"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."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Journal #245
As near as I can determine, Maxine Pruet was either ignoring the presence of the Space Legion company under my employer's command or operating under the old assumption that if you cut off the head, the body dies.
To say the least, this was an error in judgment
The removal of my employer from his position of leadership did not cause the company to wither and die, but rather unified and intensified their already substantial energies. That is, it had the effect of removing the emergency brakes from a locomotive and putting it on a straight, downhill stretch of tracks.
One of the Fat Chance's conference rooms had been hastily commandeered for the company's emergency war council, but even that was growing crowded. In an effort to keep the meeting manageable, the room had been cleared of everyone except cadre and officers, which is to say those holding the rank of corporal or higher, and a few concerned individuals, like the Voltron, Tusk-anini, who refused to budge and whom no one had the energy or courage to chase out. A large crowd of Legionnaires loitered and hovered in the hall just outside, however, muttering darkly to each other as they waited for a course of action to be decided upon.
All the undercover Legionnaires had been recalled, though not all had taken time to change into their Legion uniforms, giving the assemblage the appearance of being a catered party rather than a planning session. This impression would be shattered, however, upon viewing the faces of the participants. The expressions ranged from worried to grim, without a single smile in evidence.
The focus of the group was on the company's two lieutenants, who stood on either side of the conference table reviewing a stack of floor plans, stoically ignoring the faces that peered anxiously over their shoulders from time to time.
"I still don't see what this is supposed to accomplish, Remmie," Armstrong grumbled, picking up another sheet from the stack. "We don't even know for sure that he's still in the complex."
Though he was from a military family and had consequently had more experience with planning, the same background had also made Armstrong a stickler for protocol and chain of command. Lieutenant Rembrandt's commission predated his, making her the senior officer and his superior, and he deferred to her as much from ingrained habit as from courtesy.
"It's a starting point, okay?" Rembrandt snapped back at him. "I just don't think we should start tearing the whole space station apart, dividing our forces in the process, until we're sure they aren't holding him right here. It's our best bet that he's being held here somewhere, since I don't see them running the risk of being spotted while trying to move him out of the complex. That means we've got to take the time to check out all the out-of-the-way nooks and crannies in this place before we go barging around outside-and there are a lot of them."
"You can say that again," Armstrong said, scowling at the sheet he was holding. "As long as we've been here, I never realized how many access corridors and service areas there were in this place."
"Hey! Look who's here!"
"C.H.! How's it goin', man?"
The officers looked up as the company's supply sergeant made his way into the room through the waiting crowd, smiling and waving his response to the greetings that marked his arrival.
"Come on in, Harry!" Rembrandt called. "Good to see you back in uniform."
Indeed, Chocolate Harry was decked out in his Legionnaire uniform, complete with-or incomplete, as the case may be-the torn-off sleeves that were his personal trademark.
"Good to be back, Lieutenant," the massive sergeant said. "Hey, Top! Lookin' good!"
He waved across the room at Brandy, still in her housekeeping uniform, who interrupted her conversation with Moustache long enough to give him a grin and a wink.
"Excuse me, Sergeant," Armstrong said, "but the last thing I heard you were on the inactive list. Aren't you supposed to be convalescing?"
"What? For this?" Harry gestured at the bandages around his torso that peeked through the armholes of his uniform. "Heck, I hardly remember that I got hit ... 'cept if someone should happen to want to give me a good old hug."
He dropped his voice but maintained his grin, though his eyes glittered darkly as he
met Armstrong's gaze with a hard stare.
"Besides, there ain't no way I'm gonna sit this one out-not with the cap'n in trouble-and with all due respect, Lieutenant, I'd advise you not to try to change my mind. You ain't nearly big enough-or mean enough."
He waited until Armstrong gave a small, reluctant nod of agreement, then raised his voice again.
"'Sides, I brought along a few goodies just to be sure I'd be welcome. That is, they should be along any-there they are! Bring 'em on in, boys!"
