Phules Paradise

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Journal #244

Despite the ominous turn events had taken, the next several days passed without incident. Although this proved to be merely the quiet before the storm, it nonetheless gave my employer the opportunity to indulge in a few of the more civilized elements of life.

I refer here to eating, which to me requires specifically sitting down to eat rather than simply wolfing down a sandwich, a hamburger, or some other form of "energy pellet" fast food while continuing with one's duties. This was a luxury I noticed my employer allowed himself less and less of late.

I had long since abandoned any effort to convince him that it might be desirable for him to sleep more than one or two hours at a time.

"I've really got to get going soon," Phule declared, glancing at his watch again. "I'm overdue to check on the troops."

"Relax, Captain," Sydney said, reaching for the wine bottle once more. "Those roughnecks of yours are more than capable of taking care of themselves without you hovering over them ... or they should be. Besides, I thought the whole point of those snazzy communicators you wear was so they could get in touch with you if anything important happened."

"I suppose you're right," the commander said, though he glanced involuntarily at the restaurant door even as he spoke. "I guess I've been edgy ever since Tiffany and Doc got jumped, and I'm not particularly confident that the troops will always check with me before they swing into action, as you well know."

"Don't remind us, Willard," Jennie Higgens said, wrinkling her nose slightly as she held her own glass out to her cameraman for a refill. "I mean, we've accepted your apology and all, but don't push your luck. You know, I can't help but feel we'd still be cooling our heels under guard if you hadn't remembered I had been to nursing school before signing onto the glamorous world of broadcast news. How is Harry, by the way?"

"He seems to be coming along fine," Phule said. "At least, it's getting more and more difficult to keep him horizontal while he's mending. Fortunately I think he's met his match in Beeker. Incidentally I want to thank you again for taping him up."

"I've had a lot of practice with that, though I'm better on bone bruises," the reporter said. "In case the subject ever comes up, don't ever let anyone con you into thinking that field hockey is a ladylike game. It can be as rough or rougher than lacrosse-at least the way we used to play it." She paused and cocked an eyebrow at the Legionnaire commander. "Maybe I shouldn't mention it, but you are aware, aren't you, that that's the fifth or sixth time you've thanked me for patching up the sergeant?"

"Is it?" Phule frowned, rubbing his forehead with one finger. "Sorry. I don't mean to be redundant. I seem to be a bit forgetful lately. I guess I'm a little tired."

The reporter and the cameraman exchanged glances. It had been impossible not to notice the lines of fatigue etched into Phule's face, though they had both been careful not to comment on it.

"Oh well." The Legionnaire commander shrugged and forced a smile. "The one thing I can't thank you enough for is your willingness to sit on this story-for a while, anyway. I know how much it must mean to you."

"No, you don't," Sydney muttered, glancing away as he took another sip of his wine.

Jennie shot him a dark glare, then turned back to the conversation.

"It's nice of you to thank us," she said easily, "but really, Willard, reporters aren't totally insensitive, no matter what you've heard-the good ones, anyway. It's easy to see that publicizing what you're doing would endanger your undercover operatives, so it's no big thing for us to hold off for a while."

"Well, Jennie," Phule said carefully, "contrary to popular belief, I'm not totally insensitive, either. What was that you were saying about my not really knowing how much this story means to you, Sydney?"

"What?" The cameraman blinked in surprise at suddenly being the focus of the conversation. "Oh ... nothing."

The Legionnaire commander leaned back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, as he looked back and forth between his two dinner companions.

"Now, look," he said. "I've been up-front and candid with you two in this whole deal-probably more than I should have been. I don't think it's asking too much for you to return the favor. Now, what is it that I don't know about your involvement with this story?"

Uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a moment. Then the reporter shrugged her shoulders.

"Tell him, Sydney," she said.

The cameraman grimaced before he spoke.

"I guess loose lips really do sink ships," he said. "All right, Captain. What I was so carelessly referring to is that both our jobs are on the line for this assignment. The news director wasn't particularly convinced that there was a story here, but Jennie kept leaning on him until he agreed to send us, but on the proviso that if we don't come up with something to justify the cost of the trip, we needn't bother coming back, and whatever benefits or severance pay we had coming would be applied against the cost of the wild-goose chase."

"Why, Jennie?" Phule said.

"Oh, he just made me mad," the reporter admitted. "He acted like I was making the whole thing up to get the news service to pay for a passion-filled vacation on Lorelei for Sydney and me. I kept trying to convince him it was a legitimate story and ... well, when he got around to making his `take it or leave it' offer, I couldn't refuse or it would look like he was right all along."

"Interesting," the commander said. "But what I meant was, why didn't you want to tell me about this?"

