A Phule and His Money

11

Journal #369

As usual, my employer carefully read his briefing materials about the new world his company was going to. Landoor had been settled two hundred years ago as a mining colony (the planet was unusually rich in certain rare earths). The Moguls, as the mine owners were called, had imported convict labor to work the mines, with the promise of land and freedom after the laborers had served a stated term in the mines. The Moguls had grown enormously rich off the sweat of their imported convicts. They built their capital city on an unspoiled tropical island they called Atlantis-which became a popular vacation spot for the wealthy of that era.

Nowadays, the mainland mines were largely owned by offplanet cartels, which found it more difficult with every passing year to derive a profit from the played-out beds of ore. The original owners had, for the most part, taken their profits and left the planet for more cosmopolitan worlds where they could enjoy their wealth unhindered. That left the government in the hands of the former bureaucrats and middle managers. They ruled a population of miners, farmers, factory workers, and small merchants, who did not have the luxury of pulling up stakes and moving to a new world at whim.

Then, a few years ago, revolutionary fervor had swept the planet, and Federation troops were imported to stem the violence. Peace had been established placing the rebel faction in the saddle, with the former government as an opposition party within the system. (A few diehards had escaped to the mainland and set up as a resistance movement, but they were considered of no consequence.)

While peace itself was greeted with rejoicing, its imposition by outside forces had left a sour taste in the mouths of many Landoorans-especially after Federation pilots strafed the peace conference. The Legion officer who ordered the gratuitous strafing was a certain Captain Scaramouche, who disappeared from the Legion rolls shortly before Captain Jester took command of the Omega Mob. This fact was not widely known on Landoor-but it was about to become so.

And for some reason, that fact had been omitted from the briefing materials General Blitzkrieg provided to my employer.

The Atlantis spaceport on Landoor was typical for a thirdrate developing world: weeds growing in cracks on the roadways, peeling paint on all the buildings, and all the other evidence that nothing very important ever happened here. But to the Omega Mob, it was gorgeous. As they piled out of the landing shuttle, the legionnaires craned their necks to look up at the first natural sky they'd seen in over a year. And off in the distance, if they listened carefully, was the muted roar of surf on a broad, sandy beach. "It's good to be back on a real planet," said Rembrandt, and there were no dissenting voices.

A short distance away stood a formation of gray-uniformed figures: the Regular Army peacekeeping force that the Omega Mob was relieving. Behind them was a local news crew, with cameras rolling. Phule beckoned to his officers, and together they strode over to pay their respects. "Captain Larkin?" said Phule to the officer in command.

"Yes, welcome to Landoor, Captain Jester," said the dark-haired young woman commanding the Army unit, stepping forward to take Phule's hand in a firm grip. "A pleasure to see you-though we wouldn't mind spending another tour here, ourselves."

The subordinate officers on either side were introduced and shook hands, while Phule asked quietly, "Anything in particular I need to know about the local situation, Captain?"

"Nothing you won't find in the briefing books we'll be handing over," said Larkin, grinning. "It's a pleasant world, and the locals seem glad to have us here-the closest we've come to action was when we had to break up an Astroball victory celebration that got a little rowdy. Gorgeous weather, no nasty bugs or beasties, and even the rebels over on the mainland seem pretty harmless. You people ought to have an easy time of it."

"Well, I hope you're right," said Phule. "I'm not one to dodge trouble, but it'd be good to deal with something straight-forward for once. Our last assignment had more than its share of hidden problems."

"Captain, if you want any trouble on Landoor, you're going to have to go looking for it," said Larkin. "I've been here over a year and haven't seen the faintest sign of it."

"With luck, neither will we."

Larkin nodded. She pointed to a group of men in civilian garb standing in front of the nearest building. "Let's go introduce you to the local authorities, then. Not polite to keep them waiting."

"Yes, by all means," said Phule. He fell in alongside the Army captain, and the two, followed by their subordinates, began a brisk stroll toward the waiting civilians. They had gone perhaps half the distance when a sharp report rang out from the roof of a nearby building and almost at the same instant, Phule heard something whiz past his head and strike the ground behind him.

