“Gab’l sayin’ truth, Cap’n,” said the other. Phule recognized him as Street, Gabriel’s partner-a lean, tough man from the slums of Rockhall. He could speak fairly good Standard, but when he got excited-as he was now-his accent was so thick Phule could barely understand him. “He comin’ this way when we spot him. Bet for sure be followin’ you.”
“He might be an assassin, sir,” said Gabriel, grim-faced.
“An assassin?” Phule scoffed. “I doubt it. For one thing, whoever that was you were chasing had a perfect chance to do me in not thirty seconds ago, and didn’t. What makes you think he was a spy, anyway?”
“Not so hard figurin’ that out,” said Street. “He the wrong species-ain’t no little lizards in the company. Got humans, got Tusk-anini, got a couple Synthians, hear we got some cats now. No lizards, Cap’n.”
“Maybe he was a customer,” said Phule, still dubious.
“Why he wearin’ our uniform, then?” asked Street. “He spyin’, you bet all you money on that.”
Phule frowned. He hadn’t gotten a close look at the small figure that darted past him before he’d been knocked down, but it did have a distinct resemblance to a meter-high lizard-and it had been wearing Legion black. Perhaps Headquarters had sent an observer to keep an eye on him without letting him know…
“Well, he’s gotten away for the moment,” Phule said. “You two men return to your posts, and keep your eyes open. I’ll tell Mother to alert everyone for a possible intruder, and…”
“Got it already, darlin’,” came the voice from his wrist communicator. “Small lizardlike alien in Legion uniform on the loose-that shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”
“Good,” said Phule, musing. Hearing Rose’s description of the intruder set something itching in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite pin it down…Well, he’d figure it out soon enough. Meanwhile, he asked, “Any word on Sushi’s whereabouts?”
“Nothin’ we can use, sweetie, but we’ve got other news. We found out we’d recorded his conversation with the man he fought. It’s in Japanese, but we’ve run it through a translator. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but Lieutenant Rembrandt’s all in a sweat-the poor girl thinks Sushi might be about to defect. Listen to this and see what you think.”
Phule lifted the wrist communicator to his ear, and the recording started, but as he began to concentrate on it, Dee Dee stamped her foot. “Well! I come to you with a problem, and what happens? First, two of your men nearly knock me down, and then you act as if I’m not even here. I’ll have you know…”
Phule’s concentration broke, and he looked down at Dee Dee, whose frown was deeper than ever. “Excuse me, Miss Watkins, I was listening to an intelligence report. If you’ll give me one moment…”
“Give you a moment? Why, you haven’t given me so much as the time of day! Lex is trying to ruin my act, and all you have to say is…”
“Captain, is trouble happening,” said Tusk-anini, coming around a bend in the corridor. He hurried up, ignoring the fuming Dee Dee and said, “Two humans looking for you-they try make me tell them things, but I no talk. I think they want make trouble.”
“Trouble? What makes you think that?” Phule knew that anything that worried the usually taciturn Volton had to be serious.
“They show me identification, say IRS,” said Tusk-anini. “I don’t know what that means, but Gnat tell me it big trouble, so I come tell you.”
“IRS?” Phule repeated. “They can’t have anything on me-my records are immaculate. Beeker knows more about tax law than the people that wrote it.”
“Captain! I’m not going to stand here and be ignored,” said Dee Dee in a voice that could have frozen the swimming pool in the hotel across the street.
“Yo, sucker, you the boss here? We been lookin’ for your ass,” said a gruff voice from a medium distance. Three large humans came down the corridor, practically filling it. Two of them were males, to judge from the long, unruly beards. All three were wearing denim and leather covered with metal studs, chains, and patches. Their bare arms showed a variety of tattoos, but they had in common a large red “R” with blazing jets on either side. The man in the middle was almost as large as Tusk-anini. He wore a German-style helmet on his head, a brass ring in his nose, and several more in each ear-one in the shape of a human skull. They swaggered up and stopped in front of Phule, the leader (or so he appeared to be) less than an arm’s length away from the captain.
Phule pulled himself up straight and said, “As you can see, I’m speaking to this young lady. I’ll be glad to listen to you people as soon as I’m done with her.” He turned back to Dee Dee, who had fallen silent upon seeing the three newcomers.
“Tryin’ to get it on with the fox, huh?” The big man sneered. “That jive can wait-we got serious business. You know a cheap punk name of Chocolate Harry?”
“Chocolate Harry no cheap punk,” growled Tusk-anini, moving in to stand at Phule’s side. “And you talk polite to captain, or you not like what happens next.”
The three newcomers laughed. “Listen to the warthog,” said the woman-her voice was deep and rough, but unquestionably female. “He thinks he can tell the Renegades how to talk, he got another think comin’.”
“So-you’re the Renegades,” Phule said. He’d heard C.H.’s tale of how a rival biker gang had vowed vengeance for some long-ago injury, but had never taken seriously the likelihood that they would actually track down his supply sergeant. Apparently he’d miscalculated.
“Damn straight, soldier boy,” said the big man. “Us and a few hundred others is the Renegades, and we’re looking for Chocolate Harry. Sounds to me like you and the warthog just might know where he is.”
“If we do, it’s none of your business,” said Phule. “He’s a legionnaire, and you’d be better advised to forget whatever disagreement you have with him. We protect our own.”
“Your own?” The woman spat on the floor, then grinned crookedly; Phule could see that she was missing several teeth. “You can call him your own, but his fat ass is ours, soldier boy. And you know what we gonna do when we get it?”
“We gonna slice it three ways,” said the big man, leering evilly.
The third man spoke for the first time, in a rasping low voice made even more sinister by his absolute deadpan delivery. “We gonna cut it deep, wide, and often.” He patted a sheath on the belt of his jeans, where the handle of a vibroblade could be seen.
“You not getting close enough to do that,” said Tuskanini, and as he spoke, a loud whistle came from behind the three Renegades. They whirled to see Moustache standing there, backed by half a dozen legionnaires brandishing Rolling Thunder belt-fed shotguns. “You go now before we getting mad,” said the Volton.
“Shit,” said the big man, half under his breath. Then he turned to Phule and said, “We got no fight with you, soldier boy. Tell your kids to put away the toys-we’re not gonna start nothin’ now. But make sure Chocolate Harry knows we’ve got him spotted, and he can’t hide no more.”
The three Renegades turned as one, and strode out past the assembled troops, managing to keep up an impressive front in the face of so much firepower. When they had gone, Phule let out the deep breath he’d been holding. If the bikers had decided to grab him and Dee Dee as hostages, the shotguns would have been of little use. But for now, the threat was defused.
“Captain! Now, about this costume!” Dee Dee’s voice snapped him back to reality. It was beginning to look like a very long afternoon.
3
Journal #285
Command of a military unit is no sinecure, even in the notoriously lax Space Legion. Put in command of a unit that had become a dumping ground for malcontents and incompetents, my employer knew he faced a formidable task in making anything of it-let alone an elite company. That he had accomplished as much as he had spoke highly of his determination. It goes without saying that the accomplishment was achieved at no small personal cost-especially considering that much of what he had accomplished had been opposed at every step by his superior officers.
As became apparent, his successes on Lorelei only gave his enemies more reason to hate him.
General Blitzkrieg stomped into his office. It was shaping up as another rotten day. There had been a lot of those lately-it was almost enough to make him opt for early retirement and accept the lower pension as fair trade for the aggravation. But he wasn’t about to be eased out of the saddle. Not while his purpose remained unfulfilled.