“Would you pay attention?” Roxanne felt like screaming. She sat on the opposite side of the table where his hands couldn't reach and took the heavy nutcracker from his hands. Didn't the jerk understand the danger they were in, the danger the entire planet was in from the Sith? A few seconds later she started to feel angry. “Listen, Sam. You're the one to blame for my predicament. If you hadn't been the dirty little thief who stole the Sith's relic thing I wouldn't be here now.”
Sam smiled dreamily. “Then that must have been the smartest thing I ever did, darling. Besides, I didn't steal it—not exactly, I mean, there were circumstances.”
“Tell me about it,” Roxanne said.
* * * *
“So you see, this is all a misunderstanding,” Sam concluded, but Roxanne didn't look convinced.
“Believe me, Roxanne. I'm just a victim of circumstance. I'd return this stupid thing right away, but,” he nodded toward the nearby Arasoes, “they won't let me leave.”
Roxanne was puzzled, not in the least by how Sam could have acted like such a complete idiot and why she felt so attracted to his disarming naivety. How had he managed to survive the dangerous and confusing Galactic environment? There must be more to him than met the eye. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities that weren't yet evident.
“I don't understand why the Arasoes are involved in this,” she asked. “Why didn't they just send the Finger back to the station? Why didn't they offer to intervene on your behalf? They could say they found it or something. That would take you off the hook, at least.”
“Too late for that, what with everyone so anxious to turn me into hamburger,” Sam replied. “Regardless of how the thing gets returned, I'll still be the target for taking it in the first place.”
Roxanne considered her options. Finding Sam alive made it likely that she could now escape with a whole skin. All she had to do was turn him in and return the Finger. While the former would be unthinkable, the latter was entirely possible. Thinking of which, she said, “Where is it?”
Sam looked blankly at her. “Where is what?”
“The relic. The artifact. The religious icon.” With each syllable she rapped the table with the heavy nutcracker. “Whatever the hell this precious ancient object that is so damned important to the Sith. Where is it?”
Sam didn't say a word as he gently removed the Finger from her hand. “Guess.”
“Gak!”
“Exactly my first reaction,” Sam said. “Not much to look at, is it?” He held it up and turned it in the light. “I think it might have been a sword or something.”
“That's pretty far-fetched,” Roxanne replied. “I hardly think a star-faring race would battle with something as primitive as a damned sword.”
“Maybe it's older than that—like, before they spread out into the galaxy,” Sam guessed, still turning it this way and that.
Roxanne took it from him and looked closely at the handle. There was nothing she could see that might suggest it was other than Sam had assumed. The handle was mostly intact, shaped to fit a Sith's hand of course, with grooves into which their claws could curl.
She turned it to peer into the grooves, trying to find a switch or button in one that might give a clue to its operation—former operation, that is—but again, there was nothing to see.
Turning her attention to the other end, she examined the melted blob that started a few centimeters from what remained of the handle. The surface was mirror smooth, as if the entire weapon had been held in a zero-gee furnace until it was completely melted. There were the pieces of shell smashed on its surface, evidence of its most recent utility.
She placed it back on the table. “Beats me,” she said. “For sure, the thing doesn't work any more.” She thought for a moment. “Sam, what if I took this back to them and said I found it among your possessions? Both of us would be out of it then.”
“The Sith might not believe you found me, and kill you on the spot. On many spots, in fact.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Your death would be terrible, a massive loss for humanity, not to mention that it would break my heart.”
Roxanne drew her hand back. The more she became involved with Sam the greater the likelihood that she'd share his fate. No, she had to get the Finger back to Flenser so she could get the hell away from Safehold before the slaughter began.
Sam continued to talk. “Even if they believed you, I'd still be at risk. The second I try to leave this planet both of our stories would fall apart and we'd end up as Sith sashimi. No thanks; we have to figure out how to get this thing back to them and save our skins.
“Besides, the fate of either of us, regardless of our personal views, is minor in comparison to what is about to happen.”
“I know,” Roxanne replied. “These poor little things.”
