Phule's Company

by Robert Asprin

  In actuality, my employer is far more extensive in his research than I-once he gets around to it. My earlier concern was whether he would get around to it in time for it to be useful upon assuming command, and acting on that concern had prepared myself to be able to give him at least a basic briefing should time run out. As it turned out, the flight allowed more than ample time for him to complete his preparations.

  Speaking of time, you may have noticed that I am merely keeping this journal in sequential sequence, occasionally noting the lapse of time between entries. Dates and times tend to become meaningless to travelers... particularly when one travels between planets or solar systems. For specific reference points to your local timeline, simply check in your local library for media coverage of the various events I record.

  Glancing up from his lap computer, Phule noticed that Beeker had apparently fallen asleep in the cabin chair. In many ways, this wasn't surprising. There was a sense of timelessness to space travel... days and nights being defined by when you turned the lights on or off. For Phule, this was ideal, as it allowed him to set his own work schedule, pausing only occasionally for a meal or a nap. Beeker, however, was less flexible in his need for regular sleep patterns, so it was not unusual that the two men often found themselves on different cycles. Normally this was no problem. At the moment, however, Phule found that he wanted to talk.

  After struggling with his conscience for several moments, he decided on a compromise.

  "Beeker?" he said as softly as he could.

  If the butler was really asleep, the words would go unnoticed. To Phule's relief, however, Beeker's eyes flew open in immediate response.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Did I wake you?"

  "No, sir. Just resting my eyes for a moment. May I be of assistance?"

  That reminded Phule of how tired his own eyes were. Leaning back, he massaged his temples gently with his fingertips.

  "Talk to me, Beek. I've been staring at these files so long they're starting to run together in my head. Take it from the top and give me your thoughts."

  The butler frowned as he mentally organized his own reactions to the assignment. It was far from the first time that his employer had asked for his opinion on key matters, though there was never any doubt as to who had the final responsibility for any action or decisions. Still, Beeker was gratified to know that Phule respected his counsel enough to ask for it from time to time.

  "The settlement on Haskin's Planet is self-sufficient and numbers about one hundred thousand," he began slowly. "That in itself has little to do with our assignment, other than the potential of providing us with a bit of culture on our off-duty hours.

  "On the surface, the assignment seems simple enough," he continued. "Though the mineral content of the swamps on Haskin's Planet is too low to warrant full commercial exploitation, there is a handful of individuals who eke out a living by mining those swamps. There are no major dangers in the native flora and fauna, mind you, but a swamp is a swamp and hazardous enough that it's impossible to keep watch and concentrate on mining at the same time, so the miners banded together and hired a company of Legionnaires to give them protection while they work."

  Beeker pursed his lips and paused before launching into the next portion of his summary.

  "To make the job even easier, pressure from various environmental groups requires that the miners only work the swamp one day a week... and that within strict limitations. As an aside, though it's never stated in so many words, I suspect the assignment is actually of a duo nature: guarding the miners and policing them to be sure they remain within the environmental guidelines. Whatever the case may be, the Legionnaires are actually only required to stand duty once a week... which I consider to be the first sign of serious trouble. While it may sound like easy duty, I suspect that having that much free time on their hands is not a good thing for the Legionnaires posted there."

  "Which brings us to the subject of the Legionnaires," Phule said grimly.

  The butler nodded. "Quite so. It has never been a secret that with its open-door policy, the Legion is made up, to a large extent, of criminals who choose the service as a preferable alternative to incarceration. After examining the personnel files of your new command, however, one is forced to assume that this outpost has more than the expected percentage of... um..."

  "Hard cases?"

  "No. It goes beyond that," Beeker corrected. "Even without reading between the lines, it becomes obvious that the company can be divided into two major groups. One, as you note, is comprised of those rougher elements who do not take easily to military life, regardless of what they signed on enlistment. The second group is at the other extreme. If anything, they are pacifistic by nature or choice-a trait which also makes them difficult or impossible to absorb into a normal military structure. I think, however, it is necessary to note that apparently all of your new command falls into one or the other of those groups. In short, it's my considered opinion that you've been assigned to a force comprised entirely of... well, losers and misfits, for lack of better titles."

  "Myself included. Eh, Beeker?" Phule smiled wryly.

  "It would appear that you are viewed as such in certain quarters," the butler said with studied indifference.

  Phule stretched his limbs.

  "I agree with your analysis, Beek, except for one thing."

  "Sir?"

  "When you refer to them as falling into one of two groups... I'm not seeing any of the cohesion necessary for a group, either in the categories you mentioned or in the company itself. It's a cluster of individuals with no real sense of 'group' or of 'belonging."'

  "I stand corrected. 'Group' was simply a convenient label."

  Phule was leaning forward now, his eyes bright despite his obvious fatigue.

  "Convenient labels are a trap, Beek. One I can't afford to fall into. As near as I can tell, convenient labels are what got the bulk of the personnel transferred into this company as... what did you call them?"

  "Losers and misfits, sir."

