The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “Oh, that’ll be just triff,” said the restaurant owner sarcastically. “He’ll lie and you’ll take his word for it, and I’ll end up springin’ for the doctor bills.”

  Phule stood up abruptly and said coldly, “You don’t know who you’re talking to, do you, Mr. Takamine?”

  “Sure I do,” sneered the restaurateur, drawing himself up to his full height—perhaps four inches shorter than Phule—and standing face-to-face with him. “You’re the captain of this here Legion company. And when it comes to a quarrel between Legion and us poor locals, Legion sticks up for its own. Nothin’ we can do but eat whatever shit you pile on our plate.”

  Phule put his finger in the middle of the man’s chest. “You won’t gain anything by using that kind of language, Mr. Takamine. I’ve offered to give you a chance to identify and confront the person you claim is responsible for the robbery and damage and for the injuries to yourself. Do you want to go ahead with this, or are you just here to make a disturbance?”

  “I’ll look,” said the man. “But I ain’t expecting much, I tell you for a fact.”

  Beeker led the policemen and Takamine to an outer office, where they could browse through the ID files. But Phule had a sinking feeling. The description of the legionnaire responsible sounded far too familiar. He’d thought the man had finally outgrown his penchant for getting into trouble with the law—at least, this kind of trouble. Well, if he had to teach the legionnaire a lesson, he’d do it, that was all.

  Phule was pacing nervously in front of his desk when the door opened and Beeker returned. “I’ve set the gentlemen up with the viewer and the appropriate files, sir,” he said. “I think we’ll have an answer soon.”

  “Good,” said Phule. “I assume you disabled all features except the image viewer? We don’t want these people looking into the confidential portions of the personnel files.”

  “I have done so, sir,” said Beeker solemnly. “But I’m afraid I know what the restaurateur will find.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Phule, shaking his head. “I’m disappointed, to tell you the truth. I thought Do-Wop had changed his ways. But the man they describe has to be him.”

  “Perhaps he only got better at concealing his misdeeds,” said Beeker implacably. “The young man’s code of ethics seems primarily to consist of Thou shalt not get caught.”

  Phule paced a few more steps, then turned and said, “Well, when they spot him, we’ll have to decide what to do with him.”

  “I should think that would be the local authorities’ problem, sir,” said Beeker.

  “No,” said Phule. “I can’t just turn a legionnaire over to civilian authorities. We take care of our own, and that means we discipline our own, too. But if these people don’t have a military tradition, they may not understand that. Why, we—” He was interrupted by the intercom.

  “Yes, Mother?” he answered.

  “Those two cops and the hash slinger are back, sweetie,” came the sultry, mocking voice. “They don’t look happy. Shall I send ’em in so you can cheer ’em up?”

  “I’m going to have to talk to them eventually,” said Phule. “Yes, send them in.”

  The trio of Landoorans marched in, all three with frowns on their faces. Takamine opened his mouth to speak, but one of the policemen signaled to him to keep quiet and turned to speak to Phule. “Captain, that’s the damnedest trick I’ve ever seen. I thought a holo ID was supposed to be impossible to jigger, but it looks as if your boy’s figured it out, just to stall us. But it’s not gonna help him. If he sticks his nose outside this hotel, we’re hauling him in and asking questions later. I’ve got the security vids, and I’ll make sure everybody on the force knows that face. Now that I think of it, I’ve seen him around a few times myself.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Phule. “Nobody’s jiggered those files.” He was convinced that he was right until a tickle in the back of his mind that reminded him that Sushi, Do-Wop’s partner, was the company’s leading expert at electronic chicanery. If anybody on Landoor could alter a holo ID picture, it would be Sushi—or somebody he’d given lessons.

  He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose again. “Let’s go see these jiggered pictures you’re talking about,” he said. He already had a very good idea what he was going to find when he got there.

  But he was wrong.

