Phule Me Twice (18 page)

Phule stared at the butler a moment, then sat down in a corner of the enclosure. "The ironic thing is, I've just figured out what this place is, five seconds too late to get any use out of it."

"Really, sir?" Beeker's eyebrow went up a notch. "What, pray tell, would you call this place, then?"

"A torture chamber. What else would you call a place you have to share with somebody who corrects every remark you make?"

"Perhaps you are right, sir," said Beeker. "I hadn't seen it in quite that light. And after all, it does work both ways."

Phule looked up. "Both ways? What do you mean?"

"What else would you call a place where your only companion is constantly making remarks that cry out for correction?"

"Where is Captain Jester?" demanded Major Botchup. His tone suggested that anyone who couldn't answer was in trouble. "Mr. Snipe tells me the fellow's come sneaking back. Why hasn't he reported to me?"

"Yes, sir, the captain has returned," said Armstrong. "His hoverjeep malfunctioned out in the desert, and he walked into camp-"

The new officer grunted. "Malfunctioned, hey? Sounds as if somebody's slacking off in your motor pool, Lieutenant." It was clear he considered it Armstrong's fault.

"Oh, no, sir," said Armstrong, beginning to sweat. "Our motor pool is up to Legion standards-"

"We'll see about that, " said the major. "When the CO's personal jeep breaks down in the boonies, what kind of attention are the other vehicles getting, I wonder? Omega Company's not drawing soft barracks duty anymore, Lieutenant. This planet's at war, you know."

"Not exactly a war, is it, sir?" said Armstrong meekly. "We were asked in to help the locals find out-"

"Not a war?" the major stopped and turned on his heel to face Armstrong. "That's naive of you, Lieutenant, wouldn't you say? These lizards bent over backward to get into the Alliance, and the ink was barely dry on the treaty when they asked for this outfit-which they seem to think is some sort of elite company, God help 'em-to come in as military advisers. What other than a war could be so urgent, hey?"

"Preventing one might be, Major," said a new voice, calm and genial. "That'd be at the top of my list of priorities, anyway."

Major Botchup whirled. "Captain Jester!" he said. He drew himself up to military posture and said, "I'm surprised it's taken you so long to report, Captain. As you must have heard, I have been assigned by Legion Headquarters to take over command of this company. Frankly, I don't like what I've seen so far."

His glower made it obvious that he included Phule in this assessment. The captain was wearing a white dinner jacket with a plaid bow tie and matching cummerbund-appropriate attire for greeting customers at the Fat Chance Casino, but a bit out of place in the field. And he was carrying a martini glass in his left hand. The major's eyes settled on it in an instant, and radiated disapproval.

Surprisingly, Phule showed no reaction to the criticism implicit in the major's voice. He reached out his right to shake hands with the officer. "Armstrong, see if the major wants something to drink," he said, then grinned and added, "it's on the house."

The major stiffened. He looked down his nose at Phule and said, "Captain, I had heard appalling stories about this command, but I thought they had to be exaggerated. I'll grant you, Legion tradition allows a certain degree of liberty. But our officers are supposed to be gentlemen, and that implies a degree of discretion. Here you are, in a combat zone, out of uniform and-not to put too fine a point on it-soused before noon! I can see the general was right to relieve you of command. You will return to your quarters at once and make yourself presentable. Then report to me to be assigned your new duties. I'm sure we can find something you can do without screwing it up. If not, I may have to send you back to headquarters as unfit for duty!"

Phule grinned inanely. "Now, Major, let down your hair and relax a while. This is a place to forget your troubles."

The major turned to Armstrong and barked, "Lieutenant, put this man under house arrest! And make sure he doesn't drink any more until he's in shape to understand the trouble he's in!"

"Yes, sir!" said Armstrong, saluting. His expression was troubled, but he took Phule's elbow and said as gently as possible, "Captain, it's time for you to get some rest. Let me help you to your quarters."

"The cashier will give you quarters," said Phule, grinning like an idiot. "But I'll give you a tip. The dollar slots give better odds. Why not go for the gold?"

"Get him out of my sight!" bellowed the major. Visibly disturbed, Armstrong somehow managed to lead Phule away, and the major turned and stomped off toward the command center. It was time to determine just what was needed to get this company into shape and to bring it unequivocally under his own control. Grim-faced, he marched through the entrance to the MBC. There was work to do.

