A Phule and his Money

by Robert Asprin; Peter J. Heck

  The door opened and Lieutenant Armstrong stuck his head in. "Captain, it looks as if things are finally under control. If you'll follow me, the government people are ready to meet you."

  "Good," said Phule. "Now let's hope they haven't decided to hold that shooting against me."

  "Perhaps they won't, sir," said Beeker gloomily. "Always assuming they weren't the ones responsible for it." But Phule and his lieutenants had already left the room.

  Phule followed Armstrong and Rembrandt down a corridor to an office complex, and into a large office, evidently commandeered for the purpose. The sign on the door read SPACEPORT MANAGER, and there were several harried-looking men and women in the outer office as the Legion contingent passed through. On the walls were framed photographs of beach scenes and sunsets, reminders that this island was a tropical paradise--at least, when there wasn't a war going on.

  Inside the inner office, they were met by a big, bearded man, smoking an evil-smelling cheroot and wearing a dark green uniform with an impressive number of service stripes on the sleeve. To either side of him were two similarly uniformed men, both grim-faced. The window blinds were drawn. All three watched in silence as Phule and his officers stepped into the room.

  Phule stepped up to the desk and stopped, standing at attention. "Colonel Mays, I am Captain Jester of the Space Legion, ordered here to supervise the administration of the peace treaty. Allow me to present my credentials." Lieutenant Armstrong stepped forward with the dossier and put it on the desk in front of the big man, then stepped back to a position flanking Phule.

  Mays neither looked at it nor touched it. Instead, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, looked Phule directly in the eye, and said, "You are a man who requires no introduction on this planet, Captain Jester--or should I call you Captain Scaramouche?"

  "I would much prefer the former, Colonel," said Phule. "The Space Legion has a tradition that a legionnaire leaves his past behind him when he joins--as symbolized by leaving his name behind him. Our former names and former ways of life aren't anyone's business."

  "A very romantic tradition, I am sure," said Colonel Mays, with a hint of a sneer. "I am sure it gives you legionnaires great comfort to know that you can walk away from what you have done before, just by taking a new name and putting on a black uniform."

  "I don't think anybody can escape the past," said Phule, wondering why he was bandying words with this man. "But by changing our names, we can focus on our present tasks without having to keep explaining how we got here. That doesn't mean the past doesn't come looking for us, from time to time."

  Colonel Mays nodded. "Perhaps the policy is a wise one, then. But in your case, you will find a good many people here who remember what you did. As for myself--and I can tell you I speak for my superiors in the government, here--there is no animosity to you. Quite the opposite--you are one of our heroes. Your strafing mission broke the old government's last resistance. We had heard very little from the mainland rebels until that shooting today. I think we can assume that they know who you are, as well."

  "You're certain that was the rebels shooting at me?" said Phule. "My people responded almost immediately, but the shooters had gone, and left no clues to their origins. We haven't even established for sure that I was the target--though that seems to be the best guess."

  Colonel Mays took a pull on the cheroot. "Until you came here, the rebels did nothing but camp out in the jungle and play their self-deluding games," he said. "They have no popular support. When they are not half-drunk, they know that as well as I do. But today, when you arrived--you, the off-planet enemy who rubbed their faces in their defeat--somebody shows up to shoot at you. Yes, Captain, I think that is a very good guess." The two men with him laughed.

  Phule glanced at Armstrong and Rembrandt, neither of whom seemed to find Mays's statement amusing. "Another possibility occurs to me, Colonel," he said. "What if someone in your government is more worried about the rebels than you are? Perhaps they faked an assassination attempt, hoping to convince the peacekeeping team to punish the rebels. Of course this is mere speculation, but can you deny the possibility?"

  Mays scowled. "Of course I deny it," he said. "We are a peaceful government--in fact, the peace agreement completely disarmed our military. Now it is fit only for construction and police work. Your company--and the rebels over on the mainland--are the only significant armed bodies on the planet."

