The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “But I no capisce,” said Tusk-anini, who had spent plenty of sessions listening to Do-Wop’s stories in the past. “That why I ask questions.”

  Do-Wop threw up his hands. “Jeez, cool it with the questions for a while, will ya? Now, where was I?”

  “Probably about halfway to getting yourself thrown in jail,” said a new voice, and Do-Wop looked up to see Sushi, standing there with a broad smile.

  “Yo, man, long time no see!” said Do-Wop, jumping to his feet and throwing an arm around his partner. “Last anybody heard, you was kidnapped by the Yazookas.”

  “Yakuza, and there was only one of them,” said Sushi, laughing as he returned Do-Wop’s hug. “And the guy didn’t kidnap me—we went off to transact some business. Which went exactly the way I wanted it to, I might add.”

  “Knowin’ you, it was some kind of monkey business,” said Do-Wop, who’d been a complete stranger to the subtler forms of chicanery before Phule had teamed him with Sushi. “You gonna tell us the story?”

  “Hey, you no finish your story!” protested Tusk-anini, as Sushi plopped himself in a vacant chair, signaling for the waitress.

  “Later, Tusk, later,” said Do-Wop, waving his hand at the Volton. “The man’s been runnin’ games, and I gotta know the score. Spill, buddy, spill!”

  Sushi leaned forward and began, “Well, I guess everybody’s heard about the start of it. I was on duty in the casino, in the blackjack section. The dealer spotted a couple of players passing cards …”

  “Sssst! Careful what saying, here comes spy!” said Tusk-anini.

  “Spy? Where?” Sushi looked puzzled.

  “Quiet, he’s coming this way,” whispered Super-Gnat, putting a hand on Sushi’s elbow. “Let us handle him, and we’ll tell you what it’s about later.”

  Sushi nodded just as Flight Leftenant Qual came up to the table. Agile as he was when running flat-out, his normal walking gait was a comic waddle. “Greetings, comrades,” said the little Zenobian. “May I join your gathering?”

  “Guess we can’t stop you,” muttered Do-Wop.

  “Ah, that must be humor!” said Qual. His translator gave out a strange sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, which might have been its attempt to render Zenobian laughter into human speech. Whatever the meaning, it did nothing to ingratiate him with the legionnaires.

  Qual pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table and seated himself between Tusk-anini and Do-Wop, both of whom cast baleful stares at him. “So, is this how Legion spends evenings?” he asked, looking around the group.

  “Who needs to know?” asked Do-Wop. His tone did not invite further discussion.

  Qual’s translator was not set to make fine distinctions between tones. “Pardon, did I not introduce myself? I am Flight Leftenant Qual,” he said, showing his teeth. “Military attaché from Zenobian Empire.”

  “We know who you are,” said Super-Gnat, her voice dripping icicles. “And we know what you’re here for, too.”

  “Excellent,” said Qual, slapping the table. “It is to be sympathetic, not so? Let this one purchase the next circle of drinks!”

  “No want drink,” said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowed.

  “Me neither,” said Do-Wop, though his glass was empty. He was not often known to pass up a round when someone else was buying. The others who’d been sitting at the table all indicated their refusal.

  The only exception was Sushi. “Well, I just got here, so I’m dry,” he said. “If you’re buying, I’m drinking.”

  “Excellent,” said Qual, slapping the table again. “I am doleful none of your comrades are thirsty, but perhaps some different time. I like your custom of having one bring the drinks—it makes more time for mingling than when each must go to the pool for itself.”

  “Assuming you want to mingle,” commented Super-Gnat, casting a significant glance toward Qual. “And now that I think of it, I guess I’ve had all the mingling I want tonight. Tusk, are you ready?”

  “Tusk-anini ready,” agreed the Volton, rising to his feet. He nearly brushed the ceiling, towering over the little Zenobian. “Good seeing most of you,” he said, and turned to follow Super-Gnat away.

  “Time for me to get ready for my third set,” said Dee Dee, standing up. One after another, the others at the table also made excuses and exited. Finally, only Sushi sat there with Qual, waiting for their drinks to come.

