No Phule Like an Old Phule Read online

  "Code Red, sweetie," came the familiar voice, with an edge of urgency Phule hadn't heard before.

  "Code Red?" he asked, feeling stupid. "But that means..."

  Mother's answer removed any doubt. "The desert search team is under attack!"

  "ALL RIGHT, YOU SLOBS, COME GET YER ASSIGNMENTS TO YER NEW UNITS," bellowed Sergeant Pitbull. He waved a thick sheaf of regulation Legion envelopes in his hand, presumably one for each of the recruits in his platoon.

  The recruits came to their feet in an excited babble of voices. This was the moment they'd all been waiting for the next step in their Legion careers. It meant, for one thing, that the recruits would now go on to the specialized training they'd requested when they'd joined the Legion, rather than an endless round of bodybuilding exercises and mindless drill under Pitbull's relentless eye. In fact, for most of them, just getting away from Pitbull was sufficient cause for celebration. Whatever else Legion life held for them, it was likely to be an improvement over basic training.

  Thumper rose to his feet without particular enthusiasm. Whatever camaraderie he'd felt for his fellow recruits had vanished when he'd realized what had happened to him during General Blitzkrieg's inspection visit. Somebody had deliberately set him up to take the blame for the insult to the general-possibly more than one somebody had set him up, in fact. He'd spent a long time trying to plead his innocence, and a longer time in a punishment detail. He suspected that only his perfect record in all the exercises leading up to the incident with the general had kept him from being drummed out of the Legion then and there. But Sergeant Pitbull had made it amply clear that the consequences were far from over. And one of those consequences was almost certainly going to be reflected in his first assignment. Now, it looked as if there was no chance for him to end up in the elite unit he'd requested upon enlistment...

  Pitbull read each recruit's name and their assignments as he handed them their letters. "POPPER-FORT KABOOM," he barked. Popper, a dumpy, shortsighted humanoid from Tau Ceti IV, beamed---ever since he'd arrived in camp, he'd been talking about how much he enjoyed blowing things up. Now, at the Legion's demolitions training school, he'd get a chance to do it on a grand scale.

  "SPIDER-YOU'RE ON TEAM REGULUS," said Pitbull. That was a good assignment, too, and fit Spider's personality. Team Regulus was the Legion's Home Guard unit, sharing ceremonial duties at-Alliance Headquarters with elite groups from the Regular Army and Starfteet. The assignment had more to do with spit and polish than with fighting ability, but that made it all the more a plum for many legionnaires.

  Several of the recruits were sent to advanced training in various behind-the lines specialties, but at least half of them went to advanced combat training with frontline units. This was the core of the Legion's mission, of course, and Thumper had nurtured hopes, even after the disaster with General Blitzkrieg, of getting into an outfit where he could prove his worth again from the ground up-despite the fact that, as far as he knew, there were no ongoing wars anywhere in Alliance territory in which to display his martial prowess.

  After most of the names had been read, Thumper began to suspect that Pitbull was saving his name for last-he'd seen him shuffle through the envelopes, obviously picking the order in which he wanted to announce assignments. This was annoying, but there was nothing Thumper could really do about it. Until the recruits were placed on a transport ship to their new units, Pitbull was still their immediate superior and could order them around as he saw fit. Being a drill instructor, he usually saw fit to do so in the most sadistic way possible. This batch of recruits would soon be gone from Mussina's World and Legion boot camp forever-or so they devoutly hoped. But Pitbull wasn't about to pass up his final opportunity to torture and humiliate them.

  Finally, the last envelope was in the sergeant's hand. He grinned crookedly and held it up to the light. By now, all the recruits were aware whose envelope it was, and curiosity was even stronger than their excitement over their own assignments. Pitbull waited for silence, then announced with a flourish: "THUMPER-OMEGA COMPANY!"

  "Omega Company?" Thumper was stunned. As short a time as they'd been in the Legion, all the recruits had heard rumors about Omega Company. Once the dumping ground for all the misfits and malcontents of the Legion, it had been taken over by a new commander, who reportedly had turned it around. Omega Company was in the news; in this boring interval between real fighting action, it was getting sent to interesting places. It was exactly the sort of assignment Thumper had hoped for. "Excuse me, Sergeant, is that correct?"

