Phule's Paradise Part 4

The two looked at their commander expectantly.

"Actually," he said slowly, staring at his notepad, "the recognition problem wasn't my major concern. Super Gnat should be okay, but ..." He hesitated, then shrugged and looked at his top sergeant directly. "I'm not quite as comfortable with you going under cover, Brandy. I had been counting on you to help me ride herd on the company while it was standing normal duty. The fact is, Chocolate Harry and Escrima have already volunteered, and the cadre roster is starting to look a little thin even if you stuck around. With you gone ..." He let his voice trail off, then shook his head.

"I can see where that might be a problem, Captain. But ..." Brandy hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "Can I speak candidly, sir?"

Phule nodded curtly.

"Well, you know how you got on my case when you first took over about being cynical and not trying? This is the first time in ... h.e.l.l, I don't know how many years now, that I've volunteered for anything. Now that I'm moving, I'd kinda like to see it through. I'm not sure if I'm trying to prove something to you or to myself, but I'd like to give it a shot."

The commander pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully at his pad again, then realized there was really nothing to decide. If it came to choosing between making things easier for himself or helping Brandy rebuild her self-esteem, there was only one choice that would be acceptable to him.

"All right," he said, raising his eyes to look at them directly. "We'll tentatively figure you both for undercover volunteers. I'm going to want to see a demonstration of this hair and makeup thing, though. Shall we say, tomorrow afternoon?"

"No problem, sir ... and thank you, sir."

The two women rose and saluted, turning toward the door only after their salute was returned.

"Just one more thing ... Super Gnat?"

The little Legionnaire paused at the doorway at the commander's words.

"Sir?"

"Have you discussed this with Tusk-anini? I don't mean to meddle, but he's very devoted to you."

At the mention of her partner, the Gnat's usual easy self-confidence wavered.

"I ... I know, sir ... And no, I haven't. I wanted to see if you figured I was acceptable first ... I'll go talk to him now. I think he'll understand. He may be devoted to me, but he practically worships you. You were the one who called for volunteers, and I'd be willing to bet he'd put his hand into a fire up to his elbow if you asked him to. He might not like my volunteering, but it'll be mostly because he can't volunteer himself. Give him some time and he'll get over it ... but even if he doesn't, he won't let it interfere with his performance."

Rather than being rea.s.sured, Phule again felt the pangs of discomfort at this testimonial.

"All right, Gnat. I'll leave it to you. Just let me know if-"

"Say, Captain ... Excuse me, Gnat."

Brandy had just poked her head in the door, interrupting the conversation.

"What is it, Top?"

"I was thinking about what you were saying-about being thin on cadre for normal duty. Anyway, it occurred to me that you might want to give Moustache a try as acting sergeant."

"Moustache?" The commander frowned, searching his memory.

"He got transferred in just before you did," Brandy supplied. "I'm not surprised you can't place him. He kind of blends in most of the time. It's my guess, though, that he's had some previous service time in the Regular Army, and probably as more than a line soldier."

"I'll keep that in mind, Brandy. Thanks!"

"You want me to get him for you? He's outside here in the volunteer line."

"That's all right. I'll handle him when his turn comes."

"So, anyway, I was thinking you might want to use me as a washroom attendant or a doorman, sir. I'd probably be a bit less conspicuous than most of the lads-what with my age and all."

Phule was studying the figure in front of him, noting details more than he was listening to the Legionnaire's words.

The man was above average height and barrel-chested, though his stern posture probably exaggerated both features. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball, except for the bright red handlebar moustache which dominated his face and gave him his Legion name. It occurred to Phule that that facial ornament was doubtlessly dyed, since, judging by the man's age as stated in his file, it should be white. As it was, the only clue to Moustache's advanced years was the wrinkled skin of his neck ... but even that wasn't noticeable unless one was actually looking for it.

"Hmmm?" The commander blinked, suddenly realizing the Legionnaire had reached the end of his statement and was waiting for a response. "Excuse me, Moustache. My mind was wandering for a second there. Actually I was thinking ... are you sure you want to volunteer for undercover work? You ... um... seem much more at home in a uniform."

It was a clumsy gambit, but Phule was getting tired and was hard-pressed to find a tactful way around the Legion rule against inquiring into a Legionnaire's history prior to his or her enlistment. Fortunately Moustache made the job easy.

"Found me out, did you, sir?" he said, breaking into a sudden smile. "Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time before it came out. Secrets don't last long in an outfit as tight as this one."

"Is that to say that you've had military experience prior to your signing on with the s.p.a.ce Legion?" the commander urged.

"You might say that, sir. Nearly forty years in the Regular Army before they gave me the boot-forced retirement, that is."

Startled, Phule glanced at the man's folder again. By the record Moustache was well on in his years, but if he had been in the Regular Army for nearly forty years, then he must be at least ...

