Phule's Errand

7

Journal #793-

Lieutenant Armstrong gritted his teeth, staring out into the Zenobian desert. There was a plume of dust rapidly approaching the camp across the arid landscape. General Blitzkrieg was here. And that meant that, for the foreseeable future, Omega Company was about to get some long-deferred experience in the ugly, side of life in the Legion.

Well, Armstrong had done his share of brownnosing and kowtowing to irrational brass; he could undoubtedly fall back into the routine if he had to. He’d never been particularly good at it, which is why he’d ended up in Omega Company instead of in some more desirable posting. That was before Captain Jester had come; back when Omega Company was the rathole of the Legion, the catchall for incorrigibles and incompetents no other unit wanted. Considering that the Space Legion was widely recognized as the rathole of the Alliance military, that was saying a lot.

It was well-known that General Blitzkrieg still looked at Omega Company as a rathole. In fact, he apparently preferred it that way. There had to be someplace so bad it could be used to threaten anyone who got out of line or failed to come up to the mark. As far as Armstrong could figure it out, the general considered Omega Company his personal property, and soundly resented Captain Jester’s turning it into the best outfit in the Legion.

It rarely occurred to Armstrong to question the wisdom of a superior officer, let alone that of a general of the Legion. But when it came to Omega Company, he’d seen the before and after versions with his own eyes and knew which was better. In his considered opinion, General Blitzkrieg was full of…well, “hot air” was one of the more genteel expressions that came to Armstrong’s mind.

Almost every member of Omega Company had a similarly low opinion of the general. That meant that Lieutenant Armstrong was going to have his hands full preventing the incident that the general had undoubtedly come here intending to provoke. And with the captain off-base- no, worse than that, completely out of reach-it was going to be a major chore to neutralize the general, even with Omega Company’s officers babysitting him for the entire length of his visit. Even with the help of the entire command cadre, there was bound to be somebody who snapped. It might be Sergeant Escrima; it might be one of the recent recruits; it might even be the usually phlegmatic Tusk-anini. The problem was that nobody knew exactly who the general was going to go after, or how, and that meant that nobody could completely prepare for it.

But the general’s hoverjeep had reached the perimeter of the camp. Now, it was too late for preparations. Anything that wasn’t already done wasn’t going to get done. Armstrong sighed, then pulled himself upright into his sharpest military posture and strode forward to greet the arriving vehicle.

Now that the dust cloud had begun to settle, Armstrong could see that the general’s hoverjeep was a deluxe ultra-stretch model, as much a limo as a jeep. Its exterior color was deep Legion black with tinted windows and antennas that, from their size and number, could pick up signals from all over the civilized galaxy. To judge by the size of the hood, it featured an especially powerful engine. On both sides and on the hood, an oversize Legion insignia was painted in gold, surrounded by general’s stars. Armstrong had heard some commentator claim that a man’s vehicle was an extension of his personality; if that was so, General Blitzkrieg was not a man to trifle with.

The hoverjeep slowed to a stop, settled onto its parking cushions, and the engine noise faded to a low hum. Armstrong stationed himself by the rear door, then nodded to Brandy, who’d brought along her training squad as an honor guard and reception party. “Ten-HUT!” barked the first sergeant, and to Armstrong’s relief, the legionnaires responded with almost commendable sharpness as a slim woman in a major’s uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat. She stepped around to the passenger side and opened the door for a heavyset man-General Blitzkrieg.

Armstrong snapped off his best academy salute and held it. But instead of returning the salute, the general glared around the assembled troops and bellowed, “Where the hell is that idiot Jester? He should have been here to meet me. There’d better be a damned good explanation, or I’m going to fry his ass!”

Right that moment, Lieutenant Armstrong knew it was not going to be one of his better days.

General Blitzkrieg was doing his best to conceal his glee as Sparrowhawk opened the door to let him emerge from his hoverjeep. He’d known better than to expect his arrival on Zenobia to be a total surprise. The damned military grapevine was far too efficient for a general to travel halfway across the Alliance without anyone’s noticing and warning his prospective hosts. So by all rights, Captain Jester should have had at least some advance notice of the general’s impending inspection tour. In any case an honor guard-if you wanted to dignify a couple dozen legionnaires by that name-had turned out to greet his arrival. So Jester did have advance notice. And by age-old military custom, Jester himself should have been at the landing site to greet the arriving brass-putting the best face on the situation, even if he knew his miserable outfit was going to fall short of the general’s standards.

