Phule's Company

by Robert Asprin

  The commander frowned. "I didn't realize that. Appreciate the warning, though."

  "Warning?" The chief's face was a picture of innocence. "I was just responding to an official request for information from one of the residents in the community I am sworn to serve and protect."

  "Got it." Phule nodded. "Thanks, anyway... unofficially. I wonder if it would be possible for you to-"

  "Captain!"

  There was no denying the urgency in the voice that hailed him.

  "Excuse me, Chief. What is it, Tusk-anini?"

  "Spartacus going to shoot gun!"

  A quick glance at the firing line was sufficient to confirm the information. The Sinthian was perched on his glide board, a shotgun tucked under his spindly arm, as Chocolate Harry explained the weapon to him with vastly exaggerated gestures.

  "So I see," the commander said. "It seems, however, that the situation is being handled by-"

  "Not know Newton's third law physics?"

  Phule frowned. "What law?"

  "Isn't that the one that..." Chief Goetz started, but the sentence was never finished.

  KA-BOOM!

  The Sinthian's skill on his glide board was such that instead of being knocked off the device by the shotgun's recoil, he spun violently around and around like a top... though, if asked, those in the near vicinity might have preferred the former option. Anyone who had not recent occasion to refer to or recall Newton's third law of physics was now graphically reminded that, indeed, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction! Educated or not, good marksmen or not, there was nothing wrong with the Legionnaires' sense of survival, and in a twinkling everyone present was either crouched behind cover or flat on the ground, including the observers in the bleachers.

  Fortunately Spartacus was only firing single loads while testing the shotgun, so the mayhem was more comical than anything. Had he been utilizing the belt-feed auto-loader option, the results might not have been so humorous.

  "Seems to me," Chief Goetz drawled, raising his head to look at Phule, "the kick on that weapon's a tad strong for that fellah-at least while he's standing on that board, anyway. "

  "The same thing just occurred to me," the commander said, peering over the bleacher seat he was flattened behind. "It's a problem, though. The Sinthians' eyestalks keep them from using a weapon with enough accuracy to be effective. That's why we were trying them on shotguns. I'd say to hell with it and issue them fully automatic weapons, but I'm afraid that would only compound the recoil problem."

  "What you need is something that doesn't have much of a kick." Goetz frowned. "Have you thought of trying them on splat guns?"

  "Splat guns?"

  "Compressed-air guns that shoot little paint balls. Some of the guys in the department use 'em in a weekend war-game club they belong to."

  "Oh. Those things." Phule shook his head. "I always thought they were more expensive toys than weapons."

  "Some of those 'toys' are fully automatic and have a muzzle velocity of over four hundred feet per second," the chief informed him.

  "Really?" The commander raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I didn't know that. Still, I'm not sure what good it would do to hit someone with a paint ball in combat, no matter how fast it was going."

  "Well-" Goetz grinned wolfishly, easing himself back onto his bleacher seat "I just might be able to run down a source for some HE paint ball loads."

  "High explosives?" Phule was definitely interested now. "Are those legal?"

  "It may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Phule, but every so often the police are aware of items available that do not conform exactly to the letter of the law."

  "Uh-huh. And what is this information going to cost me?"

  "Consider it a favor," the chief said. "Of course, it might be nice if you did me a little favor in return-like, say, maybe loaning the department that cook of yours for our annual banquet that's coming up next month?"

  "I think we could clear that under Community Relations." The commander grinned. "In the meantime, I want to see if there isn't some way we can get those completely legal shotguns to work for us."

  "If you don't mind," Goetz said, sliding off the seat to lie prone once more, "I'll watch your experiments from here."

  As it turned out, Spartacus declined to make a second attempt at handling the weapon, preferring to stay with his beloved glide board rather than abandon it for firepower.

  Undaunted, Chocolate Harry pressed the shotgun on Louie, the aristocratic Sinthian. Unable to match Spartacus' expertise on the glide board, Louie had long since abandoned his efforts to master the device, claiming it was beneath him, so the unstable footing provided by that vehicle did not present a problem. Anchored firmly on the ground, or, eventually, in the sidecar of Harry's hawg, he was more than able to control the weapon, or at least approximate control sufficiently for Phule to allow him to continue using it.

  As a crowning touch, one of the Legionnaires found an antique German helmet and cut holes in the top for Louie's eyestalks. The picture they presented, Chocolate Harry astride his massive hover cycle with Louie perched in the sidecar, eyestalks protruding from the top of an old helmet and clutching his belt-fed shotgun, made more than one citizen stop in their tracks for a second look. In fact, Chief Goetz commented at one point that the appearance of that particular team at the scene of a crime was a greater deterrent than an entire squad of patrolmen.

  Strangely enough, his new acceptance by the company seemed to ease Louie's distaste for his lower-class fellow Sinthian, to a point where he actually entered into a business partnership with Spartacus to introduce the glide boards to their home planet. Spartacus recorded a series of demonstration and instructional tapes, while Louie used his family's contacts and influence to cut red tape for the necessary licenses and business permits. The entire company chipped in for the start-up funding, a gesture nobody regretted as it was to earn them profits in the future far in excess to their initial investment.

