The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  The civilians on board were all humans, like most of those he’d met since leaving his home world. None of them seemed to know very much about Omega Company, or its commanding officer—and in any case, they had very little to say to Thumper. They were much more interested in telling improbable stories about their hunting exploits. This struck Thumper as an incredible waste of time, since none of them seemed to believe any of the others’ stories—or even to listen to them, very much. And since he showed almost no interest in the subject that dominated their conversation, they quickly stopped trying to impress him.

  That was all right with Thumper. He needed time to reassess the lessons of basic training, which evidently went well beyond such superficial matters as marching, saluting, and running the obstacle course. All that he’d managed as well as anyone in his squad—in fact, according to Sergeant Pitbull, he’d completed the obstacle course in record time. But by showing how fast he could run the course, he’d made enemies, which made no sense to him—even after his buddies sat him down and tried to explain it to him.

  One thing he did understand: making enemies had gotten him in trouble with General Blitzkrieg, which in turn had gotten him sent to Omega Company. That at least made sense, once he learned of the general’s long-standing grudge against Captain Jester and Omega Company. That story was apparently known throughout the Legion, although Thumper hadn’t heard as much as a peep about it until his assignment to Omega came through. Only then had the other recruits taken him aside and told him what they’d heard. And Thumper’s ears had stood on end, and his eyes grew wider and wider.

  The only problem was, the stories contradicted each other on almost every point. Some said that Omega was a dumping ground for the dregs of the Legion, and its CO a certified madman who turned every Legion rule on its head. Others said it was the softest duty a legionnaire could get, with routine assignments to fancy resort worlds and officers who let all discipline go by the boards. And others said it was the one unit in the Legion where a legionnaire wasn’t strapped in with archaic rules and mindlessly enforced regulations; where a sophont with some imagination and ambition might find a niche for himself.

  Thumper had taken advantage of his copious spare time on the voyage to research Omega Company and Captain Jester on the Web, and what he found there was every bit as contradictory as the rumors he’d heard. A long string of news reports from Jennie Higgins made Captain Jester look like the kind of hero Thumper had always thought of as the essence of the Legion—the active, resourceful leader of an intrepid band. But other reports portrayed the captain as a laughingstock, and his company—to quote the governor of one planet where they’d been stationed—as “the idiot bastard offspring of a travesty and a calamity.” Thumper had to look up a couple of those words in the human dictionary. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it when he found out what they meant—or whether he liked what it meant for him.

  But like it or not, here he was, riding the last couple of kilometers to his destination on the back seat of a Legion hoverjeep. Gears chattered the whole way back to the camp, pointing out various features of the desert and asking Thumper how he’d come to be assigned to the company. “You know, you’re the first sophont of your kind I’ve seen,” he said, turning around to look Thumper in the eye. “We got some Gambolts in the company, a couple Synthians, a Volton—and all kinds and shapes of humans, of course. But you’re the first—what did you say your species was?”

  “I’m a Lepoid, from Teloon,” said Thumper. “I guess we look like some kind of Old Earth animal called a rabbit. In basic, the sergeant called me things like Bunnyears and Cottontail. Do the sergeants here make fun of people and call them names?”

  “Captain don’t like that,” said Gears. “People do it anyway, but if they get too nasty, they can get in trouble. Mostly it’s just funnin’ between friends.”

  Lieutenant Armstrong was more aloof than Gears—perhaps his confrontation with the hunting party had something to do with that. Still, the lieutenant’s first reaction to Thumper had been a kind of shocked silence, and he had never really done much in the way of welcoming him to the company. Thumper wondered whether Armstrong was uncomfortable with nonhumans, though Gears’s mentioning that legionnaires of several other races belonged to the company seemed to rule that out. Well, unless Armstrong was his immediate superior, that seemed unlikely to be a problem.

  Thumper’s train of thought came to an end as the hoverjeep crossed into the Legion camp and came to a stop. “Well, here we are,” said Gears. He pointed toward a large woman sitting at a portable desk, shaded by an awning. “You’ll need to report to First Sergeant Brandy, I guess—that’s her over there. She’ll tell you where to go and what to do.”

  “Thanks!” said Thumper, grabbing his duffel and jumping out of the hoverjeep.

  “No problem, buddy,” said the driver. “And good luck!” He started the jeep back up and headed off. Thumper shouldered his duffel and began walking toward Brandy. He still had no idea what Omega Company held in store for him, but he was about to find out. And this time, he was determined not to throw away his opportunities.

  Chapter Nine

  Journal #695

  My employer’s single stroke of genius was his perception that running his Legion company was in principle no different from running any other kind of business. Well, perhaps “genius” overstates the case, but certainly the discovery was something no one else in the military seems to have stumbled upon. This meant, among other things, identifying key personnel and making certain that their loyalty was secured by the most direct means.

  I am quite certain that my employer would have been unable to parse the admonition “Thou shalt not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn,” let alone identify its source; but he showed a keen understanding of it in practice. This understanding was particularly evident in his handling of the Supply sergeant, one Chocolate Harry.

