The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  * * *

  Typically, once he had the information in front of him, General Blitzkrieg made his decision almost immediately. Sparrowhawk wondered if he thought that having the computer pick a list of candidates exempted him from having to put any real thought into making a selection among them. In any case, he flipped through the printouts, reading a few sentences here and there, and then pulled one candidate’s dossier off the pile with an air of triumph. The entire process took perhaps five minutes.

  “Major Botchup,” purred the general. He handed the dossier to his adjutant and grinned wickedly. “Yes, this is precisely the man for the job.”

  “What position did you have in mind for him?” asked Major Sparrowhawk, fingering the personnel dossier. She was somewhat surprised at the general’s enthusiasm. The officer in question fit all the search criteria, no question about that. But reading between the lines of his performance ratings—of course she’d already read the candidates’ dossiers—he seemed consistently to rub his superiors the wrong way. While performing strictly in conformance with regulations and Legion tradition (in its way, more important than any regulation), he’d managed to establish himself as a pain in the arse. Not that that made him different from most male Legion officers … She looked back at the general.

  “He’s going to Zenobia,” said Blitzkrieg, smirking. “A mission of that importance can’t have a mere captain in command of it, let alone a humbler like Jester. Botchup is due for an important command of his own. And if anybody can whip Omega company into shape, he’s the man for the job. A genuine respect for Legion traditions—you don’t see that very often these days, Sparrowhawk.”

  “No, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. Herself, she was just as glad the old Legion ways were starting to die out. But that wasn’t something to admit to Blitzkrieg, who fancied himself the last bastion of Legion tradition—and the legacy of ineptitude that went with it. She was pretty sure that was the main reason he’d taken such a hatred of Phule, far beyond any provocation the captain of Omega Company had given his superiors. “Shall I cut orders for Major Botchup to join the company on Landoor, then?”

  The general rubbed his chin, musing. “No, I think that’d give Jester too much time to get ready for him. We’ll have him join his new command at their destination on Zenobia. And we’ll keep it under our hats for now. No point in having somebody try to undercut the plan before it’s had a chance to work.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She knew the reasoning behind that one: easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission. It was no surprise to find out that Blitzkrieg operated on that principle. It was probably the oldest of all Legion traditions.

  * * *

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Phule. He shook Ambassador Gottesman’s hand. “I didn’t really want to get my hopes up for this assignment. Quite frankly, some of the top Legion commanders can be counted on to oppose anything that looks like a reward for this unit. But I must say, you came through rather quickly.”

  “I made use of a few connections,” said the ambassador with a wink. “And I did point out that, if this assignment is in the nature of a reward, it’s by no means a sinecure. There’s some probability your people will face combat, Captain.”

  Phule grinned and said as nonchalantly as possible, “Well, in the Legion we don’t necessarily see that as a liability, sir. But perhaps you can brief me on the situation we’ll be going into. All I really know is that it’s on the Zenobians’ home world—”

  “Yes, and they say they’re trying to repel an alien invasion,” said the ambassador, spreading his hands.

  “I see,” said Phule, leaning his elbow on his desk. “Who are the invaders, sir?”

  “I wish I had a good answer to that, and I’m afraid I don’t,” said Gottesman. “The Zenobians are being close-mouthed about it.” He paused and took a sip of his tea, then looked Phule straight in the eye. “I have the distinct impression they’re … well, embarrassed might be the best description of how they’re acting.”

  “Embarrassed?” Phule leaned his other elbow on the desk. Now he was frowning. “Can you be more precise? Are they embarrassed because they can’t repel the invaders or because they need help or what?”

  The ambassador shrugged. “I don’t really know. In fact, it’s just my interpretation of how they act. And you must know how hard it can be to read a nonhuman sophont’s emotions.” He set down the teacup with a wry smile and spread his hands. “I have enough trouble with my teenage daughters, half the time.”

