A Phule and His Money

14

Journal #410

The first roller coaster on Landoor was built by an unemployed mining engineer, J.T. Dressage. Inspired by seeing youths in the mining towns taking daredevil rides on abandoned mine railroad cars, he purchased a quantity of track at salvage prices. Borrowing the money to buy a plot of land outside Landoor City, he built a ramshackle wooden trestle, and opened his ride-"the Daredevil." It caught the fancy of the public and, within a short time, Dressage had not only paid off his debts, but purchased fifty acres of adjacent land and expanded his operation to become the first of Landoor's theme parks.

The success of Dressage Park caught the eyes of several small businessmen, who pooled their savings and set up a rival operation south of the city-Dunes Park, with an even wider range of rides and attractions. Within a few years, no Landooran considered a vacation complete without a visit to one of the Atlantis theme parks. Indeed, they were the first enterprises on the planet developed without the participation of the Moguls. They (and the smaller parks that sprang up in their wake) thus became an important symbol of national pride to the Landoorans-the working people to whom the Moguls were alien princes with no roots in their world. This image was confirmed when the Moguls decamped to greener pastures and left Landoor to the Landoorans.

At that point, Landoor found itself with all the circuses it could ask for. But as they soon realized, there was a desperate shortage of bread. And therein lay the seeds of revolution...

The trail took Phule's group and their guards on a mildly strenuous hike through dense, steaming jungle, in which the occasional Earth-origin tree or animal could be spotted. (The original settlers appeared to have brought along a fair supply of parrots-or possibly a few escaped breeding pairs had been sufficient to start a population explosion.) The contrast between the slightly purplish local foliage and the brighter green Terran-import leaves made the walk unusually picturesque-although not quite enough so for Phule to stop worrying about his reception at trail's end.

At last, the trail crossed a little stream on stepping stones, and on the other side was the guerilla camp. Phule thought to himself that the camp was completely vulnerable to an air attack. Given the government's manifest eagerness to put the rebels out of business, the fact that they hadn't done so was proof of how thoroughly they had been disarmed.

There were a good number of two-person tents in camouflage colors-obviously off-planet in origin, since the hues clashed with the local vegetation. Open cooking fires were scattered at intervals among them. Here and there were small groups of armed men and women, sitting on the ground or engaged in various tasks, from cooking to construction of larger, more permanent buildings. There was nothing resembling a consistent uniform, although many appeared to have adopted the red bandanna as a quasiofficial badge.

Buster pointed to the center of the clearing, where a large tent stood next to an improvised pole bearing a colorful flag, different from the one flying over the government buildings: the rebel flag, no doubt. "That-a-way," he said. Phule and his group followed, drawing curious stares from the groups of rebels they passed on their way through the camp.

The main tent had an awning protecting a folding table at which sat a lean man with a fringe of stringy gray hair beneath a field cap. He wore the closest thing to a real uniform that Phule had seen so far, although it bore no recognizable insignia. He looked up as Buster herded Phule and his companions into the shade of the tent. "Who's this?" he said, squinting at the newcomers.

"Found 'em out in the woods," said Buster. "They drove right up in a hovercar, asked to see you. So here they are."

"Have they been searched or questioned?" said the man, looking at the uniformed legionnaires.

"Nah, they weren't showin' no hardware, so we just brought 'em in," said Buster. "Like I say, this guy in the front wanted to talk to you."

"This is an inexcusable lapse in security," said the rebel leader-for that was obviously what he was. "If these men had been carrying concealed weapons..."

"Oh, give us a break, will ya?" said Buster, with a sweeping gesture. "Look at these jaspers and tell me any of 'em has the brass to sneak in a weapon. Minute they pull it, they's gonna be buzzard meat even if they do get a few of us. They look like the suicidal type to you?"

"Perhaps not, but we have security procedures for a reason," said the leader. "This is not the first time you have shown a lack of judgment..."

"I think he showed excellent judgement in bringing us directly to you," Phule interrupted. "I think you will find what I have to say very interesting-and very much to your advantage."

