The shorter human looked up and noticed the sign and said, "Yes, so we are." Now that he heard the voice, Tusk-anini realized that the shorter one was a female, a fact that the baggy suit and short haircut did much to conceal from the casual glance.
The man spoke again, "Are you a casino employee?"
"Yes, I am," said Tusk-anini--not quite truthfully, for while the legionnaires had been brought to Lorelei to guard the casino, they had always been freelance contractors, not regular employees. Now, of course, as a member of Phule's Company Tusk-anini was in fact a part-owner of the Fat Chance. A comparatively small part-owner, since every member of Phule's Company also had shares, but put together the Omega Mob was the majority stockholder.
"You're just the sophont we need to talk to, then," said the man. "We're trying to gather information on the operation here. We'd like you to answer a few questions."
"Asking anything you want. I answer what I may," said the Volton cautiously. He had begun to wonder whether these two humans were from a competing casino, or from one of the criminal organizations the Legion was here to guard against. His eyes narrowed, giving his warthog-like face an even fiercer expression than normal.
"Maybe I should rephrase that," said the man. He pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal a holo-ID, which he held up a few inches from Tusk-anini's snout. Above his picture (which miraculously made him look even less attractive than he was in person) were the initials IRS; below it was written Roger Peele, Special Agent. "We're in receipt of information to the effect that your employer is failing to report substantial amounts of income," said Special Agent Peele. "If you impede a lawful investigation, you're guilty of conspiracy to defraud a government agency. That's a serious offense, in case you didn't know it."
Tusk-anini abruptly stood up. This brought him to his full height, nearly seven feet tall, and put his enormous barrel chest nearly at eye level for the two humans. "You ask me betray Captain Jester!" he accused. "Tusk-anini no do that! Not right to betray the captain."
"Easy now, friend--you're looking at this all wrong," said the woman in a calm voice. "We appreciate your loyalty to your commander--that's what makes the military work. But sometimes you have to look beyond that to a higher loyalty. Your captain has to report to his generals, and they report to civilian authorities. The Interstellar Revenue System is part of that civilian authority, a very important part of it. It's your duty to cooperate with us."
"If captain say it my duty, I do it," said Tusk-anini. "He not say it, I not do it. You go away now." He took a step forward. His powerful physique and staring eyes made him a menacing figure. The two IRS agents involuntarily stepped backward.
"Very well," snarled Special Agent Peele. "We have more than one way to find out what we want. And you'd better hope your own nose is clean--because if it's not, you'll be in the same trouble as your captain."
"You call my nose dirty?" roared Tusk-anini, and at that the two IRS agents backed off still another step. "You go away and leave captain alone," he repeated.
"We've come here to do a job, the same as you," said the woman. "We're not going anywhere until we've finished it. When we do, it'll go better for you if you're on the right side, friend."
"Tusk-anini know what side he on," growled the Volton. "You not on captain's side, you not my friend. I no like people who call me friend when they not." He took another step forward, and this time the two IRS agents turned and hurried away.
"Captain! You're just in time--you won't believe what's happened now."
Phule was hurrying down an inside corridor to the company's command and communications headquarters to learn what progress was being made in the search for Sushi and the mysterious man he had disappeared with. But he turned at the sound of Dee Dee Watkins's voice. He already knew that her problems usually required far more time and energy than they really deserved. But to ignore Dee Dee was to risk escalating the problem. "Yes, Miss Watkins?" he said, trying his best to look concerned.
The tiny blonde entertainer was standing with her hands on her hips, looking as if she were prepared to challenge the entire fighting strength of Phule's Company if it stood between her and what she wanted. Considering that she was wearing a little girl's flowered pinafore and had her hair up in pigtails, her ability to project an air of menace was no small accomplishment. Perhaps she had some future as an actress after all, Phule thought to himself.
"Take a look for yourself," she said. "Lex has me wearing this ridiculous costume for the big closing number, all because he's jealous of me, and he's trying to sabotage my career."
