Phule Me Twice

Chapter 7

Journal #528

For reasons familiar to those who have worked in any sort of bureaucracy, my employer's success in achieving his goals was not matched by an equal rise in his esteem with his superiors. Or, to put it directly, General Blitzkrieg's enmity was a constant.

But the company's new assignment had been initiated by State, and the foreign power in question had specifically requested Omega Company to serve as advisors in their current crisis. So the general had little choice but to acquiesce in the decisions made by those in positions of greater power.

But while someone who has no choice about a matter is often well advised to make the best of things as they are, General Blitzkrieg was of a different school. Given lemons, he was not only reluctant to make lemonade; he made the most concerted effort I have ever seen to convert the lemons into rotten apples.

Major Sparrowhawk cast a speculative eye on the young officer standing in front of her desk. Major Botchup, his name tag said. Young was the definitive word for him; despite his having achieved the same rank she had reached after eleven hard years of Legion service, he couldn't have been much over twenty years old, Standard. Rich parents bought him a commission, she thought sourly. It was the normal way such things happened in the money-starved Space Legion.

"General Blitzkrieg will see you in just a moment," she said, doing her best to cover up her almost instant dislike for this pipsqueak. There was something in his face and in his bearing that would have made him annoying even if he'd been an enlisted legionnaire or a civilian.

And above all in his voice, she was reminded as he answered her, "Thank you, Major." He managed somehow, in three superficially harmless words, to convey the strong impression that, despite their equality in rank and her status as aide-de-camp to a Legion general, he considered her his inferior. Well, as long as he could do the job the general had for him, it wasn't her job to find fault with him. Still, she felt like letting him sit in the outer office for an hour or so, cooling his heels, instead of showing him in when the general emerged from the rest room.

She made no effort to strike up a conversation with Botchup. What would they talk about, his hair stylist? Instead, she turned back to her computer and the speech the general had given her "to proofread," which meant rewriting it nearly from scratch to keep him from appearing even more of an ass than he was. Given the necessity of keeping most of his opinions intact (although she did what she could to disguise the most fatuous ones), this was no mean feat. For a moment, she wondered whether talking with Major Botchup might not, after all, be preferable to salvaging the speech, but then the general stuck his head out the door and said, "Welcome, Major! Come on inside," and the moment was gone. The major swept into the inner office, the door closed, and she returned to unsplitting the general's infinitives and unmixing his metaphors, a job comparable to unscrambling eggs.

She was trying to figure out whether Blitzkrieg meant anything in particular by "Every legionnaire must be ready to confront the vissicitous priorities that may have been left on his back burner for the time being but always remembering that the hand of fate has a way of stepping in without preamble or precedent." She had just about decided to leave it the way it was and hope somebody in the audience asked him to explain it, when he signaled her. "Major, I thought I asked you to give me the personnel files for Omega Company," he said over the intercom.

In fact, she had given them to him when he'd first asked for them. She suspected they were somewhere in the mess atop his desk, in which he claimed to be able to lay his hands on anything but almost invariably couldn't. "Oh, I have them right here, sir," she said innocently and picked up the duplicate set she'd made. "I'll bring them right in."

She found the general standing with his hands behind his back, looking out the office window, while Major Botchup sat in a chair in front of the desk, sending a reproachful stare at Sparrowhawk. Little do you know, sonny, she thought. "Here are the files you wanted, sir," she said, ignoring Botchup and placing the printouts on the general's desk. The general always wanted printouts; she suspected that was because he hadn't learned how to open electronic files.

"Ah, at last," said the general. He walked over and picked up the folders and said, "Now, Major, here's everything you need to know about this outfit. I don't mind saying that they need a good man to put the company to rights. The thing is, you're going into a possible combat situation, and I'll uphold whatever measures you judge necessary. We can't have legionnaires exposed to danger because of incompetent officers. When I first sent Jester in, I thought he might be up to the job, but he proved me wrong almost at once. No point dwelling on it, of course."

