Phule's Errand Read online

  Book Description

  Phule is, without a doubt, the only captain in the Space Legion with his own butler, but Beeker has stuck with him through thick and thin. Which is why it’s incomprehensible to Phule why Beeker has run off-planet without a word—and with Omega Company’s lovely new medic.

  Without his right-hand man, Phule has no idea what his left hand is doing. So he takes off after his errant butler, just as General Blitzkrieg decides to make a surprise visit to Zenobia. And the only thing Blitz would like better than catching Phule off guard is to catch Phule AWOL …

  Smashwords Edition – 2017

  WordFire Press

  wordfirepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-463-3

  Copyright © 2006 by Robert Asprin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Janet McDonald

  Cover artwork images by Jeff Herndon

  Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, LLC

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  Contents

  Book Description

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  If You Liked …

  Other WordFire Press Titles by Robert Asprin

  Chapter One

  Journal #760

  My employment with Willard Phule, better known by his nom de guerre of “Captain Jester,” has sometimes made me wonder if I have fallen under a legendary curse from Old Earth: “May you live in interesting times.” Two additional phrases are less well-known: “May you come to the attention of important people,” and “May you receive all that you wish for.” They apply all too well to my life with Omega Company of the Space Legion.

  * * *

  It was happy hour at the Officers’ Club at Rahnsome Base, headquarters of the United Alliance Military Command, and the barrooms were packed. In the luxurious back room reserved for general staff officers, there was scarcely an empty seat to be found. And the noise level was exactly what you would suspect from a group of sophonts who spent a large fraction of their time telling others what to do. Time-honored scuttlebutt around the base asserted that careers could be launched or destroyed right here in this room. To judge from the behavior of the officers present, the majority of them believed it.

  The loudest of the blowhards on hand was General Blitzkrieg of the Space Legion. With a highball in one hand and a clear Neo-Havana cigar in the other, he sat in his favorite overstuffed chair by the trophy shelf, browbeating all who offered to question his preeminence. Normally, there were few who bothered—mainly because the effort was disproportionately greater than any possible reward for success.

  Today, Blitzkrieg was holding forth on the utter absurdity of putting gormless civilians in a position of authority over professional military men. Since this was an opinion shared by every sophont in the building (except for the head bartender, who had seen the top brass in its cups far too often to have any faith in its competence), the Legion general was safe from contradiction on this particular subject. For that very reason, it was one of his favorites.

  “I’ll tell you how bad it’s gotten,” Blitzkrieg rumbled. “Now, if the damned bleeding hearts get their way, the Alliance Council will vet all promotions above the rank of lieutenant colonel. How’s that for bureaucratic bullshit? Who’s better qualified to judge a soldier than his own CO? There’s not an officer in the Legion whose work I don’t know a hundred times better than some meddling paper pusher or political hack …”

  That statement was greeted by a nearly unanimous murmur of assent—only nearly unanimous, for once. This time, among the general’s listeners was a solidly built man wearing the deep blue uniform of Starfleet. Captain First Class John Arbuthnot shook his head. “That’d be hard to argue with,” he growled. “But everybody knows that’s not how it works. Talk all you want about the merit system, but the brownnoses always have the minimum-energy course to promotions. It’s true in Starfleet, it’s true in the Regular Army, and it’s damn near official policy in the Legion.”

  “And what the hell do you know about Legion policy, Captain?” growled Blitzkrieg.

  Another officer might have backed off at this point. But Captain Arbuthnot had an exemplary record, with meritorious service on a dozen ships, and was widely regarded as one of the most valuable members of the general staff. His one flaw was a stubborn refusal to let nonsense stand unchallenged—no matter who was saying it. That was why, after thirty years in the service, Arbuthnot was stuck at captain first class—a rank equivalent to colonel in the Legion or Regular Army. He’d seen one brownnose after another promoted past him, and he was a long way from being reconciled to it.

  So Blitzkrieg’s slighting reference to his rank hit close to home. Captain Arbuthnot narrowed his eyes and said, “Begging the general’s pardon, but I’d like to hear him deny that he’s given the ablest man in the Legion a dead-end assignment babysitting a company of screwups.”

  Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged. “Deny it?” he roared. “Deny it? Damn straight I’ll deny it because it’s a damned lie.” He stood up, looming over the Starfleet captain’s chair.

  Arbuthnot was unfazed. “I’ll overlook the general’s last remark,” he said, in a voice that would have chilled the blood of anyone sensitive to tone. “He’s entitled to his opinion even if all the evidence is against him. But I’m entitled to mine, as well—and whatever the general thinks, I know what I know. I’ll stand by my original statement.” He tossed back his drink, then stood, gave a mock bow, and strode from the room, a smug expression on his face.