"Get down! Somebody's shooting!" he shouted, throwing himself flat on the ground. He heard several other bodies hit the tarmac at the same time, presumably following his advice. He couldn't tell if the shooter had hit anyone.

The closest cover was a ground vehicle of some sort, maybe twenty feet away. Phule began a quick scuttle toward it, using his knees and elbows. He didn't know if the shot had been intended for him, but the shooter might not be particular about who he hit. In any case, he wasn't about to provide an easy target for a second try.

He risked a peek at the scene around him. The civilians were scattering like chaff, but nobody seemed to be hurt. Then another shot rang out, and he started crawling more quickly. He sensed rather than heard someone rush past him, going in the direction from which the shots had been fired: Louie, on his glideboard no doubt, with a splatgun ready at hand. Phule hoped the Synthian was taking evasive action; Louie was a small, elusive target, but the shooters might get lucky.

Moments later, something louder and larger zoomed over him; this time he did risk a look up. It was Chocolate Harry on a new hovercycle, with Spartacus riding the sidecar. Between the glideboard and the hovercycle, the would-be assassins would be lucky to escape. On the other hand, if they decided to make a pitched battle of it...he pushed the thought out of his mind, and quickly crawled the rest of the way to shelter.

Captain Larkin had gotten there ahead of him, and was leaning with her back against the vehicle, a drawn pistol in her hand. She watched him scuttle up, then said, "Just my luck-right as I'm about to leave, the party finally comes to life."

"You're welcome to stay awhile," said Phule. Then, when he'd caught his breath a little bit he added, "I take it you don't have any idea who might be doing the shooting?"

"Not a clue," she said. "It looks as if your people came prepared, though. That was very quick response time." She nodded approvingly.

"Let's hope it was quick enough." There hadn't been any more shots since the first two, but that didn't mean it was safe. Phule gazed intently back at where his troops had disembarked, trying to see what was happening. Most of his company, he saw, had taken whatever cover they could find. Brandy was peering over the shuttle's hood, scanning the rooflines with binoculars and talking into her wrist communicator-presumably directing the response to the shooting. Seeing her, Phule reached down and turned on his own communicator.

"Jester here-what's the story, Top?"

"Still trying to find out myself, Captain. C.H. and the Synthians are out scouting. No sign of the shooter yet. You all right?"

"Not a scratch. How about the rest?"

"A few scrapes and bruises when people ducked for cover, but nothing serious. Rev split a seam in his uniform."

Phule chuckled. "Don't tell me where, I swear I don't want to know. Listen now, Brandy-I want you to secure the area so the civilians can get out of danger. Send the Gambolts to scout those rooftops, too. We can't stay pinned down here all day just because of one sniper."

"Will do, Captain. But stay behind cover until I tell you it's safe, OK? There might be more than one sniper out there, and they might be gunning for us."

Phule watched as a black-uniformed skirmish line moved quickly toward him, securing the spaceport and waiting for more shots. None came, but it was quite a while before they declared the area safe. And nobody found the sniper.

"I'm not used to having somebody shoot at me," said Phule, pacing restlessly. He and Beeker had been herded to a secure room inside the spaceport terminal while the Legion and Army troops made certain no shooters were waiting somewhere to take another shot at him. Somewhere else in the building, the representatives of the Landoor government-including the head of State Security, Colonel Mays-awaited them.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, you might have thought of that before joining the Space Legion. It is hardly the vocation to choose if one is seeking to avoid being shot at," said Beeker. His expression showed no sympathy whatsoever for his employer.

"Well, we can't be certain they were shooting at me personally," said Phule in a hopeful voice. "They might have been aiming at almost anybody on the landing field."

"I would consider it highly unlikely, sir," said Beeker. "After all, Captain Larkin told you there'd been no trouble at all during her tour of duty. It is difficult not to draw the conclusion that today's shooting incident is directly related to our arrival."

"That doesn't make sense, Beeker. What could anyone on this world have against us? I've never set foot on it."

