Phules Paradise

by Robert Asprin

  "Okay. What's on your mind?"

  "Well ... the others asked me to talk with you, since I was coming over anyway to visit Dad." The youth seemed suddenly uneasy. "What it is, is ... well, we all appreciate what you told us, about paying off our contracts and sending us back to Jewell, but-"

  "What? Wait a minute!" Tiffany broke in. "You didn't tell me anything about this, Captain."

  "It didn't concern you," the commander said tersely. "Not for a while, anyway. You were saying, Junior?"

  "Well, sir," the youth continued, squaring his shoulders, "we'd like you to reconsider your decision. We want to stay on until this thing is finished. As far as we're concerned, nothing has changed from the original agreement."

  "Nothing?" Phule scowled. "That isn't how I'd describe what's happened to your father and Tiffany."

  "I can't speak for Tiffany," the youth said. "But my father's had broken bones before. It goes with the job. As for the rest of us, we were warned of the possible danger involved in this deal, and we accepted it. Just because it's become a reality hasn't changed the terms of our contract. We're all ready to go on working for you if you'll let us."

  "All of you?"

  "Well, we haven't had a chance to check with Tiffany," the boy admitted. "That's why I wanted to discuss this in front of her."

  "You can add my vote to that, kid," the actress said firmly. "It looks like I'll be stuck here for a while, anyway, but ..."

  She pulled herself up into a sitting position, hugging her knees to steady herself. "Let me tell you something, Mister Phule. You may be some kind of hotshot in the business world, or even the military, but it seems you have a lot to learn about show business."

  "I guess I do," the commander said, shaking his head slightly. "Would either of you care to enlighten me?"

  Tiffany gave out an unladylike snort.

  "It appears you have the common misconception that entertainers are hothouse flowers that have to be babied and protected. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Our profession has never really been socially acceptable, and anyone who makes a living at it has had to put up with physical and mental abuse as a norm, not as an exception. You may think of the theater as being sophisticated and artsy, but our roots are in traveling troupes that were closer to carnivals and snake-oil shows than any black-tie opening night."

  "We're used to butting heads with the locals," Doc's son supplied calmly. "It's almost like we're gypsies, and being hassled or exploited-or blamed for whatever goes wrong in the near vicinity-gets to be expected after a while. Usually we have to knuckle under and go along with things or risk being run out of town. This time, though, we've got the forces of authority on our side for a change. Heck, we are the forces of authority."

  "What the kid's trying to say, Captain," the actress added, "is that we may be temperamental and sometimes quit a job in a huff, but nobody runs us off a stage ... except maybe the director or stage manager. In this case, that's you. Now, if you tell us that we're not performing up to snuff or that you have to make some budget cuts, that's one thing. But don't tell us we're being pulled from the cast for our own good. You hired us because we're all pros ... `real troopers' as the phrase goes. These yokels can't even imagine a situation bad enough to close us down if you say it's all right to keep working."

  "The show must go on, eh?" Phule smiled wryly.

  "That's about it," the youth said.

  "All right." The commander sighed, reaching a decision. "Pass the word that any of the actors who want to stay on, can. Oh, and son ... ?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "There's a tradition in the Space Legion that lets a recruit choose his own name when he signs on, and suddenly I don't feel comfortable thinking of you as `Junior.' Is there anything else you'd like to be called?"

  The youth's face split in a sudden smile.

  "Well, sir," he said, "I think I'll take my cue from the lovely lady here. Why don't you just call me `Trooper'?"

  "Consider it done," Phule said. "Pass the word on that as well, and be sure to give everyone my personal thanks."

  "Thank you, sir!"

  The youth drew himself up and gave a snappy salute.

  "Thank you, Trooper," the commander corrected with a smile, returning the salute.

  "That was nice, Captain," the actress said after the youth had departed. "Would it be a horrible imposition to ask if I could give you a kiss before you left?"

  "Tiffany," Phule said with mock solemnity, "it would be a pleasure."

