A Phule and His Money

by Robert Asprin

  Sushi and Do-Wop glanced at each other, while Phule allowed the silence to stretch out. It stretched further, and Phule was beginning to wonder if it was time to abandon the tactic when Sushi shrugged and said, "All right, Captain, if you've already figured it out, there's not much point in trying to hide it anymore. We were opening up one of the hatchways that access the station's climate control system. What most people don't realize is that the same central computer controls all the credit card transactions, as well as some other stuff we weren't interested in. But it shouldn't have tapped into the Fat Chance. It was just supposed to take from the other casinos. You know I wouldn't rob the other guys in the company."

  "Why not?" demanded Phule. "You can't expect me to believe that one without corroboration."

  "Well, before that, I'd planted a chip in the Fat Chance's central computer. That was how I cut off your card when I fooled the Yakuza. Lucky for me, he didn't ask me to use your card at one of the other casinos-it would've blown the whole caper. But that chip was also a one-way filter between the Fat Chance and the rest of the system. You see, I was already planning this little prank back then. I can't understand why it didn't work."

  Phule walked up to within inches of Sushi's face and snarled, "Probably because Beeker and I figured out how you had to have broken into my account, and counteracted it. We couldn't inspect the entire system, but we could insert our own override into the software. So when you pulled your little prank, the Fat Chance was back in touch with the rest of the system, and your chip stole from us as well as all the rest."

  "I told you it wouldn't work," said Do-Wop, glumly. "The captain's too smart for us, Soosh."

  "I guess he is," said Sushi. "OK, Captain, I'll tell you where the substitute chip is so you can undo the swindle, and we'll refund all the money it's taken from the Fat Chance. Will that make everything all right?"

  "It'll do for a start," said Phule. "Unfortunately, you're going to have to go a step beyond that. I want you to refund all the money it's taken from all the casinos. If I let you keep any profits from this, you're likely to learn the wrong lesson."

  "Yes, sir," said Sushi unhappily. "To tell the truth, that'll actually be easier than separating out the Fat Chance's share."

  "Good. Then I want it done as soon as possible," said Phule. "Can you do it from the ship or do you have to wait till we're out of hyperdrive?"

  "I can do it from your desk phone," said Sushi, pointing.

  "You'll do it as soon as we're finished talking," said Phule. "One more thing. You two are going to be on a shorter leash once we get to the new assignment. Landoor is a military operation, and we're going to run it by military rules. That means no more freelancing by you two. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir," said Sushi, and Do-Wop echoed his partner in an even more plaintive tone. Neither one looked particularly happy, but Phule didn't think he could demand that of them.

  "Good," he said, looking them both in the eye. "Now, Sushi, you're going to make that comm call, and then we're going to see if you two hoodlums can learn how to work as part of the team. For your sake-for the whole company's sake-I hope you can."

  Sushi and Do-Wop both nodded. Phule pointed to the phone, and sat down to watch. There might be something more he could learn from this...

  11

  Journal #369

  As usual, my employer carefully read his briefing materials about the new world his company was going to. Landoor had been settled two hundred years ago as a mining colony (the planet was unusually rich in certain rare earths). The Moguls, as the mine owners were called, had imported convict labor to work the mines, with the promise of land and freedom after the laborers had served a stated term in the mines. The Moguls had grown enormously rich off the sweat of their imported convicts. They built their capital city on an unspoiled tropical island they called Atlantis-which became a popular vacation spot for the wealthy of that era.

  Nowadays, the mainland mines were largely owned by offplanet cartels, which found it more difficult with every passing year to derive a profit from the played-out beds of ore. The original owners had, for the most part, taken their profits and left the planet for more cosmopolitan worlds where they could enjoy their wealth unhindered. That left the government in the hands of the former bureaucrats and middle managers. They ruled a population of miners, farmers, factory workers, and small merchants, who did not have the luxury of pulling up stakes and moving to a new world at whim.

