Chapter One
Journal File #004*
Some have commented that the executive mind tends to expand work to fill, or overfill, available time. While I will not attempt to comment on the overall accuracy of this statement, it was certainly the case during our preparations prior to departure for my employer’s new assignment.
For my employer, this meant countless shopping expeditions, both in person and by computer. As you will note in these chronicles, unlike many of his financial level, he was never reluctant to part with his money. In fact, when confronted by a choice of two items, he seemed to invariably solve the dilemma by simply purchasing both—a habit I found less than endearing as I was the one required to store and track these acquisitions.
Of course, his pursuit of equipment and wardrobe meant that other important chores tended to be neglected…such as conducting research on the situation which we had been thrust into. As is so often the case, I felt compelled to step into this void rather than allow my employer to begin this new endeavor without proper preparation.
* * *
The Port-A-Brain computer system was designed to be the ultimate in pocket computers. Its main strength was that it enabled the user to tap into nearly any data base or library in the settled worlds, or place an order with most businesses above a one-store retail level, or communicate directly with or leave messages for anyone or any business which utilized any form of computerized telecommunications, all without so much as plugging into a wall outlet or tapping into a phone line. What’s more, the unit, complete with folding screen, was no larger than a paperback book. In short, it was a triumph of high-tech microcircuitry…but there was a small problem. Each unit cost as much as a small corporation, placing it well out of the financial reach of the individual and all but the most extravagant conglomerate executive officers; and even those who could afford one usually contented themselves to use the cheaper modes of data access, particularly since their job positions were lofty enough to allow them to delegate such menial tasks as research and communications to lower echelon staffers. As such, there were fewer than a dozen Port-A-Brain units in actual use in the entire galaxy. Willard Phule had two: one for himself and one for his butler. He reasoned the expense was worth avoiding the inconvenience of waiting in line for a pay terminal.
Camped in one of the spaceport’s numerous snack bars, he had been putting his personal unit to good use for the last several hours, tirelessly tapping in message after message in his clawlike two-fingered style. Finally he signed off with a flourish and replaced the computer in his pocket.
“Well, that’s all I can think of for now, Beek,” he declared, stretching mightily. “The rest can hold until we’ve had a chance to look over our new home.”
“Nice of you to curb your enthusiasm, sir,” the butler said dryly. “It may enable us to be on time for our transport.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Phule started to finish his cardboard cup of coffee, then set it aside with a grimace when he realized any trace of heat in the liquid had long since fled. Some things remained untouched by technological advances. “It’s not like we’re taking a commercial flight. This ship has been hired specifically to transport us to Haskin’s Planet. I doubt it’ll leave without us if we’re a few minutes late.”
“I wish I shared your confidence, sir. More likely the pilot will cancel the flight completely and make do with half payment for a no-show.”
Phule cocked his head quizzically at his companion.
“You’re certainly a Gloomy Gus today, Beeker. In fact, you’ve been more than a bit dour ever since the court-martial. Anything in particular bothering you?”
The butler shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t have the greatest faith in the generosity of the Legion, sir.”
“For example?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s this chartered flight. Considering the tight-fisted nature of the Legion, I find it a bit out of character for them to allow the added expense of a private ship rather than using normal commercial transport.”
“That’s easy.” Phule laughed. “The commercial lines only fly to Haskin’s Planet once every three months.”
“Exactly.” Beeker nodded grimly. “Has it occurred to you that this new assignment is more than a bit away from the mainstream of activity?”
“Beeker, are you trying to say you suspect that my promotion and subsequent assignment are something less than a reward?”
There was an edge on his employer’s voice that made the butler hesitate before answering. While normally pleasant enough to deal with, Phule also had a temper that ran to icy exactness rather than blind rage, and Beeker had no wish to become the focus of it. Still, there had always been an unspoken agreement of total honesty between them, so he summoned his courage and plunged onward.
“Let’s just say I find the timing of both to be…questionable, considering the fact that you were being court-martialed at the time. If nothing else, their insistence that you change your Legion name would seem to indicate there’s more to the matter than meets the eye.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree,” Phule said coldly, then flashed one of his sudden grins. “I don’t think there’s any question at all. The whole thing stinks on ice. Whatever I’m headed into, it’s a cinch I’m not supposed to enjoy it.”
Beeker experienced a quick wave of relief.
