“That’s triff, if somebody finds you in time,” said Rembrandt. “If they don’t?”
“The chip sends out a locator signal,” said Phule. He looked around nervously. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody this… If kidnappers knew about it, they’d try to dig out the chip before the field kicked in. That’s why Dad didn’t let me tell Beeker…”
Rembrandt shook her head. “Well, Captain, I’m certainly not going to put out the word. But you’ve convinced me. Now, let’s just hope Beeker isn’t one of those guys who takes a computer on vacation and never looks at his email.”
“Let’s hope, indeed,” said Phule. “How soon can you get me on that shuttle?”
4
Journal #772-
The Space Legion’s recruiting posters urge civilians to “join the Legion and see the Universe.” The fact is, most of those who join see little more than the hold of a troop ship and the parade ground of a Legion base. My employer had given his legionnaires the chance to see a good bit more than that-including some of the more attractive vacation spots in the Alliance. What he forgot is that, for a man who must be on call at all times, even the most delightful vacation spot eventually begins to look a great deal like a workplace-and workplaces are, by definition, odious.
Normally, anyone traveling to or from Omega Company headquarters on Zenobia stopped over at space station Lorelei. For one thing, Lorelei was a major space liner stop, so travelers could make direct connections to the final destination, at a considerable savings in time. But equally important, Omega Company was majority owner of the Fat Chance Hotel and Casino, so the traveling legionnaires could spend a night or two in a first-class hotel while awaiting their connections. Not only was that an additional savings, it almost guaranteed that the passengers were in a good mood for the rest of their trip.
For Phule, a visit to the Fat Chance was an additional responsibility. After giving up his share in the ownership to the legionnaires of his company, he felt he owed them a careful look at how the business was going. Sure, he’d put good people in charge; sure, the casino had managed to survive a potential disaster when an outsider won a huge jackpot when all the odds were rigged against it. But it didn’t hurt to cast his eye over the books on behalf of his people. And if it meant he was a day late catching up with Beeker-who surely hadn’t lingered on the station any longer than absolutely necessary-so be it.
As it turned out, he couldn’t have picked a worse time to arrive at the Fat Chance. A drug-resistant flu virus had hit the station, and a quarter of the casino staff-including Tully Bascomb, the casino manager, were suffering through it. Tully had ordered the dealers, waiters, bartenders, and others in public contact positions to take sick leave the minute they showed any symptoms, and that decision had managed to slow the spread of the bug among the Fat Chance employees and customers.
Of course, a shipload of high rollers-lawyers attending the Galactic Bar Convention-arrived at the Fat Chance just as the epidemic was at its peak. None of the estimable barristers (let alone the spouses and other vacation partners accompanying them) seemed to appreciate the pains the casino had taken to keep them from exposure to the virus. All they knew was that they had to wait in line at the hotel desk, and that the service in the restaurants and bars was slower than they liked, and that some of the gaming tables were closed for lack of trained staff to run them. Tully had rushed back from his own convalescence and brought on a fleet of temp workers to deal with the problem. That reduced the lawyers’ bitching and moaning to an acceptable level, but it sent Tully into a full-blown relapse.
Phule ended up spending two whole days at the casino, making everything run smoothly so Tully wouldn’t have to rush back yet again. A fair amount of his time was spent mingling with the crowd, playing the celebrity for the sake of the guests. By the time he was done, he was almost as exhausted as if he’d had the flu himself-but the casino was running smoothly, and Tully had regained his full strength. And Phule had gotten a look at the books, and could tell Omega Company that its investment was in good shape.
In the meantime, he’d studied up on the planet where Beeker and Nightingale had been reported. They hadn’t stayed at the Fat Chance on their way through Lorelei. There would’ve been too many people who might recognize them, and too many questions, especially since Nightingale’s former employers, the Lorelei branch of the Syndicate, had bones to pick with her. But thanks to Sushi’s computer work, Phule already knew their immediate destination. An afternoon looking through travel brochures in the casino offices turned up a fair amount of material for Cut ‘N’ Shoot.
Cut ‘N’ Shoot had a smaller land area than most inhabited worlds, having a single moderate-sized continent with a few mineral resources, but no industrial prospects worth mentioning. After failing to find off-world customers for its decidedly inferior agricultural products, the governors of Cut ‘N’ Shoot had brought in outside consultants who (after absorbing a hefty fee) advised them to reposition it as a vacation spot for the galaxy. If Beeker and Nightingale were staying there, they wouldn’t have very many places to hide, Phule decided.
The next day, he was on a space liner for Cut ‘N’ Shoot, determined to bring the chase to an early end.
Journal #783-
Cut ‘N’ Shoot is widely advertised as “the world of wide-open spaces,” a claim that could be as easily made by any number of desolate, uninhabitable planets throughout the Alliance. One assumes that the marketing boffin who contrived the slogan expected it to resonate with some preconceived notion in the minds of the intended audience. In any case, the planet was originally colonized by refugees from Tejas, and the indigenous culture of Cut ‘N’ Shoot evidently reflects whatever those escapees felt was lacking in their former world.
Perhaps too influenced by the planet’s name, I came to Cut ‘N’ Shoot expecting nothing more than poverty and squalor. To my surprise, the place is a booming success. Tourists from throughout the galaxy come to experience its carefully constructed aura of “the Old West,” a mythical time and place in which (to paraphrase the brochures) the land was free and open, men were men, and the only law was right. I leave it to others to judge whether this picture bears any resemblance to historical reality.
My own visit to Cut ‘N’ Shoot was moderately comfortable and suitably colorful. As for the cuisine, it was for the most part edible, if not especially varied.
Lieutenant Rembrandt was reading over Brandy’s draft of a plan for a training exercise using simulated enemies generated by the Zenobian sklern-a highly versatile longdistance holo projector-when her intercom buzzed. She flicked her wrist to turn on the talk switch, and answered, “Yes, Mother, what is it?”
Uncharacteristically, the voice of Comm Central wasted no time getting to the point. “Remmie, we’ve got trouble.”
“We usually do,” said Rembrandt. “What flavor is it this time around?”
“Brass,” said Mother. “I just got word from one of my spies on Lorelei that General Blitzkrieg has arrived, en route to Zenobia. It’s supposed to be a surprise inspection.”
“Oh, beautiful,” said Rembrandt, meaning exactly the opposite. “How am I going to explain why Captain Jester’s not on base? That’s the first thing the general’s going to ask about, and it’s the one thing we don’t dare tell him. He’d have the captain up on AWOL charges as fast as he could fill out the paperwork. There’s nothing he’d like better.”