Phule Me Twice (17 page)

"Sir..." said Beeker, tentatively.

Phule ignored him. "The ambassador was worried they might be trying to get a fully equipped Alliance military unit on-planet, so they could knock us out quickly and gain access to our equipment. But that assumes that our equipment is superior enough to theirs that they'd risk an interplanetary incident to get some, then expect to be able to replicate it before the Alliance could respond. I can't see that."

"Sir!" said Beeker, touching his employer's elbow.

"Not that it wouldn't be a good idea to develop some defense to the stun ray," Phule continued. "I'll bet you they have one, even though they haven't mentioned it to us. You don't deploy a weapon that powerful without some...What is it, Beeker?" The butler was now tugging on Phule's sleeve.

The butler pointed abruptly to the left. "Sir, that boulder over there iust moved."

Phule turned abruptly. "What boulder?" he said, reaching for his side arm.

But it was too late.

"Don't like Major Botchup," said Tusk-anini with characteristic bluntness.

"Well, that puts you with the majority," said Super-Gnat, sitting at the far end of the mess hall table. "He's about as popular as the itch."

"Itch not popular," said Tusk-anini, squinting at his partner.

"Sure it is," said Do-Wop, scratching his left armpit. "Everybody's got it, ain't they? If it was a vid show, it'd be numero one-o."

"Having it doesn't mean you like it," said Super-Gnat. She took a spoonful of soup and continued, "Besides, Do-Wop, you shouldn't confuse Tusk. It just makes him ask more questions."

"There's nothing wrong with asking questions," said Mahatma, setting down his tray at a vacant spot at the table. "It's the best way for people to learn things. I have to keep telling Sergeant Brandy that."

"The NCOs aren't sure your main reason for asking questions is to learn something," said Super-Gnat with a frown. "Then again, maybe you've got a better reason."

Mahatma shrugged. "I didn't say that the one asking the question was the only one to learn things, did I?"

"Well, I wish you'd go ask Major Botchup some questions, then," said Do-Wop. "That sucker's got a lot to learn, and I hope he learns it fast."

"I hope he learns it without getting anybody hurt," said Super-Gnat. "That kind of ignorance is dangerous-and not just to the ignoramus, if you know what I mean."

"Who you callin' ignoramus?" said a booming voice. They jumped and looked up to see Chocolate Harry, balancing a mess tray and grinning at them. After they relaxed, he said, "Mind if a sergeant sets his tray down?"

"What we gonna say if we do mind?" said Do-Wop. "Hey!" he added as Super-Gnat elbowed him in the ribs.

"Sure, C. H., join the party," said Gnat, acting as if nothing particular had happened. Do-Wop glared at her for a moment, but he knew better than to say any more.

Chocolate Harry slid his tray onto the table and settled into a chair. He took a sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. "Man, Escrima is a genius," he said. "Dude can cook as good a meal in the middle of no place as in the best hotel you ever saw." He paused and thought a moment, then added, "Course, on this planet, maybe we're in the best hotel there is."

"Well, I'm not griping about the food," said Super-Gnat.

"Right," said Chocolate Harry. "So what are you gripin' about?"

There was an uncomfortable silence as the group around the table glanced at one another. Even Mahatma, who was usually eager to make his opinion known, seemed reticent. At last, Tusk-anini broke the silence. "New major making everything worse," he said with characteristic directness.

"Everything?" said the supply sergeant, raising an eyebrow. "Hell; the food ain't any worse. What else?"

When Do-Wop muttered something foul sounding, Harry turned to him and said, "Yo, Do-Wop, either tell me what you wanna say or keep it buttoned. I can't fix somethin' I can't hear about."

"Maybe you can't fix this, neither, so why tell you?" said Do-Wop. Harry just stared at him. After an uncomfortable couple of moments, Do-Wop shrugged. "OK, man, it's just all the chicken shit. You're outta uniform, you gotta shave, you gotta salute your officers, you gotta get up at O-five-hundred hours, you gotta say `sir' when you talk to me, yada yada yada, blah blah blah. We were doin' fine without that crap, so what's the major gotta bring it in for?"

