“Yeah? Such as?”
“Beeker,” said Sushi. “The captain’s back, but he hasn’t said much about Beeker, and that’s suspicious, in my book. Maybe he’s putting on an act, trying to make the major underestimate him. Maybe when he’s ready, he’s going to spring a surprise. He’ll solve the Zenobian mystery all by himself and make the major look like a nineteenth wheel. That’ll show the brass that we didn’t need a new CO after all, and they’ll give the company back to him.”
“The Legion don’t work like that,” said Do-Wop dubiously.
“No, but the captain does,” said Sushi. “And if you ask me to bet on whether the captain can outsmart the Legion, I’d put my money on him every single time.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Do-Wop. “If the captain’s playing some kinda game, what’s Beeker gonna do out there in the brush?”
“I think the captain and Beeker found the aliens,” said Sushi. “And at just about the same time, they found out the brass had sent the major to take over the company. I bet the captain got the news and decided to come back on his own. He left Beeker behind to negotiate with the aliens—in fact, I bet the signal we’re picking up has something to do with that—it’s sure not anything on our usual frequencies.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right,” admitted Do-Wop. He bent over and looked over Sushi’s shoulder at the readout, then said, “But what if this signal’s as bogus as the others? You can’t get anywhere if all you’ve got is phony signals that disappear right after you discover ’em.”
“I spent last night putting in a refinement to the system,” said Sushi. “Last night, when you were sleeping like a log. Now, with any luck, I can get a fix on these signals before they fade out. In fact …” He reached out and pushed a button on the console. A light started blinking.
“What’s that?” said Do-Wop.
“You should’ve paid more attention when we were setting this thing up,” said Sushi. “It’s a recording disc, and with the information we’ll have saved on it, we can pinpoint the origin of this signal, even if it fades out.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s it from?”
Sushi looked at his readouts. “I have to do the math to be sure, but at a guess, I’d say just about halfway between here and the Zenobian capital city. Right on the captain’s course.”
* * *
The opening in the wall had revealed only two dishes containing food and two cups of water. The food was warm, if a bit bland. One dish could have been passed off as mashed potatoes with a dash of cinnamon, and another was a sort of meat that tasted remarkably like … baked chicken. The water was cool and fresh. At least their captors did not intend to starve them.
The question remained: What kinds of creatures had taken them prisoner, and why? The evidence remained scanty; even the dishes were of unexceptional design, made of a ceramic material that could have been produced on any of a hundred worlds. And they had still seen nothing of the creatures who made them.
“It’s amazing that the Hidden Ones have managed to avoid detection by the Zenobians,” said Phule. “Why, they must have been right under their noses—”
“Not necessarily, sir,” said Beeker. “If you remember, the Zenobians avoid the dryer areas of the planet. They’re no more familiar with them than humans are with the polar regions of our own worlds. We’ve sent out a few exploring parties, but we can hardly claim to know them intimately. An alien race adapted to arctic conditions that landed near the South Pole of Landoor or Haskin’s Planet could escape notice for many years. In fact, on many worlds, there are reports from sparsely inhabited areas of large animals that have not yet been seen by scientists.”
“Large animals are one thing,” said Phule. “An invasion by a space-going race is something else entirely.”
“In theory, sir, I agree,” said Beeker. “But if the aliens were not aggressive, there might be a considerable interval before they interacted. Especially if the invaders find the swampy areas of this world as unattractive as the natives do the deserts, there is no reason they would have come into contact before now.”
Phule grimaced. “They’re welcome to the swamps and deserts both,” he said, fanning himself with his hat. “Anyhow, we know for a fact they’re here, just not what they look like. Now, if we can get them to return us to the hoverjeep, we can use the translator instead of trying to communicate by gestures and guesses. Any ideas how we can do that?”
Beeker leaned his chin on the back of his right hand. “We appear to need the translator to communicate, yet we cannot communicate to our captors that we require it. This is the sort of circular logic puzzle that one might find diverting if one were to read about it in a story.”
