Phule's Company

by RobertAsprin

  “The final bout will be between the commanding officers of the competing groups. For the Red Eagles of the Regular Army, Major Matthew O’Donnel … and for the Space Legion, Captain Jester!”

  “Go get him, Cap’n!”

  “LEGION!”

  The cheering section at the other end of the gym was obviously wound tight as a drum, bellowing out encouragement in their excitement that would be more appropriate at the opening of a boxing match than in a fencing meet. O’Donnel noted, however, that his opponent seemed oblivious to the racket as they moved onto the strip and hooked their body cords into the spring retrieval reels at either end. Saluting each other and the director, they donned their masks and stepped up to their respective on-guard lines.

  “Fencers ready?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Ready!”

  “Allez! Fencer!”

  Judging from what he had seen before, both this evening and this afternoon, the major had expected Jester to be an off-the-wall, unorthodox fencer, relying on weird, unexpected moves to score his points. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see his opponent take a conventional, textbook guard stance as they began to jockey for position.

  Fine by me, mister. By the book it is. Let’s see how good you really are.

  Unlike foil and saber, where the hits are usually scored “deep” to the body in flashy, driving attacks, épée is more of a sniper’s weapon where the touches are made with sudden quick jabs to the arm and hand—and, rarely, the leading foot—of one’s opponent.

  Silence slowly descended on the crowd as the two men edged back and forth on the strip, watching each other for the slightest opening.

  O’Donnel was now oblivious to the audience as he studied Jester’s guard stance.

  … weapon arm ramrod straight at shoulder level, hiding the entire arm and hand behind the oversized bell guard … never a waiver in the coverage as he advanced and retreated in small, coiled spring steps … Classic! … No cheap, easy touches here! … Maybe if he invited an attack to …

  In a flicker of movement, the Legionnaire attacked … not with an explosive burst of energy, but seeming to almost collapse as his sword dropped and …

  BZZZ!

  “Halt! One light! Touch is right! Score, one to zero! Fencers ready?”

  The major barely heard the director’s call, much less the applause from the stands as he mentally raged at himself.

  The foot! He had been hit on his leading foot! Of all the …

  While foot hits were, of course, permitted, they were rarely tried in actual bouts. If the defender simply withdrew his lead foot, the attacker would be left with no target, and his entire arm exposed for the counter hit! Still, occasionally a low attack would catch the defender flat-footed, but your opponent had to be …

  O’Donnel pushed his self-criticism from his mind, focusing instead on the next touch as the director placed them on guard again.

  Okay, wise guy. You know I’m ticked at having gotten caught that easy. If you’ve got any smarts at all, you’ll fake your next attack to that same foot, counting on me to overreact in defense. When I do, you’ll be back on the high attack before I can cover. Well, I’m waiting for you, buster, so just …

  “Allez! Fencer!”

  BZZZ!

  “Halt! Again, there is one light …”

  Jester had attacked as soon as the director dropped his hand to signal the start of the action. No feint … no tricky fake … just a quick darting jab … to the foot again!

  Two-zero!

  The major tried desperately to get his annoyance under control as they came on guard again.

  The sonofabitch caught him twice with the same sucker move!

  “Allez! Fencer!”

  The progress of the bout was relentless, giving O’Donnel little or no time to regroup mentally.

  Jester stamped his foot noisily, and the major had to fight to keep from twitching defensively at the sound.

  Don’t fall for a sound feint! It’s just the kind of thing this joker will use to …

  The Legionnaire surged forward, catching and controlling O’Donnel’s sword with his own weapon, moving the deadly defending point to one side with a flick of his wrist while slamming his own point squarely into his opponent’s mask.

  BZZZ!

  “Halt!”

  The major turned his back on the proceedings, shaking his arms and rotating his shoulders as the touch was awarded.

  He had tightened up! Fighting the reflex to move at the sound of the foot stomp, he had tensed his arm, and Jester seized the opportunity before he could regain enough flexibility to evade the attack on his blade!

  Three to zero! No! Put it out of your mind! Think of it as coming on guard for the first touch … except now Jester would be going for double touches! Two double touches and the bout would be over!

  “Fencers ready?”

  “Ready!”

  “Just a moment, sir!”

  O’Donnel took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. His opponent might protest the delay, but even that would buy him some time to get himself under control … and break Jester’s momentum.

  As it was, nothing was said by either the director or the Legionnaire until the major stepped up to his on-guard line and raised his sword.

  “Ready, sir!”

  “Allez! Fencer!”

  To O’Donnel’s surprise, Jester did not immediately press the attack. Instead, he stood waiting in his guard … just a second! The classic picture wasn’t there! Instead, the point of Jester’s épée was above his bell guard … not much, barely an inch, but …

  The major was attacking even before he finished the thought.

  BZZZ!

  “Halt! One light! Touch is left! Score is three to one!”

