Phule's Errand

2

Journal #764-

Standing back a respectful distance, as specified by safety regulations, the Legion party watched the landing shuttle’s approach. The little ship dropped from the sky deceptively slowly, like a flattened rock through some ultradense liquid. Only when it reached the lower atmosphere did its true speed-still a significant fraction of the orbital velocity of its mother ship-become apparent. But even as it fell, it continued to shed velocity, and as it came within a few meters of the ground, it reached a virtual standstill, hovering gently on its jets as it dropped the tiny remaining distance to touch down in a cloud of dust and flying debris-dead center in the ten-meter landing zone defined by four radar beacons.

Even as the noise of the engines fell to silence, the Legion party was closing in. For while safety regulations ordered ground crews to keep their distance, the implacable laws of shuttle economics made it important to unload and return to orbit as quickly as possible. Interstellar freight companies’ stock-in-trade was speed; and since any given starship was about as fast as any other at superluminal velocities, time at sublight velocities-especially from orbit to surface and back-was critical. A wasted hour on the ground could make the difference between a timely delivery and a blown schedule.

Moments after the external doors came open, Beeker was standing beside the shuttle. Phule suppressed a grin- the butler had put on a very respectable burst of speed, considering that he was by a wide margin the oldest human on the planet. As the dust settled, a slim figure in a black Legion jumpsuit emerged into the Zenobian air, looked around, eyes adjusting to the light, and then fixed its gaze on Beeker. “You’re here!” said a woman’s low voice, and the next thing anyone knew, she had thrown herself into the butler’s arms.

“Laverna!” said Beeker. “There are people watching!” The butler’s voice sounded shocked. But nobody watching had any doubt that he was pleased. And he made no effort to push away the new arrival.

The woman leaned back and looked around at the onlookers, most of whom were doing an excellent job of keeping a straight face. “Screw ‘em,” she said, with a dry laugh. Then she turned back and looked Beeker in the eye. “Besides, there’s no such animule as Laverna anymore- the name is Nightingale. Remember that, Beeker.”

The tableau was interrupted by a shuttle crewman who stuck his head out the door. “We’ve got your luggage, Legionnaire Nightingale, and a sack of personal parcels for the Legion outpost-and then we’ve gotta get off. You all ready?”

A pair of legionnaires stepped forward to take off the mail and luggage, and then Phule said, “That’s it, then. Let’s move off so this fellow can get back to orbit!”

“You got it, Captain,” said Double-X, who’d taken charge of the mail sack. “Come on, suckers, let’s give the shuttle some room, like the captain said.” The Legion party quickly complied, and within moments, the shuttle had leapt from the ground and quickly begun its graceful ascent toward the scattered clouds high above the desert floor.

The Legion party stood and watched the takeoff for a moment, then climbed aboard the hovertruck that would take them back to Zenobia Base.

“Well, then, we are partners,” said Mahatma, peering at Thumper with a bemused air. The two of them sat at a table in the Legion Club, adjacent to the mess hall in the specially built Modular Base Unit that served as Omega Company’s headquarters for its stay on Zenobia. The Lepoid was reputedly the first of his species to join the Space Legion, although a few others had enlisted in Starfleet. Small beings, who bore a striking resemblance to an Old Earth species called “bunnies,” they made up in speed and agility what they lacked in brute strength.

It was early afternoon, so only a few of the tables were occupied by off-duty enlisted personnel. The action here would normally begin to pick up a couple of hours later, when the troops gathered for happy hour just before dinner. But for now, Mahatma and Thumper had a corner all to themselves.

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Thumper, his gaze cast down at the tabletop. “I guess that means the captain thinks we each have something the other needs. But I can’t think of what I might have that you need. You’re a veteran legionnaire, and I’m just a rookie…“ The little Lepoid’s shoulders slumped, and he looked overwhelmed by the news Brandy had just given them.

“Not quite so,” said Mahatma, smiling sheepishly. “I have been in Omega Company less than one standard year, and have seen nothing that resembles combat. I hardly qualify as any kind of veteran, though I do know a fair bit about how this company works.”

