The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “Yeah, it was weird,” she said solemnly. “He heard my voice and answered my questions, but he kept looking around for me, like I was hiding from him or something. And now that I think about it, some of his answers didn’t, like, totally add up.”

  “Yes, they did not totally total,” said Qual. “I spoke to him, and it was as if we were of different species.”

  “Weird,” said Sushi without looking up from his work. He twisted two wires together, then said, “Let’s see if I’ve got it right.”

  He turned on the translator’s power switch, leaned close to hear if the speaker was on, then booted up the Port-a-Brain. Nothing happened.

  “Aaah, bad luck,” said Brick. “Back to the blank screen, huh?”

  Sushi was unperturbed. “Nah, I turned it off when I made the modifications. Now I’ve got to go back to the program that was up when we found it. I saved the settings. Let’s see …” The display changed rapidly as he entered a series of commands. “OK, let’s see what we get here,” said Sushi, and hit a key.

  The translator’s speaker emitted a low warming-up buzz, then broke into articulate sounds. “Intersystem Sklern—two thousand at nineteen. Please instruct concerning exercise of pets. Research P/E on Pickup Pizza Ltd. Common. Do you receive signals? Trantor Entertainment Preferred—hold until forty-five, then sell five hundred. We will take five hundred. Mark Pickup Pizza Ltd. Common to buy below ten …”

  The legionnaires listened for a moment, then Sushi turned to his companions and grinned. “Hey, guess I know what I’m doing after all.”

  “Acclamations, Sushi,” said Qual, showing all his teeth. “At long last, the Hidden Ones speak to us!”

  “Triff,” said Brick. “But what the hell are they talking about?”

  “The captain had the computer automatically checking and trading his stocks on the net,” said Sushi. “It’s sending out commands, and the Hidden Ones obviously thought it was trying to communicate to them. I’d guess they’ve been trying to get it to respond to them, and it’s been carrying on the original program, of course. Now that we’ve got the communication channel open, we can try to start them talking to us instead of to the Port-a-Brain.” He turned to Qual. “Leftenant, you’re the officer in charge. What do we want to say to them?”

  “Why, that is obvious,” said Qual. “Where is the human known as Beeker?”

  “OK, you’ve got it,” said Sushi, and he began entering commands as the rest of them looked on expectantly.

  * * *

  The unidentified ship was dropping rapidly, and the legionnaires in their defensive positions kept a wary eye out for possible hostile action on its part. “If it was gonna launch missiles, it woulda done it ’fore it cleared the horizon,” said one private.

  “Yeah, but laser beams are line-of-sight,” Brandy reminded him. “Stay low, and be ready to move when I tell you.”

  “Can you make out what model it is?” Lieutenant Snipe asked Armstrong, who was still tracking it with his stereoculars. From the corner of his eye, Snipe saw one of the Synthians whiz down the defensive line on a glide-board, wearing a bizarre helmet and carrying some kind of huge weapon.

  “Not yet; still too much atmospheric distortion,” said Armstrong. “She’s midsized is all I can really tell.” He looked at Snipe and said, “If you went over to Comm Central, Mother may have been able to raise them. Maybe they called for authorization to land or something sensible like that.”

  Snipe nodded, trying to decide what to do. He skipped aside as Chocolate Harry roared by on his hovercycle, leaning over the handlebars with an expression that meant business. Major Botchup had been monitoring the electronic traffic, so he should have picked up any such communication—and the major had not changed his orders. Snipe shook his head and said, “The CO will tell us if there’s any word on that front. For now, stay ready for anything.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Lieutenant, that’s what we were doing,” said Armstrong. He picked up the stereoculars and looked at the approaching ship again, pointedly turning his back to Snipe.

  After a few moments, while the noise of the approaching ship got progressively louder, Snipe turned to Brandy. “Sergeant, what plan do you have if the ship opens hostilities?”

  Brandy snorted. “Depends a whole lot on what they throw at us, Lieutenant. Landing this close, I don’t think they’re going to be using any nukes, do you?”

