Robert Asprin - Phule Me Twice

"brglyfrtz," agreed Mother, and she went back to work adjusting dials and speaking the occasional test phrase into her microphone. The static fluctuated constantly, but there was never more than the bare hint of a coherent signal. The legionnaires' faces got longer and longer, but they kept trying.

Finally, after several hours, Major Botchup called Brandy to order an inspection of all troops first thing next morning. She acknowledged the order, then turned to Mother and Tusk-anini and said, "Well, that's that. I need to get some sleep, or I won't be worth a bucket of sand in the morning. Keep trying, and call me to patch me in if you hear anything at all from the captain, OK?'

",tbwfPlt," said Mother.

Tusk-anini added, "You don't worry Brandy, we tell you right away. Go rest, now."

Much to her surprise, Brandy fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, to be awakened at last by her morning alarm. She leapt out of bed, ready to greet the day-until she remembered what she had to look forward to, and kicked the leg of her bed so hard that it slid half a meter across the floor.

If Omega Company had ever had a habit of turning out for inspection at six in the morning, it long since had broken that habit. Phule's interest in that particular military custom had never been strong, and most of his subordinate officers and NCOs had followed his lead. Lieutenant Armstrong, Moustache, and a few others maintained a spit-and-polish personal appearance and a strong concern for military discipline and Legion tradition. But they were the minority and knew better than to try to impose their preferences on the rest of the company.

Major Botchup, on the other hand, had made it quite clear that this was one area in which he fully intended to change the Omega Mob's image, and without delay. The major was personally rooting out every loose button, unkempt head, and slouching shoulder in the company, with the expression of a backyard gardener discovering vermin. And he was handing out reprimands at a record pace, spiked with blistering sarcasm. Next to him stood his adjutant, Second Lieutenant Snipe, smirking as he jotted down every demerit.

The newest recruits seemed to be particular targets of the major's wrath. He stood in front of Roadkill for a good twenty minutes. "That's not a military haircut," he began. "You'll report to the company barber immediately following inspection, and to my office as soon as he's done, so I can determine whether you're still in breach of regulations!"

"Uh, Major-" Roadkill began.

"No back talk, legionnaire!" the major barked. "Perhaps that's an unwarranted compliment-I don't see anything that looks like a legionnaire here-you or anyone else in this formation. What's that hanging from your ear?"

"It's my club ring, Major," said Roadkill. "Back on Argus-"

"A club ring is no part of your uniform," said Botchup.

He reached up as if to snatch it off the ear. Lieutenant Snipe snickered.

Roadkill got his hand to the earring first and managed to remove it quickly without damage. "I'll leave it off," he said with a grin he meant to be conciliatory.

"You'll leave it off, what?" roared Botchup.

"Off my ear," said Roadkill. "That's where it was, wasn't it?"

"Off my ear, sir! And wipe that smirk off your face!" Botchup shouted. "Hasn't anyone taught you how to address a superior officer?"

"Sure, but they didn't bust balls about it," said Roadkill. He looked at Botchup as if deciding whether he could take him in a fight. "At least not until you-"

"You better forget anything you learned before I got here," said Botchup. "I'm the commanding officer, and you're going to do things my way-starting now. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, I hear what you're asking for, Major," said Roadkill with a most unmilitary shrug. "They've been asking for ice cream in Hell for some time now, too. Doesn't mean they're getting any-"

"Sergeant, this man is confined to base for ten days," said the major, turning to Brandy.

"Yes, sir," said Brandy. She refrained from pointing out that there was no place outside the company perimeter worth visiting.

After nearly an hour of nonstop nitpicking and browbeating, Major Botchup finally stomped away from the troops and mounted a reviewing stand he'd ordered built the evening before. Chocolate Harry's supply squad had worked into the wee hours getting it ready.

He stood and glared at the troops for a minute. Finally, he barked, "There's an enemy out there, and we're going to go hunting for him." For the moment, the legionnaires, standing in formation, made no response. Botchup didn't expect any. He'd made it amply clear by now that the only response he wanted from them was unthinking obedience. Perhaps he might have gotten that from most other Legion companies, but this was Omega Mob. Its members might not do much thinking, but they were not in the habit of obedience.

Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, standing beside the major, looked out at the formation. It would have been impossible to tell, by looking at Armstrong's face, what he thought of his new commanding officer. Then again, his face did not reveal a great deal of emotion in any circumstances. Rembrandt's expression, in contrast, was one of ill-concealed dismay. Botchup's failure to notice this might have been no more than youthful arrogance; in any case, it was ample proof that General Blitzkrieg had chosen the perfect anti-Phule to undo his predecessor's work.

"For a change, this company is going to do things the Legion way," Botchup continued. "You people have been coddled and pampered, living like a bunch of playboys. Well, there's no room for that in the Legion."

"Where is there room for it?" came a voice from the back of the formation. "We wanna go there!"

"Who said that?" snapped Botchup. There was no answer.

"Who said that?" Botchup leaned forward on the podium, a snarl on his lips. When nobody responded, he continued, "First Sergeant, I want the legionnaire who said that brought forward to be disciplined." Lieutenant Snipe pulled out his notebook again and stood poised to enter the offender's name.

"Begging the major's pardon, but I haven't the faintest idea who said it," said Brandy.

Botchup was incredulous. "You don't know the voices of your own troops, Sergeant?"

"Not all of them, sir," said Brandy. "We have new recruits in the company."

"A good while since, if I recall," said Botchup, frowning. He shook a finger at the sergeant. "You should know them by now."

"Yes, sir," said Brandy, spitting out the words as if they were burning her tongue. Her face was as expressionless as Armstrong's, but even a new recruit would have spotted her blazing eyes, and-if he valued his hide-proceeded to make himself scarce. Very scarce.

An experienced officer ought to have spotted the eyes, too. But if Major Botchup was aware of Brandy's eyes-or of what they might suggest-he gave no sign of it. Instead, he said, "If you can't find the individual who spoke out, I'm going to order the entire company punished. A breach of discipline reflects on everyone, after all."

"Yes, sir," said Brandy, clenching her jaw. "What punishment does the major wish to impose?"

"Extra guard duty," said Botchup. Snipe duly noted it in his little book. "Make it nighttime guard duty-and they'd better all stay awake, Sergeant. I've been known to make surprise inspections to make sure the troops are on their toes. If I catch someone asleep-well, this is a war zone, Sergeant. You know what that means."

"Yes, sir," said Brandy, coming to rigid attention and snapping off a brittle salute. "Understood entirely, sir."

"Now, if the individual responsible wants to confess, he can save his comrades the punishment..." said Botchup, with an unpleasant smile.

"I did it, sir!" A voice came from the ranks-perhaps the same voice, perhaps not. Brandy and the major turned to see Mahatma stepping forward.