"That's rather disingenuous of you, sir," said Beeker. "You can't have overlooked the fact that this world was formerly New Atlantis. You should certainly remember how the civil war here ended, when a certain young Legion officer took it upon himself to have the peace conference strafed. I would think you might remember that incident, since you were subsequently court-martialed for it, and assigned to your present position."

Phule began pacing again. "I could hardly have forgotten that, Beeker. I understood all along why General Blitzkrieg had the company assigned here: It's the one place in the galaxy where I might have enemies."

"The one place in addition to Headquarters," Beeker noted dryly.

"Yes, I suppose so," said Phule. "One reason I accepted this assignment was as a way to make amends for that incident. Still, never having been to the capital, I didn't expect anyone here to recognize me-especially since I've changed my Legion name. Obviously, somebody's leaked that information."

Beeker nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn that the general himself had revealed your previous identity as Captain Scaramouche to certain local factions to whom it might be of interest."

"That's the way to bet-though it's probably pointless to try to prove it," said Phule. "More important is to find out which of those factions decided to start shooting the minute I landed here."

"I would think that would be easy enough to answer, sir," said Beeker. "Who suffered the most when you strafed the peace conference?"

"Other than myself, you mean?" said Phule, with an ironic grimace. "I suppose whatever faction lost the most in the eventual peace settlement. The former government, I suppose-especially the diehards who kept on fighting."

"My thought exactly. From their point of view, the strafing might appear as insult piled upon injury."

"That would be very narrow-minded of them." said Phule. "It really wasn't at all directed at them personally."

Beeker stared at his employer for a long moment. "That may be true, sir, but I suspect that many people would find the distinction rather esoteric. Even professional soldiers are likely to take being shot at as an invasion of their personal space, I'd think."

"Well, that really ignores the whole context," said Phule. "I was trying to exploit a military situation in wartime. That's hardly the same as assassinating someone-assuming that's what they were up to."

"I am glad you perceive a difference," said Beeker, mildly. "However, it seems apparent that not everyone is quite ready to forgive and forget."

"Well, we'll have to talk some sense into them," said Phule. "In a way, that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Sir, I was under the rather distinct impression that we had come here to get out of trouble. I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that. I shall have to learn to moderate my irrepressible optimism."

"I'd be just as happy if you'd learn to moderate your sarcasm," said Phule, "but I'd never recognize you without it. In any case, if the rebels really have taken my arrival as a pretext to reopen hostilities, it's going to jeopardize this company's peacekeeping mission. I don't intend to sit still for that."

"Not at all a wise policy with someone shooting at you," agreed Beeker.

"Exactly. So first we have to find the rebels and convince them I'm not their enemy. Any idea how we go about that?"

"Given today's events, I should think the rebels may not be especially interested in negotiating."

"Well, I'll have to do what I can to change that," said Phule. "Until then..."

The door opened and Lieutenant Armstrong stuck his head in. "Captain, it looks as if things are finally under control. If you'll follow me, the government people are ready to meet you."

"Good," said Phule. "Now let's hope they haven't decided to hold that shooting against me."

"Perhaps they won't, sir," said Beeker gloomily. "Always assuming they weren't the ones responsible for it." But Phule and his lieutenants had already left the room.

Phule followed Armstrong and Rembrandt down a corridor to an office complex, and into a large office, evidently commandeered for the purpose. The sign on the door read SPACEPORT MANAGER, and there were several harried-looking men and women in the outer office as the Legion contingent passed through. On the walls were framed photographs of beach scenes and sunsets, reminders that this island was a tropical paradise-at least, when there wasn't a war going on.

Inside the inner office, they were met by a big, bearded man, smoking an evil-smelling cheroot and wearing a dark green uniform with an impressive number of service stripes on the sleeve. To either side of him were two similarly uniformed men, both grim-faced. The window blinds were drawn. All three watched in silence as Phule and his officers stepped into the room.

Phule stepped up to the desk and stopped, standing at attention. "Colonel Mays, I am Captain Jester of the Space Legion, ordered here to supervise the administration of the peace treaty. Allow me to present my credentials." Lieutenant Armstrong stepped forward with the dossier and put it on the desk in front of the big man, then stepped back to a position flanking Phule.

