Phule's Errand

by Robert Asprin

  Suddenly he realized that it seemed to be taking a long time to get to the hotel. It should be just a block or so ahead, on the right-hand corner … but no, it was nowhere to be seen. I ought to stop and get my bearings, Phule thought to himself. “Hold on a second, miss,” he said to the woman. To his surprise, she just kept walking—and he kept walking with her. His feet didn’t seem to want to stop …

  “What’s happening?” he said. For some reason, he couldn’t raise his voice above a husky whisper. Then, he remembered: When she’d taken his arm after coming out of the alleyway, her nails had dug into his skin. A glance down showed a small red mark on his wrist. Putting two and two together at last, he blurted out, “You’ve drugged me! Where are you taking me?”

  “Not to worry, signore,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt you. I’m sure you are worth very much more unharmed, and I don’t think you would enjoy it, either. Just come along quietly with me. Don’t fight the ‘zombie’ shot, and my friend Carmelo doesn’t have to do anything. He is so much happier when he doesn’t have to do anything, capisce?”

  Phule looked behind him, and saw Weasel-face—undoubtedly Carmelo—walking a short distance behind, a sardonic smile on his face. But whatever drugs the woman had given him, they seemed to work just fine. He followed her without question along the Roman streets, his feet moving steadily despite his urgent desire to turn and run away.

  * * *

  General Blitzkrieg let out a deep breath. The charging Zenobian monster hadn’t breached the base perimeter. And he felt good that he’d managed to sprint a solid thirty meters—or at least, as close to a sprint as was consonant with the dignity of a senior officer. His heart had stopped pounding after no more than five minutes, and he’d managed to avoid being seen by any low-ranking legionnaires. Only that phony chaplain, Rev, had seen him flee in panic, and Rev had looked genuinely scared himself when the beast put on its charge. So the story wasn’t likely to leak out from that quarter.

  He still hadn’t figured out what the damned Zenobians’ spy apparatus was all about. With their impenetrable jargon, the little lizards had managed to keep him from learning anything about it. And then that monster had shown up … just in time to keep him from asking the pertinent questions he’d had right on the tip of his tongue. Maybe the monster would attack the lizards. Or maybe they’d called it somehow—with the machine? Could they be training it to attack the base at their command?

  Well, there was one person on this godforsaken base who’d better know what it was all about: Jester. The fellow was supposed to be in command here, not that Blitzkrieg had seen any sign of it. Had to admire the way the fellow hit a golf ball, though—that was quite an exhibition he’d put on today. The rap he’d taken on the noggin must’ve gotten him riled up. He’d made some spectacular shots, and with a few lucky breaks, he’d put together a round of golf a lot of pros would have envied. Of course, tomorrow was another day—and Blitzkrieg knew that; except for today, he’d more than held his own against the local talent. Luck had a way of evening out.

  But he had other business with Jester now. Serious Legion business. Time to take the gloves off and show Captain Smartass Jester who was in charge. And if the little rich brat didn’t have some damned good answers, the general was going to make him wish he’d never heard of the Space Legion. There were a lot of Legion posts that could make this planet, even with its desert climate and alien monsters, look like a playpen. And Blitzkrieg was just itching to find an excuse to send Jester to one of them …

  Blitzkrieg walked to the nearest door and entered the base module. He still hadn’t learned exactly how the thing was laid out—Jester had set the thing up according to some half-baked plan of his own rather than following the approved plans for Legion installations. Here was the enlisted men’s barbershop, closed for the evening now, and over there was a bank of vending machines—a small but lucrative profit center that no Legion base could afford to do without. If he turned left here, it ought to take him to Comm Central, and from there, Jester’s office was in easy reach. Assuming the fellow ever spent any time at all in the office—it was beginning to look as if he was a full-time golfer, with Legion responsibilities a distant second. Probably just as well, considering that Jester was a lead-pipe cinch to screw up any Legion work that came his way …

  Halfway down the hall to Comm Central, General Blitzkrieg stopped as a familiar sound caught his ear. He’d been hearing it for his entire Legion career on bases spanning half the galaxy. It was such an inevitable part of the usual background noise of a Legion base that he’d almost failed to notice it—except that here, here on rich-boy Jester’s custom-built base, it seemed out of place. It was the sound of a squad being chewed out by a superior. And to his utter astonishment, the voice doing the chewing out was none other than Jester’s!

  The sound came from a side corridor leading to a set of double doors. A small printed sign above the doors identified the room as the gym. His curiosity running rampant, Blitzkrieg pushed open the doors and stepped inside. There stood Jester, bracing a motley collection of Omega Company legionnaires with their first sergeant—the fat woman who’d taken a Legion name after some kind of liquor, exactly in character for this sorry outfit. And for once, Jester was the perfect image of an officer—his uniform immaculate, his posture exemplary, and fire in his eye. And for all their shoddy appearance, the grunts were showing something resembling respect as well. It was so completely out of character for Omega Company that General Blitzkrieg was speechless for a moment.

  He watched in shocked silence as the sergeant called forward one of the recruits—a little, round-faced fellow with eyeglasses. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Well, well, Captain—what the devil’s going on here?”

