* * *
“Sir? … Wake up, sir!”
Phule struggled up from the depths of slumber at the insistent sound of his butler’s voice.
“I’m … awake,” he managed with some difficulty. “God! What time is it, Beek? I feel like I just closed my eyes.”
“Actually, sir, it’s been a little over two hours since you retired.”
“Really? Two whole hours.” Phule grimaced, forcing himself upright in bed. “Can’t imagine why I still feel sluggish.”
“It might have something to do with the quantity of alcohol you consumed before retiring, sir,” the butler supplied helpfully. “You were more cheerful than usual when you came in.”
Like most guardians of dignity, Beeker did not approve of his charge drinking at all, and he made no effort to keep the edge of reprimand out of his voice.
“Chocolate Harry and I had a couple more rounds after the reporter left,” the commander said defensively, rubbing his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I would have called it quits earlier, but Brandy rolled in and—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” the butler interrupted, “but there’s a call waiting for you in the other room.”
“A call?”
“Yes. On the holophone. It’s from Legion Headquarters, which is why I deemed it necessary to wake you rather than simply taking a message.”
“Oh, swell. Just what I need first thing in the morning. Just a second while I get dressed.”
“If I might point out, sir, you’re still dressed from last night. I commented on it when you retired, but you seemed rather eager to get to sleep.”
Sure enough, Phule found that he was still fully clothed. What’s more, his uniform seemed to give less indication of the abuse it had suffered than did his mind and digestive tract. Running his hand quickly over his chin and upper lip, he decided that he would go without a shave rather than keep Headquarters waiting any more than they had, though he longed for the extra wake-up time that ritual would have given him.
“Well, I guess there’s no point stalling,” he said, starting for the next room. “Any clue as to what’s up, Beek?”
“None … aside from the obvious indications that they seem to be a bit distraught.” The butler shrugged. Then his natural concern asserted itself, and he added, “You should be aware, sir, that it was necessary for me to leave the line open when I came to rouse you, so you will be ‘on camera’ as soon as you enter the room.”
Phule paused with his hand on the doorknob and grimaced.
“Terrific,” he said. “Thanks for the warning, Beek.”
“I thought you’d like to know, sir. You’re inclined toward rude gestures when surprised … especially early in the morning.”
The holophone was a device which projected a three-dimensional image of the caller into the room with the recipient, and sent one in return. While it was a disturbingly effective way to communicate, it was also expensive to operate, which was why the Legion usually relied on the more conventional com-type system for the routine sending of messages and reports. Com-type allowed data to be stored and sent in quick bursts during slack periods of interstellar communications, incoming messages being stored electronically by computer for review or printout at the recipient’s discretion. The holophone was reserved for emergency use, when the sender wanted to be sure the recipient got the message, or wanted to interface directly with the person on the other end, like, say, for a reprimand or dressing-down. Consequently, holophone calls were generally received with the same enthusiasm normally reserved for plagues or tax audits.
“Yes, Colonel Battleax,” Phule said, recognizing the projected figure in the room. “What can I do for you this morning?”
The Legion’s holophone equipment was a discontinued line purchased as surplus. With no service support for what was originally a dubious design, its performance was usually less than stellar, and today’s transmission was no exception. The image had a tendency to double and/or fuzz, an effect which did nothing to improve Phule’s disposition as he tried to maintain a pleasant air while focusing bleary eyes on the elusive phantom. If he had hoped his demeanor would be reciprocated, however, he could have spared himself the effort.
“Well, Captain Jester,” the colonel began without greeting or preamble, “you could start by explaining the article in today’s news.”
“Article?” The commander frowned. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ma’am. It’s still very early here and I haven’t had a chance to see today’s news.”
He shot a glance at his butler, who had slipped into the room behind him. Beeker nodded in understanding and reached for his pocket com unit to call up the article in question.
“No? Well, let me read you some of the highlights … specifically the same highlights my commanding officer read me when bringing it to my attention.”
Battleax brought a notepad into view, bending her head to refer to it.
“Let’s see … We’ll start with the headline, which reads: ‘Playboy General?’ And under that, the byline elaborates: ‘Munitions Heir Willard Phule to Lead Elite Force on Haskin’s Planet.’ The article itself goes downhill from there.”
Off camera, Beeker paused in his efforts to roll his eyes in exaggerated exasperation. Phule ignored him with some effort, focusing instead on the thought of holding the reporter’s throat in his hands.
“Yes. I can see where you’d be upset, ma’am. Let me assure the colonel, however, that at no time during the interview did I state or imply that I held the rank of general. I can only assume the reporter either misunderstood or was exaggerating for effect. I’ll take it on myself to see that a correction is issued noting my correct rank as well as an apology to all generals, past, present, and future, for the error.”
“Oh, don’t stop there, Captain. I’m dying to hear your explanation of the rest of the article.”