Jennie shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I didn't want it to seem like you were under any obligation to us. You have a habit of taking responsibility for everything and everybody around you, Willard, and I was afraid it would come across like we were trying to play on your generosity ... or your guilt."

"Well, this assignment has aged me a bit," Phule said, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face. "As somebody told me not too long ago, I figure you're both adults and capable of making your own decisions and living with the consequences. You two made the deal, and I assume you did it taking into account how much you were willing to risk against what potential losses. That makes it your business, not mine."

The reporter smiled. "Thank you, Willard. I appreciate that."

"Of course," the commander added carefully, "if it turns out that you do end up in the ranks of the unemployed, I hope you won't hesitate to let me help you find a new position. That much I'd be willing to do whether or not the story in question involved me and mine."

"We'll see." Jennie grinned impishly. "We're not dead yet."

"Just one thing, Sydney," Phule said, "if you don't mind my asking. I notice you had your holo-camera gear along, and that's fairly expensive equipment. Is it your own, or does it belong to the news service? Would you have to send it back if things went bad?"

"Oh, it's mine," the cameraman acknowledged. "It's not the newest stuff available, mind you, but I've pieced together an adequate rig over the years. I figured that just in case the time had come for me to finally strike out on my own, I should ... Excuse me, but is this someone you know, Captain? She seems to be coming this way."

The commander followed Sydney's gaze and saw a matronly woman in a loose-fitting, almost bat-wing black dress approaching their table. While she seemed somehow familiar, he couldn't quite place her in his memory. As their eyes met, however, the woman smiled her own recognition.

"Good evening, Captain Jester. May I join you?"

The voice swept away any uncertainty.

"Colonel Battleax?" Phule gulped, rising reflexively to his feet. "What are ... Please ... have a seat."

The colonel graciously accepted the chair he held for her as if it was what she had been expecting all along.

"I ... Excuse me, I don't think you've met," the commander managed, still trying to recover from the shock of Battleax's presence in the middle of an assignment. "This is Jennie Higgens and Sydney Nolan."

"Ah yes, the reporter," Battleax said, smiling sweetly as the two women shook hands. "I believe we met briefly on Haskin's Planet."

"That's right," Jennie acknowledged. "Back during the ... investigation of Willard's handling of the alien invasion."

"Well, I don't think we ever met. Not to talk, anyway." Sydney interrupted, extending his own hand. "I was behind the camera that day."

"Of course," the colonel said. "I never did get a chance to thank you both for the coverage you provided. It made our job so much easier to have half the galaxy looking over our shoulder."

"Umm ... what brings you to Lorelei, Colonel?" Phule interjected, trying desperately to change the subject before things got bloody.

"Actually, you do, Captain." Battleax smiled, showing a few extra teeth. "You and your merry band of cutthroats. I think, however, our discussion of that should wait for another time-sometime, shall we say, more private? I wouldn't want to bore your guests with Legion chitchat."

"We ... uh ... were just leaving, weren't we, Sydney?" Jennie said, rising abruptly to her feet.

"That's right," the cameraman echoed, following her example. "Thanks for the dinner, Captain. Nice seeing you again, Colonel."

"That was really unnecessary, Colonel," Phule murmured as the two left. "Jennie and Sydney are okay."

"Forgive me if I don't share your love of the media, Captain," Battleax growled, her pasted-on smile slipping away, "but my own experiences with members of the fifth estate have been less than pleasant."

"So, to return to my original question," the commander said, "what are you doing on Lorelei? Forgive me, but I hadn't expected to see you-or anyone else from Headquarters, for that matter."

"I was on Brookston when I caught the media coverage of your arrival here," the colonel explained, "and realized why Blitzkrieg was so eager for me to take my vacation. Since I was having trouble figuring out what to do with my off time, anyway, I thought I'd drop by to see how things were going."

Phule made a few mental calculations and realized that to make the trip from Brookston to Lorelei by commercial transport, Battleax would have had to start her journey almost immediately upon seeing the newscast. Despite his surprise at her appearance, he was nonetheless touched by her obvious concern for himself and his troops.

"It was good of you to come," he said, "but we pretty much have things under control. I can probably get you a complimentary room, though, for the balance of your vacation. I have an `in' with the management here, and Lorelei really is a spectacular place."

He smiled warmly, but Battleax didn't return it.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Now, tell me the rest of it, Captain. All of it. What exactly is going on here?"

Phule hesitated for a moment, then heaved a heavy sigh.

"You've heard, huh? Well, let's just say that it's been a far cry from the easy duty in paradise that the general billed this assignment as."