  The phone rang on the bedside table.

  "Damn!" the actress snarled, then caught herself and smiled again. "Don't go away, Captain. I'm going to hold you to that kiss."

  "I'll be right here," the commander promised.

  The phone rang again, and the actress reached for it.

  "Hello? ... Who? ... Oh ... No, I'm fine, thank you. It's nice of you to ask."

  Catching Phule's eye, she covered the phone's mouthpiece with one hand while silently mouthing a name.

  Maxine Pruet.

  The commander's face hardened, and he held out his hand for the phone.

  "Mrs. Pruet?" he said. "Captain Jester here."

  "Good evening, Captain." Max's voice came after only the slightest pause. "I was going to call you next, but I should have known you would be there."

  "Yes ... Well, I just wanted to tell you that while we appreciate the gesture of your offering to cover the medical costs, they're being paid by the Space Legion. We take care of our own."

  "I'm aware of that, Captain ... now more than before, I'm afraid."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I was going to extend my personal apologies for what happened tonight, as well as my assurances that it was not done at my orders. It seems, however, my apologies would have been a bit premature ... all things considered."

  "Forgive me, Mrs. Pruet, but I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Oh, come now, Captain. I'm sure neither of us believes in coincidence. Do you really expect me to accept that it was sheer chance that Mr. Stilman was brutally beaten so soon after his attack on your members?"

  "You can believe what you like," Phule said tersely, "but whatever happened, I'm unaware of it."

  "I see." Max's voice was thoughtful. "Very well, Captain, I'll believe you ... if for no other reason than I can't think of why you would claim ignorance if you were responsible, since there has clearly been provocation. I'll admit that it struck me as strange that you'd use outside help rather than your own troops. For your information, however, the person responsible for the attack on your people tonight, Mr. Stilman-I believe you're familiar with the name, if not the person-is currently receiving medical attention for a shattered kneecap as well as multiple breakage to his jawbone. As I said, the coincidence is a bit too much for credibility, so I suggest you make inquiries within your own forces as to who ordered the attack."

  "Excuse me, did you say that he's here? At this clinic?"

  "No, Captain. He's at another facility. We have several clinics here on Lorelei, though it's not highly publicized. I felt it would create an unnecessarily messy situation if he were treated at the same location as your people. In fact, I'll be having him shipped off-station for intensive care on the next available ship. While I am far from pleased with his independent action, we take care of our own, too."

  "I see." Phule frowned. "I was hoping I could speak with him directly about who it was who attacked him."

  "His injuries make it impossible for him to talk, Mr. Phule." Maxine's voice was momentarily cold. "But he can write. I suggest that you confine your investigation to your own people to determine who ordered the attack. We already know who executed it."

  "Who was it?"

  "I already said that it was not one of your Legionnaires, Captain, and as the attack did not take place on the premises of the Fat Chance, I don't believe it's any of your concern. Now, if you'll forgive me, there are things which require my immediate attention."

  With that,
she broke the connection.

  Phule frowned at the receiver for several moments before gently placing it back on its cradle.

  "What is it, Captain?" Tiffany said, noting the expression on his face.

  "I'm not sure," the commander admitted. "It seems that the person who attacked you and Doc has been ..."

  A shrill beep from his wrist communicator interrupted him. Despite the urgency of the sound, Phule stared at it for a few moments before answering the signal. There were only a few of the command communicators such as he was wearing, so the radio silence order did not preclude the use of the exclusive channels. Still, he had left orders with Mother that he was to be disturbed only for an emergency while he was visiting the clinic.

  "Phule here," he said, finally opening the line.

  "Sorry to bother you, Captain," came Mother's voice without any of her usual banter, "but things are popping back here at the casino and I thought you should know about it. First of all, we've got the two missing communicators back, and-"

  "Wait a minute. Who got them back?"

  "It was sergeant ... Chocolate Harry, I mean."