“The rest of what, ma’am?” Phule said, studying the screen of the hand com unit Beeker had passed him. “I have the article in front of me now, and I’m not sure what else the colonel requires comment on.”
“Are you serious? For openers, why did you issue a press release at all?”
“That’s easy.” The commander smiled. “I didn’t. It seems someone on the hotel staff leaked the word to the media when we checked in, and a reporter showed up looking for an interview. I don’t know how much experience the colonel has had with the media, but I’ve always found that once the media is looking for a story, it’s best to give them one. Otherwise, they’re inclined to invent one of their own. If one volunteers a story, they’ll only get some of the facts wrong—like my rank—rather than publishing a yarn that’s all wrong. Realizing the rather spotty background of the Legionnaires I’ve been assigned to, I thought it would be wisest if the interview centered on myself rather than allow it to wander into areas we’d just as soon not have publicized.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s get back to something you said a second ago, about the hotel staff alerting the media that you had arrived. Why did you give the reporter your real name instead of your Legion name?”
“She already had it …”
“She?”
“That’s right. The reporter was a woman … a rather attractive one at that. Of course, I didn’t make any attempt to point that out or take advantage of it during the interview.”
“Hmmm … That may have been the problem.”
“Ma’am?”
“Nothing. Go on with your story, Captain. I’m starting to see what happened, though. About your name?”
“Well, she was looking for me by name. This is actually a fairly common occurrence for me, Colonel. The media often has spotters in hotels to be on the lookout for celebrities, and like it or not, my family name is one which tends to draw media attention, even if it’s just the gossip columns.”
“And why did you give your name to the hotel?”
“It was on my credit card, ma’am. The banking community is
very conservative and will not issue credit cards for nicknames or aliases, and while the colonel knows I am financially well off, I rarely carry sufficient cash to register an entire company of Legionnaires at a good hotel. If I might point out, ma’am, while the Legion encourages and utilizes aliases, I’m not aware of any regulation which requires their use or forbids Legionnaires from using their given names.”
“Hmmm … An interesting point, Captain. Let’s take a step back for a moment from your failure to use your Legion name and focus instead on this hotel thing. Why have you moved your company into a luxury hotel?”
“Again, Colonel, I’m not aware of any regulation forbidding a company commander to house his Legionnaires wherever he wishes, especially if he absorbs the expense personally.”
“I’m not questioning whether or not you had the right to do it,” Battleax put in. “I’m asking why you did it.”
Phule glanced at the hand com unit again.
“I believe it’s covered here in the article, ma’am. Our barracks are being remodeled, giving rise to the need for temporary housing for the company.”
“So that part of the article is correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you aware, Captain, that we lease those barracks and the land they’re on from a local developer? If so, are you aware that we need the permission of the leaseholder before instituting any renovation or improvements to his property?”
“I am, ma’am. The fact is, Colonel, I purchased the buildings and land currently leased to the Legion from the local owner. As such, permissions to remodel are not a problem. For the record, however, I hasten to assure the colonel that I have no intention of raising the price should the Legion’s contract here last long enough to require renewing that lease.”
“That’s decent of you,” the colonel said wryly. “This is all very interesting, Captain. Just between you and me, though, what do you plan to do with your new holding when and if we pull out of there?”
“Normally I’d hire someone locally to manage the property for me,” Phule explained. “In this particular instance, however, there is already interest—in fact, a firm offer—to purchase the remodeled facility from me whenever I wish to dispose of it. It seems someone saw the architect’s sketches and feels it would make an excellent country club.”
“This purchase would, of course, result in a profit for you.”
“Of course.”
“Why am I not surprised? Getting back to the article, Captain, perhaps you’d care to explain why it was necessary to move the company into the best hotel on the planet for their temporary housing? And while you’re at it, how do you justify calling that outfit of yours an elite force?”
“That was another assumption on the reporter’s part. I simply said I was here on ‘a special assignment,’ and she jumped to her own conclusions. As to the quality of our temporary housing … may I speak candidly, Colonel?”
“Please do. If you can clarify the situation without prolonging this rather expensive conversation, it would be appreciated … though from the sound of things, I should have called collect.”
“The remodeling of our quarters, the luxury hotel for temporary housing, and some of the other things you will doubtless be hearing about in the future are all a part of my plan to turn this company around. You see, these people have been treated like losers and been told they’re losers for so long they have little choice but to believe that they’re losers, and they act accordingly. What I’m doing is treating them like they’re the best, like top athletes being groomed for a competition. I’m betting that they’ll respond by acting like winners because they’ll see themselves as winners.”
“The theory being that if they don’t look like soldiers and act like soldiers, how can we expect them to fight like soldiers? You’re betting quite a bit on a theory, Captain.”
“I think it’s a good risk,” Phule said firmly. “And if it isn’t … well, it’s my money to risk, isn’t it?”