  “A shame so many had to leave,” said Qual. “I will simply have to get to know them some other time.”

  “So it would seem,” said Sushi. He pulled his chair up closer to Qual. “But there’s no reason for us to be strangers. Tell me, Flight Leftenant, what kinds of things are you most interested in finding out about our people?”

  “Why, almost everything,” said Qual, his teeth gleaming in the flickering barroom lights. “You are much unlike my race in many ways. To begin with …”

  The conversation stretched into the late hours.

  Chapter Seven

  Journal #310

  The key to happiness in life is timing. This is certainly true in finance: Sell stock early or late, and you will always blame yourself. The same is true in military affairs: A general who commits his reserves too soon may see them beaten back by an enemy still strong, and one who delays is likely to find the battle already lost. Even a thing as trivial as entering a room can be done at better and worse times.

  My employer had the knack of good timing. Perhaps it was inherited—his father had certainly been adept at timing the introduction of new products. Or perhaps young Phule had simply inherited a more mysterious, but even more useful, trait: the ability to convince everyone around that what one has just done was precisely the right thing to do at that particular time.

  “Too good?” Armstrong guffawed. “Some of our troops are too good? That’s the first time this company’s been accused of that!”

  “Lieutenant, I sincerely hope it’s not the last time,” said Phule, pacing behind his desk. “But if Brandy says it’s a problem, I want to hear about it. Sergeant?”

  Brandy had an unaccustomed worried look on her face. “Well, Captain, those Gambolts are so good that the other recruits can’t keep up with them. I ask for a hundred pushups, and they finish them before the rest have done twenty. We practice unarmed combat and nobody can touch ’em. We haven’t run the obstacle course yet—it’s still being set up, over in the park—but I’ll bet my stripes that when we do run it, the Gambolts will make everybody else look sick.”

  Armstrong let out an appreciative whistle. “Great. This company’s needed somebody to set an example for our people. Now the rest have something to emulate.”

  “Except they can’t,” said Brandy, shaking her head. “They might as well try to outrun a laser beam. Any time speed or strength or agility makes the difference, the cats have the humans completely outclassed. And the whole training platoon is starting to get discouraged. Unless we can figure out something, their morale’s going to go straight down the pipes, Captain.”

  “It seems to me we had this same problem right after I came to the unit,” said Phule. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, leaning forward. “It was the obstacle course that gave us all the answer, if you’ll remember.”

  “Sure, I remember,” said Brandy. “That turned the whole company around—showing us that working as a group we can accomplish things that only a few of us can do by ourselves.”

  “The recruits need to learn that lesson,” said Phule. “And I think the Gambolts especially need to learn it. But for it to work, we’ll have to change the exercise a little. Tell me what you think about this idea …”

  He went to the sketchboard and began outlining a variation on the Omega Mob’s obstacle course exercise. At first Armstrong and Brandy were skeptical, pointing out flaw after flaw. Phule adapted his plan in response to their objections, and soon the three were working together, eagerly designing the new exercise. It was late at night when they declared it ready, but they were convinced t
hey had the answer.

  Still, the whole plan depended on the new troops rising to the occasion. So far, there’d been no sign they were capable of it. Unless that changed, Phule’s Company was in danger of returning to the mediocrity from which it had risen.

  * * *

  “What the hell’s going on over there?” Maxie Pruett gestured toward the Fat Chance Casino. The gesture was unnecessary; everyone in the room knew exactly what she was referring to.

  “As far as I can tell, Boss, not a damn thing,” said Altair Allie. Maxie had sent Allie to keep an eye on the Fat Chance as soon as she’d heard that her plans for Phule’s Company were ripening. “There was that one day when all hell broke loose, with the Yakuza guy starting a fight, and the little lizard playing chase through the casino, and the tax collectors and bikers showing up, and then nothing. The Army guys are acting like it’s all routine.”

  “Not Army—Space Legion,” said Laverna.

