by RobertAsprin
“I’m pretty much done here,” the little Legionnaire said, raising her eyebrows in question at the commander.
“Just one more thing while you’re here, Gnat. Sorry to jump subjects on you, but what’s your opinion of Sergeant Escrima’s classes on stick fighting?”
Super Gnat chewed her lip slightly before answering.
“Truth to tell, Captain, I don’t think they’re doin’ much good at all. The sergeant knows his stuff, but he’s not that good an instructor. He just plain goes too darn fast for most of the folks to figure out what he’s doin’ … ’cept the ones like me who have had some martial arts training before and are just watching for the variations.”
“That’s the way I see it, too,” Phule said. “If you’re agreeable, I’d like you to take over the classes.”
“Me? Shoot, I don’t know that much about stick forms.”
“What I want you to do is to take private lessons from Escrima, then teach what you learn to the rest of the company. If nothing else, it might keep them from teasing you quite so much if they see what you can do in a formal class situation.”
“I’ll give it a try, Captain,” the Gnat said doubtfully, then her face split in a quick grin. “Tell you what. I’ll do it if you give me some private lessons in fencing. Deal?”
“Deal,” the commander said. “Now, both of you get out of here and let me get some work done.”
Chapter Ten
Journal #111
While the changes in the Legionnaires’ views of themselves and each other were remarkable, the reversal of the attitudes toward the company on the part of the local citizens was as, or more, noteworthy. Perhaps the most radical change was on the part of the head of the police, Chief Goetz.
* * *
“Really appreciate your stopping by, Chief,” the company commander said, shaking that notable’s hand crisply as they met in the Plaza lobby.
“Well, I figured if you were nice enough to invite me along for this special weapons demo you were getting, the least I could do was offer you a ride,” Goetz said. “Oh, by the way, I never got around to thanking you for including me in that spread your chef cooked up. It was delicious … even if I’m not sure what I was eating half the time.”
“To tell you the truth,” Phule said, grinning, “neither did I. I figured it would be rude to ask, if not flat-out dangerous to your health. Escrima has a record of being more than a little touchy about his cooking. It did taste great, though, didn’t it?”
“It certainly did,” the chief agreed. “I was particularly fond of the roast pig. Of course, I was struck by the coincidence of the report that hit my desk of three pigs that turned up missing from the university’s animal husbandry department the day before.”
Phule cursed mentally. He hadn’t found out until the day after the feast that Chocolate Harry had been more than a little loose in his acquisition of supplies for Escrima’s efforts. If he had known, he would have refrained from inviting the chief of police, or at least insisted that the pigs be carved into less recognizable bits before serving. Until now, however, he had thought the dish had passed unnoticed.
“If you’ll just give us a few days,” he said stiffly, “I’m sure we can produce the receipts for those particular items.”
“A few days?” Goetz’s eyebrows shot up. “That supply sergeant of yours must be slipping if it’d take him more than a couple hours to crank out some forged sales slips.”
“Now, look, Chief …”
“Relax, Captain,” the policeman said with a sudden, impish grin. “I’m just pulling your chain a little. Those university students liberate enough stuff from the settlement for their fraternity initiations and scavenger hunts and what all, I’m sure it would take more than a couple of pigs to even up the score. I just wanted you to know we weren’t totally … What in the hell is that?”
Phule looked where the chief was pointing and flashed a sudden smile.
“That? Oh, that’s just one of our mobilization experiments. It’s working out surprisingly well.”
The object of their attention was Spartacus. The blue-collared Sinthian was poised on his glide board at the top of the long, curved flight of stairs that led from the Plaza’s mezzanine to the main lobby. As they watched, he shifted his weight forward, plunging the board down the stairs. Neither the curve of his course nor the frightening acceleration seemed to bother the Sinthian as he rode the glide board down a level and across the lobby, skillfully weaving it around a group of Legionnaires who were standing there in conversation. The Legionnaires didn’t bother to look around as he swept past, ignoring him, as did the hotel staff at the main desk.
“Seems like folks are pretty used to these goings-on,” Goetz said dryly, noting the lack of reaction in the lobby.
“If we encourage him, he just starts showing off,” Phule said. “When that happens, things usually get broken. He’s really very good on that thing, though … practically lives on it. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him before. He’s usually in the park across the street every evening matching stunts with the kids that hang out there.
“Excuse me, Captain?”
Phule glanced around, then drew himself up and returned the smart salute being given him by the company’s supply sergeant, who had managed to approach unnoticed.
“Good morning, C.H. We were just talking about you a second ago. What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Captain. It’s getting on toward time for the weapons demo, and I thought I’d offer you a lift on my hawg.”
“Not this time, Sergeant. Chief Goetz here is already giving me a ride … Oh, excuse me. You two have met, haven’t you?”
Harry’s eyes slid sideways to meet the policeman’s stare.
“I … I’ve sure heard about Chief Goetz.”
“And I’ve heard about you, Sergeant,” Goetz returned with a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you and I will be … talking someday.”
“Harry does have a point, though,” Phule interceded quickly. “We should get going ourselves.”
