Phule's Errand

by Robert Asprin

  “I don’t know why you listen to that kind of thing,” said Sparrowhawk, who knew on which side her bread was buttered. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face—that Starfleet captain’s just jealous because the Legion’s grabbing the spotlight from his arm of the service.”

  Blitzkrieg gnashed his teeth. “I could deal with that, if it weren’t that imbecile Jester and his gang of incompetents who were getting all the publicity,” he said. “Jester’s idiots have managed to convince the media that they’re the best outfit in the Legion. Are those galactic newstapers blind? Or just terminally stupid?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s a fair amount of both,” said Sparrowhawk. Then an evil smile lit up her face, and her voice dripped acid as she said, “Or, considering that Jennie Higgins and Captain Jester seem to be a very definite item, maybe it’s just another case of nasty little hormones at work.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” said Blitzkrieg, pacing. “The hell of it is, I’ve tried half a dozen ways to crush Jester—the despicable little snot—but he keeps bouncing back as if nothing important had happened. Part of it has to be his money—there are plenty of fools who’ll suck up to any jackanapes that’s got enough money, and Jester qualifies for that, hands down.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk, who actually had a great deal of respect for money, especially money sitting in one of her own stock accounts. She wished Blitzkrieg would finish his rant so she could pay proper attention to those very accounts, but she knew from bitter experience that it might take all morning for him to run through his list of gripes. She’d have to stay at the desk straight through her lunch break if she wanted to catch up.

  “I’ve just about given up expecting the media to notice what an utter disaster Jester’s made of his company,” continued Blitzkrieg. “Why, if I didn’t have a hundred better things to do, I’d go out to Zenobia myself. If I watch him like a hawk, sooner or later the impertinent pup’s going to screw up so badly that not even his money can protect him. And then I can cashier him the way I should’ve done when he first came up for court-martial, instead of letting those other softheaded short-timers argue me out of it.”

  Major Sparrowhawk sat upright behind her desk. “Well, sir, why don’t you?” she asked brightly.

  “Eh? I don’t get you,” said the general.

  “Why don’t you just go out to Zenobia and wait for him to screw up?” asked the adjutant. “You said it yourself—he’s bound to do it, especially if you’re there breathing down his neck with every move. And then you’ll be rid of him, and all your troubles will be over.”

  “Rid of him,” said Blitzkrieg in a dreamlike voice. Then his eyes lit up, and he smacked a fist into his open hand. “Rid of him. All my troubles will be over … Yes, you’re dead right, Major! All I have to do is wait for Jester to screw up, and if I’m right there, the poor little rich boy won’t have a chance to cover it up with all his money before I can bust him for it. What a brilliant idea! I’m surprised I didn’t think of it myself!”

  “Don’t worry, you will,” muttered Sparrowhawk, who was long accustomed to having her best ideas appropriated by her superior.

  But the general was already off and running. “Let’s see …” he said. “I’ll have to find someone to cover for me in the staff meeting. That’s no big problem; they never talk about anything important. Colonel Caisson can handle that. And I’ll need a substitute in the Scotch foursome on Tuesday afternoons. Caisson won’t do—that duck hook of his will have him out of bounds the whole back nine. Can’t be anybody too good, though, or they’re likely to want to keep him. Hmmm …” He wandered through the door into his private office, his mind happily occupied with rearranging the details of his social life.

  Major Sparrowhawk gave a deep sigh of relief and turned to her investment portfolio.

  Chapter Two

  Journal #764

  Anyone who wishes to reach advanced years will, of necessity, abandon his fondest dreams and most valued possessions at several points along the way. After a few experiences along these lines, one can even do so without a great deal of regret. But even the most stoical traveler is likely to be shaken out of his complacency when a piece of valuable baggage, long ago given up for lost, shows up unannounced on his doorstep.

