The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 11

  “Hmm? Oh. Sorry, Charlie, a little distracted there. The Sinthians are … well, you must have seen them on duty. They’re the nonhumans with the eyestalks and the spindly arms.”

  “The little fellahs? Sure, I know ’em. Nice little guys once you get the hang of listenin’ to ’em. Tell you what, Captain. Can I talk to that Beeker fellah on your communicator for a second?”

  The commander only hesitated a second before agreeing.

  “Certainly, Charlie. Just a second here.”

  He quickly punched Beeker’s com number into his wrist communicator.

  “Beeker here.”

  “Beeker, this is Jester again. Charlie has something he’d like to say to you.”

  He extended his arm to Daniels, pointing at the microphone with his other hand.

  “You there, Beeker?” the miner called, unconsciously raising his voice as if trying to cover the distance with volume.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you happen to know if one of the tailors you’ve got down there is named Giuseppe?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. If you’ll hold for a moment, I’ll—”

  “Short little guy. His face looks like a raisin with a moustache.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s here.”

  “Well, you go over there and tell him that Charlie Daniels says that if he can’t manage to fit uniforms on those little aliens—or a bowling ball, or a pile of gelatin, for that matter—well, then, I guess I’ve been braggin’ about the wrong tailor to the commander up here. You tell him that for me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Daniels leaned back and winked at Phule.

  “There. I guess that ought to do it.”

  “Jester out,” the commander said into the communicator, signing off before shutting the unit down. “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “Glad I could help,” the miner said, setting his glass down and rising to his feet. “Don’t you go worrying about our insurance, either. I figure we’ll be able to work something out if it ever comes to that. Seems to me like you’re going to have all you can handle just worryin’ about that crew of yours. On that little chore, I wish you luck!”

  * * *

  Of course, my employer did considerably more than simply worry about the Legionnaires under him. Particularly in those early days of his command, he pushed himself mercilessly in his efforts to learn about the individuals that made up the company. As an example, the same day that started early with the call from Headquarters and that he first stood duty with the company and issued their new uniforms and met with Charlie Daniels about the use of the scanners, rather than call it a day, and a busy one at that, my employer summoned his junior officers for a late night meeting.

  * * *

  “To get started,” the commander said, leaning forward in his chair, “let me reiterate that the reason for this meeting is to gain further insight and understanding into the individual Legionnaires we command by pooling our thoughts and observations. While the Legionnaires themselves can pick and choose whom to avoid and whom to be friends with during off-duty hours, as officers we are not allowed that privilege. We have to work with and utilize every individual in the company, whether we like him or her personally or not, and to do that we have to know whom and what it is we’re dealing with. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Phule hid his wince at the stiff response by rubbing his eyes as if tired—a gesture he did not have to fake. While he had tried to make his lieutenants comfortable on the penthouse sofa, and it was obvious they were more at ease with each other than when he had first spoken with them, it was equally obvious that they were still tense and nervous in the presence of their commanding officer.

  “Also, let me apologize for the hour. I know it’s late, but I wanted to do the first pass on the list while our memories were still fresh from today’s duty, particularly mine.”

  He flashed a quick grin at the lieutenants, which was not returned. The commander sighed inwardly and abandoned his efforts to lighten the mood of the meeting. He’d just have to rely on time and familiarity to loosen the lieutenants up.

  “All right. I notice you have quite a few notes, Lieutenant Rembrandt. Let’s start with your observations.”

  Rembrandt stiffened slightly and shot a quick glance around the room as if either hoping he was addressing someone else or looking for an escape route.

  “Me, sir? I … Where would you like me to begin?”

  Phule shrugged. “Your choice. We’re going to discuss everyone sooner or later, so it really doesn’t matter whom we start with … And Lieutenant?”

  “Sir?”

  “Try to relax a little. This is just an informal chat to kick around our thoughts. Okay?”

  Rembrandt drew a slow, deep breath, then nodded.

  “Well, I should probably admit that a lot of information I have, I got from talking to Brandy, the first sergeant. I … I’m still trying to get a handle on a lot of the troops myself, and I thought it would be a good starting point.”

  The commander nodded. “Sound thinking. The noncoms work the closest with the Legionnaires, so we should listen to what they have to say whenever they’re willing to share their thoughts. Go ahead.”

  “Probably the best approach would be to start with some of our more unusual Legionnaires,” Rembrandt began, starting to relax a bit. “It’s my guess that we’ll be spending a lot of time trying to figure out what to do with or about them, so we might as well start early.”

  She paused to flip through her notes, then settled on a page.

  “Proceeding on that basis, the one I personally have the biggest problem getting a fix on is one of the wimps. She has—”

  “One of the what?”

  The words burst from Phule’s lips before he actually had time to think. Both the lieutenants started visibly, and the commander mentally cursed himself. So much for a relaxed meeting.

  “The … the wimps, sir. That’s how Brandy refers to them, anyway. When we were talking, she separated the problem Legionnaires into two groups: the wimps and the hard cases.”

  “I see.”

  The commander seesawed mentally for a few moments as the lieutenants watched him in silence. Finally he shook his head and sighed.