  * * *

  Chocolate Harry yawned and looked around his office. Somewhere or another he’d put a catalog of custom hovercycle parts, little things that might add the perfect finishing touch to his beloved Hawg. Where had he put it? He riffled through the top couple of inches of a stack of magazines and catalogues on his desk, then stood and went to one of the file cabinets. But the thought of dealing with the chaos he knew he’d find inside was almost enough to chill his enthusiasm. He kept meaning to set up his database engines to connect him to the major hovercycle supply houses, but it was too much like work …

  His hand went halfway to the handle of the most likely drawer, then he drew it back. Before he ordered up any new parts, he really needed to give the Hawg a bit of a ride to see just how it was running. It’d been a few days—as good as Omega Company had been to him, he’d fallen in the habit of actually giving his job priority over his hobbies. The old Chocolate Harry would never have approved. But Captain Jester had made a very persuasive case for the advantages of taking care of Legion business—very tangible benefits, as it happened. And the captain had no qualms about letting the noncoms have all their traditional prerogatives … including the little rakeoffs Harry had become accustomed to.

  Still, it had been a few days since he’d revved up the bike. It wasn’t good for it to sit idle. Harry turned his gaze out the window, to the semiarid landscape beyond the Legion camp. It was a clear day, but not too hot, and there were miles of open territory out there, just begging for somebody to cruise through them at full throttle. Harry shrugged. “What the hell,” he said, and touched a button on his wrist communicator. “Yo, Double-X! I’m taking a couple hours off,” he said. “Gotta check out the Hawg, give it a real shakedown. Anything comes up, you can handle it—or make it wait until I’m back. Got it?”

  “Sure ’nuff, C. H.,” came the raspy voice of Harry’s Supply assistant. “Got it covered. Have a good ride—see you in a couple.”

  Harry nodded. He knew he could trust Double-X not to mess up too seriously if something complicated came up in his absence.
He pushed the starter button on the hover unit and listened critically as the antigrav units warmed up. Satisfied at the low purr, he mounted the bike and put on his helmet, then keyed the remote to open the Supply dump’s delivery bay door. It slid noiselessly open. Harry edged the throttle up a notch, put the propulsion module into slow forward setting, and edged the Hawg out the doorway into the late-morning sunlight.

  A few legionnaires waved to the Supply sergeant as he came into sight on the hovercycle. Chocolate Harry grinned and waved back, then rolled his left wrist slightly, revving the engine just enough to remind the onlookers of the Hawg’s power. A quick motion of the right hand, and he was in gear, soaring off into the desert in search of whatever adventures awaited him. Well, to tell the truth, there weren’t usually any adventures, but out in the open air, it felt as if the chances were a lot better than at his desk in the Supply depot.

  At first Harry took a familiar path—a broad, level swath where he could push the hovercycle close to its top speed without worrying about obstacles. He leaned forward, lowering his profile as the Hawg cut into the dry wind, enjoying the speed for its own sake. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot small desert animals belatedly scurrying out of the way of this noisy intruder. He’d never seen any living thing much bigger than the palm of his hand—there was nothing larger than that in this part of the planet, according to the Zenobians.

  He came to a halt on a low rise, where he wheeled the bike around to get a look back toward the camp. The landscape around the Legion base was flat enough that even a slight hillock gave a long view in all directions. Harry normally didn’t spend a great deal of time admiring the view, however. In his opinion, the desert landscape was just so much worthless real estate. Not even the locals had much use for it—as evidenced by the fact that they’d given it to the Legion for a base.

  This time, though, there was something new in the picture. In the middle distance, just south of the Legion base, there was a green canopy—a tent of some sort, Harry realized. It only took a moment for him to remember the scuttlebutt he’d heard from the command office. Captain Jester had finally found out that all the support he’d gotten from his buddies in the State Department came with a hefty price tag: namely, giving a party of big-time politicos the run of the planet for hunting. Harry could have told him it was going to cost—in fact, he’d be surprised if this was the only payback in the deal.

  Of course, that was only part of the story. Visitors from off-planet wouldn’t have all the stuff they needed to handle local conditions. Chocolate Harry was just sure they’d have to have all sorts of supplemental provisions and supplies. The right color camouflage to match the local landscape, for example. Harry had plenty of it. They’d probably want extra liquor, and ammo, and bait … Harry was sure he could get hold of all that, too. Harry smiled. This could be the best opportunity to come his way since he’d cornered the market on purple antirobot cammy …

  He revved his engine and started off toward the distant tent.

  * * *

  Sushi found Flight Leftenant Qual with a crew of his fellow Zenobians, working with the large device that had been the focus of their attention for the last several days. Exactly what its purpose was, Sushi had never learned; he assumed the captain had some general notion what the thing did and why the Zenobians were setting it up in the middle of a Legion camp.

  “How’s everything going, Qual?” said Sushi, walking up to the group. “Good to see you today.”

  “Ah, Rawfish,” said Qual, flashing the disconcerting smile that reminded everyone of his race’s carnivorous proclivities, “The Sklern is obstinate today, but a tightening of the Zorn Modulator should resolve that issue. Or so one hopes. Mechanical onerosities can be recalcitrant, even with a good crew.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Sushi, surprised even as he said it that he did follow the Zenobian’s general drift. “In fact, that’s sort of what I came to see you about.”