* * *
The new facilities for the Legionnaires were nearing completion, and everyone was looking forward to moving back in with eager anticipation. One of the first things to be completed, after the confidence course, that is, was the firing range, and that was where the company assembled for the demonstration.
The sales rep from Phule-Proof Munitions had an impressive array of weaponry, and a snappy line of patter to go with it, as he worked his way down the display. Aside from his tendency to refer to the company commander as “Willie,” a practice which invariably caused Phule to wince and everyone else, particularly the chief of police, to smile, the salesman’s knowledge and skills of his little bundles of death quickly earned the attention and respect of the entire assemblage.
The high point of the demonstration came when the Legionnaires were invited to come down from their bleachers and try some of the weapons themselves. For a while, the sergeants had their hands full keeping the troops’ enthusiasm from turning them into a mob, but eventually things got sorted out and soon the air was filled with the crack and boom of firing as the Legionnaires gleefully shredded and blew apart assorted targets.
“Quite an assortment,” Chief Goetz said, plopping down on a bleacher seat next to the commander.
“Yes. I thought you’d find it interesting. Especially some of the plastic and rubber ‘Mercy Loads’ they’ve been developing.”
The policeman grimaced. “Of course, it’s nice if the suspect is wearing some kind of eye protection when you open up on him. If I had my way, we’d stick with either holding our fire or shooting for keeps rather than trying to kid ourselves that we can hit someone without hurting them. I’ve noticed my troops shoot a lot better on the range than they do on the street. Truth is, under pressure they’re almost as bad shots as your crew seem to be normally.”
It was apparent that the Legionnaires were far from crack shots. Whatever damage
was being done to the targets was more the result of the massive amount of firepower being launched downrange than from any degree of precision in its placement.
Now it was Phule’s turn to grimace.
“I’ve seen worse, though it’s hard to recall offhand anytime I’ve seen more lousy shots gathered in one place. More important, I’ve taught worse marksmen how to shoot. I almost canceled this demonstration until I had more time to work with the troops, but this is one of Phule-Proof’s touring demos, and it was either nail it when it was available or wait a couple months until another one was in the area. Now it’s going to be a pain to keep the troops away from the full automatics and laser sights long enough to drum the basics into their heads.”
Goetz nodded, not taking his eyes off the firing line.
“Sounds like we’re in agreement there, Captain. If you don’t teach ’em right to start with, they’ll always rely on firepower and gimmicks instead of learning how to shoot.”
The commander cranked his head around and stared at the police chief for several moments.
“Maybe I shouldn’t ask this, Chief,” he said at last, “but I can’t help but notice that your attitude toward me and my Legionnaires has mellowed considerably since our first meeting.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Phule. I may be hardheaded from time to time, but mostly I try to keep an open mind. Most of my beat patrolmen have been pretty open with their praise for your troops. It seems that somebody in your outfit has taken to monitoring the police band, and a few of your boys have shown up at some of the stickier calls we’ve had over the last few weeks. The way I hear it, they don’t interfere or get in the way, but we both know there are times when having a couple extra uniforms around, no matter what color they are, goes a long way toward keeping a crowd from getting too rambunctious.”
“That fits,” the commander said. “I’ve always felt that most people have a basically good self-image. Once my troops are convinced that they can make a difference, it’s not surprising that they try to make a difference for the better.”
The chief held up a restraining hand.
“Now, don’t get me wrong. Nobody’s kidding anybody that your crew was in the choir over the stable at the first Christmas, but they’ve earned enough goodwill in the department to have me cut them—and you—a little bit of slack.”
“Not enough slack, I notice, to keep you from filing reports with Legion Headquarters every time one of my crew puts on a command performance at the station,” Phule observed wryly.
Goetz sighed and shrugged.
“That’s the result of a direct request from your Headquarters, son. Came in about the same time you arrived. I don’t mean to butt into your business, but it would appear that somebody in the Legion’s upper echelons doesn’t like you much. Leastwise, they’re watching real close for you to make a mistake.”
The commander frowned. “I didn’t realize that. Appreciate the warning, though.”
“Warning?” The chief’s face was a picture of innocence. “I was just responding to an official request for information from one of the residents in the community I am sworn to serve and protect.”
“Got it.” Phule nodded. “Thanks, anyway … unofficially. I wonder if it would be possible for you to—”
“Captain!”
There was no denying the urgency in the voice that hailed him.
“Excuse me, Chief. What is it, Tusk-anini?”
“Spartacus going to shoot gun!”
A quick glance at the firing line was sufficient to confirm the information. The Sinthian was perched on his glide board, a shotgun tucked under his spindly arm, as Chocolate Harry explained the weapon to him with vastly exaggerated gestures.
“So I see,” the commander said. “It seems, however, that the situation is being handled by—”
“Not know Newton’s third law physics?”
Phule frowned. “What law?”
“Isn’t that the one that …” Chief Goetz started, but the sentence was never finished.
KA-BOOM!