  "YER *%!!@#-A IT'S CORRECT, RECRUIT!" Pitbull roared. "THE GENERAL INSISTED ON IT, AND THAT'S RIGHT WHERE YOUR SORRY ASS IS GOIN'! THAT CONCLUDES THE ASSIGNMENTS! AS YOU WERE, YOU SLOBS! DON'T LET ME CATCH ANYBODY GOOFING OFF-I CAN STILL HAND OUT PUNISHMENT DETAIL!" And Pitbull turned on his heel and stalked away.

  "Under attack?" Suddenly Phule's adrenaline began to surge, and the focus of his attention narrowed to a pinpoint. "Attack by whom? Can you patch them through to me?"

  "I couldn't hear who the attackers were," said Mother.

  "All I got was a message from the team saying that somebody-or something-was attacking them. There was a lot of noise, but 1 couldn't tell exactly what was happening. The signal keeps breaking up, and 1 don't think they have a whole lot of time to chat with us, anyway. But hold on. I'll see if 1 can raise them again and put you through."

  "I'll be ready," said Phule. He became aware that he was on his feet, although he had no memory of rising from his desk chair. In the corridor outside his office, he could hear the sound of running feet. "Meanwhile, sound General Quarters," he ordered. "I want every available member of the company ready to go bail them. out." He turned to Moustache and Beeker, who had both heard the entire ,conversation. "Sergeant, get a relief party together without delay. I'll give you your orders as soon as 1 know what needs to be done. Beeker grab me those stereoculars we're going out to see if we can't spot somethin'."

  "Yes, sir!" said the two men, practically in unison, but Phule was already out the doorway, running at top speed. Turning to a shelf just behind the captain's desk, Beeker picked the stereoculars in their case and followed him out the door, a step behind Moustache. Somewhere down the corridor an alarm was sounding.

  Outside, Beeker could see that word of the attack had already gotten out. A small pack of legionnaires was milling about on the south edge of the base; many of them carrying weapons and wearing helmets, others looking as if they'd been dragged out of the showers by the alert. Spotting them, Moustache nodded and strode off purposefully in their direction. For his part, Phule was sprinting toward a short observation tower at the center of the base.

  Again, Beeker followed, attempting to make as much speed as he could without abandoning the last vestiges of dignity.

  By the time the butler reached the base of the tower, Phule was already at its top, shading his eyes with one hand and staring out into the desert. Resignedly, Beeker put the strap of the stereoculars case over his shoulder and began climbing the ladder. Below, he could hear voices shouting, and a vibration in the ladder indicated that someone else was climbing up behind him. Gritting his teeth, he finished the climb and put the case in Phule's outstretched hand. Looking to the south, just over a kilometer away, he saw a small cloud of dust--or was it smoke?-along a line of native "trees," but nothing else he could clearly identify.

  "What can you make out, Captain?" said Lieutenant Armstrong, who was the one who'd followed Beeker up the ladder.

  "Not much, yet," said Phule, peering through the stereoculars. "Hard to see through the heat haze and dust..." He was interrupted by his communicator's buzz. "Jester here, go ahead," he said, lowering the stereoculars and boosting the volume so the others on the tower could hear clearly.

  "I'm getting a signal from the desert search team, Captain," said Mother's voice, now more urgent than sultry. "Stand by..."

  "Captain, do you read me?" a voice crackled through the speaker. It had the kind of mechanical infle
ction characteristic of an autotranslator, and Beeker thought he recognized it as Spartacus, one of the two Synthians with the company.

  Sluglike aliens, they were dependent on mechanical transportation to keep up with their fellow legionnaires of other species. Phule had discovered that glide-boards, a common children's antigrav toy, gave them maximum mobility at a bargain price.

  "Loud and clear, Spartacus," said Phule. "What's your situation there? Anybody hurt?"

  There was a blare of noise that Phule couldn't quite identify, then Spartacus's voice came through again...has us treed. Don't... hostile sophont or..." More noise drowned out whatever Spartacus said.

  "There shouldn't be this much interference over such a short distance," muttered Armstrong. "If it weren't for that damned stand of trees, and all the dust, I think we could see them directly from here."

