Phule groaned. "I guess you'd better send him in," he said. The totals on the spreadsheet were about to change again. He wondered if they'd ever get back in the black.
17
Journal #442
Despite all setbacks, the day finally came when there was nothing more to do but open New Atlantis Park and see how many people came inside. As Le Duc Taep had planned, both the rebel park and the government park were to open their gates on the same day. It became increasingly evident that the dual opening day would be a landmark event in the recent history of Landoor. Schools and government offices were given a holiday to help swell the attendance at Landoor Park, and many businesses followed suit. Naturally, this was expected to give New Atlantis Park a significant boost in attendance, as well.
Off-planet tourists began arriving in a steady stream during the week before opening day. These tourists gave an immediate boost to local business, filling the hotels, restaurants, and shops as well as the beaches and existing parks. It began to appear as if my employer's heavy publicity campaign had paid off handsomely, at least as far as initial interest in the two amusement parks.
What he hadn't expected was the arrival of an entirely different kind of visitor...
"Uh-oh," said Rembrandt.
"Now, that's an encouraging statement," said Armstrong, looking up from a printout of political commentary culled from the net. The two officers were catching up on their news reading over breakfast, and neither had said a word until now.
Rembrandt threw her printout on top of his pages. "Take a look at the story on the lower left, and see whether it encourages you," she said.
"Diplomats arrive for park openings," read Armstrong. "Hey, that can't be all bad. Bigwigs coming means more publicity for the park."
"Keep reading."
"Ambassador Gottesman and the peacekeeping verification team made Landoor Orbit on the Pride of Durdane...A spokesperson said their visit had been planned several months ago, but they were pleased to learn that their arrival coincided with a planetwide celebration..." Armstrong looked up. "So?"
"Keep reading."
"Also on board was a military delegation headed up by..." Armstrong blanched. "Holy mackerel!"
"You see what I mean," said Rembrandt. "The captain needs to see this right away." She stood up from the table and grabbed the printout from Armstrong's hands.
"Hang on, I've got one piece of bacon left," said Armstrong, reaching for his plate.
"Eat it on the run, this is a red alert," said Rembrandt. She turned and headed for the captain's office without looking back.
Several legionnaires turned to look as the lieutenants-Rembrandt in the lead, with Armstrong gaining rapidly-hurried through the dining room out toward the company offices. Just as the rear door closed behind them, Moustache, who was sitting near the front door, leapt up and shouted, "Ten-hut! General Blitzkrieg, sir!"
The assembled legionnaires straggled to their feet, their mouths gaping open. The sight of any high-ranking officer was a rarity at Omega Company, and the troops' demeanor showed it. Moustache and Mahatma managed to snap off salutes that might have satisfied a moderately lenient drill sergeant. If any of the others had ever known how, they had long since forgotten it.
It hardly mattered. Looking neither to the left nor to the right, General Blitzkrieg stormed through the dining room toward the company offices. Even those who didn't know of Phule's previous run-ins with Legion brass had no difficulty figuring out that their CO was about to get his head chewed off.
"Jester, you've overstepped every trace of your authority," roared General Blitzkrieg. "You've allied yourself with the damned rebels, and put your troops to work to overthrow the very government you were sent to protect. Hmpfff! This won't just get you drummed out of the Legion-you'll be in the stockade, if I have my way."
"Sir, I can explain everything," said Phule, standing at rigid attention behind his desk. He was maintaining his aplomb remarkably well, considering that he'd had perhaps two minutes' notice of the general's arrival.
"I'm sure you can," snarled the general. "You're good at making your schemes look harmless, but I can see through them. This time, you're going to pay the price. And it will give me great pleasure to watch it!"
Seizing the pause in the general's rant, Phule broke in, "Sir, I have done nothing that isn't within my orders."
"Within your orders? Hah! We'll see about that," said Blitzkrieg. He walked around the large marble-topped desk and wagged a finger under his subordinate's nose. "But I'm not going to waste time arguing with you. I'm relieving you of your command, effective instantly. You will go directly to your quarters and consider yourself under house arrest. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," said Phule, standing his ground. "Do I have the general's permission to have visitors? I will need to see my butler. I also request permission to speak to my officers, with a view to preparing a defense."
Blitzkrieg waved a hand, knocking an empty plastic coffee cup off the desk. He didn't seem to notice. "Permission granted," he said. "It'll do you no good, but never let it be said that I denied you the right to counsel. I warn you, though-don't try to enlist your officers in any conspiracy against me, or you'll all be charged with mutiny. Dismissed!"
"Sir!" Phule saluted and turned to make his way to his quarters. He'd get out of this, he knew. He'd been in plenty of trouble with the brass before, and he'd always gotten out of it. It might be a little tougher this time, with both his commanding general and the government of the planet he was supposed to be protecting lined up against him. But he'd figure it out. At least, he hoped he would.
Journal #445
Those who, like my employer, are accustomed to taking matters in their own hands are prone to forget that some matters don't want to be taken in hand. Alternately, these active souls prefer to put recalcitrant matters out of mind and concentrate on problems they can deal with directly. As a result, they are often surprised when something they have deliberately neglected jumps up and bites them.
Phule was about to turn down the corridor to his hotel room when he was stopped by two people in civilian outfits so identical that they might as well have been uniforms. "Mister Phule?" said the taller of the two.
"Yes," he said. "I am Phule. I'm afraid I can't really stop to talk, though."
"Captain, it is your decision whether or not to talk to us," said the man who'd spoken. Phule could now see that the other was a woman. "However, we are here on important government business, and it would be very wise of you to make the time." He opened a wallet and displayed an ID card: Special Agent Roger Peele of the Interstellar Revenue System.
Phule struck himself on the forehead and said, "I knew there was something I'd been forgetting! You were looking for me back on Lorelei, weren't you?"
"Yes," said Peele. "And after what we've found there, we're even more anxious to talk to you."
"I guess we might as well do it now as later," said Phule with a sigh. "At this point, there's nothing you can do to make my day any worse."
"Perhaps not, Mr. Phule," said the other, female, IRS agent. "However, I must warn you-it's our job to try." Her thin smile made it clear that she was not joking at all.
"Well, come with me, then," said Phule, and they followed him to his quarters.
"Well, sir, which shall we tackle first-saving you from the stockade, or from bankruptcy?" Beeker sat calmly at the keyboard of his Port-a-Brain computer, watching Phule pace nervously across the room and back again.