The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “This is good,” said Rube, unshouldering his heavy pack and putting it on the floor. Dukes made a sound that the translator turned into a murmur of agreement. Brandy wasn’t surprised. In his usual thorough research, Phule had satisfied himself that human-style beds would be suitable for Gambolt use. Otherwise, he would have spent whatever was necessary for sleeping arrangements as comfortable to the Gambolts as the best hotel beds were for the human troops in his command. It was Legion policy to give equal accommodations to troops of all races, but in most units, that meant equal discomfort. In Phule’s Company, it meant equal luxury, from top to bottom.

  The smallest Gambolt, Garbo, stood looking around the room without speaking. Finally, Garbo said, “Do all three of us have to share this room?”

  “Why, is there a problem?” Brandy was taken aback. To the best of her knowledge, the Gambolts did not segregate troops by sex in their own units—Phule had been careful to determine that was the case—and in any case, they attached no social significance to males and females sharing quarters. So, there had appeared to be no reason to set aside two suites for the new troops, when one large one was available. Besides, in a twenty-four-hour mission like casino security, it was common for roommates to end up on different schedules, with one needing to sleep while the others were up and active. The layout of the suite, with several separate rooms that could be closed off, took that possibility into account.

  “Yes, there is a problem,” said Garbo, turning to face her sergeant. “I joined this unit because I wanted to serve with humans, not to be set apart with others of my own kind. And here, at the very start, you are about to put me into quarters with the only others of my kind in your company. Isn’t there anyplace else I can be housed?”

  Brandy was surprised, but the request was reasonable. It was unusual for Gambolts to serve with anyone not of their own race. So, it wasn’t really surprising that a Gambolt who’d volunteered for a human outfit didn’t want to be housed with her own kind. It was a far cry from being the strangest thing she’d run across in the Legion. In fact, to most Space Legion veterans, it would have been suspicious if there hadn’t been something strange about a new batch of recruits …

  “All right, I can fix that,” Brandy said to the Gambolt. “But first, while we’re here—Dukes and Rube, you two have an hour to unpack your things. At 1500 hours, you’ll report to Sergeant Chocolate Harry at the supply depot to be outfitted. At 1600 hours, you and the other recruits will report to the Grand Ballroom for orientation and duty assignments. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the Gambolts said again.

  “OK. Garbo, let’s see if we can find you a room before 1500—I want everybody set up with rooms and duty assignments by then. It may mean you don’t have time to get completely settled in until later. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Garbo, shouldering her pack.

  “Good,” said Brandy. She thought to herself, They said these Gambolts make ideal soldiers. I wonder what’s wrong with them that they ended up in the Omega Mob? She remembered Phule’s determination to make his company an example of the Legion’s true potential. Maybe these Gambolt recruits were the next step toward making that determination a reality. We’ll find out soon enough, she thought, and headed down the corridor, with Garbo close behind.

  * * *

  Tusk-anini was perched on a stool near the entrance of the Fat Chance Casino when two humans in bad suits stepped up to him. Even Tusk-anini, who paid very little attention to human clothing styles, could tell that the suits were bad. Not only cheap and ill-fitting, but unattractive by design. They looked as ugly as the uniforms the Omega Company had worn before Phule’s arrival.

  “Excuse me, friend, can you direct us to the Fat Chance Casino?” said the taller of the two humans. He wasn’t that much taller, but the difference in height was the only marked distinction between them. They had nondescript faces, mousy brown hair in nearly identical unflattering short cuts, and extremely unstylish dark glasses. They also carried identical briefcases, in a sort of grayish dark material that had come out of a vat in some chemical plant. The briefcases were almost the same noncommittal color as the suits.

  “You standing in front of Fat Chance,” said Tusk-anini, cautiously. While neither of the humans had done anything in particular to alarm him, he had a bad feeling about them. One thing the Volton had learned during his association with humans was that feelings could be trusted. In fact, they sometimes gave you better answers than the most rigorous logical analysis.