"Of course," said Botchup smugly. "In a case like this, it's best to clear the screen and start from scratch. Make sure they know what you expect, and then hold them to the letter of the law. I suspect I'll have to make examples of a few of them before the rest realize the party's over. But I can promise the results will be worth it." After a beat, he added a very perfunctory "Sir."

Blitzkrieg didn't notice the perceptible pause. "Good man, Major, that's the spirit I'm looking for. Now, I want you to hold Jester to the same standard as the rest of them. I'll warn you, the fellow's spent so much time currying favor with the troops that they may resent you coming in, but that shouldn't hinder a good officer like you."

"I have a better regard for my position than to cotton to the dregs of the Legion," said Botchup with a slightly raised eyebrow. "If you'll pardon my saying so, of course."

"No, no, Major, never any harm in telling the truth," said Blitzkrieg. His grimace was full of malice. Heaven help Phule and his men when this little snot gets hold of them, thought Sparrowhawk. Then, after a moment's reflection, she amended the sentiment: Heaven help the Legion if this little snot actually succeeds.

It was after midnight, Galactic Standard Time, and the space liner's passageways were empty, the lights dimmed to conserve energy. Except for a few scurrying maintenance droids, the ship was quiet; even the crew member nominally on watch had dozed off, relying on the ship's automatic systems to warn him of anything requiring his attention. He really wasn't needed. Odds were, any emergency the automatics couldn't handle would kill the ship no matter what the man on watch did. The starship line didn't tell its passengers that, but the experienced travelers had long since figured it out. It didn't stop very many people from traveling.

So there was nobody awake to see the hatchway to Ernie and Lola's stateroom slide open and the custom-designed Andromatic robot they'd stolen from the Fat Chance Casino step quietly into the passageway. It looked both ways, determining its location within the ship-its memory had diagrams of all standard starship models stored-and headed aft.

The robot's incredibly realistic external appearance notwithstanding, its programming was, at core, very simple. While its appearance had to deceive not just casual observers but reasonably close acquaintances of the person it was designed to mimic, its internal list of tasks was short and basic. It could carry on a simple conversation long enough to give the impression of independent thought. It could notice who was listening so as not to repeat itself too obviously when mingling with a crowd. It could respond appropriately to a fairly wide range of questions or to situations requiring action.

As long as it made every effort to follow orders and to protect human beings, it could act to protect itself and to preserve its owner's investment in it, a sum that even a multimillionaire might not consider small change. And so, being stolen had called its self-preservation program into operation. Its Asimov circuits had prevented it from making its escape while the humans who had stolen it were still awake-if they tried to recapture it, it would be forced to choose between saving itself and harming them. Best to avoid that conflict. But now the two humans had fallen into an exhausted sleep. It was a matter of moments to escape the primitive restraints they had attached to it and leave the cabin. Now its primary purpose was to find a way to return to its owner.

The lifeboat bay was a rarely used area of the ship. Regulations required a lifeboat drill within twenty-four hours of departure from any port where passengers had come aboard, but on most ships this was a formality, carried out with the aid of realistic holos. A passenger who was so inclined could follow the drill from the comfort of his cabin or the first-class lounge. But most passengers simply ignored it. As a result, the robot found the lifeboat bay deserted.

A human wanting to commandeer a lifeboat would have had a hard time overcoming the electronic safeguards built into the system. For an Andromatic robot, the process was simplicity itself. Overriding outdated civilian security hardware aboard the ship was child's play for the milspec programming Phule had ordered installed in his robot double. The first thing the crewman on watch knew of the escape was when an alarm buzzer woke him. By then, the lifeboat was clear of the ship, accelerating away. The crewman stared at the blinking dot on his radar screen and cursed.

Once free, it would automatically seek out the nearest human-habitable planet and make a soft landing there. The lifeboat had only rudimentary controls on board, for dodging debris in the vicinity of a damaged mother ship. There was no way to take control of it remotely. The only way to prevent the escape would have been to send another, faster lifeboat, equipped with grappling gear-something only a military vessel would carry.

