Phule Me Twice (2 page)

As Brandy had expected, several legionnaires raised their hands. "Good," said Brandy, looking around the group. "OK, that's Slayer, Mahatma, Roadkill..."

"Sarge, I didn't raise my hand," came Roadkill's voice, a nasal whine with a Parson's Planet accent. The voice came from the opposite end of the fine from where Brandy had been looking.

"What?" said Brandy, doing a double take. "Step forward, you two. Let me look at you." The two complied, and sure enough, the two faces were nearly identical. In fact, they both looked a good bit like Rev, the Omega Mob's chaplain, who (Brandy now remembered) belonged to a cult that encouraged converts to undergo cosmetic surgery to make themselves resemble their prophet. "The King," his followers called him, although his real name was Elvish Priestley, if she remembered right...

"I'm not sure I like this," said Brandy, thinking out loud. "How the hell am I going to tell one of you from the other?"

"I don't see where it matters, Sarge," said Roadkill or...she looked at the legionnaire's name badge...no, it was Freefall. "We're aren't breaking any regulations, are we?"

"Well, I don't know," said Brandy, scowling. "I don't have anything against Rev or his King, but this is going to cause a lot of confusion."

"Legionnaire's Bill of Rights, Article IV, Section 3-A, forbids any interference with religious expression, Sergeant," said a voice from within the group. Brandy groaned. She recognized that voice. It was Mahatma, the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed perennial thorn in her side.

"Mahatma, nobody's said anything about interfering with anything," said Brandy wearily. "I'm just thinking that, in a combat situation, not knowing who you're dealing with could be a real pain in the ass." She knew she wasn't going to convince Mahatma of anything with such a straightforward and reasonable argument, but she had to try. In the old days, she could've let her authority as sergeant settle the matter. Nowadays...well, on the whole, things were better nowadays, Brandy reminded herself. Nostalgia lost a lot of its attraction when there were so few things about the old days that any sane person could consider good.

Mahatma stepped forward. As usual, he had a broad smile on his round, bespectacled face. "If that's so important, why do we have to wear uniforms?" he asked. "It'd be even easier to tell us apart if we all dressed differently."

"Mahatma, there's a time and a place for questions like that," said Brandy. "Right in the middle of a training session isn't it."

"It's not in the middle, Sarge, we just got started," said another recruit. Brandy wasn't sure who had spoken. Mahatma's attitude was unfortunately contagious. Equally unfortunately, none of the others who'd picked up his habit of asking awkward questions and taking the answers literally were half as good as Mahatma was when he put his mind to actually doing his job.

"Quiet!" roared Brandy at ear-splitting volume. The silence that followed was the most gratifying thing she'd heard all day. She glared at the recruits for a moment, then said, "Now, as I was about to say, we're going to be working with boats today. The three of you who said you have experience are going to be the squad leaders. The rest of you, count off by threes."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

The legionnaires began counting.

After a few moments, Brandy held up her hands and shouted, "Hold on! Freefall, you aren't supposed to count."

Freefall pouted. "But Sarge, I wanna count. I like counting. "

Brandy growled, "It doesn't matter; you're a squad leader. You don't have to count."

"I don't see why Freefall can't count," said another voice from the back of the group. "Counting is fun."

"If Freefall counts, it throws the count off," said Brandy, glaring at the recruit who'd interrupted. "Now, everybody count off by threes-except for Freefall."

Freefall sulked but remained silent while the others began to count again.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

"One."

"Two..."

Brandy held up her hands again. "Wait a minute! Mahatma, you're a squad leader, too! You don't count, either."

"You said everybody except for Freefall, Sergeant," said Mahatma, with his usual beatific smile. Brandy was convinced he practiced it in front of a mirror. "I was merely following orders."

"OK, you don't count, either," snapped Brandy. "Everybody except the three squad leaders, count off by threes. And get it right this time!"

"One."

"Two."

"Three..."

The count continued. This time, it came out right. Brandy sighed. It was days like this that made her think about the nice little nest egg she'd been building up since the arrival of Captain Jester (as Phule insisted on being called by his troops). On the other hand, here she was on a Galaxy-class resort planet, housed in a luxury hotel, eating three meals a day in a cordon bleu restaurant, and actually getting paid for the privilege. Crazy as it was to stay in this outfit, she'd be even crazier retiring. It had even crossed her mind that, when the time came around, she just might reenlist...and that was crazy.