"And you are?" asked the rebel leader, glaring at Phule.

"Captain Jester, Space Legion," said Phule, with a little nod. "With me is Chaplain Rev, as well as my chauffeur and my personal butler. And whom am I speaking to?"

"A chauffeur and a butler, eh?" said the rebel leader. "And a chaplain, too. That's a first, for sure-most people who come looking for me bring along an infantry brigade or so." Belatedly, remembering that Phule had asked his name, he puffed up his chest and said, "I am Le Duc Taep, Provisional President of the Restored Republic of New Atlantis."

"Ah, then I am speaking to the right man," said Phule. "Mr. President, I have come to show you how to win your revolution."

"What did you say?" said Le Duc Taep. He looked at Phule's uniform again. "Aren't you from the peacekeeping team?"

"That is correct. In fact, I am its commanding officer," said Phule, smiling broadly.

"You!" Le Duc Taep rose to his feet and pointed at Phule, "You are the officer formerly known as Captain Scaramouche?"

Phule's smile didn't waver. "Mr. President, perhaps you aren't familiar with our Legion traditions. A legionnaire's previous identity is unimportant. Even when a member has been..."

"You are Scaramouche!" shouted Le Duc Taep. He turned to Buster and the guards and exclaimed, "Seize him!"

"Salutations, Lieutenant Strongarm!" Flight Leftenant Qual came bouncing into Comm Central, located in the penthouse suite of the Landoor Plaza.

Armstrong looked up from the printout he was scanning. "Good morning, Qual. What's the good word?"

"If you mean news of Captain Clown, I am afraid the word is a bad one," said Qual. "Or no word at all, to be more exact. Have you received intelligence of him?"

"Heard nothing," said Tusk-anini, stationed behind a bank of electronic intelligence monitors. "Best guess is rebels holding captain prisoner."

"This comes of acting like the hero of some holodrama," said Armstrong. He slapped the printout down on the desktop with a degree of force that underscored his frustration. "Going out to find the rebel camp was like asking to be taken prisoner. We can only hope the rebels have sense enough to keep him alive. As long as he's alive, at least we've got a chance to rescue him."

"Well spoken, Strongarm," said Qual. "With resources of this company, such should be within ready capability. But a clever plan must be made before commencing, no?"

"Before even that, we have to figure out where the rebels are," said Armstrong. "Of course, the captain went squiring off without bothering to leave an itinerary. I suppose he went out and followed his nose, so maybe we could find them the same way. But even if we find their main camp, there's no guarantee the captain's there..."

"No, but that a good place to start," said Tusk-anini. "We find rebel camp, then good chance we also find somebody know where captain is."

"Tusk-anini speaks reason," said Qual, flashing his allosaurus grin. "You dispatch your best jungle scouts, and when you find the rebel camp, you will find Captain Clown."

"Best jungle scouts," mused Armstrong. "Now there's a specialty we haven't had to identify before. The Gambolts would probably be good at that. Who else...?"

"Yours truly was hatched and nurtured in an environment not dissimilar to this world's, I hasten to inform you," said Qual. "I would eagerly volunteer to direct such a hazarding, if you wish to make use of my native competencies."

Armstrong rubbed his chin, then said, "I'd have to run that past Lieutenant Rembrandt-she's officially in command in the captain's absence. The question would be whether a foreign officer should lead Legion troops."

"If Qual best for doing job, why he not do it?" asked Tusk-anini.

Armstrong shook his head. "That's your problem, Tusk-anini: You've never really understood why we in the military have to do things a certain way..."

"Understand perfectly," grunted Tusk-a-nini. "Too polite to say what think about it."

"I admire your support, Voltonish friend," Qual said, grinning. "But Lieutenant Strongarm is correct. Shackle of command must be followed. We shall request approval of this plan from Lieutenant Rembrandt. Perhaps, though, it is best to approach her with a fully realized stratagem. Oh Layer-of-Eggs, do our computers indicate which legionnaires are from planets similar to this in terrain?"