  "Spartacus, I can barely follow you," said Phule, raising the communicator to his mouth again. "If you can hear this, just hold tight. Don't fire unless fired upon. I'm sending out a rescue party. Do you read?"

  "... Captain..." came the Synthian's voice, in a cloud of static.

  "All right, Mr. Armstrong, I'm going to lead the relief party," said Phule, thumbing the communicator's "off" button. "With comm on the fritz, we'll have to rely on visual signals. If I fire a green flare, everything's under control. If I fire a white on, send the autodoc. A red one..." He paused...

  "Yes, sir?" said Armstrong. "A red one means?"

  I'm hoping I won't need a red one," said Phule. "But if you see it, come after us as fast as possible with everything you've got." He tucked the stereoculars under his arm and began climbing down the ladder, two rungs at a stride.

  "Victor Phule!" said Lola, staring at the readout of the hotel room's Netlink. "That's the fellow playing the highpriced slots!" She'd run a routine IMageBase search on the stealthcam image she'd acquired of the man she'd met in the casino, but she knew better than to expect any clear result. To her surprise, it had given her an 83% positive ID almost at once-Victor Phule, munitions tycoon.

  "Stuck-up-looking old bugger," muttered Ernie, lying back on the hotel bed and peering around Lola's shoulder at the computer screen.

  "More to the point, he's the father of the man we're looking to grab," said Lola, pointing at the text underneath the picture. "Not to overlook the fact that he's one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy. You can think what you want about him, but he can afford to be stuck-up. And we can't afford to ignore what it must mean for him to be here."

  "OK, I'll bite," said Ernie, managing to look somewhat more interested. "What do you think it means that he's here on Lorelei? Rich guys like to gamble, too-like I been telling you, Lola. If you'd give me enough money to get into a few of the big-money games..."

  "Oh, encapsulate it," said Lola. "The point is, there can only be a few possible reasons why he'd be at the casino. And the most likely is that young Phule himself is out of commission somehow-in fact, that would explain why the casino had set up that robot to impersonate him."

  "Maybe," said Ernie, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "But what about all those newstapes we keep seeing, of Captain Jester at the Landoor amusement park, and Captain Jester greeting those mechanical beings on some three-for-a-buck planet way the hell off the main spacelanes? Those can't all be fakes, can they?"

  Lola frowned. "Well, maybe not all of them. But one thing I've learned, over the years-when you want to find out what's really going on in some racket, always look at where the money comes from and who it goes to. We all know the Fat Chance is the place where one enormous pile of money comes from. And if the people it goes to aren't right here to make sure they get what's coming to them, they're too stupid to deserve any of it. That means Willard Phule has got to be here somewhere. All we have to do is figure out where, and then make our snatch."

  "Yeah, like it's that easy," said Ernie. "Why don't we snatch the old man, instead? Hell, he's got more bucks than the kid-and he ain't got the whole army gum-ding him, either." He began picking at an annoying nose hair, squinting at himself in the bedside mirror.

  "Stop that," said Lola, swatting at his hand. Then, recalling her encounter with Victor Phule, she added, "And don't be sure the old man'd be so easy to snatch. When I spotted him, he had at least one obvious bodyguard with him-and I don't know how many more that I didn't spot. The man can afford the best, and he's in a business where he probably has plenty of job applicants with relevant experience. And I wouldn't bet a nickel that the Legion guards don't have special instructions about keeping an eye on their boss's father, either."

  "No bet," conceded Ernie. Then, turning his hands palm up and spreading them apart, he said, "But if the job's that tough, what the hell are 'we even doin' here? We oughta just head for the most back-ass planet on the map, or maybe even off the map, and go to cover. I don't see no percentage in sticking around here if we can't do the job especially with the enforcers looking to wale on us if we can't deliver."

  "Oh, I'm not giving up on the job," said Lola, placing a forefinger against her cheek. "In fact, I think it looks better than ever for us, with the father here as well as the son. That gives us two likely targets, instead of just one. And it boosts our chances another way, too--because there are -twice as many of them to guard, there's more chance for their security to slip up. We've got to study the situation just a little more, and then I'll come up with a plan..."