“Maybe you like that kind of puzzle, but it’s driving me crazy,” said Phule. “If you find it so diverting, you’re welcome to solve it yourself.”
“Alas, sir, I have already devoted considerable thought to it,” said Beeker imperturbably. “As yet, I have not obtained a satisfactory result. I continue to ponder the question.”
“Ponder faster, Beek,” said Phule. “Getting out of this cell may depend on it. Not to mention getting something better to eat …” He pointed at the remains of their meal.
Beeker shrugged. “I find it as bland as you do, sir. But for all we know, from our captors’ point of view, this may be the equivalent of five-star cuisine.”
“Nobody gives prisoners five-star cuisine,” said Phule. “Not even the condemned man’s last meal.” He stopped and looked at his butler with sudden apprehension. “I wish I hadn’t thought of that.”
“One would not expect an alien race to be cognizant of that tradition,” said Beeker. “We need not fear on that account, sir. Nor, I think, do we need to fear that they are fattening us for the slaughter.”
“Beeker, you can’t imagine what a relief it is to hear that,” said Phule. “My whole outlook on life just brightened, you know? Why, I can almost reconcile myself to spending the rest of my days locked up in this … whatever it is.”
“You really shouldn’t attempt sarcasm unless you have a proper sense of how to deploy it, sir,” said Beeker. “Sarcasm ought to come from a position of assured superiority. It undermines the entire effect to end a sentence with a phrase that so openly admits one’s ignorance as ‘whatever it is.’”
Phule stared at the butler a moment, then sat down in a corner of the enclosure. “The ironic thing is, I’ve just figured out what this place is, five seconds too late to get any use out of it.”
“Really, sir?” Beeker’s eyebrow went up a notch. “What, pray tell, would you call this place, then?”
“A torture chamber. What else would you call a place you have to share with somebody who corrects every remark you make?”
“Perhaps you are right, sir,” said Beeker. “I hadn’t seen it in quite that light. And after all, it does work both ways.”
Phule looked up. “Both ways? What do you mean?”
“What else would you call a place where your only companion is constantly making remarks that cry out for correction?”
* * *
“Where is Captain Jester?” demanded Major Botchup. His tone suggested that anyone who couldn’t answer was in trouble. “Mr. Snipe tells me the fellow’s come sneaking back. Why hasn’t he reported to me?”
“Yes, sir, the captain has returned,” said Armstrong. “His hoverjeep malfunctioned out in the desert, and he walked into camp—”
The new officer grunted. “Malfunctioned, hey? Sounds as if somebody’s slacking off in your motor pool, Lieutenant.” It was clear he considered it Armstrong’s fault.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Armstrong, beginning to sweat. “Our motor pool is up to Legion standards—”
“We’ll see about that,” said the major. “When the CO’s personal jeep breaks down in the boonies, what kind of attention are the other vehicles getting, I wonder? Omega Company’s not drawing soft barracks duty anymore, Lieutenant. This planet’s at war, you know.”
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“Not exactly a war, is it, sir?” said Armstrong meekly. “We were asked in to help the locals find out—”
“Not a war?” the major stopped and turned on his heel to face Armstrong. “That’s naive of you, Lieutenant, wouldn’t you say? These lizards bent over backward to get into the Alliance, and the ink was barely dry on the treaty when they asked for this outfit—which they seem to think is some sort of elite company, God help ’em—to come in as military advisers. What other than a war could be so urgent, hey?”
“Preventing one might be, Major,” said a new voice, calm and genial. “That’d be at the top of my list of priorities, anyway.”
Major Botchup whirled. “Captain Jester!” he said. He drew himself up to military posture and said, “I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to report, Captain. As you must have heard, I have been assigned by Legion Headquarters to take over command of this company. Frankly, I don’t like what I’ve seen so far.”
