Robert Asprin: Phule's Errand

Phule was trying to figure out whether there was anything concrete he could do, when motion in the alleyway below caught his attention. He leaned close to the glass, trying to see better. But before he could make out what was happening, a loud explosion shook the building. As he ducked back from the window, he could hear voices shouting…

The explosions triggered Phule’s Legion training. Within seconds of the first sound, he’d knocked over his table, dumping last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. He turned the .top to face the window and shielded himself behind it. The inch-thick wood wasn’t going to protect him from major ordnance, but it would stop flying glass-and possibly keep a sniper in the opposite building from spotting him. At the moment, he had no idea whether the explosions had anything to do with him. The smart way to handle the situation was to get under cover and stay there until he had better information.

Of course, Phule didn’t always handle things the smart way. Quietly, he hitched the table in the direction of the door, keeping it between him and the window. Even if they hadn’t heard him knock over the table, his captors would eventually look in on him, if only to make sure their hostage was still there; when they did, he wanted to have a surprise waiting for them.

From beyond the door, Phule could hear muffled voices arguing in Italian-at least, the volume and tone sounded like arguing to someone who couldn’t understand any of the words. He waited, listening. Footsteps approached the door, then stopped. The voices resumed, louder this time, then he heard a key turn in the lock.

As the door swung open, he rushed forward with the tabletop in front of him like a bulldozer blade, bowling over the person who’d stepped into his room. Not waiting to see the results of his attack, he leapt over the table and burst into the outer room, ready for action. His best guess was that the person who’d come through the door was Vin-nie, and Weasel-face had stayed behind to guard the exit.

He was partly right. Weasel-face was there, all right. But two uniformed figures were also standing there, one with a gun trained on Weasel-face, who stood ashen-faced, his hands over his head. Phule did a double take as he recognized the newcomers: Customs Agent G. C. Fox, and holding the gun, someone he’d been chasing halfway across the galaxy.

Phule blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “Nightingale! Where have you been?”

It wasn’t General Blitzkrieg’s style to sneak off-planet after a setback. He wasn’t particularly likely to admit that he’d had any setbacks, to begin with. Even with egg all over his face, and his uniform and boots as well, he didn’t believe in letting anyone see that he knew he’d lost a round. But his departure from Zenobia Base was as close as he could contrive to being a triumph. He’d conveniently forgotten that the original idea came from his long-suffering adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk. It helped that Captain Jester seemed completely willing to uphold the illusion. Blitzkrieg was sufficiently relieved not to be reminded of the actual circumstances of his departure that he even forgave the captain for having somehow run out of golf balls just as they were getting ready for the general’s revenge match. Then again, considering the way Jester had played the last time out, Blitzkrieg wasn’t entirely sure he’d be getting much revenge.

Other times, Blitzkrieg might have let his loss in the final golf match eat at him. But after stumbling upon the late-night demonstration of just how hopeless Omega Company was, the general was more than willing to postpone the chance to win back a few bucks. After all, he was well ahead of Jester and his officers if you looked at the whole series of games. A profit was a profit. And it was an even greater pleasure to know that Jester had the insuperable task of trying to bring his pack of misfits up to snuff. If he didn’t despise the pup so much, Blitzkrieg might even have felt sorry for him.

It was a bit gratifying that Jester had his whole company turned out for the farewell ceremony. OK, it was Omega Company, but it was hard not to appreciate that they’d made some effort to do things right. Especially now that Blitzkrieg could see what kind of insubordination, incompetence, and downright idiocy Jester had to deal with, day in and day out. No wonder the fellow spent so much of his time on the golf course…

“General, I’m glad you got the chance to see what we’re doing here on Zenobia,” said Jester, dressed for once in his Legion dress blacks. “It’s a very unusual opportunity, and I only hope we’re giving the natives a good impression of the Alliance.”

“I hope you’ll make the most of the opportunity, Captain,” growled Blitzkrieg. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And keep an eye on that infernal machine they’ve got out by your perimeter, will you? The damned thing worries me.”

“We’ve got it under surveillance, sir,” said Jester, in the same lowered voice. He put a hand up, shielding his mouth, and added, “Fact is, we’ve got a pretty good idea what the lizards are trying to do-and the joke’s on them. It’ll never work!”

Blitzkrieg considered for a moment, then said, “Send me a report on it, Jester. I expect you’re right, but I want the intelligence boys to give it the eyeball before I make up my mind.“ He somehow resisted adding, And I hope the damned natives’ intelligence boys can’t tell how screwed up Omega Company is. If they get the idea the whole Alliance is like this outfit, they’ll be making plans to take us over.

Ordinarily, that might not be an entirely bad thing. For a moment, Blitzkrieg had a fantasy of the little lizards wiping out Jester and his pack of incompetents-thereby eliminating the Legion’s biggest headache. But with Jester’s uncanny luck, not to forget his ability to convince politicos and newstapers that he was actually a competent officer, the pup was likely to come out of it covered with undeserved glory. On balance, it was probably better for the Legion-and particularly for Blitzkrieg-if Zenobia stayed peaceful.

On the whole, as Sparrowhawk had pointed out, the mission to Zenobia had been a success. Blitzkrieg had come here planning to cashier Jester, then break up Omega Company and disperse its members throughout the Legion. But after seeing the company with his own eyes, he realized that the only safe thing was for Omega Company and its commander to stay right here-permanently, if possible. He couldn’t risk the possibility that Legionnaire Ma-hatma and his ilk might spread to other companies. No, let them stay here; let poor Jester try to whip them into shape-for all the good that was doing them, or Jester, either. It was beginning to look like a classic case of the punishment fitting the crime! Almost involuntarily, Blitzkrieg chuckled.

If Jester had been the kind of lazybones Blitzkrieg had always thought he was, Omega Company would have been a dream assignment. But now that Blitzkrieg had seen that the poor deluded nincompoop actually thought he could make these misfits into a crack unit, he knew that Jester would be miserable for the rest of his days in the Legion. A failure even by his own lights! Nobody could shape up this pack of total losers. Now Blitzkrieg could cherish the memory of Jester’s hopeless midnight exercise. He chuckled again, relishing the irony.

“Did you say something, sir?” Jester asked.

“Yes, Jester,” said the general, gruffly. “This base is a disaster.” He paused a beat, then said, “Next time I come out here, I’ll want to see a full nine-hole course, you understand?” He punched Jester in the biceps-a little too hard to be entirely friendly, but of course there was no way for Jester to take offense.