The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “This is a very fine station, Lieutenant.” Flight Leftenant Qual made a sweeping gesture, indicating the entire Omega Company encampment, nodding vigorously. “The resourcefulness of you humans impresses. I am here to provide briefing as to your mission at the same time as Captain Clown receives it from my superiors.”

  “Very good,” said Armstrong, who had already been informed of Qual’s imminent arrival. “Would you like me to show you the camp, or do you need to get to work?”

  “I will instruct my subordinates to set up our shelter,” said Qual, indicating a large bundle the other two Zenobians were unloading from the Zenobian hover vehicle, which had landed just outside Omega Company’s perimeter. He turned and gave instructions to his soldiers, who replied in his own language. After a bit, Qual nodded and turned to Armstrong again. “All is preparing. We locate adjacent to our machine, so that attaching to it, we do not depend on your power supply. Now, the time is to provide briefing.”

  “OK, Rembrandt’s in command while the captain’s away, so she’ll need to hear this,” said Armstrong. “She may want to bring in the sergeants, too. Let’s go to headquarters and find out.” He led the way to the MBC, with Qual waving to various legionnaires who recognized their old friend.

  At headquarters, Rembrandt, Armstrong, and Brandy were waiting: Phule’s major subordinates. Sushi and Do-Wop, who’d been assigned to investigate the invaders’ invisibility, had also come to the briefing.

  After a quick round of greetings, Qual came directly to his point. “What I am here for is to find what you need in the way of intelligence to carry out your mission against the Hidden Ones,” he said.

  “Hidden Ones?” Sushi’s eyebrows went up a notch. “Oh, I get it—you’re talking about the invaders. The captain’s told us a little about the problem. We’re working on it, although we haven’t had time to get much beyond the basics. What I’d really like to figure out is how these aliens have avoided detection.”

  “Yes, manifest accordance,” said Qual. “There is a great military secret there, I am sure, and one that both our forces would doubtless wish to have access to.”

  “That’s right,” said Rembrandt. “Do you have any leads yet, Sushi?”

  “It’s a stumper,” admitted Sushi. “But as far as theory goes, I can’t see any easy explanation that fits in with accepted science. You shouldn’t be able to change the molecules of a living body so that light can pass through them unaffected—not and keep the body alive.”

  “Maybe the theory’s wrong,” said Armstrong, fiddling with a pencil. He was always impatient with abstractions.

  “Could be,” said Sushi, shrugging. “But molecular structure’s just one problem. Invisibility flies in the face of half a dozen principles. With all those impossibilities piled on top of one another, maybe the original premise is wrong somehow.”

  “Oho, Sushi, I see how you are intending,” said Qual. He opened and closed his mouth, with a very impressive display of fangs. “Nonetheless, I can tell you, we have left nothing to chance. The coordinates of the Hidden Ones’ transmissions were most carefully plotted, and the arrival of our forces was kept masked until the ultimate moment. The site was investigated with thoroughness, and nothing was learned. I can speak with certainty, for I was among the investigators.”

  “Well, I’d trust you to spot anything that was there to be spotted,” said Rembrandt. “I can see what Sushi’s getting at too, but I think we’ve got to assume the Zenobians know what they’re talking about.”

  “I’ll take Qual’s word for the observations,” said Sushi. “What I question is the Zenobians’ conclusion. The Alliance uses a lot of camouflage and stealth technology. What’s to say that these invaders don’t have even more advanced stealth technology than our forces?”

  “Well, that’s precisely what we’re assuming,” said Rembrandt. “But the Zenobians detected the Hidden Ones’ signals very easily once they found the frequency. That argues that their technology isn’t particularly advanced. Why, any properly stealthed signal is practically indistinguishable from normal background radiation.”

  “So it is,” said Qual. “Our inability to locate these Hidden Ones is strong evidence that in one respect, at least, they are more advanced than either of us. It is not a good idea to underestimate them.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about, yes,” said Armstrong. “It’s never a good idea to underestimate somebody who might be invading you.”

