That was exactly what was happening as Moustache rounded a bank of quantum slot machines and entered the blackjack area of the casino. Do-Wop had slouched into a vacant seat at table number five, within an arm’s length of a pudgy gray-haired man wearing a well-broken-in business suit over a brightly colored shirt. Beside him sat a woman of similar age, in a slightly too-tight dress and a too-elaborate, blatantly dyed hairdo. A travelling salesman on vacation with his wife, or so it appeared at first glance. But if Mother was correct-and she probably was-the outfits were sheep’s clothing, camouflage to make a team of card cheats look like innocent tourists. At the far end of the table stood Sushi, looking for all the world as if he were trying to decide how the cards were running at this table before sitting down to play.
The dealer glanced up as Moustache came into view, and he winked at her. It was time to put an end to this incident. He stepped forward and put a hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. His voice was very polite but carried an unmistakable stamp of authority.
The man glanced over his shoulder, barely long enough for him to register much more than Moustache’s black Legion uniform. What happened next took everyone by surprise. Both the man and the woman abruptly shoved back their chairs, knocking Moustache off balance. In the split second before he could recover, the woman had spun around and begun to throw punches, concentrating on his midsection-which, given the difference in their heights, was her most convenient target.
The woman was stronger than Moustache had expected. He had to call on all his training to fight off the middle-aged tourist. Using his superior reach, he grabbed the chair she had vacated and shoved her back against the table with it, trying to keep her pinned out of lethal range. Do-Wop was already stepping forward to help subdue her, and there were black-uniformed figures closing in from a distance, so all Moustache had to do was keep her at bay and hope the man didn’t come to her assistance. With luck, he’d have nothing more serious than bruises to show for this episode.
But the woman’s companion had ideas of his own. Instead of helping her break free, he leaped up on the table and launched himself in a flying kick at Sushi.
Sushi had held back from the altercation, ready to cut off either of the pair who tried to escape. So while he was caught by surprise, his reflexes and training got him out of trouble. Instead of trying to duck under the kick, he leaned backward enough to make the attacker’s flailing feet miss him, then gave the flying body a hard shove in the ribs as it went past, trying to spoil the attacker’s balance. To that extent Sushi succeeded, and the tourist landed ignominiously on a chair that toppled with a loud crack as the back legs gave way.
But the shove transferred enough momentum to Sushi to knock him off balance, as well. He spun around, bounced off the table behind him, and landed on hands and knees on the floor a short distance from his assailant. Almost at once, he sprang up, ready for action. Sushi expected the man to be halfway to the exit, or more likely, lying dazed on the floor. Instead, he was surprised to find the man already in a compact fighting stance. That made no sense at all. The man must have known he was surrounded by the legionnaires. If he wasn’t going to try to escape, he should have given up quietly as soon as his cheating was discovered. Unless…
Sushi looked more closely at his opponent. Under the baggy suit and graying hair-which upon closer inspection appeared to have been dyed-was a man close to his prime, solidly built and obviously trained in the martial arts. His facial features showed Asian ancestry. Suddenly Sushi understood.
Sushi rose to his feet and bowed slowly. “I have been expecting you,” he said to the man. He kept his voice low, speaking in Japanese. “We have business to tend to, but we should not discuss it in front of outsiders.”
The other man snarled. “My family does not dicker with impostors. Our only business today is your death.”
“Do not judge too quickly,” said Sushi. “Look!” He made a surreptitious motion with his left hand and then dropped both arms to his sides, leaving himself open to the other man’s attack.
The other man’s face changed in an instant, and he, too, adopted a more relaxed stance. “Ah! I did not know! Perhaps there is something to discuss after all. But you are right-outsiders should not hear what we have to say, though I think there are few here who would understand us.”
“One moment, please,” said Sushi. “I will tell the others you have surrendered to me for questioning, and then we will go someplace where we may talk freely. They will not question me because they believe I am loyal to their captain. Your woman will be taken to a safe place and not harmed, and you may retrieve her at your convenience.”
“That is good. I will tell her so,” said the Yakuza man. The two turned to the rest of the group. Moustache had one hand on the woman’s arm-she had stopped fighting when Sushi had begun talking to his opponent in Japanese; presumably she understood that language.
“I need to talk to this man;” Sushi said to Moustache. “He says the woman will go with you to the holding lounge, and I don’t think she’ll cause any trouble now. I’ll take responsibility.”
Moustache looked to Do-Wop, who nodded. “Cool with me if you know what you’re doing,” said Do-Wop. “But be careful just because you know that cat’s lingo don’t mean you want to turn your back on him.”
“Don’t worry, it’s under control,” said Sushi. He gestured to the Yakuza and together they walked out of the casino. Even before they were gone the normal sounds of gambling had resumed.
“There they are,” said Brandy, and there was no question what she meant. Three human-sized cats in Space Legion uniforms would have stood out in any crowd. And while the Gambolts were famed for their ability to infiltrate an enemy position without being seen or heard, there was no need for stealth here. They bounced into the entry lounge, three oversized balls of feline energy, eyes darting in every direction. Behind them, a group of humans in similar uniform slouched into the lounge-the rest of the recruits.
The Gambolts immediately spotted the three black-uniformed humans standing together. They glided over and drew up in front of Phule, coming to attention. One of them turned on a translator and said, “New recruits reporting for duty, sir!” The Gambolt vocal equipment could make a limited range of human sounds, but communication was far smoother with a translator in place.
“Welcome to Omega Company,” said Phule, stepping forward. He waited until all the recruits had moved up to join them, in a ragged semblance of a line. “I am Captain Jester, and this is Lieutenant Armstrong. Sergeant Brandy here will be in charge of your training. You’ll meet the rest of your comrades and officers back at the hotel. We’re pleased to have you as part of our outfit.” He turned to Armstrong, who had brought out a clipboard. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir!” said Armstrong, giving his usual crisp salute. He turned to face the new arrivals. “Attention! Sergeant Brandy will call roll.”
Brandy stepped forward and took the clipboard from Armstrong. She inspected the new arrivals. While she’d never seen Gambolts up close, these three looked to be in excellent physical condition, and their spanking-new uniforms effectively set off their lithe forms. If the Gambolts were indeed deadly fighters as rumor said, this trio would be a strong addition to the company. The rest of the recruits looked like a perfect match for the assorted misfits and malcontents of Omega Company.
But there would be time enough to sort that out. She looked down at the clipboard and began reading names.
“Dukes?”
“Here, Sergeant,” answered the biggest of the three Gambolts-a tawny six-footer, with light-green eyes and a nick out of its left ear. (Was this a male or a female? Brandy wondered idly. The Gambolts’ sexual differences weren’t immediately evident to the untrained human eye, and both sexes were known to choose military careers. It would probably make more difference to the Gambolts than it ever would to her.)
“Welcome aboard, Dukes. Garbo?”
“Here, Sergeant,” said another Gambolt. The translator made this one’s voice sound lighter and perhaps more feminine-as the choice of name also suggested-though the only outward physical distinction between this one and the other Gambolts was a slightly lighter build. Garbo had darker fur, nearly black, with a hint of a lighter colored undercoat.