“Maybe that’s what he thinks I can learn from you,” said Thumper. “But what does he think you can learn from me?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Mahatma. “I will keep my eyes and ears open, and perhaps something resembling useful knowledge will come; perhaps you should do the same. I do not think the captain expects us to work from a printed syllabus.”

“I sure hope not,” said Thumper, scratching behind one ear. “If he did, he should have given it to us.”

“I don’t think he wants much more than for us to help each other when we can,” said Mahatma, calmly. “That ought to be enough until we decide what else is required.”

“OK, I guess that’d be a start,” said Thumper. He looked at Mahatma for a moment, then asked, “What do you need help with?”

Mahatma looked at Thumper with wide-open eyes, then broke into helpless laughter.

Thumper sat watching for a moment, steadily growing more perplexed. After a few moments, he said, “OK, what’s the joke?”

Mahatma finally recovered his composure enough to say, “Sorry-it’s just that this is the first time since I joined the Legion that anyone has really offered to help me without any strings attached or ulterior motives. And, of course, I can’t think of anything at all that I need right now. But I think I will, soon enough. Yes, we are going to be fine partners!”

“I’m not sure,” said Thumper, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I mean, you’re always asking questions that nobody can answer. I don’t know what good that does anybody. Isn’t the idea that we all work together in one team?”

“All one team, yes,” said Mahatma, nodding. “But every team has specialists, too. Escrima is the cook; Chocolate Harry looks after supplies; Mother handles communications. And I ask the questions nobody else has thought of yet. Sometimes they are questions that really need answers-and by asking them, I am doing an important service. Other times I do it just to keep people from taking things for granted-even a good sergeant like Brandy needs that, now and then. So that is helping, too.”

“I suppose so,” said Thumper, skeptically. “I thought you did it just to be a pain in the ass.”

“Of course,” said Mahatma, with a broad smile. “Being a pain in the ass is very important in the Legion. If this company ever has to face a military emergency, the enemy is going to try very hard to be a pain in the ass-and anywhere else they can. I am working to keep us prepared for that situation.”

“Gee, I guess I hadn’t thought it through,” said Thumper, his ears standing up straight and twitching with excitement. “Maybe I haven’t been giving you enough credit, Mahatma. This puts everything in a whole new light.”

“It is a humble mission, yet I must confess that I take some pride in it,” said Mahatma, lowering his eyes.

“Say, Mahatma,” said Thumper, hesitantly. “Not that I’m trying to butt in on your department, or anything, but do you think somebody like me could leam how to do that kind of thing? I’d be willing to study and work hard…”

Mahatma sat back in his chair and appeared to ponder the question. The silence grew. At last, Thumper began to wonder if he’d made a mistake in asking for something so important. Just as he was about to back down from his request, Mahatma’s face broke out in a beatific smile. “Why yes, my Lepoid partner,” he said. “I am sure we can combine our talents to make the company even better prepared for the unexpected.”

“Wow, do you really think so?” said Thumper. “You really think I can be a pain in the ass, too?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mahatma, nodding wisely. “You are a clever sophont, and you pick things up quickly. I am sure we can find a role worthy of your talents. But first things first. Give me a little time to think about something you can do just to get started, and we will build from there.”

“Triff!” said Thumper. He sat back and waited, confident that Mahatma would think up something appropriate.

He was right, of course.

It was already getting hot in the Zenobian desert as Phule and Lieutenant Armstrong set out on their morning run. It had become a pleasant addition to their routine, a chance to see the ever-fascinating scenery of an alien landscape while keeping themselves in the top physical condition that Space Legion regulations specified for officers. Not all Legion officers took those regulations as seriously as Phule, which might explain the Legion’s low status among the Alliance military.

But Phule enjoyed the runs, and was actively annoyed when anything prevented him from getting out in the morning. Even so, he knew that running alone in unfamiliar territory would be begging for trouble. Luckily, Armstrong had turned out to be a willing training partner and a useful sounding board when Phule needed to bounce his ideas off someone besides Beeker.

As usual, they’d begun by heading toward the low hills east of the Legion base. Once they reached the rising ground, there were several routes, but the first mile out they invariably took the same level path. It was a good warm-up before they got to the hills and had to decide just how hard they wanted to work today.