  That was more like it! In an épée guard, holding the sword at an angle to the arm, however slight, was a dead giveaway that there was target exposed, even if you couldn’t see it. Slipping his point past Jester’s bell guard, O’Donnel had caught a piece of the underside of his opponent’s arm … not much, but enough for a touch. Now to see if the bastard had figured out his mistake!

  “Allez! Fence!”

  BZZZ!

  “Halt!”

  Got him again! Three to two now!

  The major was waiting at the on-guard line as the touch was awarded, eager for the bout to resume before his opponent had a chance to analyze the hole in his defense.

  “Fencers ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Ready, Sir!”

  “Allez! Fence!”

  BZZZ-UZZ!

  “Halt! Both lights are on! Double touch! Score is four to three!”

  Four to three! He had to be careful now. One more touch and …No! Jester had been lucky to catch a piece of his arm as he came in on the attack. He had to keep the offensive. Still, his opponent was expecting the shot to the underside of the arm now. Maybe a feint to draw his reaction …

  “Allez! Fencer!”

  The major deliberately gave the point of his weapon a small twitch, and was rewarded by a quick flash of light reflected from his opponent’s bell guard as it moved.

  BZZZ!

  “Halt! There is one light! Touch is left! Score is four all. Bout and match point, gentlemen. Fencers ready?”

  Got him! Now, just one more. C’mon … think! One more touch!

  “Allez! Fence!”

  For a moment, it was as if neither fencer had heard the director’s signal. Motionless, they stared at each other, watching for an opening yet unwilling to make a move which might create a vulnerability. Then, with slow deliberation, Jester raised his sword arm six inches, exposing the target his opponent had been scoring on, daring him to try again. That frozen tableau was held for a few heartbeats, then O’Donnel went forward in a gliding rush, accepting the invitation. Jester’s point darted down, racing to intercept the attack, and …

  BZZZ-UZZ!

  “Halt!”

  The major whipped his h
ead around, looking to the electronic box to see who had scored the touch first.

  Both lights were lit! Double touch!

  Jester jerked his mask off and stuffed it under his arm as he saluted the director and his opponent, then strode forward with his hand outstretched for the traditional handshake that signaled the end of hostilities.

  “Excellent bout, Major. Thank you.”

  Startled, O’Donnel found himself shaking his rival’s hand reflexively.

  “But … the bout …” he managed at last.

  “Tournament rules, as agreed,” the Legionnaire said firmly. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

  That last was addressed to the director, who shook his head and shrugged. “Well … in a double elimination tournament, it would be scored as a double loss …”

  “There! You see?”

  “… but I suppose we could have a fence-off to decide a winner. Perhaps a one-touch sudden-death bout,” the director rallied gamely. “It’s really up to you gentlemen.”

  “Well …” O’Donnel hedged, removing his mask as he tried to organize his thoughts.

  “Major.”

  The word was said so softly that it took O’Donnel a moment to realize Jester had spoken it rather than it being a random thought flitting through his mind. Their eyes met.

  “Take the tie.”

  “What?”

  His rival looked away, smiling at the audience as he spoke, like a ventriloquist, without moving his lips.

  “Take the tie. We’ll split the competition … and the contract. I wouldn’t want to see either of our forces lose at this point … would you?”

  Good combat commanders do not survive by agonizing over decisions, and O’Donnel was no exception.

  “Tournament rules were agreed upon.” He shrugged dramatically, turning to the director. “The Red Eagles and the Space Legion stand by their word. Announce the double loss, sir.”

  Turning on his heel, he marched unswervingly back to his men, barely remembering to unhook his body cord, as the director’s announcement echoed in the silent gym. Weak applause greeted the explanation, though the confused babble in the audience nearly drowned it out.

  From the look on the faces of the Red Eagles, the audience wasn’t alone in its puzzlement.

  “What the hell happened … sir?” Master Sergeant Spengler said, rising to meet his commander.

  “Well, Sergeant, what we have is—”

  “Company! Atten-hut!”

  O’Donnel turned to look down the floor.

  The Space Legionnaires were on their feet, Captain Jester centered in front of them. With a picture-book precision they had not shown during the close order drill competition, they were saluting the Red Eagles.

  The major stared at them for a few moments, but their pose didn’t waiver. Correct military procedure called for holding a salute until it was returned or the person or unit you were saluting was out of range.

  This time, O’Donnel’s decision was easier.

  “Red Eagles … Atten-hut!”

  And for the first time since their arrival—in fact, in the history of the Red Eagles—the crack unit of the Regular Army saluted the Space Legion, and meant it.

  * * *

  Soaking in a hot tub can be of mental, as well as physical, therapeutic value, and Phule was enjoying it to the fullest as he felt his muscles slowly begin to relax.

  “Sir?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his head and opened his eyes.

  “Yes, Beeker?”

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Have you asked Mother to hold all calls until this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. Actually it seems she was already doing that without instruction. There are several messages of congratulation, and it seems that young reporter has been trying to reach you.”

  “Again?” Phule closed his eyes and sank a few inches deeper into the tub. “How many interviews does she need in one day?”