  “I can imagine,” said Phule, thinking that even parenting teenage girls might be easier than commanding the motley outfit he’d been put in charge of. “But this puts my people at a serious disadvantage, going into a possible combat situation without reliable intelligence. If we don’t know what we’re up against—”

  “I understand, Captain,” said the ambassador. He stood up and put his hand on Phule’s shoulder. “We at State have our intelligence branch working overtime on it, believe me. We don’t want to send anybody into a booby trap. The minute we get something useful, you’ll get it from us. You have my word on that. Until then, just try to be ready for anything—anything at all.”

  Phule nodded. “I guess we’ll have to be ready, then,” he said. He stood up and shook Gottesman’s hand. Then he added, “That’s what we’re supposed to do anyhow, isn’t it?”

  “I have complete confidence in you and your people, Captain,” said the ambassador. Then he added darkly, “I wish I had the same confidence in your superiors.” He allowed himself a thin smile and left the office.

  Beeker, who had sat silently listening to the entire interview, watched the ambassador leave, then said, “Are you quite certain you want to stick your head into this particular noose, sir?”

  Phule turned to look at his butler. “Is that how you read it, Beeker?” He placed high value on Beeker’s opinions and advice—not that he always allowed them to influence his decisions. If he had, he’d never have joined the Space Legion. But when the butler smelled trouble, it was worth listening to him.

  Beeker steepled his fingers. “Consider the evidence, sir. The Zenobians have asked for help against some sort of external threat that they cannot defeat with their own resources. Yet the Zenobians are remarkably competent warriors, both in their basic physical abilities and in their technological accomplishments. What kind of help is a single Legion company going to be able to provide?”

  “Well, as much as we can, of course,” said Phule. “I suspect most of our role will be in training and in tactical and strategic consultation. After all, we’re being brought in as advisors, not to engage the enemy directly.”

  Beeker’s face grew solemn. “Sir, I hope you have not entered into negotiations to purchase any bridges from the Zenobians.”

  Phule laughed. “I leave that to State, Beeker,” he said. “With Ambassador Gottesman on our side, I’m not really worried about any surprises.”

  “You should be,” scolded Beeker. “Ambassador Gottesman has done a great deal for us when it was to his advantage to do so. Now it is to his advantage to send us to Zenobia, but I have no idea whether it is to our advantage to go there. The Black Hills undoubtedly looked like a plum assignment to George Armstrong Custer.”

  “Good old Beeker, always seeing the bright side,” said Phule, grinning. “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. And if I can’t, I’ve got a whole Legion company to do it for me.”

  “Sir, that’s exactly what worries me the most,” said Beeker.

  Journal #505

  It did not take long for word of the company’s impending move to filter down to the rank and file. Indeed, within a few short hours of Phule’s conversation with the ambassador, the tables at the Landoor Plaza’s Poolside Bar were buzzing with speculation. As a rule, the better a position a person was in to know what was really likely to happen, the less they were willing to say about it.

  However, this rule could definitely be modified in the case of Ch
ocolate Harry.

  * * *

  Chocolate Harry stared at Do-Wop and shook his head sadly. “Man, if you knew half as much as you think you know, you’d be a mortal danger.”

  “He’s a mortal danger already,” said Super-Gnat, deadpan. “Just ask any woman who’s gone on a date with him.”

  “Ahh, I got girls lined up ten deep waitin’ for the chance to go out with me,” said Do-Wop, swelling up his chest and making a perfunctory grab at Gnat, who ducked away and stuck out her tongue at him. Frustrated in his effort to demonstrate his appeal, he turned back to the supply sergeant. “But I can’t let you get away with that, C.H. I got inside info as good as anybody in the company. You don’t know who I been talkin’ to.”

  “Don’t matter who you talk to, you wouldn’t understand it if they told you two and two is four,” said Chocolate Harry. “You’d figure it was six, and by the time you got done tellin’ the rest of us, it’d be fifteen or twenty.”

  “And worth absolutely nothin’,” added Slammer, one of the new recruits who’d been assigned to the supply depot under Harry’s supervision. He’d quickly picked up the supply sergeant’s conversational style: half humorous insults, half bragging, and half plain lies. That’s three halves, but those who knew Harry were willing to make allowances for a good bit of surplus.