  "You'll come up with a plan?" said Ernie. "It was your brilliant plan that backfired the first time and got us in this mess to begin with. Why don't I ever get to make the farkin' plans?"

  "Because you'd fark 'em up," said Lola, bluntly. "I mean, 1 won't claim everything's been a screaming success, or any other kind, so far. But if you'd been in charge, we'd both be behind bars somewhere-assuming Mr. V and his goons didn't catch with us first"

  Ernie scowled "That reminds me. I never did figure out why, if Mr. V and whoever he works for-"

  "Which, believe me, you don't want to know," interjected Lola. "

  "OK, OK," said Ernie. "But tell me this: if those wise guys can run us down anyplace we escape to, why the hell do they need us to snatch Willard Phule? Why don't they just go snatch him themselves?"

  Lola shook her head. "You really don't understand that? Just think about it. What goes wrong if we get caught?"

  "If we're lucky, we get a vacation on some prison colony, making rocks into sand," said Ernie. "If we're unlucky, we get made into sand."

  "That's about right," said Lola. "But the people who are springing for us to kidnap Phule have got a lot to lose. So they're deflecting the risk by hiring us, and making sure there's no paper trail back to them. And that's why we can't afford to know who they are-because if we do, we're too dangerous."

  "Hey, dangerous-that's me, all right," said Ernie, puffing up his chest and striking a muscle-man pose. "

  "Yeah, well just be careful you don't get yourself in more trouble than you can get out of," said Lola, exasperated. "These people play rough, or have you forgotten that?"

  "All right, you win," said Ernie. "But this time, if I don't think the plan's gonna work, I'm gonna let you know up front. I'm not as stupid as you think."

  "Oh, you couldn't be," said Lola, smiling broadly. Before Ernie could figure that out; she added, "But for now, I need you to stay out of sight and relax-I've got to run out and do some spying."

  "Spying? Who on?"

  "Why, the big bird and the little bird," said Lola, opening the door and turning back to face Ernie. "And with a little bit of luck, we may even catch them both." Before Ernie could come up with an answer to that, she was out the door and gone.

  Phule was pleased to see that Moustache had the rescue party lined up in good order near the camp perimeter. He was even more pleased to see how many of the company had turned out on such short notice, fully equipped and ready for action. But that posed a problem in its own right. Taking the bulk of his available force into an unknown situation was risking disaster.


  "All right, people, listen up," he said. "We're going to break into two parties. One will go with me to see what's happening out there in the desert. The other's going to guard the camp in case this is some kind of diversion; Lieutenant Armstrong will command that party."

  Phule quickly chose a dozen legionnaires to join him in the rescue party. There were plenty-of volunteers to choose from-every single legionnaire present wanted to go to the aid of their comrades. Phule made it a point to include the three Gambolts, whose Speed and fighting ability would be a particular asset against an unknown threat. But he was careful to leave a core of proven legionnaires with Armstrong-not only to protect against a surprise attack, but to act as a reserve rescue party in case his group couldn't finish the job. He didn't think that was going to be necessary. On the other hand, he didn't think a red flare was going to be necessary, either-but he had one in his belt.

  "All right, people," he said. "The plan is to get out there as quickly as we can, so we'll take the personnel carrier. When we're about a hundred meters short, 1 want you three Gambolts to get off and scout ahead on foot. We'll come in at walking speed behind you. If any of you signals, or if there's any sign of danger, we'll pick up speed again and do whatever we need to. Since we don't know what we're getting into, be alert for my orders. Any questions?"

  "I have a question, sir," said Mahatma, raising his hand. The little recruit's round face had its usual mellow expression, which, in combination with a raised hand, almost always spelled trouble.

  Phule mentally chastised himself-he should have remembered Mahatma's tendency to question everything a superior said to him. But he'd already opened that door by choosing the little recruit for the rescue team, so he had no choice but to deal with what came through it. "Yes, Mahatma, what is it?" he asked, as patiently as he could manage.

  "I notice that we are heading in the direction of the AEIOU inspectors' camp," said Mahatma. "Should we not warn them that we are about to mount an operation in their vicinity?"