It was the second day since Phule had returned to the company and had been relieved of command by Major Botchup. A group of legionnaires stood outside the MBC; breakfast was over, and there was a little time still to shoot the breeze before they had to report to morning duty. Being Omega Mob, they were not about to let a chance to do nothing in particular escape them.

As they milled about, forming into groups for talk and banter, the entrance to the MBC opened and Captain Jester emerged, carrying an attaché case. He went over to a table in the shade of a canvas awning and sat down.

It had become obvious even to the major that a certain amount of routine administrative work that needed to be done could most easily be performed by the captain, who after all knew the company's personnel and history. So the confinement to quarters was modified to allow him to do routine paperwork. With the major having taken over the commanding officer's office, the captain was allowed to work wherever he could find space. And, as it happened, there was plenty of space in the open air. He opened the case and began to leaf through its contents, not paying any attention to the group of legionnaires a few meters away.

After a minute or so, Brick noticed him sitting there. She nudged one of her companions and said, "Be back in a minute. I'm going to go ask the captain about those renegade robots Chocolate Harry says we might have to fight. He'll give us the straight story."

"Sure, let me know what you find out," said the other legionnaire. Phule had always been open to questions and suggestions from the troops.

"Captain? I'm sorry to interrupt..." Brick hovered near the camp stool where Phule sat, a stack of printouts on the table in front of him.

Phule looked up with a quizzical expression. "Yes, who is it?" he said.

"Oh, I'm Brick, Captain," she said. "I'm new with the company, so I guess you don't know me yet..."

"Oh yes, of course," said Phule, flashing a fixed smile even as his head swiveled from side to side, as if trying to locate the source of Brick's voice. "What's the problem, uh, Brick? You don't have to hide-come on out where I can see you!"

"Excuse me, sir?" said Brick, puzzled. She was right in front of the captain, so he must be playing some kind of joke. Either that, or his ordeal in the desert had taken far more out of him than anyone had at first thought. Come to think of it, his behavior had reportedly been a bit strange ever since he had arrived back at the Legion camp. After a moment, she decided she was better off just asking her question. "It's like this, sir. There's a rumor we might be facing renegade robots here. As you can imagine, all of us want to know the straight dope on that, as far as you can give it. We understand the need for security-"

"Renegade robots?" Phule scoffed, even while his eyes kept flicking this way and that. "Now, I can tell you with pretty solid authority there's no such thing. Robots are fine machines, Brick, made to exacting specifications, incapable of error. Except human error-you'll get that every now and then, of course. You can trust robots, Brick. Anybody who tells you otherwise is dead wrong-dead wrong, I tell you. Take my word for it. I ought to know!"

"Yes, sir," said Brick, somewhat surprised at Phule's sudden vehemence on the subject. "Then you don't think we're likely to see any combat against them?"

"Combat? Don't be ridiculous," said Phule. "That's off the charts, Brick, completely off the charts." He paused a moment, then said, "What's going on, anyway? Are you hiding from me?"

"Hiding?" Brick took off her purple robot camouflage cap and said, "No, sir, I'm not hiding. Maybe you need a cool drink of water, sir. The desert heat may be affecting you-"

"Oh, there you are!" said the captain, suddenly looking her straight in the face. "Well, the heat isn't really that bad, but it's a good idea to take sensible precautions, isn't it? Well, if you don't have any other questions, I have these reports to go through..."

"Yes, sir!" said Brick, replacing her cap and saluting. She turned and went back to her comrades, shaking her head.

"So, what's the word?" asked Roadkill. "We gonna fight the robots or not?"

"Captain says no," said Brick. "Problem is, I'm not sure just how far to trust his word, Roadie. I think that desert heat has cooked his brain. He was acting as if he couldn't even see me."

"Wow, that's a shame," said Roadkill, turning a sympathetic glance toward the captain, who was riffling through papers. "Let's hope he gets back to his old self. We sure need him to set things right. Maybe he could even figure out how to get the major off our backs."

Before Brick could reply, Brandy strode up to the group and barked, "Okay, okay, don't you birds have jobs to do? This is the Space Legion, in case you've forgotten it.