  "I see," said Phule. "Well, if that's the case, you'll have no problem with us. In fact, the less we have to do, the happier my people will be. What kinds of work have you got your soldiers doing?"

  "We are currently embarked on a project to increase tourist revenues," said the colonel. "I don't know how much you know about our planet's economy..."

  "You'd be surprised what I know," said Phule. He and Beeker had done exhaustive financial research on the world they were coming to, looking for opportunities to make the new assignment profitable for the legionnaires (and of course, for themselves). Nothing had struck them as quite ripe, but that didn't mean they wouldn't find something once they were on the ground.

  Colonel Mays grunted. "Well, then, you probably know that our mines were played out over a generation ago, and nothing has really replaced them. Jobs are scarce. Many of our people are subsistence farmers--in some ways, they're the lucky ones. The former government tried to develop a manufacturing industry, but that didn't go very far."

  "I can see why," said Phule. "Everything you make here is being made just as well and just as cheaply elsewhere, so there aren't off-planet markets for it. You're stuck trying to lift yourselves by your own bootstraps."

  "Exactly, Captain," said Mays. He stubbed out the cheroot. "You've done your homework. So we're looking at a stagnant economy. The former government never could find a way to improve things. Now it's our turn to try--and I hope we can do better."

  "I understand," said Phule, his financial instincts taking over. "What avenues are you pursuing?"

  "We need off-world money, and one way to get that is to attract off-worlders here," said Mays with impeccable logic. "We hope to develop a tourist industry."

  Phule nodded, thinking of Lorelei's tourist-generated revenues. "That's not a bad basic plan, Colonel--in fact, it's probably your best bet. But for it to work, you need something that can't be duplicated off-world. You have gorgeous beaches and mountains, but there are beaches and mountains all over the galaxy."

  "Correct again," said Mays smugly. "Don't sell us short, Captain--we have our plans in place, and they are moving forward. Before you know it, Landoor will be the tourist mecca of this entire sector."

  "This is good news," said Phule. "Stability depends on a healthy economy. If I may ask, what are your plans? I'm always looking to invest a few dollars--if the prospective return is sufficiently appealing, of course."

  "Captain, I am not the person to answer those questions," said Colonel Mays, standing. "For that, you should speak to the Ministry of Development. I don't know whether they are looking for foreign investments--you will have to ask them. As far as I'm concerned, you can best help Landoor by insuring that the rebels don't sabotage our plans before they reach maturity. You saw today how desperate they are. They would rather bring the entire structure down around their ears rather than see us benefit from it. I hope we can count on you, Captain."

  "Colonel, you can be sure I'll do everything I can to promote the safety and success of your world," said Phule. "I will of course keep an eye on the rebels, as well as on your government's activities. But now, if you don't mind, I had best get started settling my people in and determining the best ways to achieve these goals."

  The two men eyed each other for a moment, quite aware that nothing had been settled; then Phule and his lieutenants turned and strode out of the room.

  Journal #373

  It had been a matter of concern to my employer that, for all the favorable publicity his Legion company had received, its achievements to date had been realized in a peacetime en
vironment. The closest any of his troops had come to combat was in facing the Mob on Lorelei: an adversary not to be taken lightly, but in the last analysis a good bit less formidable than a disciplined military force. Now, after the events at the spaceport, it became clear that Landoor might be a much tougher assignment than anticipated.

  Not that anyone believed General Blitzkrieg's assurances that Landoor had been pacified. A little thought would have made it clear that a world recovering from a civil war--with peace imposed by outside powers--was likely to harbor a fair number of unsettled grudges. The assassination attempt, and the cool initial reception by the local government, drove those points home very forcefully to my employer.

  So, almost immediately after its arrival at its new headquarters (in the Landoor Plaza Hotel, located in a new development west of the capital city) the company began to prepare as best it could for the possibility of combat.

  "All right," said Brandy, hands on hips, "you all saw what happened out there this morning." The recruits muttered among themselves. They had all joined the Legion with some notion that they might eventually be fired upon, but having that vague expectation become reality was a shock. It showed on their faces, and in their voices.