“True enough.” Colonel Battleax pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Very well, Captain. I’ll give you your head on this one for a while. If your idea works, the Legion will benefit. If not, we’re no worse off than when we started. Of course, now that your real name is known, if you foul up like you did on your last assignment, it’ll be hard for you to disappear from sight.”
“Of course.”
“What I’m trying to say, Captain Jester, is I’m hoping you’re aware that you’re more vulnerable on this than the Legion is.”
There was genuine concern in the colonel’s voice, which warmed Phule despite his early morning haziness.
“Of course,” he repeated. “Thank you, Colonel.”
“Very well. I’ll try to cover the ruckus at this end. You focus on shaping up those troops of yours. I have a hunch it’s going to take all the time and concentration you can give it and then some. In the future, however, try to give me advance warning if the media is going to pounce on something you or your crew is doing. You’re not the only one who doesn’t like early morning surprises.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try to remember that.”
“Oh, and Captain …”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“The remodeling of your barracks. How long do you think that will take?”
“The estimate is two weeks, ma’am.”
A triumphant smile flashed across the colonel’s face.
“I thought so. It might interest you to know, Captain, that that’s the estimate my sister was given when she wanted a new porch put on her house. Battleax out!”
Phule waited until the projected image faded completely before heaving a big sigh of relief.
“That went better than I would have hoped,” he declared.
“Yes, sir,” Beeker responded. “I notice you neglected to tell the colonel that you not only purchased the barracks and land but also the construction company that’s doing the remodeling.”
“It didn’t seem the right time, somehow.” The commander winked. “Incidentally, remind me to get a clerk or something assigned to monitor the communications gear in here. You shouldn’t have to do that on top of the rest of your duties.”
“Very good, sir … and thank you.”
“No thanks necessary, Beek. I just don’t want to give you any more ammo than is necessary when it comes time to negotiate your next raise.”
Phule stretched and looked out the window.
“So … what’s on the docket for today?”
“Quite a bit, sir … but as you pointed out when I wakened you, it’s still early.”
“Well, I’m up now. Let’s get to work. And give the officers and cadre a call—especially Chocolate Harry. No sense in letting them lounge abed when I’m working.”
Chapter Six
Journal File #024
I will not attempt to capture the true feeling of what it was like for the company to stand guard duty in a swamp, though my employer’s impressions of the duty the first day he joined them in that task would doubtless be of interest to some. This is not so much a lack of willingness or ability on my part to impart such details, but rather a simple lack of data, as I never actually accompanied the company into the swamp—a fact I became particularly appreciative of when I observed the condition of their uniforms at the end of the day.
* * *
Bombest had nearly resigned himself to the Legionnaires’ presence in his hotel. There was no denying the welcome influx of rental monies during a normally slack period, and the troops themselves had proved to be far less raucous and destructive than he originally feared. He even made an honest effort to muster a certain amount of enthusiasm in his mind for their residence. What progress he had made along those lines, however, faded rapidly as he observed the Legionnaires’ transports pull up to the front door late in the afternoon, disgorging what could only be described as “mud men” onto the sidewalk.
From the waist—or, in some cases, the armpits—up, they were recognizable as the hote
l’s latest guests. From the “disaster line” down, however, any familiar detail of individual or uniform was lost in a coating of gray-green muck. As sticky as it looked, Bombest noted that the coating seemed to lack sufficient adhesion to fully remain on its hosts, disturbing quantities of it falling in flakes and globs onto the sidewalk and, with apparent inevitability, the lobby carpet.
“Hold it right there!”
The voice of the Legionnaires’ commander, or, as Bombest tended to think of him, the Leader of the Pack, cracked like a whip, bringing the mud-encrusted figures to a complete, if puzzled, halt on the lobby’s threshold.
The hotel manager watched with some astonishment as Phule, his uniform displaying the same dubious collection of swamp mire as his followers, squeezed through the front ranks and advanced on the registration desk with the cautious tread of one trying to ease over a mine field.
“Good afternoon, Bombest,” the commander said pleasantly upon reaching his destination. “Could you call housekeeping for me and see if they have … Never mind. These will do nicely.”
So saying, he scooped up two of the stacks of the day’s newspapers from the desk, the hard copies still preferred by many, piling them on top of each other, then slipping an arm under them as he fished some bills from the relatively clean shirt pocket of his uniform.
“Here … this should cover it. Oh, and Bombest?”
“Yes, Mr. Phule?” the manager responded absently as he tried to figure out how to count the money without soiling his hands. Delegation seemed the only answer.
“Do you know if everything’s set up in the main ballroom?”
“In a way, sir. Yes. One of your sergeants thought it best if we erected the divider to allow some privacy between the men and women, and it was necessary to open one of the adjoining meeting rooms for additional space—”
“Yes, yes,” Phule interrupted. “But they’re set to go?”
“Yes, sir. If you wish, I’ll inform them you’ve arrived.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 9