  “Captain Clown can tell you that we are estimating the Hidden Ones as a big difficulty,” said Qual. “It is clear from their transmissions that they are already on our planet, scouting for suitable sites to establish settlements. But they make no attempt to contact us, do not reply to our signals on their own wavelengths. We must by default conclude that their intentions are hostile.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid that’s the obvious conclusion,” said Rembrandt. “The question that raises is, what are we going to do about it?” She looked around the room, but nobody seemed to have an answer.

  * * *

  “Do you really intend to give that pair of scamps carte blanche to investigate this problem, sir?” Beeker’s disapproval was plain on his face.

  “Sure, why not?” Phule looked puzzled. “I’m sure the Zenobians have their experts working on all the conventional ways to solve the problem. We might as well put our money on the unconventional approach. Sushi’s as good on the computer as anybody in the company, and Do-Wop’s got the equivalent of a master’s degree in low cunning. Maybe they’ll crack it—and if they don’t, this’ll keep them out of trouble for a while.”

  “You assume that the aliens’ apparent invisibility is the result of some kind of trickery,” said the butler. “What if it is inherent in their very nature?”

  “Natural camouflage of some sort?” Phule rubbed his chin. “I suppose it’s possible. There are plenty of species that can blend into the landscape almost undetectably. Although here, we’re talking about electronic surveillance, which is a lot harder to fool than the bare eyeball. Besides, you’d think that a species from another planet would be evolved to match the landscape of its own home world, not one they’ve invaded.”

  Beeker steepled his fingertips. “That argument overlooks how similar the environments of life-bearing planets are, sir. The minerals that make up the soil are very much the same here as on the other worlds we’ve been on, although they differ in their proportions. A desert creature from Earth—or from a dozen other worlds—would blend in very well with the dry country we flew over on the way here, I think. I suspect that their swamp creatures will turn out to mimic the color of the local mud.”

  “Parallel evolution,” said Phule, nodding. “Sure, the scientists have found plenty of examples of that. But at the same time, there are always unique qualities to a planet’s style of life. Tusk-anini’s face may look like a warthog, but he’s got opposable thumbs and upright posture—”

  “Which I must point out, sir, are parallel to features found in other Earth creatures,” said Beeker, unperturbed.

  Phule raised his hand, forefinger in the air. “The Synthians—”

  “Yes, sir,” said Beeker, cutting him off. “I am certain we could trade examples and counterexamples all day. That would not prove or disprove my point, which is simply that life adapted to one planet is not automatically out of place on another. Look how many worlds we humans have successfully colonized. My original point, sir, is that Sushi and Do-Wop ought to be reminded to look for solutions that do not depend on advanced stealth technology.”

  “I’ll trust Do-Wop to check out the low-tech end,” said Phule. “The lower it is, the more likely he is to think of it—”

  “Undeniably,” said Beeker. His face remained placid.

  After a moment, Phule frowned. “All right, Beek, I know that act,” he said, pointing a finger at his butler. “You think I’m doing something stupid, but you don’t think it’s your place to call me out on it. So you’ll let me fall all over my
self doing it, and then pick me up with a smug I-told-you-so expression. Or you’ll pull strings behind my back to make me do what you think I ought to be doing, without knowing it was your idea. Am I right or wrong?”

  “I would not put it in quite those terms, sir.”

  “I don’t care what terms you want to put it in,” said Phule. “We’re in a different situation; this is a military operation, and more than just saving face could be at issue. If it’s something I need to know, I need to know it before we get into real trouble. So cough it up, Beek.”

  Beeker drew himself up straight. “Sir, as I have told you more than once, I have no special expertise—nor special interest, either—in military affairs.”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant,” said Phule sharply. “Come on, now. There’s something you’re holding back, and I want to know it.”