  Then, a few years ago, revolutionary fervor had swept the planet, and Federation troops were imported to stem the violence. Peace had been established placing the rebel faction in the saddle, with the former government as an opposition party within the system. (A few diehards had escaped to the mainland and set up as a resistance movement, but they were considered of no consequence.)

  While peace itself was greeted with rejoicing, its imposition by outside forces had left a sour taste in the mouths of many Landoorans-especially after Federation pilots strafed the peace conference. The Legion officer who ordered the gratuitous strafing was a certain Captain Scaramouche, who disappeared from the Legion rolls shortly before Captain Jester took command of the Omega Mob. This fact was not widely known on Landoor-but it was about to become so.

  And for some reason, that fact had been omitted from the briefing materials General Blitzkrieg provided to my employer.

  The Atlantis spaceport on Landoor was typical for a thirdrate developing world: weeds growing in cracks on the roadways, peeling paint on all the buildings, and all the other evidence that nothing very important ever happened here. But to the Omega Mob, it was gorgeous. As they piled out of the landing shuttle, the legionnaires craned their necks to look up at the first natural sky they'd seen in over a year. And off in the distance, if they listened carefully, was the muted roar of surf on a broad, sandy beach. "It's good to be back on a real planet," said Rembrandt, and there were no dissenting voices.

  A short distance away stood a formation of gray-uniformed figures: the Regular Army peacekeeping force that the Omega Mob was relieving. Behind them was a local news crew, with cameras rolling. Phule beckoned to his officers, and together they strode over to pay their respects. "Captain Larkin?" said Phule to the officer in command.

  "Yes, welcome to Landoor, Captain Jester," said the dark-haired young woman commanding the Army unit, stepping forward to take Phule's hand in a firm grip. "A pleasure to see you-though we wouldn't mind spending another tour here, ourselves."

  The subordinate officers on either side were introduced and shook hands, while Phule asked quietly, "Anything in particular I need to know about the local situation, Captain?"

  "Nothing you won't find in the briefing books we'll be handing over," said Larkin, grinning. "It's a pleasant world, and the locals seem glad to have us here-the closest we've come to action was when we had to break up an Astroball victory celebration that got a little rowdy. Gorgeous weather, no nasty bugs or beasties, and even the rebels over on the mainland seem pretty harmless. You people ought to have an easy time of it."

  "Well, I hope you're right," said Phule. "I'm not one to dodge trouble, but it'd be good to deal with something straight-forward for once. Our last assignment had more than its share of hidden problems."

  "Captain, if you want any trouble on Landoor, you're going to have to go looking for it," said Larkin. "I've been here over a year and haven't seen the faintest sign of it."

  "With luck, neither will we."

  Larkin nodded. She pointed to a group of men in civilian garb standing in front of the nearest building. "Let's go introduce you to the local authorities, then. Not polite to keep them waiting."

  "Yes, by all means," said Phule. He fell in alongside the Army captain, and the two, followed by their subordinates, began a brisk stroll toward the waiting civilians. They had gone perhaps half the distance when a sharp report rang out from the roof of a nearby building and almost at the same instant, Phule heard something whiz past his head and strike the ground beh
ind him.

  "Get down! Somebody's shooting!" he shouted, throwing himself flat on the ground. He heard several other bodies hit the tarmac at the same time, presumably following his advice. He couldn't tell if the shooter had hit anyone.

  The closest cover was a ground vehicle of some sort, maybe twenty feet away. Phule began a quick scuttle toward it, using his knees and elbows. He didn't know if the shot had been intended for him, but the shooter might not be particular about who he hit. In any case, he wasn't about to provide an easy target for a second try.

  He risked a peek at the scene around him. The civilians were scattering like chaff, but nobody seemed to be hurt. Then another shot rang out, and he started crawling more quickly. He sensed rather than heard someone rush past him, going in the direction from which the shots had been fired: Louie, on his glideboard no doubt, with a splatgun ready at hand. Phule hoped the Synthian was taking evasive action; Louie was a small, elusive target, but the shooters might get lucky.

