Phule's Paradise

Phule's Paradise by Robert Asprin

Copyright 1992

PROLOGUE

The view from General Blitzkrieg's window was uninspired to say the most, surveying a cramped parking lot and a blank wall badly in need of repainting or tearing down. In some ways, however, it typified the status of the Space Legion, or lack thereof. Perpetually strapped for funding, even the space for its headquarters was rented, and the area was very low rent indeed. That Blitzkrieg's office had a window at all was a sign of his lofty standing in that organization.

     
"Excuse me, sir?"

     
The general turned from staring out the window to find an aide poised in the door of his office.

     
"Yes?"

     
"You asked to be notified as soon as Colonel Battleax left on her vacation," the aide said without formality. Salutes, like views, were optional in the Legion, and therefore very rare indeed.

     
"You're sure she's gone? You saw her take off yourself?"

     
"Well, sir, I saw her shuttle lift off and then return without her. The ship she had reservations on has left orbit, so I assume that she's on it."

     
"Good, good," the general said, almost to himself, a rare smile flickering across his face. "And she'll be on vacation for several months, at least."

     
Due to the time necessary for space travel, even aided by faster-than-light travel, vacations tended to be long, so the aide found nothing unusual about the length of Battleax's sabbatical, especially considering she had been accumulating time for several years. The aide was, however, puzzled by the general's attitude and interest in it. It was surprising that Blitzkrieg, as one of the three directors of the Space Legion, would take such a concern in the long-overdue vacation of a lowly colonel.

     
"She'll certainly be missed," the aide commented, fishing for more information.

     
"She'll be missed more by some than others," Blitzkrieg said darkly, his smile tightening a bit.

     
"Sir?"

     
"The colonel is a fine officer and administrator," the general said, "as fine as any you'd find in the Regular Army. Still, she's human-and a woman at that-and tends to form attachments to certain individuals and units under her command It's only natural that she use her position to campaign in their behalf here at Headquarters, as well as sheltering them when they foul up."

     
"I suppose so, sir," the aide said, suddenly uneasy about commenting on the performance of a senior officer.

     
"Well, that's about to change," the general declared, sinking into the chair behind his desk. "While she's on vacation most of her duties will be absorbed by other officers here at Headquarters, but I've set it up so that one unit in particular will report directly to me in her absence."

     
"Which unit is that, sir?"

     
Blitzkrieg's eyes fixed on a spot on the far wall like he was a hungry toad tracking a fly.

     
"I'm talking about Captain Jester and that Omega Mob of his."

     
Suddenly the aide could see the situation clearly.

     
It was well known around Headquarters that General Blitzkrieg had recently had his heart set on court-martialing Captain Jester for his actions upon taking over an Omega company-a company specifically formed to handle military misfits unsuited for even the Legion's loose standards and guidelines. Exact details were unknown, but the renegade captain had emerged from the incident not only unscathed but with a commendation for himself and his entire unit. Speculation as to how this was accomplished ran high, though many suspected that it had something to do with the fact that before enlisting and taking the name "Jester," the captain had been one Willard Phule, one of the universe's youngest megamillionaires and heir apparent to the vast Phule-Proof Munitions empire. This latter piece of information became known when Jester ignored the Legion's tradition of anonymity through pseudonym and exposed his true identity and origins to the media, thereby focusing unprecedented public attention on himself, his unit, and the Legion as a whole. The media loved it, but apparently the general didn't.

     
"Pass the word to communications," Blitzkrieg said, never changing his tone or his smile. "I want them to get Captain Jester on the horn for me. I have a new assignment for him and that ragtag gang of his."

     
"Yes, sir," the aide snapped, and quickly retreated from the office.

     
Several things troubled the aide as he headed for the communications room to carry out the general's order.

     
First, he had been thinking of requesting a transfer to Jester's company himself, and had been merely waiting for the right time to submit the necessary paperwork. As it was, however, it occurred to him that this was not the proper time for such a move, either from the viewpoint of the general's mood or from the fact that it looked like he had something unpleasant in store for that unit and its commander.

     
Second, he wondered if Captain Jester was aware of the general's animosity toward him, and even if he was, if he would be able to handle or avoid whatever unpleasantness was currently being aimed at him.

     
Finally, something occurred to the aide that had apparently escaped the general's mind-that if Omega Mob was reporting directly to the general in Colonel Battleax's absence, then ultimately Blitzkrieg would be responsible for whatever they did on this new assignment they were being given.

     
All in all, the aide decided that the best place to be for a while would be on the sidelines as an observer and not anywhere near the actual action and/or repercussions.

CHAPTER ONE

Journal # 171

Contrary to whatever impression might have been created by the first volume of these notes, butlers, even those seasoned by years of experience such as myself, are neither omnipresent nor all-knowing.

     
To support this assertion, I will acknowledge that I was not present when the call came in from Space Legion Headquarters signaling the start of a new chapter in my employer's career with that organization. In fact, I was not even at "The Club," which is how his current charges refer to the remodeled compound. Rather, it being my day off, I was in the settlement, or, as the Legionnaires call it, "townside." Even in my wildest flights of ego, however, I cannot claim that my absence had any bearing on the timing of the call, Headquarters being unaware of my exact role in relation to my employer, and totally ignorant of my work schedule. It was, at best, an unfortunate happenstance.