The Sinthian’s skill on his glide board was such that instead of being knocked off the device by the shotgun’s recoil, he spun violently around and around like a top … though, if asked, those in the near vicinity might have preferred the former option. Anyone who had not recent occasion to refer to or recall Newton’s third law of physics was now graphically reminded that, indeed, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction! Educated or not, good marksmen or not, there was nothing wrong with the Legionnaires’ sense of survival, and in a twinkling everyone present was either crouched behind cover or flat on the ground, including the observers in the bleachers.
Fortunately Spartacus was only firing single loads while testing the shotgun, so the mayhem was more comical than anything. Had he been utilizing the belt-feed auto-loader option, the results might not have been so humorous.
“Seems to me,” Chief Goetz drawled, raising his head to look at Phule, “the kick on that weapon’s a tad strong for that fellah—at least while he’s standing on that board, anyway.”
“The same thing just occurred to me,” the commander said, peering over the bleacher seat he was flattened behind. “It’s a problem, though. The Sinthians’ eyestalks keep them from using a weapon with enough accuracy to be effective. That’s why we were trying them on shotguns. I’d say to hell with it and issue them fully automatic weapons, but I’m afraid that would only compound the recoil problem.”
“What you need is something that doesn’t have much of a kick.” Goetz frowned. “Have you thought of trying them on splat guns?”
“Splat guns?”
“Compressed-air guns that shoot little paint balls. Some of the guys in the department use ’em in a weekend war-game club they belong to.”
“Oh. Those things.” Phule shook his head. “I always thought they were more expensive toys than weapons.”
“Some of those ‘toys’ are fully automatic and have a muzzle velocity of over four hundred feet per second,” the chief informed him.
“Really?” The commander raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t know that. Still, I’m not sure what good it would do to hit someone with a paint ball in combat, no matter how fast it was going.”
“Well”—Goetz grinned wolfishly, easing himself back onto his bleacher seat—“I just might be able to run down a source for some HE paint ball loads.”
“High explosives?” Phule was definitely interested now. “Are those legal?”
“It may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Phule, but every so often the police are aware of items available that do not conform exactly to the letter of the law.”
“Uh-huh. And what is this information going to cost me?”
“Consider it a favor,” the chief said. “Of course, it might be nice if you did me a little favor in return—like, say, maybe loaning the department that cook of yours for our annual banquet that’s coming up next month?”
“I think we could clear that under Community Relations.” The commander grinned. “In the meantime, I want to see if there isn’t some way we can get those completely legal shotguns to work for us.”
“If you don’t mind,” Goetz said, sliding off the seat to lie prone once more, “I’ll watch your experiments from here.”
* * *
As it turned out, Spartacus declined to make a second attempt at handling the weapon, preferring to stay with his beloved glide board rather than abandon it for firepower.
Undaunted, Chocolate Harry pressed the shotgun on Louie, the aristocratic Sinthian. Unable to match Spartacus’ expertise on the glide board, Louie had long since abandoned his efforts to master the device, claiming it was beneath him, so the unstable footing provided by that vehicle did not present a problem. Anchored firmly on the ground, or, eventually, in the sidecar of Harry’s hawg, he was more than able to control the weapon, or at least approximate control sufficiently for Phule to allow him to continue using it.
As a
crowning touch, one of the Legionnaires found an antique German helmet and cut holes in the top for Louie’s eyestalks. The picture they presented, Chocolate Harry astride his massive hover cycle with Louie perched in the sidecar, eyestalks protruding from the top of an old helmet and clutching his belt-fed shotgun, made more than one citizen stop in their tracks for a second look. In fact, Chief Goetz commented at one point that the appearance of that particular team at the scene of a crime was a greater deterrent than an entire squad of patrolmen.
Strangely enough, his new acceptance by the company seemed to ease Louie’s distaste for his lower-class fellow Sinthian, to a point where he actually entered into a business partnership with Spartacus to introduce the glide boards to their home planet. Spartacus recorded a series of demonstration and instructional tapes, while Louie used his family’s contacts and influence to cut red tape for the necessary licenses and business permits. The entire company chipped in for the start-up funding, a gesture nobody regretted, as it was to earn them profits in the future far in excess to their initial investment.
* * *
As the teams and partnerships among the Legionnaires solidified, so, too, did their acceptance of themselves and each other. Countless feuds and disagreements were set aside as a new feeling of unity flourished within the company. Simply put, as each individual conquered his or her own feelings of inferiority or inadequacy, he or she in turn grew more tolerant of the shortcomings of the others.
For some, however, acceptance did not come so easily, occasionally pushing them to extreme measures.
* * *
It was the company’s last night at the Plaza. The construction on their new facilities was complete, and orders had been passed to pack in preparation for relocation in the morning. By unspoken agreement, as they completed their packing most of the Legionnaires gathered in the Plaza lounge for a minor going-away celebration. Of course, there were not enough seats to accommodate the whole company at once, but the mood was jovial and most of the individuals were content to lean against the walls or sit on the floor in groups, or wander casually from conversation to conversation. As is common in such social, military gatherings, more than a few conversations turned into one-downmanship competitions as individual Legionnaires complained and bragged about who had stood the worst duty in the course of their careers.