Sam grimaced. “Compared to them the Sith are kittens.” When she looked puzzled Sam explained what he had learned about his hosts. “So you see, we have to figure out how to stop the war.”
* * * *
The more Sam thought about it the worse the situation seemed to be. One of the Sith delegation, Bowelsplitter most likely, wanted the Finger back so he could lead his bloodthirsty missionaries. Without the authority of the artifact he had only his formidable strength to rely upon. That must mean he was only capable of intimidating the delegation and not the rest of the Sith population on the station.
Was there another Sith who would be a better choice for leader? Thus far all of them seemed equally combative and too willing to inflict damage on anything that stood in their way. In fact, he doubted that anything except overwhelming strength would convince them to change their approach to devastate the Arasoes.
“We've got to get out of here,” Roxanne hissed with her hand firmly over the translator's microphone so that the guard would not understand.
“Tell me,” Sam asked absently. “Why did Bowelsplitter ask you to find me?”
Roxanne looked startled. “Bow—what? I don't know who that is. The one that threatened me was named Flenser,” she stumbled over the sibilants, mistaking an hsht for a shht, but Sam knew who she meant.
“So the second in command has pretensions,” Sam mused. “Well, well. How interesting.”
There was a dull thud and the sound of something hitting the floor. Sam looked over to see one of his captors sprawled out. Roxanne stood over him, Finger in hand.
“Come on, damn it. If you're going to pull a freaking rabbit out of a hat now is the time to do it.” Without another word she raced out the door. Sam was a bare second behind.
* * * *
The Arasoes they ran into seemed unperturbed by the preparations. In fact, there was a festive feeling in the air. They passed a family carrying an arsenal of wicked weapons. The kids were carrying missiles for their parents with broad smiles on their faces. Sam was particularly intrigued by the baby's rocket launcher rattle. “Can I shoot one, dad, huh, can I, can I?” pleaded the eldest child.
Elsewhere, heavily armored vehicles were coming out of the vaults below the surface, each one festooned with bunting and a dozen or more celebratory passengers.
“I don't feel good about this,” he said.
* * * *
They made their way to the spaceport. Sam hoped that they could find a shuttle to the station so he could plead his case with the remaining Sith before Bowelsplitter found out. Maybe, just maybe, before they chopped him up, he could pound some sense into their heads. Maybe with the Finger.
“Uh-oh,” Roxanne said when they turned a corner.
Twenty meters in front of them was the entire Sith delegation and a few highly painted individuals Sam had not seen before. These each sported armor and a sidearm. “It looks like the fleet's arrived,” he gulped.
Between the Sith and their current position was the Araso delegation, Hopper in the lead.
“By the Universal Great Egg,” Bowelsplitter proclaimed, “do you repent your uniformed ways and pray allegiance to the Egg Alliance? Thi
s is your last chance to save your souls.”
Hopper was jumping up and down. “State the rules, state the rules so we can begin.”
“This is not a game, infidel,” the armed missionary on Bowelsplitter's right screamed, and hissed an insult too vile to translate. “We are here to fulfill the orders of the Great Egg.” He looked at Bowlsplitter. “You do have the symbol of leadership, don't you?”
Bowelsplitter spoke again. “With a single command I can call the entire fleet down to decimate all who do not understand the gentle wisdom of the Great Egg. We will strafe your towns with aircraft. Our infantry of acolytes will march through your population to administer blessings and kill the unfaithful. We will poison your air and desecrate your fields.”
He might have continued in that vein for a while if Hopper hadn't interrupted. “No poisons,” the little being insisted. “The rest is all right though.” He hesitated. “You won't mind if we used a few nukes, would you? They make such a nice display.”
The missionary whipped out his sidearm so quickly that Sam missed it. “Do not mock our holy campaign,” he hissed as if the steam valve had been stuck on open.
“Wait, wait,” Sam screamed and raced forward waving the Finger above his head. “There's something you have to know.”
Three of the Araso delegation dove for Sam while Bowelsplitter and Flenser raced forward, all aiming to intersect on the exact space Sam assumed he was going to occupy for the rest of his short life.