  Moments later, something louder and larger zoomed over him; this time he did risk a look up. It was Chocolate Harry on a new hovercycle, with Spartacus riding the sidecar. Between the glideboard and the hovercycle, the would-be assassins would be lucky to escape. On the other hand, if they decided to make a pitched battle of it...he pushed the thought out of his mind, and quickly crawled the rest of the way to shelter.

  Captain Larkin had gotten there ahead of him, and was leaning with her back against the vehicle, a drawn pistol in her hand. She watched him scuttle up, then said, "Just my luck-right as I'm about to leave, the party finally comes to life."

  "You're welcome to stay awhile," said Phule. Then, when he'd caught his breath a little bit he added, "I take it you don't have any idea who might be doing the shooting?"

  "Not a clue," she said. "It looks as if your people came prepared, though. That was very quick response time." She nodded approvingly.

  "Let's hope it was quick enough." There hadn't been any more shots since the first two, but that didn't mean it was safe. Phule gazed intently back at where his troops had disembarked, trying to see what was happening. Most of his company, he saw, had taken whatever cover they could find. Brandy was peering over the shuttle's hood, scanning the rooflines with binoculars and talking into her wrist communicator-presumably directing the response to the shooting. Seeing her, Phule reached down and turned on his own communicator.

  "Jester here-what's the story, Top?"

  "Still trying to find out myself, Captain. C.H. and the Synthians are out scouting. No sign of the shooter yet. You all right?"

  "Not a scratch. How about the rest?"

  "A few scrapes and bruises when people ducked for cover, but nothing serious. Rev split a seam in his uniform."

  Phule chuckled. "Don't tell me where, I swear I don't want to know. Listen now, Brandy-I want you to secure the area so the civilians can get out of danger. Send the Gambolts to scout those rooftops, too. We can't stay pinned down here all day just because of one sniper."

  "Will do, Captain. But stay behind cover until I tell you it's safe, OK? There might be more than one sniper out there, and they might be gunning for us."

  Phule watched as a black-uniformed skirmish line moved quickly toward him, securing the spaceport and waiting for more shots. None came, but it was quite a while before they declared the area safe. And nobody found the sniper.

  "I'm not used to having somebody shoot at me," said Phule, pacing restlessly. He and Beeker had been herded to a secure room inside the spaceport terminal while the Legion and Army troops made certain no shooters were waiting somewhere to take another shot at him. Somewhere else in the building, the representatives of the Landoor government-including the head of State Security, Colonel Mays-awaited them.

  "If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, you might have thought of that before joining the Space Legion. It is hardly the vocation to choose if one is seeking to avoid being shot at," said Beeker. His expression showed no sympathy whatsoever for his employer.

  "Well, we can't be certain they were shooting at me personally," said Phule in a hopeful voice. "They might have been aiming at almost anybody on the landing field."

  "I would consider it highly unlikely, sir," said Beeker. "After all, Captain Larkin told you there'd been no trouble at all during her tour of duty. It is difficult not to draw the conclusion that today's shooting incident is directly related to our arrival."

  "That doesn't make sense, Beeker. What could anyone on this world have against us? I've never set foot on it."

  "That's rather disingenuous of you, sir," said Beeker. "You can't have overlooked the fact that this world was formerly New Atlantis. You should certainly remember how the civil war here ended, when a certain young Legion officer took it upon himself to have the peace conference strafed. I would think you might remember that incident, since you were subsequently court-martialed for it, and assigned to your present position."

  Phule began pacing again. "I could hardly have forgotten that, Beeker. I understood all along why General Blitzkrieg had the company assigned here: It's the one place in the galaxy where I might have enemies."

  "The one place in addition to Headquarters," Beeker noted dryly.

