No Phule Like An Old Phule (20 page)

Brandy looked up from the Training Progress Report she’d been in the process of deciding how to fill out. The new arrival was about a meter and, a half tall, dressed in regulation Legion black (although a good bit less stylish than the standard Omega Mob version of the uniform), and had long ears, big eyes, and a ridiculously cute wiggly pink nose. She stared for a moment, then blurted out, “Where the hell did you come from?” The legionnaire looked puzzled.

“Uh, do you mean originally, Sergeant, or just now?” Its voice was high and squeaky, though not unpleasant. And it didn’t use a translator.

Brandy shook her head. “Radicate that,” she said. She thought back a second and retrieved the new legionnaire’s name from memory. ”Thumper, what I mean is, what are you doing here? Nobody told us there were any new troops coming.“

“Sergeant, as far as I know I’m the only new member sent to this company,” said Thumper. “I came with the hunting party that just landed. I understand they owed someone important a favor…”

“Huh,” said Brandy. “And that meant giving you a ride. What makes you important enough to get a trip on a civilian space yacht?”

“Uh, I think it’s because I got in trouble with a general,” I said Thumper. He went on to tell a complex, but predictable story of showing up his buddies in basic training and being made the scapegoat for a practical joke on General Blitzkrieg. At the end, he said, “But I think maybe somebody thinks I’m all right, after all-my drill instructor said Omega Company is really one of the best in the Legion.”

“The best, Legionnaire,” said Brandy, proudly. She set her paperwork aside and stood up. “You are now a member of the best company in the Space Legion, and you better not forget it. But why don’t you pick up that bag and follow me? I know where there’s a vacant bunk. Then we can start showing you how things work in Omega. We do things a little differently around here…” She stalked off toward an entrance to the modular base, with the new recruit close behind her. Hope sprang eternal. Maybe this one would be able to go out in the desert without getting lost…

Sushi toyed with his drink, then said, “Have you ever seen written Chinese?”

“Can’t say that I have, son,” said Rev. “Thought that was some kind of food, to tell you the truth.”

Sushi managed not to roll his eyes. “The Chinese were an Old Earth people who spoke like seven or eight different languages,” he said. “Mandarin, Cantonese, a bunch of others you don’t need to know the names of…”

“Why not?” said Do-Wop, with an evil grin. “I bet you don’t even know’em all” Sushi shot Do-Wop a withering glance. “Will you give a guy a break when he’s trying to explain something? I think you’ve been hanging out with Mahatma.”

“Hey, you know me, Soosh,” said Do-Wop. “Ever eager for knowledge…”

“Yeah, because you’ve got none of it to spare,” answered Sushi.

“All right, fellas, you’re strayin‘ from the point,” said Rev, raising his palm to stop them. “What were you sayin’, Sushi?”

“Anyhow, they spoke all these languages, and speaking one didn’t give you more than a guess at understanding the others. But they were all written the same way. The written symbols represented the meaning of the words, not their sound, so a Mandarin speaker could pretty much read a document written by a Cantonese speaker, even if he couldn’t understand the spoken language. It’s sort of the opposite of the old-time European languages, where a reader could get a rough idea how a message in another language would sound, even if he didn’t know what it means.”

“Weird,” said Do-Wop. “Why’d they do a stupid thing like that, Soosh?”

“Actually, it’s not that stupid if you have a big empire with several different spoken languages,” said Sushi, shrugging. “That gives you two choices-either make everybody learn one common spoken language, the way the Romans did, or have one common written language, the Chinese way.”

“You left one out,” said Do-Wop. “Autotranslators. You don’t even need to have the same kind of ears for them to work…”

“Sure, except the ancient Romans and Chinese didn’t have autotranslators,” said Sushi.

“You’re jivin‘ me, Soosh,” said Do-Wop. “The Romans had everything, man. They were like Italians, only with a better army and space force…” Sushi rolled his eyes.. “I hate to tell you this, but the Romans didn’t have a space force, either…”

“What?” Do-Wop’s mouth fell open. “Fangul‘, Soosh, you can’t tell me that shit with a straight face…”

Rev raised his hands. “Gen’lemen, gen’lemen,” he said, in a calming tone of voice. “We’re strayin‘ off the point again. Sushi, you were tellin’ us about how the Zenobians write, weren’t you? I’d surely like to hear more about that.”

