The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  In front of him, Thumper saw a tract of land that would probably feel flattered to be described as “ruined.” Or even “devastated.” It was a mud-filled morass with craters and chunks of broken stone wall or the jagged stumps of trees at seemingly random intervals. The few open stretches were strewn with skeins of ugly-looking barbed wire laid parallel to the ground. Here and there were wide water-filled ditches and eight-foot wooden walls. At the far side Thumper could make out sandbagged bunkers, from which the muzzles of machine guns protruded.

  “LISTEN UP, YOU BUGS,” explained Sergeant Pitbull. “THIS HERE IS WHAT WE CALL A STIMULATED BATTLEFIELD, WHICH IF YOU’RE EVER IN A FARKING SHOOTING WAR YOU’RE GONNA SEE A SHIT-LOAD OF ’EM. THE DRILL IS, WHEN I BLOW MY WHISTLE, YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE AS FAST AS YOU FARKIN’ CAN. BUT CHECK THIS OUT—THEM SKIME-EATERS WITH THE MACHINE GUNS GONNA SHOOT LIVE FARKIN’ AMMO OVER YOUR HEADS, SO YOU BETTER KEEP ’EM THE HELL DOWN. WE LOSE A COUPLE-THREE STUPID-ASS RECRUITS EVERY MONTH ON ACCOUNT OF THEY JUMPED UP AND TRIED TO RUN AWAY”

  Thumper nodded as the sergeant explained the drill. Looking at the course, he could see that the machine guns were limited to a narrow field of fire. Outside that area, the main problem was dodging around the craters and rubble, but if one didn’t mind a bit of mud, there was no reason to go at less than full speed. After all, the sergeant had said that the point of the exercise was to get to the other side as quickly as possible.

  So when the sergeant blew his whistle, Thumper was off and running …

  * * *

  Phule stared blankly at the sheaf of papers that had just landed on his desk. “What’s all this?” he asked in an annoyed voice. It was obviously not the promotion papers he’d been expecting from Legion Headquarters.

  “Environmental impact forms from those AEIOU guys,” said Roadkill, one of the two legionnaires who’d carried in the mountain of paperwork. “That Chief Inspector Snieff brought it over in some kind of wheelbarrow. Street and I just happened to be the first legionnaires she saw, and she took that as a license to order us around.”

  “Order you around?” Lieutenant Armstrong looked up from the adjacent desk, where he was filling out work assignment forms. “I think I’m going to have to talk to her myself. I’ve been trying to get some of you rascals to follow orders ever since I became an officer in this outfit, with little or no sign that I’m getting anywhere.”

  “Jeez, some thanks we get for being good legionnaires,” grumbled Street. “I’d have given her a piece of my mind, if she hadn’t had that stupid dog with her. That ugly mutt looked at me as if it was gonna take a bite out of my tail end.”

  “Barky, the Environmental Dog?” asked Phule. “He seemed pretty harmless to me.”

  “I think he thought Street was a polluter,” said Roadkill, deadpan. “Or maybe a litterer—it’s hard to tell what that dog thinks when all he’ll say is ‘woof!’”

  “Stupid mutt can’t prove nothing on me,” said Street, scowling.

  “Are you saying that because you haven’t done anything, or because you think you’ve covered up your tracks?” said Armstrong, raising one eyebrow just a fraction. He pointed at the two legionnaires, and added, “Don’t be too sure Barky can’t sniff you out, if you’ve been polluting.”

  “I already told ya, I ain’t done nothin’,” said Street. He stared at the floor, squirming as if one of his schoolteachers had called on him to recite a lesson he hadn’t studied.

  “It’s all right, Street, nobody suspects you of anything,” said Phule. Then, remembering to whom he was speaking, he hastily added, “Not this time, anyway.”

  “Yeah, I was just joking,” said Roadkill, punching his buddy on the biceps. “But we’d better get back to that job we were doing, before somebody notices we’re gone—then we might really get in trouble.”

  “Just tell them you were bringing me something,” said Phule. “And thanks—I think.” He looked at the pile of papers, and his expression was anything but thankful. But Roadkill and Street were already out the door.

  Phule picked up the top sheet of one of the piles of papers and began to read it, but before he’d gotten more than a couple of lines, his wrist communicator buzzed. “Yes, what is it, Mother?” he said, holding the device closer to his mouth and ear.

  “Priority call from Lorelei, you silly thing,” said Mother’s teasing voice. “You must be an even bigger man than you look.”