"aghidpgtie," said Mother, who had been doing her best to ignore the presence of others in her work area until addressed directly. But she began punching search parameters into her keyboard, and soon Qual and Armstrong were working on the tentative rescue plan. It was a wild idea, even for the Omega Mob, but as he reviewed the plan, Armstrong began to think it might work...

"What are you waiting for?" shouted Le Duc Taep, pointing at Phule. "Seize him!" There was a stunned moment of silence in the rebel camp.

"Uh, do you mean that like literally, Taep?" said Buster, scratching his jawbone below the right ear. "We pretty much got him in hand, y'know. You want us to hog-tie him or somethin'?"

"Secure him so he can't escape, you idiots!" shouted Le Duc Taep, stepping around the folding table. "This man is one of the greatest enemies of the revolution!"

The guards raised their weapons, suddenly looking alert. Buster stepped over and put a hand on Phule's shoulder. "Don't you or your friends try nothing funny, OK? If Taep's tellin' the truth, you might be in a good bit o' trouble."

"I fail to see how that's so," said Phule, returning Le Duc Taep's gaze. "Even if I admitted being Captain Scaramouche-which I haven't-my position within the Federation peacekeeping force gives me diplomatic immunity. It would be very unwise to interfere with me in the course of my duties."

"Unwise?" said Le Duc Taep. He sneered. "There is wisdom, and there is satisfaction. I mean to have my satisfaction, and whatever follows I will take in stride."

"Now, just a minute, Taep," said Buster, leaning on the butt of his weapon. "Your satisfaction is dandy, but so far I ain't heard what's in it for the grunts. Say we execute this bird, and the Federation sends in a battle cruiser to vamp on us. What do the kids out there get in the way of satisfaction while they're dodgin' the assault lasers and pocket nukes?"

"They will have helped punish the greatest enemy of New Atlantis!" replied Le Duc Taep, but some of the bluster had gone out of his voice.

"Really?" said Buster. The way he said it, the word rhymed with silly. He paused before continuing. "Seems to me there's a few guys sittin' in Government House back in Landoor City that fill them shoes better than this here fella. Then again, maybe he has done somethin' worth risking that battle cruiser for to get back at him. But you still ain't told us what it is."

"That's right, Taep," said a guard, and another chimed in with, "Yeah, what's he done?"

Le Duc Taep pointed at Phule. "This is the man who ordered the scurrilous attack on the peace conference, further humiliating us at the moment of our capitulation!"

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," said Buster. "You and the other brass got your pants singed pretty good, didn't you?" He turned to Phule. "He tellin' the truth?"

"Well..." Phule began, "I think I should point out that nobody was killed..."

Rev put his hand on Phule's shoulder. "Y'know, there's more to this situation than meets the eyeball."

"What say?" said Buster, frowning. "Seems to me, either he done it or he didn't."

"He did do it," said Le Duc Taep, his confidence returning. "Otherwise, he'd simply deny it."

"You got a good point there," said Buster. "But let me hear this other bird's point he's tryin' to make."

"Why, thank ye, sonny," said Rev. "What I'd like to say here is, a fellow can be different things, and what he used to be ain't necessarily as important as what he is. You go holdin' the past against him, you might be missin' a glorious opportunity right now."

"You still talkin' over my head," said Buster, scratching his jaw again. "Taep, you got any idea what he's sayin'?"

"What he's saying is that whatever I did or didn't do back during the peace conference-and I really don't think we have to rake over those coals again-I can make up for it now," said Phule. "My orders are to bring peace to this world-they don't say one word about who governs it. It might as well be you as the other fellow. So I'm going to help you win."

"That's big talk," said Buster, solemnly. "Win the war for us just like that? I gotta hear this."

"If you're going to try to buy forgiveness..." Le Duc Taep began.