  Chapter Three

  “I told you these files had been jiggered with,” said the policeman disgustedly. “No such thing as identical eleventuplets, not when they’re from eight or nine different planets. That’s the face of the guy that robbed this citizen’s place and beat him up. I’ve seen the vids, and they’re pretty clear. Somebody’s put the same face on all those files. So which one of ’em’s the original?” He pointed at the holofiles, showing the faces of the company’s converts to the Church of the King.

  “It’s not that easy,” said Phule. “I think the original owner of that face has been dead for several centuries.”

  Mr. Takamine leapt up and threw his hands in the air. “What, you’re tellin’ me a dead man robbed me? That’s the biggest load of—”

  “I said no such thing,” said Phule, making shushing motions in hopes of calming the man down. “What I said was—”

  “It was just a trick to make me give up,” the man shouted. “You’re gonna tell me that just because I can’t pick the guy out from the picture, I can’t get no satisfaction.”

  “Sir, my employer has no intention of cheating you of your satisfaction,” said Beeker. “The fact is, these legionnaires are all members of some bizarre sect—”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exac’ly call it bizarre, sonny,” said a new voice at the door.

  “That’s the man!” shouted Takamine, turning to point to Reverend Jordan Ayres. “He’s the thug that robbed me! Arrest him!”

  The policemen moved menacingly toward the chaplain, who raised his hands and said, “Hey, easy there, gen’lemen. I ain’t done a thing to this little fellow, and I reckon I can prove it. Just when and where is all this supposed to have happened?”

  “Four days ago, in my restaurant over on Hastings Street,” the man said, still pointing at Rev. He stopped and frowned, then said, “You put on a hell of a lot of weight since then.”

  “Ain’t put on a gram,” said Rev, striking a pose. “I’ve been workin’ out with the fellows, gettin’ in shape with a little bit of karate, jes’ like the King—”

  “King?” said the complainant. “To hell with your king. We don’t have no kings here on Landoor and ain’t about to start—”

  “Son, you’re makin’ a mistake,” said Rev, warming to his favorite subject. “The King’s comin’ to Landoor, no doubt about it. Why, he’s already here, if you look around you. Every true follower—”

  “I’ll warn you, that sounds a lot like sedition to me,” said one cop. “Landoor’s got its own government, and we aren’t about to change.”

  “That’s right, sedition!” said Takamine, his face lighting up. “I knew this man was a troublemaker when I first laid eyes on him. That greasy hair, that sneer—”

  “But it weren’t me, I tell you,” said Rev.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, too,” said Phule. “There are at least eleven legionnaires who resemble this man, plus quite a few of your own citizens—”

  “Dozens,” said Rev confidently. “Before long, hundreds of thousands will want to follow the King.”

  “I’ve heard just about enough of that,” said the cop who’d accused Rev of sedition. “Mister, I don’t know whether you robbed this man or not, but I’m gonna take you down to the station for questioning.”

  “One moment, officer,” said Phule, whose checkered history in relation to Legion brass had made him a pretty good barracks-room lawyer. He stepped forward between Rev and the policemen. “The Legion will always cooperate with civilian authorities, but I can’t stand by and see my company’s chaplain hauled away on an unfounded
charge. If you file a formal complaint, a Legion board of justice will determine whether or not there’s been a breach of local law—”

  “What did I tell ya?” screamed Takamine. “The minute you pin one of these occupying goons down for some offense, the rest of them close ranks to protect him. I’m gonna write the governor and have ’em thrown off the planet. My cousin’s a big contributor to the Native Landooran Party. A big contributor.”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’?” said the cop, raising an eyebrow. “Look here, Mr. Takamine, the captain here thinks we’re trying to railroad his man, and even you seem to have some doubt it’s the right guy. What we gotta do—”

  The policeman was interrupted by a legionnaire who came into the records room and said, “Rev, Mother told me you were here—oh, hi, Captain. Can I talk to Rev a moment, or is this a bad time?” The legionnaire was one of Rev’s converts, and the facial resemblance was uncanny. His large name tag read Roadkill.

  “Howdy, son,” said Rev, and the thought crossed Phule’s mind, He can’t tell the converts apart either. Rev walked over to the legionnaire and put his arm around his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, you’ve come at the perfect time. Officer, I’d like you to meet my first line of defense.”

