The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  Mahatma’s smile got even wider. “There are many hungry beasts on this planet,” he said. “What if one of them ate the poor Environmental Dog?”

  “Ate Barky?” said Snieff, her jaw falling.

  “Be very, very careful,” urged Mahatma. “I am sure the AEIOU would not want to be responsible for destroying an unspoiled ecology because it let its famous mascot roam about unguarded.” He smiled and bowed, and turned away, leaving the three inspectors dumbfounded.

  Rembrandt said once more, “Shall we go see the inside of the base?”

  “Yes, by all means,” said Snieff, looking around apprehensively. “Come, Barky—stay close to me!”

  “Woof!” said Barky, the Environmental Dog, lifting a hind leg to give his ear a vigorous scratch.

  * * *

  “A slots system?” Ernie sat up, an eager expression on his face. “Y’know, if he’s really got one, that’s like money in the bank. People have been looking for a way to cut the house odds in slots for centuries …”

  “Ernie, we’re talking about Victor Phule, the arms dealer,” said Lola. “This is a man who already has more money in the bank than most small planetary governments. He’s the last person in the galaxy to need a system for beating slots.”

  “Hey, maybe he’s like, diversifying,” said Ernie. He took a sip of his cold beer, and added, “You know, in case the old arms business goes through some hard times. I hear wars are a bit scarce nowadays …”

  “Right, and the food business might hit a patch of real hard times, too,” said Lola, scornfully. “Whatever reason Victor Phule has for playing those slots, it’s not because he needs the money—or the exercise, either. If we can figure out his game, there’s a good chance we can get in on it.”

  “What if he’s just having fun?” asked Ernie. “You know, even a rich guy must like to let his hair down and stop pinching every last penny. Some guys tool around in space yachts, some play the rocket races—maybe the old boy gets his splats out by throwing five scragoonchies into a slot and pulling the handle. Hey, he can afford it.”

  “It’s such a dumb idea, it might even be right,” admitted Lola. She paced back and forth in her stocking feet, thinking out loud. “But we can’t ignore the chance that he’s up to something bigger, Ernie. Besides, he’s the closest person on the station to the guy we’re supposed to be snatching. He could be the whole key to our getting off of Lorelei Station with our hides intact, not to mention coming out ahead of the game. It’s worth our time and effort to scope out whatever it is he’s doing, and look for a way to turn it to our own advantage.”

  “I’ll buy into that, I guess,” said Ernie. He spread his hands apart, palms up, and said, “Thing is, how are you gonna find out what he’s doing? You already asked him flat out, and you don’t wanna believe the answer he gave you. So what’ve ya got that’s better?”

  “I don’t know—yet.” Lola peered out the window of their modestly priced room. The view was nothing special; another block of workers’ living quarters like theirs. Then again, nobody came to Lorelei expecting to see natural beauty, unless the showgirls in the casinos fit that description (some did). Lola drummed her fingers on the plastiglas, then turned to Ernie, and said, “Victor Phule is the real thing. Even a small fraction of his money could put us on Easy Street. But we can’t afford any mistakes. The one thing I don’t want to do is alert him—or more likely his bodyguards—that somebody’s keeping an eye on him. So I need you to do some of the spy work. You think you’re up to it?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Ernie, stretching. “You know me …”

  “That’s why I’m worried,” said Lola. She walked over and put her hand on Ernie’s head. “This bodyguard isn’t some third-rate musclehead,” said Lola. “I don’t know where he came from, but he’s very smooth, and very professional. He’s likely to remember my face a good long time. So I’ve got to be really careful where and when I pop up.”

  “I get the picture, babes,” said Ernie. “What you want me to do is peek over the old boy’s shoulder, try to figure out his system, but keep the guard from noticing. Nothin’ to it …”

  “Wrong!” said Lola, and she smacked her hand on top of his head. “You couldn’t fool this guard if he spotted you six dry martinis and a fake beard. I’m sorry, Ernie, he’s just way out of your class. And nearly out of mine, I think. But I’ve got a plan …”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Ernie, rubbing his head where she’d hit him. “Your last brilliant plan blew up in our face, with nothing to show for it until we got sent back here to finish the job right—at our own expense. What kind of dope do you think I am?”