CRACK! The roar of the missionary's sidearm was deafening. “The starting gun?” Hopper asked gleefully while pulling an automatic blaster from his pouch.
“Desist!” the missionary screamed. “The Finger must not be harmed.” The two Sith hesitated, but only for a moment before they both leaped at Sam.
Sam gripped the handle and swung wildly, hoping to buy a few precious seconds. He tightened his grip and...
ZZZZT! Twin rays of intense light shot from the mirror finish of the Finger and stuck Flenser and Bowelsplitter with explosive effect, sending both to the ground. The end of the Finger was glowing white-hot.
Sam realized that, somehow he must have triggered the Finger's energies. He pointed the weapon at the missionaries. “Stop,” he shouted.
The missionaries were rigid, their mouths open in shock. “He fired the Finger!” they screamed. “It's not supposed to do that.”
“There isn't going to be a Sith victory,” Sam shouted as he tried to steady his aim at them while simultaneously trying to figure out how he'd made the thing fire. “In fact, I was coming to warn you that the Arasoes just might wipe out your entire race.” Very briefly he enumerated the multiple weapons the Arasoes were amassing and their brutal history with the Turnshekkies.
“Blasphemy!” screamed Bowelsplitter. “Nothing can be greater than the faith of the Universal Great Egg.”
Flenser turned slowly to face Bowelsplitter. “That's just like the rest of you Universalists. You're nothing but bloodthirsty orthodox fools. Why are you afraid to accept a more liberal interpretation of the faith?”
Bowelsplitter crouched in attack mode. “I will not tolerate a member of some crackpot denomination in my cadre. Accept the teachings of the Universal Great Egg or die.”
One of the missionaries spoke to Flenser. “Are you too a member of the Enlightened branch?” When Flenser nodded agreement the missionary drew his weapon and pointed it at Bowelsplitter. “Celestial group, I suppose,” he stated while taking careful aim.
“Why, no,” Flenser replied. “We are of the Revised persuasion.”
“Revisionist heretic!” the missionary yelled and swung the weapon to back bear on Flenser.
At the moment Sam was sure Flenser was going to be immolated, the other missionary struck the gun away. “Don't waste your time on a bunch of stinking Revisionists. Bad enough that we find some stinking alien waving a phony Finger. Come on, let's tell the troops it was a false alarm or something.”
As the two turned to go, Sam heard one say, sotto voce, “Universalist and Revisionist jerks. Who'd ever think they could do anything without screwing up?”
Bowelsplitter and Flenser watched the receding backs of the missionaries. All of the fight seemed to have gone out of them.
“Apostate,” said Bowelsplitter, but with less force than before.
“Don't call me that, you orthodox scum,” replied Flenser.
“People,” Sam exclaimed inappropriately. “Need I remind you that I have the Finger?” He pointed it at the pair and wondered how he had managed to get that thing to fire earlier. “Need I remind you that only I know how to work this mighty weapon?”
“It's a melted sword, for Egg's sake,” Bowelsplitter spit. “Besides, we only wanted to use it to convince the missionaries that we had the authority of the faithful.”
“If it isn't an important religious artifact,” Roxanne asked, “then why did you want me to track it down?”
Flenser shrugged. “I just wanted to make certain it didn't make these orthodox idiots look legitimate to the rest of the Sith. The holder of the Finger does have the power, regardless of how misled they may be.” He paused. “I just can't understand how an idiot like Ripgut managed to get hold of it.”
Bowelsplitter cleared his throat. “He didn't. Ripgut lied about the Finger when he couldn't get anyone to believe he could bring about another conversion. He had to steal this replica from a museum to organize the delegation.”
“Urk,” Sam said. “Well, how did it fire then?”
Hopper shook his head sadly as he walked up to Sam. “I knew I should have tried to shoot you instead of that thing. You've ruined the game, you know. If I wasn't a good friend I'd fry your ass for that.”
“I think we'd better grab a ride on the shuttle,” Roxanne suggested. “Quick, before he changes his mind.”
