The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “We have been on Zenobia nearly six months,” said the young legionnaire, smiling beatifically—it was his invariable expression. If she hadn’t known better, Brandy would have assumed Mahatma was on some kind of meds, legal or otherwise. (In this outfit, it was most likely otherwise.)

  Brandy waited for Mahatma; he hadn’t asked any question yet, so she knew he wasn’t done. The silence lingered. Finally, as the rest of the training squad fidgeted, she said, as calmly as she could manage, “That’s right, Mahatma. We’ve been here six months.” Sometimes she thought half that time had been spent with her answering Mahatma’s questions, but she carried on with only a hint of impatience. “Now, what was your question?”

  Mahatma’s smile never wavered. “When we had finished our job on Landoor, we were sent to this planet. You told us it was because we had done a good job there.” He paused again.

  “That’s right,” said Brandy, not letting the pause stretch out this time. “What did you …”

  “Have we not done a good job here?” Mahatma broke in. “Or have we not finished the job we came to do?”

  “Neither one,” said Brandy. “We came as military advisers to the Zenobians, and we’ve been able to solve their problems without any fighting at all. That’s doing a damned good job, if you want my opinion.”

  “But we have not been sent to another posting,” argued Mahatma. “That must mean the brass don’t think we’ve finished the job.”

  “Dude’s makin’ sense,” came a voice from the back of the squad, before Brandy could answer. She was pretty sure she knew who it was, but she thought she’d be better off dealing directly with Mahatma instead of being drawn off into side issues. At least, unless she needed to divert everyone’s attention from whatever point Mahatma was leading up to. The little legionnaire always had a point—usually one that undermined some basic tenet of military doctrine. She still hadn’t figured out what he was doing in the military. Luckily for Brandy, most of his points were too subtle for anyone but her and Mahatma to understand. And she wasn’t sure she always understood them …

  “The job isn’t over,” Brandy conceded. “But that doesn’t mean we haven’t done well. In fact, if we’d messed up the job, we’d damn well know it by now.”

  “Uh, Sarge …” Another of the training squad had a hand up.

  Brandy frowned. She’d hoped the answer she’d given would end the digression and let her get back to the training session. “Yeah, Slayer, what is it?”

  “Uh, if we were doin’ so well, why did headquarters send that Major Botchup to take over the company?”

  “Headquarters usually doesn’t know squat about conditions in the field,” said Brandy. “You all saw how out of touch the major was when he finally got here. Things didn’t get straightened out until the captain came back from his trip to the Zenobian capital. And you notice they haven’t tried replacing the major. In fact, rumor has it, the captain’s in for a promotion. If that doesn’t mean we’re doing things right, I don’t know what does.”

  “Hey, yeah, that makes sense,” said Slayer. The rest of the squad murmured its agreement, and Brandy relaxed. Now she had a chance to regain control of the exercise. If only Mahatma didn’t start up again …

  “All right, people,” she said. “Today we’re going to talk about desert survival techniques. What’s the first thing you need if you get stranded away from the camp?”

  “Weapons,” said one voice.

  “Nah, you need shelter,” said another.

  “A map,” said a third.

  “That’s all good stuff to have,” said Brandy. “But none of it’s going to do you much good without a supply of safe drinking water. I’m going to show you some ways to find water out in the desert …”

  From that point, the exercise went ahead as planned. By the end of the morning session, Brandy was actually pleased with the legionnaires’ progress. Even Mahatma managed to keep from asking any more irrelevant questions. Not that she expected that to last long …

  * * *

  If there is any port in the Alliance where private space yachts might dock without undue flurry, it is undoubtedly Lorelei, a space station that spends its every waking hour as a playground for the wealthy. So while the unannounced appearance of a Logan 350—one of the sleekest and most distinguished vessels available to a private citizen—caused the traffic control officers on duty at Lorelei to give their undivided attention to getting docked smoothly and without delay, it caused no comment. Its electronic signature, revealing a high level of quasi-military hardware on board, might have raised a few eyebrows on other worlds and stations, but Lorelei took it in without a blink.

