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 assignment.
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 assignment 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 passing acquaintance with him—from before their respective enlistments in the Space 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 passion 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 assignment. 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, assisting Lieutenant Rembrandt in her efforts to find and recruit the actors necessary to replace those Legionnaires who would be working under cover for this assignment.
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 assistance and advice into the brief phrases, “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 assistance, however, Lieutenant Rembrandt had completed her assignment 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 spaceport. 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 Legionnaire’s 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 assistant 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. Beeker said … I mean, I felt … Well, you said we shouldn’t let anyone know I was with the Space 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.
&nb
sp; “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.
“Excellent,” Phule said, accepting the stack and idly opening the top folder to glance at the contents. As he did, the three-dimensional holo-photo which was the inevitable inside cover of an actor’s portfolio sprang to life, projecting a miniature person who seemed to be standing on the folder. He ignored it, scanning the printed pages instead. “I assume they’ll be ready to load and board this evening?”
Rembrandt licked her lips nervously.
“I … those are only my final recommendations, sir. I’ve been holding off finalizing them pending your approval.”
The commander’s head came up with a snap.
“You mean they haven’t been notified to be ready for departure?”
“Well, I have them on standby, but I explained that you had to approve the final selection, so they’re—”
Phule slapped the cover shut on the top folder, squashing the actor’s image in the process, and handed the entire stack back, interrupting her in midsentence.
“Get them on the horn and tell them they’re hired,” he said firmly.
“But sir! Don’t you want to—”
“Lieutenant,” the commander cut her short, “I gave you this assignment because I trust your judgment. If you say these are the best candidates, then that’s what we’ll go with.”
“But I’m not sure of a couple of these, sir. I was hoping you could—”
“Being sure is a luxury you rarely get as an officer, Lieutenant. You make the best guess you can in the time allowed, then make it the right choice.”
“But …”
“Our main criterion is that they fit into uniform sizes that we have in stock. Outside of that, they’re mostly window dressing. As to personalities … well … if you’ll recall, we took potluck with this company to start with. I doubt there is anyone in there that will be more of a problem case than the Legionnaires we’re already dealing with. Agreed?”
“I … I guess so, sir.”
“Fine. Like I’ve said before, Rembrandt, you need to be more decisive. I don’t have time to duplicate your work—and neither do you if we’re going to give the new bodies time to pack and get on board before lift-off. I suggest you start moving.”
“Yes, sir!”
Momentarily forgetting her civilian garb, Rembrandt drew herself to attention and fired off a salute before fleeing her commander’s presence.
“Well, Beek,” Phule said, turning to his butler at last, “except for that, how are things going?”
“Rather better than they are for you, it would seem … sir.” Beeker’s voice was utterly devoid of warmth.
“How’s that again?” Phule frowned. “Is something wrong, Beek?”
“Not at all, sir. It’s always a treat to watch the finesse and compassion with which you handle your subordinates. Of course, I have noticed that your skill level seems to drop in direct proportion to the amount of sleep you’ve been getting … sir.”
The commander shot a glance in the direction in which Rembrandt had disappeared.
“What you’re trying to say, in your traditionally subtle way, of course, is that you think I was a little hard on Rembrandt just now. Right?”
“I suppose from your point of view, sir, you were being quite tolerant,” the butler observed blandly. “I mean, you could have had her stood up against a wall and shot.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Phule sighed heavily. “I guess …”
“Or then again, flogging is always effective, if a bit outdated,” Beeker continued as if his employer hadn’t spoken.
“All right, all right! I get the point! I guess I’ve been a bit tense lately. Relocating the company has been more of a hassle than I anticipated.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Beeker said, shrugging slightly. “What I do know, however, is how hard Lieutenant Rembrandt has been working on the assignment you so casually dumped on her, and how concerned she’s been about whether or not you’d approve of her efforts, much less her results.”
“Which is why she wanted me to review her choices before finalizing them,” Phule said, finishing the thought. “Of course, my barking at her is only going to hurt, not help, her confidence, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to have happen.”
“It’s hard to see where anything positive will come from your current stance … in my own, humble opinion, sir,” the butler confirmed mercilessly.