But, to Blitzkrieg’s astonishment, Captain Jester was nowhere to be seen. Such a flagrant failure to kowtow to the Legion’s commanding general was exactly the kind of opening Blitzkrieg wanted-a lapse so blatant that even the most ardent of Jester’s supporters would have a hard time explaining it away. Normally he’d have to do some digging to come up with some suitable provocation; he might even have to magnify some molehill of imperfection into a mountain of culpability. But here was a major lapse in military courtesy-if not an outright dereliction of duty-being handed to him on a platinum-plated platter! Blitzkrieg was delighted.

The ranking officer here was a lieutenant, who was at least managing a decent salute. Blitzkrieg hadn’t bothered to look up the names of Omega Company’s junior officers. The simple fact that they were here meant that they were screwups, and that was all he needed to know about them. He hated screwups-they made the Legion look bad, and that made him look bad. He wouldn’t stand for that.

He stood scowling for a long moment before returning the lieutenant’s salute. “As you were, Lieutenant,” he grumbled. Then, leaning forward, he hissed, “Where’s that idiot Jester? And don’t tell me he didn’t know I was coming-even he isn’t that dumb. Where is he?”

The lieutenant-Blitzkrieg could now see his name tag, which read Armstrong-had almost imperceptibly relaxed from his rigid stance for a moment, but now was standing at attention again. “General Blitzkrieg, sir!” the lieutenant said. “With Captain Jester’s apologies, sir! The captain detailed me to greet you so that he could attend to urgent company business. He…”

“Oh, shut the hell up!” barked the general. He waved a hand and stepped past Armstrong, glaring around at the miserable hellhole of a desert world that he’d sent Omega Company to. “If I want any of Jester’s bullshit, I can get it directly from the horse’s ass.” Despite himself, the general chuckled. That was one of his better lines; he’d have to remember it for future use.

“Yes, sir, sir!” said Armstrong, frozen in position.

“That’s more like it, Lieutenant,” said Blitzkrieg. He made the rank sound like an epithet. “Now, I’ve had all the nonsense I can“stomach for one day. Take me to wherever Jester’s hiding-on the double!”

“Yes, sir,” said Armstrong, again, saluting. “If the general would be so kind as to follow me…”

“No need for that, Mr. Armstrong,” came a familiar jaunty voice. “Welcome to our humble establishment, General Blitzkrieg-I hope your flight in wasn’t too boring.”

“Captain!” said Armstrong, whirling around. His voice and his expression conveyed an unmistakable sense of relief.

“Jester!” snarled General Blitzkrieg, his face settling into a long-accustomed frown. If Armstrong was relieved, the effect on the general was the complete opposite. Here at last was the man he’d traveled halfway across the Alliance to wreak his vengeance on-and the very sound of his voice was enough to set Blitzkrieg’s blood pressure soaring.

Sure enough, there stood Willard Phule-or, to use his proper Legion name, Captain Jester, grinning as if he’d just seen his best old friend, instead of the commanding general who’d never made much secret of his desire to crush Phule and all he stood for. To Blitzkrieg’s utter astonishment, the fellow was out of uniform. Instead of the Legion’s standard-issue black jumpsuit, the commander of Omega Company was wearing a summerweight tuxedo, with a sparkling white jacket and an impertinent bow tie with matching cummerbund, in an eye-assaulting pattern of unmilitary colors. In his hand was a half-empty martini glass.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, extending his right hand. “How about you join me for a drink while one of the fellows takes your luggage to your quarters?”

General Blitzkrieg’s mouth fell open, but not a word emerged. It was with considerable astonishment that he realized that he’d actually taken Captain Jester’s hand and begun to shake it. A moment after that, the captain had put a friendly arm around his shoulders and begun to steer him in the direction of the sleekly contoured building that must house the Legion base here on Zenobia. And the whole time, Jester kept up a line of small talk, just as if he was about to plop a contract in front of him and sell him an insurance policy.