  “A smarter one because of what’s already happened,” said Lola. “And so am I. Listen to this.”

  Ernie listened, skeptically at first, pointing out objections to Lola’s plan. But gradually he began to nod, then enthusiastically to offer suggestions of his own. Finally, after nearly an hour, he said. “All right, you win. It’s worth a try, especially considering we got nothin’ else to try.”

  “Good,” said Lola. “Now, here’s what I want you to do first …”

  * * *

  The shuttle was already on the ground, and the dust of its landing mostly settled, when Gears guided the Legion hoverjeep over a low hill and came into sight of it. There were a couple of men at work unloading large cases of equipment from an open hatchway, and another stood studying a map under the shade of the shuttle. The afternoon sun was beating down fiercely, without a trace of cloud in the sky.

  Lieutenant Armstrong stood up in the passenger seat and waved. “Hello the shuttle!” he called. Phule had chosen him to greet the hunting expedition while he and Lieutenant Rembrandt escorted the AEIOU inspectors on a tour of the Legion base.

  The landing party turned and stared as Gears brought the hoverjeep down a short distance away from where they stood. As it touched down, Armstrong leapt out and strode over to the newcomers. “I’m Lieutenant Armstrong, Omega Company,” he said, extending a hand. “Welcome to Zenobia!”

  One of the hunters, a stocky man with short gray hair in a vaguely military style, stepped forward and took Armstrong’s hand in a crusher grip. “A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” he said. His voice was an incongruous combination of rasp and drawl. “I’m L.P. Asho. We hear tell there’s some mighty good hunting hereabouts. Looking forward to seeing what kind of wild and wooly critters you all have for us to shoot.”

  “Wild is no problem, Mr. Asho,” said Armstrong. “But I don’t think you’ll find very much in the way of wooly on Zenobia. The animals here tend to have mostly scales …”

  “Har har! Fellow’s got a good sense of humor,” said Asho. “Here, let me introduce you to the other fellers—this is Austen Tay-Shun—he’s a big-ass lawyer, but he ain’t all that bad, y’git to know him. And over there’s good ol’ Euston O’Better. You prob’ly heard of him, on account he’s the richest son of a gun on Tejaz.”

  “Uh, pleased to meet you all,” said Armstrong, shaking the men’s hands as they were offered to him.

  Asho’s description notwithstanding, Tay-Shun was a small, wiry man with penetrating eyes. He gave Armstrong a steady look, and said, “Interestin’ country here. You don’t suppose there’s any chance we could hire one of the natives for a guide, do you?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” said Armstrong. “To tell the truth, we haven’t really had contact with any of them other than the military. I think they’ve put us out here in part to isolate us from their civilian population.” He tried to remember if he’d even set eyes on a Zenobian other than those in Flight Leftenant Qual’s unit. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t. Was that also intentional on the Zenobians’ part? He wasn’t sure.

  “Not very friendly of ’em, I’d say,” drawled Asho. “Well, if we can’t get a native, we’ll just do the best we can without. How soon can we light out for the killin’ grounds?”

  “Fairly soon, I’d think,” said Armstrong. “Captain Jester wants to s
chedule a briefing as soon as convenient with you, and then we can get you to the designated hunting areas.”

  “Briefing?” Austen Tay-Shun interrupted. “What, does your captain think private citizens are subject to military discipline?”

  Armstrong cleared his throat. “Mr. Tay-Shun, Zenobia is an inhabited planet, with its own laws and government. The Zenobian government retains the right to decide which off-world visitors may visit their world and under what conditions. By inviting the Space Legion to operate here, they have effectively given us the right to bring in what personnel we consider necessary to the mission. Now, at the request of your friends in the State Department, Captain Jester has persuaded the Zenobians to permit you to hunt the local animals in designated areas, provided you follow certain rules. I think you’ll agree that knowing what the rules are will make it a lot easier to follow them. So this briefing is simply an opportunity for the captain to tell you what’s expected of you and to answer any questions you may have about Zenobia.”

  “Long-winded cuss, ain’t he?” said Euston O’Better, a tall, shambling fellow with a grin that suggested unplumbed depths of ignorance. He emphasized his point with an elbow in Tay-Shun’s ribs. “But what the hell, let’s go meet this captain so we can get it over with. The sooner I can start shootin’ a few critters, the better, sez I. I ain’t even seen no dinos yet.”