  “Damned cheek,” muttered Blitzkrieg, and he sipped from his own drink. But suddenly it lacked bite—had the ice diluted it that quickly?—and the smoke of his cigar smelled stale. He stared around the room, looking for someone else to argue with. Nothing like a good fight to get the spirits up. But the other officers in the circle around him had somehow drifted away, and suddenly he didn’t feel like arguing after all. He stubbed out the cigar, retrieved his hat, and stalked out, still muttering to himself.

  * * *

  The communicator buzzed, and Willard Phule looked up from the screen of his Port-a-Brain computer. “What is it, Mother?” he asked. From the displays, this was a Priority Three call: nothing urgent, but important enough not to defer, either.

  “You’ll never guess, lover boy,�
� said the comm operator. “There’s a ship entering Zenobia orbit just now. It’s bringing just what we’ve all been waiting for.”

  “That could be a lot of different things, depending on who you’re asking,” said Phule. Inevitably, he thought of the promotion he’d been assured the Alliance Senate had approved for him, but that had yet to be confirmed by his Legion superiors. Legion tradition mandated a real letter, on actual paper, to confirm promotions. It had occurred to him that General Blitzkrieg might have sent the promotion notice across the parsecs separating Legion Headquarters and Zenobia by some lowest-priority uncrewed freight carrier, chugging its way at sublight speeds from one system to another.

  But that way lay insanity … he snapped back to the present. “Don’t keep me guessing, Mother,” he said. “What are we getting?”

  He could practically hear the pout as she answered. “All right, big boy, if that’s the way you want to be. But just you wait—next time you need something from me, I might not be so sweet about it.”

  Phule suppressed a sigh. “Give me a hint, Mother. Person, place, or thing?”

  “Silly boy,” came the answer. “Nobody could send us a place.”

  “Uh, they could send us to a place,” said Phule. “A new assignment, get it? But I take it that’s not what we’re getting.”

  “Right.” She waited. Then, after a long silence followed by a resigned sigh, “OK, it’s a person.”

  “A person. Hmmm …” Phule tried to think of somebody he’d been waiting for, without success. “Uh, male or female?”

  “Female, not that that’ll help you much,” said Mother, smugly.

  Female, thought Phule. Who could it be? Not likely his mother, or his grandmother. Colonel Battleax had been his strongest supporter among the Legion brass, but she was hardly anybody the company had been waiting for … “Uh … Jennie Higgins?” he guessed. The pretty young newstaper who’d put Omega Company in the headlines was a favorite with the troops—and a favorite with Phule himself, now that he thought of her.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” teased Mother, who knew of his interest in the reporter. “But you’re still way off base. Do you give up?”

  “Yeah, I guess so, Mother,” said Phule. “Who is it?”

  “Headquarters is sending us a medic,” said Mother. “How about that?”

  “A medic,” Phule said. “Now, that’s interesting. I wouldn’t think a company-sized unit rated a medic. Considering what the brass thinks of us, I’m surprised they let us have an autodoc.”

  “Considering the company’s safety record, I’m surprised they don’t station us in an emergency ward,” said Mother dryly. “But there’s one more wrinkle you ought to know about, sweetie. Who do you think our new medic is?”

  Phule frowned. “Good grief, Mother, how am I supposed to guess that? All I know is that it’s someone in the Legion, a female, and that she’s trained as a medic …”

  Beeker, who’d been quietly working at his Port-a-Brain computer while Phule spoke to Mother, suddenly sat straight up in his seat, and exclaimed, “By Jove! You can’t mean … It couldn’t possibly be …”

  Phule stared at him in confusion. “Gee, Beeks, do you know somebody who fits that description? I can’t for the life of me come up with any good guesses.”

  “It’s not a guess, sir. It’s a near certainty,” said Beeker, swiveling his chair round to face his employer. “Perhaps you recall the circumstances of our departure from Lorelei. I came aboard the shuttle with a last-minute refugee …”

  Phule turned an uncomprehending look on his butler. “A last-minute refugee?” he asked. Then his eyes opened wide. “Laverna?”

  “Laverna,” said Beeker, nodding slightly.

  “You got it, boys,” said Mother. “But don’t call her that; her Legion name is Nightingale.”

  “How do you know it’s her, then?” said Phule.

  “Silly, they sent her personnel file, with a holo,” said Mother. “I don’t care what name she’s using; there’s nobody else with that face.”

  “Nightingale,” said Beeker softly. Hearing the tone in his butler’s voice, Phule looked over at Beeker with raised eyebrows. A stranger might not have noticed anything. But to Phule, who’d had the butler in his employ for the better part of a decade, the softness seemed completely alien to Beeker’s normal brisk inflections.

  “Nightingale,” said Beeker again. There was a faraway look in his eyes. That’s when Phule should have realized just how much trouble he was in.

