The job as given to him by Stilman was simple enough, though slightly puzzling. He was supposed to try to goad one of the Legionnaire guards into a fight, both to test their effectiveness as fighters and to see how much provocation was necessary for them to take action. Above all, Lobo had been cautioned numerous times not to strike the first blow—not to fight back at all, for that matter. Supposedly this was to minimize the chance that the Legionnaires would simply resort to using the tranquilizer dart sidearms they were carrying, and instead be forced to try to subdue him physically.
Though he hadn’t said anything at the time, Lobo wasn’t wild about being assigned to play punching bag for some uniformed jerk. Not that he minded the possibility of pain or injury; it was the idea of not fighting back that bothered him. Still, it wasn’t often that Stilman came to him with work, and he was eager to prove himself.
Lobo was impressed by Ward Stilman as he had rarely been impressed with anyone in his life, and wanted to move up in that notable’s esteem. If the man wanted him to take a dive, he’d do it, but he wanted to be sure it was as spectacular as possible.
He pondered this as he ensconced himself at a table in the cocktail lounge that opened into the casino, the only lounge still open during the remodeling. This, too, was covered by his instructions: to establish his presence before starting trouble, so it wouldn’t look like he walked in with that end specifically in mind.
Lobo had followed Stilman’s career in astroball, as had most who loved that rough-and-tumble sport, until the league tossed him out for consistently exceeding the level of viciousness allowed by the rules, though the clamor from the media, not to mention several threatened lawsuits by hospitalized individuals who were unfortunate enough to have faced him on the field, doubtless played a factor in their decision. In person, however, Ward Stilman was even more intimidating than when viewed in the holos. The man had a disquieting habit, on the field or off, of standing absolutely motionless—not stiff or tense, but poised, as if he were waiting for just the right cue to spring for your throat. The media, of course, had picked up on this trait, calling him “the Statue” or, playing on his name, “the Still Man,” but watching him in a stadium or even in holo was not the same as trying to remain relaxed when he was looking specifically at you. Whenever they talked, Lobo found himself moving very slow and deliberately, hoping subconsciously that by making his own actions clear he would not trigger an attack accidentally. Not being used to feeling fear, Lobo at once admired and resented the effect Stilman had on him, and aspired toward the day that Stilman would view him as an equal. The trouble was, how could he demonstrate his own courage and effectiveness while keeping his hands in his pockets, soaking up damage from some Army amateur?
The answer came to Lobo in the form of two Legionnaires who ambled into the bar while he was waiting for his drink. In an instant, Lobo knew he had his target.
The woman was nothing much—short, with the soft curves of lingering baby fat. But her companion! Lobo mentally licked his lips in anticipation.
Even Stilman would have to be impressed that Lobo had chosen the monster to pick a fight with, especially a fight he was destined to lose. What was more, “monster” was an accurate description of the Legionnaire he was targeting. The guy was some kind of alien, huge with a big warthog head and all-black animal eyes. At a glance it was easy to see that he would have to be one of the “heavyweights” for the security force.
“That will be five dollars, sir,” the cocktail waitress said, interrupting Lobo’s thoughts as she delivered his drink.
The opportunity was too good to let pass.
“What do you mean, five dollars!” he snarled, raising his voice. “I thought drinks were free in these casinos.”
Though she was small, easily as small as the uniformed Legionnaire accompanying the monster, the cocktail waitress held her ground, apparently used to dealing with loud drunks.
“That’s at the tables, sir,” she explained patiently. “Drinks are complimentary while you’re playing, but here in the bar we have to charge you. If you’d like, I can take it back.”
“Oh, hell … here!” Lobo spat, fishing a bill from his pocket and throwing it at her. “Just don’t expect a tip too.”
The waitress smoothed the bill, quickly checking its denomination, then retreated without another word.
Glancing around the bar in mock anger, Lobo caught the Legionnaires watching him, as he had expected.
“What are you looking at, freak?” he challenged, ignoring the woman to deal directly with the monster.
The massive Legionnaire shrugged and turned back to his companion.
“Hey! Don’t look away when I’m talkin’ to you, freak!” Lobo pressed, rising from his seat and approaching the other table. “What are you doin’ in here, anyway? Doesn’t this place have a leash law for pets?”
The woman opened her mouth to respond, but the monster laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“Sorry … not mean to stare,” the monster said haltingly. “My eyes not like yours. Sometimes look like I stare.”
“Hey! He even talks funny!” Lobo said, turning to make his appeal to the bar’s other customers only to find the few occupied tables had been deserted, their occupants seeking quieter surroundings for their drinking.
“Tell you what, babe,” he said, focusing on the smaller Legionnaire. “Why don’t you send this freak back to his kennel and let me buy your next round?”
“I’m happy where I am, thank you,” the woman shot back coldly.
“With him?” Lobo laughed. “You military chicks can’t be that hard up! What you need is a real man.”
“Not talk like that,” the monster rumbled. “Dangerous.”
“Oh yeah?” his tormentor sneered. “You want to try to do somethin’ about it … freak?”