  As the teams and partnerships among the Legionnaires solidified, so, too, did their acceptance of themselves and each other. Countless feuds and disagreements were set aside as a new feeling of unity flourished within the company. Simply put, as each individual conquered his or her own feelings of inferiority or inadequacy, he or she in turn grew more tolerant of the shortcomings of the others.

  For some, however, acceptance did not come so easily, occasionally pushing them to extreme measures.

  It was the company's last night at the Plaza. The construction on their new facilities was complete, and orders had been passed to pack in preparation for relocation in the morning. By unspoken agreement, as they completed their packing most of the Legionnaires gathered in the Plaza lounge for a minor going-away celebration. Of course, there were not enough seats to accommodate the whole company at once, but the mood was jovial and most of the individuals were content to lean against the walls or sit on the floor in groups, or wander casually from conversation to conversation. As is common in such social, military gatherings, more than a few conversations turned into one-downmanship competitions as individual Legionnaires complained and bragged about who had stood the worst duty in the course of their careers.

  "... you think swamps are bad?" Brandy grinned, gesturing for attention with her drink. "Listen, once I was assigned to a crew that had to guard-get this-a bloody iceberg! Never did find out why, but it was impossible to stay warm with the gear we were issued, unless you found someone to be real close to, if you get my drift. After a few weeks of freezing your tutu off, I'll tell you, some of the ugliest Legionnaires started looking pretty good!"

  The knot of Legionnaires laughed appreciatively but briefly, as each leaned forward in eagerness to be next.

  "Talk about hard duty," Super Gnat proclaimed, beating the others off the line. "My second assignment or was it my third?... whatever! Anyway, the CO had a real thing against short people, and, of course, the only way I get to play basketball is if they use me for the ball. So she ca
lls me into her office one day and says-"

  "I'll tell you what rough duty is!"

  Annoyed at the interruption in midstory, the group glanced up to find Lieutenant Armstrong weaving his way unsteadily in their direction.

  "It... isn't a matter of where you stand duty or what you've gotta do. When you're serving under a freaking ghost... and that ghost is your... father and one of the most highly decorated soldiers ever, then you... gotta spend your whole life trying to prove you're one tenth as good as everyone says he was. That's rough duty! I only wish the sonofabitch had stayed alive long enough to make a mistake."

  The Legionnaires glanced at each other uncomfortably as Armstrong tried to get his lips and glass coordinated.

  "Umm... don't you think it's time you got some sleep, Lieutenant?" Brandy said carefully, breaking the silence.

  Armstrong peered at her owlishly, blinking fiercely as he tried to get his eyes in focus.

  "You're... right, Sergeant Brandy. Mustn't say or do anything unbecom... unbecoming an officer. I... think I'll get some fresh air first, though. Good... night, everybody. "

  The lieutenant drew himself erect and attempted a salute that came close to missing before lurching off toward the street door, steadying himself occasionally with a hand on the wall.

  The group watched him go in silence.

  "An officer and a gentleman... God help us," someone said, raising his drink in a mock toast.

  "Umm... I hate to say it," Super Gnat drawled, "but it's awful late for him to be walking the streets in that condition."

  "So what? He's a jerk!"

  "Yeah, but he's our jerk. I'd just as soon not see anything happen to him while he's wearing the same uniform I am. C'mon, Gnat. Let's give the man a fighter escort until he crashes."

  Leaning against the wall, unnoticed behind a potted plant, Phule smiled to himself at the exchange. More and more, the Legionnaires were starting to watch out for each other. Some of it was camaraderie, some a general defense of the company's reputation, but it all added up to esprit de corps. If this kept up, then eventually...

  The beep of his wrist communicator interrupted his thoughts.

  "Mother?" he said, keying the unit on. "What are you doing upstairs? Come on down and-"

  "I think we got a problem, Big Daddy," the communications specialist announced, cutting him short. "The chief of police is on the line for you. Says it's urgent."

  Phule experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with drinking.

  "Patch him through."

  "Here he is. You're on, Chief."

  "Willard? You'd better get down here, pronto. A couple of your boys are in a jam, and there's no way I can cover for them. "

  "What's the charge?" the commander said, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.

  "It seems they were caught red-handed on a breaking-and-entering," the police chief informed him. "That might not be so bad, but it was the governor's house they were breaking into, and he caught them himself!"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Journal #112

  While it may seem that my employer has a greater tendency than most to "buy his way" out of problems and dilemmas, I have noticed that he invariably draws the line when it comes to dealing with politicians. This is not, as it might be supposed, the result of any distaste on his part for the influence of "special interest groups," nor does he subscribe to the "An honest politician is one who, once he's bought, stays bought!" school of thought. Rather, it stems from a stubborn belief on his part that elected officials should not have to be "paid extra" to do their jobs.

  As he puts it, "Waitresses and card dealers are paid minimum wage in anticipation of their income being supplemented by tips, so if one doesn't tip them, one is, in effect, robbing them of their livelihood. Public officials, on the other hand, are expected to live within their salaries, so any effort on their part to obtain additional earnings for the simple performance of their duties is extortion at its worst and should be a jailable offense!"

