Buffalito Bundle

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  Buffalito Bundle

  Tales of the Amazing Conroy

  Lawrence M. Schoen

  BUFFALITO BUNDLE

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, in part or whole, by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher.

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  This ebook is © 2019 Paper Golem.

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  Cover art by Tulio Brito.

  Book design by Lawrence M. Schoen.

  Author photo by Nathan Lilly.

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  “Buffalo Dogs” first appeared in the magazine Absolute Magnitude, 2001.

  “Buffalogenesis” first appeared in the chapbook Buffalogenesis, 2006.

  “A Buffalito of Mars” first appeared in the anthology Visual Journeys, 2007.

  “Mind Din” is original to this collection.

  “Requiem”first appeared in the magazine Absolute Magnitude, 2005.

  “Telepathic Intent” first appeared in the chapbook Buffalogic, Inc. , 2003.

  “The Matter At Hand” first appeared in the collection Aliens And AIs, 2005.

  “Yesterday’s Taste” first appeared in the anthology Transtories, 2011.

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  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-7326343-6-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7326343-5-0

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  Appreciation goes out to Kathryn Sullivan, Mark Mandel, and Diane Osborne who caught so many of the inevitable typos. Any that remain are of course my fault, not theirs.

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  Published by Paper Golem LLC

  Vers. 1.01

  Buffalo Dogs

  Back in 1998 I had the good fortune to attend James Gunn's two-week writers' workshop in Lawrence, Kansas. It was wonderful and grueling and electrifying and exhausting. In short, it was everything a writers' workshop should be. On the last night, weary and barely conscious, I was celebrating with the other members of my cohort; we had survived, and the next morning we would all go our separate ways. During a lull in the festivities, a phrase popped into my head and rushed out of my mouth before I could stop it. For no apparent reason I suddenly proclaimed, “Put down the buffalo dog and step away from the bar!” And then, silence. Everyone was staring at me, wondering what the hell I was talking about. If I could have stepped out of myself, I would have stared too. I hadn't a clue what I'd said, where it had come from, or what it meant. And yet. . . as the silence dragged on I found myself vowing to one day create a story that included that profound line of dialogue.

  That day came in 1999. Out of the blue, I get the glimmering of an idea for a story where I can use that line that has been plaguing me for years. I begin writing. A thousand words, two thousand, three thousand. . . At first, I'm pretty happy with the story, I like the characters, I like the conflict, I like how it's all coming together. But soon, none of that matters. Soon, all I can think about is getting to a point where I can type those critical words and set down this burden. Four thousand words, five thousand, six. . . and then, finally, nearly seven thousand words into the story, it happens. I type that phrase, and a sensation of such joy descends upon me that mere words cannot describe. I bask in it a while. I wallow in it. I let the feeling that has been years in coming soak into my every pore.

  And then, ever so slowly, a glimmer of horror breaks through to my awareness. I'm not done. I still have to finish the story. I'm on the brink of the big confrontation scene; I have to go back to work. I have to find a way for Conroy to win and come out on top. And I still have that damn dénouement to write. . . Of course, I did these things, but it was tough, my friends, I'm not going to lie. And you know, I'm really glad I did because otherwise, not only would that story never have been finished, but I wouldn't have been inspired by that character to bring him back again and again, in the other stories in this collection, in the novels that I've already written, and in the ones that I'm still planning to write. And all of it because those random words came out of my mouth all those years ago. I still marvel at the serendipity of it, and wonder what prompted them in the first place. I'll probably never know.

  Getting arrested a few days before I was to head back to Earth was the last thing I had in mind. I'd been working the Lil Doggie, the only spaceport lounge on Gibrahl, for the past three and a half weeks. My contract called for two shows a night, with an additional matinee on Saturday. I had Sundays off. A day on Gibrahl runs near enough to twenty-four hours as not to quibble, but the weeks last for eight of them instead of seven. My agent back on Earth hadn't bothered to look into the extra day issue before booking me into a contract that paid by the week. It meant that the two shows I was required to do on Gibsday were freebies; all the work for none of the pay.

  The marquee out front read

  THE AMAZING CONROY,

  MASTER HYPNOTIST

  and cycled through a googol of colorful hues in a blatant attempt to remain eye-catching. It worked. My smallest audiences were decent, and the large ones packed the place. Venues like Gibrahl are always hungry for any kind of entertainment, and a stage hypnotist can make a good buck.

  The humans in my audience were all on Gibrahl for the same thing. Every one of them was in some way involved in the buffalo dog trade. The buffalitos were the only resource on Gibrahl, the single commodity responsible—directly or indirectly—for bringing people here. It was a colony world, and it wasn't our colony. Gibrahl belonged to the Arconi, and the human presence was limited to a single square kilometer base. The Arconi laid down the rules, and as long as they had something Earth wanted we abided by them like good little humans. Which is why I got arrested.

  Earlier in the day the Arconi had arrested a buffalo dog courier for attempted smuggling. The Terran consulate insisted it must have been a paperwork snafu, but the Arconi possess a limited psychic faculty concerning truthfulness and discovered otherwise. Arcon justice is as swift as it is certain. The man had been tried, convicted, and executed before the end of my dinner show.

