The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “Hieronimus Ekanem, the owner,” said Okidata, rolling his eyes. “Guess the guy’s got no imagination.”

  “So why doesn’t he hire somebody?” asked Sushi. He pointed toward the park entrance. “Hey, we’re wasting time. We can talk about this while we’re waiting in line, if it’s so fascinating.”

  “Sushi right,” said Tusk-anini. “Can talk anywhere. But longer we talk here, longer line keeps getting and we aren’t in it. Let’s going.”

  The group headed through the gates, drawing stares from the other customers. The two aliens, Tusk-anini and Rube, were unusual enough to turn heads anywhere, but on Landoor, a world settled almost entirely by humans, a giant warthog and a human-sized cat couldn’t walk the streets without being targeted for rubbernecking and finger-pointing by local youngsters. While the aliens in Phule’s company were used to being singled out for attention, the humans in the group didn’t like seeing their comrades treated as exotic specimens.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” cried a small voice to one side. “Look at the monster!”

  “Be quiet, Nanci, that’s not a monster,” said a woman in hushed tones. “It’s an alien soldier.”

  “Hello,” said Tusk-anini, waving. With his alien dentition, he couldn’t manage anything a human would recognize as a smile, but he made his voice as friendly as he could manage. “Not soldier—we Space Legion. Better than soldiers!”

  “Funny mans,” said the child, sticking its finger in a corner of its mouth and smiling shyly. The mother smiled too, and the legionnaires relaxed. The Volton couldn’t change his fearsome looks, but that didn’t mean he thought it necessary to go around frightening babies, either. Tusk-anini had learned that talking to children could let him cross the line from “monster” to “man” and become something to smile at. He waved again, and the group headed on toward the rides.

  The line for the new ride was already long. Landoorans considered thrill rides their national art form, and a new one was always an event. It looked as if a fair number of the locals had taken days off from work and pulled the kids out of school as well. There was probably going to be nearly an hour’s wait for the ride. But the park’s management sent a series of strolling entertainers to work the line—jugglers, clowns, antigrav dancers, musicians, thimbleriggers, and snack vendors—so the crowd wouldn’t notice its slow progress. Strategic glimpses of the ride—usually as the cars plunged down a steep incline, bringing excited squeals from the riders—helped build the anticipation.

  The legionnaires were nearly to the front of the line when Do-Wop said, “Look, there’s Rev. What’s he doing in the park?”

  “Goofing off, same as you,” said Sushi, elbowing his partner.

  “Chaplains ain’t supposed to goof off; they’re brass,” said Do-Wop. “I gotta give him a hard time.” He grinned and punched Sushi in the arm, then waved to catch the chaplain’s attention. “Yo, Rev,” he called. “Yo, over here! We caught ya!”

  Several passersby turned their heads, but when they saw who was waving, they went about their way. The one who looked like Rev passed within a few paces of them and looked directly at Do-Wop. Becoming aware that he was the one being called, he stopped and spread his hands apart. “Sorry, you must be making a mistake. That’s not my name.” If his words hadn’t been enough, the thick Landooran accent made it perfectly clear this wasn’t Rev.

  “Whadda ya mean? Cut the jive, Rev,” demanded Do-Wop as the passerby turned to leave, but Sushi put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Easy, Do-Wop,” said his partner. “That’s some local guy who looks like Rev, is all.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Do-Wop. “Damn, he’s a dead ringer, though.”

  “Hey, it could be worse,” said Sushi.

  “How’s that?” asked Do-Wop, frowning.

  “The guy could look like you,” said Sushi, grinning. He ducked as Do-Wop threw a punch in mock indignation. Just then, the line moved up, and the laughing group of legionnaires edged closer to their ride.

  Journal #492

  My employer had thought he was filling an important void in his people’s spiritual life by requesting that a chaplain be assigned to the company. But the doctrines of Reverend Jordan Ayres had given him second thoughts. Not that the chaplain had in any way attempted to undermine what he was doing, but the influence of his doctrine on the legionnaires did take one confusing direction.