  Cool as a comet at the farthest reaches of its orbit, Jester turned to face him and snapped off a crisp salute. “General Blitzkrieg!” Behind him, the sergeant barked “Ten-hut!” and the legionnaires straightened up—about as well as he’d expect from their sort. The open fear on their faces was a sight the general had never tired of seeing. Involuntarily, he felt an evil grin spread across his face. He’d come all the way from Rahnsome to Zenobia to strike fear and awe into these third-rate legionnaires. Up to now, he’d frittered away his stay playing golf with Jester—not that he hadn’t enjoyed it.

  Now he was really going to have some fun. “On second thought, don’t mind me, Captain. The sergeant was about to give some kind of demonstration. By all means, carry on. I’m just as eager to see it as you are.”

  And when it collapsed into an utter fiasco, as it was bound to do now that he’d scared the crap out of these lowlifes, he’d show them what a real chewing-out was like. He could barely keep himself from laughing out loud with anticipation …

  * * *

  “Very well, Sergeant,” said the robot, raising an eyebrow. “You heard General Blitzkrieg. Proceed with your demonstration.”

  Brandy struggled to keep from showing her chagrin. She’d meant to lead Mahatma through just enough of a show to support her pretense that she’d been training her legionnaires in espionage skills, then dismiss the squad and cut short the robot’s attempt to enforce Legion discipline. Mahatma was enough of a natural actor to bring it off without the rest of the squad figuring out what had happened—in fact, they’d probably just be grateful to go back to their bunks. And if she played her hand right, she could shepherd the robot off so Gears could begin work on repairing it.

  But the general’s arrival changed everything. Now she had to make the demonstration convincing enough that the general wouldn’t smell a rat while maintaining the pretense that the gung ho robot really was Captain Jester. She also wanted to keep her legionnaires from taking any more flak than they absolutely had to. This meant fooling not only the malfunctioning robot but the general, who despite his recent good mood was infamously hostile to Omega Company and Captain Jester. And she was the only one here who knew what was really going on, not that the
re was anybody who could help her if the general decided to fly off the handle.

  I’ve just got to tough it out, she thought, turning to face Mahatma again. The little legionnaire was actually standing at a pretty fair semblance of attention; that might prevent the general from losing his temper prematurely. He was going to lose his temper; that much Brandy took for granted. Especially since the robot had picked today to hand him a beating on the golf course …

  “Legionnaire Mahatma!” she barked in her best parade-ground voice. “You heard the captain. We are going to demonstrate your infiltration and intelligence-gathering training for the general.”

  “Yes, Brandy,” said Mahatma. “May I ask a question?”

  All right, Mahatma! Brandy thought. I hope you make it a good one this time. “Permission granted,” she said crisply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the general’s jaw drop. If this didn’t work, she could forget the remainder of her Legion career. So she might as well have as much fun as she could while it lasted.

  “Thank you, Brandy,” said Mahatma, still maintaining an almost acceptable military stance. He shifted his eyes toward the general, who was still wearing his golf togs, and asked, “Why is the commanding general so fat and out of uniform?”

  General Blitzkrieg’s face turned crimson. He took two steps forward and began to bellow, “Why, you impertinent—”

  The robot stepped ahead of him and cut him off, barking out, “Sergeant! I have never seen such flagrant insubordination! How do you explain this?”

  “Sir!” said Brandy, keeping a straight face. “Nobody who saw this legionnaire’s disrespect for authority could possibly believe that he has any military training. That is Omega Company’s secret weapon. Because the enemy underestimates this man—and most of our legionnaires—they can exercise their military skills in conditions where they have the element of surprise completely on their side.”

  “Military skills!” This time it was Blitzkrieg who spoke. “Military skills, my blinking arse! What possible military skills could this grinning imbecile have?”

  “With the general’s permission, Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills,” said Brandy.

  The robot looked at the general, who clenched his teeth and nodded, turning a beady-eyed stare toward Mahatma. “Carry on, Sergeant,” said the robot, crossing its arms over its chest.

  Brandy suddenly realized that the robot had an expression that she had never seen on the real Captain Jester’s face. It took her a moment to figure it out, doing her best not to stare, which the general was sure to consider insubordinate whether the robot noticed it or not.

  The robot didn’t have real emotions, as far as she could understand. (Roboticists apparently had long, ongoing arguments on the subject.) Apparently, all the robot could do was display the external appearance of the human emotions it was programmed to simulate. Brandy had no idea whether these were installed from some standard menu at the factory or customized for each model. Given the amount of money the captain had spent, the latter was a good bet. But whatever the case, the robot shouldn’t be showing any emotion it wasn’t already programmed to show.

  So why did she get the distinct impression it was doing its best to hide utter irrational fear?

  * * *

  Phule came to his senses in a small room with a south-facing window. Actually, he’d never really lost consciousness—he’d just been unable to exert his own willpower, following the woman who’d somehow managed to drug him. But he’d sat in a kind of stupor for an unknown time in this little room—wherever it was. Still somewhere in central Rome, he figured—he couldn’t have walked any real distance, and he had no memory of entering any kind of vehicle. On the other hand, he had only the vaguest memory of the last … how long was it, anyway? And he didn’t have to try the door to have a very good idea he was, for all practical purposes, a prisoner.