  "Harry! I should have known." Phule grimaced. "Listen, Mother. Pass the word: I want Harry pulled in fast! The opposition's looking for him. I don't care if it means sending out a team to escort him in, we've got to-"

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Captain," Mother broke in. "He's already in. We've got him up in your suite. He's hurt, but he won't let us call a doctor. You'd better get back here pronto."

  The supply sergeant was stretched out on the suite's sofa attended by Beeker and a small group of hovering Legionnaires when Phule arrived back at his room. He was stripped to the waist, and even from the doorway the commander could see the massive purple bruise that showed even against his dark skin, stretching from armpit to hip and across a large part of his rib cage.

  "Hello, C.H.," he said. "It's good to see you again."

  "Hey, Cap'n," came the weak response. "How's it goin'?"

  The sergeant shifted his huge form, and Phule realized with a start that he was trying to rise.

  "Just stay where you are," he said, moving quickly to Harry's side. "Well, I hear you've been busy tonight."

  "You heard that, huh?" C.H. grinned, sinking back into his pillows. "Busier'n I expected, that's for sure. Man, that dude was fast! If I hadn't gotten his kneecap with my first shot, he would have cleaned my clock. Even as it was, he got me a good lick before I put him to sleep."

  He gestured vaguely at his bruise with the opposite hand.

  "So I see," Phule said sternly. "I want a doctor to look at that, Harry. No arguments."

  "Don't do it, Cap'n," Harry wheezed, shaking his head. "I've been knocked around before, and this's nothin' more'n a few cracked ribs. I'm pretty sure the Max has the local medics in her pocket, and you bring one of 'em up here, she's gonna know I'm with you, and maybe start lookin' around to see who else might be Legionnaires in civilian clothes."

  The commander hesitated.

  "Please, Cap'n," the sergeant pressed. "I'll be all right ... really. Just let me get some sleep, and I'll be good as new."

  Phule pursed his lips, then nodded.

  "Beeker," he said, "I want you to stay close to Harry tonight. Watch him close. If there's any indication he's hurt worse than he's telling us, I want you to call me ... cancel that. Call a doctor, then call me."

  "Certainly, sir."

  "The rest of you, clear out of here and let the man get some rest. We'll keep you posted as to his condition."

  "One more thing, Cap'n," the prone sergeant said, raising his head painfully.

  "What is it, Harry?"

  "The bulletproof material our uniforms are made of? Well, Stilman's outfit was made of the same stuff, probably standard issue for their troops as well. I don't think our tranquilizer guns will work against it."

  "Don't worry, C.H.," Phule said grimly. "I already planned to have heavier armaments issued to everyone and to put an around-the-clock guard on Gunther. It looks like things are starting to get rough."

  "Yeah, well, you might want to find that salesman and see about gettin' some of your money back." Harry grinned humorlessly as he let his head ease back down. "That stuff may stop penetration, but it ain't much good against impact. If he wants to argue, I bet there are four people who will be glad to give him a demonstration that he's wrong!"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Journal #244

  Despite the ominous turn events had taken, the next several days passed without incident. Although this proved to be merely the quiet before the storm, it nonetheless gave my employer the opportunity to indulge in a few of the more civilized elements of life.

  I refer here to eating, which to me requires specifically sitting down to eat rather than simply wolfing down a sandwich, a hamburger, or some other form of "energy pellet" fast food while continuing with one's duties. This was a luxury I noticed my employer allowed himself less and less of late.

  I had long since abandoned any effort to convince him that it might be desirable for him to sleep more than one or two hours at a time.

  "I've really got to get going soon," Phule declared, glancing at his watch again. "I'm overdue to check on the troops."

  "Relax, Captain," Sydney said, reaching for the wine bottle once more. "Those roughnecks of yours are more than capable of taking care of themselves without you hovering over them ... or they should be. Besides, I thought the whole point of those snazzy communicators you wear was so they could get in touch with you if anything important happened."