Phule gave another sigh, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe water from it, and seemed to deflate back into himself.
“Sorry, Beek,” he said. “I seem to be running tired these days. You know, when I was giving the crew going under cover their final briefing, Armstrong had to point out to me that I was getting redundant—that I had reviewed the procedures on their new communicators three times even though there hadn’t been any questions. Can you believe that? Armstrong? Keeping me from making an idiot of myself in front of the troops?”
“Lieutenant Armstrong has come a long way,” Beeker observed, “but I see your point. I think, however, that your troops, like myself, will be inclined to worry rather than be critical over minor flaws in your performance.”
“Yeah. Well, that still doesn’t change the fact that I’m not functioning at peak efficiency, especially in the manners department. What can I say other than I’m sorry?”
“You could try saying the exact same thing—only to Lieutenant Rembrandt,” the butler said. “After all, it is she and not I who is the offended party in this situation.”
“Right.” Phule nodded, glancing down the corridor again, as if expecting to see his senior lieutenant appear at the mention of her name. “Maybe I can catch her before—”
“As for myself,” Beeker continued, “what I would probably most like to hear is that you plan to take some time to catch up on your sleep … sir.”
“Excuse me, what was that, Beek?” the commander said, pulling his attention back to the conversation.
“You asked a rhetorical question, sir,” the butler explained. “I was merely taking advantage of it to state my own opinions.”
“Oh.”
“And in my opinion, sir, what is most important at the moment is not that you apologize for past errors in judgment, but rather that you get some sleep to lessen the probability of compounding the situation with future errors.”
Phule frowned.
“You think I should get some sleep?” he said finally, reducing things to their simplest form.
“It would seem in order, sir. By your own admission, you’re ‘running tired.’”
“Can’t do it—not now, anyway,” Phule insisted, shaking his head. “I have too much to do before the actors’ briefing tonight. I can’t afford the time.”
“If I might suggest, sir, I don’t believe you can afford not to get some sleep, particularly if you’re getting ready for an important presentation. Perhaps you could delegate some of your planned preparations?”
Phule thought for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“I guess you’re right, Beek. It’s bad enough if I’m snapping at the troops that already know me, but if I start leaning on the newcomers …” He shook his head again, more emphatically this time. “Okay, I’ll try to get some sleep. But only if you promise to wake me up a couple hours before the briefing.”
“Consider it promised, sir.”
“And Beeker? It’s good to have you back. Sarcasm and all.”
“It’s good to be back
, sir.”
* * *
The actors’ briefing went smoothly … much more so than I had ever hoped, considering the circumstances.
Because of the secretive nature of their work. Lieutenant Rembrandt had specifically not informed them of any details regarding the “parts” they were auditioning for, other than the necessary warnings that there might be some danger involved, and (apparently more important to the actors) there would be no “billing” or other credits for their individual performances. In short, the only reward the actors could expect from their roles would be financial. As might be expected, having come to know my employer’s style of problem solving, as mysterious and sketchy as the information was, the offered pay scale was generous enough that there was no shortage of applicants to choose from.
Still, it must have come as no small shock to at least some of them to learn that the “troupe” they had been auditioning for was none other than the Space Legion, or that in accepting, they had effectively “enlisted.” The ease with which they absorbed and adapted to this news is a tribute to their professionalism … or their greed.
* * *
“That pretty much concludes the basic information I wanted to cover at this first meeting,” Phule said, giving his notes one final scan. “Now, I’m sure that you all have questions. Let me remind you, however, that we have a lot of time before we reach Lorelei, and that specific information on standing duty will be covered in later briefings, which will include the entire company. Also, some of your questions might be better asked, and answered, in private. Lieutenants Rembrandt, who you’ve already met, and Armstrong will be available throughout the trip to discuss individual problems, or, if it will make you more comfortable, you can speak with either Sergeant Moustache or myself.”
He paused to gesture toward the individuals mentioned, who were currently standing at parade rest on either side of him, reinforcing the introductions which had been made at the beginning of the meeting.
“Now then,” he continued, “are there any questions you would like to raise in front of the group at large? Things that would affect all of the temporary Legionnaires?”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 31