The crewman looked at his screen again. The skipper would have his hide for this; lifeboats were expensive, and he might have been able to prevent its loss if he'd been alert. He hadn't been, and it was probably going to cost him his job. But he was already in all the trouble he could get into, and there was really nothing more he could do about it. Having come to that conclusion, he yawned. The skipper would learn what had happened in the morning, and that would be time enough to face the consequences. He yawned again and settled down to go back to sleep.

On the screen, the blinking light moved slowly away from the ship, seeking a planet to land on.

Journal #533

To call Zenobia a swamp world is, of course, a gross oversimplification. As with any world large enough to support highly evolved life forms, it presents a rich variety of habitats, from warm, tropical bays to frozen tundra, from mountain meadows to salt marshes, from rain forest to stony desert. Not to forget, of course, that as a planet that has given birth to an advanced technological civilization, it has by now become to a great extent an urban landscape. The capital city boasts as much square footage of glass, concrete, and polished metal as any city of old Earth.

But the Zenobians themselves evolved from swamp and jungle dwellers, and (not surprisingly) they retain the habits and preferences of their remote ancestors. Landscape designers work overtime to create the illusion of deep jungle on the grounds of popular resorts, and some of the most affluent suburbs of the great cities look, from the air, much like primitive swamps. Where a human civil engineer would be looking for ways to drain a swamp to get some buildable land, a Zenobian looks for ways to drown a desert.

So, despite the popular image of the Zenobians as swamp dwellers, it came as no surprise to my employer when the Zenobian government requested that he set up his base in a semiarid highland some distance from the capital city. They were no more likely to ask him to set down in swampland than a Terran government would ask offworld visitors to locate in the middle of a golf course or football stadium. The fact that it was comparatively comfortable to us had nothing to do with it.

What mattered to the locals was that it was, from their point of view, a completely worthless piece of property. And of course my employer had no intention of letting them know that it had any attraction whatsoever to him.

Of such conficting values are bargains created.

The black ship settled onto its landing skids, surrounded by a cloud of dust from the dry land underneath. After an interval, the dust settled and the rear hatch swung down. A moment later, a party of armored legionnaires were out onto the ground, taking up strategic positions. Above them, a bubble turret popped up from the lander's roof, with energy weapons poised to fire on anything that threatened the landing.

When the advance scouts were in position, they began digging in. So far, nothing unexpected had happened. Lieutenant Armstrong, who led the initial party, spoke into his wrist comm unit. "All elements in place," he said. "No sign of resistance, no hostiles in view. Perimeter secure, in my opinion."

"Reading loud and clear," came Mother's teasing voice. "Electronics report no power equipment except ours in use within five kilometers. And there's no sign of any large life-forms within the same radius. So it looks as if you're all safe for now, cutie pie."

"Good," said Armstrong crisply. "Get the next wave out, then. The sooner we get some shelter set up, the happier I'll be. This place is hot. "

"Aww, don't you fret, now, Armie," said Mother. "We'll send somebody out with a nice cool drinkie for you. Just keep your pants on." She broke the connection.

Almost immediately, the second echelon, led by Chocolate Harry on his "hawg," began to roll down the shuttle's ramp. Where the first wave had been equipped to deal with possible enemy action, this group's mission was to get secure shelter set up in the shortest possible time. For the first time since Phule bad taken command, the company wouldn't be quartered in a first-class hotel; the Zenobians' buildings were scaled for their own race, far too small for comfortable use by humans.

Chocolate Harry's team steered a large trailer carefully down the ramp and across the landing area until it was well clear of the shuttle-nobody wanted to spend time setting it up if it was going to be knocked off its moorings by the departing lander. Harry scowled at the site the remote sensors had selected for setting up the structure, pacing its length and width, looking at the ground for any sign that the electronics had been wrong. At last, satisfied that everything was up to spec, he nodded. "OK, let's get this muvva set up," he said. "You ready, Double-X?"

"Yeah, Sarge," said the legionnaire from a perch high atop the MBC. "All systems nominal, ready to assemble on your signal."

"All right, you heard him," shouted Harry to his team. "Take your positions, and be ready to assemble."