"He does not respond to questions," added Mahatma.

"He says he going to break up partners," said Tusk-anini, glowering as only he could. His huge hand rested on Super-Gnat's shoulder.

"That's his rights, you know," said Chocolate Harry reasonably. "Most other Legion units, they ain't got partners."

"We Omega Mob, not other Legion," said Tusk-anini. "Omega Mob better than other Legion. Don't care about other units. Major take good company, make it bad again. Don't like that."

Chocolate Harry looked at Tusk-anini, then at the other faces all turned toward him, awaiting his answer. "Yeah," he said at last, "I hear ya. Now, bein' a sergeant, there ain't much I can say against the major. But maybe there's a few things people could do. You didn't hear it from me, but think about this..."

The supply sergeant spoke briefly and quietly. By the time he was done, his little circle of listeners was nodding in approval. "Yeah," said Super-Gnat. "I think you've got an idea or two there, Sarge. I'll pass word along to a couple of people, and we'll see what happens."

"You're on your own. You know that," cautioned Chocolate Harry. "Remember, you never heard anything from me."

Super-Gnat grinned. "Heard from you? I haven't heard anything from you except that spiel about renegade robots, and we all know better than to believe that stuff."

Perimeter guard duty was assigned on a rotating basis. Tonight, Garbo and Brick had drawn the first nighttime watch. They'd come on board at the same time, new recruits assigned to the Omega Mob at Lorelei. Noticing that both of them were standoffish in the company of their own kind, Phule decided to try the two of them as a team. Surprisingly, after a brief period of awkwardness, the two loners-one Gambolt, one human-had forged some sort of bond and were now almost inseparable, off duty as well as on.

Lieutenant Armstrong met them at their post and checked their equipment. "Most of this is standard Legion issue," he said. "Brandy should've shown you how it works. Have you had a chance to check out the new night goggles, though?"

"Yeah, they're super triff," said Brick, who'd picked up a fair share of Landooran slang during their stay on that planet. "I don't think Garbo likes 'em, though."

"Really?" said Armstrong. "Why not?"

"They hurt my eyes. All the colors are wrong," said the Gambolt, speaking through the translator. "Besides, they don't show me anything I can't already see."

"Ah, that's right," said Armstrong, snapping his fingers. "Our Terran cats can see in the dark. Stands to reason that you Gambolts can, too."

"She sees as much without 'em as I can with 'em," said Brick, her voice showing pride at her partner's abilities. "And she's right about the colors-they are weird, but I can see so much more, I don't mind."

"Well, you're not likely to see much tonight," said Armstrong. "We've swept the area for a kilometer in all directions, and there's nothing bigger than a floon out there-and none of it is dangerous to something humansized. So stay alert, but don't get trigger-happy."

"Yes, sir," said Brick. "What if something unexpected shows up?"

"As long as it doesn't attack, let it be," said the lieutenant. "We've got a perimeter fence set to give a little warning zap to any local vermin that try to cross it. Anything that keeps coming in spite of the zap, don't be heroes. Hit it with the stunners, then call Mother, and she'll get you backup pronto. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said Garbo. "Stun and call in. Will do, sir."

"Carry on, then," said Armstrong, and he strode back to the MBC.

After the lieutenant was out of earshot, Brick peered out into the brush and said, "fbis place gives me the freddies, Garbo. I've never been anyplace where it gets so dark at night."

"You grow up in the city, no?" the Gambolt asked.

"Yeah, sure did," said Brick. "Plenty of light, plenty of people. This place is just too...empty for me."

"City's scarier, if you ask me," said Garbo. The two sentries began walking slowly along the perimeter, keeping their gaze turned out into the dark around the camp.

"You get too many beings in one place, some of them are going to be bad ones. Out here, just a few animals to worry about, and mostly they mind their own business."

