Robert Asprin - Phules Paradise

"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."

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.