  Nor were many eyebrows raised when the yacht unloaded a vintage hoverlimo. Rich people often brought their own transport vehicles to Lorelei. Those paying attention might have recognized this one as an exception—a top-of-the-line Fleutz-Royale, which to the trained eye revealed subtle security modifications worthy of a planetary chief executive’s state limo. Despite its arrogantly plain exterior, this was a vehicle many billionaires might consider a bit pricey. Its performance and safety more than justified the price, but even so, few of them would have been willing to pay it.

  As soon as the hoverlimo was unloaded, a compactly built woman and a well-muscled man emerged from the Logan, escorting a lean, energetic, middle-aged man into the passenger seat. Racing fans might have recognized the woman as Maria Delia Fanatico, a Formula-Ultra race driver who had mysteriously retired about fifteen years ago, after an impressive string of victories. The man was Eddie Grossman, whose face was familiar to veterans of the elite Red Eagles army unit if not to the general public. As the unit’s small-arms instructor, he had built an almost uncanny reputation for never missing a shot he had called.

  There weren’t any immediate alarm bells at the Fat Chance Casino’s communications center a few moments later, when the passenger appeared on their screens, calling from the comm unit in his vehicle. He asked (in a tone that made it clear he was issuing an order, not making a request) to be connected with Willard Phule.

  “One moment, sir, I’ll have him paged,” said the junior clerk who took the call. It says a certain amount for the clerk’s training that he not only recognized Captain Jester’s civilian name, but knew that anyone asking for the casino’s majority stockholder under that name ought to be put through without delay. “Whom should I say is calling, sir?”

  “Victor Phule,” said the caller. And that, at last, set off the alarms.

  “Y-yes, s-ss-sir,” said the junior clerk, and it was something of a miracle that he managed to put the caller on hold without disconnecting him. This was not one of the contingencies that the clerk’s training had anticipated.

  The clerk’s face disappeared, to be replaced by an ad for the Fat Chance Casino’s supper club and floor show, featuring several shots of Dee Dee Watkins in revealing costumes. A few moments later, a different young man’s face appeared on Victor Phule’s view screen. He peered at the view screen mounted below the on-line camera, and said, enthusiastically, “Captain Jester here. What can I do for you?”

  Victor Phule peered suspiciously at the view screen for perhaps three whole seconds. “I asked for Willard, not for his screening service,” he growled. “Get him on. If he’s in a meeting, get him out of it. And if I have to wait much longer, there’ll be a bunch of people looking for new jobs. Now, let me talk to my son, you miserable impostor, or you’ll be the first one on the list!”

  The young actor somehow managed to keep his composure. “Please hold, sir,” he said. Before Victor Phule could get in another word, the screen returned to shots of Dee Dee’s dance routine interspersed with happy diners enjoying the four-star cuisine. (Not visible to the unsuspecting eye were various subliminals touting the casino’s primary business.)

  By this time, Phule’s hoverlimo had floated to within eyeball range of the Fat Chance. Impatiently, the weapons magnate reached out and broke the connection. “Incompetent idiots,”
he muttered. “Willard will have some explaining to do when I get him in my sights. I thought the boy had better sense.” In the front seat, the driver and bodyguard said nothing.

  In a few moments more, the limo had pulled in front of the casino’s marquee front. Eddie Grossman hopped out almost before the vehicle had stopped moving. He scanned the various gawking onlookers and uniformed hotel flunkies with professional thoroughness before opening the door to allow Victor Phule to storm out, making a beeline for the hotel entrance. Not missing a beat, Grossman followed a half pace behind him.

  At the wheel of the hoverlimo, Maria Delia Fanatico watched them go, with a sigh. Phule rarely got this angry. She was almost sorry not to get a chance to see the inevitable explosion. She wasn’t at all sorry that she was not the one her boss was mad at. She’d risked her life plenty of times on the race track, but there were some things far more dangerous than that. Getting one of the richest men in the galaxy mad at you was one of them.