  * * *

  In the open parade ground near the center of Zenobia Base, a dozen legionnaires stood chewing the fat. A heavy but muscular woman with first sergeant’s stripes on the sleeve of her black jumpsuit emerged from the barracks module and strode over to them. Several of the group glanced in her direction, but otherwise they ignored her approach until she shouted, “All right, squad, fall in. Let’s see if you can act like real legionnaires for fifteen minutes.”

  To Sergeant Brandy’s surprise, the training group the captain had put her in charge of actually obeyed her order. This was unusual. There must be some insidious purpose lurking behind her trainees’ stolid expressions. They almost never fell in without some kind of argument or delaying tactic. She glared suspiciously—particularly at Mahatma, usually the head conspirator when the squad decided to show her its independence from military discipline. The squad seemed to think she needed some such demonstration two or three times a week … if not more often.

  Brandy scowled. “I can tell you gripgrops are planning something,” she growled. “And unless you’ve suddenly gotten twice as clever as you think you are, you’re planning something really stupid.” That was an exaggeration—when pressed, Brandy privately conceded that some of the recruits’ stunts revealed a rare, twisted creativity—but she didn’t want to give them any encouragement. They were doing just fine without her help. And if they’d focus the same kind of creativity toward their actual jobs … but in the Omega Mob, that was asking for too much.

  A hand was raised: Mahatma’s. No surprise there, thought Brandy. For a moment, she considered ignoring the little legionnaire … but that would just be postponing the inevitable trouble. Best to get it over with. “You have a question, Mahatma?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Brandy!” said Mahatma with a beatific smile on his round, bespectacled face. “We have all heard that Headquarters is sending Omega Company a medic.”

  “That’s the truth, I got it straight from Mother,” said someone else in the formation—Slayer, thought Brandy, who had learned to recognize the voices of the legionnaires in her training squad even when they muttered, or when several were speaking at once.

  “Yes, we’re getting a medic,” said Brandy. “It’s a step up from the autodoc—a lot more personal treatment.”

  “But the autodoc is very good,” said Mahatma. “I have used it, and so have most of the company. I don’t think anyone has complained that it didn’t heal us.”

  “No, I don’t remember any complaints,” said Brandy. If past history was any indicator—and Brandy would have given good odds that it was—Mahatma was working his way slowly up to some still-unstated point. Just what the point was probably wouldn’t be clear until he got there. There probably wasn’t any way to hurry him, but still … “What are you getting at, Mahatma?” she asked.

  The little legionnaire continued to smile, his round face and round glasses giving the effect of a bright-beaming sun. “If the autodoc does such a good job, there should not be any reason for us to get a medic,” he said. Heads around him nodded. Brandy had to give Mahatma points for persuasiveness. That, in fact, was the main problem of having him in her squad. She seemed to spend half her time trying to refute his points.

  “Uh, the captain told us that this particular medic had requested assignment to Omega,” said Brandy. “So there isn’t any reason to go hunting for other reasons,” she concluded, realizing even as she said it that it sounded unconvincing even to her.

>   But to her surprise, Mahatma nodded. “Ah, very well, then,” he said. “If that is the entire reason, there is nothing to worry about.” And he shut his mouth and stood there. Brandy nearly fell over from the shock. Mahatma had to be planning something really obnoxious if he let her off the hook this easily …

  Then she shrugged. Whatever it was would come along at its own pace, whether she knew it was coming or not. She looked down at her clipboard and went on to the first item on her agenda for the day. “One announcement,” she said. “The captain has assigned buddies for those members of the company not previously paired with someone. The following are now officially paired: Brick and Street; Roadkill and Lace; Mahatma and Thumper …” She ignored the exclamations from the troops and finished the list. Then, not without some trepidation, she asked, “Any questions?”

  Thumper’s hand went up. The little Lepoid was by a long shot the least likely to cause trouble on any given occasion, so Brandy gave an inward sigh of relief and pointed to him. “Thumper?”

  “Sergeant, I don’t understand ‘buddies’,” said Thumper. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mahatma—it’s not as if I don’t think you’re a good legionnaire …”

  “Brandy don’t think so, neither,” said a voice from the back. The rest of the squad broke out laughing as Thumper tried to recover.

  “The idea of buddies is to give everybody in the company somebody to fall back on when there’s trouble,” said Brandy. “The captain tries to pick somebody you can learn from, too. That’s why Sushi and Do-Wop are partners …”

  “Huh!” said Street, his eyes widening. “Buddies is partners. Now I understand. I always wonder why they two be buddies. Now it all makin’ sense. That Sushi, he got a lot to learn …”

  * * *

  “The sheer impertinence of that damned SFer,” rumbled Blitzkrieg. It was the morning after the Officers’ Club encounter, but the incident still rankled. The general had been stomping around the office and haranguing his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk, for most of the morning. She’d barely had time to glance at her stock portfolio.