Of course, what the Voltron was referring to was something that Lobo was missing completely, focused as he was on his target. The small waitress who had served him his drink was now marching toward him from behind, still holding her now-empty metal drink tray.
“Come on, freak!” Lobo taunted. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
With that, he leaned forward and slapped the monster playfully on the side of its snout just as the waitress stepped in close behind him, raising her tray.
Chapter Eight
Journal #214
As I have noted, it took a while for my employer to determine that the casino his force was guarding was, indeed, under attack, much less who his adversaries were.
The opposition, on the other hand, as instigators of the attack, had no such difficulty, though they, in turn, were lacking hard information as to the exact nature and temperament of the force arrayed against them.
I find it particularly interesting, however, that some of the main problems encountered by both commanders throughout this campaign came from within, not without.
* * *
There was a loud knock along with a muffled call of “Housekeeping,” and Phule opened the door to admit his top sergeant, barely recognizable in her maid’s uniform.
“I can only be here a few minutes, Captain,” she declared hurriedly. “The story is I’m supposed to be checking to be sure the beds were made today, and if I take too long, the rest of the staff will start to wonder.”
“All right, Brandy, I’ll try to keep this brief,” Phule said tersely. “I assume you’ve heard about Super Gnat’s brawl?”
“It’s all over the hotel,” Brandy said, “though from what I hear, it wasn’t much of a fight.”
“Well, have you talked to her about it?”
“Just for a few minutes in passing,” the top sergeant said. “She seems to be all right. Why do you ask?”
“Didn’t you say anything to her about breaking cover?” Phule pressed, ignoring the question.
Brandy shrugged. “Not that I recall.”
Phule started to snap something angrily, then caught himself.
“All right,” he
said stiffly. “I want you to get her aside … pin her ears back for me. Understand?”
“No, I don’t, sir,” the top sergeant said, perching on the edge of the room’s dresser in a pose much more in keeping with her old Legion manner. “Just what is it she’s done that’s supposed to be wrong?”
“Are you kidding?” the commander snarled. “She stepped in on a fight and jeopardized her whole cover as a cocktail waitress.”
“I don’t think so, Captain,” Brandy countered. “The way I heard it, she just bopped him with a tray—didn’t use any of the nasty stuff she’s been trained in.”
“The man’s in the clinic with a concussion,” Phule said pointedly.
“So? He got drunk and tried to pick a fight in a bar—and a casino bar at that. I don’t think it’s out of line that he got roughed up a little. You think that real waitresses can’t get mean if you start acting up?”
“Usually they call for security,” the commander argued. “They don’t wade into it themselves when there are two security guards sitting right there.”
“—who couldn’t do anything without it looking like they were overreacting to a minor incident,” Brandy added. “Seriously, Captain, would you really expect the Gnat to stand there looking helpless while someone slapped Tusk-anini around? You know how close they are … and about the Gnat’s temper.”
“I guess it would be too much to hope for.” Phule sighed, deflating slightly. “It just caught me by surprise is all. I hadn’t stopped to think that anything like this might happen.”
“Planned or not, I think it all turned out for the best,” the sergeant said with a smile. “The incident got handled without our uniformed troops raising a hand. Instead of a possible lawsuit, the guy’s going to want to forget about it as soon as possible. There’s no glory in getting taken out by a female half your size, and he’s sure not going to want to publicize it.”
“You’re probably right, Brandy,” the commander said, “but it still worries me. When I sent part of the team under cover, I figured they would be acting as eyes and ears for the company, not as fists. Gathering information is one thing, but if anything goes wrong, if anyone catches on to who they really are, they’re going to be out there alone, without support.”
“Speaking as one of them, Captain,” Brandy drawled, “we figured that danger was a part of the assignment. That’s why you called for volunteers. Besides, nobody joins the Space Legion to be safe.”
“Okay, okay! You’ve made your point,” Phule said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just”—he glanced away as he searched for the right words—“keep an ear open, will you, Brandy?” The words were so soft they were barely audible. “If you hear of anyone targeting her, don’t wait to check with me or anyone else. Pull her out—quick!”
“Will do, Captain,” the sergeant said, uncoiling from the dresser. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work now.”
She started for the door, then turned back with one hand on the knob.
“And Captain? You might want to try to get a bit more sleep. You look terrible.”
As if in response to her words, Phule’s wrist communicator chimed to life.
“Yes, Mother?” he said, triggering the two-way system.
“Hate to bother you, Fearless Leader,” came Mother’s familiar, jaunty voice, “but we’ve got a situation developing downstairs that I think requires your personal attention.”
“Just a second.”
The commander put his hand over the speaker and shrugged helplessly at Brandy.
“So much for getting some sleep,” he said with a grimace. “Like you said, I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the concern, anyway.”
Brandy had concerns of her own as she left Phule’s room. Though the troops were doing their best to screen their commander from minor problems, going to the junior officers or simply dealing with the hassles themselves, the captain was still driving himself far too hard on this assignment. She was just going to have to pass the word for everyone to tighten up a little more—to try to operate as independently as possible without playing “Mother May I?” with their commander.
