"I'll tell you what rough duty is!"
Annoyed at the interruption in midstory, the group glanced up to find Lieutenant Armstrong weaving his way unsteadily in their direction.
"It... isn't a matter of where you stand duty or what you've gotta do. When you're serving under a freaking ghost... and that ghost is your... father and one of the most highly decorated soldiers ever, then you... gotta spend your whole life trying to prove you're one tenth as good as everyone says he was. That's rough duty! I only wish the sonofabitch had stayed alive long enough to make a mistake."
The Legionnaires glanced at each other uncomfortably as Armstrong tried to get his lips and glass coordinated.
"Umm... don't you think it's time you got some sleep, Lieutenant?" Brandy said carefully, breaking the silence.
Armstrong peered at her owlishly, blinking fiercely as he tried to get his eyes in focus.
"You're... right, Sergeant Brandy. Mustn't say or do anything unbecom... unbecoming an officer. I... think I'll get some fresh air first, though. Good... night, everybody. "
The lieutenant drew himself erect and attempted a salute that came close to missing before lurching off toward the street door, steadying himself occasionally with a hand on the wall.
The group watched him go in silence.
"An officer and a gentleman... God help us," someone said, raising his drink in a mock toast.
"Umm... I hate to say it," Super Gnat drawled, "but it's awful late for him to be walking the streets in that condition."
"So what? He's a jerk!"
"Yeah, but he's our jerk. I'd just as soon not see anything happen to him while he's wearing the same uniform I am. C'mon, Gnat. Let's give the man a fighter escort until he crashes."
Leaning against the wall, unnoticed behind a potted plant, Phule smiled to himself at the exchange. More and more, the Legionnaires were starting to watch out for each other. Some of it was camaraderie, some a general defense of the company's reputation, but it all added up to esprit de corps. If this kept up, then eventually...
The beep of his wrist communicator interrupted his thoughts.
"Mother?" he said, keying the unit on. "What are you doing upstairs? Come on down and-"
"I think we got a problem, Big Daddy," the communications specialist announced, cutting him short. "The chief of police is on the line for you. Says it's urgent."
Phule experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with drinking.
"Patch him through."
"Here he is. You're on, Chief."
"Willard? You'd better get down here, pronto. A couple of your boys are in a jam, and there's no way I can cover for them. "
"What's the charge?" the commander said, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.
"It seems they were caught red-handed on a breaking-and-entering," the police chief informed him. "That might not be so bad, but it was the governor's house they were breaking into, and he caught them himself!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Journal #112
While it may seem that my employer has a greater tendency than most to "buy his way" out of problems and dilemmas, I have noticed that he invariably draws the line when it comes to dealing with politicians. This is not, as it might be supposed, the result of any distaste on his part for the influence of "special interest groups," nor does he subscribe to the "An honest politician is one who, once he's bought, stays bought!" school of thought. Rather, it stems from a stubborn belief on his part that elected officials should not have to be "paid extra" to do their jobs.
As he puts it, "Waitresses and card dealers are paid minimum wage in anticipation of their income being supplemented by tips, so if one doesn't tip them, one is, in effect, robbing them of their livelihood. Public officials, on the other hand, are expected to live within their salaries, so any effort on their part to obtain additional earnings for the simple performance of their duties is extortion at its worst and should be a jailable offense!"
Needless to say, this attitude does nothing toward increasing his popularity with the politicians he comes in contact with.
Governor Wingas, or Wind-gust, as he was known to his rivals, could not suppress a feeling of smug excitement as the commander was ushered into his study. Ever since reading in the media that there was a megamillionaire in residence in the settlement, the governor had been racking his brain for a way to entice a fat "campaign contribution" out of that noteworthy. All party and luncheon invitations had gone unanswered, however, as had his personal notes soliciting contributions and hinting vaguely at "beneficial legislation" for the Legionnaires.
Now, at long last, he was not only getting a chance to meet the munitions heir, but that chance was coming under circumstances that could only be viewed as "favorable for negotiation." In layman's terms, with two Legionnaires under lock and key, he had their commander over a barrel and had no intention of settling cheaply... or easily.
"So, we finally meet, Mr. Phule... or should I call you Captain Jester? The governor smiled, leaning back in the leather chair behind his desk as the commander settled in one of the guest chairs.
"Make it 'Captain Jester,"' Phule said, not returning the smile. "This isn't a social call. I'm here on official Legion business."
"That's right." Wingas nodded, enjoying himself. "You're the one who doesn't accept social invitations. Well, then, shall we get down to business? What can I do for you... as if I didn't know. Frankly I expected you sooner than this."
"I had some other stops to make first," the commander returned flatly. "As to what you can do for me, I'm here to ask you to drop the charges against the two Legionnaires currently residing in jail."
The governor shook his head.
"I couldn't do that. The men are criminals. I caught them myself outside the window of this very room. No, sir. I can't see letting them go free to steal again... unless, of course, you can give me... shall we say, a reason to show leniency?"
"I can give you two reasons, Governor," Phule said through tight lips, "though I expect only one will really matter to you. First of all, the men weren't breaking into your home... "
"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Captain." The governor smiled. "I caught them myself!"
"... they were breaking out of your home," the commander finished, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "You see, my Legionnaires are very eager to have a chance at that honor guard job you've given to the Regular Army, and those two men, Do-Wop and Sushi, broke in here trying to find something I could use as leverage to force you to give us that chance."
Phule paused to shake his head.
"In some ways, it's my fault. I talked about looking for leverage while they were listening, and they took it on themselves to try to get it for me. Anyway, they brought what they found to me, and I ordered them to put it back. They did, and you caught them as they were leaving. In short, there was no crime, which should be all the justification you need to drop the charges."
"No crime!" the governor snorted. "Even if I believed this yarn of yours, Captain-which I don't they still broke into my home. Twice, from what you say."
The commander flashed a tight smile, his first since entering the room.
"Make up your mind, Governor. Either you believe me or you don't. In case you're having trouble making up your mind, however..." He stretched out a hand, pointing at the governor's desk. "Bottom drawer on the left, in a file labeled 'Old Business.' That's what they were replacing. Convinced?"
The governor's smile dropped away like supporters after a losing election.
"If you mean...
"Frankly, Governor," Phule continued, "I don't care what your sexual preferences are, or whom or what you practice them with-though I usually confine my own leanings to our own species-much less whether or not you keep pictures for souvenirs. All I want is my men back. Of course, if their case should go to court, I'd be obligated to testify in their behalf, including describing in lurid, graphic, the-media-will-love-it detail the pictures they were supposed to have stolen."