  The two policemen and the civilian complainant stood openmouthed, staring at Rev and Roadkill, their eyes shifting back and forth between the two. This is going to be more trouble than I expected, thought Phule. This time, he was right—but not quite in the way he anticipated.

  Journal #500

  The attempt to capture the robotic duplicate of my employer should have alerted the Fat Chance Casino’s security teams to the danger of a repeat attempt. Considering the value of the robot and the information that close examination of it would give to any of the underworld groups that still lusted to take over the casino, the failure of anyone to realize that such an attempt had taken place was inexcusable.

  Looking backward, the main reason for the failure was simple: The attempt had been such an abject failure that the robot itself had no inkling that anyone had even attempted to capture it.

  As for the would-be abductors, they were apparently just as clueless as the robot itself.

  * * *

  “He didn’t react at all,” said the dark-haired young woman with a noticeable pout. “I tried every trick in the book, Ernie. It was as if he was a damned robot or something.”

  “Well, Lola, maybe you ain’t as hot as you think,” said her partner with a sneer. He ducked under the roundhouse punch she threw at him and backed up a half pace, holding up his hands in mock-serious defense. It was an old game; the two of them had been trading insults and half-playful punches ever since they’d become partners. “What if he is a robot?” he asked after a moment’s reflection.

  “Well, of course he could be one,” she said, nodding. “That’s not impossible. But think about it. If Phule’s got somebody—or something—impersonating him, is the real Phule going to be running around on some half-jungle planet, getting shot at by the natives, or here in a first-class hotel, keeping tabs on his money? The robot’s gonna be the one out in the boonies. Do you know how much money he’s got sunk into this casino?”

  “I know how much I’ve sunk into it,” said Ernie, scowling. “I’ve lost enough to feed him and half his soldiers for a couple of days.”

  “He gets that from you and the same from a couple of thousand other suckers every day of the year,” said Lola, pacing the hotel room floor. “So the real Phule’s got to be right here, keeping an eye on his money. But I never thought he’d have the discipline to resist me when I put the moves on him. I guess that’s what it takes to run a casino and not gamble away the profits.”

  “His butler’s on that other planet, you know,” Ernie pointed out. He lowered himself into an armchair facing the holovision and picked up the remote control from a nearby table. “The reports claim he’s the brains behind Phule. So why’s he there instead of here?”

  “Because Phule wants everybody to think he’s really there,” said Lola, sitting on the bed and watching the holo picture shimmer into visibility. As usual, the default setting when the set warmed up was an advertisement for the Fat Chance’s various attractions, beginning with a close-up of Dee Dee Watkins impersonating a damsel in distress in a costume that managed to be revealing and vulnerable at the same time. Ernie let out a low whistle of appreciation, and Lola glowered at him. “Too bad you’re not the one I’m trying to kidnap; your hormones outvote the brain every time. I wish it was as easy to get Phule interested in a few square inches of skin.”

  “Hey, you can’t change human nature,” said Ernie, grinning. “Some guys are cold fish, like him. Other guys are natural lovers, like me. Which one would you rather have, babe?”

  “Believe me, you really don’t want to know the answer to that,” said Lola, staring at Dee Dee’s performance on the screen. The diminutive starlet was singing, “Where is my knight in shining armor?” Her dance routine had her pursued by several performers dressed as dragons, ogres, and trolls. The music changed, and onto the stage danced a heroic figure in holochrome armor to rout the evil creatures and carry Dee Dee off in triumph, still singing and smiling brightly at the cameras. “Say, there’s an idea,” she said. “It just might work, too.”

  “What might work?” said Ernie.

  She sat up and turned her gaze on Ernie. “Captain Phule’s a sucker for a damsel in distress. If he thinks I’m in danger, we can lure him off somewhere and nab him. So we have to make it look as if I’m in trouble and set it up so he’s the one who has to rescue me. And guess who gets to be the bad guy?”

  Ernie frowned. “I ain’t so sure I like this,” he said.

