The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “That’s the attitude I like,” said Brandy, stopping to eavesdrop on the conversation. “It figures Do-Wop starts griping about a place before he even gets there.”

  “Ah, give us a break, Top,” said Do-Wop, looking up with a hurt expression. “A guy’s got a right to gripe a little bit, ain’t he?”

  “Sure, gripe all you want,” said Brandy. “But don’t expect anybody to give you any sympathy if it turns out you actually like the place.” She grinned and went on her way to the dessert counter.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” said Do-Wop, as the others at the table laughed.

  “I don’t know for sure,” said Super-Gnat, “but I think it means she expects you to piss and moan no matter what’s going on.”

  “Well, sure,” said Do-Wop, puzzled. “What else is a guy supposed to do to pass away the time?”

  The others at the table laughed again.

  * * *

  “So you’re going away,” said Laverna. She and Beeker sat in a softly lit back booth in the Tumbling Dice Casino’s Domino Bar. The other tables near them were empty; this time of afternoon, most of the casino’s customers were at the gambling tables. Anybody who wanted a drink could have it delivered to the floor. That made this a perfect spot for a quiet talk.

  “My job is moving to another planet,” said Beeker, shrugging. “I can’t very well do anything but go with it.”

  Laverna toyed with her glass. “I don’t believe that for one minute,” she said, staring at the butler. “You could retire right now and be comfortable for life. Don’t bother to deny it—I looked it up after a few things you said, and I know just how much you have. You’re not going to be buying a private asteroid as your retirement home, but you’re not going to miss that regular paycheck, either. So, you damn well could stay here, if you felt like it.”

  “I suppose so—although this place is hardly my ideal retirement home.” A few bars of brassy music came over the sound system as Beeker paused, weighing his words carefully. He continued, “Since you make no secret of having looked into my financial state, I will admit having researched yours. It appears to me that there is no financial reason for you to remain with your employer, either.”

  “No financial reason,” said Laverna. She lowered her head, then looked up at Beeker. “Still, I won’t be buying that ticket any time soon. I think you know what I mean, Beeker.”

  “Yes, I understand what you are saying,” said Beeker. “Let me point out that, if you really wish to leave, there are ways it can be done. Once you are off-station, it becomes that much easier for you to disappear.”

  “Yes, if I don’t mind spending the rest of my life hiding,” said Laverna. She shook her head. “I’d mind that less than most, I suppose—time to read all the books I’ve never had time for, time to try writing something of my own. I’ve never lived the kind of life that attracts attention. But that’s not the problem. I know too much, and Maxine can’t afford to let me out of her control. Even if she were gone …”

  “Her successors would worry about what you might reveal—or might be made to reveal, if you turned against them. And the successors would have no personal ties to you to make them hesitate.” Beeker leaned forward and lowered his voice so the music prevented his words from being heard beyond their table. “Still, if you wanted to try, my employer and the Space Legion have resources beyond those of any private person.”

  Laverna was quiet for a long moment before saying, “And why should Phule use those resources for my benefit? You don’t expect me to believe he’ll do it out of benevolence—or because you have asked him to help me. As for the Legion—I don’t really think I’m the sort to join—not at my age, anyhow.”

  “Actually, there’s rather a tradition of people joining the Legion because they want to escape the past,” said Beeker with a thin smile. He sat back up and looked around at the garishly decorated room, before leaning forward and continuing. “In my employer’s unit, at least, the food and accommodations are as good as in any luxury hotel—and the retirement plan is actually rather good. Granted, the work is sometimes dangerous … but you’re used to that, of course.”

  “Stop it,” whispered Laverna. “You’re starting to sound like a recruiting sergeant.” She peered at him intently. “You don’t really mean it, do you?”

  Beeker steepled his fingers. “I merely offer it as an alternative to staying here, recognizing as you do that eventually someone will decide that you know more than is good for them. As an intelligent and perceptive woman, you must have given some thought to making your escape before that moment comes. It seems to me that now, with your employer’s influence waning and competitors beginning to circle, is as logical a time as any. But of course you have to judge the moment for yourself.”