They’d gone just over half a mile when a small, black-clad figure emerged from the woods and began to run alongside Phule. “Many salutings, Captain Clown,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. The host planet’s liaison officer to Omega Company had to take two strides to Phule’s one just to maintain the same pace, but Qual did it without apparent strain.

“Hello, Qual,” said Phule. “What brings you out this way?” He already knew that something had to be on the Zenobian’s mind. Qual was naturally one of the fastest runners on the base, but he rarely exerted himself without good reason. Phule sometimes wondered if that was a trait the Zenobians derived from their reptilelike forebears, who preferred to bask in the sun until either an imminent threat or passing prey spurred them to action.

“A very curious thing that I have observed,” said Qual, keeping pace with Phule and Armstrong. His endurance was as good as his speed. “Perhaps you have also seen it?”

Phule automatically cast his mind back over the past few days, trying to think of what Qual might be referring to. At various points in the past, Qual had been utterly fascinated by things that most humans took utterly for granted-like shaving, or the makeup many female legionnaires wore. It was impossible to predict what might catch Qual’s attention and sometimes impossible to explain it to his satisfaction. Phule had thought shoes would be trivially obvious, but they apparently weren’t-at least, not to Qual.

He thought a few moments-whatever Qual was curious about, it was enough to bring him out into the desert to run instead of just dropping by Phule’s office. Finally, he had to admit, “I haven’t noticed anything that unusual, Qual. What have you seen?”

“Oho,” said Qual, showing his sharp-pointed teeth in a broad grin. “Perhaps it is not curious, after all. I regret to have intercepted your rush.”

Armstrong raised a quizzical eyebrow, but by now Phule had mostly figured out how to interpret Qual’s speech despite the sometimes bizarrely phrased remarks that came out of the translating machine. “No problem, Qual,” he said, almost unconsciously changing his course to avoid a large rock along the left side of the path. “Glad to have the company. But tell me, just so I know-what do you think is so curious?”

Qual ran a few steps before answering, jumping over the same rock that Phule had dodged around. “I am wondering if Beeker is below the wind,” he said.

“Below the…” Phule’s brow wrinkled as he attempted to work out what Qual meant. “Oh, under the weather. No, not as far as I know. What makes you think so?”

Qual’s reptilian grin grew even broader, showing far more teeth than most humans found comfortable. Despite its fierce appearance, the expression meant exactly the same as a human smile-at least, as far as Phule had been able to determine. “He is spending much time with the new medician, which is not to be expected if he is healthy.”

Phule’s face turned red, but Armstrong broke out laughing. “Well, Captain, it looks as if we’ve solved one problem and stirred up another,” he said. “We make the troops healthier, and poor old Beeker…” He left the thought unfinished.

“I’d wondered why he hadn’t been hanging around my office quite so much,” said Phule. “He and Nightingale were pretty close back on Lorelei, just before we lifted off. I guess I should have expected something like this when she turned out to be the new medic. Well, with any luck, they’ll settle back down before long.”

Armstrong nodded, then said, “I wonder, though, Captain… is this one of General Blitzkrieg’s little ploys to make life difficult for Omega Company, or just another coincidence?”

Phule’s jaw clenched. “Lieutenant, I wish you hadn’t asked that question,” he said. He ran on for nearly a hundred yards before adding, “At least, they’re both grownups. That’s supposed to help.”

But he didn’t sound as if he really believed it.

“I’m worried,” said Thumper, in a near whisper. “What if… ?” He and Mahatma were standing in the shadows of the observation tower in the center of Zenobia Base, facing toward the Supply depot.

“Do not worry,” said Mahatma, patting his new partner on the back. “What if is exactly the kind of question you need to be asking, because others have not asked it. The result of your asking will be greater awareness, and that will make Omega Company better able to perform its mission. Is that not what a good legionnaire should be doing?”

“I guess so,” said Thumper. “I just remember that, back in Legion Basic, asking the sergeants a question was a quick way to get in trouble.”