“All right, here’s the deal,” said Sushi. “From what Qual said, it seems as if the Zenobians learn to read before they learn to speak. They’re descended from predators-well, in a sense, they still are predators. So the young ones depend on their vision more than most other sophonts. Well, maybe the Gambolts would be similar… I don’t know much about their language, either, except the translator works for them.“

“All right,” said Rev. “So the Zenobians learn to read first. I reckon that would mean the written language ought to be pretty easy to understand, then.”

“You’d think so,” said Sushi, nodding. He took another pull on his beer. “But that brings me back to Chinese. I’ve heard people say that Chinese is actually very easy to read-that all you have to do is look at the writing as pictures, and when you see what the pictures are, you know what the writing says.”

“Why, that’s perfect,” said Rev. “So we ought to be able to read Zenobian even without a translator.”

“Yeah, sounds great, doesn’t it?” said Sushi. “Except it doesn’t work quite that way. The pictures are too sketchy—four lines sort of in a box might be a house, or a dog…”

“Sounds like they couldn’t draw very good,” said Do-Wop. “Hell, even I can draw a house and a dog so they look different, and I ain’t no Michael Angelo.”

“Michael Angelo? Who’s that?” said Rev.

“Italian artist, best there was,” said Do-Wop. “He laid on his back for twenty-five years, painting fiascos on the ceiling of some big church…” Whatever else Do-Wop might have had to say about Michelangelo, he was prevented by Sushi spraying a fine mist of beer out of his mouth as he fell out of his seat, laughing uncontrollably.

Journal #703

Taking the visiting AEIOU inspectors on a tour of the Legion base was an operation that required a great deal of delicacy. My employer took every effort to ensure that the visitors were shown everything that might show the company in the greenest possible light, and as little as possible that might reflect discredit upon its environmental practices. After letting Lieutenant Rembrandt steer the inspectors through the less sensitive areas of the compound, the captain himself joined them to show off the more highly technological departments. This was where, in his opinion, his influx of his own funds had had the greatest effect in improving the company’s performance. He didn’t necessarily reckon on the inspectors’ believing otherwise.

“And this is our comm center,” said Phule, showing the AEIOU inspection team through the doorway.

“All official communications, and most unofficial ones, come through here…”

“How much energy does it use?” asked Inspector Slurry, eyeing the large panel of readouts above Mother’s console.

“Less than you’d think,” said Phule. “In a military field base, we have to be prepared to operate in emergency conditions. One of the first things an attacker is going to try to hit is the power supply. So in a pinch, we have to be able to run our entire system on the power we can produce ourselves. That puts the premium on efficiency.”

“Efficiency is a relative term,” said Inspector Gardner. “It tends to vary depending on what the person using the word is trying to sell you. Just how much power do these systems use in a normal day’s activities?”

Phule paused just a second before answering. “Our exact power requirements are classified, but I think it’s safe enough to tell you that we can run the entire base indefinitely on solar energy, which of course there’s plenty of out here in the desert. And there are backup systems in case we get a run of bad weather, natural or otherwise. Again, you’ll have to pardon me for not giving details.”

“Well, solar is acceptably green, for the most part,” said Chief Inspector Snieff. “I do want to find out about these backup systems, though. I’ll have you know that I have made a study of most of the ways one can generate and store power, and the majority of them are very suspect, environmentally. I would hate to think…” Whatever Snieff would have hated to think, her revelation was interrupted by a loud exclamation from Barky, the Environmental Dog, who had wandered through the comm center, sniffing the equipment and eyeing the personnel, and had finally found his way to the door of the officers’ lounge.

There he had halted, staring inside the door and growling, which no one had quite noticed until he let loose with a series of loud barks.

“What in space…?” said Phule. He strode over to the door and looked inside to see what had caused the dog’s reaction. There, to his surprise, stood Tusk-anini, on top of a chair, his head scraping the ceiling. The Volton was scowling down his long snout at the Environmental Dog.

“Uh-oh,” said Phule.

“Tell famous doggy would be most healthy for him to stay distant,” said Tusk-anini calmly, but emphatically. “I no want to be hurting little Earth animal. But I tell you now-doggy tries to bite, Tusk-anini doing what he needing to do.”

“Barky!” said Inspector Gardner. “Come on, fella leave the nice sophont alone. He can’t help it if he smells…”

“Tusk-anini no smell,” said the Volton. “Doggy smell. . .Tusk -anini stink.”