  “Lorelei? Put them right through,” said Phule. He wondered what was urgent enough for the team he’d left to run the place to call him about. Among them, there weren’t many things he didn’t think they could handle. He wouldn’t have left the place in their hands if he’d believed otherwise.

  “Tullie Bascomb here, Captain,” came the familiar voice. “We’ve got—well, not really a problem, but a situation Doc and I think you need to know about.”

  “Go ahead, Tullie,” said Phule. “Is it my father again?”

  “Yeah, he’s still being a pain in the butt,” said Bascomb. “It was bad enough that he wanted to go over the casino’s books …”

  “You showed them to him, didn’t you?” asked Phule.

  “Sure, after you told me it was all right,” said Bascomb. “For a while I was worried he might really find something to raise a stink about, but I guess he didn’t. But then he decided to stick his nose into the gambling operation.”

  “That’s hardly in character,” said Phule, rubbing his chin speculatively. “I never knew him to have any interest in gambling. Where is he now?”

  “Playing quantum slots,” said Bascomb. “Somehow, he got the idea our jackpots were too big. We tried to tell him about the odds, but he didn’t want to listen. So now he’s trying to win a big one to prove we’re wrong.”

  Phule chuckled. “Tullie, if my father’s determined to throw away his ill-gotten fortune one token at a time, I’m not about to do anything to stop him. It’s just that much more for the Company’s retirement fund.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way about it, Captain,” said Tullie. There was a definite note of relief in his voice. “In that case, would you have any problem if we cooked up a way to get even more of his money out of his pockets?”

  “Not in principle, I guess,” said Phule. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Doc came up with the idea of adjusting some of the slots to take really big bets—up to a thousand bucks a pull,” said Bascomb. “We’d advertise a monster jackpot, but set the odds so long nobody’d have the ghost of a chance to collect on it. What do you think?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Phule. He chuckled, then continued, “At a thousand dollars a pull, I doubt anyone but Papa will ever be able to afford to play. And I have no compunction whatsoever about taking his money for my troops. Go ahead, and let me know how much he loses before he gives up.”

  “You got it, Captain,” said Bascomb, and closed the connection.

  Phule stared for a moment at the wall across from his desk. His father’s antics shouldn’t really have surprised him, he supposed—it was typical of the old fellow to show up unannounced and try to take charge. But, as usual, he seemed to have come up with a new twist. He shook his head. There weren’t many people in the galaxy who seemed more out of place in a casino than the old man—not that his father would ever let something like that stop him. Well, it was about time somebody taught Victor Phule a lesson. And he couldn’t think of anyone who could better afford to pay the tuition. He sighed, then picked up the top sheet on the pile the two legionnaires had brought in, and began reading.

  Chapter Five

  Journal #669

  When a system is set up to deal with misfits and incompetents, the addition to the mix of someone actually capable may cause a greater disturbance than the addition of a weak cog to a functioning organization. This is certainly the case in most formations of the Space Legion, where incompetence and malfeasance have become a way of life.

  Thus, the arrival at the Legion’s centra
l training base on Mussina’s World of a new recruit who actually had a few qualifications for a military career was almost inevitably a recipe for disaster,

  * * *

  “I don’t understand what I did wrong,” said Thumper, sullenly. He sat on the edge of his bunk, illuminated by a single handlight in Sharky’s hand. The light was shining directly in his face, which made it hard to see the others standing all around him. It wasn’t hard to guess who was there, though—everybody else in Recruit Squad Gamma.

  “You’re acting like an eager beaver, is what you did wrong,” said Sharky, exasperated. “It’s what you keep doing wrong. Why you got to set a record for the fastest run of the obstacle course?” The other squad members stood in a circle around Thumper, adding their sullen voices to his argument.

  “What’s wrong with doing the best you can?” Thumper asked. “That’s all I did. I like running and climbing over things. Why can’t I do that when I have the chance?”

  Sharky groaned. “Because now the sergeants are tryin’ to make everybody else run the course faster,” he explained. “IF THAT LITTLE TWERP CAN DO IT WHAT THE FARM’S WRONG WITH YOUR LAZY STINKIN’ ASS?” he said, pretending to shout without raising his voice to a level that might be heard outside the bunkhouse. There were a couple of chuckles in appreciation of the accuracy of Sharky’s imitation of Sergeant Pitbull’s habitual bellow, but nobody sounded in particularly good humor.