  “Nukes?” Snipe gulped. He hadn’t even considered that possibility.

  “Course, this could be some kind of fanatical suicide mission,” Brandy continued. “Maybe they’ll try a quick push with conventional force, and then blow the ship’s core if we’re too tough a nut to crack. Been done before. Not much we can do if that’s what we’re looking at, is there?”

  “Uh, I suppose not,” said Snipe. His face was growing pale.

  Brandy continued in a voice that carried over the sound of space drives throttling down. “More likely what we get is some softening up with whatever heavy armament the ship’s carrying. Something that size could have Class 4 UV lasers, I’d say. Shouldn’t hurt as long as you’re behind about six inches of lead shielding, or maybe ten feet of packed earth.”

  “Ten feet?” Snipe looked around, trying to determine where in the trenches he’d have that much cover.

  “Yeah, ten feet oughta do,” said Brandy. “Once they’ve got us keeping our heads down, they turn loose whatever they’ve got in the way of infantry—and then it gets nasty.”

  “Nasty?” Snipe gulped.

  “Yeah, nothing worse than close-quarters combat,” said Brandy at top volume. “But you’ve probably seen it all before, being a second lieutenant and all that.”

  Snipe had his mouth open, gulping air, when Armstrong called out, “Ship’s touching down. Look alive there.”

  “Look alive!” repeated Brandy at the top of her voice, turning to look at the dust cloud rising around the ship. “Once that dust settles, they can cut loose with any rays they have, so be ready to get down.”

  The infernal racket of the ship’s engines abruptly ceased, and there was a long moment of expectant silence. The dust began to thin out, and Snipe cringed at the notion that death rays might even now be warming up to fry him. He looked around for something to crouch behind and finally settled for a nearby hoverjeep. It wasn’t perfect cover, but perhaps it was thick enough to protect against the Class 4 UV that Brandy had warned of. From somewhere out of sight, he heard Armstrong say, “Hatches opening.”

  Snipe stuck his head around a corner, only to fall almost instantly backward as something large came roaring directly at him. From a position flat on his butt he watched Chocolate Harry rush past on his “hawg,” and heard the shouted warning, “Yo, man, heads up!” as the supply sergeant whipped on past at incredible speed.

  Another more cautious peek around the corner showed him shadowy figures in the dust cloud by the mysterious ship. Several of them were busy catching and stacking unidentifiable equipment being tossed to them from an open cargo bay. Now some kind of vehicle emerged from the ship, followed by several more figures (were they humans?) on foot.

  Deciding that it was, for the moment, safe to expose himself to possible fire, Snipe ran quickly to join Armstrong, who stood behind a waist-high pile of crates, surveying the action through the stereoculars. “What’s going on?” Snipe asked, panting a bit from the exertion. He crouched behind the crates, admiring Armstrong’s coolness in the face of the enemy.

  “They’re unloading their equipment,” said Armstrong helpfully. He looked down at the cowering Snipe and added, “Here they come.”

  Snipe risked a peek over the crates. Here came the vehicle, slowly advancing toward the Legion position. It had the look of a hoverjeep, and several of the figures seated in it were carrying what might be beam projectors—or almost anything else, Snipe realized. A small group of invaders trudged along behind it. In the defensive line, Snipe could hear Brandy talking to her troops: “Steady now, steady.” />
  Seeing that the invaders had so far done nothing that could be taken as a hostile move, Snipe decided it was safe to stand up. The dust had settled enough for him to make out that the hoverjeep was painted a bright yellow. That’s not a military color, he realized. There appeared to be some sort of writing on the side, although from this angle Snipe couldn’t make it out. A figure in the front of the jeep was standing up, exposed to the Legion defenders. “This doesn’t look like an invasion force,” he muttered.

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” said Armstrong. “But if they’re who I suspect they are, you and the major may wish they had been.”

  “What?” said Snipe. He peered at the approaching jeep. Now it was close enough for him to discern the figure standing up: a woman, smiling and waving to the Legion camp. “I’ve seen that face somewhere,” he said, frowning.