"Lord help me, Sarge, how could I forget it?" groaned Roadkill. He and the other legionnaires scattered to their morning assignments, and Brandy nodded. As long as the troops looked busy, the major had one less excuse to bust chops. She'd thought the days were long over when her main concern was keeping officers off her back.

Well, maybe the problem would be short-lived. She glanced over at Phule, who sat there grinning as he shuffled papers. Roadkill had been right about that; he was their best hope to figure out a way to reduce the major's influence. And until that happened, Omega Company was going to be a lot less fun than it had been, even for top sergeants.

A knock came at the door. Lieutenant Rembrandt looked up and smiled. "Chocolate Harry! Come in and sit down," she said. She put down the report she'd been reading. Before Major Botchup had arrived, she'd had the occasional report to read, usually something of importance to the company. Now she was drowned in reports, most of them irrelevant and unreadable. Any break from this routine was welcome. Any kind of break at all.

The supply sergeant nodded and took a seat opposite her. "Got a problem, Remmie," he said without prelude.

"I figured as much from the way you look," said Rembrandt. "What's up, C. H.? Don't tell me those bikers are after you again. We must be a dozen parsecs away from them. "

"Nah, nothin' that simple," said Chocolate Harry. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward. "I'm worried about the cap'n," he said in a lowered voice. "We all are," said Rembrandt, also quietly. "He's let this new CO's being appointed over his head throw him for a loop. It can't be easy having your command taken away from you."

"Yeah," growled Harry. "That really stinks-not that it surprises me, knowin' the Legion like I do. This new major is pure chickenshit, the kind they only make at Legion Headquarters. He hasn't started messin' with my end of things so far, except for asking for a bunch of fool reports. If he never gets around to me, that'll be damn soon enough. But that ain't what I was worried about."

"You said it was the captain..." Lieutenant Rembrandt paused and looked inquisitively at Chocolate Harry.

"That's right. He's actin' kinda flaky, Remmie."

"Flaky? How?"

Chocolate Harry rubbed his beard, considering his words. After a moment he said, "I dunno. He's acting like he's back at the Fat Chance. I mean, he's walking around wearin' that monkey suit, like he was gonna have dinner with the ambassador, and there's no ambassadors here that I can see. Looks mighty like a desert out there, in fact."

"Yes, that is unusual," Rembrandt admitted. "He's always told us to be proud of our uniform, and he's set an example by wearing it."

"Right, and he talks like we're at the casino, too," said Harry. He paused again and said, "I think somethin's touched his brain, Remmie."

"The heat out in the desert could have done that," said Rembrandt. "The sentries who met him when he came in said he was already acting strangely, and Armstrong confirmed it. They fired the Zenobian stun ray at him before they knew who he was. Maybe that could've had an effect..."

"It could be the heat," said Chocolate Harry. "But I'll tell you what I think." He leaned closer and whispered, "It was right after he got back from that conference with the Zenobians, Remmie. And Beeker ain't come back yet. What do you want to bet they've got some game goin'?"

"What do you mean?" asked Rembrandt, surprised. She hadn't even considered that the planet's natives might have had something to do with the captain's strange behavior.

"I think they slipped somethin' into his food or maybe a drink, that's what I think," said the supply sergeant. "We're sittin' here with a camp full of state-of-the-art Alliance military equipment, and if they can get their claws on it, they'll have a real edge on us. That business about invisible aliens-that sure sounds like jive to me. I bet the lizards figured they'd dope up the captain and he'd just hand it over to 'em."

"That's a serious accusation," said Rembrandt. "We'd need something more to back it up before we took any action on it."

"That's why I'm talkin' to you, Remmie," said C. H. "Major Botchup, I don't know how he'd act. Except he'd try to do everything by the book, and that ain't gonna work. We gotta figure out what's really goin' on before we tell the major."

Rembrandt didn't answer right away; withholding something potentially so explosive from her commanding officer was asking for a court-martial. And like him or not, Botchup was her commanding officer now. On the other hand, he'd already decided there was something wrong with Captain Jester and taken the steps he considered appropriate. So there was no need to tell him that. All she'd be doing was refining the diagnosis. Until she knew for a fact that there was some external threat to Omega Company's security, she didn't need to get Botchup involved. But unless she was going to dismiss Chocolate Harry's suspicions out of hand, she needed to find out what was really going on, and she couldn't wait much longer.