Phule's Company

by RobertAsprin

  Book Description

  They’re a handful of military rejects, led by the biggest fool of them all—Captain Willard Phule.

  Threatened by an alien enemy, Earth’s military has decided to send Phule and his misfit soldiers to a distant planet—where they can’t get into any trouble.

  But now the aliens have chosen a new target of war.

  Guess who … Phule’s Company.

  Smashwords Edition – 2016

  WordFire Press

  wordfirepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-453-4

  Copyright © 1990 by Robert Asprin

  Originally published by Ace Books July 1990

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover painting by Jeff Herndon

  Cover design by Janet McDonald

  Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, Inc.

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  Contents

  Book Description

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  If You Liked …

  Other WordFire Press Titles by Robert Asprin

  Introduction

  Journal File #001

  It has been said that every great man deserves a biographer. I have therefore taken it upon myself to keep a private record of my employer’s activities during his career in the Space Legion. If there are those who would, perhaps, contest his qualifications as a great man, I would answer that he is the closest thing to a great man that it has been my privilege to associate with on close enough terms to keep such a journal. I would further point out that, in certain circles, Genghis Kahn and Geronimo are considered to be great men.

  To introduce myself, I am a gentleman’s gentleman, or what would be referred to in military circles as a batman. (For the less literate-minded, I would ask that you refrain from associating that label with any comic book character you might be familiar with. I have always felt that capes were an unnecessary fashion statement and have endeavored to discourage my employers from resorting to such tacky, attention-seeking ploys.) I am called Beeker, and neither require nor seek additional titles of address.

  Although I was with my employer since the time of his enlistment and before, I feel that the truly noteworthy portion of his career began at his court-martial. To be specific, at his first court-martial.

  * * *

  The waiting room had the kind of decor one would expect of the green room of a down-at-the-heels acting troupe. Two ancient sofas of indeterminate color were sagging against opposite walls, surrounded by an assortment of folding and wooden chairs that would have been cheap if new, and the magazines strewn on the only table would have made an archaeologist sit up and take notice.

  Two men shared the space, more at home with each other than with their surroundings. One was a chunky individual of medium height, decked out in impeccable but conservative civilian clothes, or civvies, as they were known in these quarters. His ruddy face had the bland expression of one used to waiting as he dominated one sofa, idly staring at the pocket microcomputer in his lap and steadfastly ignoring his companion.

  The other occupant was anything but calm in appearance or manner. Whiplash lean, he seemed to radiate barely suppressed energy as he paced the room’s confines. If tigers stood vigil in maternity waiting rooms while awaiting delivery of their young, there would be little difference between their display of anxiety and that shown by the young man’s nervous prowling. Perhaps panthers would be a better comparison, as his uniform was the midnight black of the Space Legion—a color chosen not for its aesthetic or camouflage value as much as the fact the dye could hide the origins of any military surplus uniform bought in lots by the budget-strapped Legion. Not that he was wearing a standard-issue uniform, mind you. His collar pips marked him as a lieutenant, and like most officers he had his uniforms tailor-made, taking full advantage of the Legion’s lack of uniformity among their uniforms. The quality of the fabric and workmanship in his garment was several notches above normal, though he had deliberately chosen one of a more somber cut for this occasion.

  “For cryin’ out loud, how long does it take them?”

  The question burst almost unbidden from the lieutenant’s lips as he began his fiftieth circuit of the room.

  The man on the sofa didn’t even glance up.

  “It’s really not my place to say, sir.”

  It was the first response to any of his muttering, and the lieutenant seized on the words as a focus for his irritation.

  “Don’t give me that ‘subservient butler’ guff, Beeker! Since when have you ever not had an opinion on something or been hesitant to share it with me … asked or not?”

  Beeker’s gaze shifted from his reading to the lieutenant.

  “Well, actually you’ve been a bit more close-minded than usual since you joined the Space Legion, sir … or rather since you made up your mind to join. In this specific case, however, I was under the impression that what you voiced was a rhetorical question.”

  “It was … but answer it, anyway. Come on, Beeker. Talk to me.”

  With careful deliberation, the butler set his reader aside.

  “Certainly, sir. Could you repeat the question?”

  “What do you think’s taking them so long?” the lieutenant said, resuming his prowling, but more slowly now that he was verbalizing his thoughts. “I mean, I did plead guilty.”

  “Forgive me for belaboring the obvious,” Beeker said, “but if the question of guilt has been settled, then what remains is the sentencing. It would seem the court is having some difficulty in deciding precisely what punishment is correct for your offense.”