  * * *

  The Reverend Jordan Ayres (“Rev” to his friends and followers) wore a pensive look, somewhere between a sulk and a pout. A casual observer might have taken this to mean that something was bothering the chaplain of Omega Company. But no—the pout was merely his normal expression when he was calm or thoughtful. It was a direct and intentional result of the extensive facial remodeling that all devout members of the Church of the King underwent in order to more perfectly resemble their prophet. In any case, to someone meeting Rev for the first time, the pout was probably less off-putting than the sneer that his face assumed when he was actually in a cheerful frame of mind.

  Rev’s initial success in converting the members of Omega Company to the Church of the New Revelation—or, as it was often known, the Church of the King—had been nothing short of phenomenal. But, as even he had to admit, recently the stream of converts had slowed to a trickle. For various doctrinal reasons, particularly the strong pressure for church members to have their face remodeled in the image of their prophet, Rev’s denomination was somewhat lacking in appeal to the nonhuman sophonts among his larger flock. And even among the humans, a fair number were attached to some other denomination, while others were frankly uninterested in any religion per se.

  While the company had been stationed on Lorelei, or on Landoor, this had not been of particular concern to Rev. In both localities, he had found plenty of potential converts in the indigenous human populations. But here on Zenobia, populated by a race of sentient saurians, the King’s message appeared to be falling on barren ground.

  Rev had turned to some of his favorite texts for inspiration. Elder Aaron’s personal memoir, Anyplace Is Paradise, had reinforced Rev’s belief that the King was present everywhere, and Bishop Scott E. Moore’s Gonna Be Cool affirmed that true believers would survive even the heat death of the universe. But, as always, the deepest meanings came from the King’s own words—above all, the soulful admonition, “Don’t be cruel.” Rev’s heart went flippity-flop every time he heard the King pronounce that sentiment. The words had lost absolutely none of their power as they’d come down the centuries. And yet, to his puzzlement, the Zenobians seemed deaf to all that. In fact, they seemed completely uninterested in anything the King had said or done.

  He drummed his fingers, staring out the window of the small office he occupied in the administrative wing of Omega Company’s Zenobia headquarters module. Out on the parade ground, Flight Leftenant Qual and two of his fellow Zenobians were making adjustments to some piece of equipment they’d brought along when they’d come to the Legion camp. The lizardlike sophonts who had invited the Legion to this planet were every bit as intelligent as humans, or any of the other races that had become part of the Alliance. They showed as much imagination, as much curiosity about the universe they inhabited, as other species. Why, then, weren’t they interested in the King’s message?

  There was only one way to find out, Rev realized. He rose to his feet, with a sigh at the stiffness in his legs. Not for the first time, he reminded himself that he’d been neglecting his exercise program. There wasn’t any excuse for that—not with a fully equipped gym right around the corner from his office, and the best instructors available, completely paid for by the Space Legion—or, more precisely, by Captain Jester. The King wouldn’t have wanted one of his followers to let himself go … not when it was so easy to stay in shape.

  But at the moment, Rev was on a mission. He strode down the corridor to a convenient exit and came out onto the parade ground a short distance from where the Zenobians were working. He walked over to them, humming a favorite melodic pattern. Dum, dumba dumba dum, dumba dumba dum …

  Qual looked up at the chaplain’s approach. “Greetings, Crank!” said the Zenobian officer, flashing his array of sharp reptilian teeth.

  “Crank?” said Rev, momentarily confused. Then he realized it must be another of the apparently random mistranslations the Zenobian’s autotranslator spit out from time to time. Try as they might, the Legion’s techs had never been able to adjust Qual’s translator to render the name of Omega Company’s commanding officer as anything but “Captain Clown.” A few members of the company privately suspected that Qual’s mangling of human language was not entirely an artifact of his equipment … but they had never been able to prove anything, and since the little Zenobian was popular with the troops, nobody saw much point in making an issue of it.

  Remembering his purpose, Rev said, “Good afternoon, Flight Leftenant Qual. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “It is a long time since we converse,” said Qual. “It would be my gratification.”

