The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “What’s out there?”

  “How many …?”

  “Great Gazma! Look at that!”

  “There must be thousands of them!”

  Actually there were barely hundreds of the glowing blips on the screen, but substantially more than the scant half dozen Zenobians crewing their own vessel.

  “That’s interesting,” Masem said thoughtfully. “Look at these two—no, there’s a third! Flight Leftenant, these readings indicate there’s more than one intelligent life-form out there. It would seem that we’re being faced by a combined force of alien races, though one race is clearly in the majority.”

  “I don’t care if they’re talking mushrooms!” Qual snapped. “There are more of them than there are of us—lots more—and probably armed, to boot. Stand by to lift off! We’re getting out of here while we can!”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Leftenant.”

  “Now what, Masem?”

  “Well, we used parts from the lift-off relays to repair the scanners … as you ordered, sir.”

  Qual wondered briefly if the craft’s self-destruct mechanism was functioning, then remembered there wasn’t one.

  “You mean we’re stranded here while an unknown hostile force is surrounding—”

  “Leftenant! You’d better look at this!”

  One of the blips had detached itself from the bulk of the force arrayed before them and was approaching their position.

  “Quick! Put it on visual!”

  The screen display changed to show the actual scene outside the ship. Whatever or whoever the blips had shown before were now visible behind brush and fallen trees, except for the one black-garbed figure standing out in the open.

  “What a revolting creature.”

  “Big, though, isn’t he?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Qual was studying the figure in silence as the crewmen chattered nervously.

  “I wonder if there’s any significance to the white cloth he’s waving?” he said finally.

  “You know, sir,” Ori piped up, “I remember back in basic training, we used little pieces of cloth like that to sight in our weapons.”

  The flight leftenant favored him with a withering glare.

  “I seriously doubt, Ori, that he’s inviting us to shoot at him.”

  “Well, they shot at me!”

  “True, but indications are that they’re intelligent.”

  “Look, Leftenant,” Masem broke in, interrupting the exchange.

  The figure on the viewscreen was making a big show of holding up its weapon, then carefully setting it on the ground at his feet.

  “Well, that’s pretty clear.”

  “Unless it’s some kind of ritual challenge to fight.”

  “For the moment we’ll assume that it means they want to parley,” Qual said, reaching his decision. “I’m going out there.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Leftenant?” his second-in-command queried.

  “No … but I don’t see where we have much choice at the moment. See if you can get the lift-off units repaired while I try to buy us some time.”

  “Do you want us to cover you with the ship’s guns, sir?”

  “That would be great if we had any ship’s guns. This is an exploration vessel, not a battleship, remember?”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry, sir.”

  “Leftenant,” Masem said softly, drawing him to one side, “it might be prudent to be guarded in your conversation with the aliens. We wouldn’t want to betray how strong the Zenobian Empire really is.”

  “Believe me, Masem,” Qual hissed, giving one last glance around the control room, “I certainly don’t want them to find out our true strength.”

  * * *

  “Now that we’ve established communications, Leftenant,” Phule said, “I’d like to begin by apologizing for the unprovoked attack on one of your crew. It was a fear reaction to the unexpected, made before we realized yours was an intelligent species. Further, I’d like to thank you for the merciful nature of your force’s counterattack. It is impressive that my underling was only stunned and not killed outright.”

  Qual was impressed with the translator, though he did his best to act as if it were commonplace. It had taken some time for him to realize he was to hang it around his neck, but once it was in place and in contact with his hide, the various grunts and clickings this strange alien used for speech were readily transformed into images and contacts in his mind. The translation of his own foremost thoughts into those same weird noises was a bit disquieting, but it was worth it to be able to establish that neither force was particularly eager to fight.

  “Thank you for the apology, Captain Clown, but—”

  “Excuse me, but that’s Captain Clown.”

  “I …see.”

  The image provided by the translator was identical to the one Qual had formed in his mind when addressing the alien commander. Apparently the mechanism was not as effective as it first appeared.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, Captain … Captain, I’m afraid there has been a minor misunderstanding. You see, my crewman was hunting for food when he was attacked, so the weapon he was carrying was designed specifically for that purpose.”

  “I … I’m afraid I don’t understand, Leftenant.”

  “Well, we Zenobians prefer to eat our food while it’s still alive, so hunting weapons are made to stun instead of kill like our war weapons.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, no harm done,” Phule flashed his smile again.

  “Pardon me, Captain, but is that supposed to be a friendly gesture?”

  “What?”

  “The baring of your fangs. You’ve done it several times now, but your manner does not indicate a matching hostility.”

  “Oh. That’s a smile … and yes, it’s a sign of friendship. I’ll try to stop doing it if it offends you.”

  “No need. I just wanted to be sure I was interpreting it correctly.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence, as each representative mentally dealt with this new awareness of the differences between their species.