"Before you say anything, sir, I did shave a few years off my birthday when I filled out my enlistment papers. While the Legion is reputed to accept all applicants, I didn't want to take the risk of being turned down."

"You were really that eager to join up?"

"Frankly, sir, it was my last hope. You see, sir, when they retired me from the Regular Army, it didn't take long to find out there wasn't much of a place for me in civilian life. I was way too old to go into police work, and bein' a night watchman always struck me as a race to see which gathered dust and cobwebs faster: the guard or the stuff he was supposed to be guarding."

"I suppose just taking it easy and enjoying your retirement wasn't included on your list of options?"

"Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely," the Legionnaire snorted. "The Army always kept me busy-until one of their computers started counting up my birthdays, that is. After years of keeping the lads busy, with 'make-work' a.s.signments, the idea of just doing nothing sounded uncomfortably like being dead. I mean, sir, inactive is inactive, whether you're sittin' in a rocker or six feet under."

"It sounds like you had some rank before you retired," Phule observed cautiously.

"Let's just say I was a noncom and leave it at that, sir. I've been trying not to make a big thing of my experience. Seen too many new blokes to an outfit come in ringing the mission bell and preaching to the heathens how they should be doing things. The noncoms you have seem to be doing a right good job, especially since you got them back on track. Truth is, it's been a bit of a treat for me to be back in the ranks-letting others do the thinking and just following orders."

"I see," Phule said, then reached for his notepad. "Well, Moustache, I'm afraid your vacation is over, as of now. I'm refusing your offer as a volunteer, and instead am a.s.signing you duty as an acting sergeant for this a.s.signment. We'll see about making it permanent when it's all over."

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

The Legionnaire snapped into a rigid, parade-ground salute, but Phule did not return it immediately.

"Just one more thing, Moustache. Excuse me for asking, but exactly what is that accent you have, anyway?"

"Holo-movie, sir," the Legionnaire said, flashing another quick smile. "I never could master the Southern American drawl that's so popular with noncoms, so I settled for the next best thing. Studied every war holo I could find with a proper British sergeant major in it. It may not be authentic, but after forty years, it's habitual ... sir!"

And so it went, hour after hour, volunteer after volunteer.

True to Becker's prediction, even with making an extra effort to keep the interviews brief, it was late even by Phule's standards when the last Legionnaire had been dealt with. Finally alone, he tried to review his notes, but set them aside with a sigh when his eyes refused to focus.

He didn't really need to read the list to confirm what he already knew. While he had more than enough volunteers for a full complement, there was one name missing from the roster, one he had been counting on since receiving the a.s.signment.

Glancing at his watch, he debated briefly over whether he should call it a night and deal with this problem in the morning. At this hour, the Legionnaire in question would probably already be asleep, and ...

With a conscious effort, the commander accepted a mental compromise. He'd just make a casual walk-by of the Legionnaire's room and then, if the lights were out, he'd get some sleep himself.

"Come in, Captain. I've been expecting you."

Sushi set aside the book he had been reading and beckoned his commander through the open door and into a chair.

"Sorry to be calling so late," Phule managed, sinking into the offered seat, "but there were a lot of volunteers for the new duty-more than I expected, really."

"More than you need?"

"Well ... yes and no," the commander hedged, glancing around the room. "Where's your partner?"

"Do-Wop? He headed into town to do a little celebrating. Late as it is, I expect he won't be back until morning."

"Good, good," Phule said absently. Now that he had found Sushi, he wasn't quite sure what to say to him. "I, um ... wanted to talk to you."

"Let me make this easy for you, Captain," the Legionnaire said, holding up a hand. "You want to know why I didn't volunteer. Right?"

"Well ... yes. If it isn't prying, that is. I would have thought the a.s.signment would be a natural for you. Considering ..."

He let his voice trail off, leaving unsaid what was already common knowledge between the two of them.

Phule knew Sushi-or, at least, had a pa.s.sing acquaintance with him-from before their respective enlistments in the s.p.a.ce Legion. They had traveled in the same, or similar, circles, both coming from exceptionally wealthy families. Phule also knew, as did a few in the company, that Sushi was an embezzler and that most of the money he had stolen had gone to finance a pa.s.sion for casino gambling.

"I should think the answer is obvious." Sushi shrugged. "I'm a compulsive gambler. I love high-stakes risks the way an alcoholic loves a bottle. That was bad enough when the only thing to lose was my own money and reputation-or that of my family's company, as it turned out-but to have our company's reputation riding on my control ..." He shook his head. "I just think it would be safer all around if I stood normal duty and avoided the tables completely. The only sure way I've found to stop gambling is not to start."

Phule leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment, frowning thoughtfully.