"Could you be a bit more specific, Captain?" Battleax said, helping herself to some of the remaining wine. "Remember, I just got here."

"Well ... how much do you know so far?"

"Not a thing," the colonel said.

"But then how did you know ..."

"That things were rough?" Battleax finished. "Give me credit for a little intelligence at least, Captain Jester. It really wasn't all that hard to figure out. First, there's the fact that Blitzkrieg wouldn't give you a drink of water in a desert unless there was poison in it. That coupled with the timing of the assignment-waiting until he could deal with you without going through me-made the whole thing suspect from the beginning."

She paused to take another sip of wine.

"Second ... frankly, Captain, you look like hell. While I know you have a tendency to push yourself, you usually take better care of yourself than this-or, at least, that butler of yours does. It looks like you haven't slept in a week, and I'd be willing to bet it's because things are bad enough that you feel you have to oversee things personally, to a point where it takes priority over your own well-being. An admirable stance, perhaps, but still an indication that something's desperately wrong with this assignment. And finally ..." The colonel fixed the commander with a steely gaze. "I've made a point of keeping up on the Legionnaires under your command, Captain. I review their records and your reports on a regular basis. Even in the short time I've been here, I've noticed that there are several unfamiliar faces wearing Space Legion uniforms and I've recognized a few of your degenerates working as hotel staff. Realizing they all view you as their ringleader and wouldn't say boo to a goose unless they cleared it with you, I thought it best to come straight to the source for my information." She leaned back in her chair. "Now it's your turn, Captain. I want to know the truth behind what's happening on this assignment before I hear it from the media, for a change."

Phule made a face and shook his head ruefully. "It's a long story, Colonel."

Battleax waved for a waiter and signaled for another bottle of wine.

"I've got time," she said, settling into her chair.

Again, I am handicapped in my account by a lack of specific knowledge of the details surrounding an event or conversation which took place in my absence.

I do, however, feel I can state with some certainty that some form of the following exchange took place roughly in the time frame I am recording it here. I base this conclusion on the simple fact that Maxine Pruet is said to be a decisive leader, and it is doubtful she would leave delayed long before implementing a decision once it had been made.

"Shit!" Laverna declared, tossing down her pencil onto the nest of work sheets and notes in front of her. Like many of her profession, she preferred the old, manual form of doodling and numeric experimentation when trying to work out a problem.

"I know you don't want to hear this, Max, but my best recommendation is to throw in the towel and eat our losses on this one."

"How so?" her employer prompted from the sofa.

Laverna tapped the table repeatedly with her finger, organizing her thoughts for several moments before she spoke.

"The time factor is the killer," she said at last. "We might be able to put together something that would hurt Rafael financially, but not in time to keep him from paying off the note to you."

"Nothing at all?"

"Well, we could try to burn the place down to keep him from turning a profit at the tables, but then you'd have to rebuild from scratch once you took over ... and figure out how to offset the bad publicity from the fire. Besides, he's probably got insurance for `interruption of business,' so even that might not stop him."

"In any case, I don't think we want to go that far," Maxine said with a faint smile. "No, I tend to agree with you, Laverna. In fact, I arrived at much the same conclusion yesterday."

"You did?" Her advisor made no effort to hide the surprise in her voice. "Then how come you've been having me-"

"There might have been an option I overlooked," Max said. "That, and I guess I've been stalling having to say it out loud. This isn't the first time I've been outmaneuvered, but it doesn't make me any happier about running up the white flag." She rose and wandered over to the window. "I think what irritates me the most," she said, looking down at the inevitable stream of passing tourists, "is that I can't figure out just how he managed to do it."

"That's simple enough," Laverna said as she gathered up her work sheets. "The man used his money better than you used yours."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's clear that he's been spreading bribe money around the staff pretty good-or, at least, better than we have. There's no way he could have pulled this off without a lot of inside information."

"You think so? That's interesting. I assumed that Huey Martin provided him with all the information he needed."

"Uh-uh. He got more information somewhere than what Huey had to sell. There have got to be other folks in this complex serving as his eyes and ears-and I don't mean the security guards."

"Speaking of that," Maxine said, "has there been any word as to the whereabouts of that bartender? The one who so effectively removed Mr. Stilman from the picture?"

"Not yet," Laverna said. "I'll tell you, it's like the man vanished into thin air. He hasn't left Lorelei on any ship either as passenger or as a crew member. We got that much from the watchers at the spaceport. The thing is, though, he hasn't shown up at any hotel on or off the Strip, either."

"That's strange," Maxine said thoughtfully. "If nothing else, it should be hard to hide that hover cycle of his."