“This is not Legion Basic,” said Mahatma, smiling quietly. “And while Chocolate Harry is undeniably a sergeant, he is not likely to do much more than express himself loudly in very flamboyant language. That is why I am starting you with him; we will work our way up to more challenging interactions. In time you will find that you can even pose questions to Sergeant Escrima without undue anxiety. It is all a matter of the correct attitude.”

“OK,” said Thumper, still looking a bit dubious. “I’ll give it my best shot-wish me luck.”

“Luck is an illusion,” said Mahatma. “All will be well if you preserve a calm demeanor. Go to it!”

“Yeah,” said Thumper. He stepped out of the shadows and walked as nonchalantly as possible toward the Supply depot. Preserve a calm demeanor… preserve a calm demeanor, he repeated to himself. The mantra must have worked; there was even a trace of a bounce in his stride as he came through the door. “Good morning, Sergeant Chocolate Harry,” he said in his politest tone of voice.

“Yo, Thumper,” rumbled Harry, looking up from the Biker’s Friend catalog he’d been reading. “You need somethin‘?”

“Uh, actually, Sergeant, I wanted to ask you a question,” said Thumper, self-conscious again. Without Mahatma standing next to him, his demeanor was drifting farther away from calmness with every passing moment.

“Question?” Harry frowned. “This here’s the Supply depot, Thumpy—not the freakin‘ Answer depot. But give it a shot, anyway. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Luck is an illusion,” said Thumper. He felt more confident remembering Mahatma’s words.

“Huh? You been talkin‘ to Qual?” Chocolate Harry’s brows knit as he attempted to figure out whether or not Thumper was serious, and whether or not to take it as an insult.

Seeing Harry’s confusion, Thumper hastened to ask his question before the Supply sergeant decided he wasn’t in the mood to bandy words with nearly raw recruits. “I understand you have a large supply of purple camouflage, Sergeant. Am I right?”

“Sure, got anything you want,” said Chocolate Harry, relaxing as he thought he recognized a sucker asking to be fleeced. “Caps, vests, capes, socks, knapsacks-you name it, I got it. How much you need?”

“I don’t know,” said Thumper. “Uh, that is, I don’t know whether I need it or not. How do you know it works?”

Harry scoffed. “Man, everybody in the company knows it works. Time the robots come over the hill lookin‘ to kick butt, the purple cammy did the job. Ask the captain; ask Brandy; ask anybody-they’ll tell you. You want to be safe from robots, you gotta be wearin’ the purple.”

“I see,” said Thumper, his ears perking up. “But do we know that it protects against alien robots, Sergeant? Wouldn’t those have different laws?”

“What you mean, different laws?” asked Harry.

“Everybody knows robots can’t see purple-they just built that way.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I must not have explained my point clearly,” said Thumper. “Let me try again. The brains of Alliance robots are all built with Asimov circuits that make them obey the Three Laws. Am I right?”

“Sure,” said Harry. “They can’t build ‘em no other way. And one of the things they build into those circuits is purple-blindness. I can show you that in writin’, Thumper, writin‘ straight from the gov’ment.”

“That’s very good, Sergeant,” said Thumper. “Of course I know the Three Laws-a robot mustn’t harm a sophont, or let a sophont come to harm if it can prevent it-we learned all that in kiddygarden. And the teachers wouldn’t tell us something if it wasn’t so. But what happens if we run into robots that weren’t made in the Alliance? Wouldn’t alien robots have different laws?”

“Alien robots? There ain’t no alien robots, on account of there ain’t no aliens,” said Harry, his voice getting louder. “Everybody’s part of the Alliance-all the so-phonts in the galaxy. So all the robots is the same.”

“But there are new sophonts discovered all the time,” said Thumper. “There are two races of them, both living right on this planet, that nobody knew about until the captain discovered them. What if the Zenobians had been building robots before we met them? Wouldn’t their laws be different? What about the Nanoids?”

Harry glowered. “Look a-here. Point you’re missin‘ is, they didn’t build no robots before we met ’em,” he said. “So it don’t matter, see?”