Mays neither looked at it nor touched it. Instead, he took the cheroot out of his mouth, looked Phule directly in the eye, and said, "You are a man who requires no introduction on this planet, Captain Jester-or should I call you Captain Scaramouche?"

"I would much prefer the former, Colonel," said Phule. "The Space Legion has a tradition that a legionnaire leaves his past behind him when he joins-as symbolized by leaving his name behind him. Our former names and former ways of life aren't anyone's business."

"A very romantic tradition, I am sure," said Colonel Mays, with a hint of a sneer. "I am sure it gives you legionnaires great comfort to know that you can walk away from what you have done before, just by taking a new name and putting on a black uniform."

"I don't think anybody can escape the past," said Phule, wondering why he was bandying words with this man. "But by changing our names, we can focus on our present tasks without having to keep explaining how we got here. That doesn't mean the past doesn't come looking for us, from time to time."

Colonel Mays nodded. "Perhaps the policy is a wise one, then. But in your case, you will find a good many people here who remember what you did. As for myself-and I can tell you I speak for my superiors in the government, here-there is no animosity to you. Quite the opposite-you are one of our heroes. Your strafing mission broke the old government's last resistance. We had heard very little from the mainland rebels until that shooting today. I think we can assume that they know who you are as well."

"You're certain that was the rebels shooting at me?" said Phule. "My people responded almost immediately, but the shooters had gone, and left no clues to their origins. We haven't even established for sure that I was the target-though that seems to be the best guess."

Colonel Mays took a pull on the cheroot. "Until you came here, the rebels did nothing but camp out in the jungle and play their self-deluding games," he said. "They have no popular support. When they are not half-drunk, they know that as well as I do. But today, when you arrived-you, the off-planet enemy who rubbed their faces in their defeat-somebody shows up to shoot at you. Yes, Captain, I think that is a very good guess." The two men with him laughed.

Phule glanced at Armstrong and Rembrandt, neither of whom seemed to find Mays's statement amusing. "Another possibility occurs to me, Colonel," he said. "What if someone in your government is more worried about the rebels than you are? Perhaps they faked an assassination attempt, hoping to convince the peacekeeping team to punish the rebels. Of course this is mere speculation, but can you deny the possibility?"

Mays scowled. "Of course I deny it," he said. "We are a peaceful government-in fact, the peace agreement completely disarmed our military. Now it is fit only for construction and police work. Your company-and the rebels over on the mainland-are the only significant armed bodies on the planet."

"I see," said Phule. "Well, if that's the case, you'll have no problem with us. In fact, the less we have to do, the happier my people will be. What kinds of work have you got your soldiers doing?"

"We are currently embarked on a project to increase tourist revenues," said the colonel. "I don't know how much you know about our planet's economy..."

"You'd be surprised what I know," said Phule. He and Beeker had done exhaustive financial research on the world they were coming to, looking for opportunities to make the new assignment profitable for the legionnaires (and of course, for themselves). Nothing had struck them as quite ripe, but that didn't mean they wouldn't find something once they were on the ground.

Colonel Mays grunted. "Well, then, you probably know that our mines were played out over a generation ago, and nothing has really replaced them. Jobs are scarce. Many of our people are subsistence farmers-in some ways, they're the lucky ones. The former government tried to develop a manufacturing industry, but that didn't go very far."

"I can see why," said Phule. "Everything you make here is being made just as well and just as cheaply elsewhere, so there aren't off-planet markets for it. You're stuck trying to lift yourselves by your own bootstraps."

"Exactly, Captain," said Mays. He stubbed out the cheroot. "You've done your homework. So we're looking at a stagnant economy. The former government never could find a way to improve things. Now it's our turn to try-and I hope we can do better."

"I understand," said Phule, his financial instincts taking over. "What avenues are you pursuing?"

"We need off-world money, and one way to get that is to attract off-worlders here," said Mays with impeccable logic. "We hope to develop a tourist industry."