  "That's right, losers and misfits. I've got to mold them into a group, a cohesive unit, and to do that I've got to see them as individuals first. People, Beeker! It always comes down to people. Whether we're talking business or the military, people are the key!"

  "Of course, you realize, sir, that not everyone in your command falls under the category of 'people,"' the butler commented pointedly.

  "You mean the nonhumans? That's right, I've got three of them. What are they? Let's see...

  "Two Sinthians and a Volton. That is, two Slugs and a Warthog. "

  "I'll have none of that, Beeker." Phule's voice was sharp. "Species slurs are the worst kind of convenient label, and I won't tolerate it... not even from you, not even in jest. Whoever they are, whatever they are, they're Legionnaires under my command and will be treated and referred to with proper courtesy, if not respect. Is that clear?"

  The butler had long since learned to distinguish between his employer's occasional irritated temper flares, which were quickly forgotten, and genuine anger. While he had been previously unaware of this particular area of sensitivity, he made a mental note of it.

  "Understood, sir. It won't happen again."

  Phule relaxed, confident that the matter was settled.

  "I'll admit," he mused, "that of the three nonhuman species that we've made alliances with, I'm surprised to find individuals from those two species in my command. I suppose it would have been too much to hope for to get a Gambolt or two."

  Beeker almost said "The Cats?" but caught himself in time.

  "I believe that members of that species inclined to enlist usually sign onto the Regular Army," he commented instead. "In fact, I've heard there's an entire company of them."

  "It figures." Phule grimaced. "With their combat reflexes and abilities, they can pretty much pick their assignments."

  "Certainly a different breed of... a different caliber material than you've been given to work with," the butler agreed re
adily. "Tell me, sir, do you really think you can mold such a... diverse collection of individuals into an effective unit?"

  "It's been done before. Specifically the Devil's Brigade... the first Special Service force, which eventually became..."

  "The Special Forces," Beeker finished. "Yes, I'm familiar with the unit. If I might point out, however, that was a joint U.S.-Canadian force. At the beginning, the Americans provided a motley assortment of rejects and criminals, as opposed to the Canadians, who donated a crack fighting unit. While you definitely have your allotment of criminals, I fear you're lacking the offsetting crack fighting unit to serve as an example. "

  "Touche." Phule laughed easily. "I should know better than to try to reference military history in front of you, Beeker. Okay. To answer your question, I don't know if it can be done, or more to the point, if it can be done by me. I do know I'm going to give it my best shot."

  "Which is all anyone can ask and definitely more than they deserve." The butler stretched and yawned. "For now, however, unless there is something else... ?"

  He let the question hang in the air.

  "Go ahead and turn in, Beek," Phule said, reaching for his lap computer. "Sorry to keep you up, but I appreciate the talk."

  Beeker paused, eyeing the terminal.

  "And yourself, sir? You'll want to be well rested when we arrive at Haskin's Planet."

  "Hmmm? Oh. Sure... in a bit. I just want to do a little checking on who's who in that settlement. I'd like to know what I'm up against."

  The butler shook his head as he watched Phule hunch over the computer again. He knew all too well the kind of detail his employer required when researching business rivals-credit checks, educational background, family, police records-and assumed he'd settle for nothing less in this new campaign he was undertaking. There would be hours, if not tens of hours, of painstaking work involved, work begun long after most men would have collapsed from fatigue. Still, he knew it was pointless to try to cajole or jolly Phule from his chosen path once he was on a roll. All Beeker could do was to be there to support this extraordinary person when and if he did wobble.

  Still shaking his head, he left for his cabin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Journal File #013

  I was not personally present at the assembly where my employer first addressed his new command. Though I had complete knowledge of the Legionnaires' personnel files, and was later to get to know many of them intimately, not being officially in the Legion would have made it inappropriate for me to attend the meeting.

  I therefore took it upon my self to eavesdrop on the proceedings by tapping into the compound's two-way paging system. This is merely a high-tech improvement of the time-honored tradition of listening at key-holes. While one's employer is entitled to his privacy, it is next to impossible to meet, much less anticipate, his requirements without proper knowledge of his activities and the pressures at work in his life.

  (Admittedly I have never discussed this openly with my employer, but while I have often acted on information I was not given directly, he has never commented on or chastised me for my having that knowledge.)

  The company recreation hall, though the largest room in the compound, was usually virtually deserted evenings. At one time it had merely been depressing in its lifelessness, but over the last several months the Legionnaires had stopped picking up after themselves, and a litter of moldy, half-eaten food added a new air to the environs. More simply put, it stank.

  Tonight, however, it was full to capacity. Word had been passed that the new company commander wanted to address the troops, and the possibility that a roll call might be taken was sufficient threat to guarantee everyone's attendance.

  There were not enough seats to go around, even including the perching points on the pool table and radiators, and the pecking order among the company could be readily seen by who yielded their spot to whom as the room slowly filled. Though they tried to maintain an air of bored cynicism, the Legionnaires were nonetheless curious about the new commander, and that subject dominated the conversation, particularly among the younger, more clean-cut segment of the group.