"Just a few animals?" Brick stared out into the darkness. "Maybe. But if there's just animals, why's the major got us out on guard duty? There's got to be something else out there-maybe those Hidden Ones the Zenobians are talking about."

"If you ask me, I think the Hidden Ones will stay hidden," said Garbo, scoffing. "They have no reason to bother us-"

There was a loud crack from somewhere in the dark outside the perimeter. "Ssst! What's that?" Brick hissed suddenly. She turned and pointed into the darkness, crouching to present a smaller target.

"Something moving," said Garbo, ducking down beside her partner. "Something big. Wind's the wrong way to pick up scent."

"There's not supposed to be anything big out there," said Brick, her voice a whisper. "What do we do?"

"Remember orders," murmured Garbo. "First wait and see. It might not come any closer. If it does, we use stunners and call for backup."

"Stunners, right," said Brick nervously. She clicked off the safety on her stunner and peered over its sights toward where the sounds had come from. Not for the first time, she wished she had the Gambolt's hypersensitive ears and nose. Even with the night vision goggles, it was hard to make out anything beyond the edge of the camp. The landscape appeared in false colors, according to temperature; in Earth-like ecologies, that meant that large lifeforms generally stood out in bright contrast to the cooler background. But here, with only a few warm-blooded native life-forms, the colors were uniformly muted. And despite the noise they'd heard, nothing seemed to be moving.

Then, slowly, from a small arroyo a short distance away, a large form loomed up and began advancing toward them. In the night goggles, it stood out as a bright, throbbing presence, big as a man, moving directly toward the waiting sentries. "Gemini!" said Brick, and without waiting, she raised her weapon toward it.

"Hold it; that's a person," said Garbo, but she was too late: Brick had already depressed the firing stud.

In the night goggles, the stun ray appeared as a narrow cone of blue green light expanding toward the target. The cone enveloped the approaching figure, which was suddenly surrounded by a haze of reflection, and Brick lowered the muzzle of her weapon, waiting for the target to fall.

Except, this time, nothing happened.

The figure continued to advance on them. "Stop or I'll shoot," shouted Brick, now thoroughly befuddled by her stunner's failure. "Put your hands up!" She aimed the stunner toward its head, even while she wondered what she was supposed to do now that the weapon wasn't working. It must be broken; she'd seen it hit the target, no question at all. But if it wasn't working, what was she going to do if the intruder attacked? Then it came to a stop, facing them, and raised its hands.

"Identify yourself!" she shouted. Behind her, Garbo was calling Mother, asking for backup.

"No reason to shoot," came an eerily familiar voice. "I'm not armed. Can I come closer?"

"The captain!" Brick said, standing up to look more closely. It was impossible to make out facial features at this distance, especially with the odd color substitutions she saw in the night goggles; but the voice was undeniably Captain Jester's.

Garbo turned to look. "It can't be," the Gambolt said; then, after a long stare into the darkness, she whispered, "Let's play it safe. Keep him covered till the backup gets here. We'll let somebody else decide." She raised her voice. "Stay right there; we've got you covered. Don't move, and we won't hurt you."

"I won't move," came Phule's voice, sounding far more cheerful and reasonable than someone stopped at gunpoint by his own troops ought to sound. "I hope your backup comes before too long, though. It's no fun waiting in the dark."

"It'll be here," said Brick, trying to sound tougher than she felt. "You just stay put till then."

The captain's voice chuckled. "I'm not going anywhere," it said. "Not yet."

Brick barely had time to start wondering about that before the backup arrived, and she and Garbo were off the hook.

Journal #560

The Andromatic robot duplicate of my employer was programmed to impersonate him in his role as casino owner. It had seemed sufficient to give it only a perfunctory knowledge of military protocol. After all, the "troops" at the Fat Chance Casino were in fact actors, most of them without actual military experience. On the off chance that the casino might play host to a current or former Legion officer, the robot was programmed to sidestep any talk of military matters in favor of more general topics. To date, nobody had noticed the impersonation.