  “Tell me. Leftenant,” Phule said at last, “now that we’ve established that your purposes here are not hostile, might I ask what your actual assignment is? Perhaps we could be of assistance.”

  Qual considered the question carefully, but could see no danger in answering truthfully.

  “We are an exploratory expedition,” he explained, “assigned to search for new planets suitable for colonization or research stations. We landed here because swamps such as this are ideal habitats for our needs.”

  “I see.” The Legion commander nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunately this particular swamp has been designated as a preserve by my people. In fact, the presence of my force is to specifically serve as guardians.”

  “Oh, I understand, Captain,” the Zenobian replied quickly. “Believe me, we have no intent to contest your possession of this territory. Space is large, and there are sufficient habitats that we see no need to fight for those already inhabited. Now that we have discovered that these areas are already occupied, we will simply explore in another direction. In fact, we’ll be on our way as soon as … soon.”

  “Now, let’s not be hasty,” Phule said. “Perhaps we can work something out—something mutually beneficial to both our peoples.”

  “How? Excuse me, I don’t wish to challenge your veracity, but I thought you said the swamp was unavailable for use.”

  “This swamp is, but there are others within our system which might serve your needs equally well. Information on their locations could ease or eliminate your need for exploration, and if permissions were obtained in advance, there would be no conflict involved in their settlement.”

  Qual was suddenly very attentive. Such an arrangement would make him a hero within the Exploratory Forces as well as nullify any lingering disfavor he might be suffering under. Still, he had learned from past experience that offers that sound
ed too good to be true were usually just that.

  “I don’t understand. Captain,” he said cagily. “Our races may be different, but I’ve always assumed that intelligence implies a certain degree of self-interest. Why should your people simply give us something which is theirs without asking for anything in return?”

  “Oh, we’d want something in return, all right.” Phule smiled. “Remember I said an arrangement which would be mutually beneficial. I think you’d find, however, that our demands for return on the use of our swamps would be minimal.”

  “How minimal?”

  “Well … before we get down to specifics, would you mind telling me what the maximum accurate range is for those sporting stun weapons of yours?”

  * * *

  “What happened, Captain?”

  “Is there going to be a fight?”

  “What do they want?”

  Discipline fell by the wayside as the Legionnaires swarmed out to meet their returning commander. Ignoring their questions, Phule waved them to silence as he activated his wrist communicator.

  “Com Central.”

  “Yes, Mother. Patch me through to an off-planet line. I need to get a call through to my father …”

  He gave the code number, then glanced up at the impatient Legionnaires who were circling him.

  “If you’ll listen in on my end of the conversation, you’ll hear the answers to most of your questions. For the moment, however, you can all stand down. The alien force is not—repeat, not—hostile. There will be no fight, unless someone—”

  “Willie? Is that you?”

  Phule turned his attention to his wrist communicator.

  “Yes, Dad. I’m here.”

  “What’s the problem? Don’t tell me you’re tired of playing soldier boy already.”

  “Dad, I don’t say this to you often, but shut up and listen! I have a situation here that potentially involves you, and I don’t have time to trade jibes and insults this time. Okay?”

  There was a few moments’ pause, then the reply came through, in notably more serious tones.

  “All right, Willard. What have you got?”

  “Does Uncle Frank still own that development company? The one that buys up cheap swamps, then tries to convert them to usable land?”

  “I think so. Last thing I heard, he was using it as a tax write-off. It’s always been a marginal operation, and—”

  “Get on the horn to him as fast as you can and buy it up … along with any other swampland you can get your hands on.”

  “Just a second …”

  There was another pause, this one broken by muffled comments through the speaker.

  “Okay,” came the elder Phule’s voice again. “The wheels are in motion. I suppose there’s a reason I’m doing this?”

  “You bet there is. I’ve got a deal on the line: a whole new alien race looking for swampland. No development necessary. Just let them know where it is.”

  “New aliens? What have they got to offer in exchange?”

  “I figure there’s a wealth of new technology to be bartered for, but for this particular deal how does exclusive production and distribution rights on a new weapon sound to you?”

  “How new?”

  “We’re talking a stun gun … easily portable power pack … effective range approximately three hundred meters. Law enforcement is the most obvious market, but I’m sure you can think of others.”

  “Sounds good so far. Who’s their agent?”

  The Legionnaires smiled along with their commander.

  “That’s the bad news, Dad. I am. Don’t worry, though … I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “Yeah … sure. Just like last time. Well, give me a call when you’re ready to squat down on the horse blankets and hammer out the details. Just do me a favor and don’t ever tell me what your commission is. Okay?”

  “It’s a deal. Over and out.”

  Phule shut down his communicator, drawing his first deep breath since the initial call on the aliens had come in.