"This is a volunteer mission," he said finally, "and I wouldn't want to frog-march you into it, Sushi, particularly not if it means asking you to go against a decision you've made for your own good. The problem is ... let's face it, you're probably the only one in the company who really knows casinos as a gambler. I had been hoping you'd take the role of one of those high rollers-the big-stakes players that the casinos give red-carpet treatment to. You could move around openly with more freedom than the team members we infiltrate into the staff, since they will be pretty much limited to those areas defined by their jobs, plus you'd have a better feel for normal operations and when there was anything going on at the tables that warranted closer inspection."

"Sounds like you were counting on me as one of your main spotters," Sushi said, chewing his lip slightly.

"I was," Phule admitted. "But, still, I can understand your reluctance. I'll just have to figure out some other way to-"

"Don't bother, Captain," Sushi interrupted. "I'll do it on one condition. If I feel like I'm losing control, or if in your personal opinion I'm plunging too hard, you'll pull me out of there, even if it means locking me in my room with a guard to keep me away from the tables. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Phule nodded with a smile. "Okay. That's a load off my mind. Let's see ... you'll need a bankroll to play with ... shall we say, a hundred thousand for starters?"

"Excuse me, Captain, but if-and I stress if-I happen to come out ahead, who gets the profits?"

"Well ... I hadn't given it much thought, but I suppose if you're gambling out of the company fund, then any winnings should go back into that fund."

"In that case," Sushi said, flashing a schoolboy's grin, "I think I'll provide my own bankroll, if you don't mind. I did squirrel away a few dollars before I enlisted, in case of just such a rainy day."

CHAPTER FOUR.

Journal # 197.

I will not attempt to chronicle the endless details involved in packing up the company for relocation. For one thing, they are boring and tedious; for another, they contribute little to the account of this particular a.s.signment. Perhaps most important, however, is the simple factor that I was not present for those proceedings. Let it suffice to say that knowing my employer's habit of wanting to put his personal stamp on everything, and Lieutenant Armstrong's tendency to be overly formal and by the book when carrying out orders, however minor, I'm rather glad I was elsewhere at the time, at least until I observed the condition of my employer's wardrobe after having left it to someone else's care.

I, of course, was occupied elsewhere, specifically on the planet Jewell, a.s.sisting Lieutenant Rembrandt in her efforts to find and recruit the actors necessary to replace those Legionnaires who would be working under cover for this a.s.signment.

As I find is often the case with higher executives, my employer had grossly underestimated, or simply chosen to ignore, the difficulties involved with performing a specific task delegated to a subordinate, choosing instead to lump all his a.s.sistance and advice into the brief phrase "Just do it. Okay? Make it happen!" While this may be a successful method for said executive to shift the bulk of the responsibility for a task off his own shoulders, it effectively leaves the designated subordinate to, as they say, "twist in the wind," bearing the brunt of the blame for the methodology, as well as the results, of their efforts.

With my humble a.s.sistance, however, Lieutenant Rembrandt had completed her a.s.signment prior to the company's arrival on Jewell, or, should I say, completed most of it.

Phule barely recognized his senior lieutenant as he disembarked from the shuttle at the Jewell s.p.a.ceport. In fact, he might have missed her completely had she not been standing next to Beeker in the waiting area.

Rembrandt had forsaken her usual long-braided ponytail, and her dark brown hair now hung loosely almost halfway down her back. There was no sign of her customary black Legionnaires uniform, either, as she was dressed in a deceptively simple white blouse and dark skirt combination, topped off with a camel-colored sweater worn over her shoulders like a cape, with the arms tied loosely around her neck. Her wardrobe, combined with the stack of folders she was hugging with both arms and the pencil stuck behind her ear, gave her the appearance of the young a.s.sistant of someone in some branch of the entertainment field-which was, of course, what she was striving for.

"Lieutenant ... Beeker," Phule said, coming to a halt in front of them. "That's a new look for you, isn't it, Rembrandt?"

Rembrandt's normally pale complexion suddenly exploded with a bright pink blush.

"Sorry, sir. Becker said ... I mean, I felt ... Well, you said we shouldn't let anyone know I was with the s.p.a.ce Legion, so I thought ..."

"Whoa! Stop the music!" the commander said, holding up a restraining hand. "There's no need to apologize, Lieutenant. I was just teasing you a little. You look fine ... really. In fact, you look exceptionally good in that outfit. You should wear skirts more often."

Rather than looking relieved, Rembrandt's blush deepened to the approximate red of a tomato in a seed catalog.

"Thank you, sir," she mumbled, averting her eyes. "Beeker helped pick it out."

Painfully aware that his efforts to lighten the mood were only making matters worse, Phule cast around desperately for a change in subject.

"So ... what have you got for me there?" he said, looking pointedly at the folders Rembrandt was clutching.

"These are the resumes of the actors and my notes on them for your review, sir," the lieutenant said, gratefully slipping into the more familiar military mode as she thrust her load at her commander.