Journal #480

As attractive as staying on Landoor would have been, my employer was subject to the whims of the Legion's commanders, who had their own priorities. These differed in several crucial details from his. The concept that having achieved success in some endeavor entitled a person to enjoy the fruits of that success seemed foreign to them. This should surprise no one who has had to deal with governments.

At least, my employer had managed by now to enlist a few allies among the ruling elements of society. Not that he had any fewer enemies.

"Wake up, lover boy, there's somebody here to see you," came the saucy voice in Phule's ear. It was Mother, the voice of Omega Company's Comm Central, of course.

Phule looked up from the screen of his Port-a-Brain computer, where he was running a financial spreadsheet showing the company's investments, and said, "Who is it, Mother?" The omnidirectional pickup on his wrist communicator picked up his voice at normal volume.

"That cute Ambassador Gottesman," came Mother's voice. "Maybe you could take your time getting here."

Phule laughed. "Tell him I'll be right there, Mother. Sorry to break up your rendezvous." Actually, he was doing Mother-whose original name was Rose-a favor. For all her brassy personality over the comm system, Mother was impossibly shy when dealing with someone face-to-face. Getting the ambassador out of her presence and into Phule's office would let her relax again-no matter how cute she thought he was.

A few steps down a short corridor took Phule into the Comm Center. The handsome, impeccably groomed ambassador had taken a seat and was making himself as unobtrusive as possible behind a news printout, so as not to set off Rose's defensive reaction. He was, after all, a diplomat, and he had met Rose before. Gottesman rose to his feet when the captain entered.

"Hello, Ambassador, come right on in," said Phule, shaking the older man's hand.

"It's good to see you again, Captain," said the ambassador with a warm smile. "I hope you're getting a chance to enjoy yourself after all your work getting the park running."

"Thanks," said Phule. "I am, a little bit-in between the usual unrelenting work. He showed the ambassador to a seat, fixed drinks, then settled back behind his desk.

After a few minutes of conversation on general topics, Ambassador Gottesman set down his drink and said, "You've been doing a great job here, certainly from State's point of view."

"Thank you," said Phule. "It's been an interesting experience. I hope some of the other branches share your appreciation for our work."

"Meaning Legion Headquarters in particular, I take it?" Phule gave just the tiniest nod of acknowledgment, and the ambassador shook his head. "I suspect you're no better off there than before," he said. "They have their own way of seeing things, and it doesn't necessarily mesh with what those of us outside the service see. Of course, I suspect the rest of the government would say pretty much the same about State. But being on our good side is definitely an asset, I can promise you. If nothing else, it'll get you on the short list for some very interesting assignments. In fact, that's why I'm here."

"I suspected something like that," said Phule. "Now that we've got the planetary economy on a fairly steady upward course, there's not a whole lot of work for a peacekeeping force here. I'd been wondering how long it'd be before somebody else came to that conclusion."

"Well, that may have occurred to somebody, but it's not why I'm here," said the ambassador. "To get down to it, we've got a pending request from a friendly government for military advisors, and they indicated a strong preference for your company. Before I took definite action on the request, though, I wanted to find out how the assignment looked to you. We don't want to throw you into a situation you don't think your company is prepared to handle."

"I'll be honest with you, Ambassador Gottesman," said Phule, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. "I don't think there's anything my people can't handle, if I have sufficient opportunity to prepare them for it. So I appreciate the chance to see what we might be getting into, ahead of time." He paused and leaned forward, his right hand on his chin. "This friendly government you're talking about-is it by any chance the Zenobian Empire?"

"You got it in one, Captain," said the ambassador with a chuckle. "Flight Leftenant Qual's report on his stay with your company must have made a strong impression on his government. If I were you, I'd see this as a chance to make a similar impression on the powers that be in the Alliance. This would be a very good career move."

"I can see that," said Phule, rubbing his chin. He thought for a moment, then said, "But I have to wonder. A government doesn't ask for military advisors when everything is going smoothly, does it? There's some sort of trouble brewing for the Zenobians, or they'd never have put in the request. I'd prefer to have some idea what kind of trouble it is before I put my people in the middle of it. Or is that an undiplomatic attitude for me to take?"

"It's a damned sensible attitude to take, Captain," said the ambassador. "I wish I could answer you, but we're as much in the dark as you are. Our mission to Zenobia is still being organized, so we don't have any useful intelligence presence there. Right now, the timetable has the military mission landing on Zenobia before we diplomats are even in place. I don't like it, but I didn't get a vote. Anyway, I'm afraid I'm offering you the chance to bid on a pig in a poke. Are you interested, on those terms?" This time Phule didn't hesitate. "Yes, I'm interested. We'd be crazy to pass it up. If we can't handle it by now, I don't think there's an outfit in the Legion that can."