  Everyone needed a distraction, and for better or worse I was it. I began with a few jokes to break the tension and put people at ease. Seeing a hypnotist, even as entertainment, tends to make some folks nervous, as if with just the lift of an eyebrow I could make men reveal their darkest secrets or women throw themselves into my arms. Don't I wish. They say Anton Mesmer could do that sort of thing centuries ago. More likely he just had a better agent than I do. Me, I need a compelling induction and a good five minutes of relative quiet, not to mention a waiting car if the thing doesn't work. Hypnotic blackmail and seduction may make for good vids, but in real life sticking to the script is a lot safer. That's not to say I never dabble or dally, just never during a show. Later on, that's a different matter. I always install a post-hypnotic backdoor when I'm performing; you never know when it might come in handy. Even after a week's time I can whisper the magic key phrase and presto, you're back in a trance and wonderfully open to suggestion. What can I say, I love my work.

  That night there were several tables of Arconi present, as there had been at all of my performances. Fifty shows, and none had ever laughed, never so much as cracked a smile. And they could smile, I was fairly certain of it. The Arconi look like tall, stretched humans, like something in a funhouse mirror. Their skin tone runs through a range of whitish shades, from eggshell to ecru, and their body hair is generally the blue-black of comic book heroes. They have mouths and lips and teeth, and as far as I knew they used them for all the same things we did, but I'd never seen them smile. It wasn't that they didn't enjoy the show, they just couldn't understand it. It was that truth sense of theirs. Arconi al
ways know whether or not they're being told the truth. Among themselves they never lie; they simply can't. It's a small thing, but when you start to work out the incidentals you discover just how ubiquitous deception is in human history.

  Arcon society has almost no crime. Sure, they have crimes of passion, same as us, but anything premeditated gets nipped in the bud when the local magistrate asks you if you did it. For the Arconi, the concept of lying didn't come up until they started dealing with humans. They find us fascinating, utterly bizarre. It's like knowing how gills work, a nice safe objective knowledge that you know doesn't apply to you but that opens up interesting theoretical possibilities just the same.

  Quite a few Arconi had put great value on seeing a hypnotist make people believe things that were obviously false. They'd flocked to the human district to catch my shows every night since I'd arrived. The first two nights I brought a few up to the stage. They went under just like humans. I had no trouble getting them to cluck like chickens, but they couldn't accept any suggestions that violated their objective reality. They couldn't believe they'd actually become chickens. No imagination, totally grounded. Bottom line, they made for a dull show, and I stopped taking them as volunteers.

  Anyway, I was doing my usual show for the last week of a gig. Ten minutes into the performance I had two young secretaries, an elderly bank loan officer, and a middle-aged security guard on stage with me, all of them deeply entranced. I'd told the secretaries they were Arconi diplomats and had them explain the Arcon plan for human enlightenment. There's no such thing of course, but neither secretary/diplomat knew that, and they elaborated and expounded on all sorts of made-up nonsense with great sincerity while the human portion of the audience hooted and laughed.

  The secretaries finished their presentation and received thunderous applause from the humans in the audience. I thanked them and escorted them back to chairs on the stage which I'd already assured them comprised the lush Arcon embassy back on Earth. I returned them to a deep trance. They'd done a great job, surprisingly original and clever, and the audience was breathless to see what would happen next. I turned to the security guard and, after a wink and grin at the audience, began her instructions.

  "Butterscotch Melpomene," I whispered to her, using the key phrase I'd implanted at the start of the show. Her posture changed, not so much a movement as an attitude. Though completely relaxed she was now almost painfully alert. I turned back to the audience and waved them in, as if inviting them along for the gag.

  "You're a native of Gibrahl," I said in my stage voice, all mellow tones and booming resonance. "You're intelligent and articulate, educated and urbane." The security guard sat up straighter in her chair, her face composed and confident, her eyes still closed. "I'd like you to tell us about Gibrahl from your own unique perspective, if you don't mind. Would that be all right?"

  She nodded, licked her lips, and raised one hand in the start of a gesture.

  "That's fine. You'll begin to do so when I count to three," I said. "Oh, and one more thing. You're not human, you're a buffalo dog. One... Two..."

  "STOP!" An Arcon at one of the rear tables was on his feet. I recognized him. He was a real regular; he'd come to at least one of my shows each day since I'd arrived, always sitting at the same table, always watching with rapt attention. He'd even been a volunteer, a pretty good subject for an Arcon. His name was Loyoka, and he stood pointing a weapon at me. Most of the audience laughed, assuming it was part of the act. I knew better.

  "Everyone on the stage is under arrest," he continued. "Do not move. Cooperate and you will not be injured."

  Loyoka made his way to the stage, those long long legs allowing him to mount the platform without effort. I'd frozen as soon as I saw the gleam from his laser sight. He approached the security guard, squatted until they were on the same level and asked, "Are you a buffalo dog?"

  There was a ripple of laughter from the audience; most still thought the Arcon was part of the act. The woman didn't answer him. She couldn't answer. The only voice she could hear at the moment was mine. Loyoka figured this out pretty quickly and turned to me. "Why won't she speak? You indicated she was articulate."