  Rev relaxed—he’d been worried that the Zenobian officer might be too involved in his work to answer his questions. “You know, I have a kinda special job here,” he began. “Sort of a mission, you might say.”

  “Yes, I have seen that,” said Qual. His two coworkers stood listening—evidently their officer’s translator gave them the gist of what Rev was saying. (Rev worried that what they heard might be a very distorted version of his actual words, but again, there was very little he could do about it.) “You are an officer, but one who gives advice, not orders,” added the Zenobian.

  “Yeah, that’s the idea,” said Rev. “Now, you must’ve heard me talk about the King …”

  “Many times, Crank,” said Qual, still smiling. “You hardly speak of anything else.”

  “That’s right,” said Rev. “Now, what I want to know is, what do you all think about that? I mean, you people don’t seem really interested in Him.”

  “Oh, this King of yours is very interesting,” said Qual, and the other two Zenobians nodded eagerly.

  Rev smiled. “Well, I didn’t expect you to say that …”

  “But of course you cannot expect us to take him seriously,” Qual added. “Humans ought to create their own myths instead of borrowing from more ancient species.”

  Rev scratched his head, puzzled. “Borrowing? I don’t understand.”

  The two Zenobian crew members opened their mouths in the posture Rev had come to recognize as laughter, but Qual kept a serious expression. “Possibly you tell the truth, friend Crank,” the Zenobian officer said. “I have noticed that you do not much understand the humor. But I have perhaps already said more than I should. We Zenobians do not lightly speak of our deepest racial beliefs, and I do not wish to expose our doctrines to you. I will tell you only that you need to convince one of our High Shamans to tell you the tale of ’L’Viz. It will be highly instructive, I can assure you. Now, if you will pardon me, I and my crew must complete our calibration of the sklern. Good diurnal period, Crank.”

  Rev stood there with his mouth open as Qual and his crew resumed their work. But after a moment, he retreated, shaking his head. He hadn’t learned everything he’d hoped he might, but what he had learned left him plenty of food for thought. ’L’Viz—he’d remember that name, and when occasion arose, he’d follow up Qual’s suggestion. There was a mystery here, and he meant to get to the bottom of
it.

  Evening rush hour in Bu-Tse, the capital city of Kerr’s Trio, was as hectic as rush hour in any other major city in human space. Try as they might, city planners had never figured out a way to eliminate the mass exodus of office workers into the transit system at the beginning and end of the business day. At some point or another, urban planners had tried any number of strategies to decentralize the business district, to stagger work hours, to facilitate telecommuting—none to any lasting effect. Centuries of complaints to the contrary, neither the employers nor the work force really wanted to change what had apparently become as fixed a pattern as the alternation of day and night.

  But while the dark-haired woman getting off the Bu-Tse slideway with two huge grocery bags at the Dedisco loop was almost certainly unaware of the history behind her crowded ride home, she was by no means reconciled to it. She stalked up to the nondescript apartment building at the corner, elbowed her way into the gravshaft, and glared at her fellow denizens of the Dedisco Towers as they rose through the shaft together. There was an audible sigh of relief as she swung off on the fifth level and stomped down the hallway to her apartment door.

  She palmed the lock, bustled through the door, and headed for the kitchen. From the living room came the sound of a tri-vee set turned to a gravball game. She ignored it and noisily dumped the bags on the kitchen table. From the other room came a male voice: “Lola?” She ignored that, too, muttering angrily as she began to unload the bags.

  “Lola, you better come in here,” said the voice, louder this time.

  “Wait a minute,” she barked. Schmuck can’t even come out and talk to me, let alone help, she thought darkly. I ought to make him get his own meals …

  “Lola, we got trouble,” said the voice again.

  “You’re the one that’s got trouble,” she snapped, turning to face the entrance to the living room. That’s when she saw the stranger with a beamer pointed at her. “Uh—who are you?” she finished, lamely. Unfortunately, she already had a very good idea what the answer had to be.