  “It’s tempting to let it go to keep the meeting relaxed,” he said, “and I do want you both to feel comfortable speaking freely. You touched a nerve, though, Rembrandt, and I can’t just ignore it. I don’t want any of the company’s leadership, officer or noncom, to fall into the habit of referring to the company or any subgroup in it by derogatory terms. It tends to influence our own views and attitudes, and even if we manage to resist that trap ourselves, anyone overhearing us will think, with some justification, that we hold the Legionnaires in contempt. I want you—both of you—to actively resist the temptation of forming that habit and to work at breaking whatever habits along those lines you’ve gotten into. Everyone in the company deserves our respect, and if we have trouble giving it, it’s because we haven’t studied them long enough, not because there’s something wrong with them. Agreed?”

  The lieutenants nodded slowly.

  “Good. For that matter, Rembrandt, I want you to talk to Brandy about her speech patterns. She’s probably the worst violator of all of us.”

  “Me, sir?” Rembrandt paled. It was clear she did not relish the thought of confronting the company’s formidable first sergeant.

  “I’ll take care of it for you, Remmie,” Armstrong volunteered, jotting a quick note on his pad.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Armstrong,” Phule said levelly, “but I’d rather have Lieutenant Rembrandt handle it herself.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Phule studied Armstrong’s stiff posture, then shook his head.

  “No, Lieutenant, I don’t think you do. I said thank you and I meant it. I really do appreciate your offer. It shows that the two of you are starting to help each other out, and normally I’d encourage it.”

>   He leaned forward earnestly.

  “It’s not that I don’t think you could handle talking to Brandy, it’s that I specifically think Rembrandt should do it … for two reasons. First, she was the one who mentioned the labels Brandy’s using. If you—or I, for that matter—approach Brandy on something Rembrandt said, it leaves the impression that she’s reporting things to us for disciplinary action, which would undermine her efforts to establish herself as an authority figure. I need two junior officers, not one junior officer and an informer. Second, Rembrandt, it’s important to you to address these problems yourself. Sure, Brandy’s intimidating and I don’t think anyone in the room would relish the idea of butting heads with her, but if I let you hide behind either Armstrong or me, you’re never going to grit your teeth and take the plunge yourself, which means you’ll never build the confidence you need to be an effective officer. That’s why I want you to be the one to talk to Brandy.”

  He made eye contact with the lieutenants one at a time, and they nodded their agreement.

  “As to how to talk to Brandy, if you’ll accept a little unasked-for advice, I’d suggest that you simply avoid approaching it as a confrontation. Oh, I know you’ll be nervous, but make it casual and conversational. It’s my guess she’ll go along with it without realizing her habits have been a subject for conversation among us. The less we have to resort to orders and threats, the smoother this company will run.”

  “I’ll try, Captain.”

  “Good.” The commander nodded briskly. “Enough said on that subject. Now then, before I interrupted you, you were starting to say something about the Legionnaire you have the most trouble getting a fix on?”

  “Oh. Right,” Rembrandt said, rummaging in her notes again. “The one I was thinking of was Rose.”

  “Rose?” Armstrong snorted. “You mean Shrinking Violet.”

  “That’s what the other Legionnaires call her,” Rembrandt agreed.

  Phule frowned. “I don’t think I’ve met her yet.”

  “Not surprising,” Rembrandt said. “If you had, you’d probably remember her. Rose, or Shrinking Violet, has to be the shyest person I’ve ever met in my life bar none. It’s impossible to carry on a conversation with her. All she does is mumble and look the other way.”

  “I’ve given up trying to talk to her,” Armstrong put in, “and from what I can see, so has everyone else in the company. I mean, she’s a good-looking woman, and when she arrived a lot of the guys tried to get to know her better, but you get tired of being treated like you’re Jack the Ripper.”

  “It’s the same with the women,” Rembrandt said. “Everybody seems to make her nervous. Heck, it’s easier to deal with the nonhumans. At least they’ll meet you halfway.”

  “Interesting,” the commander murmured thoughtfully. “I’ll have to try to talk with her myself.”

  Armstrong grimaced. “Lots of luck, Captain. If you can get her to say half a dozen words, it’ll be more than she’s said since she arrived.”

  “Speaking of the nonhumans,” Phule said, “I wanted to bounce a thought off the two of you. Specifically I want to split the two Sinthians when we assign team pairs. I figure it’s hard for humans to relate to and interact with nonhumans. If we team the two of them, it will only make them that much harder to approach. The only problem is, I’m not sure how the Sinthians will react to being separated. What are your thoughts?”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about them complaining, Captain.” Armstrong grinned, winking at Rembrandt. “Do you, Remmie?”

  “Well,” his partner replied in a mock drawl, “I don’t expect it’ll be a problem.”

  The commander glanced back and forth at the two of them.

  “I get the feeling I’m missing a joke here.”

  “The truth is, Captain,” Rembrandt supplied, “the two of them don’t get along particularly well.”

  “They don’t?”

  “The way it is, sir,” Armstrong said, “is that apparently there’s a real class prejudice problem on their home world. Both of them headed off-world to get away from conditions.”

