The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

“Well then, Hugo, I’m glad I met you,” said Phule. “How do I get to Via Poco Lente?”

  “You don’t,” said Hugo. “Most people don’t want nothing to do with da Phule, and he don’t want nothing to do with them, either. That’s a password, not an address. You ask the right guy—which today happens to be me—and I take you to da Phule.”

  “I guess I’ve already found out what happens if you ask the wrong guy,” said Phule. “What if you don’t find the right guy?”

  “Then you don’t want to see Pitti da Phule bad enough,” said Hugo, spreading his arms wide with palms upward. “Come on, I take you there.”

  Phule followed his guide down a series of narrow, winding streets, turning seemingly at random; indeed, at least twice he thought they’d passed a house he’d seen a few turns previously. But after perhaps twenty minutes, they came to a graffiti-covered stretch of stone wall nine or ten feet high, at one end of which was a wooden gate with peeling green paint. Hugo pushed it open and waved Phule forward. “This is the place,” he said, grinning broadly. “You go in, I wait for you here.”

  The circuitous route and his guide’s mysterious behavior had put Phule on his guard. “Why don’t you go first?” he said, taking the other man firmly by the elbow. He added, as Hugo showed signs of balking, “Really, I insist.”

  “Smart of you,” said a smooth baritone voice from just inside the door. A slim, middle-aged man stepped forward, holding a wineglass in one hand. Around his neck were several thick gold chains. “Smart, but not necessary this time around. Hugo’s a condottieri at heart, but he knows not to fool with anybody who has my password. You must be Cousin Victor’s boy—last I heard, you were the only family member in any kind of uniform.”

  “Uncle Pitti?” said Phule, stepping forward to shake the older man’s hand. “I remember meeting you years ago, at somebody’s wedding …”

  “That must have been Stella Phule,” said Pitti da Phule, nodding. “She married Juan Feryou out on Tau Ceti Four. A really big affair. I think they’re still talking about the Phule-Feryou wedding out there …”

  Phule grinned. “Right, I spent the afternoon hanging out with the groom’s younger brother …”

  “Right, Nomarr Feryou,” said Pitti. “He was a little hellraiser back then. So were you, if memory serves me right. That doesn’t look as if it’s held you back, Captain.” Pitti punched Phule in the arm playfully, then raised a finger to his lips. “But I’m not being much of a host, am I? We’ll get you a glass of vino and something to eat with it, and then we can talk business.”

  Pitti da Phule took his nephew through a side door into a garden where a marble fountain bubbled musically. An ancient-looking wall served as the backdrop for a row of fruit trees, and the walk was lined with flowers. Small birds darted between the branches, watched by a lazy orange cat. Pitti gestured to a pair of benches with a small marble table in between. The top of the table, Phule noted, had an inlaid chessboard.

  They talked for a few minutes until Pitti’s robutler brought them a plate of anchovies, peppers, cheese, and olives, a crusty loaf of bread, and a bottle of a full-bodied Tuscan red. After they’d put a satisfactory dent in the hors d’ouvres, Pitti steepled his fingers and said, “Now, it can’t be just coincidence that you’ve come looking for me. In fact, there’s talk going around about the Space Legion. Is there anything to the rumor that your outfit is doing a job for the IRS?”

  Phule practically burst out laughing. “That’s about the last governmental organization I’d do a job for,” he said. “I guess it would explain the funny looks I’ve gotten on the street. But you may not know about some of my troubles with them …” He described his previous run-in with the tax agency, and finally Pitti nodded.

  “It didn’t sound like anything one of our family would be involved in, but you can’t ignore something everybody’s talking about. I wonder who started that rumor?” Pitti studied his nephew for a moment, then said, “But you came here to ask something. What can Uncle Pitti do for you?”

  Phule outlined his situation for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d left Zenobia in search of his errant butler and Nightingale. This time, at least, he could tell about the Port-a-Brain—although he decided to leave out the hibernation problem. No reason to spread that information any farther than strictly necessary, even within the family. Pitti da Phule listened in silence for a while, taking an occasional sip of wine. At last he held up a hand. “Good enough,” he said. “I see what the problem is. Let me find out what I can do for you. I’ll get in touch—where are you staying?”