  "I haven't finished counting," I said. "She won't follow the instructions until I do."

  "Three!" said the Arcon, his eyes fixed on the security guard. Nothing happened. More snickers from the audience. "You say it," he said to me, without turning his head.

  "Three," I breathed, and the guard opened her eyes, smiled brightly, and nodded into the Arcon's face scant inches from her own.

  "Are you a buffalo dog?" repeated Loyoka.

  "Oh my, yes," agreed the guard. "I was born here on Gibrahl, and let me tell you, it's not an easy life. It's a wonder I'm still here at all. I've seen all of my litter mates and all of my childhood friends shipped off to other planets by you Arconi. Shameless, I tell you, just shameless."

  She rambled on and on, confabulating a complete history as an alien creature with a brain no bigger than a walnut. The Arcon's jaw dropped lower and lower as he listened, his psychic faculty assuring him that the human believed every word of it, that despite appearances she was a buffalo dog.

  Ten minutes later I was in Arconi custody and sitting in a detention cell. My four volunteers were no longer entranced and as far as I knew were being similarly 'detained' by the authorities. My out-system visa had been confiscated. The Lil Doggie was closed, pending the outcome of the investigation. The management lodged a complaint with my agent, and filed a lawsuit against the interstellar stage performers' union. There's no business like show business, especially when it comes to blackballing. Even assuming I got out of the current predicament it was highly unlikely I would be able to get work anywhere off Earth again. For the moment though, that was the least of my problems.

  Hours passed. I spent the first few going over the show in my mind, again and again, trying to figure out what had pissed off the Arconi. I couldn't think of anything. I dozed, off and on, and jerked fully awake when the door to my cell finally opened and Loyoka entered with two other Arconi, each dragging a short stool. They perched on the stools, feet flat on the floor, their long legs bent, knees at shoulder level. It left them at eye level with me as I sat on my bunk. They stared intently, all of them.

  "Tell us... a lie," said the one on my right.

  "A lie?" I asked. My gaze moved from one stern face to the next. Their eyes looked just like human eyes, but it wasn't comforting.

  "Yes, Mr. Conroy, tell us something you do not believe is true. Do it now," he said.

  My mind went blank. The only thing I could think of was the aborted show.

  "I'm an Arconi diplomat," I said. "I have a plan for human enlightenment."

  The two newcomers frowned at that. Loyoka recognized the line from tonight's show and the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. They could smile.

  "You are lying," said the one on the left, his frown deepening.

  "You told me to lie." I shrugged.

  "Yes, and we know you are lying. In your performance, you tell other humans to do things. These things are not lies."

  I shook my head. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be difficult, but I really don't understand what you're getting at."

  "Are you a smuggler, Mr. Conroy?" asked Loyoka.

  "Am I what?"

  "Are you a smuggler of buffalo dogs? Please answer 'yes' or 'no.'"

  "No!" I said, feeling a growing dread.

  "But you turned that woman,..." Loyoka glanced at a small palmpadd, "Carla Espinoza, into a buffalo dog. It was truth. I saw it in her mind."

  "But, she wasn't really a buffalo dog!" I grinned. This was all some sort of joke, right? I stopped. They looked deadly serious.

  "She was. I saw the truth myself. She was a buffalo dog. An unlicensed buffalo dog, Mr. Conroy." He frowned then, making a complete set of them. "Do you understand the severity of this crime? There are allegations that you are attempting to export a stolen and fertile buffalo dog to Ea
rth."

  My mind reeled. The buffalo dogs were one of the few lifeforms native to Gibrahl, and unlike anything else in known space. They looked amazingly like American bison rendered at one fiftieth scale. They were adorable creatures with cute woolly heads and tiny blue tongues that stuck out when they bleated. They could eat anything, anything at all, and thrive. And most amazing of all, they farted enormous volumes of pure diatomic oxygen, which made them incredibly useful to terraformers. Not to mention the significant dent they were making in problems of landfill and toxic waste sites back home on Earth. On any given night at the Lil Doggie fully one quarter of the people in the audience were couriers, slated to return to Earth on the next ship out, a thin portfolio of transfer licenses under one arm and a buffalo dog tucked under the other. The Arconi controlled the only source of the beasts, and exported them, infertile, at ten million credits a head. At that price smuggling the little guys had become quite attractive, and several sterile pups had been stolen. Not surprisingly, the Arconi government had responded with extreme prejudice. Even suspicion of involvement with black market buffalo dogs could bring a death sentence. I was in deep buffalo chips.

  "But she wasn't a buffalo dog," I protested, half rising from the bunk. "She wasn't, not physically."

  Loyoka brought a hand down on my shoulder, pushing me back. "I know what I saw in her mind. She was a buffalo dog. On Gibrahl, if a human is in possession of a buffalo dog he is either a smuggler or a courier. I can see the truth in your mind, Mr. Conroy. You are not a smuggler."

  He paused and looked to either side at his companions. A silent confirmation passed among them and all three rose to their feet.