Phule's Errand

17

Journal #866-

Sparrowhawk heard the office door open and quickly blanked her screen. Not for security-unless you included job security in that category. She did know Legion security officers who would argue that anything a general’s adjutant did had the potential to give an enemy valuable intelligence-even the games she played while she waited for the general to give her some actual work-but she didn’t buy that argument. No, she just had every office worker’s instinctive aversion to letting the boss look over her shoulder. And sure enough when she turned around, there he stood-looking somewhat dazed, she thought.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, automatically forcing herself to perk up. “Did you find out what the natives are up to?”

General Blitzkrieg shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen the like,” he said. He shuffled over to the large easy chair at one end of Zenobia Base’s VIP quarters, turned around, and plopped into it.

Worried in spite of herself, Sparrowhawk broke the growing silence by asking, “The likes of what?”

“Excuse me, Major?” The general looked up in bemuse-ment.

“You said you’d never seen the like of… something,” said Sparrowhawk. “I was asking what.”

“Oh, Jester, of course,” said the general. He still looked a bit dazed. Sparrowhawk looked at him closely and made a decision. She quickly splashed two fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to the general. He took it in his hand and sat swirling the glass, so far without taking a sip.

“Jester’s got a squad training for infiltration work,” said Blitzkrieg, in a flat tone of voice. “Who’d have thought it? But after seeing them, I’m almost ready to believe it. Why, there’s one little devil who could make you think he’s a store clerk, or maybe a waiter-almost anything but a legionnaire…”

“Very interesting,” said Sparrowhawk, trying to figure out where the general was going.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Blitzkrieg, still swirling the glass. “But I’m beginning to wonder… What do you know about bugs, Sparrowhawk?”

“Bugs?” Sparrowhawk frowned. “I guess I know as much as anybody who’s not a scientist. What were you thinking about?”

“Way back when, on Old Earth, there was a time when bugs were the main cause of lots of diseases. So they invented chemicals to kill ‘em.“

“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” said Sparrowhawk. “Some of the chemicals were apparently worse than the bugs.”

Blitzkrieg went on as if he hadn’t noticed her comment. “Thing is, some of the bugs were immune to the chemicals, so they invented more chemicals. And some of the bugs were immune to the new chemicals, too…”

“I think I’ve heard that story,” said Sparrowhawk. “Instead of getting rid of the bugs, they ended up breeding a new kind of superbug that was worse than the ones they’d started with.”

“That’s right,” said Blitzkrieg. “My point is… This legionnaire Mahatma-believe me, I’m going to remember that name-is damn near the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever had to deal with-and that’s saying a mouthful. Perfect fit for Omega Company, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “That’s pretty much the whole purpose of Omega, isn’t it? A place to send the problems, get them off everyone else’s back.”

“Of course, of course,” said the general. “But I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t created a monster, here.”

“A monster, sir?” said Sparrowhawk, frowning. “Surely one smart-mouth legionnaire can’t amount to that much of a problem.”

“Oh, it’s more than just one,” said Blitzkrieg. He finally seemed to notice the glass he held, and took a long sip. “The sergeant was doing her best to cover up just how widespread insubordination has become in Omega, but I haven’t spent this much time in the Legion without figuring out how these noncoms think. I’ll guarantee you, she picked out that Mahatma rascal because he’s one of the best recruits in her squad!”

“I suppose that makes sense, General,” said Sparrowhawk. She wasn’t convinced, but she had long ago learned that contradicting Blitzkrieg was pointless.

“But do you see what that means?” the general continued. “By concentrating all the bad eggs in Omega, we’ve created a breeding ground for even worse eggs-this Ma-hatma may be the first of a new breed of super-pain-in-the-ass legionnaires! My God, I tremble to think what could happen if this spread to the rest of the Legion!”

“Well, there’s only one answer to that,” said Spar-rowhawk. “It’s a good thing you’ve already anticipated the answer.”

“Excuse me, Major? I’m not sure I follow you,” said the general. It was some measure of how disoriented he was that he actually admitted his confusion to her.