  * * *

  “Captain, this has got to stop. It’s driving me crazy,” said Brandy. “Don’t get me wrong—I don’t have anything against the chaplain. Rev’s done a pretty good job, building morale. But you can’t expect me to do my job when I can’t tell one of my people from another.”

  “I can’t see any big problem, Captain,” said the chaplain. “You know we ask our disciples to emulate the King, on account of he’s such an inspiration. A poor boy, climbed right to the top, without no help from anybody … Why, that makes me feel like I can do the same myself. Ain’t that exactly the kind of spirit that makes a good legionnaire, now?”

  “Maybe it makes a good legionnaire, but if enough of your disciples look alike, you’re going to make one crazy sergeant,” said Brandy, crossing her arms. She stared at Rev, who had arrived at the company already made over to resemble his sect’s prophet: a dark pompadour with long sideburns, a classic profile, full lips with a tendency to an ever-so-slight sneer.

  Phule fidgeted with a pencil, looking back and forth between his top sergeant and the chaplain. “I see your point, Brandy,” he said. “But the chaplain’s got a point, too. The company’s morale is the best it’s ever been. And there is that clause in the Legionnaire’s Bill of Rights.”

  “Why, thank you, Captain,” said the chaplain. “I didn’t want to have to mention that clause myself. A feller shouldn’t haul out the heavy artillery first thing out of the box, y’know. But it certainly fits, if you look into it. We’ve got plenty of precedents on our side.”

  “So I’ve got to train and evaluate a batch of recruits that all look exactly alike?” Brandy put her hands on her hips and leaned over Phule’s desk. “Maybe I’m going to have second thoughts about that early retirement option.”

  “Now, Brandy, don’t blow this out of proportion,” said Phule, rising to his feet. “How many of our legionnaires have had their appearance altered, anyway? It surely isn’t more than three or four, is it?”

  “Eleven,” said Rev proudly.

  “Eleven?” Phule asked, suddenly dubious.

  “Eleven,” said Brandy. “And two more have applied for it.”

  “Eleven.” Phule drummed the pencil on the desktop for a moment; then, with a start, he put it down and clasped his hands together. “Well, that’s a surprise,” he said. “You seem to have been getting your message across very effectively, Rev.”

  The chaplain bowed his head. “I can’t take much credit for it, Captain,” he said with humility that seemed genuine enough. “My words have fallen on fertile ground, is all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Brandy, bristling.

  “Easy, Sarge,” said Rev. “No criticism implied. Why, all I mean is, the King’s an inspiration for anybody what thinks they can better theirselves. I reckon that could be all of us, if we jes’ look at it right.”

  “I don’t want to look at it at all,” said Brandy with a significant glance at the chaplain’s profile. “Besides, you still haven’t told me how I’m supposed to tell one of these eleven legionnaires from another when they all look the same.”

  “Oh, it ain’t all that hard, Sarge,” said Rev. “You jes’ have to value each and everybody as an individual in their own right, you know? Once you get past the surface, there’s all kinds of differences between folks. How tall somebody is, or the exact color of their eyes and hair, or the shape of their hands. You learn pretty soon, Sarge, believe me. I’ve got plenty experience at it.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Phule, rubbing his hands. “I’ve been saying all along that we need to take adva
ntage of the individual capabilities of our people, and this is a chance to learn even better what those capabilities are. And there may be advantages to having a group of legionnaires an outsider can’t tell apart. I’m sure we’ll think of a few now that we’ve got the capability, won’t we, Sergeant?”

  “I guess so,” said Brandy, looking at Rev out of the corner of her eye. “Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, I guess I can handle it. I’ll have the recruits wear extra-large name tags while I’m learning to spot all these subtle differences between them.”

