Phule's Company

by RobertAsprin

  Realizing this, it should come as no surprise that when the Legionnaires under my employer’s command roamed the streets of the settlement, they were explained by the locals by the simple expression “They’re Phule’s”—a nickname that was to follow them for some time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Journal #122

  While I have noted that my employer is not immune to surprises, it should be mentioned that upon occasions, he has also been known to outsmart himself. Though normally he excels at dealing with the media, it is his particular love of coverage that more often than not leaves him vulnerable.

  * * *

  A marked air of nervousness hung over the Legionnaires as they waited in full company formation for the arrival of the shuttlecraft. Though they were officially “at ease,” meaning they could move one foot and talk with their neighbor, there was no conversation at all. Rather, they stood fidgeting anxiously in silence, each individual lost in his or her own thoughts.

  “Are you sure this is such a good idea, Captain?”

  The officers of the company were able to wander freely, though Phule forced himself to remain in front of the formation, trying to set a good example for the company by projecting calm rather than yielding to his natural desire to pace. He welcomed Lieutenant Rembrandt’s soft question, however, as it gave him something to focus his attention on.

  “Don’t you think it’s polite to be on hand to welcome our opposite number on their arrival, Lieutenant?” he said with mock severity.

  “I suppose so, sir,” Rembrandt returned, taking his statement seriously. “To be honest with you, though, I’ve never seen any politeness on the part of the Regular Army toward the Legion.”

  “Neither have I,” Phule admitted grimly. “For your information, Lieutenant, the real reason we’re out here has nothing to do with courtesy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Think about it. Everyone’s nervous because they’re afraid the Army’s going to kick our butts in the upcoming competition. That’s not surprising, considering how they’ve been conditioned into believing the Regular Army is manned by supermen, while the Space Legion scrapes the bottom of the barrel for their manpower. Well, if we’re going to give a decent accounting of ourselves, we’re going to have to shake that belief, and our presence here is the first step. I want everyone to see the competition as soon as possible, so they can realize that Army troops are human and put their pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. See my point?”

  “I … I guess so, sir.”

  Though obviously still unconvinced, the lieutenant was spared a further lecture by the cry that went up from the formation.

  “Incoming!”

  “Here they come!”

  “Send my body to my first wife … she could use a decent meal!”

  The shuttlecraft had dropped through the cloud cover and was maneuvering toward the end of the runway.

  “All right, everybody. Stand ready!”

  Though still “at ease,” this was the signal to get ready to be called to attention. Those Legionnaires who had been sitting in place rose hurriedly and dusted off the seats of their uniforms, squaring away their position in the formation.

  All eyes were on the shuttlecraft as it touched down and taxied slowly up to the terminal, coming to a halt a scant fifty meters from where the company stood waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the hatch opened and a ramp lowered. Seconds later, the first passengers stepped into view.

  There was a heartbeat before recognition sank in, and then a buzz began to ripple through the formation.

  “Sir!” came Lieutenant Armstrong’s urgent whisper. “Do you know who they are?”

  “I know, Lieutenant.”

  “Those are the Red Eagles!”

  “I said I know, Lieutenant!”

  “But, sir …”

  “Company … atten-hut!”

  Phule bellowed out the command as much to stop the conversation as to present a proper military picture. Mostly, however, he wanted time to try to collect his own thoughts.

  Resplendent in their dress uniforms and crowned with the red berets that were their trademark, there was no mistaking the identity of the soldiers filing down the ramp. The Red Eagles! For some reason, the Army had decided to send their elite combat unit on this assignment!

  Unusual for the Regular Army, the Red Eagles were in some ways more like the Space Legion in that they represented a cross section of planetary cultures rather than being a single-planet unit. There, however, the similarities ended. Highly decorated and publicized, the Eagles were considered the crème de la crème of the Regular Army. Competition was fierce for inclusion in their ranks, as literally hundreds of soldiers vied for the honor each time there was an opening in their roster. More than one effort to “introduce a more equitable mix” in the unit was repelled when it was pointed out, and defended, that the Red Eagles only had one bias: They required the best!

  All this and more swirled through Phule’s mind as he watched the soldiers mill aimlessly about at the foot of the ramp. The Eagles, in turn, ignored the formation of Legionnaires completely, not even sparing them a curious glance as they chatted back and forth.

  Finally an imposing figure strode down the ramp. Looking neither left nor right, it stalked across the runway with the easy, rolling gait of a trained athlete, setting an unswerving course for Phule.

  “Captain Jester, I assume? I’m Major Matthew O’Donnel.”

  Startled at being greeted by name, Phule nonetheless managed a snappy salute.

  “Welcome to Haskin’s Planet, Major.”

  O’Donnel neither returned the salute nor offered to shake hands.

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” he said with a tight humorless smile. “Look, Captain, I imagine you’re about as happy to see us as we are to be here. Now, is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere air-conditioned, if possible. I’d like to get this foolishness settled as fast as possible.”