  “Ah, does your species have its own Sklerns?” The tip of Qual’s tail began twitching. “We were not aware of it.”

  “Nope, we’re Sklernless, far as I know,” said Sushi. “It’s one of our own machines I want to check out. Your auto-translator has been giving us some flaky output lately, and I wanted to see if we could recalibrate it.”

  “Flaking outpost?” Qual’s eyes opened wider, and he stared at the miniature device hanging from a strap around his shoulder. “I have not seen any signs of it.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Sushi, grinning. “That’s just the kind of thing I was talking about. The translator usually adjusts itself automatically, but it’s not necessarily perfect. In your case, you were the first of your species to get one, and there must have been some glitches because we didn’t have any previous samples of your language. Anyway, it’s been doing subtle mistranslations, probably in both directions, for quite a while now. That could be dangerous in an emergency. Best to catch it before anybody’s life depends on it.”

  “Oh ho, I comprehend,” said Qual. “To state the facts, I thought some of you humans were saying very strange things, but I attributed it to your extremely bizarre cultural attitudes. But if it is merely a mechanical delusion, correction would be a boon to both species. How do you intend to adjust the device?”

  “Well, to do it right, I need some information on your language,” said Sushi.

  “Ah, I am but a simple air warrior,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. “The subtleties of semantics are beyond me. Perhaps you need a certified scholar of language.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” said Sushi, breezily. “You’ve been speaking your native language since you were a kid …”

  “Not so,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. “Our people do not acquire language until they are nearly grown, and each finds his own way. And some ways are very strange indeed. But the better a Zenobian speaks, the greater rights and duties that one can achieve. Chief Potentary Korg is the great power that he is because he is the most admired speaker on all the planet.”

  Sushi stared at Qual for a long moment, then shook his head. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were giving me the business. In fact, I’m still not sure you’re not trying to pull the insulated fabric over my eyes.”

  “It is a verity,” said Qual, and the other Zenobians working with him, who had followed the conversation with apparent interest, flipped their tails from side to side—a gesture that the legionnaires had learned meant the same to the Zenobians as a nod to humans. “Perhaps your translator problems arise from this feature of our language.”

  “It sounds like a good recipe for problems,” said Sushi. “Do you mean that everyone speaks completely differently?”

  “Oh, not completely so,” said Qual. “Careful guardians will expose the adolescents in their charge to the most admired speakers, hoping to influence their mode of speech. It works, to some degree. I myself was made to listen to the speeches of Korg’s predecessor, Grand Potentary Zarf. I believe that was a large factor in my rising to officer rank so quickly.”

  “Amazing,” said Sushi, shaking his head. “So how do messages that have to reach a lot of people get sent? Do you have some kind of common language that everybody understands?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Qual. “But it is curious that you ask, Rawfish. That is a language that everyone knows, but no one speaks.”

  “What the …?” Sushi frowned. “If nobody speaks it, how can you communicate in it?”

  “Very easy,” said Qual, and the other Zenobians again flipped their tails. “It is a language for the eyes only, which we use to record knowledge that everyone must know. However a Zenobian speaks, he will have learned the written language first.”

  “Wow,” said Sushi. “That’s exactly the reverse of how humans do it—and, as far as I know, all the other species in the Alliance, too. Let me get this straight—you’re telling me that the written language has no spoken equivalent?”

  “Oh, no, that is the beauty of it,” said
Qual. “It has as many equivalents as there are different ways of speaking. Every Zenobian knows the meaning of a written message, but the way of rendering it into sound is left to the speaker’s own choice. A matter of taste, I think you humans call it.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Sushi. “Excuse me, Qual, but this has just boggled my mind. I’m going to go think about it over a drink or two, and see whether I can make any sense of it. Do you mind if I come back later and ask you some more questions?”

  “Oh, no,” said Qual. “It is invariably an amusement to talk to you, Rawfish.”

  “Thanks, I think,” said Sushi, and he wandered off in search of his coworkers on the Zenobian language project. He already had a good idea where to find them …

  * * *

  “All right, how does it look now?” said Ernie. He stepped out into the center of the little hotel room so Lola could inspect him.

  She stood with her hands on her hips, inspecting the dress suit he wore. “You still look more like an out-of-shape bouncer than a high-stakes player,” she muttered. “To tell the truth, I don’t think it’s the suit that’s the problem—it’s you.”

  “Hey, I am an out-of-shape bouncer,” Ernie said brightly. “It’s been a few years since I worked the door anywhere, but don’t go taking me for granted—I’m in better shape than it looks like, baby. You oughta know that …”

  “It’s not what I know that matters, it’s what Victor Phule and his bodyguards think,” said Lola, frowning. “If they knew what I know, they wouldn’t even let you in the casino—forget about striking up a casual conversation with a gazillionaire. We’re stuck with trying to make you look like somebody respectable. Are you sure you can’t shave any closer?”