Phule's Errand

ahead of them was the first open space they’d seen. They’d come out into some kind of park, or large plaza, one side of which was crowded with citizens. On the other side was a line of emergency vehicles, around which armored police were gathered in a skirmish line.

They’d found people, all right. What they hadn’t counted on was finding themselves in the middle of an incipient riot.

For the moment, the center of the crowd’s attention was a wiry, wild-haired man standing on an overturned hover-car, exhorting the crowd through some kind of portable amplifier.

“What’s the word?” shouted the leader.

“Greebfap!” shouted the crowd. “Greebfap!”

Do-Wop crouched with Sushi behind the barrier. They were perhaps fifty meters from the crowd. Not far away, the riot police were adjusting their gear. “This looks like it’s really gonna blow sky-high,” said Do-Wop, rubbing his hands together. “Which side you wanna go with?”

“Go with?” said Sushi, horrified. “I want to go as far away from here as I can. If I had any idea which way the nearest trans stop was…”

“Ahh, you don’t know how to have fun,” said Do-Wop, picking up a two-foot length of plastic piping from the ground and smacking it into his other hand like a club. “I think the civilian side’s the one to go with.” Beyond the barrier the “Greebfap!” chant was building, settling into a rhythm.

“You think it’s fun getting your head beaten in, or being knocked down and stomped on? I’ll take a rain check,” said Sushi. “These cops have got body armor and helmets, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, yeah, the cops always have that stuff,” said Do-Wop, peering over the barricade. “These guys don’t look like much, though. I bet the civvies can take ‘em. Come on, Soosh!” He vaulted over the barrier and, crouching low, sprinted toward the milling group of chanters. One of the riot police pointed at him, but they made no effort to stop him.

“Damn!” said Sushi, looking around for a moment. “Guess us Legion guys have got to stick together,” he said. He vaulted the barrier and sprinted full speed to join his buddy in the crowd. A cheer went up as he crossed the open space. Behind him he heard a popping sound. “What was that?” he asked as he pulled up next to Do- Wop, who crouched near the edge of the crowd, eyeing the riot police.

“Rubber bullets,” said Do-Wop, grinning. “Don’t worry, Soosh, they missed ya by a mile. Cops never could hit a moving target.”

Sushi’s face turned pale. “So why aren’t we both moving straight away from here?”

Do-Wop grinned and pointed with his makeshift plastic club. “Too late now, man-here come the cops.”

“Greebfap! Greebfap! We want Greebfap!” The chant rose higher as the crowd gathered itself to meet the charge.

“This has got to be totally against Legion regulations,” Sushi said, more to himself than to Do-Wop-who probably wouldn’t care. In most circumstances, Sushi wouldn’t have cared, either. But in most circumstances, a violation of Legion regulations wouldn’t get him shot by rubber bullets (or something worse), trampled and clubbed by charging riot police, and thrown into jail for good measure-and that would be before the Legion found out what he’d been doing. Then again, if he’d broken a few regulations at some Legion base, he’d at least have a chance to talk his way out of whatever trouble he was in. Somehow, he didn’t get the impression that the Rot’n‘art police were going to be any more persuadable than Do-Wop, just at the moment.

On the other hand… there was somebody here he might be able to persuade.

He reached over and grabbed a bullhorn from a startled man who was leading the “Greebfap!” chant, leapt onto an overturned hovertaxi, and began to address the crowd…

Phule watched the demonstration from the window of his hotel room, sipping on a glass of imported white wine. Upon arrival on the planet, he’d checked into the Rot’n‘art House, where his family had maintained a suite ever since the days when his father made regular trips to close deals with planetary governments, quasi- governmental institutions, wildcat militias, and others with ready cash and a hankering for armaments. He’d already done a quick sweep of the suite for the usual bugging devices-not that Phule had any plans to discuss sensitive business there, but checking was always a good idea, especially on Rot’n’art, the acknowledged galactic center of the espionage game. Now he almost wished he had a bug planted in the plaza below, where tiny figures moved and gestured, but he could hear only the loudest of the group chants. “Greebfap! Greebfap!” What were they protesting, or demanding? He couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Eventually, having decided that the crowd wasn’t likely to turn violent, and that there were enough police and robots on hand to handle it if it did, he turned from the window and booted up his Port-a-Brain laptop. The overriding question was how he was going to locate Beeker. He knew the butler was on this planet; the Port-a- Brain had told him that. But where would Beeker have gone, here on this rusty former capital of the Human Alliance? And why hadn’t he answered Phule’s email?

He called up a guide to local tourist services, trying to guess which attractions would appeal to Beeker (or to Nightingale, although he had much less sense of her taste and interests than of his butler’s). There were a few historic buildings that one could tour, none of which struck him as likely to command anyone’s interest much beyond half an hour. Slightly more promising were a couple of art museums, although reading between the lines of the guide made it clear that, in an attempt to make up for budget shortfalls, the most interesting artworks had been deaccquisitioned- many to off-planet collectors.

From there it went steadily downhill. With most of the planet having been roofed over in its boom days, there was almost nothing in the way of natural scenery or outdoor activities-at least, from the point of view of anyone who’d been to a real planet recently. And Phule couldn’t imagine anyone-certainly not Beeker-wanting to spend his vacation time viewing industrial museums or public works.

So what did that leave? The guide said that the locals were fanatical in their devotion to professional team sports. Something called haki was apparently in season right now, and from the publicity holos it looked like a fast-moving, physically demanding game. But if Beeker had any interest in sports, he’d managed to conceal it entirely from his employer.

The performing arts section offered no better clues. There was a large concert hall in town, and tickets for the current attraction-Ruy Lopez and the Bad Bishops-were in heavy demand. Searching further, Phule found a sample of Lopez’s music, and endured about seven seconds of it before deciding that Beeker probably wasn’t interested in that, either. As for the theater, the stars were complete unknowns (at least to Phule), and the plot summaries of the current offerings ran the gamut from boring to bizarre without ever managing to pique his interest. Granted, his taste differed from the butler’s, but as far as Phule could see, the local theater was between golden eras.

For a planet that touted itself as the “Galactic Center of Everything,” Rot’n‘art was revealing itself to be a surprisingly dull place. Could he be completely mistaken in thinking he knew Beeker’s tastes and interests?

Another idea occurred to him. Nightingale might have been the one who’d suggested coming to Rot’n‘art, for reasons of her own. Could she have grown up on Rot’n’art and still have family here? Legion privacy policy meant that there’d be no official record of that, but Phule suspected that Perry Sodden, the investigator he’d hired, could find out easily enough. If she’d grown up locally, or if she had family here, that would give Phule his first useful clue as to why she and Beeker had come here-and maybe tell him where he could catch up to them.

Phule added the note to a list of questions for Sodden. He’d scheduled a meeting with the investigator for the next day. The list was already on its second page. Maybe all these questions would turn out to be superfluous. Maybe Beeker would answer his email. Or maybe Sodden would appear for the meeting with exactly the answers Phule was looking for, and then he could go meet Beeker and convince him to end this silly escapade and return to Zenobia and start doing his job again.

But it didn’t hurt to prepare for the possibility that Sodden had had no more luck than Phule. Phule took a sip of his drink, rolled his shoulders to fight the tension in his muscles, and stared at the Port-a-Brain’s screen once more.

It was late by the time he turned out the lights.