  “Well, what’s so hard about that? I made a mistake. Fine. I’m sure other Legionnaires have made mistakes before.”

  “True,” the butler said. “However, I’m not sure how many others have duplicated the exact nature and magnitude of your indiscretion. I’m certain that if anyone else had strafed the ceremonial signing of a peace treaty, I would have noted it in the media releases … sir.”

  The lieutenant grimaced at the memory.

  “I didn’t know what was going on at the time. Our communications gear was on the fritz, so we never got the cease-fire order. Besides, we’d been ordered to maintain com silence.”

  Beeker nodded patiently. He had heard all this before,
but understood the lieutenant’s need to go over it again.

  “As I understand it, you were ordered to stand silent picket duty … to note and report any ship movement off-planet. Period. There was no authorization for an individual ship to make a strafing run.”

  “I wasn’t ordered not to! Battle usually goes to the side that seizes initiative when opportunity presents itself.”

  Beeker raised his eyebrows expressively.

  “Battle? I thought there was no resistance.”

  “That’s why I made my move. Our instruments showed that they had dropped their defense net, so I thought if I moved quick we could scare them with a little demonstration of firepower and bring this whole revolt to an early close.”

  “It was already over,” Beeker pointed out dryly. “That’s why they dropped their defense net.”

  “But I didn’t know that! I just saw the net go down and—”

  “And talked the hot-shot pilot on duty into going in on a strafing run. All in the time it took the ship’s captain to go to the john.”

  “It was a simple case of bad communications,” the lieutenant grumbled, avoiding his comrade’s eyes. “How mad can they be? We deliberately aimed at property and not people, so no one got hurt.”

  Beeker stared innocently at the ceiling.

  “I’m told the property damage was in excess of ten million credits …”

  “Hey. I told them I’d …”

  “… and that you shot their flag to shreds while it was flying over the ceremony …”

  “Well, it was …”

  “… and of course, shooting up the ambassador’s private space yacht was unwise at best. That’s our ambassador …”

  “They didn’t have their ID beacon on!”

  “Possibly because there was a cease-fire on.”

  “But … Oh, damn it all, anyway!”

  The lieutenant ceased his struggles and his pacing and sank wearily into the couch opposite Beeker.

  “What do you think they’ll do to me, Beek?”

  “At the risk of sounding disloyal sir,” the butler said, picking up his reader again, “I frankly don’t envy them that decision.”

  * * *

  As the court-martial involved a junior officer, Legion rules only required three officers to try the case. An air of discomfort seemed to hang over the deliberations, however, mostly due to the senior officer present.

  It was said that everyone in the Legion had three names: the one he was born with, the one he chose when he joined the Legion, and the one he deserved. Though the records showed the second, most were known by the third, the nickname they acquired through their personality and actions while enlisted, though few officers formally acknowledged what the lower ranks called them.

  Colonel Battleax was one of those rare cases where her chosen name and nickname were in accord. She was a drab, horse-faced woman with piercing eyes that left respect, caution, and no small amount of fear in their wake, and the prim no-nonsense cut of her uniform added an implied note of disapproval for those Legionnaires who favored a more flamboyant style in their wardrobes. There was a stern air about her that could only be called intimidating and did little to set people at their ease when in contact with her, much less the focus of her attention. The overall effect was that one was being taken to task by one’s aging mother, except that in this case the party sitting in judgment could not only heap guilt on one’s head but also scuttle a career with a raised eyebrow and a terse notation on one’s personnel file.

  This alone would have caused discomfort in the other two officers of the court … but there was more. The colonel had arrived unannounced from Legion Headquarters specifically to preside over the court-martial, and while she did her best to pass it off as a routine visit, simple logistics dictated that she would have had to be dispatched within hours of receipt of the notification to have arrived as soon as she did. The implications of this were clear: Headquarters had a special interest in this case and wanted to be sure of its outcome. The problem was that neither of the other two officers had a clue as to what was expected. While their best guess was that the lieutenant was to be made an example of, they chose by unspoken agreement to proceed cautiously, playing good guy/bad guy while waiting for some clue from the court president. After an hour of this, however, the colonel had yet to give any indication as to which way she was leaning, contenting herself to listening intently as the other two “argued.”

  “Do you want to review the court recordings again?”

  “What for? They haven’t changed!” Major Joshua snarled. Olive-complexioned and naturally hyper and intense, he had easily assumed the bad-guy role. At this point, however, he was tiring of the game and eager to bring things to a head. “I don’t know why we’re still debating this! The man’s guilty as sin—hell, he even admits it! If we don’t come down hard on him, it’ll look like we’re condoning what he did.”