  “Their names kinda say it all,” Rembrandt continued. “One of them, Spartacus, is a product of the lower class, while Louie, which I believe is short for Louis the XIV, is rooted in the aristocracy. Both of them joined the Legion thinking they would never have to deal with someone from the hated ‘other class,’ and you can imagine how overjoyed they were when they both got assigned to this outfit.”

  “I see. How much does their mutual dislike affect their performance?”

  “Actually they’re pretty civilized about it,” Rembrandt said. “It’s not like they get violent or anything. They just avoid each other when possible, and maybe glare and mutter a bit when they can’t. At least, I think that’s what they’re doing. Between their eyestalks and the translators, it’s a little hard to tell.”

  “The bottom line, though, Captain, is that I don’t think they’ll object to being assigned other partners.” Armstrong grinned.

  “Fair enough.” Phule ticked off an item on his list. “All right. Who’s next?”

  * * *

  The mood of the meeting had relaxed considerably when the commander finally called a halt to the proceedings. All three officers were punchy with fatigue and tended to giggle disproportionately at the lamest attempt at humor.

  Phule was pleased with the results as he ushered his junior officers to the door. The long meeting had drawn them closer together, where it could just as easily have put them at each other’s throats.

  “Sorry again about losing track of the time,” he told them. “Tell you what. Sleep late tomorrow and we’ll pick it up again at noon.”

  The two lieutenants groaned dramatically.

  “And hey! Nice work … both of you.”

  “‘Nice work,’ he says,” Armstrong said, making a face at his partner. “I didn’t think we were going to get a pat on the back until we fell over from exhaustion. Of course, tomorrow we get to pick up where we left off.”

  “He’s just saying that because we knew some things he didn’t,” Rembrandt countered owlishly. “Once he’s squeezed us dry, we’ll be cast aside and forgotten.”

  Phule joined in their laughter.

  “Go on, get some sleep. Both of you. You’re going to need your strength before I get done with you.”

  “Seriously, Captain, what’s the rush?” Rembrandt said, propping herself against the wall. “What happened to our relaxed, informal sessions of note comparing?”

  “You put your finger on it a minute ago,” the commander told her. “You two know some things about the troops that I don’t. I want to get as much information out of you as I can before we run everybody through the confidence course day after tomorrow—well, tomorrow, actually.”

  He glanced up from his watch to find the lieutenants staring at him, all trace of humor gone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Armstrong cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, Captain. Did you say we were running the confidence course the day after tomorrow?”

  “That’s right. Didn’t I mention it to you?”

  Phule tried to focus his mind to separate what he had and hadn’t said during the last several hours.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Sorry. I thought I had. I told the construction crew to give top priority to completing the new confidence course, and the word is that they finished work on it today.”

  “You mean you expect our company to run a confidence course?” Rembrandt seemed to be hoping she had heard wrong.

  “Of course. We’ve got them looking like soldiers. It’s about time we started working toward getting them to act and feel like soldiers, don’t you agree?”

  For the first time that night there was no automatic chorus of assent. Instead, the two lieutenants just stood looking at him as if he had grown another head.

  Chapter Seven

  Journal File #087

  For those of
you who are like me, which is to say dyed-in-the-wool civilians, and therefore unfamiliar with the stuffy quaintness of military jargon, you should at least be made aware that it is a fantasy language all its own, specifically designed to hide its activities and attitudes beneath officious blandness. (My own personal favorite is referring to casualties as inoperative combat units.) Such is the case with the so-called confidence course.

  What it is, is a path strewn with obstacles at regular intervals which the soldiers are to traverse in the least possible amount of time. In short, it’s what normal people would refer to as an obstacle course. It is no accident, however, that military personnel are never referred to as “normal people.” Somewhere in their hidden past (you notice no one in the military ever writes about it until after they’ve retired, or shortly before) it was decided to change the image of the old obstacle course. Rather than change the course, they opted to change the name. The theory was that it would be more acceptable to those it was inflicted upon if they understood its function, which is “to increase the soldier’s self-confidence by demonstrating to him (or her) that he (or she) can function successfully under adverse conditions.” This, of course, assumes that said soldier is able to successfully negotiate the prescribed course.

  Personally I would have questioned the wisdom of my employer’s use of the confidence course as a means of establishing or reestablishing the self-esteem of the individuals under his command … had I been asked. After reviewing their files, not to mention experiencing the dubious pleasure of viewing and meeting them in person, I would have had serious doubts as to their ability to successfully tie their own shoelaces, much less negotiate an obstacle—excuse me, confidence course. From what I have gleaned of their comments on their first attempts at this exercise, my appraisal was not far from accurate.

  * * *

  Uncomfortable silence reigned in the small group of observers watching the company run the confidence course … or attempting to. Of the four, only the commanding officer seemed to be studying the scene with a neutral intensity. Brandy, the Amazonian first sergeant, stood in a relaxed parade rest, openly sneering her disdain at the antics on the course, while the two lieutenants alternated between averting their eyes in embarrassment and exchanging uneasy glances, united by their mutual discomfort, at least temporarily.