  His commission. He hadn’t even thought about that. Wonder if the Zenobians had any need for the mineral rights to their swamps … here or within the territory they already controlled?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Journal #162

  While it is difficult to clearly define where one segment of my employer’s career ends and another begins, the first phase of his time with the Space Legion came to its climax, not with his encounter with the Zenobians, but with a “visit” from certain high-ranking members of the Legion Headquarters staff.

  It seems that, with the single-mindedness so typical of bureaucracies everywhere, they were less concerned with the results of my employer’s actions than with the methods and procedures he utilized to achieve them.

  * * *

  The general public was usually apathetic regarding the movements of the Space Legion—even its high-ranking officers. As such, the party from Legion Headquarters was more than a little surprised at the crowd of civilians waiting for them when they disembarked from the shuttlecraft at the Haskin’s Planet spaceport. Most were curiosity seekers, to be sure, but there was at least a token attendance from the fifth estate, as the party was quick to discover.

  “Jennie Higgens, Interstellar News Service,” the reporter announced, blocking the path of the first Legionnaire in the party with her body, microphone, and camera crew. “Is it true that you’re here to punish Captain Jester, the commander of the Space Legion company stationed here on Haskin’s Planet, for his recent confrontation with the Zenobians?”

  “No comment,” Colonel Battleax mumbled, trying to edge around the obstacle. Despite her criticisms of Phule’s activity with the media, the truth was she herself only had limited experience in dealing with reporters, and those encounters had left her wary and guarded in their presence.

  “But if Captain Jester is not going to be punished, why was he relieved of command and placed under house arrest right after that incident?” the reporter persisted.

  “The Space Legion felt it was its obligation to the citizens of the civilized planets we serve to suspend Captain Jester’s authority until an investigation could be conducted to determine the propriety, not to mention the legality, of his actions.”

  General Blitzkrieg was one of the three ranking officers who made up the board which governed the Legion. Though he was as startled as Battleax at their reception, he was also nearing retirement and quickly reached the decision that a little media exposure wouldn’t hurt his efforts to obtain postretirement employment. If nothing else, it might increase his chances of finding a publisher for his memoirs.

  “So your actual purpose here is to perform that investigation rather than to court-martial Captain Jester as rumored?” Jennie said, shifting her attention easily to the talker of the group.

  “That is correct,” the general said, “though we are prepared to convene a court-martial if the investigation warrants it.”

  Blitzkrieg had only meant to cover himself for when the anticipated court-martial took place, but the reporter pounced on his implication.

  “Could you tell our viewers why Captain Jester, who recently averted a potentially hostile alien invasion of the settlement here on Haskin’s Planet, might be subject to court-martial and discipline by the Space Legion?”

  The general leveled his best steely gaze at the reporter.

  “Young lady,” he said, “you are employed by the Interstellar News Service as a reporter … is that correct?”

  “Yes, I am,” Jennie answered firmly, though she was unsure where the question was leading.

  “Do you feel that position authorizes you to negotiate a peace treaty with an alien race, such as the Zenobians?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Higgens,” Colonel Battleax said, breaking her self-imposed silence, “but if, as a reporter—or in any other capacity—you were the first to make contact with a force of potentially hostile aliens, would you feel ju
stified to do or say whatever was necessary to remove the immediate threat to yourself and others, regardless of your actual authority?”

  “That will be enough, Colonel,” Blitzkrieg snapped before the reporter could answer. “I believe this interview is over, Ms. Higgens. We will release a formal statement of the Legion’s position upon the completion of our investigation.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode off toward the spaceport terminal, with Battleax trailing along behind.

  Bringing up the back of the party, Major Joshua made no effort to hide his grimace of distaste. He had been the silent witness to this argument between the colonel and the general for the entire trip here, and they seemed no closer to an agreement than when the voyage started. At least it would all be over soon, except that indications were that he would be placed in command of the Omega Company to oversee its dismantling and reassignment after the court-martial … for the general was determined that there would be one. The major viewed both these occurrences with equal lack of enthusiasm, yet both seemed inevitable.

  * * *

  “‘Saved the planet from an invasion by hostile aliens,’” Blitzkrieg fumed, mimicking the reporter’s voice. “Do you believe this bullshit?”

  “You must admit though, General, it’s a pleasant change to have the Legion getting hero treatment by the media, isn’t it?” Colonel Battleax said, unable to keep herself from twisting the knife a little.

  “It would be nicer if it were justified,” the General snarled irritably. “From the reports that were filed, the Zenobians were scared to death and just wanted to get back off-planet with their hides intact. To my thinking, that’s a far cry from an invasion.”

  Both the colonel and the major refrained from pointing out that the general himself had passed up numerous opportunities to correct the mistaken impression created and maintained by the media. By unspoken agreement, the Headquarters delegation was united in its desire to keep the favorable publicity generated for the Legion by the stories of the Zenobian “invasion.” What divided them was the question of whether or not they retain that impression while punishing the man who was at the focus of the incident. Battleax didn’t think it could be done … not that she had any real desire to punish Phule in the first place.