  “I bet you have,” said Armstrong, lowering the stereoculars and waving back. The troops in the front line were also standing and waving. What was going on?

  Then the jeep turned to avoid a spot of rough terrain, and at last Snipe could clearly see what was painted on its side: Interstellar News Service. The woman standing in the jeep was none other than Jennie Higgins, the reporter who had made Captain Jester a media darling.

  They’d been invaded, all right—by the intergalactic press corps.

  * * *

  Being confined in a dimly lit enclosure, even with companionship, was boring. There was no other term for it. It was quite some time since Phule and Beeker had run out of useful observations to make on their current condition, and no other topic of conversation got very far. It was incredibly boring.

  At one point, Phule had gotten so bored he’d tried bouncing the gravball their captors had given them against the opposite wall of their cell, but the bell inside jingled every time the ball moved. That got on his nerves—and on Beeker’s, as well—after about three bounces, and he went back to slouching against the wall, trying to think of a way to escape—or to communicate with their captors. So far, Beeker had relentlessly shot holes in all his good ideas.

  Even so, every once in a while, when he was starting to get really bored, he’d cast an eye over at the ball again. Maybe there was some way to get the bell out … but trying it would undoubtedly make more noise, and then he’d have to put up with more of Beeker’s baleful looks and sarcastic comments. Compared to that … well, he thought he could put up with the boredom a little while longer, anyhow.

  Maybe it was starting to get to him, though. He hadn’t touched the ball, and yet he could swear he’d heard the bell jingling again very softly. The ball wasn’t visibly moving. His nerves must be starting to fray. They said that solitary confinement could drive a person mad. They didn’t say anything about confinement with one’s butler, but Phule was beginning to think it must be at least as bad.

  “Sir, would you please stop that?” snapped Beeker, as if to reinforce Phule’s thoughts.

  “Stop what?” said Phule. “Can’t a fellow sit and think without you complaining?”

  “You’re doing something to the ball, sir,” said Beeker, glaring at him. “I hear the bell ringing.”

  Phule sat up straight. “Do you hear it too? I thought it was my imagination.”

  “No—look, sir, it’s moving,” said Beeker, pointing. Sure enough, the ball was wobbling slightly, as if the floor below it were shaking.

  They both stood, instinctively moving away from the vibrating gravball; whatever was happening, it was something new. The previous changes in their cell, when their captors had delivered food or the ball, had been accompanied by almost no noise or vibration. As they looked, the wall at the far end of the cell began to change color—or rather, its color seemed to become more diffuse, almost like paint being diluted by a colorless liquid.

  After the phenomenon continued for a few moments, shapes could be seen through the wall. Phule clapped his hands and said, “I think they’re going to let us out, Beek.”

  “You may be right, sir,” said Beeker. “Equally possible is that they intend to come in here and interrogate us.”

  “There’s not enough room in here,” said Phule. “Well, maybe if they’re the size of Synthians …”

  “Yes,” said Beeker. “They’ve done very little so far to indicate what race they are—if, in fact, they are any race we know.”

  Phule put a hand on Beeker’s arm. “I think we’re about to find out,” he said. The opening was almost transparent now, and the shapes outside seemed to be moving closer.

  To their surprise, one of the figures bent over to look through the opening and said, “Hey, Beeker! Is that you in there?”

  “I know that voice!” said Phule, leaning forward. “Sushi, what are you doing here?”

  “Captain!” said Sushi, now plainly visible through the opening. “What are you doing here? Or maybe I should ask, if you’re here, who’s that back at the camp?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about,” said Phule. He and Beeker scrambled quickly out of their prison. They found themselves in the shade of a small hill, just outside a sort of cave dug into the sandy soil. In front of them were Sushi, Flight Leftenant Qual, and a group of other legionnaires. But as glad as they were to see their comrades, Phule and Beeker’s gaze inevitably turned to the other figure standing there.