  "I suppose you're right," the commander said, though he glanced involuntarily at the restaurant door even as he spoke. "I guess I've been edgy ever since Tiffany and Doc got jumped, and I'm not particularly confident that the troops will always check with me before they swing into action, as you well know."

  "Don't remind us, Willard," Jennie Higgens said, wrinkling her nose slightly as she held her own glass out to her cameraman for a refill. "I mean, we've accepted your apology and all, but don't push your luck. You know, I can't help but feel we'd still be cooling our heels under guard if you hadn't remembered I had been to nursing school before signing onto the glamorous world of broadcast news. How is Harry, by the way?"

  "He seems to be coming along fine," Phule said. "At least, it's getting more and more difficult to keep him horizontal while he's mending. Fortunately I think he's met his match in Beeker. Incidentally I want to thank you again for taping him up."

  "I've had a lot of practice with that, though I'm better on bone bruises," the reporter said. "In case the subject ever comes up, don't ever let anyone con you into thinking that field hockey is a ladylike game. It can be as rough or rougher than lacrosse-at least the way we used to play it." She paused and cocked an eyebrow at the Legionnaire commander. "Maybe I shouldn't mention it, but you are aware, aren't you, that that's the fifth or sixth time you've thanked me for patching up the sergeant?"

  "Is it?" Phule frowned, rubbing his forehead with one finger. "Sorry. I don't mean to be redundant. I seem to be a bit forgetful lately. I guess I'm a little tired."

  The reporter and the cameraman exchanged glances. It had been impossible not to notice the lines of fatigue etched into Phule's face, though they had both been careful not to comment on it.

  "Oh well." The Legionnaire commander shrugged and forced a smile. "The one thing I can't thank you enough for is your willingness to sit on this story-for a while, anyway. I know how much it must mean to you."

  "No, you don't," Sydney muttered, glancing away as he took another sip of his wine.

  Jennie shot him a dark glare, then turned back to the conversation.

  "It's nice of you to thank us," she said easily, "but really, Willard, reporters aren't totally insensitive, no matter what you've heard-the good ones, anyway. It's easy to see that publicizing what you're doing would endanger your undercover operatives, so it's no big thing for us to hold off for a while."

  "Well, Jen
nie," Phule said carefully, "contrary to popular belief, I'm not totally insensitive, either. What was that you were saying about my not really knowing how much this story means to you, Sydney?"

  "What?" The cameraman blinked in surprise at suddenly being the focus of the conversation. "Oh ... nothing."

  The Legionnaire commander leaned back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, as he looked back and forth between his two dinner companions.

  "Now, look," he said. "I've been up-front and candid with you two in this whole deal-probably more than I should have been. I don't think it's asking too much for you to return the favor. Now, what is it that I don't know about your involvement with this story?"

  Uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a moment. Then the reporter shrugged her shoulders.

  "Tell him, Sydney," she said.

  The cameraman grimaced before he spoke.

  "I guess loose lips really do sink ships," he said. "All right, Captain. What I was so carelessly referring to is that both our jobs are on the line for this assignment. The news director wasn't particularly convinced that there was a story here, but Jennie kept leaning on him until he agreed to send us, but on the proviso that if we don't come up with something to justify the cost of the trip, we needn't bother coming back, and whatever benefits or severance pay we had coming would be applied against the cost of the wild-goose chase."

  "Why, Jennie?" Phule said.

  "Oh, he just made me mad," the reporter admitted. "He acted like I was making the whole thing up to get the news service to pay for a passion-filled vacation on Lorelei for Sydney and me. I kept trying to convince him it was a legitimate story and ... well, when he got around to making his `take it or leave it' offer, I couldn't refuse or it would look like he was right all along."

  "Interesting," the commander said. "But what I meant was, why didn't you want to tell me about this?"

  Jennie shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I didn't want it to seem like you were under any obligation to us. You have a habit of taking responsibility for everything and everybody around you, Willard, and I was afraid it would come across like we were trying to play on your generosity ... or your guilt."