"Yes, of course, what else?" said Phule. He reached down and opened up his belt pouch. He pulled out a handful of banknotes in large denominations. "I know money can't buy everything, but that's no reason to turn up your nose at it. Let's put the proposition in a nutshell. You can win your revolution, and I'm going to show you how to do it. Are you game?"

Le Duc Taep looked at the money, then looked back at Phule. "And what's to stop us from taking your money and our revenge both at the same time?"

Phule shrugged. "Oh, money's not hard to get, if you have the knack. You could raise this much yourself in a few days, if you put your mind to it. Of course, this is a drop in the bucket, compared to what you'd need. And I'm willing to back you to the limit."

"You'll buy us all the weapons we need to win the war?" said Le Duc Taep, obviously impressed.

"Oh, you won't need weapons," said Phule. "I'd hardly waste my money on that. What I'm going to do is show you how to win without firing a shot. Here's what you're going to need..."

As Phule outlined his plan, the rebel leader began to nod his head. Le Duc Taep and Buster-evidently a very senior officer in the guerilla band-interrupted from time to time with questions. Soon Phule had laid out a sheet of paper on the folding table and started making sketches. The afternoon wore on...

"Yo, Remmie, you gotta let us in on this rescue operation," said Do-Wop.

Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up from her drawing pad at Do-Wop and Sushi. Even now, with command of the entire company thrust upon her, she made herself take a few minutes to keep her eyes sharp. It gave her a way to sidestep the worry about what kind of trouble the captain had gotten into, this time. "No," she said.

"Whattaya mean?" said Do-Wop. "We got a right to volunteer, don't we?"

"Sure, you've got a right to volunteer," said Rembrandt, putting aside the drawing pad. "But I've got to choose a team I think will do the job without getting anybody killed-and I mean the captain, in particular. You two don't fit the mission specs, this time."

"Why not?" said Do-Wop. "We're as slick as you've got-even the captain knows that. Besides, we owe him-nobody else ever cut us half the breaks the captain has."

"Well, I'm glad you appreciate that," said Rembrandt. "I know you two are slick-God, are you ever stick-but you're not jungle scouts, and that's what we need this time."

Do-Wop snickered. "I ain't worried about the jungle. You drop me down anywhere on this planet, I'll be the baddest thing for a hundred kilometers."

Rembrandt shook her head. "The answer is no. There'll be plenty of other missions..."

"Not if these guys don't rescue the captain," said Sushi. "What are they going to do, anyway? Rush in and start shooting? Or maybe something smart, like trying to persuade the rebels to let him go? That's about the only way I can think of to make sure the captain doesn't get hurt. You'll admit we're the only ones who could do that. We can sell sneakers to snakes, if you give us the chance."

"What's a snake?-oh, never mind, I get the idea," said Lieutenant Rembrandt. She stood up and planted a finger in the center of Sushi's chest. "Maybe you can, but that's not the point. This team's going out in the jungle. They'd spend so much time bailing you two out of trouble they'd never get around to rescuing the captain."

Sushi didn't budge. "They're still going to need somebody like us at the other end," he said. "What about this-the jungle scouts find the captain, then you send us in to negotiate? Once we know our goal, you can send us by hovercar, if you want. That way you don't have to worry about all the jungle thingies getting us."

"I ain't scared of no jungle thingies," Do-Wop reiterated.

"I'm sure you're not, which is another good reason you're not going to be a jungle scout," said Rembrandt. Do-Wop opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand and continued, "Sushi's idea has some merit, I have to admit. But I'm not going to give a thumbs-up until I know where the captain's being held. Until then I don't even know whether he needs rescuing, let alone what the best plan will be. Maybe it's sending you in to bamboozle the rebels or going in with force or something else we haven't thought of yet. The one thing I do know is that you're not going out in the jungle. Get used to it."

"Well, Lieutenant, I think you're being too cautious," said Sushi. "But if you promise you'll keep my plan in mind, we'll let you get back to work. And thanks for listening."

"I won't forget your plan," said Rembrandt. "No other promises, though. Now, aren't you two supposed to be on duty someplace?"