  The shorter human looked up and noticed the sign and said, “Yes, so we are.” Now that he heard the voice, Tusk-anini realized that the shorter one was a female, a fact that the baggy suit and short haircut did much to conceal from the casual glance.

  The man spoke again, “Are you a casino employee?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Tusk-anini—not quite truthfully, for while the legionnaires had been brought to Lorelei to guard the casino, they had always been freelance contractors, not regular employees. Now, of course, as a member of Phule’s Company Tusk-anini was in fact a part-owner of the Fat Chance. A comparatively small part-owner, since every member of Phule’s Company also had shares, but put together the Omega Mob was the majority stockholder.

  “You’re just the sophont we need to talk to, then,” said the man. “We’re trying to gather information on the operation here. We’d like you to answer a few questions.”

  “Asking anything you want. I answer what I may,” said the Volton cautiously. He had begun to wonder whether these two humans were from a competing casino, or from one of the criminal organizations the Legion was here to guard against. His eyes narrowed, giving his warthog-like face an even fiercer expression than normal.

  “Maybe I should rephrase that,” said the man. He pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal a holo-ID, which he held up a few inches from Tusk-anini’s snout. Above his picture (which miraculously made him look even less attractive than he was in person) were the initials IRS; below it was written Roger Peele, Special Agent. “We’re in receipt of information to the effect that your employer is failing to report substantial amounts of income,” said Special Agent Peele. “If you impede a lawful investigation, you’re guilty of conspiracy to defraud a government agency. That’s a serious offense, in case you didn’t know it.”

  Tusk-anini abruptly stood up. This brought him to his full height, nearly seven feet tall, and put his enormous barrel chest nearly at eye level for the two humans. “You ask me betray Captain Jester!” he accused. “Tusk-anini no do that! Not right to betray the captain.”

  “Easy now, friend—you’re looking at this all wrong,” said the woman in a calm voice. “We appreciate your loyalty to your commander—that’s what makes the military work. But sometimes you have to look beyond that to a higher loyalty. Your captain has to report to his generals, and they report to civilian authorities. The Interstellar Revenue System is part of that civilian authority, a very important part of it. It’s your duty to cooperate with us.”

  “If captain say it my duty, I do it,” said Tusk-anini. “He not say it, I not do it. You go away now.” He took a step forward. His powerful physique and staring eyes made him a menacing figure. The two IRS agents involuntarily stepped backward.

  “Very well,” snarled Special Agent Peele. “We have more than one way to find out what we want. And you’d better hope your own nose is clean—because if it’s not, you’ll be in the same trouble as your captain.”

  “You call my nose dirty?” roared Tusk-anini, and at that the two IRS agents backed off still another step. “You go away and leave captain alone,” he repeated.

  “We’ve come here to do a job, the same as you,” said the woman. “We’re not going anywhere until we’ve finished it. When we do, it’ll go better for you if you’re on the right side, friend.”

  “Tusk-anini know what side he on,” growled the Volton. “You not on captain’s side, you not my friend. I
no like people who call me friend when they not.” He took another step forward, and this time the two IRS agents turned and hurried away.

  * * *

  “Captain! You’re just in time—you won’t believe what’s happened now.”

  Phule was hurrying down an inside corridor to the company’s command and communications headquarters to learn what progress was being made in the search for Sushi and the mysterious man he had disappeared with. But he turned at the sound of Dee Dee Watkins’s voice. He already knew that her problems usually required far more time and energy than they really deserved. But to ignore Dee Dee was to risk escalating the problem. “Yes, Miss Watkins?” he said, trying his best to look concerned.

  The tiny blonde entertainer was standing with her hands on her hips, looking as if she were prepared to challenge the entire fighting strength of Phule’s Company if it stood between her and what she wanted. Considering that she was wearing a little girl’s flowered pinafore and had her hair up in pigtails, her ability to project an air of menace was no small accomplishment. Perhaps she had some future as an actress after all, Phule thought to himself.