The legionnaires scurried to their assigned positions while Double-X went down a last-minute checklist, reading his instruments to be sure the MBC was level, the mechanicals powered up, the structure solid after being loaded on a shuttle, flown several dozen light-years, and unloaded on an unfamiliar planet.

"All settings nominal," Double-X finally shouted, looking up from the instruments. "Ready to deploy shelter."

"OK, look alive, people," said Harry. "You've all done this before, so it should be a piece of cake. If anybody screws up, your ass is mine." He paused and looked around at the circle of legionnaires. Satisfied that everyone really was in position and ready to do his job, he shouted, "OK, Double-X, let 'er rip."

"Aye aye, Sarge," said Double-X, and he pulled the starting lever. Harry held his breath. They'd practiced this operation back on Landoor, but back there, if the MBC didn't work right, they could just go back to the Landoor Plaza Hotel and try it again the next day. Here, if it didn't work, they'd be living on the shuttle-or out in the open, once the shuttle left-until they got it fixed. They had no experience sleeping in the open on this world, but if the conditions now were any indication, it was likely to be uncomfortable. Chocolate Harry really didn't want to have to explain to the captain why the shelter wasn't ready-not when he knew how much the captain had paid for this full-featured deluxe housing module.

But there weren't any obvious problems yet. The MBC had quietly begun to unfold along previously invisible joints in its surface, doubling, redoubling, and again redoubling the size of its footprint. Somewhere near the center, a pipe was augering its way down into the ground, anchoring the structure firmly. At the same time, it was seeking out the water that instruments had located somewhere below the surface. Combining the water with common elements from the soil and air, the MBC would synthesize many of its major structural elements within the next hour-assuming the water was where the instruments said it was.

With the structure's main skeleton now laid down, the rest of Harry's crew leapt into action, moving swiftly along the outflung structural members to throw switches, open valves, and check readouts. The unit sent additional anchors into the soil, and once they'd gotten a grip, began to erect uprights to support the walls and ceilings. Subunits of the main engine began to click on-line, and electrical outlets, comm connections, ventilation ducts, and plumbing fixtures began to unfold in place. Crew members marked them on their charts; later crews would verify that everything worked properly.

Reaching the center of the structure, Harry stopped and turned in a full circle, admiring the rapid progress of the job. The rest of the company had begun to come out of the shuttle, too, unloading equipment and supplies, setting up additional structures, and in general preparing the area for an extended stay on Zenobia. He smiled, but only for a moment. Then his eyes opened wide, and he shouted, "Yo, what the hell you think you're doin'? Let go of that thing! You wanna tear down the whole wall? Let go of it!" He began to move his considerable bulk in the direction of the impending disaster, cursing under his breath. Omega Company might have brushed up its image, but deep down, it still had the capability for instant catastrophe.

It made for interesting times, even when things seemed to be going right.

At last, darkness was falling on Zenobia, and Lieutenant Rembrandt scanned the Legion encampment with a satisfied expression. There had been screwups-with this outfit, there were always screwups-but on the whole, the MBC had gone up without a hitch and with a minimum of damage to the troops erecting it. A few sprains and minor cuts, not to forget a few frayed tempers, was a small price to pay for what they'd accomplished today. The captain's investment in the new equipment had more than repaid itself, she thought.

By dinner time, the troops had sat down together in the new mess hall to a hot meal. Of course, Sergeant Escrima ad complained vociferously about the primitive facilities he had to work with and the shortage of fresh ingredients-that last would be remedied as soon as they could find local sources of supply-but Rembrandt thought the food was every bit as tasty as what the cooks had turned out in a state-of-the-art hotel kitchen. And if anyone else ad noticed a decline in quality, she hadn't heard them say so. That was probably just as well, given the mess sergeant's hair-trigger temper and homicidal fury.

The other camp buildings had gone up quickly, too, and there was a second well already drilled in the center of the compound. Chocolate Harry had put up a supply depot as soon as the living quarters were done, and all the company's motorized equipment and electronics were now safely under cover. The company had only a general idea what kind of weather this planet offered, but unless a tornado sprang up out of nowhere, the equipment could probably survive it.