"Uh, like Soosh said, we'll let you get back to work," said Do-Wop, and the two legionnaires, beat a hasty retreat. Rembrandt sighed and reached for her sketchpad again. Sushi had given her a potentially useful idea. She'd have to think about a way to make it work...

"Lieutenant, got to talk," came a familiar voice. "Rebels holding captain prisoner. Got to be on team rescuing him."

Rembrandt sighed. "Tusk-anini, I don't remember anything in your file about you coming from a jungle world," she said. She began to suspect that she was going to have a lot of discussions like the one just concluded in the time before the jungle team set out.

Eventually, Armstrong and Rembrandt cobbled together a two-stage mission for rescuing Phule. First Qual and the Gambolts would use their skills to find the rebel camp at which Phule was presumably being held prisoner, and report its location to base. If Quals report convinced the officers that Phule actually needed rescuing, a fighting force of volunteers would go in to do the job.

After dark, a hoverjeep swooped low over the waves and put Qual's team ashore on the mainland in the area in which the rebel camp was rumored to be located. The Zenobian and the three Gambolts melted into invisibility almost before they had reached the dark line of brush a few dozen yards above the high-tide mark on the sand. As soon as they were out of sight, the hoverjeep turned back to the island, and the Legion base.

Qual watched from the shadows, then turned to the Gambolts. "Now we travel softly," he said to them, and they nodded; Qual's dark-adapted vision registered the nods, as theirs registered his silent "follow me" gesture. They followed.

They were travelling light, planning to live off the land rather than slow themselves with unnecessary food and equipment. All were from hunting races, and experiment had proven that they could eat the native wildlife as well as the earthling species introduced by the original settlers. The Gambolts, in fact, were especially fond of nutria. When Escrima first offered that dish on the Legion menu, Duke had sampled it and said approvingly, "It tastes much like rodent-but of unusual size." The others had nodded. Brandy, who overheard the compliment, had very carefully made sure it did not get back to Escrima-at least, not accurately translated.

At first the team followed a broad stream that took them west and north into the interior. Qual set a rapid pace, and the Gambolts followed him easily. Toward midnight, they came to a natural-looking log bridge across the stream, with a narrow game trail leading off in either direction. They examined both banks for traces of human passage.

"The odor of humans is stronger to the left," murmured Garbo. "There must be a settlement in that direction." She lashed her tail in involuntary excitement.

Qual pulled out a map and examined it. "The humans' chart does not illustrate a town in this vicinity," he said after a moment. "However, there are shown a few trappers' camps, and a trading post that seems more continuous."

"I smell too many humans for a camp or trading post," said Garbo. "But perhaps they hunt in large packs, like the goulfes of our world."

Dukes and Rube nodded their agreement. "There are males and females both," Rube added, wriggling his nose.

"Do their trappers hunt in mixed-sex groupings?" asked Qual. "Our people hunt alone, so I cannot judge humans by our customs."

"Their military mixes the sexes, as ours does. Perhaps they hunt together as well," said Garbo. "If we moved closer, perhaps we could distinguish the captain's scent."

"Gazma's tail! I find it quaint that such a meagerly toothed species hunts at all," said Qual, with a grin that brought a feline gurgle of amusement from the Gambolts. "We shall do as Garbo suggests and explore the trail to the left."

They set off into the darkness again. Along toward dawn, they surprised a small, leaping creature; Rube captured it before it took two bounds, and they breakfasted quickly before moving along. Ahead, the scent of humans grew stronger.

Lieutenant Rembrandt was toweling off from her morning shower when her communicator alarm went off. She dropped the towel and picked up the communicator. "Rembrandt here," she said. "What's cooking, Mother?"

"Hot stuff, Remmy," came the saucy voice. "Our little lizard wizard and the three pussycats have found the rebel camp, and the captain's there."

"Is the captain free or a prisoner?" asked Rembrandt.

Mother paused before saying "Well, honey, that's the tricky part. You know how Qual talks kind of strange..."