  Carefully choosing his target—the whole company knew better than to try to beat C.H. at his own game—Do-Wop looked at Slammer and said, “Hey, Slammer, I been meaning to ask you—did you get that name because that’s where you belong, or because people slam doors in your face?”

  “It’s because if anybody messes with me, that’s what I do to ’em,” said Slammer, not taking particular offense.

  “That’s no problem; nobody wants to mess with you,” said Super-Gnat with a grin that suggested she intended more than one meaning. “Besides, I want to hear where Harry thinks we’re going and why. What’s the word, Sarge?”

  “I don’t think, Gnat, I know,” said Chocolate Harry. “We goin’ to Barriere to take on the renegade robots there. They got a big problem with those bots. And the reason they pick us is because they know ol’ C.H. has got the know-how when it comes to fixin’ robots. Hell, a man that can customize a hawg the way I have ain’t gonna have any problem with a bot.”

  “This is the first I heard about any renegade robots,” said Sushi, leaning his elbows on the table. “How long’s that been going on?”

  “Man, you ain’t got my inside sources, that’s all,” said Harry with a self-congratulatory grin. He took a deep swig of his beer and sighed in satisfaction. “Thing a lot of folks don’t realize, the supply lines are what the Legion runs on. Supply don’t do its job, you gonna have a bunch of people sittin’ on some bare asteroid, SOL.”

  “What means SOL?” asked Tusk-anini, squinting behind his dark glasses.

  “Somebody’s Obviously Loony,” said Super-Gnat with a sly grin. Her partner’s command of human slang was tenuous at best, and she enjoyed ribbing him about it. From her, at least, he usually took it in good nature. He wasn’t without a sense of humor, although it sometimes seemed very strange to his human companions.

  “Nah, it means Salad Oil Liberation,” said Do-Wop, horning in on the game.

  Tusk-anini’s squint narrowed into a frown. “I don’t think Do-Wop tells me right,” he said. “Salad oil is no part of it. Am I right, Gnat?”

  “Hey, do you want to hear what’s goin’ on or not?” said Chocolate Harry, sensing his audience slipping away.

  “We don’t wanna hear no crap about renegade robots,” said Do-Wop. “Everybody knows robots just follow orders. They got Asimov circuits that make ’em do what people say.”

  “Yeah, that’s what everybody thinks,” said Harry, taking the cue and launching into a new spiel. “That’s what the robot factories want you to think, on account of who’s gonna buy a machine that, you wake up one morning and it’s killed you and taken over your house?”

  “I wouldn’t buy nothin’ like that,” said Slammer, obviously impressed by his sergeant’s logic.

  “You got it,” said Harry. He slapped his palm on the table, sending splashes out of several drinks. “Thing is, nobody wants their robots to have a mind of their own, ’cause if the bots figure out that us humans have everything and they got nothin’, what’s to stop ’em from taking over?”

  “I no human,” said Tusk-anini, irrefutably. “I no scared of robots, either.”

  “That’s ’cause you ain’t run across these here renegades,” said the supply sergeant. “They’ll just naturally wipe out any kind of sophont. You think it matters to them how many legs or eyes you got on you? It’s the last thing they care about.”

  “You sure this is the straight story from the brass?” asked Do-Wop. Almost automatically, not even watching, he slowly peeled the label off his beer bottle with his thumbnail.

  “Pure gospel, man,” said Harry, holding up a palm as if taking an oath. “Rev himself ain’t ever said a word as true as this stuff I’m lettin’ you in on.”

  Some of the listeners—mostly new members of the company unfamiliar with the supply sergeant’s ways—nodded and murmured words of approval. They’d been in the Legion a while, but they still had a tendency to believe everything they heard from a veteran, especially from a fast talker like Chocolate Harry. This made them welcome additions to the supply sergeant’s poker games and easy marks for his long string of scams.

