the hotel. He hadn't seen any reason to change that policy here on Lorelei. Except for a few individuals engaged in undercover work outside the hotel, everyone in the company was in the best quarters the Fat Chance had to offer.
"This is good," said Rube, unshouldering his heavy pack and putting it on the floor. Dukes made a sound that the translator turned into a murmur of agreement. Brandy wasn't surprised. In his usual thorough research, Phule had satisfied himself that human-style beds would be suitable for Gambolt use. Otherwise, he would have spent whatever was necessary for sleeping arrangements as comfortable to the Gambolts as the best hotel beds were for the human troops in his command. It was Legion policy to give equal accommodations to troops of all races, but in most units that meant equal discomfort. In Phule's Company, it meant equal luxury, from top to bottom.
The smallest Gambolt, Garbo, stood looking around the room without speaking. Finally Garbo said, "Do all three of us have to share this room?"
"Why, is there a problem?" Brandy was taken aback. To the best of her knowledge, the Gambolts did not segregate troops by sex in their own units--Phule had been careful to determine that was the case--and in any case, they attached no social significance to males and females sharing quarters. So there had appeared to be no reason to set aside two suites for the new troops, when one large one was available. Besides, in a twenty-four-hour mission like casino security, it was common for roommates to end up on different schedules, with one needing to sleep while the others were up and active. The layout of the suite, with several separate rooms that could be closed off, took that possibility into account.
"Yes, there is a problem," said Garbo, turning to face her sergeant. "I joined this unit because I wanted to serve with humans, not to be set apart with others of my own kind. And here, at the very start, you are about to put me into quarters with the only others of my kind in your company. Isn't there anyplace else I can be housed?"
Brandy was surprised, but the request was reasonable. It was unusual for Gambolts to serve with anyone not of their own race. So it wasn't really surprising that a Gambolt who'd volunteered for a human outfit didn't want to be housed with her own kind. It was a far cry from being the strangest thing she'd run across in the Legion. In fact, to most Space Legion veterans, it would have been suspicious if there hadn't been something strange about a new batch of recruits...
"All right, I can fix that," Brandy said to the Gambolt. "But first, while we're here--Dukes and Rube, you two have an hour to unpack your things. At 1500 hours you'll report to Sergean
t Chocolate Harry at the supply depot to be outfitted. At 1600 hours, you and the other recruits will report to the Grand Ballroom for orientation and duty assignments. Understood?"
"Yes, Sergeant," the Gambolts said again.
"OK. Garbo, let's see if we can find you a room before 1500--I want everybody set up with rooms and duty assignments by then. It may mean you don't have time to get completely settled in until later. Understood?"
"Yes, Sergeant," said Garbo, shouldering her pack.
"Good," said Brandy. She thought to herself, They said these Gambolts make ideal soldiers. I wonder what's wrong with them that they ended up in the Omega Mob? She remembered Phule's determination to make his company an example of the Legion's true potential. Maybe these Gambolt recruits were the next step toward making that determination a reality. We'll find out soon enough, she thought, and headed down the corridor, with Garbo close behind.
Tusk-anini was perched on a stool near the entrance of the Fat Chance Casino when two humans in bad suits stepped up to him. Even Tusk-anini, who paid very little attention to human clothing styles, could tell that the suits were bad. Not only cheap and ill-fitting, but unattractive by design. They looked as ugly as the uniforms the Omega Company had worn before Phule's arrival.
"Excuse me, friend, can you direct us to the Fat Chance Casino?" said the taller of the two humans. He wasn't that much taller, but the difference in height was the only marked distinction between them. They had nondescript faces, mousy brown hair in nearly identical unflattering short cuts, and extremely unstylish dark glasses. They also carried identical briefcases, in a sort of grayish dark material that had come out of a vat in some chemical plant. The briefcases were almost the same noncommittal color as the suits.
"You standing in front of Fat Chance," said Tusk-anini, cautiously. While neither of the humans had done anything in particular to alarm him, he had a bad feeling about them. One thing the Volton had learned during his association with humans was that feelings could be trusted. In fact, they sometimes gave you better answers than the most rigorous logical analysis.
A Phule and his Money Page 2