Phule nodded, thinking of Lorelei's tourist-generated revenues. "That's not a bad basic plan, Colonel-in fact, it's probably your best bet. But for it to work, you need something that can't be duplicated off-world. You have gorgeous beaches and mountains, but there are beaches and mountains all over the galaxy."

"Correct again," said Mays smugly. "Don't sell us short, Captain-we have our plans in place, and they are moving forward. Before you know it, Landoor will be the tourist mecca of this entire sector."

"This is good news," said Phule. "Stability depends on a healthy economy. If I may ask, what are your plans? I'm always looking to invest a few dollars-if the prospective return is sufficiently appealing, of course."

"Captain, I am not the person to answer those questions," said Colonel Mays, standing. "For that, you should speak to the Ministry of Development. I don't know whether they are looking for foreign investments-you will have to ask them. As far as I'm concerned, you can best help Landoor by insuring that the rebels don't sabotage our plans before they reach maturity. You saw today how desperate they are. They would rather bring the entire structure down around their ears rather than see us benefit from it. I hope we can count on you, Captain."

"Colonel, you can be sure I'll do everything I can to promote the safety and success of your world," said Phule. "I will of course keep an eye on the rebels, as well as on your government's activities. But now, if you don't mind, I had best get started settling my people in and determining the best ways to achieve these goals."

The two men eyed each other for a moment, quite aware that nothing had been settled; then Phule and his lieutenants turned and strode out of the room.

Journal #373

It had been a matter of concern to my employer that, for all the favorable publicity his Legion company had received, its achievements to date had been realized in a peacetime environment. The closest any of his troops had come to combat was in facing the Mob on Lorelei: an adversary not to be taken lightly, but in the last analysis a good bit less formidable than a disciplined military force. Now, after the events at the spaceport, it became clear that Landoor might be a much tougher assignment than anticipated.

Not that anyone believed General Blitzkrieg's assurances that Landoor had been pacified. A little thought would have made it clear that a world recovering from a civil war-with peace imposed by outside powers-was likely to harbor a fair number of unsettled grudges. The assassination attempt, and the cool initial reception by the local government, drove those points home very forcefully to my employer.

So, almost immediately after its arrival at its new headquarters (in the Landoor Plaza Hotel, located in. a new development west of the capital city) the company began to prepare as best it could for the possibility of combat.

"All right," said Brandy, hands on hips, "you all saw what happened out there this morning." The recruits muttered among themselves. They had all joined the Legion with some notion that they might eventually be fired upon, but having that vague expectation become reality was a shock. It showed on their faces, and in their voices.

"Nobody got hurt today," Brandy continued. "We hope it stays that way. But we've got to be ready in case somebody starts shooting again. That means being ready to shoot back."

"Excuse me, Sergeant," came a voice from the ranks.

Brandy suppressed a groan. It was Mahatma, who smiled and followed orders to the letter and, every now and then, asked questions nobody could answer-and persisted until everybody had gone crazy trying to explain the unexplainable. She smelled one of those questions coming up. Well, maybe she could buy a little time. "Mahatma, I think maybe you ought to hold your question for a while, OK?"

"Is that an order, Sergeant?"

"This is a really bad time, Mahatma."

"But Sergeant, I just wanted to know..."

"Not now, Mahatma!"

The silence was deafening. Brandy glared at her recruits, but nobody seemed willing to risk annoying her further. As for Mahatma, he was still smiling, waiting for another chance. Brandy shook her head and went into her spiel. "OK, we're going to introduce you to a new weapon the company's been issued. In fact, we're the first in the Legion to have it, thanks to the captain's connections. We think it'll be especially useful here, where most of the people we'll encounter are going to be noncombatants."

She turned to the table behind her, which was covered with a large tarp. She pulled back one corner far enough to get a grip on one of the items lying there, and turned back to show it to the recruits. "This is the Phule-Proof Model SR-1," she said. "The factory says it's the first real advance in nonlethal weaponry in decades. I'd say it's more than that-as far as I'm concerned, it's the first nonlethal weapon I've ever seen that's worth a damn. By which I mean it's the only one you can use to stop somebody who wants to kill you without killing him."