  Numbly Phule gestured toward the terminal, and the major brushed past him with his now familiar stride.

  “Lieutenant Armstrong, Rembrandt,” the commander called, beckoning to his junior officers.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the company back to the compound and wait for me there. I’ll be along as soon as I find out what the hell is going on.”

  “But, sir.”

  “Just do it! But be sure to leave me a driver. I have a hunch I’m not going to feel like walking back once this is over.”

  * * *

  Entering the terminal, Phule found that his disturbing surprises were not over yet. The first thing to greet his eyes was the sight of Major O’Donnel stiffly shaking hands with … Governor Wingas!

  “Ah! Captain!” the governor beamed. “Come join us, won’t you? I understand you’ve already met Major O’Donnel.”

  “Yes, I have,” the commander said. “I’ll admit I’m surprised, though. I didn’t expect the Army to send the Red Eagles on a simple honor guard assignment.”

  “If it will make you feel any better, Captain,” O’Donnel growled, “it surprised us, too. It seems the upper brass has been reading the media coverage you’ve been getting about this hot-shit crew you’re putting together and decided they had to put their best foot forward to protect the Army’s reputation. Next thing you know, we get pulled out of a firefight and shipped off to here, with orders to take you seriously.”

  From his tone, it was clear the major didn’t think much of those orders.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s get down to it. I want to get the terms of this so-called competition squared away so I can get my troops settled in.”

  “I … take it you’re already aware of the competition?” Phule said carefully.

  “That’s right. The governor here was good enough to send us word prior to our arrival.”

  The Legion commander shot a glance at the governor, who smiled and shrugged benignly.

  “It seemed the least I
could do, since I contracted the Army in the first place.”

  Phule decided to deny Wingas the pleasure of an explosion, though inwardly he was seething at the betrayal.

  “Yes. I can see where that’s fair,” he managed.

  “As I understand it, Captain,” O’Donnel continued briskly, “we’re supposed to settle who gets the honor guard contract with a series of three contests with independent judges. The Army picks one event, you pick one, and the third we’re supposed to mutually agree on. Is that right?”

  Phule nodded stiffly, not liking the way the major was taking control of the meeting.

  “All right. For our event, we choose close order drill, since that’s most of what you do on an honor guard post. What’s yours?”

  The captain’s heart sank slightly. Of all the skills normally associated with the military, close order drill was, perhaps, his company’s worst.

  “The confidence course.”

  For the first time, the major showed surprise, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into the sweatband of his beret.

  “The confidence course?” he repeated. “All right, Captain. It’s your funeral. Now for the third event, assuming we get to it …” He gestured at Wingas. “The governor here tells me you and your crew fancy yourself to be fencers. How does a three-weapon match sound to you … foil, saber, and épée … best two out of three?”

  A warning bell went off in Phule’s mind. This seemed a little too pat.

  “It sounds like the governor has told you quite a bit,” he said, stalling for time.

  “Is that a yes or a no? Come on, Captain. Let’s not take all day on this.”

  “Tell me, Major. Do you fence yourself?”

  “Me? I’ve played a little bit with épée.”

  “Then let me add a little rider to your proposal. The same three-weapon match, but we fence épée last … between the unit commanders. That way, if it should come right down to the wire, we can settle this between the two of us.”

  Major O’Donnel’s face split in a wide grin.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Captain. Agreed … though I doubt things will get that far.”

  “You might be surprised, Major,” Phule returned with a tight smile. “My troops have surprised a lot of people, including me.”

  “So surprise me,” O’Donnel shot back. “Forgive me, though, if I don’t hold my breath.”

  “Well, now that that’s settled, gentlemen,” the governor said, rising hastily.

  “Just one more question … if you don’t mind, Major,” the Legionnaire commander pressed. “Assuming for the moment that the Red Eagles do win, is the Army really going to tie up their crack fighting unit on honor guard duty?”

  O’Donnel’s eyes slid sideways at the governor in a reptilian glance.

  “Now that you mention it, Captain, I do believe there’s a clause in our standard contract that states that while a unit of the Regular Army can be contracted for specific duty, the Army reserves the right to select which unit will be so assigned … and that they may replace said unit at their discretion depending upon the demands placed upon their manpower at any given time.”

  “So they’re sending in the Red Eagles to nail down the contract, then plan to swap them with a completely different unit once the deal is closed. Is that it?”

  Phule turned to Governor Wingas, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  “That’s show business, Captain … or, should I say, that’s politics!”

  * * *

  I have been very open in the chronicling of my employer’s fallibility. Lest the wrong impression be given, however, I would hasten to add that, without a doubt, he is the best fighter I have ever had the privilege to observe, much less serve, when pushed into a corner.

  * * *

  “Of all the double-crossing, ballot-stuffing, two-faced—”

  “That’s enough, Armstrong!” The company commander’s voice cracked like a whip. “We don’t have time to discuss the moral or genetic shortcomings of the governor. Not if we’re going to put together a plan of action before the competition tomorrow!”