Somewhere in the back of Blitzkrieg’s mind there rested the thought that he’d come here to ream out Jester like no Legion officer had ever been reamed out in the history of the service.

But he had to admit, right now a drink sounded like just the thing he needed… There’d be plenty of time for reaming afterward.

“De Mon” turned out to be a giant dark-skinned man with a shaved head and eyes that seemed to look right through you. Rita ushered Phule into the circle of men, women, and robots sitting around him near a campfire. Like Rita, both sexes in this village dressed in colorful, flowing robes, and wore their hair in long braids. A distinctive odor of smoldering vegetation filled the air. The group broke into excited whispers as Phule came into view but fell silent as de Mon raised his hand.

“Who dis come to see de Mon?” he asked in a penetrating voice-surprisingly, a clear melodic tenor instead of the basso profundo Phule would have expected from someone of his bulk.

Rita had already told Phule to let her do the talking. “Dis be Captain Jester, from de Space Legion,” she said. “He lookin‘ for some frens. Somebody tell he dey be wit’ de Indians, so he come looking. I an‘ I fetch he here.”

De Mon turned to Phule. “You frens-what dey look like?”

Phule said, “I wish they were easier to describe. One’s an older man, very dignified-looking-he’s actually my butler, but I doubt he’d be wearing his usual outfit for a vacation. The other’s a woman-younger, maybe thirty? Thin, dark-skinned, short hair, usually very serious. I don’t know what she’s wearing now, but the last time I saw her, she was in Legion uniform-a black jumpsuit like this one. Needless to say, there’d be a reward for anyone who can help me find them.“

Several of de Mon’s circle frowned. “What he say?” murmured one of the robots. “He talk so funny…”

De Mon glared at his companions until they fell silent, then nodded, and said, “Huh.” He fixed Phule with his piercing gaze. Phule looked back, frankly, for a long moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, de Mon turned to the others around him. “Anybody see dose people?”

“Sure, dey been to de tourist trap day ‘fore yestaday,” said one woman, who wore huge golden earrings and at least a dozen bangles on her wrists. “De woman buyin’ lots o‘ books, some jewelry-lots o’ pretty stuff. Her mon, he jes look and shake he head.”

“Do you know where they went next?” asked Phule. “I’m very anxious to find them.”

“Dat your money dey be spendin‘?” asked de Mon, with a sly grin. Then he held up a hand and said to the woman who’d spoken before, “You see dem leave?”

“Dey go to de food court,” said the woman. “I don’t know where dey go after, but dey talkin‘ bout de roundup. I bet dey done gone dere.”

“Dat makes sense,” said de Mon, nodding. “All de tourist, dey wants to see de roundup. Dat’s why dey run it six time ev’ry year.”

“Where would they go to see the roundup?” asked Phule, eagerly. Maybe he was finally making progress. It seemed as if he’d walked or ridden over half the planet to learn this much about his fugitive butler.

“De main place is de Pretty Good Corral in Skilletville-dey bring in de robocows down de streets, whoopin‘ and hollerin’, folk shootin‘ off de guns. It ’spose to be a stirrin‘ sight,“ said de Mon. ”You go dere, mos’ like you finds dese people you look for.“

“Thank you,” said Phule. “If someone will tell me how to get there, I’ll be greatly in your debt.”

“You come’t‘rough with de reward, dat take care of de debt mighty quick,” said de Mon, dryly. “Bes’ way to go, you ride east till you past de hills, den swing sout’ to de big river…”

Half an hour later, Phule was on his way. The weather was clear and warm, and his robosteed made good time along the well-marked trail. He met nobody on the way, although perhaps three or four times he saw the dust cloud raised by some distant rider, and once he spotted a stagecoach on a road parallel to his trail.

As the West Indians had predicted, he was in Skilletville well before dark. And while all the hotels and rooming houses were full of tourists, he applied his Dilithium Express card to the problem and soon had an acceptable, if not really luxurious, room. He dumped his luggage on the bed, splashed some water on his face to wash off the trail dust, and went out looking for Beeker.