  Phule’s first impression was that he was seeing a mechanical man born of an illicit union between a hoverjeep and a portable computer … with a very bad hangover thrown on top of it.

  On second impression, the thing looked even more like the offspring of an illicit union between a hoverjeep and a portable computer—although it had a curious shimmer about it, as if it were a badly focused holo. But he had a strong suspicion he’d have plenty of other things to worry about, and for the moment he was enjoying just being out of his cell.

  Harsh reality would undoubtedly assert itself before he got too comfortable.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Journal #580

  Unpleasant as our confinement had been, my employer and I had never entirely lost confidence in our eventual rescue. Still, when we learned the amount of time that had actually passed, we were surprised at how short it had been. Time inside a closed space, without clues to events in the external world, goes much more slowly than outside. This might account for the unusual trepidation with which even hardened criminals regard solitary confinement. In fact, even with each other as companions, my employer and I were quite relieved to learn that our captivity was at an end.

  As attentive readers will have anticipated, once we were released into the light of day, we were thoroughly astonished to learn the nature of our captors.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand it,” said Phule, pointing to the robot-like being standing next to Sushi. “If this creature is what captured us, why didn’t we ever see it?”

  Sushi shrugged. “I wasn’t here, Captain, but I don’t think it existed in this form before we started talking to it.”

  “It didn’t exist?” said Beeker. “How, then, Mr. Sushi, did it manage to take us captive?”

  “I said, ‘in this form,’ Beeker,” said Sushi. “The creatures that captured you are nanotech intelligences: tiny machines that can combine into various larger units to accomplish specific tasks. Until we started talking to them, they didn’t have any reason to make themselves visible to us.”

  “This explains much,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. “Not only why our instruments could not detect them but why they thought that your machines were the intelligent creatures, and you some sort of captive animal companions.”

  Phule’s jaw dropped so far it looked for a moment as if it had been dislocated. “What?” he blurted out. “They think that Beeker and I are … pets?”

  Sushi managed to keep from grinning. “Yeah, that’s about as close as I can describe what seems to be their basic assumption. As far as I can tell, when they saw you two leaving the hoverjeep, they thought you were running away
, and so they captured you and took care of you until they could find out what your master—the jeep or the computer—wanted done with you. Apparently, Sir, they have a hard time imagining intelligent animal life …”

  “Machines?” Beeker interrupted. “I beg your pardon, young Sir, but I cannot accept the notion of a machine intelligence evolving independently of some original organic creator.”

  “I’m with you on that, believe me,” said Sushi. Then he shrugged. “Maybe they evolved from mechanical junk left behind by some off-world visitors. But that’s just a guess. Bottom line is, we’re dealing with a civilization of nanomachines. Individually, they’re general-purpose units with fairly low intelligence, but when they combine, the larger unit—the macro, I’d call it—can have a total intelligence as high as ours.”

  “Theoretically higher, if your premise is correct,” said Beeker grudgingly. “But I’ve never heard of such a thing evolving independently.”

  “Neither have I,” said Sushi. “First time for everything, isn’t there?”

  “Sushi’s right,” said Phule. “We’ve got to accept the situation as we find it. And I think he was about to tell us just what that situation is.” He turned to Sushi with an expectant smile.

  “OK, like Qual was saying, they thought the hoverjeep and the Port-a-Brain were the intelligent beings, and they’ve been spending their time trying to communicate with them. If you’d been wearing your translators, you might have been able to make sense of the noise on the jeep’s communicator. But once you were out of the jeep, not even that would’ve helped.”

  “And so they took us prisoner and tried to negotiate with the jeep,” said Phule. “I imagine they didn’t get very far with that.”

  “Well, they kept getting back a signal from the Port-a-Brain’ s modem trying to download your stock quotes,” said Sushi. “They could tell it was intelligent, but they couldn’t get any useful response from it. And of course they had no way to know that you guys were really in charge of the machines. They apparently had you in some sort of holding pen, being kept alive and healthy but not really getting much of their attention.”