Phule looked at the costume more closely. While it was clearly not designed to emphasize Dee Dee's major assets, it more than made up in cuteness what it lacked in sex appeal. Even then, it fit snugly in the right places, and displayed a very satisfactory length of leg...
He made himself focus on the starlet's face. "I'm sorry, Miss Watkins, I'm afraid my military duties have eaten up too much of my time for me to keep up with what's happening on the artistic side of the operation. If you're asking my personal opinion, I don't think you look at all ridiculous in the costume, but of course I'm no expert."
Dee Dee's frown deepened, "Well, Captain, I'm disappointed. If you'd try..."
Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a shout of "Stop him!"
Before Phule could turn to see what the commotion was about, a small, dark-clad figure dashed out of a doorway leading back to the casino and cut directly between Phule and the actress, knocking them both off balance. A pair of uniformed legionnaires burst out of the same doorway at full speed. Somehow, they managed to avoid Dee Dee, but in the process they crashed into one another. One bounced off the wall and caught his balance against a small, potted frogwood tree, but the other went down--catching Phule directly in the legs. Dee Dee let out a piercing shriek as the captain landed on the floor.
"Oh my God. Captain, I'm sorry, sir," said the legionnaire who'd bounced off the potted plant. He rushed to help Phule upright, making little brushing motions as if to clean off the captain's uniform.
The legionnaire who'd knocked Phule down looked up with a dazed expression. His gaze paused for a moment on Dee Dee's legs, but quickly moved upward when he realized whom he'd decked in his rush. He clambered quickly to his feet and stood at attention. " 'Pologies, Cap'n," he said.
"No damage done, men," said Phule, looking at the legionnaires. "Gabriel, what's this all about?" he asked the one who'd helped him to his feet.
"We spotted a spy, sir," said Gabriel. "Right here in the Fat Chance."
"Gab'l sayin' truth, Cap'n," said the other. Phule recognized him as Street, Gabriel's partner--a lean, tough man from the slums of Rockhall. He could speak fairly good Standard, but when he got excited--as he was now--his accent was so thick Phule could barely understand him. "He comin' this way when we spot him. Bet for sure be followin' you."
"He might be an assassin, sir," said Gabriel, grim-faced.
"An assassin?" Phule scoffed. "I doubt it. For one thing, whoever that was you were chasing had a perfect chance to do me in not thirty seconds ago, and didn't. What makes you think he was a spy, anyway?"
"Not so hard figurin' that out," said Street. "He the wrong species--ain't no little lizards in the company. Got humans, got Tusk-anini, got a couple Synthians, hear we got some cats now. No lizards, Cap'n."
"Maybe he was a customer," said Phule, still dubious.
"Why he wearin' our uniform, then?" asked Street. "He spyin', you bet all you money on that."
Phule frowned. He hadn't gotten a close look at the small figure that darted past him before he'd been knocked down, but it did have a distinct resemblance to a meter-high lizard--and it had been wearing Legion black. Perhaps Headquarters had sent an observer to keep an eye on him without letting him know...
"Well, he's gotten away for the moment," Phule said. "You two men return to your posts, and keep your eyes open. I'll tell Mother to alert everyone for
a possible intruder, and..."
"Got it already, darlin'," came the voice from his wrist communicator. "Small lizardlike alien in Legion uniform on the loose--that shouldn't be too hard to spot."
"Good," said Phule, musing. Hearing Rose's description of the intruder set something itching in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite pin it down... Well, he'd figure it out soon enough. Meanwhile, he asked, "Any word on Sushi's whereabouts?"
"Nothin' we can use, sweetie, but we've got other news. We found out we'd recorded his conversation with the man he fought. It's in Japanese, but we've run it through a translator. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but Lieutenant Rembrandt's all in a sweat--the poor girl thinks Sushi might be about to defect. Listen to this and see what you think."
Phule lifted the wrist communicator to his ear, and the recording started, but as he began to concentrate on it, Dee Dee stamped her foot. "Well! I come to you with a problem, and what happens? First, two of your men nearly knock me down, and then you act as if I'm not even here. I'll have you know..."