It gave her considerable satisfaction to explain the whole thing to him. The best part about it was that it would get her exactly what she wanted, without requiring her to do anything beyond convincing the general that the problem was already solved. Which, as far as she was concerned, it was.

“This is stupid,” said Do-Wop. He looked around the little moonlit plaza, empty except for the two legionnaires. “Somebody tells us to come here for some important news, then don’t bother to show. I ain’t got the time for this kinda…”

“Then go on home,” came a voice from just behind him.

“What the…” Do-Wop whirled to face the speaker, as did Sushi. Both legionnaires assumed defensive stances as a figure emerged from the shadows. “Who you think you are, scarin‘ us like that?” said Do-Wop.

“I know exactly who I am,” said the newcomer, a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He spoke excellent English, with just a trace of an Earth Italian accent. “So do quite a few people here in Rome. And I suspect if you knew what some of them know, you’d be even more scared. But that’s not why I asked you to meet me here. There are two other people you need to talk to.” He gestured, and another pair of figures came into the light. A man and a woman… Beeker and Nightingale!

“Wow, you two picked a great time to finally show up,” said Sushi. “You wouldn’t believe how many planets we’ve chased you across…”

“I expect I would believe it, providing the number is no greater than four,” said Beeker, dryly. “I will say I was surprised to learn of your pursuit-which came to my attention back on Hix’s World-and, thanks to this gentleman, here on Old Earth.” He indicated the older man standing next to him.

“And who is this guy, anyway?” asked Sushi.

“Pitti da Phule,” said the newcomer, in a soft growl.

Do-Wop bristled. “Who you callin‘-” he began…

Beeker cut him off. “Mr. da Phule is one of your captain’s relatives living in this city. What he has told me has brought us all here tonight.”

Do-Wop snorted, still not quite mollified. “It must be pretty hot stuff, to make you change your mind after you up and run away from the captain…”

“I’d hardly call it running away,” said Beeker, raising an eyebrow. “In fact, I have done nothing but take my accumulated vacation time, as the young master himself had encouraged me to do. It had been nearly three years since I had more than a weekend away from my duties. Nightingale was entitled to leave after finishing her training, as well, and she decided to take it with me. She’d been planning our vacation for some time, in fact. Unfortunately, my gentleman was away from his office when Nightingale and I learned that the Lorelei space liner schedules had changed. We had to leave Zenobia immediately on the outgoing Supply shuttle if we were to make connections to Cut ‘N’ Shoot in time for the roundup festival.”

“Roundup festival?” Do-Wop was incredulous.

“I read about that as a little girl, and I always wanted to see it,” said Nightingale, enthusiastically.

“But we can talk about that at some more appropriate time,” said Beeker. “As this gentleman has informed me, your captain is in trouble. In fact, he has been kidnapped, and we need to act quickly-and in close cooperation-to set things right.”

“Sure, who we gotta kill?” said Do-Wop, striking a belligerent stance.

“We won’t need that,” said Pitti da Phule, calmly. “If we did, I could arrange it with local contractors-I think it’s always better to deal with people you know. No, what I need you to do is a bit trickier. But from what my nephew’s butler tells me, it should be right up your alley…”

Beeker, Nightingale, and the two legionnaires listened carefully while Pitti da Phule outlined his plan, with Sushi and Nightingale occasionally asking questions. Finally, everyone knew their part in the operation. With a final handshake, the group split up-Beeker and Nightingale headed in one direction, Pitti da Phule in another, and Sushi and Do-Wop headed back toward their hotel. They’d have to get some supplies in the morning, but there was plenty they could do before then. And if they were lucky, they just might get some sleep before the whole thing was over.

Then again, they might not.

About the only good thing Phule could say about being kidnapped was that somebody in the neighborhood made really good take-out pasta. Dinner last night had been an excellent lasagna with mushrooms and spicy sausage, and the thugs made sure he had plenty of vino to wash it down. Good robust Tuscan red-they left him the bottle. Wanting to keep his wits about him, he made it a point to pour a good bit down the sink when nobody was watching. If he could get the kidnappers to underestimate how alert he was, that was an advantage he might be able to use.