"You'd think so," her aide said. "The only thing I can figure is that he's holed up with someone-someone who's better at hiding things than we are at finding them."

"Like young Mr. Phule, for example?"

Laverna eyed her employer for a moment.

"Excuse my asking, Max, but is he going to take the blame for everything that goes wrong for us from now on?"

"I'm not getting paranoid or obsessive-not yet, anyway." Maxine smiled. "Think about it for a moment, Laverna. It makes sense. We have a network of spotters all through this space station. We should be able to locate anyone in a relatively short time, yet this one gentleman who is rather memorable in appearance eludes our efforts. Now, where is our current blind spot-or, at least, where is our web the thinnest?"

"Right here at the Fat Chance," Laverna admitted.

"Correct," Max said. "Now, add to that our suspicions that the attack on Mr. Stilman was not entirely coincidental-that there is some link between our fugitive and the forces under Mr. Phule's command."

"I thought he told you that he didn't have anything to do with it."

"He may have lied," Max said, "though I somehow doubt it. What he specifically said, though, was that he didn't know anything about it. It's my guess that one of has subordinates indulged in a little independent action, just as Mr. Stilman arranged the attack on his own. Anyway, with those two pieces-our lack of information on the internal workings of the Fat Chance and the possible connection between our missing bartender and someone in the security force-I don't think it's unreasonable to conclude that he might be hiding right here, in this complex."

Laverna thought about it.

"It's possible," she said. "It still bothers me, though, that they used free-lance help instead of going after Stilman themselves. That doesn't make sense."

"It may have been to keep their own hands clean if anything went wrong," Max said. "Besides, young Mr. Phule hasn't been averse to hiring outside specialists before. Look at the computer auditors he sneaked in on us."

"That's true," her aide said. "You know, that's something else that's been bothering me."

"What's that?"

"Well, for some things, like the computer jockeys, they've been going outside, but for the crew that was working the stage at the showroom, they used their own people. I would have thought that they'd hire some specialists for that, too." She shook her head. "Oh well, I guess it's just that he had some show business people in the Legion, but nobody who really knew computers."

"Just a moment, Laverna." Max was suddenly alert. "Say that again."

"What? You mean about there not being any computer experts in the Space Legion?"

"No, before that. You said he must have some show business people in his force."

"That's right. So?"

"So what if all the security force aren't from the Space Legion? What if some of them are actors?"

"You mean stand-ins?" Laverna frowned. "That's interesting. I guess if that were the case, I'd be wondering where the soldiers were they were replacing."

Maxine was staring into the distance. "I was just recalling something Mr. Stilman said-about how he wasn't impressed by the security force, but that the complex had the toughest staff he had ever run into. What if young Mr. Phule decided early on that uniformed guards were of limited value, and that instead he was going to put a portion of his force to work under cover, seeding them through the staff as waitresses or cooks?"

"Or bartenders!" Laverna supplied. "That would explain the guy who jumped Stilman!"

"Of course that means he hasn't restricted himself to infiltrating the staff for this complex," Maxine continued thoughtfully. "He could have people anywhere, including as guests." She snapped her fingers suddenly. "Weren't you saying a moment ago that he must have had more information about our plans than Mr. Martin could provide? Who have we shared our plans with recently? In detail."

"Jonesy!" her aide gasped. "You mean-damn! Posing as someone from the Yakusa. Now, that takes brass!"

"Audacity seems to be something young Mr. Phule is not lacking in-or his troops, for that matter," Max said grimly.

The two women lapsed into silence, each analyzing this new hypothesis.

"Well," Laverna said finally, "I guess that clinches it. Without knowing how many he's got scattered around or who they are, I don't see any way we can put something together by the deadline."

"Oh, it's true that we'll probably have to abandon our efforts to gain control of this enterprise," Maxine said, "but that doesn't mean I'm ready to quit the field. Not just yet, anyway."

Her aide frowned. "I don't think I follow you."

"There's a fallback, contingency plan I've had in mind for some time now. Something that will at least recoup our investment and give us a chance to pay young Mr. Phule back for his interference. Now seems an appropriate time to implement it."

"What plan is that?"

"It's really simply a matter of shifting our aim from a target which is defended to one which is not. Actually, Laverna, you deserve at least part of the credit for this. You gave me the idea yourself back when Mr. Phule arrived on Lorelei with his troops."

"I did?"

"Certainly. I recall specifically your pointing out that young Mr. Phule comes from a very rich family."

Beeker was jarred awake by the discordant jangle of the phone next to his bed. Bleary-eyed, he glanced at his watch to see how long he had been asleep, but abandoned the effort when he realized he had no recollection of when it was he had gone to bed. Not for the first time, he found himself annoyed with the Lorelei timetable, or lack thereof, which made any adherence to a schedule next to impossible.