“Forgive me, sir. I should have realized you couldn’t be totally unaware of the situation. It’s just that you seem abnormally cheerful for someone who knows he’s being, as they say, set up.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Phule shrugged. “Think about it, Beek. Whatever’s waiting for us on Haskin’s has got to be better than rotting in a stockade for a couple years. Besides, I’ve always wanted to command a company. That’s why I went for officer status in the first place.”
“I’m not sure it’s safe to assume this assignment is preferable to a stockade,” the butler cautioned carefully.
“Oh?” The reply was accompanied by a raised eyebrow. “Is there something in the company’s personnel records I won’t like?”
“I am virtually certain of it, sir.” Beeker smiled tightly. “I’ve taken the liberty of loading them into your personal computer files so you can review them without having to deal with hard copy. I know you’ve never mastered traveling light.”
He gave a slight jerk of his head toward the porters standing by their luggage.
“Whoops! That’s right. We’ve got a flight to catch.”
Phule surged to his feet and gestured to the waiting baggage handlers.
“Follow me, men. Time and spaceflights wait for no one. C’mon, Beeker. Let’s roll.”
* * *
“Captain Jester?”
It took Phule a moment to recognize his new name and rank.
“That’s right,” he acknowledged hastily. “Are we about ready to depart?”
“Yes, sir. As soon as you…What’s that!?”
The pilot had spotted the caravan of porters wheeling three cart loads of baggage with them.
“Hmm? Oh, that’s just my personal luggage. If you’ll show them where to stow it, they’ll take care of the loading.”
“Hey, wait a second! All weight for a flight has to be cleared in advance. You can’t just waltz up here at the last minute with a load like that and expect me to let you on board with it!”
Inwardly Phule sighed. He had been afraid something like this would happen. Though under contract to the Legion, on board ship the pilot had ultimate authority. Like many minor bureaucrats, this gave him an exaggerated opinion of his power. Fortunately, Phule had been raised on bureaucratic infighting.
“Look…Captain, is it? Yes. If you’ll check your manifest, you’ll notice that the cargo that’s been loaded so far is lighter than the weight you were contracted to transport—substantially lighter. My baggage is the balance of that weight. While it’s more than is normally allotted to military personnel, I’ve paid for the extra poundage out of my own pocket, and am therefore understandably reluctant to leave it behind.”
The pilot had indeed noticed that the loaded cargo was light, but had figured it for an oversight, mentally licking his lips over the extra profit from saved fuel. Now he saw that extra profit slipping away.
“Wellll…if you’re sure all that stuff is still within the paid-for poundage. Just don’t expect me to load it for you.”
“Certainly not,” Phule soothed. “Now if you’ll direct the porters, they’ll take care of everything.”
Beeker hefted the two suitcases that contained their necessities for the trip and started up the gangplank.
“I’ll go ahead and start unpacking, sir,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Now, who’s that!?” the pilot snarled.
“That’s Beeker. He’s my butler and traveling companion.”
“You mean he’s coming with us? No way! The Legion hired me to transport one—count it, one—person and you’re it!”
“Not surprising, as Mr. Beeker is not enlisted in the Legion. He’s attached to me personally.”
“Fine. That means he’s not going.”
Phule studied his fingernails.
“Actually, if you care to check the weights, you’ll find that the extra poundage I purchased includes allowance for Beeker.”
“Oh yeah? Well, there’s a big difference between baggage and transporting a person.”
The Legionnaire was studying the ship.
“That’s a Cosmos 1427, isn’t it, Captain? I believe it sleeps six comfortably. Realizing this is a charter flight and there are no other passengers, I’m sure we can find room for Beeker somewhere.”
“That’s not the point,” the pilot insisted. “It takes paperwork and clearances to transport a person to another planet. I got no orders for this Beeker guy.”
“As a matter of fact,” Phule said, reaching into his jacket pocket, “I have the necessary paper right here.”
“You do?”
“Certainly. I couldn’t expect you to break regulations on my say-so, could I?”
He dropped something onto the pilot’s clipboard.
“Hey! This isn’t…”
“Study it carefully, Captain. I’m sure you’ll see that everything’s in order.”
The pilot stared in silence, which wasn’t surprising. In fact, Phule found it was the usual reaction of laymen when suddenly confronted with a thousand-credit note.
“I…guess this will cover the necessary clearances,” the pilot said slowly, unable to take his eyes from the money.
“Good.” Phule nodded. “Now, if you’ll just show the porters where to stow my luggage, we can be under way.”