  “Take a look for yourself,” she said. “Lex has me wearing this ridiculous costume for the big closing number, all because he’s jealous of me, and he’s trying to sabotage my career.”

  Phule looked at the costume more closely. While it was clearly not designed to emphasize Dee Dee’s major assets, it more than made up in cuteness what it lacked in sex appeal. Even then, it fit snugly in the right places, and displayed a very satisfactory length of leg …

  He made himself focus on the starlet’s face. “I’m sorry, Miss Watkins, I’m afraid my military duties have eaten up too much of my time for me to keep up with what’s happening on the artistic side of the operation. If you’re asking my personal opinion, I don’t think you look at all ridiculous in the costume, but of course I’m no expert.”

  Dee Dee’s frown deepened, “Well, Captain, I’m disappointed. If you’d try …”

  Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a shout of “Stop him!”

  Before Phule could turn to see what the commotion was about, a small, dark-clad figure dashed out of a doorway leading back to the casino and cut directly between Phule and the actress, knocking them both off balance. A pair of uniformed legionnaires burst out of the same doorway at full speed. Somehow, they managed to avoid Dee Dee, but in the process they crashed into one another. One bounced off the wall and caught his balance against a small, potted frogwood tree, but the other went down—catching Phule directly in the legs. Dee Dee let out a piercing shriek as the captain landed on the floor.

  “Oh my God. Captain, I’m sorry, sir,” said the legionnaire who’d bounced off the potted plant. He rushed to help Phule upright, making little brushing motions as if to clean off the captain’s uniform.

  The legionnaire who’d knocked Phule down looked up with a dazed expression. His gaze paused for a moment on Dee Dee’s legs, but quickly moved upward when he realized whom he’d decked in his rush. He clambered quickly to his feet and stood at attention. “’Pologies, Cap’n,” he said.

  “No damage done, men,” said Phule, looking at the legionnaires. “Gabriel, what’s this all about?” he asked the one who’d helped him to his feet.

  “We spotted a spy, sir,” said Gabriel. “Right here in the Fat Chance.”

  “Gab’l sayin’ truth, Cap’n,” said the other. Phule recognized him as Street, Gabriel’s partner—a lean, tough man from the slums of Rockhall. He could speak fairly good Standard, but when he got excited—as he was now—his accent was so thick Phule could barely understand him. “He comin’ this way when we spot him. Bet for sure be followin’ you.”

  “He might be an assassin, sir,” said Gabriel, grim-faced.

  “An assassin?” Phule scoffed. “I doubt it. For one thing, whoever that was you were chasing had a perfect chance to do me in not thirty seconds ago, and didn’t. What makes you think he was a spy, anyway?”

  “Not so hard figurin’ that out,” said Street. “He the wrong species—ain’t no little lizards in the company. Got humans, got Tusk-anini, got a couple Synthians, hear we got some cats now. No lizards, Cap’n.”

  “Maybe he was a customer,” said Phule, still dubious.

  “Why he wearin’ our uniform, then?” asked Street. “He spyin’, you bet all you money on that.”

  Phule frowned. He hadn’t gotten a close look at the small figure that darted past him before he’d been knocked down, but it did have a distinct resemblance to a meter-high lizard—and it had been wearing Legion black. Perhaps Headquarters had sent an observer to keep an eye on him without letting him know …

  “Well, he’s gotten away for the moment,” Phule said. “You two men return to your posts, and keep your eyes open. I’ll tell Mother to alert everyone for a possible intruder, and …”

  “Got it already, darlin’,” came the voice from his wrist communicator. “Small lizardlike alien in Legion uniform on the loose—that shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

  “Good,” said Phule, musing. Hearing Rose’s description of the intruder set something itching in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite pin it down … Well, he’d figure it out soon enough. Meanwhile, he asked, “Any word on Sushi’s whereabouts?”

  “Nothin’ we can use, sweetie, but we’ve got other news. We found out we’d recorded his conversation with the man he fought. It’s in Japanese, but we’ve run it through a translator. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but Lieutenant Rembrandt’s all in a sweat—the poor girl thinks Sushi might be about to defect. Listen to this and see what you think.”

