The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  Of course, the speed of the company’s development was a bit unnerving. In hindsight, I guess it’s apparent that there is nothing quite as fanatically loyal as a stray that’s found a home. At the time, however, the Legionnaires’ sudden enthusiasm was more than a little unsettling.

  * * *

  “… and finally, I am pleased to report that the holdings in the company portfolio have increased substantially since my last report. I’ll have a detailed report available for those interested, but cutting through to the bottom line, we’re currently up by eight, which is to say every dollar invested in our fund at the last report is now worth eight.”

  A low murmur rippled through the assemblage at this announcement, with some Legionnaires whispering excitedly at what they could do with their increased wealth while others groaned and grumbled over the profits they had lost by pulling all or part of their money out after the last reported increases.

  The entire company was gathered for one of Phule’s periodic informal debriefings. Whether it was items too minor to warrant announcement by wrist communicators, but too important to trust to a general notice posted on the bulletin board, or issues he wished to discuss with the Legionnaires face-to-face, the commander felt it was important to keep this line of exchange open, and the company had responded with diligent attendance whenever word was passed of an assembly.

  After waiting several moments for the reactions to run their course, he held up a hand for silence.

  “All right,” he said. “That pretty much wraps up the old business for now. Are there any questions or comments before I move on to new business?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Lieutenant Armstrong was on his feet, face rigid, in the classic position of attention. The captain noticed that several of the Legionnaires were grinning and nudging each other, but dismissed it as their normal amusement at Armstrong’s Regular Army practices.

  “Yes, Lieutenant? What is it?”

  Instead of replying, the lieutenant literally marched to the front of the room, squaring his corners with parade-ground precision. Coming to a halt directly in front of the commander, he drew himself up with a crisp salute, which he held until Phule, puzzled by his antics, returned.

  “Sir! The company has asked me to speak for them in voicing a complaint … sir!”

  As he spoke, all the Legionnaires in attendance rose silently to their feet and assumed stances approximating Armstrong’s textbook pose.

  The commander avoided looking at them directly, but was both aware of and taken aback by their actions. Whatever was coming, it seemed to be unanimous. What the hell could it be?

  “At ease, Lieutenant … and the rest of you, too. These are supposed to be informal meetings. Now then, what seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, sir … the company is unhappy with the uniforms you’ve provided them with.”

  “I see. Which uniform specifically?”

  “All of them, sir. We feel they lack color.”

  “Color?”

  Phule couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the assemblage. To a man, they were grinning at him.

  “I don’t think I understand. Black is the designated color of all Space Legion uniforms. While it may be unimaginative, I don’t see any reason to change that, even if we could get approval from Headquarters … which I doubt.”

  “We don’t want to change the color of the uniforms, sir … just request permission to add something for accent. Specifically …”

  The lieutenant removed something from his pocket and held it out to Phule.

  “… we request the captain’s permission to adopt and wear this flash patch as a designation for our unit … sir!”

  The patch was a bright red, diamond-shaped piece of cloth. Embroidered on it, in black, was a skull wearing a belled jester’s cap at a jaunty angle.

  Phule studied it for a full minute as silence hung thick in the room. Then, still not trusting his voice, he removed the paper from the patch’s adhesive backing and pressed it onto the sleeve of his uniform with his palm. With slow precision, he assumed the position of attention himself and raised his hand to salute the company.

  As one, the Legionnaires returned his salute … then the room exploded in cheers and celebration.

  “How do you like it, Captain?”

  “Lieutenant Rembrandt did the art! Isn’t it a beaut?”

  “We all chipped in …”

  As they crowded around him, the Legionnaires took time from babbling and slapping each other on the back to assist each other in installing the new patches on their sleeves. From the speed with which the decorations materialized, it was clear to the commander that the patches had been distributed in advance, with everyone carefully keeping them out of sight until they could spring the surprise on him together.

  * * *

  Phule was sitting alone in his room, staring at the patch on his just removed uniform, when his butler let himself in.

  “Have you seen this, Beeker?”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll look at your closet, you’ll find that it has been added to all your uniforms.”

  “So you were in on it, too, eh?”

  “I was asked to keep it confidential, sir. They wanted it to be a surprise.”

  The commander shook his head in amazement.

  “It certainly was. I never dreamed they were cooking up anything like this.”

  “I think you should take it as a compliment. It’s my impression that they wish to show their appreciation for your efforts on their behalf, as well as pledging their support.”

  “I know. It’s just … I didn’t know what to say, Beek. Still don’t, for that matter. I had to sneak out of the party early before I made a fool of myself trying to find a way to say thanks.”

  “I believe your own acceptance of the patch is sufficient, sir. Rather like a father showing appreciation for his children by hanging their artistic efforts on the wall of his office.”

  Phule shook his head again, more emphatically this time.

  “It goes way beyond that. Even my best-case scenario didn’t cover how fast the crew is coming together. I’ll tell you, Beeker, I couldn’t be more proud of them if they were my own kids.”