  Laverna’s eyes looked from one side to the other, making certain nobody was within hearing distance. “You know, Beeker, you might be right about that,” she said. “I’m not going to make any decisions on the spur of the moment, you understand. But you have given me something to think about.”

  “Don’t think too long about it,” said Beeker. “The opportunity won’t be here much longer, you know.”

  “I know,” said Laverna, and she fell silent. The music system was playing a sinuous minor-key dance tune from two decades ago, music from when they’d both been young. An innocent time, before either had known much responsibility.

  The conversation, when it resumed, moved on to other things.

  Chapter Eight

  Journal #329

  The average visitor to Lorelei never even learned the location of Gladstone Park, let alone set foot in it. It was not one of the space station’s leading tourist attractions—in fact, it was not designed for tourists at all. Its official function was to supplement the station’s air-recycling system, cleaning the excess CO2 from the atmosphere and replacing it with fresh, organically generated oxygen. The chemical processors were as close to perfect as to make no difference, but many customers persisted in believing that air “naturally” cleaned by twenty square kilometers of trees and grass was somehow better than the “artificial” stuff the recyclers produced.

  Had it been their choice, the casino owners would have had no compunction about digging up the grass and trees and replacing it with a few more casinos. After all, it contributed nothing to the station’s economy, which was almost entirely gambling-based. The tourists who’d come to Lorelei wanted artificial light and late hours and the frantic hustle-bustle of money changing hands. Just knowing that the park existed was a sort of security blanket for them. Very few tourists wanted to actually go there.

  But the full-time residents—the workers in the hotels, casinos, bars, and restaurants—needed someplace to unwind, someplace they could look at a green surface other than the top of a craps table. A croupier might find it rejuvenating to ride a bicycle on his day off, and a cocktail waitress might enjoy sitting on a bench and resting her eyes by looking at flower beds. Even the bosses found the park a great place to take the workers for a corporate outing, to display their benevolence by setting out an opulent spread, and to prove that they still had the common touch by getting out on the field for a pickup gravball game with the employees …

  Shortly after its arrival on the space station, Phule’s Company had begun making regular use of Gladstone Park for training exercises. Its variety of “natural” terrain, from dense woods to open meadows to rocky hillsides made it a useful simulation of conditions likely to be encountered planetside on many worlds. After all, Phule had no illusion that the company’s assignment to Lorelei was a permanent one. He knew that sooner or later, the Legion’s top brass would give Omega Company an assignment that put it to the utmost test. When the call came, Phule wanted his legionnaires to be ready for it.

  But today was a special exercise—not least because so many spectators had come. It was not unusual for a small group of Lorelei’s inhabitants to observe the legionnaires’ maneuvers. Some of these, Phule
knew, were spies for rival casinos trying to spot some weakness in the troops guarding the Fat Chance Casino. He accepted the challenge and made sure the show was always sufficiently daunting to discourage anyone foolish enough to think about taking over the casino by force—not that any had been willing to make the attempt, after the convincing defeat of Maxie’s bid.

  Today, though, the exercise had been publicized, and had drawn a good crowd of curiosity seekers anxious to get a glimpse of the legendary Gambolts. The publicity had stressed the cat-like aliens’ reputation as the finest troops in the galaxy, as well as being the first Gambolts to volunteer to serve in a unit with other species. The publicity had not mentioned Phule’s plans for the exercise. Since such plans were not usually announced in advance, nobody thought to comment on it.

  Phule looked down at the gathering crowd from atop a portable observation tower the legionnaires had constructed to one side of the exercise field. There among the spectators were the three Renegades, peering intently at the Space Legion troops assembling below his position. Looking to see if Chocolate Harry has come along, he thought. Of course, the supply sergeant had been excused from today’s activities. C. H. would have to deal with the Renegades eventually—that was a given—but Phule was not going to force him to abandon his defenses. The confrontation, when it occurred, would take place on ground of Harry’s choosing. Phule thought he knew how to manipulate the outlaw bikers onto that territory. That was, in fact, one purpose of today’s exercise.