“Now, let’s not take things too literally,” said Phule, stepping gingerly between Tusk-anini and Barky, now apparently pacified. Inspector Gardner was down on one knee beside the dog, scratching him between the shoulder blades and holding lightly on to his collar. “Would it be fair to say that Barky’s nose is perhaps a little too sensitive, Inspector Snieff?”

The AEIOU inspector sniffed. “Barky is a genetically enhanced ultracanine, highly trained to discern the smells of pollution and other assaults on the environment. If some of the sophonts in your company carry odors like those of common pollutants, it may be no surprise that he reacts to them with hostility. Would it be fair to say that perhaps some of your legionnaires need to bathe more frequently, Captain Jester?”

“Begging your pardon, Chief Inspector, I seriously doubt that is the problem,” said Beeker. “If I may be permitted to say so, I can testify, based on personal observation, that the bathing facilities on this post would be the pride of many private athletic clubs.”

“Maybe,” said Inspector Slurry. “Probably waste water, too.”

“I think I can respond to that,” said Phule, grinning. “This base module is about as water-efficient as you can contrive, Inspector. A military unit in an arid environment can’t afford to take water for granted. We recover, reuse, recycle, and recondition every possible drop of water. In fact, about the only way we could do better would be to capture the perspiration of our legionnaires working outside the base. And if we really needed to do that, I suspect we could find a way to do it…”

“Undoubtedly by throwing even more money at it,” said Snieff. “Have you ever sat down and calculated how many resources your company requires to maintain this exorbitant lifestyle?”

“Oh, yes,” said Phule. “I think you’d find the figures very interesting. If you compare us to units of similar size, on similar missions, you’ll find that Omega Company actually has a significantly less negative impact on the environment than a typical military operation. Granted, I’ve solved a lot of our problems by spending money-but it’s my money I’m spending, not the government’s, and I make very sure I get what I’m paying for.”

“Never minding money,” said Tusk-anini. “Why don’t you taking Barky dog away so Tusk-anini can finish reading book? Am halfway through Old Earth classic and want to know how it comes out.” He pointed to the thick volume on the floor. The spine of the book displayed the curious word, Dhalgren.

“Woof!” said Barky, the Environmental Dog, sniffing the book, but then Inspector Gardner clapped his hands, and a few moments later, the Environmental Dog and all the other visitors left the Officers’ Lounge to Tusk-anini. With a snort of relief, the Volton stepped off the table and picked up his book. He wasn’t quite sure where the story was leading, but on the whole it wasn’t any stranger than most of the other human literature he’d read. Which, he thought as he settled down, wasn’t saying very much…

The Fat Chance Casino was crowded as Ernie made his way through the gaming rooms. No surprise there; according to the local news taper, several large space liners had just made their regular stopovers at Lorelei, and the travel-weary passengers were eagerly getting what they’d come for: first-class dining, lavish entertainment, and highstakes gambling. The sight of all the expensively dressed suckers with fat credit accounts made Ernie’s mouth water. It was every grifter’s dream, and there were plenty of grifters willing to take advantage of it. Except in the Fat Chance Casino, where Captain Jester had ordered his security forces to clamp down on anything that might cut into the players’ enjoyment—or the house’s percentage. He stopped at the bar and ordered a drink-a tall glass of quinine water with a twist of lime.

No alcohol tonight; that had been another of his promises to Lola. Instead, he’d brought along an Aromacap: a tiny capsule filled with an aromatic oil that, rubbed on the skin, conveyed the exact odor of an expensive brand of imported gin. If the marks or casino security-thought he’d been drinking heavily, they were likely to underestimate him. Better yet, as long as he stuck to Aldebaran Amber Gin, Ernie had a fair chance of convincing Lola that he’d been using the Aromacap instead of knocking back a few G’n‘T’s while he was supposed to be working.

But this time, Ernie had promised Lola to stay straight. More importantly, he’d promised not to do anything that might draw the attention of security-either the casino’s or Victor Phule’s very professional bodyguard. That meant resisting the temptation to pocket any loose change that might be lying around, such as waiters’ uncollected tips or customers’ unattended handbags. And it meant not carrying any of a number of devices meant to increase the odds in his favor, devices generally frowned upon both by the casinos and by those players who were naive enough to expect that everyone else in the game was playing by the rules. Especially in the Fat Chance, the ownership took exception to such devices-and its guards seemed to have a better-than-average record at spotting them in use.