On the other hand, that was about the only advantage he could see them giving him. The door stayed locked; so did the window, and the bars on the outside looked plenty strong enough. Breaking the glass was the only way to test them, and if the bars really were immovable, breaking the glass was just a good way to annoy Weasel-face and Vin-nie, neither of whom seemed to sympathize with his desire to escape.

Judging from the sky, it was still early morning. The kidnappers had taken his watch, so he had no way to be certain. But the fact that breakfast had yet to appear seemed to confirm his guess-not that he had any reason to expect them to coddle him. They didn’t seem interested in providing entertainment, either. He had nothing to read except an Italian-language advertising flyer of some sort that came in the bag with the wine last night. He’d been desperate enough to try reading it, though his Italian was so rudimentary he couldn’t really make out what it was trying to sell.

If I ever kidnap somebody, I’ll make it a point to provide plenty of entertainment, he thought to himself. If these people had given me a good action game to play or some exciting vids to watch, I might not be working on an escape plan. At that point he sat up straight and shook his head. And here I am, instead, trying to figure out how they might have done a better job of keeping me from escaping.

He stood and went to look out the window-probably for the twentieth time since getting up. Judging by the building across the way, he was on about the third floor, so even if he could somehow get past the bars, he’d have a dangerous drop to ground level-which, as far as he could tell by looking out the window, was a narrow back alley. So while there were no passersby to signal for help, there were also no watchers if he did somehow manage to escape out this window. A possible advantage, though not one he could see any way to exploit just now.

That was the real problem; he had any number of intangible advantages over his kidnappers-he was younger, probably smarter, certainly richer, trained in several military combat disciplines, and much more alert than either of them seemed to be. But, totally unfairly, they were the ones who had him locked up, and he had yet to find a way out of this place.

He supposed he could always try to offer them ransom, but he’d learned at a young age-almost as soon as he’d been allowed outdoors by himself-that paying ransom was never an option. Let anyone know that they could grab you and get payment for your release, and there was no end to it. The only answer was to make it clear that there’d be no ransom payment, ever. Few people would bother kidnapping someone if there was no possibility of a payoff for his return. Of course, that didn’t seem to have deterred the people who’d captured him. Were they too stupid to have figured it out? Or were they taking the chance because they didn’t know his real identity? For the first time, he began to think there was a downside to the Legion practice of assumed names.

His best bet, at the moment, seemed to be Pitti da Phule. If his uncle had made an attempt to contact him at his hotel, he should already have realized that Phule was missing. On the other hand, Pitti had advised him to spend some time sightseeing and playing tourist-so even if he’d tried to get in touch and found Phule away, Pitti might just assume that his nephew had taken him at his word and gone on a side trip to Venice, or Pompeü, or some other tourist attraction. On the third hand… Phule grimaced at the metaphor. But while his captors might be anxious to find someone to ask for ransom, he doubted they’d have Pitti on their list.

Who else might he call on? Beeker would be more than willing to come to the rescue, of course. Unfortunately, the butler probably had no idea that Phule was on Old Earth- and Phule had no idea where Beeker was, even if he had some way to contact him. Worse yet, he had no way to keep the butler from leaving the planet-which would shortly thereafter cause the hibernation chip to take effect. That would effectively bring the kidnapping to an abrupt end. Not that he was looking forward to an indefinite period of enforced hibernation, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do to prevent it, under his present circumstances.

Phule was trying to figure out whether there was anything concrete he could do, when motion in the alleyway below caught his attention. He leaned close to the glass, trying to see better. But before he could make out what was happening, a loud explosion shook the building. As he ducked back from the window, he could hear voices shouting…

The explosions triggered Phule’s Legion training. Within seconds of the first sound, he’d knocked over his table, dumping last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. He turned the .top to face the window and shielded himself behind it. The inch-thick wood wasn’t going to protect him from major ordnance, but it would stop flying glass-and possibly keep a sniper in the opposite building from spotting him. At the moment, he had no idea whether the explosions had anything to do with him. The smart way to handle the situation was to get under cover and stay there until he had better information.