  He scanned the crowd with his stereoculars (not the mil-spec Legion-issue model, but a custom set from Optronix Ltd., with extra memory for stored images and enhancements for infrared, glare reduction, and infinite focus). Right away, he spotted two more familiar faces: reporter Jennie Higgins and holophotographer Sidney, covering the show for Interstellar News Services. Phule’s Company had been hot media fare ever since the commanding officer’s flamboyant style had come to Jennie’s attention. The resulting attention had been a mixed blessing, but on the whole Phule was glad to have had it. Better a reputation you had to strive to live up to than one you wished you could live down.

  There were other familiar faces among the spectators, too. There were half a dozen he recognized as security chiefs for rival casinos, undoubtedly here to pick up hints on his troops’ capabilities. And despite her official abandonment of the attempt to run Phule out of business, Maxie had sent her assistant Laverna to view the happenings—or perhaps she had come on her own, although she didn’t give the impression of being the outdoor, spectator sports type.

  On the other hand, the crowd was full of the spectator sports types, most of whom had come to be entertained—and to bet on whatever was about to transpire. Several bookies had set up impromptu stands, ready to set odds and cover wagers. (It didn’t matter that the exact details hadn’t been announced; there was bound to be something to bet on, and somebody willing to risk a few units on the outcome.) Phule smiled; once the crowd saw what he had in mind, the bookies would be swamped with business. He was almost tempted to send Beeker over to place some bets on his behalf, but there was little point to it. Any bet large enough to be interesting would skew the odds to the point that he’d get a minuscule return—assuming the bookies were willing to cover it in the first place.

  And, reluctant as he was to admit it, it wouldn’t be a sure return. He was gambling—even without placing bets, he was gambling—on a system that was about to be put to its most strenuous test. It had been risky enough to pit his whole company against the Red Eagles, the Regular Army’s elite company. Now he was pitting raw rookies against Gambolts, the most respected fighters known. He’d find plenty of bettors willing to go against him—and it was not going to be a sure thing.

  “Everything’s set, Captain,” said a voice at his elbow.

  Phule awoke from his musing with a start; he hadn’t even seen Brandy approaching. “Good work, Brandy. No point keeping all these people waiting, then. Let’s get it started!”

  “Right, Captain!” Brandy turned to the small group of uniformed figures waiting a short distance away, and barked out her orders. “Gambolts—front and center!”

  The three Gambolts moved gracefully through the ranks of legionnaires and came to attention.

  “The obstacle course is designed to build the confidence of the entire unit,” said Brandy, speaking for the onlookers’ ears as well as for her troops’. “This company has its own special way of running the course, and you’ll learn that in due time. But today we have a special exercise for our new members. Flight Leftenant Qual, our Zenobian military attaché, will be assisting us. Are you ready, Leftenant?”

  “Ready, Sergeant Cognac,” said the Zenobian’s translator as the little lizardlike alien stepped forward, his teeth displayed in what Phule knew was intended as a smile, but which most of the spectators instinctively flinched away from. Those who paid attention to such details would have noticed that Qual was wearing not his regular dress uniform, but black fatigues and running shoes.

  Brandy turned to the three Gambolts again. “The Leftenant will run the course, and we will give him a three-minute head start. Then you three will try to capture him and bring him to the finish line. He will attempt to reach the end under his own power. You will take every precaution not to injure one another, but short of that, all tactics are legal. Any questions?”

  The Gambolts shook their heads—a gesture they’d picked up from their human counterparts since joining the Legion. “Good,” said Brandy. “Leftenant, start when you’re ready.”

  “Bonsai!” shouted the Zenobian, and he took off down the course.

  Brandy watched him take off, then turned back to the troops. “Oh yeah, we forgot to tell you one other detail about this exercise. Three minutes after you Gambolts start, the rest of the recruits will follow you. It’ll be their job to prevent you from capturing the leftenant. Again, anything they want to do is legit, as long as nobody’s trying to hurt the others.”