  “Good thinking, Brandy,” said Phule. “I knew we could solve this if we put our minds to it.” His tone and manner made it clear that the matter was solved, as far as he was concerned, and the sergeant and chaplain quickly took the hint and left the office. And that, Phule thought, was the end of it.

  Journal #497

  The robot my employer had gotten to impersonate him at the Fat Chance Casino on Lorelei was a deluxe model from Andromatic, built to his specifications. Its range of behavior was limited but sufficient to convince people that my employer was still on the job. Generally, it would sit behind a desk and appear to be working. But it also walked around the casino, sat down for drinks with customers, carried on conversations—and broke off the minute the topic strayed beyond generalities. If anybody really needed to talk to Captain Jester, there was always the communicator.

  What my employer left out of account was that his company had begun to attract attention in its own right. The success of the Landoor amusement parks—several light-years away from Lorelei—had put his picture on holovid screens all over the galaxy. While a certain amount could be explained by rapid travel, there was always the danger that somebody would realize that there had to be two Phules.

  The danger had been pointed out to him, but of course he dismissed it. “Nobody takes the news seriously,” he had argued when demonstrating the robot to the Fat Chance’s board of directors. “Half the time, they just use stock footage of public figures, and nobody notices.” What he left out of account was that his enemies were paying particularly close attention to him.

  * * *

  Two shadowy figures had been lurking in the corridor leading from the Fat Chance Casino’s gourmet dining room back toward the Legion quarters for nearly an hour. Luckily for them, nobody had passed during the entire time. Or perhaps it was more than just luck; they’d scouted out the territory carefully in advance and knew the odds were in their favor when they decided to lay their ambush there. But it had been longer than they’d expected, and it was a definite relief when they finally heard footsteps approaching.

  “Here he comes,” whispered the shorter of the pair, peering out from under the potted plant behind which they were hiding.

  “About farkin’ time,” grumbled her companion. “Any longer, and I was gonna hafta water this here fern.”

  “Shhh!” warned the other in a barely audible whisper. “We’ll blow the whole plan if he hears us.”

  But their quarry showed no sign of having heard them. The footsteps came closer, neither hesitating nor deviating from their course. The two crouched in anticipation, frozen for a moment; then, as the footsteps came near the plant, the woman stepped quickly out into the corridor. “Captain, you have to help me!” she said.

  The captain paused. “Excuse me, ma’am. What sort of help do you need?”

  “A man’s been following me,” she said, looking behind her. The captain’s glance followed hers, and as he was distracted, her partner emerged from the shadows behind him, holding a large sack in both hands. He raised his arms, preparing to place it over the captain’s head and shoulders, but some slight noise must have given him away. The captain ducked and stepped to the left, and the would-be captor succeeding only in striking him on the shoulder. In an instant, the captain had turned and lashed out with a kick that the captor just barely eluded.

  “That’s him!” cried the woman, stepping back. The man with the sack cursed and stepped backward. He dropped the sack and turned to run. The captain took a step in pursuit, but then the woman gave out a little cry and collapsed in a heap on the floor. As the captain turned to help her, the attacker escaped around the corner.

  “Are you all right, miss?” said the captain. He threw a brief glance over his shoulder to make sure the attacker had not returned, then turned his gaze on her again. Even in the dim lighting, her thick dark hair and flashing eyes would have made a strong impression on any man not entirely devoid of feeling.

  “I think so,” she said weakly. Her lashes fluttered, and she made a valiant attempt to sit up but slumped against his chest as her energy failed. “I think I’ll be safe if you can just take me to my room.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said. “I’ll get you there, and I can have security keep tabs on you for the rest of your stay, if you’d like. We don’t want our guests to feel unsafe in the Fat Chance. In fact, I feel I should apologize for what’s happened so far.”

  “No apology necessary, Captain,” she said. “If you could just help me up …”

  Helping her get up and walking her to her room was a somewhat complicated process. The young woman was evidently weakened by her ordeal, since she continued to lean much of her weight on the captain as he led her down the corridor. At the door to her room, he waited while she found her key card and watched while she opened the door. “Do you need any more help, miss?” he asked.