Major Sparrowhawk took one long last sip of her coffee- the best she’d ever had in a Legion mess hall, and that included the Staff Officer’s mess at Headquarters. And the selection of pastries, and the butter and jam, were of a quality unheard of in most of the restaurants she was in the habit of frequenting. The story that had made the rounds back at Headquarters, about Jester’s having brought in a cordon bleu chef to feed Omega Company (and himself, of course), was beginning to seem credible now that she’d had breakfast in their mess.

It was sorely tempting to fill the cup up one more time and have just one more croissant. But no-the general expected her to spy for him, while he went out and socialized with the officers and enjoyed whatever amenities the base had to offer. She’d been through the routine dozens of times over the years since her assignment as Blitzkrieg’s adjutant. Time to do it again. She stood up, carried her empty tray over to the window where dirty dishes were deposited, and turned to head out to the parade ground. If luck was on her side, somewhere out there she’d find trouble.

“Good morning, Major,” said a voice behind her. She turned automatically to see who’d spoken. It was a youngish woman with lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders of her Legion jumpsuit, wearing a broad smile on her face.

Lieutenant Rembrandt, Sparrowhawk recalled. Nominally second-in-command of Omega Company-to the extent that means anything at all. But why was she smiling? Most of the time, on General Blitzkrieg’s inspection tours, every member of the general’s party was considered an enemy… with excellent reason. Was Rembrandt so naive that she didn’t that know Sparrowhawk’s job entailed finding out whatever dirt she could, to report back to the general? Or did she have some ulterior motive-possibly orders from her CO to keep an eye on the visiting officers? It didn’t really matter. Quite possibly this fresh-faced junior officer would lead her to exactly the kind of dirt she was looking for.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Sparrowhawk, conjuring up a smile of her own. “I’m headed for an after-breakfast walk. Would you have time to join me?” She made a point of phrasing it in such a way that the lieutenant could interpret it either as an order or a friendly invitation.

Rembrandt’s smile grew even broader. “Why, I’d be glad to make the time, Major. The very least I can do is show you where things are so you won’t feel lost on this unfamiliar base.”

Right, thought Sparrowhawk. That clinched it; Captain Jester must have detailed his lieutenant to shepherd the general’s adjutant and steer her away from whatever Omega Company was trying to hide. Well, Sparrowhawk had gotten the runaround more than once before. In fact, she considered it a useful time-saver. Once she’d figured out what parts of the base Rembrandt was trying to keep her from seeing, she’d have a short list of all the major trouble spots to look at on her own. Better yet, the guided tour would take her to all the really interesting spots in camp, so she could actually enjoy it while she was making her little list. “Lead on, Lieutenant,” she said, with a predatory smile. This was going to be far too easy…

Rembrandt brightened up. “Oh, great! Captain Jester’s done some really neat things here, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing them, Major. Although you’ve probably seen every base in the Alliance…” The two of them headed down an outside corridor toward the main exit from the giant prefabricated building that was the central structure of Zeno-bia Base.

“Oh, I’m not quite that ancient,” said Sparrowhawk, with a conspiratorial wink. “And why don’t we just let our hair down and forget about rank, OK? My Legion name’s Sparrowhawk… and can I call you Rembrandt?”

“Sure, Maj- Sparrowhawk,” said Rembrandt. She smiled and held open a door leading out to the parade ground. Like a lamb to the slaughter, thought Sparrowhawk, stepping out into the sunlight.

She didn’t stop to reflect that the phrase might equally apply both ways…

Skilletville was filled wall to wall with people, apparently about fifty tourists for every local-and a fair number of the locals were “Injun” robots. Among the tourists, most of the men were wearing clearly freshly bought “Western” outfits: broad-brimmed hats, unbuttoned vests, blue jeans, boots with fancy toolwork, and some kind of gun belt. The women’s outfits showed more variety, from a feminized version of the hat-jeans-and-boots ensemble to full skirts, parasols, high necklines, and somewhat less practical hats. Most of them looked extremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, Phule’s Legion jumpsuit got more than its share of curious glances-which might have made him even more uncomfortable, if he’d been prone to second-guessing himself.