“But what about the next new race we discover?” asked Thumper, doing his best to preserve a calm demeanor. “Can we be sure they’ll build the same laws into their robots? And even if they do, will their robots recognize us as sophonts?”

“Damn it, there ain’t no alien robots,” growled Chocolate Harry. “If you gonna come around bustin‘ chops, I just might decide not to sell you any freakin’ purple cammy- and then when the renegade robots come bubblin‘ out of the underbrush with their eyes shootin’ sparks and their grasping mechanisms reachin‘ out for your little furry tail, you’ll be sorry. You bet your ass is gonna be sorry!”

Thumper decided he had time to make one more point. “But if the Three Laws are correct, then the only robots I need to be afraid of are alien robots…”

“Take your freakin‘ alien robots and put ’em where the sun don’t shine, bunny!” Harry’s voice was a full-throated roar, now. He stood up from his chair, looming over Thumper.

Wisely deciding not to finish his argument, Thumper made a rapid exit, quickly scurrying out the door and back to where Mahatma awaited him.

Mahatma pointed to the Supply depot, from which Harry’s voice could still be heard, using language that certainly qualified as flamboyant. He grinned broadly as he said, “Congratulations, Thumper. I believe you have succeeded in being a pain in the ass.”

“Mother, have you seen Beeker?” Phule said into the office intercom.

“That depends, sweetie. Do you mean have I seen him today?” said Mother. “Or recently today? Or just have I seen him?”

Phule rolled his eyes. In any other Legion unit, Mother’s ongoing impertinence to her commanding officer would’ve been grounds for a reprimand-possibly some even harder disciplinary measure. But when Phule first came to Omega Company, she’d been a different person. So different that her name among her fellow legionnaires was “Shrinking Violet.” Only when he’d put her behind a microphone and let her communicate to the company without showing her face did her assertiveness become apparent. That simple step had turned a cringing liability into one of the company’s main assets-and if a bit of smart-mouthed repartee was the price for it, it was one he was willing to pay.

Of course, at times like now, when he was in a hurry, the price seemed a bit stiff.

“Recently today would be good,” he said. “And if not recently, just tell me the last time you did see him.”

“Oh, let me see… it must have been just after eleven hundred hours,” she said. “That’d be a little before lunchtime, hon,” she added helpfully.

“Eleven hundred…” Phule looked at the time readout on his wrist communicator. “That’s nearly three hours ago. Where was he when you saw him, Mother?”

“Headed out toward the perimeter,” said Mother. She paused a beat, then added, “with Nightingale. They make a really cute couple, don’t you think, sweetie?”

Phule sputtered for a few moments, trying to figure out how to fit his mental image of his butler into the same lobe of his brain as the words cute couple. After several unconvincing tries, he asked the first reasonable question that came to mind. “Which way were they headed, Mother?”

He could almost hear the smirk that accompanied her reply. “Now, dearie, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, er, yes,” said Phule, dully. “That’s what I was asking you to do, I thought.”

“You should think again, silly boy,” said Mother. “Or maybe that’s your problem. Using your head when it’s the totally wrong thing to do. Don’t worry, they’ll be back, and then you can ask poor old Beekie whatever it was you wanted to ask. I’m sure it can wait until then.”

“Poor old Beekie?” said Phule, even more confused than before.

“You heard me the first time, sweetie,” said Mother, and she broke the connection before Phule could ask her anything else.

In the hot midday sun at the edge of Zenobia Base, Flight Leftenant Qual and three members of his team worked to adjust the sklern, their long-range holographic image projector. One of the triumphs of Zenobian technology, the sklern had already proved its value as a means to spread terror to an unsuspecting enemy. Now, Qual and his troops were working on means of using the sklern to deceive an enemy into misallocating forces, defending against nonexistent threats, or other tactical and strategic errors growing out of mistaking illusion for reality.

A short distance away, a pudgy figure in a modified Legion uniform stood watching the Zenobians. Rev’s interest in the saurian natives of this planet had been piqued with the discovery that, somewhere in the distant past, Zenobia had been exposed to the charismatic presence of the King-the guiding figure on whose inspiring career his church rested its teachings. Some among Omega Company dismissed the event as a random electronic signal traveling across the limitless space between Zenobia and Old Earth. Others… well, Rev was one of those others. And he had long since decided that, when it came to the King, there was very little that could be called random.