"Great. That's what I was hoping to hear," said Ambassador Gottesman. He raised his glass. "Here's to opportunities and to those who make the most of them!"

"I'll take that as a personal compliment, if you don't mind," said Phule, smiling as he clinked his glass against the ambassador's.

"And why shouldn't you?" said the ambassador. "That's certainly how it was intended." They both drank.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Phule. "But do me a favor. If you find out anything about why the Zenobians really want us, let me know, will you? If there's real trouble there, we could use a little advance warning."

"Don't worry, Captain; the minute I know anything, you'll be the next to hear it," said the ambassador. He sipped his drink again, then added with a wry grin, "But let me tell you this, based on my own experience: You probably won't know you need to duck until the first ray gun beam flashes past your head. So prepare your people for anything and everything-and then expect a few surprises."

Phule grinned. "Ambassador, I think my people can deal out a few surprises of their own. In fact, they do it to me almost every day."

"This is why we at State have such confidence in you, Captain," said the ambassador, swirling his drink. His smile could have meant anything.

Journal #489

Without intending it, my employer had become a symbol. And in the nature of all such things, that meant that he represented different things to different people.

To one faction in the Space Legion, he was the bright hope for the future; the (literally) fair-haired young captain who would restore the Legion to its former prestige. This image was shared by a number of supporters in the Alliance government, particularly those who had long chafed at seeing progress stalled by Legion Brass. And to his own men and women (and alien members of his company, as well) he was a hero, the first CO who'd ever really given them a chance to be something.

But to another faction, a very powerfully entrenched one, he was a threat to everything the Legion had become. He was a boat-rocker of the worst sort. Chief among these enemies was General Blitzkrieg.

"Military advisors? Over my dead body!" roared General Blitzkrieg. He put enough vehemence into the roar that his listeners, veterans of the rough-and-tumble of General Staff infighting, fell back from his wrath for a moment.

But only for a moment. "This is a signal honor to the Legion," growled General Havoc, the Legion's representative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking that he meant every syllable. "The Legion doesn't get a whole lot of honors, Blitzkrieg-in case you hadn't noticed. I'll be damned if we're going to turn this one down just because it puts one officer's nose out of joint."

"I'm afraid you don't get it, General," said Blitzkrieg, his brow wrinkled. He'd realized belatedly that he couldn't bully Havoc, but it took him a moment to decide on alternate tactics. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with people he couldn't bully. "It's nothing to do with getting my nose out of joint. Captain Jester is a troublemaker and an incompetent, and his troops are the dregs of the Legion. We can't risk sending him someplace where he could damage relations with an important ally."

"Colonel Battleax tells me he's had a number of remarkable successes," said General Havoc, looking at the officer in question.

"That's correct, General," said Battleax. She hefted a thick portfolio meaningfully. "Not only has his company handled its assignments with complete success, he's gotten the Legion the most positive publicity we've seen in years. It's only fair to send his company on this assignment. They've earned it."

Blitzkrieg pulled himself up to his full height. "Earned it? Earned it?" He pointed to the service stripes on his uniform and put all the scorn he could muster into the question. "Their captain has been in the Legion what, three years? And you're telling me that Jester somehow deserves more than an officer who's served the Legion through good times and bad for the better part of four decades?"

"Quite frankly, General, I don't see how this new assignment for Jester in any way diminishes your status," said General Havoc. "It's a feather in the Legion's cap, and that goes to all our credit. As Jester's commanding officer, you have the right to oppose this assignment. But I would very strongly advise against it. Not only does it deprive the Legion of the chance to score points with State-they haven't been our strongest allies in the past-but if you veto State's request for Jester's company, they'll give the assignment to a Regular Army unit-probably the Red Eagles. We can't allow that to happen."

Blitzkrieg walked over to his office window, a scowl on his face. He stood staring at the view-the jagged skyline of the old city, with the snow-capped North Rahnsom Mountains as backdrop-for a long moment before answering. "All right, damn it," he said. "Send them on this assignment. But let the record show that I opposed it. When Jester gets himself into the kind of trouble he can't buy his way out of and gets half his company wiped out by hostiles or causes some diplomatic catastrophe, it's his doing, not mine. I want it on record that I opposed the operation from the word go. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," said General Havoc, peering intently at Blitzkrieg. After a pause, he added, "You realize, of course, that if we put that on record, you'll be in no position to claim credit for a successful mission."