  “Dinos might not be the right term,” said Armstrong, glad of a chance to change the subject. “The local sophonts do resemble certain species of dinosaurs, but the other fauna we’ve seen are pretty varied. Why—” He broke off suddenly, as a strange being came into his view. “What in Ghu’s name is that?”

  The creature that had emerged from the hunters’ shuttle was furry, long-eared, round-faced, and about two-thirds Armstrong’s height. It was evidently some kind of sophont, because it was wearing a large backpack and a loose black garment that had a remarkable resemblance to … a Space Legion uniform? Armstrong watched openmouthed as it approached him. It stopped a short distance away, came to attention, and saluted—rather smartly, Lieutenant Armstrong thought. As he stared openmouthed, the new sophont said, “Legionnaire Recruit Thumper reporting for duty to Omega Company, sir!”

  “Legionnaire? Thumper?” said Armstrong.

  “Oh, yeah, we forgot to tell ya,” said L.P. Asho. “The gov’ment asked us to give the bunny a ride here, since there wasn’t no other ships coming this way. He wasn’t really much trouble, and I guess he’s yours, now.”

  “I’ll be doggoned,” said Gears, who’d stood back and watched the conversation between Armstrong and the hunters without comment. “Every time you think you know what to expect in Omega Company, it just gets weirder. Throw your pack in the jeep, buddy—I guess you’ll be riding back to camp with us.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Thumper, who still had the recruit’s automatic (and generally accurate) assumption that everybody and everything wearing a Legion uniform outranked him.

  “Save the sir stuff for officers,” said Gears. “I’m Gears, and since the lieutenant still seems to be gaping for air, I guess I’m the one who’s got to welcome you to Zenobia—and to the Omega Mob. And I don’t know what kind of outfit you come here from—but I can guarantee you it’s a whole lot different here.”

  * * *

  The monitor of Sushi’s computer displayed a rapidly changing series of not-quite-random characters, and the speaker emitted a tantalizing series of hisses and grunts, which the autotranslator stubbornly declined to render into anything that the three men in the room could make sense of. Sushi and Lieutenant Rembrandt had delivered the AEIOU inspectors to the captain, at which point Sushi had remembered that Rev was coming by today for a progress report. Fortunately, the officers were willing to dispense with his services for the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, what Sushi had to report to Rev was not exactly progress …

  “Looks like nothin’ but garbage to me,” said Do-Wop, “Hey, Soosh—you sure that ain’t just somebody’s unshielded belt sander, or maybe a can opener?”

  “Well, it’s the wrong frequency for that,” said Sushi. “I know this is some written document off the Zenobians’ Web, or whatever they call it. But until we can get the translator to recognize the input as some kind of articulate language, it might as well be garbage.”

  “Well, we know the translator works on spoken Zenobian,” said Rev. “We can all understand Flight Leftenant Qual, or at least most of the time. So the written language shouldn’t be all that much harder.” He paused and looked at Sushi. “Should it?”

  “I’d need to know a lot more about written Zenobian to tell you, Rev,” said Sushi. “I suppose one of us ought to ask Qual just how their writing system works. If it’s straight phonetic, the translator ought to be able to make sense of it sooner or later. If it’s not … well, if it’s not, then we could be way over our heads, guys.”

  “I’m over my head just listenin’ to this stuff,” said Do-Wop. “Do you know what he means, Rev?”

  “Mostly,” said Rev. “What kinds of things are you worried about, son?”

  “We don’t know how many languages the Zenobians speak, or who speaks what,” said Sushi, counting on his fingers. “Maybe the ruling classes speak a different language from the ordinary people. Maybe their older books are in the same language as their modern ones, maybe not. I mean, there were some religions on Old Earth that used a whole different language for their sacred texts than the people spoke in everyday life. Maybe …”

  “That’s way too many maybes,” said Do-Wop, a concerned look on his face. “Y’know, you keep runnin’ your mind so hard, you’re gonna get a really rotten headache. What I do, is whenever my brain starts running around in circles, I go get myself a couple-three cold brews and stop thinkin’ for a while. You oughta do that, Soosh. You don’t watch it, you’ll be just like an officer.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Sushi. “And if I don’t do this job, I’ll have to go back to work on something a lot less interesting. The problem we have right now is to find out how the Zenobians’ written language works, which means doing some fieldwork with the only Zenobians we have handy. Who’s gonna go talk to Qual?”