His glower made it obvious that he included Phule in this assessment. The captain was wearing a white dinner jacket with a plaid bow tie and matching cummerbund—appropriate attire for greeting customers at the Fat Chance Casino, but a bit out of place in the field. And he was carrying a martini glass in his left hand. The major’s eyes settled on it in an instant and radiated disapproval.
Surprisingly, Phule showed no reaction to the criticism implicit in the major’s voice. He reached out his right to shake hands with the officer. “Armstrong, see if the major wants something to drink,” he said, then grinned and added, “it’s on the house.”
The major stiffened. He looked down his nose at Phule and said, “Captain, I had heard appalling stories about this command, but I thought they had to be exaggerated. I’ll grant you, Legion tradition allows a certain degree of liberty. But our officers are supposed to be gentlemen, and that implies a degree of discretion. Here you are, in a combat zone, out of uniform and—not to put too fine a point on it—soused before noon! I can see the general was right to relieve you of command. You will return to your quarters at once and make yourself presentable. Then report to me to be assigned your new duties. I’m sure we can find something you can do without screwing it up. If not, I may have to send you back to headquarters as unfit for duty!”
Phule grinned inanely. “Now, Major, let down your hair and relax a while. This is a place to forget your troubles.”
The major turned to Armstrong and barked, “Lieutenant, put this man under house arrest! And make sure he doesn’t drink any more until he’s in shape to understand the trouble he’s in!”
“Yes, sir!” said Armstrong, saluting. His expression was troubled, but he took Phule’s elbow and said as gently as possible, “Captain, it’s time for you to get some rest. Let me help you to your quarters.”
“The cashier will give you quarters,” said Phule, grinning like an idiot. “But I’ll give you a tip—the dollar slots give better odds. Why not go for the gold?”
“Get him out of my sight!” bellowed the major. Visibly disturbed, Armstrong somehow managed to lead Phule away, and the major turned and stomped off toward the command center. It was time to determine just what was needed to get this company into shape and to bring it unequivocally under his own control. Grim-faced, he marched through the entrance to the MBC. There was work to do.
* * *
It was the second day since Phule had returned to the company and had been relieved of command by Major Botchup. A group of legionnaires stood outside the MBC; breakfast was over, and there was a little time still to shoot the breeze before they had to report to morning duty. Being Omega Mob, they were not about to let a chance to do nothing in particular escape them.
As they milled about, forming into groups for talk and banter, the entrance to the MBC opened and Captain Jester emerged, carrying an attaché case. He went over to a table in the shade of a canvas awning and sat down.
It had become obvious even to the major that a certain amount of routine administrative work that needed to be done could most easily be performed by the captain, who after all knew the company’s personnel and history. So the confinement to quarters was modified to allow him to do routine paperwork. With the major having taken over the commanding officer’s office, the captain was allowed to work wherever he could find space. And, as it happened, there was plenty of space in the open air. He opened the case and began to leaf through its contents, not paying any attention to the group of legionnaires a few meters away.
After a minute or so, Brick noticed him sitting there. She nudged one of her companions and said, “Be back in a minute. I’m going to go ask the captain about those renegade robots Chocolate Harry says we might have to fight. He’ll give us the straight story.”
“Sure, let me know what you find out,” said the other legionnaire. Phule had always been open to questions and suggestions from the troops.
“Captain? I’m sorry to interrupt …” Brick hovered near the camp stool where Phule sat, a stack of printouts on the table in front of him.
Phule looked up with a quizzical expression. “Yes, who is it?” he said.
“Oh, I’m Brick, Captain,” she said. “I’m new with the company, so I guess you don’t know me yet …”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Phule, flashing a fixed smile even as his head swiveled from side to side, as if trying to locate the source of Brick’s voice. “What’s the problem, uh, Brick? You don’t have to hide—come on out where I can see you!”