Of course, Phule didn’t always handle things the smart way. Quietly, he hitched the table in the direction of the door, keeping it between him and the window. Even if they hadn’t heard him knock over the table, his captors would eventually look in on him, if only to make sure their hostage was still there; when they did, he wanted to have a surprise waiting for them.

From beyond the door, Phule could hear muffled voices arguing in Italian-at least, the volume and tone sounded like arguing to someone who couldn’t understand any of the words. He waited, listening. Footsteps approached the door, then stopped. The voices resumed, louder this time, then he heard a key turn in the lock.

As the door swung open, he rushed forward with the tabletop in front of him like a bulldozer blade, bowling over the person who’d stepped into his room. Not waiting to see the results of his attack, he leapt over the table and burst into the outer room, ready for action. His best guess was that the person who’d come through the door was Vin-nie, and Weasel-face had stayed behind to guard the exit.

He was partly right. Weasel-face was there, all right. But two uniformed figures were also standing there, one with a gun trained on Weasel-face, who stood ashen-faced, his hands over his head. Phule did a double take as he recognized the newcomers: Customs Agent G. C. Fox, and holding the gun, someone he’d been chasing halfway across the galaxy.

Phule blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “Nightingale! Where have you been?”

It wasn’t General Blitzkrieg’s style to sneak off-planet after a setback. He wasn’t particularly likely to admit that he’d had any setbacks, to begin with. Even with egg all over his face, and his uniform and boots as well, he didn’t believe in letting anyone see that he knew he’d lost a round. But his departure from Zenobia Base was as close as he could contrive to being a triumph. He’d conveniently forgotten that the original idea came from his long-suffering adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk. It helped that Captain Jester seemed completely willing to uphold the illusion. Blitzkrieg was sufficiently relieved not to be reminded of the actual circumstances of his departure that he even forgave the captain for having somehow run out of golf balls just as they were getting ready for the general’s revenge match. Then again, considering the way Jester had played the last time out, Blitzkrieg wasn’t entirely sure he’d be getting much revenge.

Other times, Blitzkrieg might have let his loss in the final golf match eat at him. But after stumbling upon the late-night demonstration of just how hopeless Omega Company was, the general was more than willing to postpone the chance to win back a few bucks. After all, he was well ahead of Jester and his officers if you looked at the whole series of games. A profit was a profit. And it was an even greater pleasure to know that Jester had the insuperable task of trying to bring his pack of misfits up to snuff. If he didn’t despise the pup so much, Blitzkrieg might even have felt sorry for him.

It was a bit gratifying that Jester had his whole company turned out for the farewell ceremony. OK, it was Omega Company, but it was hard not to appreciate that they’d made some effort to do things right. Especially now that Blitzkrieg could see what kind of insubordination, incompetence, and downright idiocy Jester had to deal with, day in and day out. No wonder the fellow spent so much of his time on the golf course…

“General, I’m glad you got the chance to see what we’re doing here on Zenobia,” said Jester, dressed for once in his Legion dress blacks. “It’s a very unusual opportunity, and I only hope we’re giving the natives a good impression of the Alliance.”

“I hope you’ll make the most of the opportunity, Captain,” growled Blitzkrieg. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And keep an eye on that infernal machine they’ve got out by your perimeter, will you? The damned thing worries me.”

“We’ve got it under surveillance, sir,” said Jester, in the same lowered voice. He put a hand up, shielding his mouth, and added, “Fact is, we’ve got a pretty good idea what the lizards are trying to do-and the joke’s on them. It’ll never work!”

Blitzkrieg considered for a moment, then said, “Send me a report on it, Jester. I expect you’re right, but I want the intelligence boys to give it the eyeball before I make up my mind.“ He somehow resisted adding, And I hope the damned natives’ intelligence boys can’t tell how screwed up Omega Company is. If they get the idea the whole Alliance is like this outfit, they’ll be making plans to take us over.