  "Nobody got hurt today," Brandy continued. "We hope it stays that way. But we've got to be ready in case somebody starts shooting again. That means being ready to shoot back."

  "Excuse me, Sergeant," came a voice from the ranks.

  Brandy suppressed a groan. It was Mahatma, who smiled and followed orders to the letter and, every now and then, asked questions nobody could answer--and persisted until everybody had gone crazy trying to explain the unexplainable. She smelled one of those questions coming up. Well, maybe she could buy a little time. "Mahatma, I think maybe you ought to hold your question for a while, OK?"

  "Is that an order, Sergeant?"

  "This is a really bad time, Mahatma."

  "But Sergeant, I just wanted to know..."

  "Not now, Mahatma!"

  The silence was deafening. Brandy glared at her recruits, but nobody seemed willing to risk annoying her further. As for Mahatma, he was still smiling, waiting for another chance. Brandy shook her head and went into her spiel. "OK, we're going to introduce you to a new weapon the company's been issued. In fact, we're the first in the Legion to have it, thanks to the captain's connections. We think it'll be especially useful here, where most of the people we'll encounter are going to be noncombatants."

  She turned to the table behind her, which was covered with a large tarp. She pulled back one corner far enough to get a grip on one of the items lying there, and turned back to show it to the recruits. "This is the Phule-Proof Model SR-1," she said. "The factory says it's the first real advance in nonlethal weaponry in decades. I'd say it's more than that--as far as I'm concerned, it's the first nonlethal weapon I've ever seen that's worth a damn. By which I mean it's the only one you can use to stop somebody who wants to kill you without killing him."

  That wasn't strictly true: If you stunned the driver of a fast-moving vehicle, or a swimmer, or a tightrope walker, it would kill them readily enough. And of course, somebody who panicked and missed his shot at an enemy charging from close range was no better off than with any other weapon. But the weapon provided an answer to the ticklish situation where friend and foe were inextricably mingled in a mob scene...

  Brandy raised the weapon to display it. "Now, you'll each get one of these in a few minutes. But first I'm going to show you its parts. I expect all of you to be able to name every part of the weapon and tell me its purpose. We'll start at the business end. This is the front sight. Some of you may have fired a rifle, where you have a very tight target area. You'll see that this sight is much larger. That's for two reasons. First, the beam's effective area is the entire body, even an extremity. You can catch your target in the foot and still gain the desired effect. The second factor is the Variable Beam Spread Adjustment, or VBSA, which is controlled by the Variable Beam Spread Adjustment Control, which I'll get to in a moment..."

  Brandy droned on, and the recruits' eyes began to glaze over as she moved through a long and frequently redundant catalog of the weapon's various parts. Normally, she would have insured their attentiveness by throwing snap questions at anyone who seemed in danger of dozing off during the lecture. But today...

  There was a sudden flurry of movement as a masked figure with a vibroblade in one hand leapt into the pack of recruits. It threw a hefty forearm around the neck of a young woman who'd chosen the service name of Brick, although Brandy suspected her comrades had a softer nickname for her. "Nobody move," rasped the intruder, waving the vibroblade inches from the captive's face. The recruits let out a collective gasp, and most of them stepped back--although the Gambolts, Brandy noted, held their position and assumed postures that suggested they might leap if they saw an opening.

  "One false move and the girl pays in blood," said the intruder, turning his hostage to shield himself from Brandy. "I'm not afraid of your gun."

  "Good," said Brandy, and pressed the firing stud.

  The beam caught both the intruder and Brick. They fell limp to the floor, without a sound. The vibroblade clattered harmless to the side.

  In an instant, one of the Gambolts had leapt on the intruder and pinned him down. Another of the recruits, Slayer, picked up the vibroblade. "Hey, this ain't even turned on." He leaned down and pulled off the stocking mask that the intruder wore. "This guy looks familiar," he said. The other recruits gathered around, puzzled expressions on their faces.