"Great Gazma, do I ever!" said Rembrandt, laughing. Then her voice turned sharper. "What are you telling me, Mother?"

"Well, they found the captain. But they only saw him for a moment before they set off some kind of alarm. A patrol came out looking for them and they had to skedaddle. So they didn't see enough to figure out whether he's free. Qual said one of the rebels was always there with a gun, but that doesn't prove Cap's a prisoner, does it?"

"Not necessarily, no," said Rembrandt. "Damn-now I realize it was a mistake not to have sent at least one human in the scout party. Then we'd have a better idea whether the captain was under duress. Now I've got to read a Zenobian's mind to decide whether to send the rescue party or stay clear."

Mother's voice cut through her spoken-aloud thoughts. "Any orders, Remmie? I've got other calls coming in."

Rembrandt answered without hesitation, "If one of them's Qual, patch him straight through to me. If not, keep trying to raise him. And put the rescue team on alert. I want them ready to go on a moment's notice. I'll be over to Comm Central as soon as I get my uniform on."

"Ooooh, should I send somebody over with a camera?"

Rembrandt chuckled. "Not if you want the camera back in one piece," she said. "Remember, hook me up right away if you get Qual. Rembrandt out." She grabbed the towel again and finished dressing in a hurry.

"Sir, I am concerned that you have not communicated with Headquarters," said Beeker, coming into the tent assigned to him and his employer. "If I were your lieutenants, I would be concerned about your safety."

"This is one of those operations where secrecy is the most important concern, Beeker," said Phule. He saved the work he had in progress on his Port-a-Brain computer, then leaned back in his seat to look his butler in the eye. "If the government learns we're out here, they're likely to see what we're doing as aiding and abetting the rebels."

"Isn't that precisely what you are doing, sir?"

"Only in the narrowest sense, Beeker," Phule said. "I can make an excellent case that what we're doing will benefit the entire planet. But that case will look a whole lot stronger if we've made reasonable progress toward getting the project under way when somebody starts asking questions."

Beeker's face took on a faintly disapproving expression. "I expect the government to judge that case by its own lights, sir. If they can represent your actions as taking the rebels' side, they're likely to petition for your company's removal from the planet. You'll have invested a great deal of time and effort only to get a black eye. More to the point, I'm afraid that something like that would give General Blitzkrieg exactly the pretext he's been looking for to cashier you from the Legion."

"Blitzkrieg and his ilk have made the Legion the laughingstock of the Federation," said Phule. "Luckily, there are some good officers at the top of the Legion. Some of them must have noticed that I'm getting them favorable press coverage, which is a novelty for the Legion. I hope they'll listen to my case before they do anything they'd regret, Beeker. They've got too much invested here for them to toss me overboard at the first sign of a little rough weather."

"In fact, they strike me as likely to do exactly that if you push them too far," said Beeker. "I must caution you not to overestimate your value to the Legion, sir-the generals do not necessarily share your view of what is best for them."

Phule leaned farther back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind the nape of his neck. "Good old Beeker, always the mother hen. Don't worry, old fellow, I know what I'm doing this time. We'll come out with flying colors."

"Perhaps, sir," said Beeker, stiffly. "Still, I feel it my responsibility to call your attention to another scenario you may not have taken into account."

"What's that?"

"Suppose that when the government learns of your involvement here, they decide not to protest to the Federation, but to launch a preemptive strike against this base? If they have managed to conceal any significant military resources, they could destroy this camp in an afternoon. You would be a regrettable collateral victim-or they might claim that the rebels killed you when they came under attack. Naturally, there'd be no one to contradict their account. The Legion could award you a posthumous medal, if it were so minded."

"Well, that confirms my belief that we need to keep this operation secret," said Phule. "Don't worry, old fellow, we'll get out of this one all right. If you want, I can have the rebels smuggle you back to Headquarters so you can get out of danger."

"Sir, I resent the implication that I am motivated primarily by a fear of danger."

Phule's eyebrows went up a notch. "You mean you're not? I'm surprised, Beeker. I thought you considered self-preservation a cardinal virtue."

