Robert Asprin - Phule Me Twice

The sound of a Klaxon made her sit bolt upright on her cot. Something was happening out there in the camp. Already she could hear voices raised, the sound of men and women in a hurry.

She leapt from the cot and quickly threw on a set of Legion-issue fatigues, a gift from Omega Company in the old days. Maybe this was her chance to salvage some kind of story from this miserable trip.

She ran her fingers quickly through her hair, not even bothering to turn on a light to check her appearance. She was confident enough to take her chances with a camera. If the story was good enough, the viewers would forgive her for coming on-camera without fixing her face. She ducked through the tent flap and went to roust her cameraman out of his sleeping bag while there was still a chance to get some action shots. In the distance, the Klaxon kept up its urgent call.

The Andromatic robot aroused itself from the semidormant state it assumed to recharge its batteries and repair any minor wear and tear its mechanical components had sustained during its last active period. Its delicate sensors had detected the sound of people moving about, and that meant it had a job to do.

Its internal monitors ran through a quick system check; everything was in perfect working order. After checking the chronometer to determine local time, it adjusted its external appearance from the "Legion uniform" configuration that seemed to be most common hereabouts to the "Evening formal" that it had been programmed to wear at night, as the hours between 2100 and 0600 were officially designated. It had not observed any of the humans in this area adopting that appearance, but it had its orders. It was very good at following orders...at least, as long as the orders came from an authorized source.

It waited until the sounds in the corridor immediately outside its hiding place died down. That didn't take long. But no unauthorized humans could be allowed to learn its location when it was in a dormant state, and if it were observed leaving its hiding place, it would have to find a new one...not to forget the effect of alerting someone that it might not be what its external appearance said it was. It did not know exactly what a Legion officer was, but it knew that Legion officers did not spend their nights in broom closets.

Satisfied that it could emerge unobserved, the robot quickly moved into the corridor and began walking toward the nearest exit. The humans were apparently all gathering outside. Time for it to go to work.

"What is this shit, man?" Chocolate Harry came stumbling out into the night, a Legion fatigue cap on his head and a purple camo vest thrown hastily on over his size-XXXXL pajamas. He was clearly unhappy at being rousted out of bed.

"I bet it's another drill," said another legionnaire, blocked by Harry's considerable bulk in the doorway he was trying to get out of. "The CO's real big on farkin' drills." Then, after a pause, "Yo, Sarge, you wanna let me past? Brandy's gonna chew my ass off if I'm the last one on the crew to get there."

"Yeah, sure," grumbled Chocolate Harry, scowling as he stepped aside. He was starting to get tired of drills in the wee hours, but the major hadn't consulted him on whether or not it was a good idea. He consoled himself with the thought that he didn't have to run out to the perimeter and act as if he were repelling an invasion of heavily armed nasties. He began ambling toward the supply depot, where he'd be on call if any of the frontline troops turned out to have a dead battery in their laser rifles. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.

He was halfway to his destination when a familiar figure came toward him, jogging. "Hey, Cap'n!" he called out. "They got you up and scramblin' too, huh?"

The captain stopped and gave him a friendly punch to the biceps. "Good to see you, Harry. Any idea what's happening?"

Harry scoffed. "Man, if they ain't tellin' the cap'ns, what makes you think they be tellin' the sergeants?" Then he stopped and squinted. "'Scuse me askin', Cap'n, but maybe I oughta ask you-and if it ain't my business just say so-but is there somethin' goin' on I oughta know about? I didn't know you was into hangin' out behind the supply depot late at night."

Phule leaned closer and lowered his voice. "There's a new top-secret operation starting up," he said. He put his hand on the supply sergeant's elbow. "In fact, it's a good thing I ran into you here. We need a man with a good head on his shoulders, and I think you're right for it. Can you keep this completely to yourself?"

"Top-secret?" echoed Chocolate Harry. He looked over his shoulder, then nodded. "You know I can keep things quiet, Cap'n," he rasped. "What's the poop?"

Phule looked around with an exaggerated air of conspiracy. "You know that Beeker and I were away from the base, talking to the Zenobian leaders," he said. "Well, the Zenobians have got a lot of advanced military gear the Alliance hadn't known about before, and we were trying to get an agreement to try it out just like the stun rays, you know."

"Cool," said Harry, nodding eagerly. The Zenobian stun rays had made a big impression on him. And, as supply sergeant, he'd be the first to get his hands on any new goodies coming to the company. "What kind of stuff are we getting?"

"That's the secret part," said Phule, still whispering. "I left Beeker behind to make arrangements for the delivery, and now he's finished with that part. But we can't let anybody see him returning to camp, or the enemy is likely to guess that something big is about to happen. You know what I mean..." He let his voice trail off.

"I get it," said the supply sergeant eagerly. "We got to smuggle him in so nobody spots him. Ain't no need to ask twice. If that's your business, Chocolate Harry's your man! What you want me to do, Cap'n?"

"Here's the plan," said Phule, and he whispered into Chocolate Harry's ear.

After a few moments, the supply sergeant began to nod enthusiastically. By the time Phule was finished, he was grinning from ear to ear. "You got it, Cap'n," he said. "You got every bit of it."

"Good," said Phule. "Now, let's go do it!"

Major Botchup's first reaction upon being wakened from a sound sleep by the Klaxon was annoyance. I didn't schedule another drill, he thought to himself. Snipe's going to pay for this. Then he heard another noise under the racket of the horn: the beep of his wrist communicator's alarm, a few feet away on his nightstand. Something was going on.

He sat up and grabbed the communicator. "Botchup here," he growled. "What's going on?"

"Trouble, sir," came Lieutenant Snipe's whining voice.

"I know that, you twit!" roared Botchup. "What kind of trouble?"

"We've got an alarm in Sector Blue, sir," said Snipe, whining even more annoyingly. "The guards on that part of the perimeter aren't responding to signals. Considering that we're in hostile territory, I've called a full alert, just to be on the safe side. What are your orders, sir?"

Botchup nodded; he'd been expecting something like this. "Stay on top of it, Snipe," he barked. "Keep me informed of anything that happens-anything at all. I'm on my way to the command center." He cut the connection before Snipe could answer.

The MBC's command center was, logically enough, immediately adjacent to the CO's sleeping quarters, a setup that Botchup would have been surprised to learn had been designed by Phule himself. But it showed in the details: the soundproofing between the work area and the sleeping area and the quick and easy access to every part of the encampment. Unlikely as it was that the CO's personal presence was required at a given point on the perimeter, he could get there in under five minutes if he was seriously determined to do so.

Botchup pulled on his uniform, ran a comb through his hair, and quickly ducked through the metal sliding door into the command area. A legionnaire was already on duty, a young human with long sideburns and a hint of a smart-assed expression. There was something about him that Botchup instinctively didn't like, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Was there a hint of insolence, perhaps, in that little half-smile?