  * * *

  Standing back a respectful distance, as specified by safety regulations, the Legion party watched the landing shuttle’s approach. The little ship dropped from the sky deceptively slowly, like a flattened rock through some ultradense liquid. Only when it reached the lower atmosphere did its true speed—still a significant fraction of the orbital velocity of its mother ship—become apparent. But even as it fell, it continued to shed velocity, and as it came within a few meters of the ground, it reached a virtual standstill, hovering gently on its jets as it dropped the tiny remaining distance to touch down in a cloud of dust and flying debris—dead center in the ten-meter landing zone defined by four radar beacons.

  Even as the noise of the engines fell to silence, the Legion party was closing in. For while safety regulations ordered ground crews to keep their distance, the implacable laws of shuttle economics made it important to unload and return to orbit as quickly as possible. Interstellar freight companies’ stock-in-trade was speed, and since any given starship was about as fast as any other at superluminal velocities, time at sublight velocities—especially from orbit to surface and back—was critical. A wasted hour on the ground could make the difference between a timely delivery and a blown schedule.

  Moments after the external doors came open, Beeker was standing beside the shuttle. Phule suppressed a grin—the butler had put on a very respectable burst of speed, considering that he was, by a wide margin, the oldest human on the planet. As the dust settled, a slim figure in a black Legion jumpsuit emerged into the Zenobian air, looked around, eyes adjusting to the light, and then fixed its gaze on Beeker. “You’re here!” said a woman’s low voice, and the next thing anyone knew, she had thrown herself into the butler’s arms.

  “Laverna!” said Beeker. “There are people watching!” The butler’s voice sounded shocked. But nobody watching had any doubt that he was pleased, and he made no effort to push away the new arrival.

  The woman leaned back and looked around at the onlookers, most of whom were doing an excellent job of keeping a straight face. “Screw ’em,” she said with a dry laugh. Then she turned back and looked Beeker in the eye. “Besides, there’s no such animule as Laverna anymore—the name is Nightingale. Remember that, Beeker.”

  The tableau was interrupted by a shuttle crewman who stuck his head out the door. “We’ve got your luggage, Legionnaire Nightingale, and a sack of personal parcels for the Legion outpost—and then we’ve gotta get off. You all ready?”

  A pair of legionnaires stepped forward to take off the mail and luggage, and then Phule said, “That’s it, then. Let’s move off so this fellow can get back to orbit!”

  “You got it, Captain,” said Double-X, who’d taken charge of the mail sack. “Come on, suckers, let’s give the shuttle some room, like the captain said.” The Legion party quickly complied, and within moments, the shuttle had leapt from the ground and quickly begun its graceful ascent toward the scattered clouds high above the desert floor.

  The Legion party stood and watched the takeoff for a moment, then climbed aboard the hovertruck that would take them back to Zenobia Base.

  * * *

  “Well, then, we are partners,” said Mahatma, peering at Thumper with a bemused air. The two of them sat at a table in the Legion Club, adjacent to the mess hall in the specially built Modular Base Unit that served as Omega Company’s headquarters for its stay on Zenobia. The Lepoid was reputedly the first of his species to join the Space Legion, although a few others had enlisted in Starfleet. Small beings who bore a striking resemblance to an Old Earth species called “bunnies,” they made up in speed and agility what they lacked in brute strength.

  It was early afternoon, s
o only a few of the tables were occupied by off-duty enlisted personnel. The action here would normally begin to pick up a couple of hours later, when the troops gathered for happy hour just before dinner. But for now, Mahatma and Thumper had a corner all to themselves.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” said Thumper, his gaze cast down at the tabletop. “I guess that means the captain thinks we each have something the other needs. But I can’t think of what I might have that you need. You’re a veteran legionnaire, and I’m just a rookie …” The little Lepoid’s shoulders slumped, and he looked overwhelmed by the news Brandy had just given them.

  “Not quite so,” said Mahatma, smiling sheepishly. “I have been in Omega Company less than one standard year, and have seen nothing that resembles combat. I hardly qualify as any kind of veteran, though I do know a fair bit about how this company works.”