  Beeker put his hands behind his back and said, “Very well, sir. Is there someplace we can speak in complete privacy?”

  “What’s wrong with here?” said Phule, looking around at the apartment the Zenobians had given him for his use during his stay in their capital. Then a light came into his face, and he said, “Aha, I see what you’re getting at. Sure, I think we can find someplace. Let’s take a walk.”

  Phule and Beeker walked out the door—ducking their heads, since it had been built for a race just over half normal human height—and headed down the hallway toward the street exit. A Zenobian in uniform—a Mudrover, to judge by its color—was on guard in the hallway. The alien rose to its feet and made a hissing sound; Phule had donned a translator for the purpose, and almost as the Zenobian spoke, he heard a mechanical voice in his ear: “Greetings, Captain! May I be of service?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Phule. “My butler and I have decided to get some exercise before our meal. We will walk around on your streets for a while and return here shortly.”

  “It may not be safe,” protested the Zenobian. “I must accompany you, to see that you encounter nothing perilous.”

  “You are welcome to join us,” said Phule solemnly. He looked at Beeker, raising an eyebrow.

  Beeker shrugged. “I suppose this simply confirms what I had suspected. However, there may be a way around the problem.”

  “To begin with, I’ll turn off my translator,” said Phule, reaching down to his belt and touching the switch. “Then they’ll have to record and replay our conversation through a translator to get any idea of what we’re talking about.”

  “I believe we can expect them to do exactly that,” said Beeker. “However, I think there may be a way to complicate their task.” A little smile came to the corners of his mouth, and he said, “Ow-hay ell-way o-day anslators-tray andle-hay ig-pay atin-lay?”

  Journal #542

  Conveying my concerns to my employer was a simple matter once we hit upon a proper method for clandestine communication, which, if I properly read the expression on the face of our Zenobian chaperon, the mechanical translator rendered as pure gibberish. The Zenobians would undoubtedly find ways to penetrate the subterfuge, but it would probably take them long enough that my employer and I had a short period, at least, during which we could communicate privately.

  And, while my employer did not entirely agree with my assessment of the situation, he did agree that Sushi and Do-Wop needed to take my questions into consideration. For the moment, unless we got strong evidence that something more than we had so far seen was taking place on Zenobia, that would have to suffice.

  However, I had the strong premonition that only with our return to Omega Company would we begin to see the full scope of the problem facing Zenobia and of our role in solving it.

  As it happened, I was almost right.

  * * *

  Mahatma had just finished tightening down a few final bolts in the MBC’s windscreen. Stopping to take a breather and glance at the surrounding territory, he noticed a bright object in the sky. From its motion, there was only one thing it could be. He set the wrench he’d been using carefully into its proper niche in the toolbox—Mahatma was very solicitous to treat his tools with proper respect, an attitude he only rarely extended to his military superiors—and hurried off to find someone to tell.

  He found Chocolate Harry by the off-ramp of the landing shuttle, taking inventory of supplies. “Sergeant,” said Mahatma, “There is a ship about to land nearby.”

  “A ship, huh?” Chocolate Harry looked at Mahatma, then followed the pointing finger to the bright object in the sky, now obviously lower and moving in a way that left its artificial nature unmistakable. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s a ship, or I’m full of it.” He pointed to the communicator on Mahatma’s wrist. “How come you didn’t just use that thing, tell Mother to pass the word along?”

  “It seemed important to get a corroborative witness,” said Mahatma. “When I approach Sergeant Brandy, she takes on a skeptical expression. While it is good that she is learning to question appearances, it is perhaps better in this case for the company to act in response to the appearance and question its meaning later.”

  “Sure,” said Chocolate Harry, although by his expression he was anything but. Nonetheless, he lifted his own wrist and activated the communicator. “Mother, we got a visual sighting of unknown ship approaching from the east, looks like it’s gonna land near the camp. Get word to the officers pronto. ETA, maybe five minutes. Can’t tell whether they’re on our side or not, but I think we better be ready for anything.”