  Phule gave him the address of his hotel. “Not a bad place for what you’re probably paying,” said Pitti. “Try Trattoria Alfonso, on the next block, for lunch. I think you’ll like it—tell the waiter I sent you. Now, go do some sightseeing, relax, eat—and let me handle things for a while. Ciao!”

  And with that, he pushed Phule out the door onto the streets. A moment later, he beckoned to a servant. “Get the prints and DNA on this analyzed,” he said in Italian, pointing to Phule’s wineglass. “The kid looks and talks like Willard, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. And call his old man, too—yes, I know how much it costs to call intersystem. But this kid’s claiming to be family, and with all the rumors going around, I’d like to be sure that’s really who I’m dealing with.”

  * * *

  Brandy found the robot in the gym. It wasn’t all that hard to find, actually. She could hear it all the way down the hall. She opened the door to discover that it had a squad of frightened legionnaires lined up for a roasting that many old-time drill sergeants might have gotten pointers from. Several veteran smart-mouths and goof-offs were among the roastees, and their shocked expressions were all the evidence Brandy needed that the robot had caught them completely off guard.

  She stepped forward, trying her best not to draw attention, but the robot picked her up in its peripheral vision and barked, “Sergeant! Come forward.”

  “Yes, Captain Jester,” she said, putting on her best military manner. She marched briskly to the front of the formation, stood at attention, and snapped off her best salute. “What are your orders, sir?” she barked.

  “Well, at least one person here knows how to show proper respect for an officer,” the robot drawled. “What I don’t understand is why none of these so-called legionnaires seem to have learned it. This is the squad you’ve supposedly been training, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir, no excuse, sir,” she said, keeping the surprise out of her voice as best she could. Clearly, the errant golf ball had done even more damage than they’d realized. Not only was the robot playing superhuman golf, it had turned into a by-the-books officer of the worst sort. Unless they could get the damage fixed—and quickly!—Omega Company was in for a shock of tectonic proportions.

  Meanwhile, her mind was racing at top speed. How was she going to defuse the immediate confrontation? The question was more delicate than it first appeared. After all, the robot nominally outranked everyone on the base except for General Blitzkrieg and his adjutant, neither of whom was likely to intervene. Just telling the legionnaires to ignore the robot was the most obvious method; the robot had no way to enforce its orders, after all. But the rank and file had no idea this Captain Jester was a robot. Only the command cadre were in on the secret, and she wasn’t going to change that without orders from the real captain. Besides, what if some future crisis required the real Captain Jester to issue unpopular orders? She didn’t want to do something now that would give some wise guy an excuse, no matter how phony, to claim he didn’t believe it was the real captain giving the orders …

  The robot captain rubbed its chin as the real Phule would have while thinking about some point. Brandy was impressed by how well the robot’s manufacturers had captured Phule’s body language and casual gestures, in addition to giving it a near-perfect physical resemblance to its protoplasmic prototype. Then it spoke again. “Sergeant, I am appalled by these legionnaires’
discipline—or nearly total lack of discipline, I should say. It’s past time that somebody got them to shape up—and I’m beginning to wonder whether you’re the woman for the job or not.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Brandy. “Permission to ask a question, sir.” It was uncanny how much it resembled Captain Jester, even though it was acting in a way that threatened to undercut everything he’d accomplished so far.

  “Permission granted, Sergeant,” said the robot.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Brandy could see Mahatma’s eyes bulging out in anticipation. He would undoubtedly be taking mental notes on her performance—and giving postmortem analysis to his fellow legionnaires. In spite of having been his target so many times, Brandy felt a rush of inspiration. I can’t disappoint the little guy, she thought. Carefully, she summoned up her long-dormant memories of how she’d dealt with rulebook officers in the past.