  “Well, sir, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. How did they take the announcement that the Regular Army is arriving tomorrow?”

  “I never made it.” The commander sighed, sagging slightly in his chair. “They sprang this on me before I got around to it, and I couldn’t bring myself to change the mood once they got rolling. I decided to let them celebrate tonight … tomorrow will come soon enough.”

  * * *

  It might be of interesting historical note to some that use of the expression “hookers” as a designation for prostitutes originated during the Old Earth American Civil War. At that time, General Hooker maintained an entourage of “soiled doves” who accompanied him on his campaigns. If anyone visiting his encampment happened to ask one of the soldiers who these “ladies” were, they were simply informed, “They’re Hooker’s,” and the phrase took root.

  Realizing this, it should come as no surprise that when the Legionnaires under my employer’s command roamed the streets of the settlement, they were explained by the locals by the simple expression “They’re Phule’s”—a nickname that was to follow them for some time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Journal #122

  While I have noted that my employer is not immune to surprises, it should be mentioned that upon occasions, he has also been known to outsmart himself. Though normally he excels at dealing with the media, it is his particular love of coverage that more often than not leaves him vulnerable.

  * * *

  A marked air of nervousness hung over the Legionnaires as they waited in full company formation for the arrival of the shuttlecraft. Though they were officially “at ease,” meaning they could move one foot and talk with their neighbor, there was no conversation at all. Rather, they stood fidgeting anxiously in silence, ea
ch individual lost in his or her own thoughts.

  “Are you sure this is such a good idea, Captain?”

  The officers of the company were able to wander freely, though Phule forced himself to remain in front of the formation, trying to set a good example for the company by projecting calm rather than yielding to his natural desire to pace. He welcomed Lieutenant Rembrandt’s soft question, however, as it gave him something to focus his attention on.

  “Don’t you think it’s polite to be on hand to welcome our opposite number on their arrival, Lieutenant?” he said with mock severity.

  “I suppose so, sir,” Rembrandt returned, taking his statement seriously. “To be honest with you, though, I’ve never seen any politeness on the part of the Regular Army toward the Legion.”

  “Neither have I,” Phule admitted grimly. “For your information, Lieutenant, the real reason we’re out here has nothing to do with courtesy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Think about it. Everyone’s nervous because they’re afraid the Army’s going to kick our butts in the upcoming competition. That’s not surprising, considering how they’ve been conditioned into believing the Regular Army is manned by supermen, while the Space Legion scrapes the bottom of the barrel for their manpower. Well, if we’re going to give a decent accounting of ourselves, we’re going to have to shake that belief, and our presence here is the first step. I want everyone to see the competition as soon as possible, so they can realize that Army troops are human and put their pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. See my point?”

  “I … I guess so, sir.”

  Though obviously still unconvinced, the lieutenant was spared a further lecture by the cry that went up from the formation.

  “Incoming!”

  “Here they come!”

  “Send my body to my first wife … she could use a decent meal!”

  The shuttlecraft had dropped through the cloud cover and was maneuvering toward the end of the runway.

  “All right, everybody. Stand ready!”

  Though still “at ease,” this was the signal to get ready to be called to attention. Those Legionnaires who had been sitting in place rose hurriedly and dusted off the seats of their uniforms, squaring away their position in the formation.

  All eyes were on the shuttlecraft as it touched down and taxied slowly up to the terminal, coming to a halt a scant fifty meters from where the company stood waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the hatch opened and a ramp lowered. Seconds later, the first passengers stepped into view.

  There was a heartbeat before recognition sank in, and then a buzz began to ripple through the formation.

  “Sir!” came Lieutenant Armstrong’s urgent whisper. “Do you know who they are?”

  “I know, Lieutenant.”

  “Those are the Red Eagles!”

  “I said I know, Lieutenant!”

  “But, sir …”

  “Company … atten-hut!”

  Phule bellowed out the command as much to stop the conversation as to present a proper military picture. Mostly, however, he wanted time to try to collect his own thoughts.

  Resplendent in their dress uniforms and crowned with the red berets that were their trademark, there was no mistaking the identity of the soldiers filing down the ramp. The Red Eagles! For some reason, the Army had decided to send their elite combat unit on this assignment!

  Unusual for the Regular Army, the Red Eagles were in some ways more like the Space Legion in that they represented a cross section of planetary cultures rather than being a single-planet unit. There, however, the similarities ended. Highly decorated and publicized, the Eagles were considered the crème de la crème of the Regular Army. Competition was fierce for inclusion in their ranks, as literally hundreds of soldiers vied for the honor each time there was an opening in their roster. More than one effort to “introduce a more equitable mix” in the unit was repelled when it was pointed out, and defended, that the Red Eagles only had one bias: They required the best!

  All this and more swirled through Phule’s mind as he watched the soldiers mill aimlessly about at the foot of the ramp. The Eagles, in turn, ignored the formation of Legionnaires completely, not even sparing them a curious glance as they chatted back and forth.