  “Got it, oh Large Sarge,” said Mother. There was just a hint of a crackle around the edge of her voice—some kind of local interference, no doubt. “Is there anything out there big enough for you to hide under if they start shooting?”

  “You talkin’ to the man with all the guns,” said Harry, but Mother had already cut the connection, presumably to alert the officers. He squinted at the sky again, trying to make out any identifying characteristics of the approaching ship. “Can’t see squat in this light,” he grumbled.

  “What should we be doing, Sarge?” said Mahatma.

  “What you should be doin’ is the last thing you were told to do, until somebody tells you to do somethin’ else,” said Chocolate Harry.

  “That is why I was asking you that question,” said Mahatma, “but you have only answered half of it.”

  Chocolate Harry turned and frowned at him. The massive black sergeant’s frown was rumored to have the power to dent heavy armor at short range, but Mahatma stood his ground, a beatific smile in place. After a moment, Harry shrugged. “Hell, I guess the same applies to me as to you. Until somebody tells me to do somethin’ else, I got supplies to inventory. As for you—”

  Whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the alarms on both their wrist communicators buzzing at once. “General alert!” came Mother’s voice. “Unidentified intruder approaching base. All personnel report to battle stations. Repeat, all personnel to battle stations. This is not a drill.”

  “O-kay, you heard the lady,” said Chocolate Harry. “Let’s get it on!” He dropped his clipboard next to the pallet of battery packs he’d been checking in and headed off at a surprisingly quick pace, considering his bulk.

  “That is a curious expression,” said Mahatma, but the supply sergeant was already out of earshot. Deprived of an audience, Mahatma turned and headed toward his assigned position. There would be someone—probably Brandy—there to answer his questions, he knew.

  And maybe, at last, he’d find out whether all the training he’d been questioning since his first day in the Legion made some kind of sense after all.

  * * *

  That was a lot faster than I’d have expected, thought Brandy, impressed in spite of herself. The months of drill seemed to have paid off, even when the company found itself in a completely new situation where the assignments and stations weren’t already second nature, the way they ought to be in a real emergency.

  Brandy smiled as she checked the disposition of her troops. Oh, there’d been enough screwups—everyb
ody knew there’d be screwups. There was always going to be somebody in the latrine or the shower or otherwise less than prepared to have the whistle blow right now. Brick and Street were going to have people making wisecracks about their simultaneous arrival at their stations, both more than half out of uniform, for weeks to come. And Super-Gnat had taken a pratfall that might have been grounds for medical evacuation if Tusk-anini hadn’t nudged her just enough for her head to miss a heavy structural beam. But everybody was in place, more or less ready for action, and now all they had to do was wait and see if there was going to be any action. Easier said than done.

  The unidentified ship was definitely on course to land at their encampment; nobody doubted that now. Mother had been trying to hail it for several minutes, but the local interference was noticeably stronger. Maybe their signals had gotten through, and maybe not. Transponder signals indicated that the intruder was an Alliance transport of a standard model, although a clever enemy could fake that very easily. The best policy was to be ready for trouble. Brandy just hoped they were ready for the right kind of trouble. As to whether they could handle it—well, that was what they were paying her for, wasn’t it?

  The ship swooped lower, losing speed now. Brandy knew there would be weapons trained on it, in case of hostile action on its part; but if the transponder readings were correct, this model wasn’t likely to be armed—or armored, either. That didn’t rule out jury-rigged weaponry or a faked signal. She lifted her wrist and spoke into the communicator. “Any word from that ship, Mother?”

  “Nothing, Brandy,” said Comm Central. “Either there’s too much interference, or they’re up to no good.”

  Another voice crackled out of the loudspeaker: Lieutenant Rembrandt, acting as CO in Captain Jester’s absence. “Brandy, are your people in position?”