The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  Surprise! For the first time since he’d joined Omega Company, Thumper found himself being yelled at by his company commander. Not by a sergeant, which wouldn’t have been any surprise—yelling at the troops was what sergeants were supposed to do. Not even one of the lieutenants, who were usually too busy to bother. Nope, this was the CO himself, hollering and cussing worse than Sergeant Brandy.

  “You look like a bunch of Fungolian weevils! Who taught you how to stand at attention? Do you call that a regulation haircut? Wipe that smirk off your face, legionnaire!” The entire squad seemed stunned—they’d never seen the captain like this.

  But after a little while, Brandy showed up, and things started looking normal again. Thumper wondered if this was some kind of training exercise; that was the best explanation he could think of for the way Brandy and the captain acted. After all, he’d seen a good bit of Captain Jester while he was caddying for Flight Leftenant Qual in the golf matches. He hadn’t expected the captain to act like this, not at all.

  Then—surprise number three!—General Blitzkrieg walked into the gym! Thumper hoped the general didn’t remember that unfortunate incident with a bucket full of stinky stuff back in basic training. It hadn’t really been Thumper’s fault, but it sure looked like it when somebody handed him the bucket after emptying it over the general’s head while the lights were out. The general seemed to be the kind of human who remembered things like that. Or maybe he didn’t; at least, he hadn’t said anything out on the golf course, while Thumper caddied for Flight Leftenant Qual. Still, the general might not pay attention to his golf opponent’s caddy; but here he was on Legion business. In spite of himself, Thumper shivered.

  Sergeant Brandy called Mahatma forward and told the general about the squad’s special mission. This was the first time Thumper had heard anything about it, but as he listened to her, he thought it would explain a lot of things that hadn’t made sense before. Even when Mahatma asked the general one of his pain-in-the-ass questions, Brandy explained it so the general seemed to understand it.

  The only thing that didn’t fit was the captain’s reaction. Thumper thought he looked surprised. Was the secret mission supposed to be a secret from the captain? He certainly didn’t look as if he’d ever heard of it. Or was he worried that Mahatma wouldn’t be enough of a pain?

  Thumper was still trying to figure it out when Brandy said, “Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills.” That caught Thumper’s attention, all right. Mahatma was the only member of the training squad close to Thumper’s size, so the two of them often ended up as sparring partners in hand-to-hand combat drills. Thumper had a lot of respect for Mahatma’s skills. The little human was fast and sneaky and a lot stronger than he looked.

  So it was only natural when Sergeant Brandy pointed to Thumper and said, “Legionnaire Thumper, front and center to spar with Mahatma.”

  Thumper had taken two steps forward when the general barked, “Wait a minute! If you’re going to demonstrate this man’s military skills, I want to see a real opponent out here. You’re not going to match him with some fluffy bunny, Sergeant.”

  Thumper thought he was a pretty decent opponent, but he could sort of see the general’s point. Even Brandy made sure each of them sparred against everybody in the squad. She always said, “You don’t get to pick out an opponent your own size in a real fight.” So he stepped back into the formation as Brandy asked, oh-so-politely, “Perhaps the general would like to select an opponent for Legionnaire Mahatma?” Only someone who’d watched her for weeks under the hot sun would have noticed a faint smile.

  General Blitzkrieg scanned the training squad, a scowl on his face. After a moment, he pointed and said, “That one looks fit enough. You, legionnaire. Front and center!”

  “Yes, sir!” said a mechanical voice, and Thumper involuntarily turned to make sure he’d heard correctly. Sure enough, stepping forward came Rube, one of the three Gambolts assigned to Omega Company.

  “Hello, Rube,” said Mahatma, waving. The Gambolt wasn’t a bad choice if you were looking for the strongest possible opponent for Mahatma. Never mind Rube’s genial attitude; like most of his species, he was powerfully built, tachyon-fast, and loved nothing more than a good fight. He was more dangerous unarmed than most other sophonts would be with a full kit of advanced weaponry.

  But Mahatma wasn’t about to let his opponent make the first move. Even as Rube opened his mouth to reply to the little human’s greeting, Mahatma was in action. It happened so fast that Thumper wasn’t quite sure what he saw, but it seemed as if Mahatma simply launched himself at the Gambolt’s head. Rube dodged, reacting instinctively, but Mahatma’s toe snaked out and caught the Gambolt under the chin, snapping his head back. As Rube fell backward, Mahatma’s arm came whipping down to strike a blow flat on the side of his head. Rube fell to the floor and landed on his back.

  The Gambolt recovered almost instantly, but Mahatma was faster. He landed on his feet and, before Rube could get his feet under him, put a hand atop his opponent’s head and poised another at his throat to signal that he could strike a crippling blow.

  Brandy clapped her hands once. “Halt!” she said. The two opponents relaxed, and Rube leapt to his feet, evidently unhurt by his fall. Then Brandy turned to the general. “Would you like another demonstration, sir, or is that sufficient?”

