Robert Asprin - Phule Me Twice

"You are welcome to join us," said Phule solemnly. He looked at Beeker, raising an eyebrow.

Beeker shrugged. "I suppose this simply confirms what I had suspected. However, there may be a way around the problem."

"To begin with, I'll turn off my translator," said Phule, reaching down to his belt and touching the switch. "Then they'll have to record and replay our conversation through a translator to get any idea of what we're talking about."

"I believe we can expect them to do exactly that," said Beeker. "However, I think there may be a way to complicate their task." A little smile came to the corners of his mouth, and he said, "Ow-hay ell-way o-day anslatorstray andle-hay ig-pay atin-lay?"

Journal #542

Conveying my concerns to my employer was a simple matter once we hit upon a proper method for clandestine communication, which, if I properly read the expression on the face of our Zenobian chaperon, the mechanical translator rendered as pure gibberish. The Zenobians would undoubtedly find ways to penetrate the subterfuge, but it would probably take them long enough that my employer and I had a short period, at least, during which we could communicate privately.

And, while my employer did not entirely agree with my assessment of the situation, he did agree that Sushi and Do-Wop needed to take my questions into consideration. For, the moment, unless we got strong evidence that something more than we had so far seen was taking place on Zenobia, that would have to suffice.

However, I had the strong premonition that only with our return to Omega Company would we begin to see the full scope of the problem facing Zenobia and of our role in solving it.

As it happened, I was almost right.

Mahatma had just finished tightening down a few final bolts in the MBC's windscreen. Stopping to take a breather and glance at the surrounding territory, he noticed a bright object in the sky. From its motion, there was only one thing it could be. He set the wrench he'd been using carefully into its proper niche in the toolbox-Mahatma was very solicitous to treat his tools with proper respect, an attitude he only rarely extended to his military superiors-and hurried off to find someone to tell.

He found Chocolate Harry by the off-ramp of the landing shuttle, taking inventory of supplies. "Sergeant," said Mahatma, "There is a ship about to land nearby."

"A ship, huh?" Chocolate Harry looked at Mahatma, then followed the pointing finger to the bright object in the sky, now obviously lower and moving in a way that left its artificial nature unmistakable. "Yeah," he agreed. "That's a ship, or I'm full of it." He pointed to the communicator on Mahatma's wrist. "How come you didn't just use that thing, tell Mother to pass the word along?"

"It seemed important to get a corroborative witness," said Mahatma. "When I approach Sergeant Brandy, she takes on a skeptical expression. While it is good that she is learning to question appearances, it is perhaps better in this case for the company to act in response to the appearance and question its meaning later."

"Sure," said Chocolate Harry, although by his expression he was anything but. Nonetheless, he lifted his own wrist and activated the communicator. "Mother, we got a visual sighting of unknown ship approaching from the east, looks like it's gonna land near the camp. Get word to the officers pronto. ETA, maybe five minutes. Can't tell whether they're on our side or not, but I think we better be ready for anything."

"Got it, oh Large Sarge," said Mother. There was just a hint of a crackle around the edge of her voice-some kind of local interference, no doubt. "Is there anything out there big enough for you to hide under if they start shooting?"

"You talkin' to the man with all the guns," said Harry, but Mother had already cut the connection, presumably to alert the officers. He squinted at the sky again, trying to make out any identifying characteristics of the approaching ship. "Can't see squat in this light," he grumbled.

"What should we be doing, Sarge?" said Mahatma.

"What you should be doin' is the last thing you were told to do, until somebody tells you to do somethin' else," said Chocolate Harry.

"That is why I was asking you that question," said Mahatma, "but you have only answered half of it."

Chocolate Harry turned and frowned at him. The massive black sergeant's frown was rumored to have the power to dent heavy armor at short range, but Mahatma stood his ground, a beatific smile in place. After a moment, Harry shrugged. "Hell, I guess the same applies to me as to you. Until somebody tells me to do somethin' else, I got supplies to inventory. As for you-"

Whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the alarms on both their wrist communicators buzzing at once. "General alert!" came Mother's voice. "Unidentified intruder approaching base. All personnel report to battle stations. Repeat, all personnel to battle stations. This is not a drill."

"O-kay, you heard the lady," said Chocolate Harry. "Let's get it on!" He dropped his clipboard next to the pallet of battery packs he'd been checking in and headed off at a surprisingly quick pace, considering his bulk.

"That is a curious expression," said Mahatma, but the supply sergeant was already out of earshot. Deprived of an audience, Mahatma turned and headed toward his assigned position. There would be someone-probably Brandy-there to answer his questions, he knew.

And maybe, at last, he'd find out whether all the training he'd been questioning since his first day in the Legion made some kind of sense, after all.

That was a lot faster than I'd have expected, thought Brandy, impressed in spite of herself. The months of drill seemed to have paid off, even when the company found itself in a completely new situation where the assignments and stations weren't already second nature, the way they ought to be in a real emergency.

Brandy smiled as she checked the disposition of her troops. Oh, there'd been enough screwups-everybody knew there'd be screwups. There was always going to be somebody in the latrine or the shower or otherwise less than prepared to have the whistle blow right now. Brick and Street were going to have people making wisecracks about their simultaneous arrival at their stations, both more than half out of uniform, for weeks to come. And Super-Gnat had taken a pratfall that might have been grounds for medical evacuation if Tusk-anini hadn't nudged her just enough for her head to miss a heavy structural beam. But everybody was in place, more or less ready for action, and now all they had to do was wait and see if there was going to be any action. Easier said than done.

The unidentified ship was definitely on course to land at their encampment; nobody doubted that now. Mother had been trying to hail it for several minutes, but the local interference was noticeably stronger. Maybe their signals had gotten through, and maybe not. Transponder signals indicated that the intruder was an Alliance transport of a standard model, although a clever enemy could fake that very easily. The best policy was to be ready for trouble. Brandy just hoped they were ready for the right kind of trouble. As to whether they could handle it-well, that was what they were paying her for, wasn't it?

The ship swooped lower, losing speed now. Brandy knew there would be weapons trained on it, in case of hostile action on its part; but if the transponder readings were correct, this model wasn't likely to be armed-or armored, either. That didn't rule out jury-rigged weaponry or a faked signal. She lifted her wrist and spoke into the communicator. "Any word from that ship, Mother?"

"Nothing, Brandy," said Comm Central. "Either there's too much interference, or they're up to no good."

Another voice crackled out of the loudspeaker: Lieutenant Rembrandt, acting as CO in Captain Jester's absence. "Brandy, are your people in position?"