A small smile crept onto her face.
She wondered what the captain would say if he knew that she and the others on housekeeping were using their passkeys and their training with lockpicks to search the guests’ luggage for any clues of larcenous intent. He said he wanted information, and their standing orders had always been to use whatever was necessary to get the job done!
* * *
In the same lounge where the “incident” had taken place, another meeting was going on, though to the casual observer it would appear to be nothing more than a few friends relaxing over drinks. The mood of the gathering, however, was anything but relaxed.
“He’s still a bit groggy,” Stilman was saying, “but he swears he never even saw the guy start to swing. Now, Lobo may not be too quick upstairs, but he’s been in enough fights to know what he’s talking about, and he says this big guard is the fastest guy he’s ever tangled with!”
He glanced fearfully out the open side of the lounge into the casino as if expecting to see the Legionnaire under discussion appear at any moment.
“I don’t know,” he concluded. “Maybe Lobo just picked the wrong guy to lean on. Maybe this alien type has faster reflexes than normal. Maybe … I don’t know.”
“Maybe you just sent the wrong guy on the assignment,”
Laverna said. “Maybe you should have used somebody who could think as well as fight.”
“Hey, stay out of this, Ice,” Stilman snapped, turning his head slightly to glare at her. “You may know numbers, but I’m the expert when it comes to rough stuff. Remember?”
“Are you aware, Mr. Stilman, that though they are very intelligent, Voltrons have slower reflexes than humans?” Maxine said carefully, ignoring the byplay.
“Really?” The big man scowled. “Well, maybe Lobo tied onto one of their athletes or something.”
Maxine sighed heavily. “Tell him, Laverna,” she said.
“Listen up, Stilman,” her companion said with a smirk. “The word we’ve got is that your man didn’t get taken out by the guard. Word is, he got hit from behind by one of the cocktail waitresses.”
“What?” Stilman didn’t even try to hide his astonishment.
Maxine nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Stilman. The account was quite detailed. Apparently she hit him with her tray.” Her eyes took on a hard glitter, as did her voice. “The account also states that Lobo was engaged in hitting the guard at the time. Slapping him, actually.”
Stilman shifted in his seat—a rare movement which betrayed the degree of his discomfort.
“Lobo didn’t say anything about that when I talked to him,” he declared. “I specifically told him not to throw the first punch.”
“Well, I’ll leave that to you,” Maxine said, “though I rather think he’s already paid a high enough price for the fiasco. Speaking of that, did you take care of his bill at the clinic?”
“Yes, I did,” Stilman said hastily, glad to have something positive to report. “I told them to put it on your account.”
“Good.” Maxine nodded. “Incompetent or not, we have to take care of our own. In the meantime …” She let her gaze wander out into the casino. “Let’s move on to the other reason we’re here … why I chose this place for our meeting. I want to get a look at the cocktail waitress who was so effective at dealing with your man.”
“With your handpicked man,” Laverna added pointedly.
Stilman ignored her.
“What does she look like?” he said, sweeping the casino with his own eyes. “Do we have a description?”
“She shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” Laverna said. “She’s supposed to be the smallest person on the staff. Guess she makes up for it by having such fast reflexes.”
“Look, Ice,” Stilman began, but Maxine cut him short with a gesture.
“I’m afraid we’re going to
have to postpone our search,” she said, staring at something out in the casino. “I’m afraid we have a bigger problem to deal with.”
“What is it, Maxie?” Laverna said, craning her neck to see.
“The Oriental gentleman at the pai-gow table,” Maxine clarified, not shifting her gaze.
Stilman frowned. “Which one?”
Pai-gow was a form of poker utilizing dominos and dice that originated in Old Earth Japan. While nearly every casino offered it in some form or other, most gamblers descended from Western cultures still found the play too intricate for comfort, so the tables were invariably filled by those who were raised gambling on the game.
“The one on the far end … in the white shirt.”
Stilman followed her eyes. “So?”
“Look at his arms,” Maxine instructed.
The man’s shirt was of very fine cotton, and his arms were clearly visible, though it took a moment to realize that it was his arms one was seeing. Adorning the arms, from shoulder to wrist, were colorful swirls of tattoos so vivid that, to a casual glance, they almost seemed to be a paisley pattern on an undergarment.
Maxine knew that the significance of the decorations was not lost on her companions as they both reacted, Laverna with a low whistle and Stilman with a narrowing of the eyes.
“I think I’d like to speak with that gentleman,” she said. “Could you invite him to join us, Mr. Stilman?”
“What … now? Here?”
“Yes, now. But not here,” Maxine said with a tight little smile. “We’ve taken a suite of rooms here at the Fat Chance. It’s occurred to me that I should be a bit more closely involved in monitoring this project.”
* * *
“Please … have a seat,” Maxine said to the slender, youthful Oriental as Stilman ushered him into the suite. “So nice of you to accept my invitation.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 37