Half a dozen of Harry's team of supply clerks, also known to be the biggest thieves, scroungers, and con artists in the company, were coming into the room, towing or pushing a small caravan of float crates. From their appearance, even while still sealed, it was apparent what they contained, and a small cheer went up from the crowd.
"Just line 'em up along this wall here!" the supply sergeant instructed, grabbing the first long crate himself and manipulating the float dial until it settled on the carpet. With a flourish, he punched a combination into the lock's keyboard, and the crate lid hissed open.
"Help yourself!" he declared, then thought better of it. "No ... cancel that. Form a line! Jason! I want 'em to sign for whatever they take! We gotta be sure we know who's got what so's we can go after 'em if it don't come back in good shape."
As expected, the long, flat cases held the rifles and other long arms that had been packed away when the company was pulled from their old duty as swamp guards. The square crates held ammunition.
"Well, I guess that solves our firepower question," Rembrandt said, frowning at weapons being passed out, but making no move to object or interfere as the Legionnaires seized the armaments and scattered through the room, each of them clearing, checking, and loading his or her weapon of choice.
"I just figured that whatever goes down, it don't hurt to have a few extra persuaders close to hand." Harry winked, then his face sobered. "All right, what have we got so far?"
"Not much," the senior lieutenant admitted. "Until we can figure out where they're holding him, there's not much we can do. The trouble is, everyone wants to be here. It's all we've been able to do to keep the duty crew at their posts while we're working this out ... Which reminds me ..."
She raised her wrist communicator to her lips and pressed the Call button.
"You got Mother!" came the quick response.
"Rembrandt here, Mother," the lieutenant said. "How are you holding up?"
"I'll tell you, if it wasn't for every mother's son and daughter in this outfit wanting personal updates every fifteen minutes, it'd be a real breeze."
The lieutenant smiled despite the pressure she was feeling. "You want some help?"
"Oh, don't you mind my carping. I got it covered-for the time being, anyway. You just keep working on figuring out where the captain is and let me worry about keeping the wolves at bay."
"All right, Mother. But holler if it gets too much for you. Rembrandt out."
She turned her attention to the floor plans once more.
"Now, the way I see it, the most likely places are here and here." She indicated two points with her finger. "We need to have someone run a quick check ... Brandy?"
"Here, Lieutenant," the top sergeant said, stepping forward.
"Do you think we could-"
"Pardon me!"
The commander's butler was standing in the doorway.
"What is it, Beeker?"
"I ... I don't mean to intrude," Beeker said, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, "and, as you know, I have no official standing in your organization, but in this instance we share a common interest-namely, the well-being of my employer-and I believe I have some information you might need in your planning."
"Don't worry about your standing with us, Beek," Rembrandt said. Like everyone in the company, she had a great deal of respect for the butler-more than most, since he had assisted her when she was recruiting the actors for stand-ins. "What have you got?"
"I ... I can tell you where Mr. Phule is being held."
"You can?"
"Yes. I can say definitely that he's currently in Maxine Pruet's suite-room 4200. At least, he was fifteen minutes ago."
Rembrandt frowned. "Hey, Sushi! I thought you said the suite was empty!"
"No one answered the phone when I called," the Oriental said. "I didn't actually check it out, though."
"I see ... Okay. Brandy? I want you to use your passkey and see if-"
"Excuse me ... Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Beeker interrupted, his voice taking a slight edge. "I said that my employer is definitely being held in that suite. There should be no need for confirmation. In fact, any effort to intrude might endanger the lives of both Mr. Phule and whoever was sent to check."
The lieutenant pursed her lips, then shot a glance at Armstrong, who gave a small shrug.
"All right, Beeker," she said at last. "Not to say I don't believe you, but would you mind telling me just how it is you're so certain that's where he is?"
The butler's haughtiness slipped away, and he glanced around at the gathered Legionnaires uneasily.
"It's ... well, it's a secret technique I've developed to ease my duties in keeping track of my employer's comings and goings. I'd ask that you all keep this in strictest confidence, just as I have respected the secretive nature of the things some of you have shared with me."