It was only when the robot walked into a Legion camp, where its real-life counterpart was a key figure, that these omissions became critical. And, of course, the one person who could have set things straight was a considerable distance away.

Phule came awake to find himself in a tentlike structure, except that the walls and roof seemed to be made of something other than cloth. There was a dull ache at the base of his skull, as if he'd been drinking at the kind of place the enlisted Legion frequented. "Where am I?" he asked, aware even as he said the words that he was acting out the oldest cliché in the books.

"Sir, we seem to have been taken prisoner by the Hidden Ones," said Beeker's voice, close to his right ear. "They apparently used something much like the Zenobian stun ray to subdue us."

"Have you seen them?" Phule sat up and reached out to touch the walls of their current lodging. The material was soft and smooth but had very little give to it. There was no sign of any opening to the outside, although the air seemed reasonably fresh.

"Not a glimpse of them," said Beeker. "But I haven't been conscious much longer than you, sir. Perhaps they'll make their appearance now that we're both awake."

"I hope they're going to make an appearance," said Phule, experimentally poking another portion of the walls. "I can't see any way out of here."

"One would assume we've been kept alive deliberately, sir," said Beeker. "Had our captors intended our demise, I doubt we would have awakened at all."

Phule grimaced. "That assumes a lot. If we've been captured by aliens of an unknown race, we can't take anything for granted. Remember, the Zenobians like their meat freshly killed..."

"I should certainly hope we aren't being saved for that purpose, sir," said Beeker, his face unperturbed as ever, although Phule thought he noticed an unusual degree of stress in the butler's voice.

"I'll settle for not being starved to death," said Phule. "Whoever's captured us doesn't necessarily know what we like to eat-or how often. We could be in a real pickle."

"Sir, I should consider our present situation to be a `real pickle,' as far as I understand the term," said Beeker. "It is not too early to begin thinking of escape."

"Yeah, we've got to look into that," said Phule. "But we're not going to rush into it. We've got a golden opportunity to find out who these Hidden Ones are-or whatever they call themselves. It's a good thing we have a couple of translators in the jeep; at least, when they do show up, we'll be able to communicate with them."

"A very debatable assumption, sir," said Beeker. "Why, I find some of your legionnaires all but incomprehensible, despite our nominal possession of a common tongue. But above and beyond that question, we cannot take it for granted that our captors will allow us to retrieve our equipment from the hovercar."

"Hmmm...that would complicate things," said Phule. "How are you at sign language?"

"Quite competent within a very narrow range, sir," said Beeker. "I am certain that I can communicate hostility and frustration with no risk of misunderstanding. More complex matters might exceed my abilities."

Phule nodded. "Well, I might not be able to do much better. But between the two of us, we'll have to figure out how to convince them to let us get hold of those translators. Once I can actually talk to them-"

"Sir!" said Beeker, in an urgent whisper. "Something's happening."

"Where?" said Phule. Beeker's pointing finger gave him the answer. One end of the enclosure was turning darker and becoming porous, as if it were made of some fibrous substance. Together, they backed off and stood watching. Whatever was going to happen to them, it was evidently happening now.

"What were you doing in the desert out there?" said Lieutenant Armstrong. He and Phule were huddled together in the comm center, just out of sight of Mother. Cool drinks had been brought out, and both were slaking their thirst-though the captain was taking only small sips. Satisfied that the captain was displaying no evidence of physical distress, Armstrong began a rapid-fire series of questions. "Did something happen to your hovercar? Are you hurt? And where's Beeker?"

"Slow down, Lieutenant, slow down," said the captain with an easy smile. "That's a lot of questions to throw at a fellow all at once. But no, I'm not hurt, just a little dusted up, is all. I'll be fine after a shower and a change of outfit-and a cool drink. As for Beeker, the old rascal's off-station, taking care of some business for me. He'll be back as soon as he's got it all wrapped up."

