Robert Asprin: A Phule and His Money

"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.

"Welcome to the company, Garbo. Rube?"

"Right here, Sarge," said the third Gambolt, perhaps a few inches shorter than Dukes but even more imposingly built. Rube had gray fur, with slightly longer tufts on the cheeks, and its eyes seemed bigger than the others'. Its voice sounded a touch more jovial than the others', too, though that could easily be an artifice of the translator.

"Welcome aboard," Brandy said again. "Slayer?"

"Yo," said a scrawny human with a shaved head and a bone through its nose-it was difficult to determine its gender, as well.

This was the kind of recruit Brandy was used to. "That's Yo, Sergeant to you, Slayer," she barked. The recruit flinched, and muttered something that sounded like an appropriate response. Brandy nodded-she'd have plenty of time to get into the fine points of Legion discipline, such as it was. For now, it was sufficient to establish who was in charge. She turned to the next name on the list. "Brick?"

There were a dozen more recruits, all present, though none looked anywhere near as promising as the Gambolts. She finished the list, then turned to Armstrong and said, "All new troops present and accounted for, Lieutenant."

"Very good," said Armstrong, but before he could say more he was interrupted by a new voice.

"I'm a-gonna hafts take exception to that, Sarge," said a deep resonant voice. "I'm as much a member of this here company as anybody, and by the captain's own personal request, as it happens."

Brandy turned to see a pudgy human, with long, dark slicked-back hair and even darker sunglasses. Like the others in the formation, the newcomer was dressed in black, although his jumpsuit was even more flamboyant than the version of the Legion uniform Phule's Company wore. And there was nothing at all military about the stranger's hipshot stance and half-sneering expression.

It was Lieutenant Armstrong who broke the awkward silence. He pulled himself up to his full height and snapped, "If you're assigned to Omega Company, then fall in with the rest of the troops and report. This is the Legion, if you know what that means."

"Lordy, do I ever," said the newcomer. He sauntered up next to the Gambolts, drew himself more or less upright, and gave a passable imitation of a salute. "Reverend Jordan Ayres reportin' for duty, suh. But y'all can call me Rev."

"What the hell..." began Brandy, gearing up to give the new man a demonstration of how an angry top sergeant looked and sounded.

But Phule said, "Wait a minute, Brandy. Reverend.

" Phule's puzzled expression suddenly transformed itself into a broad smile and the captain reached out a hand for Ayres to shake. "Of course! You're the chaplain I requested from headquarters. Welcome to Omega Company." He shot a quizzical look at Armstrong.

"A chaplain?" said Armstrong, staring at the newcomer. "I'd almost forgotten you'd asked. There wasn't anything about it in the dispatches from headquarters. I'm afraid you find us not properly prepared to greet you, Reverend Ayres. My apologies."

"Think nothin' of it," said the chaplain, falling back into his former posture. "And jes' call me Rev, Lieutenant. Why, the less fuss y'all make about me, the better. I'm jes' here to do a job, same as everybody else."

"Yes, that's the spirit," said Phule. "Now, I think it's time for us to get back to the Fat Chance where you people can meet your new comrades and get started on your duties. I can promise you a very interesting tour of duty with us."

"That's why we're here," said one of the Gambolts-Dukes, the biggest of the trio. His expression could have passed for a grin, although the large and very sharp canine (or were they more properly feline?) teeth made it far more ferocious than an equivalent expression from a human.

"Good, then let's go," said Brandy. "Follow me, on the double!"

The new members of Phule's Company shouldered their bags, and followed Brandy and their officers past the line of curious tourists at the immigration desk, out to a waiting hoverbus that would take them back to the Fat Chance hotel and their new assignment. They quickly stowed their bags and boarded, and the bus nosed out into the light traffic and headed away.

Neither they nor the tourists (who were after all most interested in getting to the casinos and spending their money) noticed the small figure in black that surreptitiously followed the legionnaires to the bus, and then set off on foot behind it, sticking carefully to the edge of the road and doing its best to avoid observation.

Journal #281

The unsavory elements of society look upon gambling as their private domain. Legitimate businessmen who enter that field are likely to find themselves the object of unwanted attention from those who wish to take the lion's share of the profits without having worked for it. Needless to say, this is not comfortable.

The local mob on Lorelei was led by Maxine ( "Maxie ") Pruett. She had greeted my employer with a well-orchestrated campaign of strong-arm tactics to frighten away customers. She also sponsored an invasion of cardsharps and grifters intended to siphon off the casino's profits. She confidently expected these tactics to force the casino into bankruptcy, at which point she planned to foreclose on the substantial loans she had made the owners.

But things did not go as Maxine had planned. Her takeover attempt was thwarted by my employer's access to the firepower of a fully equipped Legion company-as well as to a degree of advance intelligence provided largely by myself. But her failure did nothing to deter outside criminals from their own forays. My employer knew that such attempts were inevitable. What he didn't know was how quickly the predators would begin to circle...or to what extent they had Maxie's aid and comfort in their unsavory ventures.

"You're underestimating Jester again," said Laverna, looking up from the book she was reading. Out of habit, she used Phule's Legion pseudonym, although she and her boss both knew his real name by now. "Or have you forgotten how lucky you were to get away with your skin all in one piece?"

"I haven't forgotten," said Maxie Pruett. "You need a good memory to stay in this business as long as I have-or have you forgotten that?" Her piercing eyes glared at her chief advisor, but she knew and respected the tall black woman's talent for assessing risks unemotionally-an ability that had earned her the grudging nickname, "the Ice Bitch."