Robert Asprin - Phule's Company

It has been said that every great man deserves a biographer. I have therefore taken it upon myself to keep a private record of my employer's activities during his career in the Space Legion. If there are those who would, perhaps, contest his qualifications as a great man, I would answer that he is the closest thing to a great man that it has been my privilege to associate with on close enough terms to keep such a journal. I would further point out that, in certain circles, Genghis Kahn and Geronimo are considered to be great men.

To introduce myself, I am a gentleman's gentleman, or what would be referred to in military circles as a batman. (For the less literate-minded, I would ask that you refrain from associating that label with any comic book character you might be familiar with. I have always felt that capes were an unnecessary fashion statement and have endeavored to discourage my employers from resorting to such tacky, attention-seeking ploys.) I am called Beeker, and neither require nor seek additional titles of address.

Although I was with my employer since the time of his enlistment and before, I feel that the truly noteworthy portion of his career began at his court-martial. To be specific, at his first court-martial.

The waiting room had the kind of decor one would expect of the greenroom of a down-at-the-heels acting troupe. Two ancient sofas of indeterminate color were sagging against opposite walls, surrounded by an assortment of folding and wooden chairs that would have been cheap if new, and the magazines strewn on the only table would have made an archaeologist sit up and take notice.

Two men shared the space, more at home with each other than with their surroundings. One was a chunky individual of medium height, decked out in impeccable but conservative civilian clothes, or civvies, as they were known in these quarters. His ruddy face had the bland expression of one used to waiting as he dominated one sofa, idly staring at the pocket microcomputer in his lap and steadfastly ignoring his companion.

The other occupant was anything but calm in appearance or manner. Whiplash lean, he seemed to radiate barely suppressed energy as he paced the room's confines. If tigers stood vigil in maternity waiting rooms while awaiting delivery of their young, there would be little difference between their display of anxiety and that shown by the young man's nervous prowling. Perhaps panthers would be a better comparison, as his uniform was the midnight black of the Space Legion-a color chosen not for its aesthetic or camouflage value as much as the fact the dye could hide the origins of any military surplus uniform bought in lots by the budget-strapped Legion. Not that he was wearing a standard-issue uniform, mind you. His collar pips marked him as a lieutenant, and like most officers he had his uniforms tailor-made, taking full advantage of the Legion's lack of uniformity among their uniforms. The quality of the fabric and workmanship in his garment was several notches above normal, though he had deliberately chosen one of a more somber cut for this occasion.

"For cryin' out loud, how long does it take them?"

The question burst almost unbidden from the lieutenant's lips as he began his fiftieth circuit of the room.

The man on the sofa didn't even glance up.

"It's really not my place to say, sir."

It was the first response to any of his muttering, and the lieutenant seized on the words as a focus for his irritation.

"Don't give me that 'subservient butler' guff, Beeker! Since when have you ever not had an opinion on something or been hesitant to share it with me... asked or not?"

Beeker's gaze shifted from his reading to the lieutenant.

"Well, actually you've been a bit more close-minded than usual since you joined the Space Legion, sir... or rather since you made up your mind to join. In this specific case, however, I was under the impression that what you voiced was a rhetorical question."

"It was... but answer it, anyway. Come on, Beeker. Talk to me."

With careful deliberation, the butler set his reader aside.

"Certainly, sir. Could you repeat the question?"

"What do you thinks taking them so long?" the lieutenant said, resuming his prowling, but more slowly now that he was verbalizing his thoughts. "I mean, I did plead guilty."

"Forgive me for belaboring the obvious," Beeker said, "but if the question of guilt has been settled, then what remains is the sentencing. It would seem the court is having some difficulty in deciding precisely what punishment is correct for your offense."

"Well, what's so hard about that? I made a mistake. Fine. I'm sure other Legionnaires have made mistakes before."

"True," the butler said. "However, I'm not sure how many others have duplicated the exact nature and magnitude of your indiscretion. I'm certain that if anyone else had strafed the ceremonial signing of a peace treaty, I would have noted it in the media releases... sir."

The lieutenant grimaced at the memory.

"I didn't know what was going on at the time. Our communications gear was on the fritz, so we never got the cease-fire order. Besides, we'd been ordered to maintain com silence. "

Beeker nodded patiently. He had heard all this before, but understood the lieutenant's need to go over it again.

"As I understand it, you were ordered to stand silent picket duty... to note and report any ship movement off-planet. Period. There was no authorization for an individual ship to make a strafing run."

"I wasn't ordered not to! Battle usually goes to the side that seizes initiative when opportunity presents itself."

Beeker raised his eyebrows expressively.

"Battle? I thought there was no resistance."

"That's why I made my move. Our instruments showed that they had dropped their defense net, so I thought if I moved quick we could scare them with a little demonstration of firepower and bring this whole revolt to an early close."

"It was already over," Beeker pointed out dryly. "That's why they dropped their defense net."

"But I didn't know that! I just saw the net go down and-"

"And talked the hot-shot pilot on duty into going in on a strafing run. All in the time it took the ship's captain to go to the john."

"It was a simple case of bad communications," the lieutenant grumbled, avoiding his comrade's eyes. "How mad can they be? We deliberately aimed at property and not people, so no one got hurt."

Beeker stared innocently at the ceiling.

"I'm told the property damage was in excess of ten million credits..."

"Hey. I told them I'd..."

"... and that you shot their flag to shreds while it was flying over the ceremony... "

"Well, it was..."

"... and of course, shooting up the ambassador's private space yacht was unwise at best. That's our ambassador..."

"They didn't have their ID beacon on!"

"Possibly because there was a cease-fire on."

"But... Oh, damn it all, anyway!"

The lieutenant ceased his struggles and his pacing and sank wearily into the couch opposite Beeker.

"What do you think they'll do to me, Beek?"

"At the risk of sounding disloyal sir," the butler said, picking up his reader again, "I frankly don't envy them that decision. "

As the court-martial involved a junior officer, Legion rules only required three officers to try the case. An air of discomfort seemed to hang over the deliberations, however, mostly due to the senior officer present.

It was said that everyone in the Legion had three names: the one he was born with, the one he chose when he joined the Legion, and the one he deserved. Though the records showed the second, most were known by the third, the nickname they acquired through their personality and actions while enlisted, though few officers formally acknowledged what the lower ranks called them.