  “The company’s still waiting in the dining hall, Captain,” Brandy announced, sticking her head in the door of the commander’s office. “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them I’ll be down to talk to them in about half an hour. Oh, and Brandy … in the meantime start talking it up that we’ve already won.”

  “We have?”

  “Certainly. We won the minute the Army decided it would take the Red Eagles to compete with us. Even if we get our brains beat out tomorrow, there always will be the question in people’s minds as to whether or not we could have beaten any normal Army unit.”

  “If you say so, sir.” The top sergeant’s voice was doubtful. “Oh … almost forgot. Do-Wop said you wanted this.”

  “What is it, Captain?” Rembrandt said, craning her neck to try to read the sheet of paper Phule was studying.

  “Hmm? Oh. It’s a copy of the personnel roster for the Red Eagles. I guess they left it lying around the terminal somewhere.”

  “Shall I ask Beeker to run it through his computer?”

  “Never mind, Armstrong. I’ve already found it. Damn! I should have known!”

  “What did you find?”

  Both lieutenants were crowding in next to Phule now, staring at the paper as if the names listed were some kind of coded message.

  “I thought O’Donnel was awfully eager to agree to a fencing match!” the commander muttered, almost to himself. “See this name? Third from the top? Isaac Corbin! He was Tri-Planetary saber champion for five years running! What in the hell is he doing in the Army?”

  “Getting ready to cancel our checks, I’d say.” Armstrong grimaced. “At least it’s just one bout out of three.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Phule murmured thoughtfully. “I think we’ll—”

  The shriek of his wrist communicator cut him short. “Colonel Battleax wishes to view your classic features sir!”

  “Oh great … just great. On the way, Mother.”

  * * *

  “I see you’re getting your usual amount of press coverage, Captain. Certainly taking on the Regular Army in a public challenge is an ambitious effort.”

  “Look, Colonel. I didn’t know they were going to run the Red Eagles in on us. I’ll even admit it’s my fault for letting the media wave a targeting flag over us, but …”

  “Whoa. Relax, Captain,” Battleax insisted. “I’m not trying to hassle you. I just called in to wish you luck in tomorrow’s competition. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re going to need it.”

  “You can say that again,” Phule said with a snort. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to snap at you, there. I’m just a bit pressured trying to get ready for tomorrow.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you, then. Just between you and me, though, Jester, do you think there’s any chance at all you can pull it off?”

  “There’s always a chance, ma’am,” he replied automatically. “But seriously … I’d just go ahead and concede the close order drill except for the fact that I don’t think we should ever give up without a fight. I would have bet we could hold our own against a normal Army unit on the confidence course, but now … I don’t know. About the only thing that’s definitely in our favor is that, even though it’s supposed to be impartial judging, my crew has gotten in pretty good with the locals here on Haskin’s. It just might give us the home court advantage.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Captain.” Battleax laughed. “And with your business background, too. You may have inadvertently set yourself a rougher road to hoe. I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but we both know that an expert is someone from off-planet with a briefcase. I just hope your success with the locals hasn’t made your troops too familiar figures, so that they only make the Red Eagles seem that much more exotic … or expert!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Journal #129

 
; I was fortunate enough to witness the events which made up the Legion vs. Army competition firsthand … though as a spectator, not as a judge. Though I normally try to stay emotionally detached from the antics of the company beyond what has immediate effect on my employer, I will admit to having formed a certain affection for the Legionnaires as individuals and as a group, and felt they might need whatever moral support they could get in the conflict. As it turned out, I was right.

  The competition itself took place at the Legion facilities, which seemed to impress the Red Eagles even if the Legionnaires did not. Governor Wingas was on hand, along with the entire Settlement Council and assorted other local dignitaries who were to serve as judges … and, as might be expected, the media.

  The less said about the close order drill event, the better, save to note that it took place. The Legionnaires managed to stagger through their portion without too many mistakes which would be noticeable to a civilian eye, and thus managed to avoid any actual embarrassment. There was no question, however, as to which group had the greater expertise.

  Rather than restricting themselves to the normal Manual of Arms—right-face, left-face, about-face, that sort of rubbish—the Red Eagles dipped into their knowledge of the Exhibition Manual of Arms. Again, for the enlightenment of my fellow nonmilitary creatures, this consists of a series of rifle spins, ripple movements, and toss-exchanging of rifles, more often than not carried out while the participants are marching in a bewildering variety of directions. Needless to say, this impressed the judges and spectators in the reviewing stand, who rewarded the Eagles with frequent and loud bursts of applause. I somehow managed to restrain myself, but noticed I seemed to be the only one of the spectators who exercised such control.

  As a finale, it was announced that the Eagles would repeat one of their more intricate maneuvers, only blindfolded and without the benefit of anyone counting cadence or calling orders … which they proceeded to do with chilling precision.