* * * *
Two days later Sam had completed the negotiations attendant to establishing the Newly Reformed branch of the Universal Revised Sith delegation. This unfortunately involved ceremonial acts involving blood, more blood, assorted curses, a nice pastry tray, and less than mortal combat between Bowelsplitter and Flenser, the two contenders for deacon. “They actually wanted to kill each other,” said Eviscerator, the new priest of the branch, “but thought the artistry would probably be wasted on you.”
Sam was relieved when the service was complete and thankful for the honor guard of Sith to protect him from the wrath of the highly irate Arasoes. He appreciated that much more than the few billion glizzintia the Sith paid for averting disaster.
Roxanne's reward for finding Sam had been less, but still enough to afford a first class berth on a departing liner.
“So, where are you going now?” Roxanne asked as they strolled to the neutral departure lounge.
“My agent wants me to head out to Bingnagia. Something to do with real estate, I think. I must admit that, for more than one reason, I'll hate to leave.” He smiled at her and was encouraged by her response. “Is there anything we might do in our remaining time?” he ventured hopefully. He looked around for someplace private, although in this alien setting they could probably do anything in plain sight without arousing interest.
Roxanne cooed and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, stroking it from ear to chin. “You are such a dear, Sam. I know, since we'll be waiting a few hours we could play a little game of cards,” she suggested shyly. “It'll help us get to know one another a little better, don't you think? Maybe we could even play poker for some of this money we've just gotten.”
Sam couldn't resist her smile, although he doubted she knew what she was going to be up against. He'd go easy on her and let her win a few hands to start. After all, he wouldn't want to get on her bad side—not that she had a bad side, come to think of it. “What do you think would make it interesting?” he asked with a smile.
Roxanne smiled back shyly. “Oh, I don't know, Sam. Why have limits at all?” she ventured. “I'm sure I can trust you.”
Copyright
(c) 2008 Bud Sparhawk
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Sam Boone appeared earlier in “Sam Boone's Super Fantastic Intragalactic Ass-Kickin', Body-Slammin', Foot-Stompin’ Rasslin’ Extravaganza” [May 2002] and many more.)
* * * *
Success is paralyzing only to those who have never wished for anything else.
—Thornton Wilder
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
by Tom Easton
Cauldron, Jack McDevitt, Ace, $24.95, 373 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-441-01525-2).
Victory Conditions, Elizabeth Moon, Del Rey, $26.00, 400 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-345-49161-9).
War World: The Battle of Sauron, John F. Carr and Don Hawthorne, Pequod Press, $45.00, 444 pp. (ISBN: 0-937912-04-2).
The River Horses, Allen Steele, Subterranean Press (500 copies, numbered), $35.00, 119 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59606-132-3).
The Sagittarius Command, R. M. Meluch, DAW, $23.95, 357 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7564-0457-4).
This Is My Funniest 2, Mike Resnick, ed., BenBella Books, $14.95, 410 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-933771-22-9).
The Complete Guide to Writing Science Fiction: Volume One: First Contact, Dave A. Law and Darin Park, eds., Dragon Moon Press, $24.95, 320 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-8969-4439-5).
Energy Victory, Robert Zubrin, Prometheus, $25.95, 336 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-591-5).
* * * *
Jack McDevitt's Priscilla Hutchins series—Engines of God, Deepsix, Chindi, Omega, Odyssey—has given us a future of wonders. The galaxy doesn't seem to have many intelligent species around, but there are remnants and ruins (some of them due to the depredations of the omega clouds, mysterious constructs that zero in on collections of straight lines and right angles—cities, in other words—and blast them with lightning). Humanity has managed to ward off the threat once, but, that done, it must deal with its own problems, many of which are environmental in nature. Space exploration is expensive and dangerous. Politicians argue that the money can be better spent at home. Funding for space exploration withers and dies. And by the time of Cauldron, Priscilla's beloved Academy is dead. Priscilla is a fund-raiser for its heir, the Prometheus Foundation, which still supports a pair of ships. The star pilots who used to run a larger fleet have moved on to other things. Matt Darwin, for instance, is selling real estate.
Analog SFF, June 2008 Page 23