"I try, sir," Beeker said, unruffled. "We all do. Your son, however, has a mind of his own as well as an unfortunate flair for the unorthodox. Taking that into account, I'm sure you'll realize the difficulties involved in watching over him."
"I know all about his independence," the elder Phule growled darkly. "I guess I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later."
"Excuse my asking, Mr. Phule," the butler said, seizing the pause in the conversation, "but is it still the policy of Phule-Proof Munitions and yourself that no extortion payments are to be made under any circumstances, regardless of who or what is being threatened?"
"That's right," the voice confirmed. "Once you start paying, there's no end to it. We pay taxes to the government for protection, and that should be the end of it. If more people were willing to stand up to criminals and terrorists-"
"Yes, I'm familiar with the argument," Beeker interrupted. "Tell me, Mr. Phule, would it be too much of a compromise of your principles to withhold your refusal for a while-say, for forty-eight hours?"
"No. They said they'd call back and broke the connection before I could say much of anything. If they call back, I can try to stall them, but-"
"Fine," the butler said, cutting the elder Phule short again. "Then if you'll be so good as to clear the line, sir, I'll see if anything can be done to bring the situation to a satisfactory conclusion from this end."
"Right ... and Beeker?"
"Yes, Mr. Phule?"
The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly very weary, as if anger had been the only thing giving it strength and now that that emotion had been vented there was nothing left.
"Be careful not to ... I mean ... I know he and I have had our differences, but he's still my son, and ..."
"I understand. I'll try, sir."
As soon as the connection was broken, the butler abandoned any pretense of nonchalance.
His face set in a grim mask, he hurried through the door that connected his bedroom with the suite's main living area. Chocolate Harry was asleep on the sofa, having stubbornly refused to move into one of the beds normally used by the suite's residents, and Beeker moved quietly so as not to wake him. It was his intention to check his employer's bedroom on the vain hope that this was all some sort of ghastly prank, but before he reached the other bedroom door something caught his eye. There, on the chair next to the door into the corridor, were the sidearm the Legionnaire commander normally wore and his wrist communications command unit.
The butler stared at the items for a few moments, then sank into a chair and turned on a lamp.
"Hey, Beeker!" Harry said, awakened by the light. "What's up?"
Beeker ignored him, bending over his own wrist communicator as he depressed the Call button.
"That you, Beeker?" came Mother's voice. "What are you doing up at this hour? I thought-"
"Give me an open channel to Lieutenants Armstrong and Rembrandt," the butler said tersely. "And Mother? I want to listen in as well. We have an emergency situation, and there's no point wasting time going over the information twice."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Journal #245
As near as I can determine, Maxine Pruet was either ignoring the presence of the Space Legion company under my employer's command or operating under the old assumption that if you cut off the head, the body dies.
To say the least, this was an error in judgment
The removal of my employer from his position of leadership did not cause the company to wither and die, but rather unified and intensified their already substantial energies. That is, it had the effect of removing the emergency brakes from a locomotive and putting it on a straight, downhill stretch of tracks.
One of the Fat Chance's conference rooms had been hastily commandeered for the company's emergency war council, but even that was growing crowded. In an effort to keep the meeting manageable, the room had been cleared of everyone except cadre and officers, which is to say those holding the rank of corporal or higher, and a few concerned individuals, like the Voltron, Tusk-anini, who refused to budge and whom no one had the energy or courage to chase out. A large crowd of Legionnaires loitered and hovered in the hall just outside, however, muttering darkly to each other as they waited for a course of action to be decided upon.
All the undercover Legionnaires had been recalled, though not all had taken time to change into their Legion uniforms, giving the assemblage the appearance of being a catered party rather than a planning session. This impression would be shattered, however, upon viewing the faces of the participants. The expressions ranged from worried to grim, without a single smile in evidence.
The focus of the group was on the company's two lieutenants, who stood on either side of the conference table reviewing a stack of floor plans, stoically ignoring the faces that peered anxiously over their shoulders from time to time.
"I still don't see what this is supposed to accomplish, Remmie," Armstrong grumbled, picking up another sheet from the stack. "We don't even know for sure that he's still in the complex."
Though he was from a military family and had consequently had more experience with planning, the same background had also made Armstrong a stickler for protocol and chain of command. Lieutenant Rembrandt's commission predated his, making her the senior officer and his superior, and he deferred to her as much from ingrained habit as from courtesy.
"It's a starting point, okay?" Rembrandt snapped back at him. "I just don't think we should start tearing the whole space station apart, dividing our forces in the process, until we're sure they aren't holding him right here. It's our best bet that he's being held here somewhere, since I don't see them running the risk of being spotted while trying to move him out of the complex. That means we've got to take the time to check out all the out-of-the-way nooks and crannies in this place before we go barging around outside-and there are a lot of them."
"You can say that again," Armstrong said, scowling at the sheet he was holding. "As long as we've been here, I never realized how many access corridors and service areas there were in this place."
"Hey! Look who's here!"
"C.H.! How's it goin', man?"
The officers looked up as the company's supply sergeant made his way into the room through the waiting crowd, smiling and waving his response to the greetings that marked his arrival.
"Come on in, Harry!" Rembrandt called. "Good to see you back in uniform."
Indeed, Chocolate Harry was decked out in his Legionnaire uniform, complete with-or incomplete, as the case may be-the torn-off sleeves that were his personal trademark.
"Good to be back, Lieutenant," the massive sergeant said. "Hey, Top! Lookin' good!"
He waved across the room at Brandy, still in her housekeeping uniform, who interrupted her conversation with Moustache long enough to give him a grin and a wink.
"Excuse me, Sergeant," Armstrong said, "but the last thing I heard you were on the inactive list. Aren't you supposed to be convalescing?"
"What? For this?" Harry gestured at the bandages around his torso that peeked through the armholes of his uniform. "Heck, I hardly remember that I got hit ... 'cept if someone should happen to want to give me a good old hug."
He dropped his voice but maintained his grin, though his eyes glittered darkly as he met Armstrong's gaze with a hard stare.
"Besides, there ain't no way I'm gonna sit this one out-not with the cap'n in trouble-and with all due respect, Lieutenant, I'd advise you not to try to change my mind. You ain't nearly big enough-or mean enough."