  Needless to say, this attitude does nothing toward increasing his popularity with the politicians he comes in contact with.

  Governor Wingas, or Wind-gust, as he was known to his rivals, could not suppress a feeling of smug excitement as the commander was ushered into his study. Ever since reading in the media that there was a megamillionaire in residence in the settlement, the governor had been racking his brain for a way to entice a fat "campaign contribution" out of that noteworthy. All party and luncheon invitations had gone unanswered, however, as had his personal notes soliciting contributions and hinting vaguely at "beneficial legislation" for the Legionnaires.

  Now, at long last, he was not only getting a chance to meet the munitions heir, but that chance was coming under circumstances that could only be viewed as "favorable for negotiation." In layman's terms, with two Legionnaires under lock and key, he had their commander over a barrel and had no intention of settling cheaply... or easily.

  "So, we finally meet, Mr. Phule... or should I call you Captain Jester? The governor smiled, leaning back in the leather chair behind his desk as the commander settled in one of the guest chairs.

  "Make it 'Captain Jester,"' Phule said, not returning the smile. "This isn't a social call. I'm here on official Legion business."

  "That's right." Wingas nodded, enjoying himself. "You're the one who doesn't accept social invitations. Well, then, shall we get down to business? What can I do for you... as if I didn't know. Frankly I expected you sooner than this."

  "I had some other stops to make first," the commander returned flatly. "As to what you can do for me, I'm here to ask you to drop the charges against the two Legionnaires currently residing in jail."

  The governor shook his head.

  "I couldn't do that. The men are criminals. I caught them myself outside the window of this very room. No, sir. I can't see letting them go free to steal again... unless, of course, you can give me... shall we say, a reason to show leniency?"

  "I can give you two reasons, Governor," Phule said through tight lips, "though I expect only one will really matter to you. First of all, the men weren't breaking into your home... "

  "Perhaps you didn't hear me, Captain." The governor smiled. "I caught them myself!"

  "... they were breaking out of your home," the commander finished, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "You see, my Legionnaires are very eager to have a chance at that honor guard job you've given to the Regular Army, and those two men, Do-Wop and Sushi, broke in here trying to find something I could use as leverage to force you to give us that chance."

  Phule paused to shake his head.

  "In some ways, it's my fault. I talked about looking for leverage while they were listening, and they took it on themselves to try to get it for me. Anyway, they brought what they found to me, and I ordered them to put it back. They did, and you caught them as they were leaving. In short, there was no crime, which should be all the justification you need to drop the charges."

  "No crime!" the governor snorted. "Even if I believed this yarn of yours, Captain-which I don't they still broke into my home. Twice, from what you say."

  The commander flashed a tight smile, his first since entering the room.

  "Make up your mind, Governor. Either you believe me or you don't. In case you're having trouble making up your mind, however..." He stretched out a hand, pointing at the governor's desk. "Bottom drawer on the left, in a file labeled 'Old Business.' That's what they were replacing. Convinced?"

  The governor's smile dropped away like supporters after a losing election.

  "If you mean...

  "Frankly, Governor," Phule continued, "I don't care what your sexual preferences are, or whom or what you practice them with-though I usually confine my own leanings to our own species-much less whether or not you keep pictures for souvenirs. All I want is my men back. Of course, if their case should go to court, I'd be obligated to testify in their behalf, including describing in lurid, graphi
c, the-media-will-love-it detail the pictures they were supposed to have stolen."

  "You couldn't prove a thing," the governor snapped, paling. "Unless... are you saying you kept copies of those pictures?"

  "I could bluff and say yes," Phule said, "but the truth is, I didn't. Like I say, Governor, I had no intention of using that information, which is why I, told my men to put them back. Still, a politician's reputation is a delicate thing, isn't it? The faintest shadow of scandal can ruin it, whether it's ever actually proved or not. The question as I see it, is whether or not prosecuting my men is worth jeopardizing your political career."

  Wingas glared at Phule for several moments, then snatched up his phone and angrily punched in a number.

  "Chief Goetz, please. Governor Wingas calling.

  Hello, Chief? This is the governor. I... She's fine, thank you... Look, Chief, I've decided to drop the charges against those two Legionnaires you're holding... That's right. Let them go... Never mind why! Just do it!"

  He slammed the phone down with a bang and stared out the window, waiting for his temper to cool before turning to the commander once more.

  "All right, Captain Jester. That's settled. Now, if there's nothing else, I'll ask you to excuse me. I believe I have some pictures to burn."

  To his surprise, the Legionnaire made no motion to rise.

  "As a matter of fact, while I'm here, there is another matter I'd like to discuss with you, Governor."

  "There is?"

  "That's right. The honor guard job I mentioned earlier?"

  "Oh yes. The one you weren't going to use the pictures as leverage to get."

  With admirable speed, the governor put his anger behind him. Politics was no place for anyone who couldn't change gears swiftly, or who yielded to the self-indulgent pleasure of holding a grudge against someone who was a potential ally or contributor. For a moment, Wingas allowed himself to hope that there might be a contribution in this, after all!