Journal File #007
In reviewing my entries so far, I notice that the comments regarding my employer’s preparations for his new assignment seem less than complimentary. Please realize that we are two separate people with different modes of setting priorities. While we more than occasionally disagree, my noting of those differences is not intended as criticism, but rather an effort for completeness. The fact that I am the one keeping this record gives me a certain advantage in stating my opinions and preferences, and while I shall endeavor to keep my observations as impartial as possible, there is an understandable slanting where my own role in the proceedings is concerned. I trust you will take that into account in your readings.
In actuality, my employer is far more extensive in his research than I—once he gets around to it. My earlier concern was whether he would get around to it in time for it to be useful upon assuming command, and acting on that concern had prepared myself to be able to give him at least a basic briefing should time run out. As it turned out, the flight allowed more than ample time for him to complete his preparations.
Speaking of time, you may have noticed that I am merely keeping this journal in sequential sequence, occasionally noting the lapse of time between entries. Dates and times tend to become meaningless to travelers…particularly when one travels between planets or solar systems. For specific reference points to your local timeline, simply check in your local library for media coverage of the various events I record.
* * *
Glancing up from his lap computer, Phule noticed that Beeker had apparently fallen asleep in the cabin chair. In many ways, this wasn’t surprising. There was a sense of timelessness to space travel…days and nights being defined by when you turned the lights on or off. For Phule, this was ideal, as it allowed him to set his own work schedule, pausing only occasionally for a meal or a nap. Beeker, however, was less flexible in his need for regular sleep patterns, so it was not unusual that the two men often found themselves on different cycles. Normally this was no problem. At the moment, however, Phule found that he wanted to talk.
After struggling with his conscience for several moments, he decided on a compromise.
“Beeker?” he said as softly as he could.
If the butler was really asleep, the words would go unnoticed. To Phule’s relief, however, Beeker’s eyes flew open in immediate response.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, sir. Just resting my eyes for a moment. May I be of assistance?”
That reminded Phule of how tired his own eyes were. Leaning back, he massaged his temples gently with his fingertips.
“Talk to me, Beek. I’ve been staring at these files so long they’re starting to run together in my head. Take it from the top and give me your thoughts.”
The butler frowned as he mentally organized his own reactions to the assignment. It was far from the first time that his employer had asked for his opinion on key matters, though there was never any doubt as to who had the final responsibility for any action or decisions. Still, Beeker was gratified to know that Phule respected his counsel enough to ask for it from time to time.
“The settlement on Haskin’s Planet is self-sufficient and numbers about one hundred thousand,” he began slowly. “That in itself has little to do with our assignment, other than the potential of providing us with a bit of culture on our off-duty hours.
“On the surface, the assignment seems simple enough,” he continued. “Though the mineral content of the swamps on Haskin’s Planet is too low to warrant full commercial exploitation, there is a handful of individuals who eke out a living by mining those swamps. There are no major dangers in the native flora and fauna, mind you, but a swamp is a swamp and hazardous enough that it’s impossible to keep watch and concentrate on mining at the same time, so the miners banded together and hired a company of Legionnaires to give them protection while they work.”
Beeker pursed his lips and paused before launching into the next portion of his summary.
“To make the job even easier, pressure from various environmental groups requires that the miners only work the swamp one day a week…and that within strict limitations. As an aside, though it’s never stated in so many words, I suspect the assignment is actually of a duo nature: guarding the miners and policing them to be sure they remain within the environmental guidelines. Whatever the case may be, the Legionnaires are actually only required to stand duty once a week…which I consider to be the first sign of serious trouble. While it may sound like easy duty, I suspect that having that much free time on their hands is not a good thing for the Legionnaires posted there.”
“Which brings us to the subject of the Legionnaires,” Phule said grimly.
The butler nodded. “Quite so. It has never been a secret that with its open-door policy, the Legion is made up, to a large extent, of criminals who choose the service as a preferable alternative to incarceration. After examining the personnel files of your new command, however, one is forced to assume that this outpost has more than the expected percentage of…um…”
“Hard cases?”
“No. It goes beyond that,” Beeker corrected. “Even without reading between the lines, it becomes obvious that the company can be divided into two major groups. One, as you note, is comprised of those rougher elements who do not take easily to military life, regardless of what they signed on enlistment. The second group is at the other extreme. If anything, they are pacifistic by nature or choice—a trait which also makes them difficult or impossible to absorb into a normal military structure. I think, however, it is necessary to note that apparently all of your new command falls into one or the other of those groups. In short, it’s my considered opinion that you’ve been assigned to a force comprised entirely of…well, losers and misfits, for lack of better titles.”