  “Legion, schmegion,” said Altair Allie with a dismissive wave. “They got guns and uniforms, and that’s Army enough for me. Point is, they’re acting like nothin’s wrong.”

  “Precisely,” said Laverna. “They’ve announced a major training exercise scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Open to the public—we’ll be watching, of course. In fact, I plan to go see it myself. Still, they’re carrying on as if they hadn’t noticed any of the aggravation we’ve been sending them. We pulled a lot of strings to give them all that grief. Greased quite a few palms, too.”

  “And I expected a hell of a lot more effect,” said Maxie, with a fierce frown. “They ought to be worried … No, more than that. Under that kind of pressure, they ought to be sweating bullets. What’s wrong?”

  “The Yakuza agent shipped out two days ago,” said Laverna. “He and the woman who came with him left without contacting us, so we don’t know what happened there. But the impostor they came looking for is still very much alive.”

  “That’s right, I seen him in the Pub last night,” said Altair Allie. “Didn’t look like he’d lost any sleep lately.”

  Maxie’s frown deepened. “What about the Renegades?”

  “They’re still hangin’ out,” Altair Allie answered. “No action yet, far as I see. But part of the hotel is closed off to outsiders now, and it didn’t use to be. It could be they’re hidin’ some new secret weapon or somethin’, but I’d lay you two-to-one that big mug Chocolate Harry—the one the bikers are after—is hidin’ out there.”

  “Well, if he is, he has to come out sooner or later,” said Maxie, nodding. “All we have to do is keep those Renegades around to nail him when he does. And that won’t be hard. A free first-class hotel room and meals on the house are a pretty good incentive, don’t you think?”

  “I’d hang around for that,” said Altair Allie. “But not gettin’ any action might get to ’em after a while.”

  “If they get antsy, we’ll stir up some action for ’em,” said Maxie. “A good old-fashioned smoke bomb in the right place can scare a lot of people out of hiding …”

  “Legionnaires aren’t a lot of people,” said Laverna, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t bet on that kind of trick working.”

  “And since when did you become such a legionnaire fan?” Maxie snapped. “Is that fancy-dressing butler sweet-talking you into double-crossing me?”

  “You know better than that,” said Laverna. “You pay me to tell you the truth, and that’s what you’re getting from me. The next time I pull my punches will be the first time.”

  “I didn’t say you were pulling your punches. I said you were taking the Legion side,” Maxie retorted, standing up and walking around the table. She aimed a finger at Laverna from point-blank range, and bellowed, “If you double-cross me, you’re finished. Got it?”

  “I knew that a long time ago,” said Laverna, still calm. Her nickname, the Ice Bitch, had never seemed more appropriate. “I’m not under any illusions; my only insurance is being too useful for you to do without me. That’s what I’m doing now—telling you something you need to know. I shouldn’t even have to tell you—you should remember the last time you tried to play rough with Phule’s people. You don’t want to see what they can do if they get really angry—as I’m certain they would if you flushed Chocolate Harry out of hiding for the Renegades to catch.”

  “I didn’t say anything about doing it ourselves,” said Maxine. “I figured we might drop a little hint here or there …”

  “I know what you meant, and so do you,” said Laverna. “Do what you want to do—that’s your usual way, anyhow—but don’t pretend you’ll like all the consequences. You might even try not to get angry at me for warning you.”

  Maxine glowered, but nodded. “OK, I get the idea. All right, then. We won’t poke up that hornet’s nest. Besides, we still have the IRS on his tail. Allie, any report on them?”

  “They’re poking around and asking people questions, but that’s about it,” said Altair Allie. “That’s their game, though. Pop up out of nowhere with a piece of paper that says you owe ’em everything you got. If soldier boy ain’t playing by their rules, he’s a goner. And there ain’t nobody in the casino game can play it straight enough for them buzzards—not and still make a buck, they can’t.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Maxine. “Well, now that they’re on to him, we’ll have to let them play it their way. And hope they don’t notice anybody else on Lorelei.”