He looked around the room again and was answered by an assortment of nods. "Very well. I've taken the liberty of sewing small homing devices into each item in my employer's wardrobe, both civilian and military. This gives me forewarning of his approach so that I might be prepared to welcome him, and allows me to pinpoint his location at any given moment."
Armstrong gasped. "You've bugged the captain's clothes?" Struggling between laughter and incredulity, he spoke for the whole room.
Beeker winced. "You might say that, sir. I, myself, prefer to think of it as a necessary technique for providing the exceptional service which justifies my salary, which, as you might assume, is well above the scale normal for one in my profession."
"Whatever!" Rembrandt said, pawing through the scattered floor plans. "The bottom line is that you're sure he's being held in the old dragon's suite."
"Yes, ma'am," the butler said. "If I might add, there seems to be a rather muscular gentleman standing guard outside her door as well. That, at least, is easily confirmed by anyone who bothers to take the time."
He sent a withering glance toward Sushi, who shrugged apologetically.
"One guard? That one's mine!" Brandy declared. "Might as well get some use out of this Fifi the Maid outfit before I turn it in for good."
"You want any help, Top?" Super Gnat offered.
"For one guard? From up close when he's not expecting it?" The Amazonian top sergeant flexed her sizable right hand, then clenched it into a fist and smiled broadly. "I don't think so."
"All right, then, we have a target area!" Rembrandt declared, studying the sheet of paper which had finally come to hand. "Let's see ... we've got a large living room flanked by two bedrooms ... one door that ... Heck with this!"
She strode over to the nearest wall and paused for a moment, rummaging through her belt pouch. Producing a tube of lipstick, she began sketching a larger version of the floor plan directly on the wall in long, broad strokes.
"Okay, gather 'round!" she called back over her shoulder. "Now, the corridor runs here, parallel to the three rooms. Sushi, do you know if they've moved the furniture at all, or is it like it is here in the plans?"
"Let me see," the Oriental said, moving to her side for a better view of the floor plans. "I only saw the living room area, but-"
"What's going on here?"
Colonel Battleax was standing in the doorway. Still dressed in her bat-wing black dress and towering in her anger despite her diminutive size, she might have been a demon from an opera production as she dominated the room with her voice and presence.
The Legionnaires froze in their places. Whil
e they had all heard that the colonel was in the complex, no one had expected her to appear at their meeting.
"My God! This looks like an armament trade show! I don't even recognize half these weapons!"
While it was well known that Willard Phule was supplementing the company's equipment from his personal fortune, what was not as widely known was that he was also using his connection with his munitions-baron father to obtain new weaponry which was still in the testing stages and not yet known, much less available, to the general market.
"Do I need to remind you all that you're Space Legionnaires and have only limited authority for using reasonable force on civilians?"
The company exchanged nervous glances, but still no one moved.
"Well, this Wild West show is going to stop RIGHT NOW! I'm ordering you to turn in all arms other than sidearms, and-"
"Just a minute, Colonel!"
Lieutenant Rembrandt, her face flushed and her limbs rigid, broke the tableau. Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted to open a corridor with the two women at either end.
Standing against the back wall with Trooper, Lex watched the confrontation with professional curiosity and interest. Though neither Battleax nor Rembrandt was shouting, both were using what could only be called a "command voice," which involved a controlled projection from the diaphragm that any stage actor would envy.
"In Captain Jester's absence," Rembrandt declaimed, "I'm the acting company commander of this outfit. What gives you the right to try to give orders to my troops?"
"Are you mad?" Battleax sputtered. "I'm a colonel and the ranking officer present-"
"-who is on vacation and not in the current chain of command!" Rembrandt snarled. "Our original orders came directly from General Blitzkrieg. You have no authority over us on this assignment! In fact, as far as I'm concerned, you're just another civilian."
"WHAT?"
"My general orders state that I am to hold my command until properly relieved, and I do not accept you as proper relief."
Phules Paradise Page 22