  "It's sure taken him long enough to call this meeting," one such was grumbling. "He's been in residence almost a week and hasn't talked to anyone... just keeps sending that butler of his to the mess hall for food or into town on errands."

  "Anyone ever hear of an officer having his own butler?"

  "Who cares? They're all spoiled rich kids, anyway. Whatdaya expect in an outfit where ya gotta buy a commission?"

  "What do you think he's going to say?"

  This last comment proved to be too tempting to pass on for the company's first sergeant, who had been lounging nearby, eavesdropping on the 'conversation.' She was a rough-complexioned woman in her early thirties, and of normal enough proportion that it wasn't until she stood up that one realized how large she was.

  "I'll tell you what he's going to say," she announced with theatric boredom.

  "What's that, Brandy?"

  Aside from her rank and size, the first sergeant had an easy smoothness and confidence in her movements that earned her deferential treatment and attention whenever she chose to speak.

  "It'll be the same as any CO would say taking over a new outfit," she said. "First, he'll tell a joke. I think it's written in the Officer's Manual that you have to open with a joke when you're addressing enlisted personnel. Anyway, he'll start with a joke, then tell us that whatever's happened before is in the past, that he's going to make this the best unit in the Legion. Of course, he won't say how, just that he's going to do it... which means we get drills and inspections for a few weeks until he gives up on this ragtag bunch and starts trying to pull strings to get transferred out."

  A few of the more seasoned Legionnaires within earshot grunted their agreement or simply grinned in amusement at the top sergeant's analysis. They, too, had heard it all before.

  "Basically you've got two choices," Brandy continued. "You can wait him out, or you can toady up to him and hope he'll take you with him when he transfers out of this sewer."

  There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before one of the newer Legionnaires voiced the thought that was on all their minds.

  "Do you think we could get a better deal in another outfit, Sarge?"

  The top sergeant spat noisily on the floor before answering.

  "That all depends on what you think a better deal is. Standin' guard in a swamp is no picnic, but it beats getting shot at. As far as the company itself goes..."

  She shot a glance at the company's two lieutenants fidgeting in opposite corners across the room and lowered her voice... all officers are pretty much the same, and none of them are good for much except signing reports and holding the bag. If you're asking what I think of the working end of the company, the grunts, well... do you know what an Omega Company is?"

  The sudden crash of chairs being knocked about and voices raised in cheers and catcalls drew the attention of everyone in the room, at least momentarily. That was all the time it took for most of the company to realize it was only Super Gnat on another one of her rampages and return to whatever they were doing before.

  Super Gnat was the smallest Legionnaire in the company, and had a fiery temper that exploded at any provocation, real or imagined. In particular, she was sensitive to any comments made about her height... or lack thereof.

  "I wonder what set the Gnat off this time?" Brandy mused, half to herself.

  "Who knows?" one of her listeners said. "The other day she jumped me in the chow line at breakfast. All I did was ask the cook for a short stack of pancakes."

  "That sounds like her." The top sergeant nodded as the others chuckled appreciatively. "You know, with as much fighting as the little runt does, you'd think she'd be better at it: Look at that."

  The Legionnaire under attack was laughing openly, keeping Super Gnat at arm's length by the simple tactic of holding his hand on the top of her head as she flailed away blind
ly with her fists.

  Brandy shook her head sadly.

  "It looks more like a schoolyard than a Space Legion company. That's what I was starting to say about Omega Companies. Counting up all the oddballs and basket cases we've got in this outfit, it's a cinch that-"

  "Ten-HUT."

  Lieutenant Armstrong's voice reverberated off the walls, but no one paid it much heed. He was rumored to be a reject from the Regular Army, and had never rid himself of the reflex of calling a room to attention when a superior officer entered.

  Such traditions were not practiced in the Legion. Courtesy between the ranks was a matter of personal preference rather than required performance, and as such was generally ignored. His eruption did call attention to the fact that the new CO had just entered the rec room, however, and all the Legionnaires

  craned their necks to see their new commander.

  Framed by the door behind him and poised in a parade-rest stance that was at once relaxed and vibrating with restrained energy, the figure that had just entered the room dominated the assemblage with its mere presence. His uniform was a glowing black jumpsuit edged with gold piping and tailored to flatter his slim body. A rapier with a polished brass swept basket hilt that hung at his side by a baldric might have made him look comical if it were not offset by the icy gaze he leveled at the company. So unsettling was the stare and the silence which accompanied it that several Legionnaires nervously rose from their seats and drew themselves up into an approximation of the position of attention. The CO seemed not to notice, any more than he noticed those who remained seated.

  "They tell me you're all losers and misfits," he said flatly without introduction. "I don't believe it... though it's clear most of you think you're losers from the way you conduct yourselves."

  The company exchanged glances, suddenly self-conscious of their soiled uniforms and the garbage in the room. A few eyes were turned toward the first sergeant as if to ask what had happened to the expected joke. She ignored them, making a show of concentrating on the CO's words as he continued.