Meanwhile, the troops had established a secure perimeter and systematically begun to extend their control into the countryside beyond it. Electronic surveillance equipment had been put in place, and they were ready to tap into the natives' military intelligence satellite network as soon as the captain had gotten passwords from the government Rembrandt hoped those would come through soon; they were secure against anything local, but to do the job they had been sent for, the company needed to now what was brewing beyond their line of sight or on the planet's other continents.

What worried Rembrandt was the natives' silence about the exact nature of the threat they were facing. That made no sense. You didn't take your skimmer to a mechanic and then refuse to tell him what was wrong-not if you wanted the problem solved, you didn't. But the little lizards hadn't said word one about who or what they'd called the Omega Mob here to advise them how to fight. If they continued to keep their mouths shut, it could mean big trouble.

With any luck, they'd have the answer before much longer. The captain had landed directly in the Zenobian capital to meet representatives of the local government for a full briefing on their mission here. He wasn't likely to be satisfied until he'd found out exactly what mysterious mission the Zenobians had requested Omega Company for.

She hoped they wouldn't find out the hard way, before the captain got back.

Chief Potentary Korg grinned. It was not a spectacle calculated to put Phule at his ease. The xenosemanticists who'd briefed him back in the Alliance swore up and down that the expression meant exactly the same in the Zenobians as it did in humans. That didn't make it any more reassuring, given Korg's full complement of razor-sharp teeth. The oversized sunglasses the Zenobian wore did nothing to improve the image.

"It is great privilege at last to meet you, Captain Clown," said Korg. "Flight Leftenant Qual has been enthusiastic in detailing your species' peculiar adaptations for warfare, and it is very much our pleasure to see that you have accepted our invitation to advise us on defending ourselves against the invaders."

"I am honored to have been invited," said Phule, who along with Beeker had attended a welcoming ceremony in the Zenobian capital while his company set up their camp out in the boonies. They were sitting in a reviewing stand of sorts, constructed of some local vegetable material that, without quite being wood, had a similar degree of rigidity and ease of assembly into useful structures. Before them was arrayed a large assembly of Zenobian military in the uniforms of various service branches. They were distinguished primarily by their berets: red for the Mudrovers, blue for the Swamplurkers, green for the Paratreetoppers, and so on. And all of them wore sunglasses.

"I can assure you that the Alliance will do everything possible to assist your people in meeting the threat you are facing," Phule added. "But perhaps we should talk about the exact nature of this threat."

"But undeniably!" boomed Korg's translator. "As soon as we have done with the display of our disputatious spirit and thorough preparedness, all shall be revealed to you!"

The display was long and instructive. Having seen Flight Leftenant Qual in action, Phule already knew how agile the Zenobians could be; now he saw that Qual was merely a somewhat above average specimen of his race. Many of the troops in the review were larger, faster, stronger, and far more agile than the flight leftenant. Several of their weapons (such as the stun ray, the design of which Phule had acquired for his father's munitions company) were more advanced than those of the Alliance races. Korg's grin seemed to have grown wider with each contingent of troops or display of equipment that passed the reviewing stand. And Phule was quite certain that not everything was being shown to him. After all, the alliance was only a few months old and had barely been tested. Any sensible race would have a few hole cards it wouldn't be showing a newly acquired ally. He was just as glad he had gotten off on the right foot with them.

Finally, the demonstration concluded with a convincing demonstration of unarmed combat-a somewhat paradoxical concept when applied to a race naturally equipped with a saurian predator's teeth and claws. Korg turned to Phule and said, "Now, Captain, let us retire for refreshment and some candid conversation."

"I look forward to both," said Phule, and he and Beeker followed the Zenobian leader into a nearby building. To one side, a buffet was laid out, with a variety of foods. In deference to the humans' dietary prejudices, the spread included several cooked dishes, as well as a selection of vegetables (many no doubt imported for the occasion). And whoever had been involved in the planning had thoughtfully laid in a full Terran bar. After filling their plates and glasses, Phule and Beeker joined Chief Potentary Korg and his adjutant at a table. Korg played host to perfection, making certain that both Phule and Beeker got everything they wanted.