"There is no way in hell Jester's luck will hold out that long," snarled Blitzkrieg. "That weasel has gotten out of one fix after another by the skin of his teeth. Sooner or later, class will tell-and Omega Company is the Legion's worst outfit. Oh, they've managed to pull off a couple of coups, but the day of reckoning will come. Send them into a real fight, and there's going to be nothing left but crumbs."

"That's bullshit, General," said Colonel Battleax with a grim smile. "You've been dead wrong about Captain Jester all along, and he's going to prove it again on Zenobia."

"I'll bet you a thousand dollars he falls flat on his face," said Blitzkrieg.

"Done!" said Battleax gleefully. "General Havoc, you're our witness."

"Ridiculous," said General Havoc, pursing his lips. "The bet is much too vague. How do you decide who's won?"

"Phule's orders will include a list of objectives for the mission," said Battleax. "I'll pay up if his company leaves the planet without fulfilling ninety percent of those objectives."

"Hah!" said Blitzkrieg. "Jester will be lucky to get anything done. General Havoc, I trust you to make an unbiased decision. Will you be our arbiter?"

"Oh, very well," said Havoc. "But that's a lot of money to ride on one man's decision. I suggest you find at least one more arbiter, preferably someone outside the Legion."

"He's right," said Colonel Battleax. "Why don't we choose a panel of three, two of whom will have to agree on whether Captain Jester has met his objectives. Since the general is your choice, I should choose the second; then let them choose a third, who won't be beholden to either of us."

"Who's your second?" asked Blitzkrieg, frowning.

"As General Havoc suggests, it should be someone from outside the Legion," said Colonel Battleax. "I was thinking of Ambassador Gottesman."

"There's a fine choice," scoffed Blitzkrieg. "State's completely hoodwinked by Jester. Gottesman's likely to give him the win without even bothering to look at the list."

"The ambassador isn't quite as gullible as you paint him," said General Havoc. "I saw him make some very hardheaded decisions when we negotiated the Landoor peace treaty. But even if he does go easy on Jester, there'll be a third judge to convince, and I can promise you it'll be somebody impartial."

"Who did you have in mind?" said Colonel Battleax.

General Havoc shook his head. "The ambassador and I need to decide on that, and when we do, I don't think we ought to tell you. If you know who it is, you may try to influence him. If you'll accept those terms-and if the ambassador agrees to judge-then I'm your man. If not, then find yourself another boy." He smiled at his joke.

"I can live with those terms," said Colonel Battleax.

"I suppose I can, as well," said Blitzkrieg. "Very well, then, do we have any other business to attend to today?"

The three officers busied themselves with other details for another half hour, and then Battleax and Havoc took their leave. The general saw them to the door and then closed it behind them with an evil smile upon his lips.

"What's the secret, General?" asked Major Sparrowhawk, his adjutant, who'd been present taking notes during the entire meeting. "I've known you long enough to know you wouldn't offer a bet for that kind of money unless you were sure of winning. How can you be sure the judges will agree?"

"Easy, Major," said Blitzkrieg, rubbing his hands. "Battleax seems to have forgotten that I'm the one who makes up the list of mission objectives for any Legion unit under my command. And I'm going to make damned sure that nobody in the galaxy can complete the list-not even their precious Captain Jester."

Sushi and Do-Wop had called together the original ridetesting squad from the days when Landoor Park was being built with the help and protection of the Omega Mob. With Mahatma, Tusk-anini, and Rube in tow, they'd taken a hoverjeep over to the gates of Dunes Park, where they were met by Okidata, the local friend who'd tipped them off about the new ride.

"Glad you all could make it," said Okidata, shaking Sushi's hand. "This looks like a really triff ride-not as hot as any of ours, but one you'll want to ride a couple of times."

"What's it called?" asked Do-Wop, who was perhaps the most avid connoisseur of thrill rides in the company.

"The Snapper," said Okidata with a shrug. "Dumb name, but you can't judge by that. Dunes Park always has dumb names."

Dunes Park was one of the older and smaller amusement parks on Landoor, a child's playpen in comparison to the gigantic parks that had grown up in more recent years, especially the ones built by the government and by the ex-rebels working with Phule. But the older parks were still popular with many of the locals, and they had made an effort to keep their audience with a string of new rides, of which the Snapper was the latest.

Do-Wop laughed. "Yeah, almost as dumb as some people's Legion names. Who makes 'em up, anyway?"

"Hieronimus Ekanem, the owner," said Okidata, rolling his eyes. "Guess the guy's got no imagination."

"So why doesn't he hire somebody?" asked Sushi. He pointed toward the park entrance. "Hey, we're wasting time. We can talk about this while we're waiting in line, if it's so fascinating."