"And so I do, sir," said the butler. "But protection of my assets is also a considerable factor in my course of action at any given time. In fact, I have not necessarily rejected your offer of an escort back to civilization. But it strikes me that what you are planning here, should it succeed, would be an excellent investment opportunity for me, as well. Thus, I would like to have a degree of input into its planning that my absence would render impractical."

Now Phule broke into a broad grin. "Aha. I knew you had some sort of agenda. In that case, why don't you help me look over these plans, and let's see if we can get this project under way before the government decides to try stopping us?" He pointed to the Port-a-Brain computer, and Beeker leaned forward to examine the screen. Within a few minutes, the two were exploring the best ways to advance the project. Nothing more was said of Beeker leaving.

Journal #412

In the end, Lieutenant Rembrandt decided she would have fewer regrets sending the rescue team than waiting to hear from Phule. Flight Leftenant Qual had remained out of communication, and lacking any report from him, it was reasonable for her to assume the worst.

The rescue team was led by Lieutenant Armstrong. He had managed to hire a waterman familiar with the area of the mainland where Armstrong thought the rebel camp to be. Supplemented with what meager satellite intelligence they could gather, and armed with a mix of lethal weapons and Zenobian stun rays, the rescue party set out. Naturally, they had no idea what lay ahead of them.

The flat-bottomed boat skimmed quickly and almost silently along the waterway. "This is how the rebels travel around the swamps," said the boatman, whose name was Hansen. "They kin duck back in these here bayous quicker than a nutria jumpin' off the bank."

"I can see how they'd be tough to catch," said Armstrong. "These waterways all look the same to me-I don't see how anybody would ever find their way without GPS." Raised on a high-tech world, he took the benefits of a full satellite network for granted.

"GPS-huh!" said Hansen. He spat in the water. "Genuine Piece of Shit, you ask me. Maybe that stuff can tell you where you at on a map, but that don't mean you gonna find your way anywhere else. The swamp keep a-changin', and if the map don't show the change, GPS can't help none. You better off havin' a local boy out on your skiff."

"Maybe so," said Armstrong, with a tight-Tipped smile. "But relying on locals works until the locals decide they're on the other guy's side-no offense, but it happens too often to ignore. If you wanted to, I bet you could get me so lost I'd never come back out. GPS gives me a chance-though I'd give a lot to have a few more sats up there."

"Something up ahead," said Tusk-anini, pointing over the bow. There was an opening in the trees, and through it those on the boat could see a structure of some sort.

"Stand ready for action," said Armstrong, and the legionnaires took their equipment in hand and looked ahead at their destination-or had it been designated as a target, now? They'd know when Armstrong spoke.

"That's jes' Bobby Czerny's place, nothin' we got to worry about," said the boatman. "Ol' Bobby sells a little food, a little bait, a little fuel, a little hooch-money or trade, he don't care what he sells or who he sells it to, long as he gets by. Don't need no artillery here."

"We don't usually get worried," said Super-Gnat, who was carrying a Rolling Thunder automatic shotgun that looked bigger than she was. She grinned. "But somebody took a potshot at the captain when we landed, and now the looie thinks he's a prisoner. So maybe we do need the artillery, y'know? If we have to use it, you get down flat and stay out of the way."

"Assumin' we don't capsize from the first shot, I reckon I'll do jes' that," said Hansen. "You folks better be careful with them big of guns-these here flatboats flip right over, you start to skip around on deck. A warnin' to the wise."

"We hear you," said Armstrong. "Everyone make sure you have a steady position if you need to fire. Closing on target."

The legionnaires spread out around the little boat, trying to distribute their weight equally. Most crouched down, or lay prone on the deck, to reduce the target they offered any hostile observer-and not incidentally, to lower their centers of gravity. The pilot, taking Gnat's advice, flattened himself under the tiller. And so, as the boat pulled around a bend in the waterway, Armstrong was the only one standing upright.

That was when the trouble started.