  “Well, it seems to me the question is, can you guys run the course better than you’ve been doing it, or not?” asked Thumper. He turned his head from side to side, not so much looking at his audience as trying to get away from the persistent glare of the handlight.

  “Wrong damn question,” rumbled a deep voice. Thumper recognized the speaker as Pingpong, the biggest and slowest recruit in the platoon. “What you oughta ask is, should we stomp the shit out of this so-called sophont for making everybody else look bad to the sarge?”

  “Hey, easy there, Pingpong,” said Sharky, patting the big recruit on the shoulder. “It ain’t come to stompin’, yet. We’re just havin’ a friendly talk with good ol’ Thumper here, lettin’ him know how all his buddies in the squad feel about stuff.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Pingpong, scratching the thick fur atop his head. “Well, let me know when it’s time for stompin, OK?”

  “Sure,” said Sharky, with a nod.

  “I can’t believe you guys are threatening me,” said Thumper, indignation all over his face. “Just because I want to do my best …”

  “Yeah, yeah, doin’ your best is triff,” said Sharky. “But do you hafta do it when it makes all your buddies look bad? If you’d just save it for when there’s a real enemy …”

  “We got a real enemy,” said another recruit—Spider, this time. “It’s all the farkin’ sergeants …”

  “Damn straight!” said several of the recruits in chorus.

  “No, no, no,” said Thumper, holding up his forepaws. “Sure, the sergeants are tough on us, but that’s because we have to be tough when the death rays start flashing. Really, guys, it’s all for our own good …”

  “Ain’t no damn death rays flashin’,” said Pingpong. “There ain’t been a farkin’ war since my granddaddy was in the Regular farkin’ Army, forty years ago. Who we gonna fight, anyhow?”

  “There was a civil war someplace out in the New Baltimore sector, wasn’t there?” said Spider. “The Legion was sent in to settle that one …”

  “That was on Landoor,” said Sharky, dripping scorn. “And that wasn’t any real war—just a bunch of backward colonials gettin’ excited. Only real action was when some Legion officer shot up the peace conference. Hope he got him a couple sergeants …”

  “Shhh—Pitbull!” came a hoarse whisper, but it was too late.

  “YOU GOT YOU A SERGEANT NOW, YOU STUPID FARKIN’ CLOWNS!” roared the drill sergeant, throwing open the door to the recruits’ bunkroom. The overhead light came on abruptly, catching the circle of recruits standing around Thumper’s bunk like greeblers around a sweetbush. They all snapped to attention as the sergeant stomped over to the group. “WHAT THE FARK’S GOIN’ ON HERE, AS IF I DIDN’T KNOW?” he bellowed.

  “We was just telling old Legion stories, is all, sarge,” said Sharky, stepping to the front of the group. “Tryin’ to build up the squad’s morale, y’know?”

  “YEAH, HUH? LIKE YOUR MOTHER BUILDS UP THE ARMY’S MORALE,” said Sergeant Pitbull. “YOU BARKERS SHOULDA GOT YOURSELF SOME SLEEP BEFORE NOW, BECAUSE I WAS GONNA COME GIVE YOU A FRIENDLY WARNING, LIKE. JUST A LITTLE BIT OF ADVANCE NOTICE OF THE SURPRISE INSPECTION BY THE BIG BRASS.”

  “Surprise inspection?” said several of the recruits in near unison.

  “THAT’S RIGHT, YOU GOT WAX IN YOUR EARS?” explained Pitbull. “GENERAL BLITZKRIEG SET DOWN ON BASE JUST AFTER DARK, AND HE’S GONNA COME INSPECT BARRACKS AT OH-EIGHT-HUNDRED HOURS TOMORROW FARKIN’ MORNING. MAKE THAT THIS MORNING.”

  “Oh-eight-hundred?” groaned the recruits. The clock on the wall showed just a bit shy of oh-four-hundred.

  “YOU GOT IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME,” said Pitbull. “NOW, YOU’RE JUST LUCKY YOU GOT A SERGEANT THAT REALLY CARES FOR YOUR SORRY ASSES, SO I GIVE YOU SOME ADVANCE WARNING SO YOU DON’T ALL GET REAMED OUT BY THE GENERAL. YOU THINK I’M A HARD-ASS, YOU AIN’T SEEN NOTHIN’. BLITZKRIEG EATS RECRUITS FOR TAPAS WITH HIS AFTERNOON SHERRY. YOU GOT FOUR HOURS TO MAKE THIS FARKIN’ PIGHOLE LOOK LIKE A LEGION BASE. BLITZKRIEG GIVES ANY ONE OF YOU PSEUDOSOPHONTS EVEN ONE DEMERIT, YOU’LL GET IT FROM ME TEN TIMES—EXCEPT I DON’T GIVE DEMERITS, I GIVE PUNISHMENT. YOU GOT THAT, YOU CLOWNS?”