  “Present company, for instance,” said Laverna grimly. Maxine looked at her intently, but the Ice Bitch’s face betrayed no sign of emotion. Perhaps it was only an offhand comment—and perhaps it was a subtle hint that Laverna might have other kinds of insurance against her boss than she’d admitted. Whatever it was, Maxine didn’t like it one bit. But there wasn’t much she could say about it, for the moment.

  * * *

  “You bastards don’t have any right to do this,” shouted Gears, as two stone-faced bouncers unceremoniously hustled him out of the Three Deuces. Neither bouncer answered. At the doorway, they picked him up between them, gave him a couple of warm-up swings, and tossed him bodily into the street. He landed in a heap, but rose quickly to his feet, turning with raised fists to confront his adversaries. Too late: They’d faded back inside the door, not even waiting to see if he’d try to return.

  Gears stood for a moment, pondering what he should do next. He wasn’t drunk enough—though he was nearly angry enough—to charge back in and confront the bouncers. That game had only one likely outcome. He patted his jacket pocket. His wallet was still there, where the bouncers had shoved it after frog-marching him over to the cashier to collect his winnings. They’d cashed his chips honestly enough, then stuffed the money into his wallet and given him the heave-ho. But they’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome to gamble in the Three Deuces again. No gambling house likes system players, especially not when their system actually wins.

  What now? he asked himself. It was late—not that that made any significant difference on Lorelei, where the casinos and saloons were open round-the-clock, ready to take a sucker’s money any time he appeared. But it did make a difference to Gears, who had to be ready for duty back at the Fat Chance in just under four hours. Some of that time ought to be spent sleeping—if he wasn’t going to nod off on duty, and get yelled at by Chocolate Harry, which he wasn’t anxious to try.

  He sighed and looked down the street toward the Fat Chance, then shook his head. His luck was hot tonight—even with a system, you needed luck to win big. Tonight, the dice had been coming up right. It would be a shame to quit when everything was in the groove. He turned the other way, and went looking for another casino.

  Next thing he knew, he was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, with dimmer lights and fewer people than the ones he normally frequented. Belatedly, it crossed his mind that it might not be as safe, either …

  That was when a large, dark shadow loomed from a nearby alleyway, and a gravelly voice said, “You just found the wrong part of town, buddy.”


  “Who’s that?” said Gears, suddenly aware that he and this newcomer were the only ones on this side street.

  “I’m not stupid enough to tell you that,” said the stranger, in a surprisingly reasonable tone of voice. In the dim light, Gears could see that he was dressed in workman’s clothing, and muscled like a man used to heavy physical work. He was also very big. The stranger stepped closer and said, “The less you know about who I am, the less you can tell.” He reached out a huge paw. “Just give me your money and it’ll go easy with you.”

  “No way in hell,” said Gears, and he spun away from the man, already breaking into a run. He remembered an open saloon at the next street corner; he’d go there and call the Fat Chance for backup.

  He’d barely taken two steps before something slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. His breath went out of him in a rush as the attacker landed on top of him, and the gleam of a blade in the other man’s hand put a stop to any idea of fighting back. “What’s the hurry, sonny boy?” said a voice in his ear. “We ain’t done talkin’ to ya.”

  “You really should have given me the money,” said the big man, kneeling down next to Gears. His voice sounded genuinely sad. “Now you’ve got my friend involved, and he’s a lot nastier than I am.”

  “That ain’t no way to talk, Chuckie,” said the second assailant. “You’re likely to make sonny boy think we don’t like his kind hereabouts. Truth is, we likes ’em fine.”

  “Long as they aren’t stingy with their money, that is,” said Chuckie. “OK, tourist, my friend’s going to let you get to your money so you can hand it over, and then we’ll all go our separate ways. Now, don’t make any tricky moves. I don’t think you want to find out what he likes to do with that vibroblade.”

  The second man sat up; this took his weight off Gears’s chest and arms, but kept his legs pinioned. The blade hovered over his unprotected belly. “You heard Chuckie,” he said. “Give us the money and nobody gets hurt.”