  Surprise blossomed on the recruits’ faces. “Sergeant, is this some sort of joke?” said Mahatma. “Of course, we’re going to give this our best try. But we’ve seen what these Gambolts can do. They’ll be at the finish, with Leftenant Qual in tow, before most of us have cleared the first barrier.”

  “Don’t give up before you start,” said Brandy, her eyes fixed on her chronometer. Qual was barreling down the course, showing the same agility he’d demonstrated while leading Phule’s legionnaires in a not-so-merry chase through the hotel. “Two minutes to go.”

  “Qual may have enough of a head start to get there before the Gambolts can catch him,” muttered one of the other recruits. “That’s our best chance of winning.” Several heads in the ranks nodded in agreement.

  Meanwhile, the crowd had grasped what was going on, and was rapidly trying to place bets before the issue was settled.

  “That lizard’s quicker than a flash,” said one spectator. “I got fifty says he gets to the end before the cats catch him.”

  “I’m offering two-to-one on the lizard, even money on the cats,” replied the bookie he’d approached.

  “No way, you gotta give me three-to-one!” Because of the Gambolts’ formidable reputation—and reports of Garbo’s quick capture of Qual in the Fat Chance lobby—the heaviest betting was on the Gambolts. Soon, Qual’s supporters were getting odds of five- or six-to-one. Nobody seemed to consider the human recruits a serious factor.

  “One minute,” said Brandy. The Gambolts were stretching their muscles, limbering up for the run. Like the rest of the recruits, they would be carrying full packs for the run—a tradition Phule had insisted on, even though it apparently gave the Gambolts an even greater advantage over the human rookies. Pound for pound, their catlike bodies possessed more raw strength than even the best-trained human athlete could match.

  Suddenly one of the onlookers let out a gasp. “Look! The lizard’s stopped!” he shouted, pointing down the course. Sure enough, after covering approximately a quarter of the di
stance, Qual had come to an open area, stopped, and was now sitting down on the ground in the middle of it.

  “What the devil is he doing?” said one spectator, who’d been betting heavily on the Zenobian. “Is he worn out, or has he gone plumb crazy?”

  “It’s a fix!” yelled another bettor. “I want my money back!”

  “No way, buddy,” said the bookie who’d taken his wager. “You can’t afford to lose, don’t bet your money. Anybody wants to hedge their bets, I’m givin’ two-to-five on the cats.”

  “Gambolts go!” barked Brandy, and almost as if flung from a catapult, the three Gambolts were streaking down the course, making an incredible pace without showing any strain at all. All three had their eyes on Qual, who lounged almost insolently in plain sight a short distance down the course. Some bettors turned to admire the Gambolts’ speed and grace, but others were waving wads of money at the bookies. Within less than a minute, the odds had dropped to one-to-ten. The bookies did their best to stall these bettors, trying to accommodate the few suckers still willing to bet on the underdog Qual.

  “OK,” said Brandy, seeing the Gambolts well down the course. She turned to face the recruits and put her fists on her hips. “Listen up, people,” she barked. “You’re Legion, now, and what’s more, you’re Omega Mob, and that means family. We run the obstacle course our own way, and you’re gonna see that right now.” She reached to her chest and grasped a whistle hanging from a lanyard, put it to her mouth, and blew a shrill blast.

  Out of the crowd, where they’d mingled unnoticed in mufti, came the Omega Mob. Not all of them—the guard detail at the Fat Chance had to be kept up to strength—but enough to multiply the strength of the recruit’s squad tenfold. “This is your family,” said Brandy. “We all run together—officers, NCOs, recruits, humans, Synthians, Gambolts—everybody. Let’s show ’em how we do it.”

  Nobody bothered to ask whether the Gambolts’ three-minute head start had expired. The spectators watched, open-mouthed, as the Omega Mob, with Phule and Brandy in the lead, surged forward, and the new recruits were swept up with them.