"Sushi right," said Tusk-anini. "Can talk anywhere. But longer we talk here, longer line keeps getting and we aren't in it. Let's going."

The group headed through the gates, drawing stares from the other customers. The two aliens, Tusk-anini and Rube, were unusual enough to turn heads anywhere, but on Landoor, a world settled almost entirely by humans, a giant warthog and a human-sized cat couldn't walk the streets without being targeted for rubbernecking and finger-pointing by local youngsters. While the aliens in Phule's company were used to being singled out for attention, the humans in the group didn't like seeing their comrades treated as exotic specimens.

"Mommy, Mommy!" cried a small voice to one side. "Look at the monster!"

"Be quiet, Nanci, that's not a monster," said a woman in hushed tones. "It's an alien soldier."

"Hello," said Tusk-anini, waving. With his alien dentition, he couldn't manage anything a human would recognize as a smile, but he made his voice as friendly as he could manage. "Not soldier-we Space Legion. Better than soldiers!"

"Funny mans," said the child, sticking its finger in a corner of its mouth and smiling shyly. The mother smiled, too, and the legionnaires relaxed. The Volton couldn't change his fearsome looks, but that didn't mean he thought it necessary to go around frightening babies, either. Tusk-anini had learned that talking to children could let him cross the line from "monster" to "man," and become something to smile at. He waved again, and the group headed on toward the rides.

The line for the new ride was already long. Landoorans considered thrill rides their national art form, and a new one was always an event. It looked as if a fair number of the locals had taken days off from work and pulled the kids out of school, as well. There was probably going to be nearly an hour's wait for the ride. But the park's management sent a series of strolling entertainers to work the line jugglers, clowns, antigrav dancers, musicians, thimbleriggers, and snack vendors-so the crowd wouldn't notice its slow progress. Strategic glimpses of the ride-usually as the cars plunged down a steep incline, bringing excited squeals from the riders-helped build the anticipation.

The legionnaires were nearly to the front of the line when Do-Wop said, "Look, there's Rev. What's he doing in the park?"

"Goofing off, same as you," said Sushi, elbowing his partner.

"Chaplains ain't supposed to goof off, they're brass," said Do-Wop. "I gotta give him a hard time." He grinned and punched Sushi in the arm, then waved to catch the chaplain's attention. "Yo, Rev," he called. "Yo, over here! We caught ya!"

Several passersby turned their heads, but when they saw who was waving, they went about their way. The one who looked like Rev passed within a few paces of them and looked directly at Do-Wop. Becoming aware that he was the one being called, he stopped and spread his hands apart. "Sorry, you must be making a mistake. That's not my name." If his words hadn't been enough, the thick Landooran accent made it perfectly clear this wasn't Rev.

"Whadda ya mean? Cut the jive, Rev," demanded Do-Wop as the passerby turned to leave, but Sushi put a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, Do-Wop," said his partner. "That's some local guy who looks like Rev, is all."

"I guess you're right," said Do-Wop. "Damn, he's a dead ringer, though."

"Hey, it could be worse," said Sushi.

"How's that?" asked Do-Wop, frowning.

"The guy could look like you, " said Sushi, grinning. He ducked as Do-Wop threw a punch in mock indignation. Just then, the line moved up, and the laughing group of legionnaires edged closer to their ride.

Journal #492

My employer had thought he was filling an important void in his people's spiritual life by requesting that a chaplain be assigned to the company. But the doctrines of Reverend Jordan Ayres had given him second thoughts. Not that the chaplain had in any way attempted to undermine what he was doing, but the influence of his doctrine on the legionnaires did take one confusing direction.

"Captain, this has got to stop. It's driving me crazy," said Brandy. "Don't get me wrong-I don't have anything against the chaplain. Rev's done a pretty good job, building morale. But you can't expect me to do my job when I can't tell one of my people from another."

"I can't see any big problem, Captain," said the chaplain. "You know we ask our disciples to emulate the King, on account of he's such an inspiration. A poor boy, climbed right to the top, without no help from anybody...Why, that makes me feel like I can do the same myself. Ain't that exactly the kind of spirit that makes a good legionnaire, now?"

"Maybe it makes a good legionnaire, but if enough of your disciples look alike, you're going to make one crazy sergeant," said Brandy, crossing her arms. She stared at Rev, who had arrived at the company already made over to resemble his sect's prophet: a dark pompadour with long sideburns, a classic profile, full lips with a tendency to an ever-so-slight sneer.