  "He ought to look familiar," said Brandy. "He's one of us. This is Gears, from the motor pool--he volunteered to play the bad guy so I could show you how this weapon works. You can get off him now, Rube. He won't hurt anybody."

  Rube got off of Gears and stood up. The rest of the recruits gathered around to look. While both Gears and Brick were lying limp on the floor, it was evident that both were breathing normally, and they showed no other signs of injury.

  "I wanted you all to see that this weapon can be used in a tight situation, where your target is mixed in with a lot of people you don't want to hurt," said Brandy. "With a conventional weapon, you'd hold your fire--and if the target is sufficiently determined, you might end up taking casualties because you were afraid to take that risk. But Gears has been hit by this ray before, and he volunteered to let me zap him again so you could see how it works."

  "That's right," said Gears, who had recovered sufficiently to raise his head and speak. "Flight Leftenant Qual used one of these things to save my life. So I'm a pretty big fan of this weapon. I let the Top zap me with it to show you how quick it takes down a target, without really harming him."

  "It'll still be a few minutes before he can stand," said Brandy, "so you'd have plenty of time to disarm a real enemy. And you don't have to worry about hurting your own people, if they're in the line of fire. How's Brick doing?"

  "I'm all right, Sarge," came Brick's voice, a bit faint. "My arms and legs feel weird, but nothing hurts."

  "Take those two over to the wall and prop 'em up so they can sit," said Brandy. "I'd hate to delay the rest of the demonstration while they recover. And now that you've all seen what this weapon can do, we're going to let you all have one to work with."

  The recruits were noticeably more interested, and the rest of the session passed rapidly. Brandy considered it an unusual success--especially since even Mahatma was so fascinated by the SR-1 that he never got around to asking his question.

  Chapter 12

  Journal #376

  A peacekeeping mission by its very nature is an admission that the local government is unable to keep the peace. Thus, it was no surprise that the government of Landoor looked at Omega Company as a necessary evil on the level of game wardens and dogcatchers. My employer's overtures to the government, offering to lend his people to various public works projects, met with blanket refusals. The government made it clear that, in their opinion, Omega Company could justify its p
resence only by exterminating the rebels--the remnants of the former government, and their supporters.

  The ordinary citizens, on the other hand, appeared to have no animosity against the Legion. On the captain's instructions, the legionnaires went out into the local community, spent their money in shops and restaurants, and tried to make themselves a visible benefit to the people they were here to protect. This policy paid the expected dividend. Legionnaires soon found themselves as popular with the public as they were unpopular with the government.

  "Hey, lookit the big guy with the funny nose," came a small voice from across the street.

  Tusk-anini stopped and peered at the group of local children. A few short blocks from the hotel, the neighborhood had changed rapidly, clearly showing its previous identity as a factory district. The dilapidated building in front of which the children stood bore a sign announcing its condemnation and imminent demolition to make way for LandoorPark.

  "Hello," he said. "My name Tusk-anini. You live here?"

  The children were whispering to one another, as if uncertain what to do now that they had attracted this strange creature's attention. One of them, bolder than the rest, stepped forward and asked, "Are you a soldier?"

  "Not soldier," said Tusk-anini. "Space Legion--we better than soldiers." He strolled across the litter-strewn street, doing his best to appear nonthreatening. For someone who closely resembled a seven-foot-tall warthog, this was somewhat difficult. But the captain had briefed the company about the importance of being friendly with the natives of this world, and Tusk-anini was willing to do his part.

  "My name's Bucky, and I'm not scared of you," said the child, scowling up at him from something like half his height.

  From behind her another high-pitched voice said, "Her real name's Claudia."

  "You shut up, Abdul," said Bucky/Claudia, throwing a hostile glance over her shoulder, then turning back to stare at Tusk-anini. She was wearing the same ragged clothes as her comrades. From the look on her dirty face, she wasn't about to back down from anybody. Tusk-anini decided that she was the leader of this little group.