  Phule lifted the wrist communicator to his ear, and the recording started, but as he began to concentrate on it, Dee Dee stamped her foot. “Well! I come to you with a problem, and what happens? First, two of your men nearly knock me down, and then you act as if I’m not even here. I’ll have you know …”

  Phule’s concentration broke, and he looked down at Dee Dee, whose frown was deeper than ever. “Excuse me, Miss Watkins, I was listening to an intelligence report. If you’ll give me one moment …”

  “Give you a moment? Why, you haven’t given me so much as the time of day! Lex is trying to ruin my act, and all you have to say is …”

  “Captain, is trouble happening,” said Tusk-anini, coming around a bend in the corridor. He hurried up, ignoring the fuming Dee Dee and said, “Two humans looking for you—they try make me tell them things, but I no talk. I think they want make trouble.”

  “Trouble? What makes you think that?” Phule knew that anything that worried the usually taciturn Volton had to be serious.

  “They show me identification, say IRS,” said Tusk-anini. “I don’t know what that means, but Gnat tell me it big trouble, so I come tell you.”

  “IRS?” Phule repeated. “They can’t have anything on me—my records are immaculate. Beeker knows more about tax law than the people that wrote it.”

  “Captain! I’m not going to stand here and be ignored,” said Dee Dee in a voice that could have frozen the swimming pool in the hotel across the street.

  “Yo, sucker, you the boss here? We been lookin’ for your ass,” said a gruff voice from a medium distance. Three large humans came down the corridor, practically filling it. Two of them were males, to judge from the long, unruly beards. All three were wearing denim and leather covered with metal studs, chains, and patches. Their bare arms showed a variety of tattoos, but they had in common a large red “R” with blazing jets on either side. The man in the middle was almost as large as Tusk-anini. He wore a German-style helmet on his head, a brass ring in his nose, and several more in each ear—one in the shape of a human skull. They swaggered up and stopped in front of Phule, the leader (or so he appeared to be) less than an arm’s length away from the captain.

  Phule pulled himself up straight and said, “As you can see, I’m speaking to this young lady. I’ll be glad to listen to you people as soon as I�
�m done with her.” He turned back to Dee Dee, who had fallen silent upon seeing the three newcomers.

  “Tryin’ to get it on with the fox, huh?” The big man sneered. “That jive can wait—we got serious business. You know a cheap punk name of Chocolate Harry?”

  “Chocolate Harry no cheap punk,” growled Tusk-anini, moving in to stand at Phule’s side. “And you talk polite to captain, or you not like what happens next.”

  The three newcomers laughed. “Listen to the warthog,” said the woman—her voice was deep and rough, but unquestionably female. “He thinks he can tell the Renegades how to talk, he got another think comin’.”

  “So—you’re the Renegades,” Phule said. He’d heard C. H.’s tale of how a rival biker gang had vowed vengeance for some long-ago injury, but had never taken seriously the likelihood that they would actually track down his supply sergeant. Apparently, he’d miscalculated.

  “Damn straight, soldier boy,” said the big man. “Us and a few hundred others is the Renegades, and we’re looking for Chocolate Harry. Sounds to me like you and the warthog just might know where he is.”

  “If we do, it’s none of your business,” said Phule. “He’s a legionnaire, and you’d be better advised to forget whatever disagreement you have with him. We protect our own.”

  “Your own?” The woman spat on the floor, then grinned crookedly; Phule could see that she was missing several teeth. “You can call him your own, but his fat ass is ours, soldier boy. And you know what we gonna do when we get it?”

  “We gonna slice it three ways,” said the big man, leering evilly.

  The third man spoke for the first time, in a rasping low voice made even more sinister by his absolute deadpan delivery. “We gonna cut it deep, wide, and often.” He patted a sheath on the belt of his jeans, where the handle of a vibroblade could be seen.