  “Got it, Sarge,” said the recruits.

  “THEN GET YOUR ASSES BUSY,” Pitbull shouted. “AND BE QUIET ABOUT IT. I’M GONNA GET SOME FARKIN’ SLEEP!”

  * * *

  “I dunno, man, this is some weird-ass job Rev wants us to do,” said Do-Wop. As usual, he was leaning on the back of Sushi’s chair, looking over his partner’s shoulder at the computer screen. “How does he expect us to find out about this Zenobian guy, Leavis?”

  “’L’Viz.” Sushi corrected him. “And how we find out about it is our business—we’re the recon experts, and he isn’t. It’s an interesting challenge, don’t you think? Find some way to access the Zenobians’ archives and see if we can pull out info on this ancient legend of theirs.”

  “Sure, and how we gonna know it when we do find it?” said Do-Wop. “Even with a translator, that Flight Leftenant Qual don’t make sense half the time. I dunno how you think we’re gonna find one particular story out of all the stuff they must have written down. It’s like findin’ one special bush in the whole forest.”

  “Yeah, I know it looks that way,” said Sushi. “But we do have a few clues that’ll make it easier. Like the name of the main character, for example. And if the story’s that well-known, we may find it in more than one place. It’d be like searching human archives for Odysseus …”

  “O’Dizzy-us? Never heard of him.”

  Sushi sighed. “Sometimes I wonder about you,” he said, looking up at his partner. “Should I send you out to find a bottle of quarks, so I can get some work done?”

  “Better you should send me for a couple quarts of beer,” said Do-Wop. “I know where to find that, anyhow.”

  “Believe me, I’m tempted,” said Sushi. “But I’ve got some tricky work to do before I can kick back, and every now and then I’ll need a fresh pair of eyes to look over my shoulder so I can tell whether I’m making any real progress. So you can’t have any beer, either. What you can do is run over to Chocolate Harry’s and see if you can get us a translator. We’ll need it once I find the Zenobians’ archives—and we might as well have it before we need it. If he hassles you any, go get Rev to write out a requisition for it.”

  Do-Wop smirked. “If he hassles me any, I’ll just figure out some way to skank it. Harry thinks he’s bad, but his security really stinks. I could slide into his supply depot and walk off with everything in sight, and he’d never lo
ok up from his biker magazines.”

  “Maybe so, but don’t try it just yet,” said Sushi. “That’s the kind of thing we have to save for when we really need it. In fact, go to Rev first—he’ll write an order for a translator and sign it over to us, and that’s that. We don’t have to explain where it came from if somebody sees us using it, and people aren’t shooting us the evil eyeball when we really need to do something without being noticed.”

  “Ah, you take the fun out of everything, Soosh,” said Do-Wop. “You wanna sneak into the Zenobians’ archives because it’s a challenge, and that’s supposed to be triff. But when I want to skank a translator from Supply, that ain’t triff, on account of I might get caught. I don’t see no difference.”

  “You don’t?” Sushi turned around in his chair and looked his partner straight in the eye. “The difference is, there’s no problem getting a translator the legit way, and no awkward consequences if somebody sees us using it. But getting into the Zenobian archives is something Rev’s asked us to do—and he’s a Legion officer, so he’s the one who takes the heat if we get caught. We’re just doing a job for a superior officer, get it?”

  “Maybe,” said Do-Wop. “But remember back when that Major Botchup was CO when the captain was gone? There was a whole big mess about whether or not we should follow illegal orders, and who was authorized to give legal orders, and what happened if you weren’t sure. I never did find out just what was OK and what wasn’t, except I figured I don’t follow orders enough to get in trouble, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s one way to look at it,” said Sushi. “But I think I know what you’re getting at. We don’t know for sure that Rev has any business spying on the Zenobians—after all, they are supposed to be our allies. But how much do you want to bet that Alliance headquarters isn’t already spying on them, on a much wider level than we’re planning to do?”

  Do-Wop’s eyebrows rose the better part of an inch. “Whoa, man, that’s right! I never thought about that—but it makes sense. Maybe there’s even somebody in our outfit doin’ it, if we knew everything that was goin’ on!”