Along all the unpaved streets were rows of tents selling food, crafts, vids, and “collectibles,” the latter being junky impulse items so outrageously overpriced that the buyers would probably hold on to them forever in the vain hope of someday getting back what they’d paid. Phule stopped to grab a sandwich and a bottle of the local beer at one stand, and scanned the crowd while he gulped them down. No sign of Beeker or Nightingale. He put his sandwich wrapper and empty bottle into a recycler. Some sort of show was going on near the center of town; he made his way through the thickening crowd toward the sound of music and laughter.

A small wooden stage had been erected in the middle of the street, where a group of musicians-half of them human, the other half robots-were playing banjos, fiddles, and a washboard. A grinning sheriff and a buxom music hall girl performed a lively dance to the music. Phule watched for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever the rest of the crowd saw in the act, it did nothing for him. He went back to searching the crowd for the familiar face of his butler-or the slightly less familiar one of Nightingale. After a few minutes, he realized that he’d just seen another familiar face-one he’d met only a few days ago. He turned his head back, reexamining the crowd… Yes, there it was, just on the other side of the stage. Buck Short.

Once again, he began pushing his way through the crowd, this time toward the grizzled cowboy who’d sent him looking for Beeker out in Indian territory. He got several annoyed glances from tourists intent on watching the show, and a couple of elbows came his way, but before long he was right behind his target. “Hello, Buck,” he said calmly, putting his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder.

Buck spun around surprisingly quickly in the tight-packed crowd. “Why, Cap’n!” he said. “What brings you by Skilletville?”

“Still looking for my butler,” said Phule. “The West Indians suggested they might have come here.”

“Wa-al, I reckon that could be,” said Buck. “Dunno why I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Yes, I wondered about that myself, once I learned that this is apparently the main tourist destination on the planet,” said Phule. He paused, looking directly into Short’s eyes. “By any chance did somebody tell you to send me out of the way, so I wouldn’t see them?”

“That don’t hardly make sense, Cap’n,” said Short, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Say, how’s about you and me go somewheres, maybe have a drink and figger it out?”

“I’m not buying you any more drinks,” said Phule. “But we are definitely going to figure things out.” He grabbed the cowboy by the collar and began pulling him along toward the edge of the crowd. The onlookers stared and pointed but did nothing, probably assuming that Buck’s squirming was part of the show. Just what they thought Phule, in a custom-tailored modern Space Legion uniform, was doing in a Wild West re-creation show is probably best left unexplored.

Eventually Phule emerged from the crowd, with Buck still in tow. He dragged him over to a horse trough and sat him on the edge. “All right, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to give me answers. If I don’t think you’re giving me the right answers, you get a bath-which maybe isn’t a bad idea, after all.”

“Hey, pardner, ain’t no need to get all hasty,” said Buck. SPLASH! Phule ducked him into the trough before he could say any more, held him down for a count of five, then pulled him back up, sputtering. The cowboy finally recovered his breath enough to ask, “What’d you go an‘ do that fer?”

“To make sure you know I’m serious,” said Phule, grinning fiercely. “Have you seen my butler?”

“Wa-al, I can’t rightly remem-” SPLASH!

“I’ll ask the question again,” said Phule, pulling him back up-this time after a count of ten. “Have you seen my butler?”

“Yep, I shore have,” said Buck. “Him and his lady was here last night, enjoyin‘ the roundup. Don’t duck me agin!”

“I won’t, if you tell me where they are now,” said Phule.

Buck Short waved a soggy arm in the direction of the Cut ‘N’ Shoot spaceport. “They went that-a-way,” he said. Phule nodded, then let go of his shirt. Buck nearly fell back in the water. But Phule was paying no attention. He was already heading for his robosteed, ready to ride off in pursuit of Beeker.

General Blitzkrieg stepped out onto the parade ground of Omega Base, his best professional scowl on his face. He’d been here less than one standard day, but already he was feeling frustrated. He was used to arriving for “surprise” inspections only to discover that every legionnaire on the planet had known far in advance of his visit, and had prepared for it. He was even used to having the local COs whirl him through a round of wining and dining and VIP receptions in hopes of distracting him from the object of his visit. He couldn’t pretend he minded the special treatment one bit; as far as he was concerned, it was one of the more attractive perks of being a commanding general in the Space Legion.