"Well, I'm glad you're not hurt, Captain," said Armstrong, somewhat reassured. "How did the negotiations with the Zenobians go? We're starting to wonder if-"

"Don't worry, old fellow. Everything's under control," said Phule, still smiling. "Now's when you should be relaxing, letting yourself enjoy things. There'll never be a better chance."

"Do you really think so, sir?" said Armstrong, surprised. "I know you think I'm a bit inflexible sometimes, but with a new CO on board, this hardly seems the time to slack off-"

"No time better, Lieutenant," said Phule. "Here we are jawing at each other, when you could be out winning yourself a fortune. And I need to get that shower."

"A fortune?" Armstrong frowned. "Well, perhaps I haven't paid as much attention to my investments...not that this seems quite the proper time for that...Besides, we need to get you ready to meet the new CO as soon as possible."

But even as he spoke, Phule clapped him on the back and winked at him. Then the captain turned and headed back toward the center of the camp, leaving Armstrong to puzzle over what he'd meant. Since Armstrong had been trying, without notable success, to figure out his captain ever since Phule had first arrived at Omega Company, Phule's words set off no alarm bells in his head.

The fact that they didn't goes a long way to explain why, after three years in the Legion, Armstrong had risen to no higher rank than Lieutenant.

"We've got some kind of signal," said Sushi. His gaze was fixed on the primitive instrument sitting atop the makeshift desk in the room he shared with Do-Wop.

"Y'know, that's about the tenth time you've said that," said Do-Wop, looking up from the handheld action game he was playing. "Last about nine times, what you got when it was all over was nothin'. Flat-out, I mean, nothin'. And that's just with this gizmo-what is it, the third different one you've built?"

"I really appreciate the support," said Sushi, his gaze still on the readouts. His hand moved a potentiometer a tiny notch higher, and one of the readouts registered an increase in the signal. "It's times like this, when a man starts to think he's completely on the wrong track, that positive input from coworkers is so important."

"Huh?" said Do-Wop.

Now Sushi looked up at his partner. "What I'm saying is, you're part of this project, too. And this isn't just some wild-banth chase; we're here to help the Zenobians find those invisible aliens. The captain gave us this job, and until he tells us to quit, we're going to keep working on it. Even if there are a few false starts."

Do-Wop scratched his head. "What about the new major? He's pretty much thrown the captain's ideas out the window."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," said Sushi. "He hasn't told us to quit, and until he does, we don't worry about what he thinks. In fact, since what we're doing is a direct part of our mission, maybe the major will let us keep doing it even though he didn't think it up himself. I hope so, anyhow, because I think there's more to be found out there than just those aliens."

"Yeah? Such as?"

"Beeker," said Sushi. "The captain's back, but he hasn't said much about Beeker, and that's suspicious, in my book. Maybe he's putting on an act, trying to make the major underestimate him. Maybe when he's ready, he's going to spring a surprise. He'll solve the Zenobian mystery all by himself and make the major look like a nineteenth wheel. That'll show the brass that we didn't need a new CO after all, and they'll give the company back to him."

"The Legion don't work like that," said Do-Wop dubiously.

"No, but the captain does," said Sushi. "And if you ask me to bet on whether the captain can outsmart the Legion, I'd put my money on him every single time."

"I still don't get it," said Do-Wop. "If the captain's playing some kinda game, what's Beeker gonna do out there in the brush?"

"I think the captain and Beeker found the aliens," said Sushi. "And at just about the same time, they found out the brass had sent the major to take over the company. I bet the captain got the news and decided to come back on his own. He left Beeker behind to negotiate with the aliens-in fact, I bet the signal we're picking up has something to do with that-it's sure not anything on our usual frequencies."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're right," admitted Do-Wop. He bent over and looked over Sushi's shoulder at the readout, then said, "But what if this signal's as bogus as the others? You can't get anywhere if all you've got is phony signals that disappear right after you discover 'em."