  “Maybe that’s what he thinks I can learn from you,” said Thumper. “But what does he think you can learn from me?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Mahatma. “I will keep my eyes and ears open, and perhaps something resembling useful knowledge will come; perhaps you should do the same. I do not think the captain expects us to work from a printed syllabus.”

  “I sure hope not,” said Thumper, scratching behind one ear. “If he did, he should have given it to us.”

  “I don’t think he wants much more than for us to help each other when we can,” said Mahatma calmly. “That ought to be enough until we decide what else is required.”

  “OK, I guess that’d be a start,” said Thumper. He looked at Mahatma for a moment, then asked, “What do you need help with?”

  Mahatma looked at Thumper with wide-open eyes, then broke into helpless laughter.

  Thumper sat watching for a moment, steadily growing more perplexed. After a few moments, he said, “OK, what’s the joke?”

  Mahatma finally recovered his composure enough to say, “Sorry—it’s just that this is the first time since I joined the Legion that anyone has really offered to help me without any strings attached or ulterior motives. And, of course, I can’t think of anything at all that I need right now. But I think I will, soon enough. Yes, we are going to be fine partners!”

  “I’m not sure,” said Thumper, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I mean, you’re always asking questions that nobody can answer. I don’t know what good that does anybody. Isn’t the idea that we all work together in one team?”

  “All one team, yes,” said Mahatma, nodding. “But every team has specialists, too. Escrima is the cook; Chocolate Harry looks after supplies; Mother handles communications. And I ask the questions nobody else has thought of yet. Sometimes they are questions that really need answers—and by asking them, I am doing an important service. Other times I do it just to keep people from taking things for granted—even a good sergeant like Brandy needs that now and then. So that is helping too.”

  “I suppose so,” said Thumper skeptically. “I thought you did it just to be a pain in the ass.”

  “Of course,” said Mahatma with a broad smile. “Being a pain in the ass is very important in the Legion. If this company ever has to face a military emergency, the enemy is going to try very hard to be a pain in the ass—and anywhere else they can. I am working to keep us prepared for that situation.”

  “Gee, I guess I hadn’t thought it through,” said Thumper, his ears standing up straight and twitching with excitement. “Maybe I haven’t been giving you enough credit, Mahatma. This puts everything in a whole new light.”

  “It is a humble mission, yet I must confess that I take some pride in it,” said Mahatma, lowering his eyes.

  “Say, Mahatma,” said Thumper hesitantly. “Not that I’m trying to butt in on your department or anything, but do you think somebody like me could learn how to do that kind of thing? I’d be willing to study and work hard …”

  Mahatma sat back in his chair and appeared to ponder the question. The silence grew. At last, Thumper began to wonder if he’d made a mistake in asking for something so important. Just as he was about to back down from his request, Mahatma’s face broke out in a beatific smile. “Why yes, my Lepoid partner,” he said. “I am sure we can combine our talents to make the company even better prepared for the unexpected.”

  “Wow, do you really think so?” said Thumper. “You really think I can be a pain in the ass too?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mahatma, nodding wisely. “You are a clever sophont, and you pick things up quickly. I am sure we can find a role worthy of your talents. But first things first. Give me a little time to think about something you can do just to get started, and we will build from there.”

  “Triff!” said Thumper. He sat back and waited, confident that Mahatma would think up something appropriate.

  He was right, of course.

  * * *

  It was already getting hot in the Zenobian desert as Phule and Lieutenant Armstrong set out on their morning run. It had become a pleasant addition to their routine, a chance to see the ever-fascinating scenery of an alien landscape while keeping themselves in the top physical condition that Space Legion regulations specified for officers. Not all Legion officers took those regulations as seriously as Phule, which might explain the Legion’s low status among the Alliance military.

  But Phule enjoyed the runs, and was actively annoyed when anything prevented him from getting out in the morning. Even so, he knew that running alone in unfamiliar territory would be begging for trouble. Luckily, Armstrong had turned out to be a willing training partner and a useful sounding board when Phule needed to bounce his ideas off someone besides Beeker.