Besides, he could afford to enjoy himself a little on these inspection tours. The local commanders might assume they’d managed to pull the wool over his eyes. Little did they know that while the general was getting the VIP treatment, his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk, was making note of the real lapses in discipline, preparedness, and security on the bases he visited. Blitzkrieg had to admit that Sparrowhawk had a pretty good head on her shoulders, for a female. Sometimes he didn’t know how he’d run the Legion without her.

But somehow he’d failed to realize that Zenobia Base was the sole human outpost on this insufferable lizard-ridden planet. There were no sights to be seen, unless you happened to like swamps and deserts. There weren’t any four-star restaurants, unless you counted the mess hall- which, he had to admit, served a pretty decent meal for a Legion base. And, as far as he could tell, the only recreational facilities within a light-year of the place were the casinos of Lorelei Station, where he’d dropped far too much money on his four-day stopover before coming here. He might just have to spend this visit actually inspecting the troops…

Well, sometimes business had to come before pleasure. He’d come looking for ammunition to finally destroy the career of that damned headline-hunting jackass of a Phule. If he didn’t find it, it was nobody’s fault but his own. He put on his most intimidating expression and headed toward a group of legionnaires he saw lounging about a short distance away.

“Yo, the brass comin‘,” said a soft voice. Blitzkrieg had expected that. He’d also expected the legionnaires to fall into a hasty formation and come to attention. Instead, while a few of them glanced his way, they continued to act like unconcerned civilians. His eyebrows rose a notch. Were they that poorly trained, or was this a deliberate affront? He’d soon find out.

“Hey, boss man, what’s the bite?” said one of the troops, as he strode up to the legionnaires. “You been all triff?”

Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged out and his jaw fell open. “Wh-wh-what?” he sputtered. “Legionnaire, do you know who I am?”

The legionnaire-a tall, thin man with cafe-au-lait coloration-stepped forward and peered at the general. “Yeah, jes’ like I thought-you’re the main boss mofo,” he said after a long moment’s close-up inspection. “They told me you’re a gruff and skritty chee, but you look mighty sly to me.”

“I look what?” said Blitzkrieg. His voice rose an octave. “They told you WHAT?”

“Oh yeah, that’s sly, all right,” said the legionnaire, nodding with evident approval. “Ain’t nothin‘ skritty ’bout you, not a hair of it.” He stuck out his hand. “Splank it, boss man!”

Blitzkrieg looked around in panic. He knew the Legion took in representatives of every species from every planet in the Alliance. And he knew-better than anyone-that those who couldn’t handle the demands of life and work in the Legion ended up in Omega Company, more often than not. But the reality of it was something those abstract understandings had left him unprepared for. The proposition that this fellow in front of him qualified as a fellow sophont was beyond his intellectual grasp.

But before he could make his escape, another apparition in Legion uniform approached him. This one had a shaved head, round glasses, and a beatific smile. “Ah, General Blitzkrieg,” it said. “It is with great pleasure that I see you here.” He put his hand on the tall legionnaire’s shoulder, caught his eyes, and nodded. The tall fellow nodded back and moved away.

“Uh, pleasure, a real pleasure,” said the general, glad to be rid of the incomprehensible nuisance, but unsure what this new legionnaire was up to. Where are the sergeants?

“I wonder if you could take a moment to inform us on a few important topics?“ said the fellow, still smiling. ”It is unusual to be able to learn from a representative of the higher echelons of command.“

“Uh, what did you have in mind?” asked Blitzkrieg. He wasn’t sure that offering to answer questions was a good idea, but he felt he owed the fellow at least a moment’s courtesy in exchange for his having steered away the first man.

“Why, only the most elementary matters,” said the smiling man. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the imbalance between merit and reward. For example, this company’s previous assignment was on Landoor, a dangerous and demanding environment. But after we achieved our mission there, we did not receive a fine vacation, but transfer to an even more critical mission here on Zenobia. Is this equitable?”

General Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged, then he began looking about for help. Surely there was an officer-at very least a sergeant-in charge of this squad, he thought. The round-faced man stood there grinning, with the rest of the squad looking on with evident curiosity. Did they really expect him to answer the question?

With growing consternation, the general realized that they did.