  “I don’t believe she’s calling about an interview … sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s the impression I got from Mother, though she didn’t relay the messages word for word.”

  “Oh!”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Go ahead and call it a night, Beek. It’s been quite a day … for all of us.”

  “Indeed it has, sir.”

  “Good night, Beeker.”

  There was no response.

  Strange. Usually his butler was quite fastidious about such social pleasantries.

  Mildly puzzled, Phule opened his eyes to discover Beeker still in attendance, but looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

  “Something bothering you, Beek?”

  “Well, sir … you know I rarely pry or question your actions, but …”

  The butler hesitated, as if at a loss for words.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “In your bout this evening … I mean, I’ve watched you fence in competitions before, sir, and flatter myself to think I know something of your abilities and style …”

  Beeker’s voice trailed off again.

  “And?” Phule urged.

  “And … for my own curiosity, you understand, and in strictest confidence … I was wondering … Well, sir … did you throw your bout? Deliberately fence for the tie, I mean?”

  Phule exhaled a long breath, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the tub before answering.

  “No, I didn’t, Beek. I thought about it … that’s why I let him pull up even instead of finishing him off when I got the lead … but I chickened out at the end. If I could have been sure of the tie, I would have gone for it, but it would have been chancy at best. In the final analysis, I decided I didn’t have the right to risk the company’s success on a gamble, so on the final touch I was genuinely going for the win. The way it turned out—getting the tie I really wanted—was pure luck, nothing else.”

  “I … I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir. Why would you prefer a tie to a win?”

  Phule opened his eyes and raised his head again, his face splitting in a wolfish grin.

  “You weren’t watching close enough, Beeker. We did win.”

  “Sir?”

  “Think about it. Our little Space Legion Omega Company, the dregs of the dregs, just held its own with the Red Eagles—the best the Regular Army has to offer. What’s more, as far as the spectators were concerned, Escrima won his bout. The points favored Corbin because he knew the technicalities of the rules better, but it was obvious that in a real fight with no rules, Escrima would have made mincemeat out of him. On that basis alone, we were the winners before I even stepped onto the strip. In fact, the only event the Eagles won clearly was the drill competition—parade-ground flash that doesn’t impress anyone with their fighting ability.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Phule’s voice was suddenly very earnest. “We had them beat, so there was no point in kicking them, too. The Red Eagles are a top outfit that deserve the reputation they’ve built. If preserving that reputation, helping them save face, means sharing the idiotic honor guard contract, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay. There’s no point in making enemies when you don’t have to.”

  “Of course, your own force is disappointed. I may be doing them a disservice, but I doubt they would understand the subtleties of your logic.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it incredible?” The Legionnaire was grinning again. “Do you realize how much they’ve changed their mind-set in just one day? This morning they didn’t believe we had a chance against the Red Eagles; but tonight they’re disappointed that we only tied them! They’re really starting to believe that we can do anything!”

  “That is how you’ve trained them, sir. Of course, it would have been nice if they could have celebrated a victory tonight.”

  “True, but instead, they’re in town drinking with the Red Eagles, as equals. Unless I miss my guess, there’s more than one argument going as to whose commanding offi
cer would have won if we had gone to a fence-off … as if that were any indication of the caliber of men we are or the forces we lead.”

  “Quite so, sir. As long as you’re aware of it.”

  * * *

  This was, of course, my true concern. It was one thing for the Legionnaires to draw confidence from their success in a controlled contest with set rules, as long as my employer maintained his awareness that it was no indication of how they would fair in real combat. Unfortunately, despite his assurances to the contrary, I continued to be plagued by the nagging fear that he, too, was sliding into the belief that his force could do and accomplish anything.

  History has shown that, while soldiers can draw confidence and esprit de corps from such conviction, the same attitude in a commander can breed disaster.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Journal #152

  [Note: The more numerically aware readers will have observed there are more entries than normal missing between this portion of my chronicle and the last. While there were numerous interesting incidents and observations made during this period, they are not particularly pertinent to this account, and I have therefore withheld them to focus on the more crucial occurrences which followed. Perhaps, if time allows, I will publish some of those episodes at a later date, probably thinly disguised as fiction. For now, however, I will simply insert a brief summary of the two or three weeks following the competition.]

  The Regular Army was apparently less than pleased with the Red Eagles’ inability to achieve better than a tie against the Space Legion force under my employer’s command. Then again, there is also the possibility that their new orders simply got lost in the shuffle of paper that is the bane of any organization of a size worthy of mention. For whatever reason, whether punishment or bureaucratic incompetence, the Red Eagles were not reassigned after the contracts were signed, but left to cool their heels for a while with us on Haskin’s Planet. It is my hope that this was due to an oversight, for if punishment was the Army’s intent, they failed dismally.

  Despite the stormy nature of their initial introduction, the Eagles and the Legionnaires got on like a house afire. Between intra-unit dating and the inevitable bar crawling, the two groups drew even closer together and friendships grew and blossomed. (No reference need be made here of the methods of frequency of cross-pollination.)