  He got up and tried the door anyway, careful not to make any noise in the process. Whatever had happened to him, it had no obvious aftereffects; his head was clear, and his balance and coordination seemed to be fine now.

  At least his muscles seemed to be under his own control again. On the downside, the door was very definitely locked. So was the window, he quickly learned—locked and fortified on the outside with bars that looked quite sufficient to hold in one lone Space Legion captain. And it looked onto the blank wall of another building about five meters away, so there was no easy way to signal anyone.

  Signaling … he quickly looked at his wrist. Sure enough, his communicator was gone. His pockets had been emptied too. That gave him a brief moment’s panic. Then he remembered that he’d left his Dilithium Express card and other items of value in the hotel safe; at most, his captors would have a couple of hundred euros and his Legion ID card. Nothing he couldn’t get replaced quickly enough. So—what now?

  He did a quick search of the room, looking for anything he might be able to turn to his advantage. A makeshift weapon, an alternative way out, even some clue as to his kidnappers’ identities. He turned up nothing besides the furniture he’d already seen—a bed, a chair, a side table. In a real pinch, he supposed he could club someone with the chair or tie them up in the bedsheets. But those were desperate plays, to be saved for a desperate situation. The easiest way out of the room looked as if it started with getting the door opened. He went over and knocked.

  After a moment, he heard footsteps on the far side. “All right, stand-a back from-a the door,” said a raspy voice with a thick Italian accent. Weasel-face, thought Phule, moving back as requested. He heard keys rattle in the lock, and then the door swung partway open; Weasel-face looked inside, squinting suspiciously. “What do you want?” he said in an accent several degrees more educated than Phule expected. Behind him was another man, large and frowning—presumably the one who’d answered first.

  “Giving my property back would be a good start,” said Phule in as even a voice as he could manage. “Then you really ought to let me go—I have important business that can’t wait.”

  “Funny man,” said Weasel-face sourly. “What, do you think we locked you up for our own entertainment?”

  “Well, I’m sure you didn’t do it for mine,” said Phule. “Just what do you think you’ve got to gain by holding me prisoner?”

  “You should be able to figure that out by yourself,” said Weasel-face. “But I’ll save you the time because I want you to know where things stand. You’re a rich, off-world snot, and we’re underprivileged locals. Your people pay us, and we let you go. If they don’t pay us quickly enough, maybe Vinnie and I get annoyed. Vinnie can be nasty when he’s annoyed, and then you’d have something to worry about besides being late for your important business. Capisce?” Vinnie continued to frown, deploying what looked to be the preferred weapon in his arsenal of facial expressions.

  Phule shrugged. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on collecting any ransom money. There’ll be people coming to look for me, and they aren’t amateurs. Or haven’t you figured out who I was visiting earlier today?”

  “Pitti da Phule doesn’t frighten us,” said Weasel-face with a quiet smile. “If he tries to interfere in our business, we can call on people who’ll make him think again.”

  “Well, it’s not so much a question of interfering in your business,” said Phule. “I believe Pitti’s approach is more likely to be total cancellation of your business plan.”

  “My friend, you aren’t in a position to be issuing threats,” growled Weasel-face. Phule remembered now that the woman who’d tricked him had called the man Carmelo, although there was no guarantee that was the man’s right name. He’d remember it, anyhow—just in case.

  “Two points,” said Phule. “First, I am not your friend. And second, what I just said wasn’t a threat.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Weasel-face. “What do you call it, then?”

  Phule smiled and said softly, “In my line of business, we call that an ultimatum.”

  “Carmelo” ju
st snorted and walked out, locking the door behind him.

  * * *

  Agent G.C. Fox drummed his fingers, waiting. The number he’d called rang for the fifth time, then a voice came through Fox’s earplug: “The party you are calling is not available. Please leave a message and your call will be returned.” A cacophonous beep followed, but Fox had already started the disconnect process. This was his fourth attempt to reach Captain Jester, and the message he’d left the first time had not been returned. Considering the message, it should have been.

  So what did that mean? Fox took a sip of shandygaff, wiped the foam from his moustache with the back of his sleeve, and thought. The more Fox thought about it, the more convinced he was that the captain was already in trouble—and that he was going to need help getting out of it.

  Helping off-worlders get out of trouble wasn’t really Fox’s job at all. He wasn’t any kind of cop or a detective—just a customs inspector. But he made it a point to keep track of interesting visitors to Old Earth. Sometimes he could steer them to a business or service they could benefit from. His friends who ran those businesses benefited from it, too—and so did Fox, thanks to the finder’s fees and commissions his friends passed along to him. They helped stretch the customs agent’s not-so-grand salary enough to bring in a few of the better things of life.

  He’d made it a point to look up Willard Phule on the newsnets after he’d seen him come through customs. He’d learned a fair amount about the captain’s background and his career on the various worlds Omega Company had been posted to. It might or might not turn out to be profitable—but it never hurt to do the research. Fox had learned that knowing something always paid better than not knowing it.