  As usual, they’d begun by heading toward the low hills east of the Legion base. Once they reached the rising ground, there were several routes, but the first mile out they invariably took the same level path. It was a good warm-up before they got to the hills and had to decide just how hard they wanted to work today.

  They’d gone just over half a mile when a small, black-clad figure emerged from the woods and began to run alongside Phule. “Many salutings, Captain Clown,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. The host planet’s liaison officer to Omega Company had to take two strides to Phule’s one just to maintain the same pace, but Qual did it without apparent strain.

  “Hello, Qual,” said Phule. “What brings you out this way?” He already knew that something had to be on the Zenobian’s mind. Qual was naturally one of the fastest runners on the base, but he rarely exerted himself without good reason. Phule sometimes wondered if that was a trait the Zenobians derived from their reptilelike forebears, who preferred to bask in the sun until either an imminent threat or passing prey spurred them to action.

  “A very curious thing that I have observed,” said Qual, keeping pace with Phule and Armstrong. His endurance was as good as his speed. “Perhaps you have also seen it?”

  Phule automatically cast his mind back over the past few days, trying to think of what Qual might be referring to. At various points in the past, Qual had been utterly fascinated by things that most humans took utterly for granted—like shaving, or the makeup many female legionnaires wore. It was impossible to predict what might catch Qual’s attention and sometimes impossible to explain it to his satisfaction. Phule had thought shoes would be trivially obvious, but they apparently weren’t—at least, not to Qual.

  He thought a few moments—whatever Qual was curious about, it was enough to bring him out into the desert to run instead of just dropping by Phule’s office. Finally, he had to admit, “I haven’t noticed anything that unusual, Qual. What have you seen?”

  “Oho,” said Qual, showing his sharp-pointed teeth in a broad grin. “Perhaps it is not curious after all. I regret to have intercepted your rush.”

  Armstrong raised a quizzical eyebrow, but by now Phule had mostly figured out how to interpret Qual’s speech despite the sometimes bizarrely phrased remarks that came out of the translating machine. “No problem, Qual,” he said, almost unconsciously changing his course to
avoid a large rock along the left side of the path. “Glad to have the company. But tell me, just so I know—what do you think is so curious?”

  Qual ran a few steps before answering, jumping over the same rock that Phule had dodged around. “I am wondering if Beeker is below the wind,” he said.

  “Below the …” Phule’s brow wrinkled as he attempted to work out what Qual meant. “Oh, under the weather. No, not as far as I know. What makes you think so?”

  Qual’s reptilian grin grew even broader, showing far more teeth than most humans found comfortable. Despite its fierce appearance, the expression meant exactly the same as a human smile—at least, as far as Phule had been able to determine. “He is spending much time with the new medician, which is not to be expected if he is healthy.”

  Phule’s face turned red, but Armstrong broke out laughing. “Well, Captain, it looks as if we’ve solved one problem and stirred up another,” he said. “We make the troops healthier, and poor old Beeker …” He left the thought unfinished.

  “I’d wondered why he hadn’t been hanging around my office quite so much,” said Phule. “He and Nightingale were pretty close back on Lorelei, just before we lifted off. I guess I should have expected something like this when she turned out to be the new medic. Well, with any luck, they’ll settle back down before long.”

  Armstrong nodded, then said, “I wonder, though, Captain … is this one of General Blitzkrieg’s little ploys to make life difficult for Omega Company, or just another coincidence?”

  Phule’s jaw clenched. “Lieutenant, I wish you hadn’t asked that question,” he said. He ran on for nearly a hundred yards before adding, “At least they’re both grownups. That’s supposed to help.”

  But he didn’t sound as if he really believed it.

  * * *

  “I’m worried,” said Thumper in a near whisper. “What if …?” He and Mahatma were standing in the shadows of the observation tower in the center of Zenobia Base, facing toward the Supply depot.