  “He’s bound to get suspicious if I ask him anything about their writing,” said Rev. “And when that happens, he starts messin’ with my head—at least, I think that’s what he’s doin’. Anyways, his answers don’t hardly make sense. One of you boys is gonna have to go ask him for me.”

  “Well, I’m out,” said Do-Wop. “I can’t understand half of what you guys are talkin’ about, let alone Qual. I think his translator’s buggy, the way it screws up words.”

  “Buggy translator …” mused Sushi. “You know, that gives me an idea. I think I know just the trick to get Qual started talking about spoken and written Zenobian, without him suspecting what Rev’s up to.”

  “And what’s that, son?” asked Rev.

  Sushi grinned. “I’ll tell you after I’ve found out whether it works. Which I’m going to go find out right now. See you later!” And out the door he went, leaving Rev and Do-Wop staring at each other.

  After a moment, Do-Wop shrugged. “Guess this is as good a time as we’re gonna get for some cold ones. Gotta stop them headaches before they start. Catch you later, Rev.” And he went out the door as well, leaving Rev alone.

  Rev turned and looked at the shifting characters on Sushi’s computer monitor, squinting as if it might help him discern a pattern in the rapid flow. After a while, he shook his head and blinked. Everything was tantalizingly close to making sense … And yet none of it did. He put his hands in the pockets of his not-quite Legion-issue jumpsuit, turned to the door, and sauntered out. For now, he would have to leave it up to Sushi. If Sushi couldn’t solve the problem, he’d decide what to do then. Until that point, Do-Wop’s advice actually sounded good. He stopped and looked in a mirror, taking a moment to touch up his hairdo. The King had always made it a point to keep up his appearance. Finally satisfied, he turned and headed
down the corridor toward the officers’ club, whistling softly to himself.

  * * *

  Thumper’s departure for the Legion base was delayed while Lieutenant Armstrong persuaded the hunters to stay and set up their camp instead of coming immediately to see the captain.

  “We’ll take you there this evening,” Armstrong told the hunters, smiling. “Captain Jester just sent me to make sure you had everything you needed, and it looks as if you do. Since that’s straightened out, I’ll head back to the camp, and you’ll be seeing the captain as soon as he’s free.”

  “I can’t imagine what your captain’s got to do on this here planet that’s so important he can’t talk to some of his constituents,” said Austen Tay-Shun, who seemed to be the leader of the hunting party. “We’ve contributed …”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the lieutenant, whose smile had abruptly vanished. “The captain isn’t an elected official, so of course he doesn’t have any constituents. And I don’t recall hearing that the Legion ran on political contributions.”

  “Well, sonny, we’ve contributed a whole shitload to the folks that give the Legion its orders,” said Tay-Shun. “I reckon they’d be right concerned to find out that the Legion don’t pay no never mind to their constituents’ needs. Why, I’m surprised the captain didn’t come out himself instead of sending his messenger-boy.”

  “Mr. Tay-Shun, I will attribute your remarks to ignorance, and overlook them on that account,” said Armstrong, frostily. “I have given you my word as an officer that Captain Jester will receive you as soon as he has completed certain urgent business, and I should think that would suffice. Now, Mr. Tay-Shun, if there is nothing else …?”

  The hunters took the hint at last, and the hoverjeep headed back to the Legion base, with Thumper riding on the back seat.

  * * *

  Thumper wasn’t sure just what to expect from Omega Company. Probably because he’d spent much of his time in basic training under the illusion that the Legion actually worked the way the recruiting brochures had told him, his fund of Legion rumor and gossip was possibly even smaller than that of the average recruit. Belatedly, he’d realized he needed to catch up. But by then, he was leaving Legion boot camp, a passenger in a civilian ship that just happened to be headed his way. Somebody had called in a favor, and Thumper was the beneficiary—or so he hoped.