Ordinarily, that might not be an entirely bad thing. For a moment, Blitzkrieg had a fantasy of the little lizards wiping out Jester and his pack of incompetents-thereby eliminating the Legion’s biggest headache. But with Jester’s uncanny luck, not to forget his ability to convince politicos and newstapers that he was actually a competent officer, the pup was likely to come out of it covered with undeserved glory. On balance, it was probably better for the Legion-and particularly for Blitzkrieg-if Zenobia stayed peaceful.

On the whole, as Sparrowhawk had pointed out, the mission to Zenobia had been a success. Blitzkrieg had come here planning to cashier Jester, then break up Omega Company and disperse its members throughout the Legion. But after seeing the company with his own eyes, he realized that the only safe thing was for Omega Company and its commander to stay right here-permanently, if possible. He couldn’t risk the possibility that Legionnaire Ma-hatma and his ilk might spread to other companies. No, let them stay here; let poor Jester try to whip them into shape-for all the good that was doing them, or Jester, either. It was beginning to look like a classic case of the punishment fitting the crime! Almost involuntarily, Blitzkrieg chuckled.

If Jester had been the kind of lazybones Blitzkrieg had always thought he was, Omega Company would have been a dream assignment. But now that Blitzkrieg had seen that the poor deluded nincompoop actually thought he could make these misfits into a crack unit, he knew that Jester would be miserable for the rest of his days in the Legion. A failure even by his own lights! Nobody could shape up this pack of total losers. Now Blitzkrieg could cherish the memory of Jester’s hopeless midnight exercise. He chuckled again, relishing the irony.

“Did you say something, sir?” Jester asked.

“Yes, Jester,” said the general, gruffly. “This base is a disaster.” He paused a beat, then said, “Next time I come out here, I’ll want to see a full nine-hole course, you understand?” He punched Jester in the biceps-a little too hard to be entirely friendly, but of course there was no way for Jester to take offense.

“Consider it done, sir!” said Jester, grinning idiotically.

Blitzkrieg smiled. Then he added, in a harder voice, “And as for the discipline-you’ve got to keep at it, Captain! A hard job, but time well spent, say I! Don’t let it slide an inch, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jester, grinning just as enthusiastically as before. “It’ll be my top priority.”

“Good, we’ll expect to see your reports, then,” said the general. He grinned again, and ducked his head to get into the shuttle; Major Sparrowhawk was already strapped in, waiting.

“That ought to hold them,” said the general, sliding in next to his adjutant.

“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “One question, if you don’t mind?” The general nodded, and she continued, “It seems to me you let them off pretty easily. What am I missing, sir?”

“The good old double bind,” said Blitzkrieg. “The poor idiot will work his tail off trying to get that golf course in shape, and at the same time try to whip some discipline into those oafs. He may get the golf course playable, but the discipline’s a lost cause. It’ll drive him crazy. Heh-heh. Just what I want.”

“Very good, sir, very good,” said Sparrowhawk. Then the shuttle’s engines began warming up, putting an end to any semblance of casual talk.

Meanwhile, outside, just as soon as the shuttle door closed, Lieutenant Rembrandt reached to a special point at the back of the robot’s neck, activating a switch, and spoke a code word, quietly. Without changing its posture or expression, the robot went instantly into standby mode. It would take no more independent action until it was reactivated-after a long and painstaking overhaul.

And for the first time since the shuttle’s arrival, everyone on Zenobia took a deep breath and relaxed.

“So that’s who’s behind it!” said Phule. “I’d never have thought she had any power beyond Lorelei…”

It was barely an hour after the rescue, and Phule’s head was still spinning with all that he had learned. At least, he’d gotten Nightingale to promise that she’d tell Beeker to give him the Port-a-Brain. Then he could relax-and let the two lovebirds make their way back to Zenobia at their own rate.

“Maxine’s plan was very nasty,” said Pitti da Phule, filling his nephew in on the kidnap plot. “She spread a rumor that the Space Legion-the boys in black, she called them-were spying on tax evaders and smugglers. If she’d had a little longer to work on it, half the population of the planet would have been ready to stuff you into the nearest garbage disintegrator. You’re lucky I found out about it before it got that far.”

“I’m glad you found out about it,” said Phule, raising a glass in Pitti’s direction. “But how did you find me in that place they had me hidden? That’s a pretty impressive piece of detective work.”