"I spent last night putting in a refinement to the system," said Sushi. "Last night, when you were sleeping like a log. Now, with any luck, I can get a fix on these signals before they fade out. In fact..." He reached out and pushed a button on the console. A light started blinking.

"What's that?" said Do-Wop.

"You should've paid more attention when we were setting this thing up," said Sushi. "It's a recording disc, and with the information we'll have saved on it, we can pinpoint the origin of this signal, even if it fades out."

"Oh yeah? Where's it from?"

Sushi looked at his readouts. "I have to do the math to be sure, but at a guess, I'd say just about halfway between here and the Zenobian capital city. Right on the captain's course."

The opening in the wall had revealed only two dishes containing food and two cups of water. The food was warm, if a bit bland. One dish could have been passed off as mashed potatoes with a dash of cinnamon, and another was a sort of meat that tasted remarkably like...baked chicken. The water was cool and fresh. At least their captors did not intend to starve them.

The question remained: What kinds of creatures had taken them prisoner, and why? The evidence remained scanty; even the dishes were of unexceptional design, made of a ceramic material that could have been produced on any of a hundred worlds. And they had still seen nothing of the creatures who made them.

"It's amazing that the Hidden Ones have managed to avoid detection by the Zenobians," said Phule. "Why, they must have been right under their noses-"

"Not necessarily, sir," said Beeker. "If you remember, the Zenobians avoid the dryer areas of the planet. They're no more familiar with them than humans are with the polar regions of our own worlds. We've sent out a few exploring parties, but we can hardly claim to know them intimately. An alien race adapted to arctic conditions that landed near the South Pole of Landoor or Haskin's Planet could escape notice for many years. In fact, on many worlds, there are reports from sparsely inhabited areas of large animals that have not yet been seen by scientists."

"Large animals are one thing," said Phule. "An invasion by a space-going race is something else entirely."

"In theory, sir, I agree," said Beeker. "But if the aliens were not aggressive, there might be a considerable interval before they interacted. Especially if the invaders find the swampy areas of this world as unattractive as the natives do the deserts, there is no reason they would have come into contact before now."

Phule grimaced. "They're welcome to the swamps and deserts both," he said, fanning himself with his hat. "Anyhow, we know for a fact they're here, just not what they look like. Now, if we can get them to return us to the hoverjeep, we can use the translator instead of trying to communicate by gestures and guesses. Any ideas how we can do that?"

Beeker leaned his chin on the back of his right hand. "We appear to need the translator to communicate, yet we cannot communicate to our captors that we require it. This is the sort of circular logic puzzle that one might find diverting if one were to read about it in a story."

"Maybe you like that kind of puzzle, but it's driving me crazy," said Phule. "If you find it so diverting, you're welcome to solve it yourself."

"Alas, sir, I have already devoted considerable thought to it," said Beeker imperturbably. "As yet, I have not obtained a satisfactory result. I continue to ponder the question."

"Ponder faster, Beek," said Phule. "Getting out of this cell may depend on it. Not to mention getting something better to eat..." He pointed at the remains of their meal.

Beeker shrugged. "I find it as bland as you, sir. But for all we know, from our captors' point of view, this may be the equivalent of five-star cuisine."

"Nobody gives prisoners five-star cuisine," said Phule. "Not even the condemned man's last meal." He stopped and looked at his butler with sudden apprehension. "I wish I hadn't thought of that."

"One would not expect an alien race to be cognizant of that tradition," said Beeker. "We need not fear on that account, sir. Nor, I think, do we need to fear that they are fattening us for the slaughter."

"Beeker, you can't imagine what a relief it is to hear that," said Phule. "My whole outlook on life just brightened, you know? Why, I can almost reconcile myself to spending the rest of my days locked up in this...whatever it is."

"You really shouldn't attempt sarcasm unless you have a proper sense how to deploy it, sir," said Beeker. "Sarcasm ought to come from a position of assured superiority. It undermines the entire effect to end a sentence with a phrase that so openly admits one's ignorance as `whatever it is.' "