  “Sir, any failures of discipline in this training squad are my responsibility,” she began, making it up as she went along. “But may I remind the captain that I was given orders to train this group to pass as civilians in enemy territory. Their apparent lack of military polish is designed to lull the enemy into overlooking their specialized skills, which meet and surpass Legion standard, sir. May I give the captain a demonstration?”

  The robot looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Very well, Sergeant—I can hardly deny you the opportunity to let your troops show me their capabilities. For your sake, I hope the demonstration is convincing.”

  “Yes, Captain! Thank you, Captain,” said Brandy, still thinking fast. She turned to face the puzzled-looking group of legionnaires. “Mahatma! Step forward.” Perhaps the little legionnaire’s habit of asking impossible questions would hold the robot’s attention long enough for her to discover a way out of the situation.

  “Yes, Sergeant Brandy,” said Mahatma, striding briskly out of the formation. As usual, his face betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts. I hope he catches on quick, thought Brandy.

  But before she could say anything, another voice broke the silence. “Well, well, Captain—what the devil’s going on here?”

  Brandy turned her head to see none other than General Blitzkrieg, with an expression that might have made a full-grown gryff turn and run for its life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Journal #852

  Many humans, when first encountering Zenobians, think of them as a backward and slow-witted species. I believe there are two reasons for this: their reptilian appearance and their short stature. Their appearance leads humans to think of them as more primitive than they are; the small size conveys, to many of us, the suggestion of immaturity. Those impressions ignore the fact that the first Zenobians our race encountered were aboard a spacegoing survey vessel a considerable distance from the Zenobian home world.

  I do believe that the Zenobians have fostered these mistaken assumptions about their species. It can be a considerable advantage if the other party in a business transaction consistently underestimates one’s intelligence and sophistication.

  I have sometimes wondered if my employer is familiar with this strategy. It would explain a great deal …

  * * *

  Phule’s trip back to his hotel was somewhat more of an adventure than he’d planned on. He’d been warned about Old Earth’s ubiquitous pickpockets, con artists, and identity thieves, as well as Pitti’s news about rumors connecting the Space Legion with the IRS—guaranteed to make the black uniform unpopular. Still, nothing he’d heard matched the experience of walking through the streets of Rome. In fact, the only thing that came close was spending an equivalent amount of time with some of the enlisted legionnaires of the Omega Mob.

  Phule knew enough not to carry anything valuable when he went out on the streets. He knew more than enough not to fall for the myriad sob stories and come-ons that someone on every street corner seemed ready to offer to prosperous-looking passersby. And his personal information had been specially encrypted in the experimental Zenobian-based code that Sushi was developing. Sushi had assured him that only a native speaker of Zenobian was going to have any chance to crack the code. Earth’s hackers and crackers might be the best in the galaxy, but Agent Fox’s ignorance about Zenobia was a pretty good indication that nobody on Old Earth was likely to have the necessary knowledge to make use of his information, even if they did manage to steal it.

  Meanwhile, he was enjoying the energy and the color of the bustling Roman streets, which had become far safer for pedestrians with the arrival of hovercars, which the Romans drove with the same recklessness they’d driven ground cars—but well above street level, and with better automatic safety devices. It might be fun to walk around the city with Samantha Beliveau, the pretty redhead he’d met going to the landing shuttle. He’d been meaning to call her and make a lunch date, possibly at the restaurant Uncle Pitti had mentioned—Trattoria something or another. They’d probably know at the hotel …

  He was still trying to remember the name of the restaurant when he heard a woman scream. The sound came from an alley he’d just walked past. He turned and looked carefully down the narrow passageway—no sense sticking his neck out unless he knew what he was getting into.

  Just as he looked, a weasel-faced man in a shiny dark suit struck a young woman across the face with a backhanded slap. The woman was nearly knocked off her feet by the blow. Only the man’s rough grip on her arm with his other hand prevented her from falling outright.

  “What’s going on here?” shouted Phule. At the sound of Phule’s voice, the man turned and looked at him—indignant at being interrupted, to judge from his expression. But at the same time, the woman broke the grip and stumbled toward Phule, who stepped forward to shelter her. He quickly pulled her out of the alleyway and onto the crowded street.