Phule's concentration broke, and he looked down at Dee Dee, whose frown was deeper than ever. "Excuse me, Miss Watkins, I was listening to an intelligence report. If you'll give me one moment..."
"Give you a moment? Why, you haven't given me so much as the time of day! Lex is trying to ruin my act, and all you have to say is..."
"Captain, is trouble happening," said Tusk-anini, coming around a bend in the corridor. He hurried up, ignoring the fuming Dee Dee and said, "Two humans looking for you--they try make me tell them things, but I no talk. I think they want make trouble."
"Trouble? What makes you think that?" Phule knew that anything that worried the usually taciturn Volton had to be serious.
"They show me identification, say IRS," said Tusk-anini. "I don't know what that means, but Gnat tell me it big trouble, so I come tell you."
"IRS?" Phule repeated. "They can't have anything on me--my records are immaculate. Beeker knows more about tax law than the people that wrote it."
"Captain! I'm not going to stand here and be ignored," said Dee Dee in a voice that could have frozen the swimming pool in the hotel across the street.
"Yo, sucker, you the boss here? We been lookin' for your ass," said a gruff voice from a medium distance. Three large humans came down the corridor, practically filling it. Two of them were males, to judge from the long, unruly beards. All three were wearing denim and leather covered with metal studs, chains, and patches. Their bare arms showed a variety of tattoos, but they had in common a large red "R" with blazing jets on either side. The man in the middle was almost as large as Tusk-anini. He wore a German-style helmet on his head, a brass ring in his nose, and several more in each ear--one in the shape of a human skull. They swaggered up and stopped in front of Phule, the leader (or so he appeared to be) less than an arm's length away from the captain.
Phule pulled himself up straight and said, "As you can see, I'm speaking to this young lady. I'll be glad to listen to you people as soon as I'm done with her." He turned back to Dee Dee, who had fallen silent upon seeing the three newcomers.
"Tryin' to get it on with the fox, huh?" The big man sneered. "That jive can wait--we got serious business. You know a cheap punk name of Chocolate Harry?"
"Chocolate Harry no cheap punk," growled Tusk-anini, moving in to stand at Phule's side. "And you talk polite to captain, or you not like what happens next."
The three newcomers laughed. "Listen to the warthog," said the woman--her voice was deep and rough, but unquestionably female. "He thinks he can tell the Renegades how to talk, he got another think comin'."
"So--you're the Renegades," Phule said. He'd heard C.H.'s tale of how a rival biker gang had vowed vengeance for some long-ago injury, but had never taken seriously the likelihood that they would actually track down his supply sergeant. Apparently he'd miscalculated.
"Damn straight, soldier boy," said the big man. "Us and a few hundred others is the Renegades, and we're looking for Chocolate Harry. Sounds to me like you and the warthog just might know where he is."
"If we do, it's none of your business," said Phule. "He's a legionnaire, and you'd be better advised to forget whatever disagreement you have with him. We protect our own."
"Your own?" The woman spat on the floor, then grinned crookedly; Phule could see that she was missing several teeth. "You can call him your own, but his fat ass is ours, soldier boy. And you know what we gonna do when we get it?"
"We gonna slice it three ways," said the big man, leering evilly.
The third man spoke for the first time, in a rasping low voice made even more sinister by his absolute deadpan delivery. "We gonna cut it deep, wide, and often." He patted a sheath on the belt of his jeans, where the handle of a vibroblade could be seen.
"You not getting close enough to do that," said Tusk-anini, and as he spoke, a loud whistle came from behind the three Renegades. They whirled to see Moustache standing there, backed by half a dozen legionnaires brandishing Rolling Thunder belt-fed shotguns. "You go now before we getting mad," said the Volton.
"Shit," said the big man, half under his breath. Then he turned to Phule and said, "We got no fight with you, soldier boy. Tell your kids to put away the toys--we're not gonna start nothin' now. But make sure Chocolate Harry knows we've got him spotted, and he can't hide no more."