And so he listened to the Zenobians’ chatter, hoping that a stray word might give him a deeper insight into the meaning of their experience. In his business, a stray word or gesture could mean worlds upon worlds…

“Did you witness Hrap’s presentation last twilight?” one of the Zenobians asked another. Their translators were always on, so an eavesdropping human could easily follow their conversations-well, at least more easily than if their conversation was left untranslated. The idiosyncratic character of the Zenobian language had been one of the oddball discoveries the members of Omega Company had made in the year or so its forces had been present on the planet. In fact, the Zenobian language was quirky enough that Alliance military intelligence had developed a strong interest in its potential as an unbreakable code.

“Hrap is well-known as an open cloaca,” said the second Zenobian. “It would be redundant to witness his giving extended proof thereof.”

The first riposted, “I will not contest his cloacahood, but balanced judgment would consider his favor with the masses.”

“The masses are themselves cloacae,” interjected a third voice. Curiously, as Rev had previously noted, even machine translations of Zenobian voices carried a strong hint of the individuality of the speakers. Rev would likely have had trouble telling the three Zenobians apart visually, but their voices were as distinctive as holos of three different landscapes.

“Take care not to swerve from your settings,” said Qual, who listened to the previous discussion without comment. “We approach the activation potential…”

“Amplitude settings in perfect alignment,” said the Zenobian who had begun the discussion. Rev thought he detected a note of condescension in the reply.

“Yo, Rev, you got a minute?” came a voice from the other direction. Rev turned to see Roadkill, one of the newer group of legionnaires, standing a short distance away. Roadkill was an occasional attendee at Rev’s services, though he hadn’t yet responded to Rev’s efforts to persuade the legionnaires of Omega Company to become full members of the Church of the King.

Perhaps this was the time, thought Rev. “Why, sure, son, what can I do for you?”

Roadkill looked down at the ground. “Well, Rev, I been thinkin‘.”

Rev nodded benevolently. “That’s good, son, that’s always good. A feller oughta think about things.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Roadkill. It wasn’t clear whether he really agreed or was trying to be polite. In fact, now that he’d gotten Rev’s attention, Roadkill looked as if he wanted nothing better than to escape. But after squirming and making several false starts while Rev waited with ostentatious patience, he finally blurted out, “It’s about the church, Rev.”

“Well, that don’t surprise me, Roadkill,” said Rev. “A lot of the troops like to talk to me about that.”

“Well, I’ve just been wondering…”

“Here, son, don’t be shy,” said Rev. “Whatever it is you want to ask, I’m here to answer it.”

“You sure?” asked Roadkill, looking sidewise at Rev. “I mean, I don’t want to embarrass nobody…”

“Go ahead, spit it out,” said Rev. “There’s not much a man in my shoes ain’t already heard a few times.”

“OK, then,” said Roadkill. “What I want to know is why the music’s so un. I mean, the King was some kinda musician, right? So why isn’t the church music bein‘ triffer?”

“Well, son, we gotta go with the talent we have,” said Rev, trying his best not to show his dismay. “If you knew some good musicians on the base, I could maybe ask ‘em to play once in a while.”

“You mean that?” said Roadkill, his eyes lighting up. “Coz me and some of the guys…”

“You got a band?” Rev perked up. Attendance had been a bit slack lately; maybe this would be a way to spark interest among the younger legionnaires. “We can talk about you playin‘ for the King, if you can play somethin’ that fits in. You got somethin‘ I can listen to?”

“Sure,” said Roadkill. He reached in the front pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a plugin. “Listen to that, and if you like it, we’ll talk more.”

“Sure, I can’t wait to hear it,” said Rev. Secretly, he wondered just what kind of music the younger legionnaires were listening to these days. He’d always preferred the classics, himself: Jerry Lee, Gene Vincent, Sheb Wooley, and of course the King. But maybe it was time to open his ears a bit. That would be just what the King would tell him to do…

He tucked the plugin into his own pocket and promptly forgot about it.