  In the gaping silence that followed, it was easy to hear Mahatma’s cheerful voice, “Perhaps the general would like to demonstrate his own combat skills?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Journal #866

  There are few experiences more flattering than learning that one has been missed. Being sought after may be among them; but it depends heavily on just who is doing the seeking, and why. Consider the different impressions one would have from learning one was being sought by an attractive person of the opposite sex, and by an armed band of revenue officers …

  * * *

  Sparrowhawk heard the office door open and quickly blanked her screen. Not for security—unless you included job security in that category. She did know Legion security officers who would argue that anything a general’s adjutant did had the potential to give an enemy valuable intelligence—even the games she played while she waited for the general to give her some actual work—but she didn’t buy that argument. No, she just had every office worker’s instinctive aversion to letting the boss look over her shoulder. And sure enough, when she turned around, there he stood—looking somewhat dazed, she thought.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said, automatically forcing herself to perk up. “Did you find out what the natives are up to?”

  General Blitzkrieg shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen the like,” he said. He shuffled over to the large easy chair at one end of Zenobia Base’s VIP quarters, turned around, and plopped into it.

  Worried in spite of herself, Sparrowhawk broke the growing silence by asking, “The likes of what?”

  “Excuse me, Major?” The general looked up in bemusement.

  “You said you’d never seen the like of … something,” said Sparrowhawk. “I was asking what.”

  “Oh, Jester, of course,” said the general. He still looked a bit dazed. Sparrowhawk looked at him closely and made a decision. She quickly splashed two fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to the general. He took it in his hand and sat swirling the glass, so far without taking a sip.

  “Jester’s got a squad training for infiltration work,” said Blitzkrieg in a flat tone of voice. “Who’d have thought it? But after seeing them, I’m almost ready to believe it. Why, there’s one little devil who could make you think he’s a store clerk, or maybe a waiter—almost anything but a legionnaire …”

  “Very interesting,” said Sparrowhawk, trying to figure out where the general was going.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Blitzkrieg, still swirling the glass. “But I’m beginning to wonder … What do you know about bugs, Sparrowhawk?”

 
“Bugs?” Sparrowhawk frowned. “I guess I know as much as anybody who’s not a scientist. What were you thinking about?”

  “Way back when, on Old Earth, there was a time when bugs were the main cause of lots of diseases. So they invented chemicals to kill ’em.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that,” said Sparrowhawk. “Some of the chemicals were apparently worse than the bugs.”

  Blitzkrieg went on as if he hadn’t noticed her comment. “Thing is, some of the bugs were immune to the chemicals, so they invented more chemicals. And some of the bugs were immune to the new chemicals too …”

  “I think I’ve heard that story,” said Sparrowhawk. “Instead of getting rid of the bugs, they ended up breeding a new kind of superbug that was worse than the ones they’d started with.”

  “That’s right,” said Blitzkrieg. “My point is … this legionnaire, Mahatma—believe me, I’m going to remember that name—is damn near the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever had to deal with—and that’s saying a mouthful. Perfect fit for Omega Company, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “That’s pretty much the whole purpose of Omega, isn’t it? A place to send the problems, get them off everyone else’s back.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the general. “But I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t created a monster here.”

  “A monster, sir?” said Sparrowhawk, frowning. “Surely one smart-mouth legionnaire can’t amount to that much of a problem.”

  “Oh, it’s more than just one,” said Blitzkrieg. He finally seemed to notice the glass he held, and took a long sip. “The sergeant was doing her best to cover up just how widespread insubordination has become in Omega, but I haven’t spent this much time in the Legion without figuring out how these noncoms think. I’ll guarantee you, she picked out that Mahatma rascal because he’s one of the best recruits in her squad!”

  “I suppose that makes sense, General,” said Sparrowhawk. She wasn’t convinced, but she had long ago learned that contradicting Blitzkrieg was pointless.

  “But do you see what that means?” the general continued. “By concentrating all the bad eggs in Omega, we’ve created a breeding ground for even worse eggs—this Mahatma may be the first of a new breed of super-pain-in-the-ass legionnaires! My God, I tremble to think what could happen if this spread to the rest of the Legion!”

  “Well, there’s only one answer to that,” said Sparrowhawk. “It’s a good thing you’ve already anticipated the answer.”

  “Excuse me, Major? I’m not sure I follow you,” said the general. It was some measure of how disoriented he was that he actually admitted his confusion to her.

  It gave her considerable satisfaction to explain the whole thing to him. The best part about it was that it would get her exactly what she wanted without requiring her to do anything beyond convincing the general that the problem was already solved. Which, as far as she was concerned, it was.

  * * *

  “This is stupid,” said Do-Wop. He looked around the little moonlit plaza, empty except for the two legionnaires. “Somebody tells us to come here for some important news, then don’t bother to show. I ain’t got the time for this kinda …”

  “Then go on home,” came a voice from just behind him.

  “What the …” Do-Wop whirled to face the speaker, as did Sushi. Both legionnaires assumed defensive stances as a figure emerged from the shadows. “Who you think you are, scarin’ us like that?” said Do-Wop.