  “No, I should be all right,” she said, smiling.

  “Good,” he said and took a step backward.

  The young woman smiled bravely and began to close the door behind her, then suddenly said, “Oh!” and began to slump toward the floor again.

  The captain stepped forward and caught her before the door closed. “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” he asked. “I can call the hotel doctor.”

  “I don’t think I need a doctor,” she said, leaning her weight on his chest. “But maybe you could help me get to my bed.”

  “Certainly, miss, and then I think I should call the doctor—just in case.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her through the door to the side of the bed.

  “Oh, you’re so strong,” she murmured, her lips close to his ear. Her arms twined around his neck.

  The captain put her onto the bed and, gently disengaging himself from her grasp, stepped back and said, “Now I’m going to call the doctor.”

  She began to protest, but he held a finger to his lips and said, “No—don’t say anything. I suspect you need to rest.”

  He picked up the phone, touched a button, and spoke briefly to the person on the other end. After a few sentences, he nodded and hung up the receiver. “Dr. Gulkova’s on duty tonight. She’ll be right up. I’ll wait until she comes, and then I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. If there’s anything else I can do for you, please get in touch with me. Any hotel operator can connect you directly to my office.”

  She lay back on the bed, listening. As he continued to speak, her face changed expression to a sultry pout. “You know what else you can do for me, Captain—don’t pretend you don’t. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”

  The captain smiled. “Now, now, miss, don’t worry yourself. I know you’ve been through a lot tonight. We’ll make sure nobody annoys you for the rest of your stay with us.”

  The woman sat up in the bed and barked, “If you don’t want anyone to annoy me, I suggest you get out of my room! I’ve had just about all of your goody-goody act I can stand.”

  “Of course, miss,” said the captain, smiling. “I’ll wait outside the door, and when the doctor comes, I’ll leave.” He turned and started to leave.

  With an inarticulate shout, the woman reached down and grabbed one of her shoes off her foot and threw it with all her might at his retreating back. But by then, he had the door almost closed behind him, and the missile bounced harmlessly off onto the floor. She slammed both fists onto the bed in frustration. “You bastard!” she cried. “You’ll pay for this when we
finally do catch you! You’ll pay!”

  But the captain was already gone, the door closed behind him. If he had heard her outburst, he gave no sign at all.

  * * *

  The two local policemen standing in front of Phule’s desk were obviously doing their best to stay calm and professional. The complainant, standing unsteadily on crutches between the policeman, wasn’t.

  Phule massaged the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, filled with problems that required instant-minute attention, and the burden of command was weighing particularly heavily on his shoulders this afternoon. Especially since, on top of everything else, he’d skipped lunch—not at all his usual routine. And now he had to deal with a civilian who insisted on having one of his men arrested. “Are you absolutely certain that the man who robbed you and damaged your restaurant was one of my legionnaires?” he asked.

  “I seen him with these here eyes,” said the restaurateur, a small man with a heavy Landooran accent that seemed incongruous in conjunction with his Japanese features and immaculate dress. “He was Legion, all right—wore the same black uniform as yours. And he done more than damage the place. It’ll be a miracle if I can open up again any time this week.”

  “Well, that’s serious enough to require some action, if it’s the truth,” said Phule. “But I can’t discipline the whole company for one man’s actions. We’ll have to see if you can identify the one who did this.”

  “I’d know him anywhere,” said the restaurateur. “That long, greasy haircut and that smirk on his face. Ain’t a whole lot of people who’d look that way if they had any choice in it. My security holovid caught the whole thing, and there ain’t much mistake.”

  A warning bell went off in the back of Phule’s mind, but he maintained a calm expression. “If that’s the case, I think we can take care of this business quickly. There are holo ID pictures of the entire company on file. Why don’t you and the officers look through them and see if you can identify the robber? Then we’ll call him in and see what he has to say for himself.”