Though he hadn't said anything at the time, Lobo wasn't wild about being assigned to play punching bag for some uniformed jerk. Not that he minded the possibility of pain or injury; it was the idea of not fighting back that bothered him. Still, it wasn't often that Stilman came to him with work, and he was eager to prove himself.

Lobo was impressed by Ward Stilman as he had rarely been impressed with anyone in his life, and wanted to move up in that notable's esteem. If the man wanted him to take a dive, he'd do it, but he wanted to be sure it was as spectacular as possible.

He pondered this as he ensconced himself at a table in the cocktail lounge that opened into the casino, the only lounge still open during the remodeling. This, too, was covered by his instructions: to establish his presence before starting trouble, so it wouldn't look like he walked in with that end specifically in mind.

Lobo had followed Stilman's career in astroball, as had most who loved that rough-and-tumble sport, until the league tossed him out for consistently exceeding the level of viciousness allowed by the rules, though the clamor from the media, not to mention several threatened lawsuits by hopitalized individuals who were unfortunate enough to have faced him on the field, doubtless played a factor in their decision. In person, however, Ward Stilman was even more intimidating than when viewed in the holos. The man had a disquieting habit, on the field or off, of standing absolutely motionless-not stiff or tense, but poised, as if he were waiting for just the right cue to spring for your throat. The media, of course, had picked up on this trait, calling him "the Statue" or, playing on his name "the Still Man," but watching him in a stadium or even in holo was not the same as trying to remain relaxed when he was looking specifically at you. Whenever they talked, Lobo found himself moving very slow and deliberately, hoping subconsciously that by making his own actions clear he would not trigger an attack accidentally. Not being used to feeling fear, Lobo at once admired and resented the effect Stilman had on him, and aspired toward the day that Stilman would view him as an equal. The trouble was, how could he demonstrate his own courage and effectiveness while keeping his hands in his pockets, soaking up damage from some Army amateur?

The answer came to Lobo in the form of two Legionnaires who ambled into the bar while he was waiting for his drink. In an instant, Lobo knew he had his target.

The woman was nothing much-short, with the soft curves of lingering baby fat. But her companion! Lobo mentally licked his lips in anticipation.

Even Stilman would have to be impressed that Lobo had chosen the monster to pick a fight with, especially a fight he was destined to lose. What was more, "monster" was an accurate description of the Legionnaire he was targeting. The guy was some kind of alien, huge with a big warthog head and all-black animal eyes. At a glance it was easy to see that he would have to be one of the "heavyweights" for the security force.

"That will be five dollars, sir," the cocktail waitress said, interrupting Lobo's thoughts as she delivered his drink.

The opportunity was too good to let pass.

"What do you mean, five dollars?" he snarled, raising his voice. "I thought drinks were free in these casinos."

Though she was small, easily as small as the uniformed Legionnaire accompanying the monster, the cocktail waitress held her ground, apparently used to dealing with loud drunks.

"That's at the tables, sir," she explained patiently. "Drinks are complimentary while you're playing, but here in the bar we have to charge you. If you'd like, I can take it back."

"Oh, hell ... here!" Lobo spat, fishing a bill from his pocket and throwing it at her. "Just don't expect a tip, too."

The waitress smoothed the bill, quickly checking its denomination, then retreated without another word.

Glancing around the bar in mock anger, Lobo caught the Legionnaires watching him, as he had expected.

"What are you looking at, freak?" he challenged, ignoring the woman to deal directly with the monster.

The massive Legionnaire shrugged and turned back to his companion.

"Hey! Don't look away when I'm talkin' to you, freak!"

Lobo pressed, rising from his seat and approaching the other table. "What are you doin' in here, anyway? Doesn't this place have a leash law for pets?"

The woman opened her mouth to respond, but the monster laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"Sorry ... not mean to stare," the monster said haltingly. "My eyes not like yours. Sometimes look like I stare."

"Hey! He even talks funny!" Lobo said, turning to make his appeal to the bar's other customers only to find the few occupied tables had been deserted, their occupants seeking quieter surroundings for their drinking.

"Tell you what, babe," he said, focusing on the smaller Legionnaire. "Why don't you send this freak back to his kennel and let me buy your next round?"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you," the woman shot back coldly.

"With him?" Lobo laughed. "You military chicks can't be that hard up! What you need is a real man."

"Not talk like that," the monster rumbled. "Dangerous."

"Oh yeah?" his tormentor sneered. "You want to try to do somethin' about it ... freak?"

Of course, what the Voltron was referring to was something that Lobo was missing completely, focused as he was on his target. The small waitress who had served him his drink was now marching toward him from behind, still holding her now-empty metal drink tray.

"Come on, freak!" Lobo taunted. "Let's see what you've got."

With that, he leaned forward and slapped the monster playfully on the side of its snout just as the waitress stepped in close behind him, raising her tray.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Journal #214

As I have noted, it took a while for my employer to determine that the casino his force was guarding was, indeed, under attack, much less who his adversaries were.

The opposition, on the other hand, as instigators of the attack, had no such difficulty, though they, in turn, were lacking hard information as to the exact nature and temperament of the force arrayed against them.

I find it particularly interesting, however, that some of the main problems encountered by both commanders throughout this campaign came from within, not without.

There was a loud knock along with a muffled call of "Housekeeping," and Phule opened the door to admit his top sergeant, barely recognizable in her maid's uniform.

"I can only be here a few minutes, Captain," she declared hurriedly. "The story is I'm supposed to be checking to be sure the beds were made today, and if I take too long, the rest of the staff will start to wonder."

"All right, Brandy, I'll try to keep this brief," Phule said tersely. "I assume you've heard about Super Gnat's brawl?"

"It's all over the hotel," Brandy said, "though from what I hear, it wasn't much of a fight."

"Well, have you talked to her about it?"

"Just for a few minutes in passing," the top sergeant said. "She seems to be all right. Why do you ask?"

"Didn't you say anything to her about breaking cover?" Phule pressed, ignoring the question.

Brandy shrugged. "Not that I recall."

Phule started to snap something angrily, then caught himself.

"All right," he said stiffly. "I want you to get her aside ... pin her ears back for me. Understand?"

"No, I don't, sir," the top sergeant said, perching on the edge of the room's dresser in a pose much more in keeping with her old Legion manner. "Just what is it she's done that's supposed to be wrong?"