“Myself included. Eh, Beeker?” Phule smiled wryly.
“It would appear that you are viewed as such in certain quarters,” the butler said with studied indifference.
Phule stretched his limbs.
“I agree with your analysis, Beek, except for one thing.”
“Sir?”
“When you refer to them as falling into one of two groups…I’m not seeing any of the cohesion necessary for a group, either in the categories you mentioned or in the company itself. It’s a cluster of individuals with no real sense of ‘group’ or of ‘belonging.’”
“I stand corrected. ‘Group’ was simply a convenient label.”
Phule was leaning forward now, his eyes bright despite his obvious fatigue.
“Convenient labels are a trap, Beek. One I can’t afford to fall into. As near as I can tell, convenient labels are what got the bulk of the personnel transferred into this company as…what did you call them?”
“Losers and misfits, sir.”
“That’s right, losers and misfits. I’ve got to mold them into a group, a cohesive unit, and to do that I’ve got to see them as individuals first. People, Beeker! It always comes down to people. Whether we’re talking business or the military, people are the key!”
“Of course, you realize, sir, that not everyone in your command falls under the category of ‘people,’” the butler commented pointedly.
“You mean the nonhumans? That’s right, I’ve got three of them. What are they? Let’s see…”
“Two Sinthians and a Volton. That is, two Slugs and a Warthog.”
“I’ll have none of that, Beeker.” Phule’s voice was sharp. “Species slurs are the worst kind of convenient label, and I won’t tolerate it…not even from you, not even in jest. Whoever they are, whatever they are, they’re Legionnaires under my command and will be treated and referred to with proper courtesy, if not respect. Is that clear?”
The butler had long since learned to distinguish between his employer’s occasional irritated temper flares, which were quickly forgotten, and genuine anger. While he had been previously unaware of this particular area of sensitivity, he made a mental note of it.
“Understood, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Phule relaxed, confident that the matter was settled.
“I’ll admit,” he mused, “that of the three nonhuman species that we’ve made alliances with, I’m surprised to find individuals from those two species in my command. I suppose it would have been too much to hope for to get a Gambolt or two.”
Beeker almost said “The Cats?” but caught himself in time.
“I believe that members of that species inclined to enlist usually sign onto the Regular Army,” he commented instead. “In fact, I’ve heard there’s an entire company of them.”
“It figures.” Phule grimaced. “With their combat reflexes and abilities, they can pretty much pick their assignments.”
“Certainly a different breed of…a different caliber material than you’ve been given to work with,” the butler agreed readily. “Tell me, sir, do you really think you can mold such a…diverse collection of individuals into an effective unit?”
“It’s been done before. Specifically the Devil’s Brigade…the first Special Service force, which eventually became…”
“The Special Forces,” Beeker finished. “Yes, I’m familiar with the unit. If I might point out, however, that was a joint U.S.-Canadian force. At the beginning, the Americans provided a motley assortment of rejects and criminals, as opposed to the Canadians, who donated a crack fighting unit. While you definitely have your allotment of criminals, I fear you’re lacking the offsetting crack fighting unit to serve as an example.”
“Touché,” Phule laughed easily. “I should know better than to try to reference military history in front of you, Beeker. Okay. To answer your question, I don’t know if it can be done, or more to the point, if it can be done by me. I do know I’m going to give it my best shot.”
“Which is all anyone can ask and definitely more than they deserve.” The butler stretched and yawned. “For now, however, unless there is something else…?”
He let the question hang in the air.
“Go ahead and turn in, Beek,” Phule said, reaching for his lap computer. “Sorry to keep you up, but I appreciate the talk.”
Beeker paused, eyeing the terminal.
“And yourself, sir? You’ll want to be well rested when we arrive at Haskin’s Planet.”
“Hmmm? Oh. Sure…in a bit. I just want to do a little checking on who’s who in that settlement. I’d like to know what I’m up against.”
The butler shook his head as he watched Phule hunch over the computer again. He knew all too well the kind of detail his employer required when researching business rivals—credit checks, educational background, family, police records—and assumed he’d settle for nothing less in this new campaign he was undertaking. There would be hours, if not tens of hours, of painstaking work involved, work begun long after most men would have collapsed from fatigue. Still, he knew it was pointless to try to cajole or jolly Phule from his chosen path once he was on a roll. All Beeker could do was to be there to support this extraordinary person when and if he did wobble.
Still shaking his head, he left for his cabin.