  “What’s the matter?” said Phule. The woman looked to be in her early twenties and wore something that Phule mentally classified as a “peasant dress”—not that he had any knowledge of what peasants wore these days, let alone whether any peasants were still around to wear it.

  The woman cast her gaze back over her shoulder. There was a bruise starting to form under her left eye. “That man—he tried to kill me!” she gasped, turning to look up into Phule’s eyes. Her eyes were dark and pleading as she held onto his arm, obviously frightened.

  “You get in my way, I kill you too!” said the man, waving a fist. He took a threatening step forward.

  That made up Phule’s mind. “Come on!” He grabbed her hand and set off at a pace he hoped she would be able to keep up with. A block away, he looked back at the alleyway; Weasel-face was standing there, hands on hips, staring angrily at them. But he had made no effort to follow.

  “I think we’re safe,” he said. “Do you have anywhere safe to go?”

  “I do, but I am afraid of him,” she said. “What if he follows up?”

  “Well, come along with me,” said Phule. “We’ll go someplace he can’t follow us, and then we’ll figure out how you can get away from him. I can’t really do much else for you—I’m just here for a short time and have important business of my own.” He made a mental note to himself to stay alert for any funny business on the woman’s part; it wouldn’t be unheard of for an attractive “victim” to lure an off-world tourist into following her someplace where Weasel-face, who would of course turn out to be her accomplice, could rob him.

  “Yes, I will come with you,” said the woman, darting another glance backward. “But hurry, please—I am afraid of him.”

  “He doesn’t look very frightening to me,” said Phule. “Just stay close to me, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.” He led her in the direction of his hotel, glancing over his shoulder to see if Weasel-face was following. Apparently not; so far, so good, he thought. He wondered if there was some way to give the woman any long-term security. She did seem to be genuinely afraid. Pitti da Phule might have some suggestions on that score …

  Suddenly he realized that it seemed to
be taking a long time to get to the hotel. It should be just a block or so ahead, on the right-hand corner … but no, it was nowhere to be seen. I ought to stop and get my bearings, Phule thought to himself. “Hold on a second, miss,” he said to the woman. To his surprise, she just kept walking—and he kept walking with her. His feet didn’t seem to want to stop …

  “What’s happening?” he said. For some reason, he couldn’t raise his voice above a husky whisper. Then, he remembered: When she’d taken his arm after coming out of the alleyway, her nails had dug into his skin. A glance down showed a small red mark on his wrist. Putting two and two together at last, he blurted out, “You’ve drugged me! Where are you taking me?”

  “Not to worry, signore,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt you. I’m sure you are worth very much more unharmed, and I don’t think you would enjoy it, either. Just come along quietly with me. Don’t fight the ‘zombie’ shot, and my friend Carmelo doesn’t have to do anything. He is so much happier when he doesn’t have to do anything, capisce?”

  Phule looked behind him, and saw Weasel-face—undoubtedly Carmelo—walking a short distance behind, a sardonic smile on his face. But whatever drugs the woman had given him, they seemed to work just fine. He followed her without question along the Roman streets, his feet moving steadily despite his urgent desire to turn and run away.

  * * *

  General Blitzkrieg let out a deep breath. The charging Zenobian monster hadn’t breached the base perimeter. And he felt good that he’d managed to sprint a solid thirty meters—or at least, as close to a sprint as was consonant with the dignity of a senior officer. His heart had stopped pounding after no more than five minutes, and he’d managed to avoid being seen by any low-ranking legionnaires. Only that phony chaplain, Rev, had seen him flee in panic, and Rev had looked genuinely scared himself when the beast put on its charge. So the story wasn’t likely to leak out from that quarter.

  He still hadn’t figured out what the damned Zenobians’ spy apparatus was all about. With their impenetrable jargon, the little lizards had managed to keep him from learning anything about it. And then that monster had shown up … just in time to keep him from asking the pertinent questions he’d had right on the tip of his tongue. Maybe the monster would attack the lizards. Or maybe they’d called it somehow—with the machine? Could they be training it to attack the base at their command?