The phone rang again.

Rather than reaching for the instrument immediately, the butler took a moment to compose himself. Perhaps business tycoons could function while giving the impression of being rushed and harried, but that simply wouldn't do for one in his position.

Again the phone jangled.

"Beeker here."

"Beeker, what the hell's going on there?"

The voice was a surprise, not so much for its statement as in its identity. Even in its agitated condition, the butler had no difficulty recognizing it as belonging to Victor Phule, his employer's father.

"Unfortunately, sir, I am unable to reply to that query-at least until you have calmed yourself sufficiently to properly identify yourself."

"Oh. Sorry. This is Victor Phule, Beeker, and-"

"Ah yes. Good evening, Mr. Phule. How may I help you?"

"You can start by telling me what's going on there on Lorelei!"

The butler rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had hoped that by forcing his caller into following formal protocol, the elder Phule would also be coerced into discussing rationally whatever it was that was bothering him. Clearly, however, this was not to be the case.

"Events on Lorelei are meticulously chronicled by the media, sir," he said. "Or is there something specific you require information on?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the conversation.

"Look, Beeker," the voice came at last, grim but in control. "Are you trying to be cute or do you really not know what's going on? I just got a call from some old dragon who says she's holding Willard, and that unless I pony up a hundred million, they're going to ax him or shove him out an air lock or whatever the hell they do to kill someone out there."

"I see," the butler said. "No, Mr. Phule. I assure you this is the first I've heard about it."

"Do you think it's on the up-and-up?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I know the parties involved, and they do not strike me as the sort to attempt to bluff on something of this magnitude. I'm afraid the probability is quite high both that they have your son and that they'll kill him if you fail to pay the ransom."

"Damn it, Beeker! How could this happen? He's supposed to have a whole troop of soldier boys around him. No-scratch that. From what I hear of this Space Legion, I wouldn't trust them to guard a piggy bank. But you! How could you let this happen, Beeker? I always thought you were one of the best in the business."

"I try, sir," Beeker said, unruffled. "We all do. Your son, however, has a mind of his own as well as an unfortunate flair for the unorthodox. Taking that into account, I'm sure you'll realize the difficulties involved in watching over him."

"I know all about his independence," the elder Phule growled darkly. "I guess I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Excuse my asking, Mr. Phule," the butler said, seizing the pause in the conversation, "but is it still the policy of Phule-Proof Munitions and yourself that no extortion payments are to be made under any circumstances, regardless of who or what is being threatened?"

"That's right," the voice confirmed. "Once you start paying, there's no end to it. We pay taxes to the government for protection, and that should be the end of it. If more people were willing to stand up to criminals and terrorists-"

"Yes, I'm familiar with the argument," Beeker interrupted. "Tell me, Mr. Phule, would it be too much of a compromise of your principles to withhold your refusal for a while-say, for forty-eight hours?"

"No. They said they'd call back and broke the connection before I could say much of anything. If they call back, I can try to stall them, but-"

"Fine," the butler said, cutting the elder Phule short again. "Then if you'll be so good as to clear the line, sir, I'll see if anything can be done to bring the situation to a satisfactory conclusion from this end."

"Right ... and Beeker?"

"Yes, Mr. Phule?"

The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly very weary, as if anger had been the only thing giving it strength and now that that emotion had been vented there was nothing left.

"Be careful not to ... I mean ... I know he and I have had our differences, but he's still my son, and ..."

"I understand. I'll try, sir."

As soon as the connection was broken, the butler abandoned any pretense of nonchalance.

His face set in a grim mask, he hurried through the door that connected his bedroom with the suite's main living area. Chocolate Harry was asleep on the sofa, having stubbornly refused to move into one of the beds normally used by the suite's residents, and Beeker moved quietly so as not to wake him. It was his intention to check his employer's bedroom on the vain hope that this was all some sort of ghastly prank, but before he reached the other bedroom door something caught his eye. There, on the chair next to the door into the corridor, were the sidearm the Legionnaire commander normally wore and his wrist communications command unit.

The butler stared at the items for a few moments, then sank into a chair and turned on a lamp.

"Hey, Beeker!" Harry said, awakened by the light. "What's up?"

Beeker ignored him, bending over his own wrist communicator as he depressed the Call button.

"That you, Beeker?" came Mother's voice. "What are you doing up at this hour? I thought-"

"Give me an open channel to Lieutenants Armstrong and Rembrandt," the butler said tersely. "And Mother? I want to listen in as well. We have an emergency situation, and there's no point wasting time going over the information twice."