  Finally an imposing figure strode down the ramp. Looking neither left nor right, it stalked across the runway with the easy, rolling gait of a trained athlete, setting an unswerving course for Phule.

  “Captain Jester, I assume? I’m Major Matthew O’Donnel.”

  Startled at being greeted by name, Phule nonetheless managed a snappy salute.

  “Welcome to Haskin’s Planet, Major.”

  O’Donnel neither returned the salute nor offered to shake hands.

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” he said with a tight humorless smile. “Look, Captain, I imagine you’re about as happy to see us as we are to be here. Now, is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere air-conditioned, if possible. I’d like to get this foolishness settled as fast as possible.”

  Numbly Phule gestured toward the terminal, and the major brushed past him with his now familiar stride.

  “Lieutenant Armstrong, Rembrandt,” the commander called, beckoning to his junior officers.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the company back to the compound and wait for me there. I’ll be along as soon as I find out what the hell is going on.”

  “But, sir.”

  “Just do it! But be sure to leave me a driver. I have a hunch I’m not going to feel like walking back once this is over.”

  * * *

  Entering the terminal, Phule found that his disturbing surprises were not over yet. The first thing to greet his eyes was the sight of Major O’Donnel stiffly shaking hands with … Governor Wingas!

  “Ah! Captain!” the governor beamed. “Come join us, won’t you? I understand you’ve already met Major O’Donnel.”

  “Yes, I have,” the commander said. “I’ll admit I’m surprised, though. I didn’t expect the Army to send the Red Eagles on a simple honor guard assignment.”

  “If it will make you feel any better, Captain,” O’Donnel growled, “it surprised us, too. It seems the upper brass has been reading the media coverage you’ve been getting about this hot-shit crew you’re putting together and decided they had to put their best foot forward to protect the Army’s reputation. Next thing you know, we get pulled out of a firefight and shipped off to here, with orders to take you seriously.”

  From his tone, it was clear the major didn’t think much of those orders.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s get down to it. I want to get the terms of this so-called competition squared away so I can get my troops settled in.”

  “I … take it you’re already aware of the competition?” Phule said carefully.

  “That’s right. The governor here was good enough to send us word prior to our arrival.”

  The Legion commander shot a glance at the governor, who smiled and shrugged benignly.

  “It seemed the least I could do, since I contracted the Army in the first place.”

  Phule decided to deny Wingas the pleasure of an explosion, though inwardly he was seething at the betrayal.

  “Yes. I can see where that’s fair,” he managed.

  “As I understand it, Captain,” O’Donnel continued briskly, “we’re supposed to settle who gets the honor guard contract with a series of three contests with independent judges. The Army picks one event, you pick one, and the third we’re supposed to mutually agree on. Is that right?”

  Phule nodded stiffly, not liking the way the major was taking control of the meeting.

  “All right. For our event, we choose close order drill, since that’s most of what you do on an honor guard post. What’s yours?”

  The captain’s heart sank slightly. Of all the skills normally associated with the military, close order drill was, perhaps, his company’s worst.

  “The confidence cou
rse.”

  For the first time, the major showed surprise, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into the sweatband of his beret.

  “The confidence course?” he repeated. “All right, Captain. It’s your funeral. Now for the third event, assuming we get to it …” He gestured at Wingas. “The governor here tells me you and your crew fancy yourself to be fencers. How does a three-weapon match sound to you … foil, saber, and épée … best two out of three?”

  A warning bell went off in Phule’s mind. This seemed a little too pat.

  “It sounds like the governor has told you quite a bit,” he said, stalling for time.

  “Is that a yes or a no? Come on, Captain. Let’s not take all day on this.”

  “Tell me, Major. Do you fence yourself?”

  “Me? I’ve played a little bit with épée.”

  “Then let me add a little rider to your proposal. The same three-weapon match, but we fence épée last … between the unit commanders. That way, if it should come right down to the wire, we can settle this between the two of us.”

  Major O’Donnel’s face split in a wide grin.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Captain. Agreed … though I doubt things will get that far.”

  “You might be surprised, Major,” Phule returned with a tight smile. “My troops have surprised a lot of people, including me.”

  “So surprise me,” O’Donnel shot back. “Forgive me, though, if I don’t hold my breath.”

  “Well, now that that’s settled, gentlemen,” the governor said, rising hastily.

  “Just one more question … if you don’t mind, Major,” the Legionnaire commander pressed. “Assuming for the moment that the Red Eagles do win, is the Army really going to tie up their crack fighting unit on honor guard duty?”

  O’Donnel’s eyes slid sideways at the governor in a reptilian glance.

  “Now that you mention it, Captain, I do believe there’s a clause in our standard contract that states that while a unit of the Regular Army can be contracted for specific duty, the Army reserves the right to select which unit will be so assigned … and that they may replace said unit at their discretion depending upon the demands placed upon their manpower at any given time.”