"That was a very impressive display," said Phule politely. If anything, it was an understatement. The Zenobians would be a formidable opponent for any race that went to war with them. Except that their request for Phule's company as military advisors seemed to indicate that they'd encountered something they couldn't handle. Exactly what was it they couldn't handle? Phule wondered. And what made them think that Omega Company could handle it? It was very puzzling.

"Thank you, Captain," said Korg, flashing his saurian grin once more. At least he'd removed the sunglasses, now that they were indoors. "It would please me, sometime, to see a similar demonstration of the Alliance's capabilities. But in due time, all in due time. Meanwhile, as you can undoubtedly guess, we have invited your company here for a very good reason."

Aha, here it comes, thought Phule. "I find it hard to imagine an adversary that your forces wouldn't be able to deal with on their own," he said.

"Nevertheless, we have encountered one," said Korg. "They are here on the planet even as we speak. And yet I tell you in all candidacy, we have been unable to make even the slightest maneuvers against them."

"That's very surprising, sir," said Phule. "What can you tell us about these invaders? The more intelligence you can give me, the better we can determine how to assist you."

"What we have, you shall have," said Korg. "All our intercepts of their communications shall be given to you. But to initiate you into the situation, behold! Here, in the shell of an armored land beast, is what we know." He waved his foreclaw, and an assistant turned on a view screen.

A aerial view of the Zenobian capital appeared, recognizable despite an odd distortion. "This is an intercepted high-frequency signal from an alien surveillance device," said Korg. "Without going into details, I will tell you that this and several other devices have been systematically monitoring our major population centers and military installations."

"I see," said Phule. "Have you eliminated the possibility that these signals are from some internal agency-monitoring the traffic or weather, for example?"

"This occurred to us, but it seemed very unlikely, even at first," said Korg. "To begin with, the frequency employed is not one used by any of our normal communications equipment. In fact, the signals were first discovered quite by accident. Only when it was discovered that the source was mobile did we know they were artificially generated."

"A mobile source," said Phule, nodding. "Some sort of surveillance drone, then. Have you been able to intercept one of the drones?"

"No," said Korg. He reached one of his foreclaws up to pick a small piece of meat from between two teeth. "To be absolutely veracious, other than by their signals, we have had no success whatever in detecting these drones. It is as if they are invisible."

"Invisible!" said Beeker, leaning forward. "That would seem to defy the laws of physics, would it not, sir?"

"It would seem so," said Phule. "Possibly it has something to do with your equipment, though. Our two races use different frequencies, and not all the Alliance races use the same frequencies for their internal communications, either. Once our base is properly set up, we'll see whether these signals register on our own equipment. Have you been able to trace where the drones come from?"

Korg grinned again. "We have made every effort to do so, and in fact we have identified several locations from which they might originate. Unfortunately, we can identify nothing at those locations which we can recognize as of intelligent design."

"Very interesting," said Phule. "You'd think the beings who made these devices would have a base, even if it was camouflaged. Have you sent ground troops in to investigate the areas where they originate?"

"We have done so, and found nothing," said Korg. "It is a puzzle, I must confess. But of one thing there is no question: We cannot allow them to usurp our territory unchallenged."

"Why, sir, have they done you any harm?" asked Beeker.

"None directly," admitted Korg. "Their signals have created undue noise in our communications, and we fear they can receive our messages. This is why we waited to inform you snout-to-snout of what we are facing."

"And what is your greatest concern, in a nutshell?" asked Phule.

"It is mostly our worry as to their capabilities and intentions," said Korg. "No wise race allows a strange beast to sit on the edge of its nest unexamined."

"Well, we'll see what we can do for you," said Phule. Then he added with all the confidence he could muster, "We've got the most sophisticated equipment in the Alliance, and some people who can make it do tricks even the designers never thought of. We'll get to the bottom of it, don't you worry."

"Flight Leftenant Qual's reports have given me great faith in you, Captain," said Korg, grinning again. "I am sure you will come up with a solution."

Phule wished he was anywhere near as confident as Korg seemed to be.