  But Sushi was a veteran and a first-class scammer in his own right. “It’s a triff story,” he said, grinning. “What I still haven’t figured out is how Harry thinks he’s going to make a buck out of it. I’ll admit he could be telling lies for free, just to keep in practice, maybe. But somewhere down the road, if we buy this line of stuff, it’s going to cost us. What’s the deal, Harry? Are you selling robot repellent or something?”

  “You oughta know me better than that, Soosh,” said Harry, managing a hurt expression. “I’d never try to sell something like that. Why, a robot’s mechanical. You can’t run it off like you would some kinda bug.”

  “That’s true,” said Do-Wop. “The robots I’ve seen, they just don’t let anything bother them. Sorta like Mahatma when he gets wrapped up in something. There’s no stopping him.”

  “That’s right,” said Harry. “That’s why something like a repellent won’t work. But there is one thing—”

  “Here it comes!” said Sushi, and everyone chuckled. Even Tusk-anini leaned forward in anticipation of Chocolate Harry’s spiel.

  Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard Sushi’s stage whisper. “The thing is, robots can only see in certain frequencies. So if you’re wearing certain colors—stuff in the purple end of the spectrum, for example—they just naturally can’t see you, and you can sneak right up on ’em. And it just so happens I’ve got in a supply of robot-proof camouflage …” He waved toward a large crate, marked Phule-Proof Camo.

  “Which you’ll make available, at a price, to anyone who wants a little insurance,” prompted Super-Gnat.

  “Why, sure,” said Harry, his face devoid of all guile. “I’d purely hate to see anybody get hurt if we ended up in a bad robot situation and they weren’t prepared, y’know? So who wants some?”

  “I think I’ll pass,” said Do-Wop. “But somehow, I don’t think you’ll have any shortage of takers, Sarge.”

  “Sushi, I sure hope you’re right,” said the supply sergeant. “In my job, you’ve got to think ahead, and I’m just glad I thought of this particular possibility before it turned into a real problem.”

  “Harry, you’re a pure genius,” said Sushi, shaking his head with admiration. “I bet we’ll see half the squad wearing purple before we leave Landoor.”

  “I hope it’s more than that,” said Chocolate Harry. “Why, I’ll hardly rest until I know we’re all safe from the robots.”

  “Harry, somehow I know we will be,” said Sushi. He nodded in the direction of Slammer, who was already wearing a purple field vest o
ver his fatigues. Slammer, noticing the attention, lifted his chin and favored his comrades with a satisfied smirk. “Yes indeed, Harry,” said Sushi, “somehow, I know you’ll be able to rest very comfortably.”

  Harry’s broad grin left no doubt of that.

  Chapter Four

  Journal #508

  Having been ordered to keep confidential the details of the company’s impending reassignment, my employer was at some disadvantage in preventing rumors from spreading. While he could put a stop to specific misconceptions and errors of fact, only announcing specific details of the mission could have prevented some of the speculations and outright fabrications that began to spread among the legionnaires of Omega Company.

  And, of course, certain questions were bound to pop up, no matter how much accurate information the troops had been given.

  * * *

  “Sergeant Brandy, may I ask a question?”

  Brandy looked wearily up from her clipboard. When Omega Company had gotten its first batch of new recruits back on Lorelei, she had been assigned to run them through basic training. Despite her initial misgivings, they’d turned into a pretty good group—good enough that she’d decided to keep working with them even after they’d reached the point where they could take regular duty assignments. It gave her a sense of day-to-day accomplishment, despite the unique frustrations that were sometimes part and parcel of working with this group.

  This particular pattern of events had become almost a ritual. Sometime during the morning formation, Mahatma would ask a question, usually some innocent query that, upon closer examination, opened up a devastating reappraisal of the Legion way of life, exactly the kind of thing basic training was supposed to make recruits forget about. But there was no stopping Mahatma, and Phule had made it clear that simply stomping the impertinent questioner into the ground (as Brandy sometimes felt like doing) was incompatible with his philosophy of command. Brandy sighed. “What do you want now, Mahatma?” she asked wearily.