  “I know exactly who I am,” said the newcomer, a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He spoke excellent English with just a trace of an Earth Italian accent. “So do quite a few people here in Rome. And I suspect if you knew what some of them know, you’d be even more scared. But that’s not why I asked you to meet me here. There are two other people you need to talk to.” He gestured, and another pair of figures came into the light. A man and a woman … Beeker and Nightingale!

  “Wow, you two picked a great time to finally show up,” said Sushi. “You wouldn’t believe how many planets we’ve chased you across …”

  “I expect I would believe it, providing the number is no greater than four,” said Beeker dryly. “I will say I was surprised to learn of your pursuit—which came to my attention back on Hix’s World—and, thanks to this gentleman, here on Old Earth.” He indicated the older man standing next to him.

  “And who is this guy, anyway?” asked Sushi.

  “Pitti da Phule,” said the newcomer in a soft growl.

  Do-Wop bristled. “Who you callin’—” he began …

  Beeker cut him off. “Mr. da Phule is one of your captain’s relatives living in this city. What he has told me has brought us all here tonight.”

  Do-Wop snorted, still not quite mollified. “It must be pretty hot stuff, to make you change your mind after you up and run away from the captain …”

  “I’d hardly call it running away,” said Beeker, raising an eyebrow. “In fact, I have done nothing but take my accumulated vacation time, as the young master himself had encouraged me to do. It had been nearly three years since I had more than a weekend away from my duties. Nightingale was entitled to leave after finishing her training as well, and she decided to take it with me. She’d been planning our vacation for some time, in fact. Unfortunately, my gentleman was away from his office when Nightingale and I learned that the Lorelei space liner schedules had changed. We had to leave Zenobia immediately on the outgoing Supply shuttle if we were to make connections to Cut ’N’ Shoot in time for the roundup festival.”

  “Roundup festival?” Do-Wop was incredulous.

  “I read about that as a little girl, and I always wanted to see it,” said Nightingale enthusiastically.

  “But we can talk about that at some more appropriate time,” said Beeker. “As this gentleman has informed me, your captain is in trouble. In fact, he has been kidnapped, and we need to act quickly—and in close cooperation—to set things right.”

  “Sure, who we gotta kill?” said Do-Wop, striking a belligerent stance.

  “We won’t need that,” said Pitti da Phule calmly. “If we did, I could arrange it with local contractors—I think it’s always better to deal with people you know. No, what I need you to do is a bit trickier. But from what my nephew’s butler tells me, it should be right up your alley …”

  Beeker, Nightingale, and the two legionnaires listened carefully while Pitti da Phule outlined his plan, with Sushi and Nightingale occasionally asking questions. Finally, everyone knew their part in the operation. With a final handshake, the group split up—Beeker and Nightingale headed in one direction, Pitti da Phule in another, and Sushi and Do-Wop headed back toward their hotel. They’d have to get some supplies in the morning, but there was plenty they could do before then. And if they were lucky, they just might get some sleep before the whole thing was over.

  Then again, they might not.

  * * *

  About the only good thing Phule could say about being kidnapped was that somebody in the neighborhood made really good take-out pasta. Dinner last night had been an excellent lasagna with mushrooms and spicy sausage, and the thugs made sure he had plenty of vino to wash it down. Good, robust Tuscan red—they left him the bottle. Wanting to keep his wits about him, he made it a point to pour a good bit down the sink when nobody was watching. If he could get the kidnappers to underestimate how alert he was, that was an advantage he might be able to use.

  On the other hand, that was about the only advantage he could see them giving him. The door stayed locked; so did the window, and the bars on the outside looked plenty strong enough. Breaking the glass was the only way to test them, and if the bars really were immovable, breaking the glass was just a good way to annoy Weasel-face and Vinnie, neither of whom seemed to sympathize with his desire to escape.

  Judging from the sky, it was still early morning. The kidnappers had taken his watch, so he had no way to be certain. But the fact that breakfast had yet to appear seemed to
confirm his guess—not that he had any reason to expect them to coddle him. They didn’t seem interested in providing entertainment, either. He had nothing to read except an Italian-language advertising flyer of some sort that came in the bag with the wine last night. He’d been desperate enough to try reading it, though his Italian was so rudimentary he couldn’t really make out what it was trying to sell.

  If I ever kidnap somebody, I’ll make it a point to provide plenty of entertainment, he thought to himself. If these people had given me a good action game to play or some exciting vids to watch, I might not be working on an escape plan. At that point, he sat up straight and shook his head. And here I am, instead, trying to figure out how they might have done a better job of keeping me from escaping.

  He stood and went to look out the window—probably for the twentieth time since getting up. Judging by the building across the way, he was on about the third floor, so even if he could somehow get past the bars, he’d have a dangerous drop to ground level—which, as far as he could tell by looking out the window, was a narrow back alley. So while there were no passersby to signal for help, there were also no watchers if he did somehow manage to escape out this window. A possible advantage, though not one he could see any way to exploit just now.

  That was the real problem: he had any number of intangible advantages over his kidnappers—he was younger, probably smarter, certainly richer, trained in several military combat disciplines, and much more alert than either of them seemed to be. But, totally unfairly, they were the ones who had him locked up, and he had yet to find a way out of this place.