“Excuse me, sir?” said Brick, puzzled. She was right in front of the captain, so he must be playing some kind of joke. Either that, or his ordeal in the desert had taken far more out of him than anyone had at first thought. Come to think of it, his behavior had reportedly been a bit strange ever since he had arrived back at the Legion camp. After a moment, she decided she was better off just asking her question. “It’s like this, sir. There’s a rumor we might be facing renegade robots here. As you can imagine, all of us want to know the straight dope on that, as far as you can give it. We understand the need for security—”
“Renegade robots?” Phule scoffed, even while his eyes kept flicking this way and that. “Now, I can tell you with pretty solid authority there’s no such thing. Robots are fine machines, Brick, made to exacting specifications, incapable of error. Except human error—you’ll get that every now and then, of course. You can trust robots, Brick. Anybody who tells you otherwise is dead wrong—dead wrong, I tell you. Take my word for it. I ought to know!”
“Yes, sir,” said Brick, somewhat surprised at Phule’s sudden vehemence on the subject. “Then you don’t think we’re likely to see any combat against them?”
“Combat? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Phule. “That’s off the charts, Brick, completely off the charts.” He paused a moment, then said, “What’s going on, anyway? Are you hiding from me?”
“Hiding?” Brick took off her purple robot camouflage cap and said, “No, sir, I’m not hiding. Maybe you need a cool drink of water, sir. The desert heat may be affecting you—”
“Oh, there you are!” said the captain, suddenly looking her straight in the face. “Well, the heat isn’t really that bad, but it’s a good idea to take sensible precautions, isn’t it? Well, if you don’t have any other questions, I have these reports to go through …”
“Yes, sir!” said Brick, replacing her cap and saluting. She turned and went back to her comrades, shaking her head.
“So, what’s the word?” asked Roadkill. “We gonna fight the robots or not?”
“Captain says no,” said Brick. “Problem is, I’m not sure just how far to trust his word, Roadie. I think the desert heat has cooked his brain. He was acting as if he couldn’t even see me.”
“Wow, that’s a shame,” said Roadkill, turning a sympathetic glance toward the captain, who was riffling through papers. “Let’s hope he gets back to his old self. We sure need him to set things right. Maybe he could even figure out how to get the major off our backs.”
&n
bsp; Before Brick could reply, Brandy strode up to the group and barked, “Okay, okay, don’t you birds have jobs to do? This is the Space Legion, in case you’ve forgotten it.”
“Lord help me, Sarge, how could I forget it?” groaned Roadkill. He and the other legionnaires scattered to their morning assignments, and Brandy nodded. As long as the troops looked busy, the major had one less excuse to bust chops. She’d thought the days were long over when her main concern was keeping officers off her back.
Well, maybe the problem would be short-lived. She glanced over at Phule, who sat there grinning as he shuffled papers. Roadkill had been right about that; he was their best hope to figure out a way to reduce the major’s influence. And until that happened, Omega Company was going to be a lot less fun than it had been, even for top sergeants.
* * *
A knock came at the door. Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up and smiled. “Chocolate Harry! Come in and sit down,” she said. She put down the report she’d been reading. Before Major Botchup had arrived, she’d had the occasional report to read, usually something of importance to the company. Now she was drowned in reports, most of them irrelevant and unreadable. Any break from this routine was welcome. Any kind of break at all.
The supply sergeant nodded and took a seat opposite her. “Got a problem, Remmie,” he said without prelude.
“I figured as much from the way you look,” said Rembrandt. “What’s up, C.H.? Don’t tell me those bikers are after you again. We must be a dozen parsecs away from them.”
“Nah, nothin’ that simple,” said Chocolate Harry. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward. “I’m worried about the cap’n,” he said in a lowered voice.
“We all are,” said Rembrandt, also quietly. “He’s let this new CO’s being appointed over his head throw him for a loop. It can’t be easy having your command taken away from you.”
“Yeah,” growled Harry. “That really stinks—not that it surprises me, knowin’ the Legion like I do. This new major is pure chicken shit, the kind they only make at Legion Headquarters. He hasn’t started messin’ with my end of things so far, except for asking for a bunch of fool reports. If he never gets around to me, that’ll be damn soon enough. But that ain’t what I was worried about.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 99