  "Yes, I suppose so," said Phule. "One reason I accepted this assignment was as a way to make amends for that incident. Still, never having been to the capital, I didn't expect anyone here to recognize me-especially since I've changed my Legion name. Obviously, somebody's leaked that information."

  Beeker nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that the general himself had revealed your previous identity as Captain Scaramouche to certain local factions to whom it might be of interest."

  "That's the way to bet-though it's probably pointless to try to prove it," said Phule. "More important is to find out which of those factions decided to start shooting the minute I landed here."

  "I would think that would be easy enough to answer, sir," said Beeker. "Who suffered the most when you strafed the peace conference?"

  "Other than myself, you mean?" said Phule, with an ironic grimace. "I suppose whatever faction lost the most in the eventual peace settlement. The former government, I suppose-especially the diehards who kept on fighting."

  "My thought exactly. From their point of view, the strafing might appear as insult piled upon injury."

  "That would be very narrow-minded of them." said Phule. "It really wasn't at all directed at them personally."

  Beeker stared at his employer for a long moment. "That may be true, sir, but I suspect that many people would find the distinction rather esoteric. Even professional soldiers are likely to take being shot at as an invasion of their personal space, I'd think."

  "Well, that really ignores the whole context," said Phule. "I was trying to exploit a military situation in wartime. That's hardly the same as assassinating someone-assuming that's what they were up to."

  "I am glad you perceive a difference," said Beeker, mildly. "However, it seems apparent that not everyone is quite ready to forgive and forget."

  "Well, we'll have to talk some sense into them," said Phule. "In a way, that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

  "Sir, I was under the rather distinct impression that we had come here to get out of trouble. I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that. I shall have to learn to moderate my irrepressible optimism."

  "I'd be just as happy if you'd learn to moderate your sarcasm," said Phule, "but I'd never recognize you without it. In any case, if the rebels really have taken my arrival as a pretext to reopen hostilities, it's going to jeopardize this company's peacekeeping mission. I don't intend to sit still for that."

  "Not at all a wise policy with someone shooting at you," agreed Beeker.

  "Exactly. So first we have to find the rebels and convince them I'm not their enemy. Any idea how we go about that?"

  "Given today's events, I should think the rebels may not be especially interested in negotiating."

  "Well, I'll have to do
what I can to change that," said Phule. "Until then..."

  The door opened and Lieutenant Armstrong stuck his head in. "Captain, it looks as if things are finally under control. If you'll follow me, the government people are ready to meet you."

  "Good," said Phule. "Now let's hope they haven't decided to hold that shooting against me."

  "Perhaps they won't, sir," said Beeker gloomily. "Always assuming they weren't the ones responsible for it." But Phule and his lieutenants had already left the room.

  Phule followed Armstrong and Rembrandt down a corridor to an office complex, and into a large office, evidently commandeered for the purpose. The sign on the door read SPACEPORT MANAGER, and there were several harried-looking men and women in the outer office as the Legion contingent passed through. On the walls were framed photographs of beach scenes and sunsets, reminders that this island was a tropical paradise-at least, when there wasn't a war going on.

  Inside the inner office, they were met by a big, bearded man, smoking an evil-smelling cheroot and wearing a dark green uniform with an impressive number of service stripes on the sleeve. To either side of him were two similarly uniformed men, both grim-faced. The window blinds were drawn. All three watched in silence as Phule and his officers stepped into the room.

  Phule stepped up to the desk and stopped, standing at attention. "Colonel Mays, I am Captain Jester of the Space Legion, ordered here to supervise the administration of the peace treaty. Allow me to present my credentials." Lieutenant Armstrong stepped forward with the dossier and put it on the desk in front of the big man, then stepped back to a position flanking Phule.

  Mays neither looked at it nor touched it. Instead, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, looked Phule directly in the eye, and said, "You are a man who requires no introduction on this planet, Captain Jester-or should I call you Captain Scaramouche?"