  “Look, Josh—I mean, Major—there were extenuating circumstances involved.”

  The rotund Captain Humpty had no difficulty playing the good-guy devil’s advocate. It was his habit to champion the underdog, though this case was trying even his generous tolerances. Still, he rose gamely to the challenge.

  “We keep saying we want our junior officers to show initiative and leadership. If we slap them down every time they try something that doesn’t work, then pretty soon no one will have the courage to do anything that isn’t under orders and by the book.”

  The major snorted in disbelief. “Incentive! Bloodthirsty opportunism is more like it—at least, that’s what the media called it, if I remember correctly.”

  “Are we letting the media set our discipline these days?”

  “Well, no,” Joshua admitted. “But we can’t completely ignore our public image, either. The Legion is already considered to be the bottom of the heap. It’s disasters like this that have everyone thinking we’re a haven for criminals and losers.”

  “If they want Boy Scouts, there’s always the Regular Army, not to mention the starfleet,” said the Captain dryly. “The Legion has never been a home for angels, including, I’ll wager, all of us in this room. We’re supposed to be judging this man’s questionable action, not trying to salvage the Legion’s reputation.”

  “All right. Let’s look at his action. I still don’t see any redeeming factors in what he did.”

  “He inspired one of those Dudley-Do-Right pilots you’re so envious of to make an unauthorized strafing run. I know commanders who haven’t been able to get that kind of cross-service support even when the pilots were under orders to cooperate. Do you think it’s wise to squelch that kind of leadership potential?”

  “That depends on if you’re differentiating between ‘leadership’ and an ability to incite disobedience. What your young lieutenant really needs is a couple years in the stockade to calm him down. Then maybe he’ll think twice before he goes charging off half-cocked.”

  “I don’t think we want to do that.”

  Both men broke off their argument and turned their attention to the colonel, who had finally entered into the discussion.

  “While you have made several valid points, Major, and your proposed sentence would be in line with those points, there are certain … factors to be considered here which you are not aware of.”

  She paused, as if weighing each word for correctness, while the other officers waited patiently.

  “I am extremely reluctant to bring this up—in fact, I rather hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. As you know, each Legionnaire starts with a clean slate when he or she joins up. We aren’t supposed to be biased by, or even be aware of, their personal history prior to their enlistment. To maintain that illusion, I’ll have to ask that not only what I tell you be kept in strictest confidence, but also the fact that you were told anything at all.”

  She waited until both men had nodded their agreement before continuing, and even then seemed reluctant to speak directly.

  “It goes without saying th
at the lieutenant comes from money. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be an officer.”

  The others waited patiently for information that was news. It was known that the Legion raised money by selling commissions … or rather by charging hefty fees to anyone who wanted to test for one.

  “I did notice that he has his own butler,” the captain said, trying to be amiable. “A bit pretentious, perhaps, but nothing the rest of us couldn’t afford if we were so inclined.”

  The colonel ignored him.

  “The truth is … have either of you considered the significance of the lieutenant’s choice of a name?”

  “Scaramouche?” Major Joshua said with a frown. “Aside from the obvious reference to the character from the novel, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “I assumed it was because he fancied himself to be a swordsman,” the captain put in, not to be outdone by his colleague.

  “Before the novel. Perhaps I should say that the real origin of the name and title is a stock character from Italian comedy—a buffoon or a fool.”

  The men scowled and exchanged covert glances.

  “I don’t get it,” the major admitted at last. “What has that got to do with—”

  “Try spelling ‘fool’ with a ‘ph’ … as in p-h-u-l-e.”

  “I still don’t—”

  The colonel sighed and held up a restraining hand.

  “Take a moment and study your sidearm, Major,” she said.

  Puzzled, the officer drew his pistol and glanced at it, turning it over in his hand. As he did, a sharp intake of breath drew his attention and he realized that the captain had successfully put together whatever it was that the colonel was driving at. “You mean …?”

  “That’s right, Captain.” The court president nodded grimly. “Your Lieutenant Scaramouche is none other than the only son and heir apparent to the current owner and president of Phule-Proof Munitions.”

  Stunned, the major gaped at the pistol in his hand which bore the Phule-Proof logo. If the colonel was correct, then the lieutenant he had been about to throw the book at was one of the youngest megamillionaires in the galaxy.

  “But then why would he join …?”