The three Renegades turned as one, and strode out past the assembled troops, managing to keep up an impressive front in the face of so much firepower. When they had gone, Phule let out the deep breath he'd been holding. If the bikers had decided to grab him and Dee Dee as hostages, the shotguns would have been of little use. But for now, the threat was defused.
"Captain! Now, about this costume!" Dee Dee's voice snapped him back to reality. It was beginning to look like a very long afternoon.
Chapter 3
Journal #285
Command of a military unit is no sinecure, even in the notoriously lax Space Legion. Put in command of a unit that had become a dumping ground for malcontents and incompetents, my employer knew he faced a formidable task in making anything of it--let alone an elite company. That he had accomplished as much as he had spoke highly of his determination. It goes without saying that the accomplishment was achieved at no small personal cost--especially considering that much of what he had accomplished had been opposed at every step by his superior officers.
As became apparent, his successes on Lorelei only gave his enemies more reason to hate him.
General Blitzkrieg stomped into his office. It was shaping up as another rotten day. There had been a lot of those lately--it was almost enough to make him opt for early retirement and accept the lower pension as fair trade for the aggravation. But he wasn't about to be eased out of the saddle. Not while his purpose remained unfulfilled.
"Here are your news printouts, sir," said his aide, a tired-looking major who'd held the position for three years. Being aide-de-camp to one of the three top generals in the Space Legion had looked like a brilliant career move a few years earlier: an ideal shortcut to promotion for an ambitious officer with neither political connections, personal wealth, nor military talent. But Major Sparrowhawk had been second-guessing her decision to take the assignment ever since. She handed the sheaf of customized, automatically-edited flimsies to the general. Most senior officers got their intelligence straight off the Net, but Blitzkrieg was a stickler for the ancient print technology--"good old hard copy," as he called it.
The general riffled through the printouts, and threw them into the trash. "Nothing worth a damn," he growled, and turned to go into his inner office.
Sparrowhawk cleared her throat. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I've been sorting your news printouts for you for the entire time I've been here. For the last year or so, you hardly glance at them before you throw them away. Perhaps I need to redefine the sort, or expand the coverage. What are you looking for that isn't showing up?"
Blitzkrieg stopped and scowled at his aide, who
began to regret asking. "Don't you know by now? I'm waiting to see if that damned Captain Jester has finally done something I can cashier him for. You won't have to expand your coverage to find that--sooner or later, the idiot is bound to commit a blunder that'll put him in the headlines galaxy-wide, and I'll give him what he deserves. And then I can retire, knowing I've done the Legion a service for which my successors will be forever grateful."
"I thought as much, sir," said Sparrowhawk. Her brows knitted for a moment, then she said, "I think you might want to take another look through those flimsies, then. There's an article there I had to look at twice myself--it wasn't immediately obvious why your search parameters turned it up. But I think you'll find it very interesting indeed."
"Really?" Blitzkrieg bent over and retrieved the printouts from the trash. He flipped through them again, this time more slowly. His expression became more and more puzzled. Finally he looked up at Sparrowhawk and said, "Major, if you think I enjoy guessing games, you don't know me very well. What's the story, and why would I be interested?"
"The third one down, sir," she said, secretly pleased that the general had overlooked it twice. "The one about the new government on Landoor."
"Hmmm..." The general scanned the article, but his perplexity grew, and at last he held it up accusingly. "There's nothing about Jester here, Major."
"No, sir," said Major Sparrowhawk, patiently. She knew she'd have to explain it to him--Blitzkrieg's rise to the top of the Space Legion had nothing to do with intellectual eminence. "Do you remember the episode that first brought Jester--he went by the name 'Scaramouche' then--to your attention?"
"Damned right I remember it, Major," growled Blitzkrieg. "The ignorant pup talked a pilot into strafing the signing of a peace treaty. Luckily there was enough warning for everyone on the ground to get to cover--or maybe not so luckily. A few casualties, and we'd have put Jester behind bars."
A Phule and his Money Page 3