Pitti smiled. “Not so hard to do, with what you told me about your computer. Your father told me about that security program it has. It doesn’t just send out a signal when the stasis field is working. If you know what to look for, the signal’s there all the time, capisce? Your father told me…”

“Say no more,” said Phule, suddenly realizing that his father had put a permanent tracer on him. The old rascal had always worried whether Phule could handle himself in a tricky situation, but this was taking it a bit too far. Still, it had saved his bacon, this time. Best to accept it for what it was worth.

“And I really appreciate your, uh, unofficial help.” Phule nodded to Agent Fox, who’d joined them in the little cafe that Pitti had brought them to, just down the street from where Phule had been held prisoner. The owners had brought out an enormous antipasto and a bottle of wine. Phule, who hadn’t yet had breakfast, had ordered coffee instead-and was rewarded with the best espresso he’d tasted on Old Earth. The headwaiter was watching their table discreetly to make sure no need went unfulfilled.

Pitti waved an expressive hand. “The agente and I have worked together before,” he said. “Keeping lines of communication open, that’s good for business. Capisce? Where we both have an interest, there should be profit for both. And his news that Maxine Pruett-your old enemy- had come to Old Earth was what convinced me to trace your whereabouts instead of just assuming you’d gone to see the sights.”

“What’s going to happen to Maxine?” said Phule.

Fox shrugged. “Depends on whether we can scare the hoodlums who kidnapped you into naming her as the mastermind,” he said. “I wouldn’t bet the house on it. Her connections on Old Earth aren’t exactly nobodies. She’ll probably have to pay a fair amount to keep from being sent back to Hix’s World, where they’re really mad at her. But if she’s smart, she’s already gotten off-world and left the lawyers to clean up the mess.”

“She’s that smart, she wouldn’t stick her nose in my family’s business,” said Pitti, dryly. “I’ll make her and her lawyers both sorry.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Phule, sitting up straight. The coffee had finally kicked in. “What was Maxine doing on Hix’s World?”

“What, you didn’t figure that out yet?” Fox chuckled. “She’d gone to Hix’s World to set up a casino at that hotel of hers. She’d been lobbying for a change in the laws, throwing bribes around as if they were birdseed. It probably would have passed if she hadn’t jumped the gun and brought in a shipment of quantum slots while they were still illegal. When you caught her with them, she figured you were going to inform on her, and left the planet in a hurry. That’s why when she found out you were here on Earth, she persuaded some local goons to kidnap you, figuring she’d get her revenge that way.”

“Inform on her? I never even knew she was on Hix’s World,” said Phule, scratching his head. “It must have been Beeker and Nightingale who found out about her. I wonder if that’s why they went there to begin with…” But Nightingale had disappeared again almost immediately after setting Phule free, and wasn’t here to confirm or deny his guess. At least, she had promised to bring Beeker to his hotel-and Phule could hardly wait to see the butler.

“Maybe,” said Fox. “The lady did sound as if she enjoyed the Floribunda Fete. Can’t say that I’m all that much a flower fanatic, myself.”

“I can sum it up in one word,” said Phule. “Bo-ring. And you can quote me on that.”

“Oh, I agree-but don’t say that to her,” said Fox, with an amused smile. “A woman like that, you want to keep her on your side. Even if she and the butler fall out…”

“Yes, I’ve thought about that,” said Phule. “I really have to talk to them both before we get back to Zenobia, though. I owe them my freedom, obviously. That’s a big one. But I need to get Beeker to enter a certain code in his computer. I wonder why he never read the mail I sent him?”

“I tell you, there’s gonna be a good reason,” said Pitti da Phule. “That Beeker, he’s old-school-solid like a rock. He does something you don’t understand, it’s because you don’t understand it. Take my word for it.”

Phule shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what I figure. But I’m still curious to find out why he never responded.”

“You worry later about that,” said Pitti. “For now, we got good food, good vino-you listen to your uncle and enjoy while you got it!”

“And that’s the best advice you’re going to get today- or any other day,” said Fox, raising his glass.