  “Like it?” Lola stretched like a cat waking up from a nap. “I don’t know whether you’ll like it, but I can guarantee you, you won’t like what happens if we don’t come up with some way to catch him before long. The guys that hired us don’t like spending the kind of money it takes to house us in the Fat Chance without getting some pretty convincing results for their payout. So if you’ve got any better strategy for catching our little prince, now’s the time to tell me.”

  Ernie frowned but said nothing. After a long moment, Lola nodded and said, “OK, then, here’s my plan …”

  After a few minutes of listening, even Ernie had to admit that it looked as if it might actually work.

  Journal #502

  General Blitzkrieg’s animosity toward my employer had become his driving passion. There were rumors that he had passed up several opportunities to take early retirement in hopes of finding a way to “pay off Jester once and for all,” as he had been heard to say. But when diplomatic circles began to bandy about the Zenobians’ request for Omega Company as military advisors, the general had to acquiesce in what the other Legion commanders saw as the first significant improvement in the Legion’s image in decades.

  That did not prevent him from trying to find ways to sabotage the mission. As quickly became apparent, he had more than one ace up his sleeve.

  * * *

  The intercom buzzed. Warily, Major Sparrowhawk answered, “Yes, General Blitzkrieg?” The general already had his coffee, his news printouts, and the other routine items he wanted first thing every morning. That meant he’d come up with a brainstorm, and General Blitzkrieg’s brainstorms meant trouble for Major Sparrowhawk. She might have to spend the next few hours carefully convincing him to change his mind.

  “Major, I want a search of Legion personnel files,” said the general. “I need a captain or a newly promoted major, somebody from an old-Legion, old-money background. Wouldn’t hurt if his family were hereditary nobility somewhere. And he’s got to be a stickler for regulations. Give me a dozen candidates, with full dossiers, hard copy, pronto.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She thought a beat, then said, “Male candidates only?”

  Blitzkrieg grumbled, then said, “I’ll consider a couple of females if they fit the other criteria, bu
t I think this is a job for a man. Oh, yes, and the younger and richer, the better.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She waited a beat, and when the general cut the connection, she began entering the search parameters. Idly she wondered what the general was working up this time. The search parameters were just odd enough that he had to have something particular in mind. Well, she’d find out soon enough.

  It was too bad she didn’t fit the criteria. Despite the general’s lip service to considering a female candidate, it was perfectly obvious that he wanted a male. So much for any dreams she might have had of engineering a transfer and getting out from under Blitzkrieg’s thumb.

  But she knew better by now than to hope for any such escape. Even in the unlikely case that Blitzkrieg approved the transfer, the other ranking Legion commanders would overrule it, knowing they’d have to ruin some other officer’s career to replace her. Nobody wanted the “opportunity” to be Blitzkrieg’s adjutant. Her chance to move on would have to await Blitzkrieg’s retirement—and she knew all too well that she wasn’t the only person in the Legion wishing for that particular event to come sooner rather than later.

  She entered the final search parameters and checked to make sure she hadn’t made any obvious errors. There was next to no chance that the general would notice any problems on his own unless the whole project blew up in his face, at which point, she’d get the entire blame. That was an implicit function of her position, minimizing the extent to which the general could foul things up by sheer laziness and inattention to detail. The general would still foul up plenty of things on his own, of course, but where it could be prevented, she was expected to do so. In five years on the job, she’d managed to prevent more than one disaster. Of course, it would only take one that slipped past her to ruin her career. But thinking about that was likely to give her ulcers, and so she did her best not to.

  At last, satisfied that she’d set up the program properly, she launched the search, then called up another window to take a look at her stock portfolio. Eventually, she’d be able to retire, and even if the general went down in flames and took her with him, she intended to have a safety net waiting when she did get out. She had a couple of stocks that had been sluggish of late; maybe it was time to sell them off and reinvest in something that moved faster. Her broker had mentioned a company marketing a mini antigrav unit that might be a good short-term investment. She studied the figures until the computer signaled that the general’s search was done, then printed out the results (Blitzkrieg always wanted hard copy) and took them into the inner office.