Robert Asprin: Phule's Errand

The robot stepped ahead of him and cut him off, barking out, “Sergeant! I have never seen such flagrant insubordination! How do you explain this?”

“Sir!” said Brandy, keeping a straight face. “Nobody who saw this legionnaire’s disrespect for authority could possibly believe that he has any military training. That is Omega Company’s secret weapon. Because the enemy underestimates this man-and most of our legionnaires-they can exercise their military skills in conditions where they have the element of surprise completely on their side.“

“Military skills!” This time it was Blitzkrieg who spoke. “Military skills, my blinking arse! What possible military skills could this grinning imbecile have?”

“With the general’s permission, Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills,” said Brandy.

The robot looked at the general, who clenched his teeth and nodded, turning a beady-eyed stare toward Mahatma. “Carry on, Sergeant,” said the robot, crossing its arms over its chest.

Brandy suddenly realized that the robot had an expression that she had never seen on the real Captain Jester’s face. It took her a moment to figure it out, doing her best not to stare, which the general was sure to consider insubordinate, whether the robot noticed it or not.

The robot didn’t have real emotions, as far as she could understand. (Roboticists apparently had long, ongoing arguments on the subject.) Apparently, all the robot could do was display the external appearance of the human emotions it was programmed to simulate. Brandy had no idea whether these were installed from some standard menu at the factory or customized for each model. Given the amount of money the captain had spent, the latter was a good bet. But whatever the case, the robot shouldn’t be showing any emotion it wasn’t already programmed to show.

So why did she get the distinct impression it was doing its best to hide utter irrational fear?

Phule came to his senses in a small room with a south-facing window. Actually, he’d never really lost consciousness- he’d just been unable to exert his own will power, following the woman who’d somehow managed to drug him. But he’d sat in a kind of stupor for an unknown time in this little room-wherever it was. Still somewhere in central Rome, he figured-he couldn’t have walked any real distance, and he had no memory of entering any kind of vehicle. On the other hand, he had only the vaguest memory of the last… how long was it, anyway? And he didn’t have to try the door to have a very good idea he was for all practical purposes a prisoner.

He got up and tried the door anyway, careful not to make any noise in the process. Whatever had happened to him, it had no obvious aftereffects; his head was clear, and his balance and coordination seemed to be fine now.

At least, his muscles seemed to be under his own control again. On the downside, the door was very definitely locked. So was the window, he quickly learned-locked and fortified on the outside with bars that looked quite sufficient to hold in one lone Space Legion captain. And it looked onto the blank wall of another building about five meters away, so there was no easy way to signal anyone.

Signaling… he quickly looked at his wrist. Sure enough, his communicator was gone. His pockets had been emptied, too. That gave him a brief moment’s panic. Then he remembered that he’d left his Dilithium Express card and other items of value in the hotel safe; at most his captors would have a couple of hundred euros and his Legion ID card. Nothing he couldn’t get replaced quickly enough. So-what now?

He did a quick search of the room, looking for anything he might be able to turn to his advantage. A makeshift weapon, an alternative way out, even some clue as to his kidnappers’ identity. He turned up nothing besides the furniture he’d already seen-a bed, a chair, a side table. In a real pinch, he supposed he could club someone with the chair, or tie them up in the bedsheets. But those were desperate plays, to be saved for a desperate situation. The easiest way out of the room looked as if it started with getting the door opened. He went over and knocked.

After a moment he heard footsteps on the far side. “All right, stand-a back from-a the door,” said a raspy voice with a thick Italian accent. Weasel-face, thought Phule, moving back as requested. He heard keys rattle in the lock, and then the door swung partway open; Weasel-face looked inside, squinting suspiciously. “What do you want?” he said, in an accent several degrees more educated than Phule expected. Behind him was another man, large and frowning-presumably the one who’d answered first.

“Giving my property back would be a good start,” said Phule, in as even a voice as he could manage. “Then you really ought to let me go-I have important business that can’t wait.”

“Funny man,” said Weasel-face, sourly. “What, do you think we locked you up for our own entertainment?”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t do it for mine,” said Phule. “Just what do you think you’ve got to gain by holding me prisoner?”

“You should be able to figure that out by yourself,” said Weasel-face. “But I’ll save you the time, because I want you to know where things stand. You’re a rich off-world snot, and we’re underprivileged locals. Your people pay us, and we let you go. If they don’t pay us quickly enough, maybe Vinnie and I get annoyed. Vinnie can be nasty when he’s annoyed, and then you’d have something to worry about besides being late for your important business. Capisce?” Vinnie continued to frown, deploying what looked to be the preferred weapon in his arsenal of facial expressions.

Phule shrugged. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on collecting any ransom money. There’ll be people coming to look for me, and they aren’t amateurs. Or haven’t you figured out who I was visiting earlier today?”

“Pitti da Phule doesn’t frighten us,” said Weasel-face, with a quiet smile. “If he tries to interfere in our business, we can call on people who’ll make him think again.”

“Well, it’s not so much a question of interfering in your business,“ said Phule. ”I believe Pitti’s approach is more likely to be total cancellation of your business plan.“

“My friend, you aren’t in a position to be issuing threats,” growled Weasel-face. Phule remembered now that the woman who’d tricked him had called the man “Carmelo,” although there was no guarantee that was the man’s right name. He’d remember it, anyhow-just in case.

“Two points,” said Phule. “First, I am not your friend. And second, what I just said wasn’t a threat.”

“Oh yeah?” said Weasel-face. “What do you call it, then?”

Phule smiled, and said softly, “In my line of business, we call that an ultimatum.”

“Carmelo” just snorted and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Agent G. C. Fox drummed his fingers, waiting. The number he’d called rang for the fifth time, then a voice came through Fox’s earplug: “The party you are calling is not available. Please leave a message and your call will be returned.” A cacophonous beep followed, but Fox had already started the disconnect process. This was his fourth attempt to reach Captain Jester, and the message he’d left the first time had not been returned. Considering the message, it should have been.

So what did that mean? Fox took a sip of shandygaff, wiped the foam from his moustache with the back of his sleeve, and thought. The more Fox thought about it, the more convinced he was that the captain was already in trouble-and that he was going to need help getting out of it.

Helping off-worlders get out of trouble wasn’t really Fox’s job at all. He wasn’t any kind of cop or a detective- just a customs inspector. But he made it a point to keep track of interesting visitors to Old Earth. Sometimes, he could steer them to a business or service they could benefit from. His friends who ran those businesses benefited from it, too-and so did Fox, thanks to the finders fees and commissions his friends passed along to him. They helped stretch the customs agent’s not-so-grand salary enough to bring in a few of the better things of life.