That wasn't strictly true: If you stunned the driver of a fast-moving vehicle, or a swimmer, or a tightrope walker, it would kill them readily enough. And of course, somebody who panicked and missed his shot at an enemy charging from close range was no better off than with any other weapon. But the weapon provided an answer to the ticklish situation where friend and foe were inextricably mingled in a mob scene...

Brandy raised the weapon to display it. "Now, you'll each get one of these in a few minutes. But first I'm going to show you its parts. I expect all of you to be able to name every part of the weapon and tell me its purpose. We'll start at the business end. This is the front sight. Some of you may have fired a rifle, where you have a very tight target area. You'll see that this sight is much larger. That's for two reasons. First, the beam's effective area is the entire body, even an extremity. You can catch your target in the foot and still gain the desired effect. The second factor is the Variable Beam Spread Adjustment, or VBSA, which is controlled by the Variable Beam Spread Adjustment Control, which I'll get to in a moment..."

Brandy droned on, and the recruits' eyes began to glaze over as she moved through a long and frequently redundant catalog of the weapon's various parts. Normally, she would have insured their attentiveness by throwing snap questions at anyone who seemed in danger of dozing off during the lecture. But today...

There was a sudden flurry of movement as a masked figure with a vibroblade in one hand leapt into the pack of recruits. It threw a hefty forearm around the neck of a young woman who'd chosen the service name of Brick, although Brandy suspected her comrades had a softer nickname for her. "Nobody move," rasped the intruder, waving the vibroblade inches from the captive's face. The recruits let out a collective gasp, and most of them stepped back-although the Gambolts, Brandy noted, held their position and assumed postures that suggested they might leap if they saw an opening.

"One false move and the girl pays in blood," said the intruder, turning his hostage to shield himself from Brandy. "I'm not afraid of your gun."

"Good," said Brandy, and pressed the firing stud.

The beam caught both the intruder and Brick. They fell limp to the floor, without a sound. The vibroblade clattered harmless to the side.

In an instant, one of the Gambolts had leapt on the intruder and pinned him down. Another of the recruits, Slayer, picked up the vibroblade. "Hey, this ain't even turned on." He leaned down and pulled off the stocking mask that the intruder wore. "This guy looks familiar," he said. The other recruits gathered around, puzzled expressions on their faces.

"He ought to look familiar," said Brandy. "He's one of us. This is Gears, from the motor pool-he volunteered to play the bad guy so I could show you how this weapon works. You can get off him now, Rube. He won't hurt anybody."

Rube got off of Gears and stood up. The rest of the recruits gathered around to look. While both Gears and Brick were lying limp on the floor, it was evident that both were breathing normally, and they showed no other signs of injury.

"I wanted you all to see that this weapon can be used in a tight situation, where your target is mixed in with a lot of people you don't want to hurt," said Brandy. "With a conventional weapon, you'd hold your fire-and if the target is sufficiently determined, you might end up taking casualties because you were afraid to take that risk. But Gears has been hit by this ray before, and he volunteered to let me zap him again so you could see how it works."

"That's right," said Gears, who had recovered sufficiently to raise his head and speak. "Flight Leftenant Qual used one of these things to save my life. So I'm a pretty big fan of this weapon. I let the Top zap me with it to show you how quick it takes down a target, without really harming him."

"It'll still be a few minutes before he can stand," said Brandy, "so you'd have plenty of time to disarm a real enemy. And you don't have to worry about hurting your own people, if they're in the line of fire. How's Brick doing?"

"I'm all right, Sarge," came Brick's voice, a bit faint. "My arms and legs feel weird, but nothing hurts."

"Take those two over to the wall and prop 'em up so they can sit," said Brandy. "I'd hate to delay the rest of the demonstration while they recover. And now that you've all seen what this weapon can do, we're going to let you all have one to work with."

The recruits were noticeably more interested, and the rest of the session passed rapidly. Brandy considered it an unusual success-especially since even Mahatma was so fascinated by the SR-1 that he never got around to asking his question.