     
Of course, merely being absent is no excuse for someone of my position to lose track of his gentleman. I am the only civilian privileged to wear one of the wrist communicators which have become the trademark of the company under my employer's command, and have gone to great lengths to establish a close rapport with the terminally shy Legionnaire (known affectionately to one and all as "Mother") who oversees all communications. Consequently I was alerted to the call's existence as soon as it was patched through.

     
Needless to say, I brought my off-duty pastimes to an immediate halt and returned to the club with all haste, only to find the company in total turmoil.

The Legionnaires under the command of Captain Jester, known more widely courtesy of his media exposure as Willard Phule, had become passable, and in some cases excellent, marksmen. This was in no small way due to the fact that the design of the country-club-like barracks centered around a wet bar/swimming pool/firing range, which was the troop's favorite hangout during off-duty hours. As they rarely stood duty more than once a week, this meant considerable time was spent lounging about alternately sipping drinks, dipping in the pool, and pumping rounds downrange for practice, fun, or friendly wagers.

     
Today, however, the main subject of conversation among the assemblage was not who could shoot better or faster, or even who was ahead on the betting, but rather the unscheduled holo call from Legion Headquarters.

     
Military units, even more than corporate offices, are vulnerable to rumors, and the Omega Mob was no exception. The fact that no one knew for sure what had been said in the call only-added to, rather than dampened, the speculation.

     
Some thought their commander was being court-martialed ... again. Of course, there had been no new activity which would trigger such an action, but there were aspects of their normal modus operandi which would be vulnerable to various degrees of legal discouragement were they known to the authorities, either civil or Legion.

     
Yet another faction was guessing that their commander was about to be transferred to another unit-a thought which generated a certain amount of terror among those Legionnaires willing to consider the possibility seriously. While the company was now a cohesive unit, and the individuals within it genuinely cared for each other, there was no doubt in any of their minds that their captain was the one who first brought them together and they feared for the repercussions if he were lost to them.

     
"Do you really think they'll send the captain to another unit?" one of the Legionnaires fretted, idly splintering chips off his now-empty plastic glass.

     
His companion grimaced, dangling his feet in the pool. "Sure they will. They assigned him to us as punishment, didn't they? Well, now that things are getting turned around, they're bound to pull him for another assignment."

     
"Not a chance," someone put in from one of the poolside tables. "Did you see the general's face when he got back on the shuttle? The captain's still in the doghouse as far as Headquarters is concerned."

     
"I don't know." The original questioner scowled. "Hey, Top! What do you think's going on?"

     
Brandy, the unit's Amazonian top sergeant, was sprawled at one of the poolside tables, filling the seat and her swimming suit more than amply. She was holding a drink in her right hand and a sidearm in her left, her favorite pose these days, and loosed an occasional shot downrange from where she sat, abandoning neither her seat nor her drinking for the exercise.

     
"Why ask me?" She shrugged, one strap of her suit slipping from its precarious hold on her shoulder. "Stripes or no, I'm just a grunt like you. Nobody tells me nothin' until it comes to passing out orders. Why don't you ask our fearless leaders?"

     
The Legionnaire who had asked the question shot a glance at Rembrandt and Armstrong, the company's two lieutenants, but those notables were engrossed in a conversation of their own at the far end of the pool, so he simply shrugged and returned to his original discussion.

     
One table away, a massive figure bent forward to confer with the figure barely half his size sharing the table with him.

     
"Gnat. You think Captain will accept transfer?"

     
Super Gnat, the company's smallest member, turned her attention to her Voltron partner. It was only recently that Tusk-anini had started taking part in the poolside gatherings, as the bright sun hurt his marblelike, nocturnal eyes and the odor given off from his hairy chest, back, arms, and head when wet was, politely put, less than pleasant even to himself. However, by steering clear of the water and utilizing a pair of jury-rigged sun goggles, he was now able to join in on the more social pastimes of the company.

     
"What's that, Tusk? Oh. No, I don't think he would ... If they give him a choice, that is. Sorry. I'm a little worried about the Top. Is it me, or is she drinking more lately?"

     
"Brandy?" Tusk-anini cranked his huge warthoglike head around to glance at the top sergeant. "I think she worried about captain. She love him, you know."

     
"She does?" his diminutive partner said, giving him her full attention. "I didn't know that."

     
Though she had long since grown used to the Voltron's nonhuman appearance, his broken-English speech made it easy to forget that he was easily one of the most intelligent Legionnaires in the company, not to mention one of the most perceptive. Still, when she was reminded of that fact, as she was now, she had a healthy respect for his observations.

     
"That all right," Tusk-anini said, twisting his features into one of his rare smiles. "Captain not know, either."

     
Before Super Gnat could pursue the subject further, however, there was a sudden clamor from one side of the pool.

     
"Hey! Here's the man who can tell us!"

     
"Beeker!"

     
"Hey, Beek! Got a sec?"