The Outpost

by Mike Resnick

  She stayed in the Alphard system for another month. Then, after she’d hunted down our most wanted criminals, she decided to seek greater challenges, and she left for the Inner Frontier.

  From time to time I read about her, or hear rumors of a cyborg woman who has killed men that even Catastrophe Baker would think twice about facing, but I do not know for an absolute fact that she is still alive.

  But if she isn’t, I sure wouldn’t want to be in the same room, or even on the same planet, with the man who could kill her.

  “Einstein says she’s alive, all right,” said Big Red, reading his screen. “He met her just last week on Greenpasture II.”

  “Why?” asked Max. “What could either of them possibly want with the other?”

  “She wanted his advice, of course,” said Big Red. “Why does anyone meet with Einstein?”

  “What kind of advice?” persisted Max.

  “She still has two very human legs. She wanted his opinion concerning what to replace them with.”

  “How the hell many more built-in weapons does she need?”

  “She has enough weapons,” answered Big Red. “But that doesn’t mean she can’t improve her efficiency. Does she want legs that can stand up under four gravities? Legs that can let her jump forty feet into the air? Feet with suction cups on the bottoms, for walking up walls and across ceilings? Legs with compartments to hold energy packs, or possibly with refrigeration units to store food when she’s away from civilization?”

  “Okay, okay,” said Max irritably. “I get the point.”

  “You know,” mused the Gravedigger, “I have heard of her. I never knew her name—and some of the feats she pulled off sounded like tall tales. But I’ve been hearing about a cyborg woman for years now, a woman who can do all the things that Achmed says that this Cyborg Venus can do.”

  “Cyborg de Milo,” Achmed corrected him.

  “Yeah?” said Max, still looking for someone to argue with. “Well, if she’s so close, how come she hasn’t shown up at the Outpost?”

  “Maybe she’s not thirsty,” said Nicodemus Mayflower.

  “Or maybe she planned to, and either the navy or the aliens blew her ship to smithereens,” added Little Mike Picasso. “There’s a war going on out there, you know.”

  “If anyone took a shot at her, I hate to think of what would happen to them if they missed,” said Achmed.

  “How long has she been a cyborg?” asked Nicodemus Mayflower.

  “Eighteen years,” said Achmed.

  “That’s a long time to go around with a mad on,” said Hurricane Smith. “Maybe she just needs someone to love her.”

  “She’s not your type,” said Catastrophe Baker.

  “How do you know?” asked Smith.

  “She’s human.”

  Langtry Lily began hissing at Smith.

  “It was just an academic question, my dear,” he said quickly, prepared to duck if she spit at him again. She glared at him, and he took her hand in his and began stroking it gently. After a moment she relaxed and went back to scouring the table for those few grains of sugar she’d missed.

  “Anyway, she sounds like one tough lady,” said Little Mike.

  “Can’t argue with that,” agreed the Gravedigger. “I thought I’d met the toughest women on the Frontier, but this Cyborg de Milo sounds like she could wipe up the floor with them.”

  “Who were they?” asked Willie the Bard, looking up from his notebook.

  “You ever hear of the O’Toole Sisters?” asked Gaines.

  “Nope,” answered the Bard.

  “I did,” said Nicodemus Mayflower.

  “Me, too,” said Baker. “Weren’t they named something weird, like Silk and Satin?”

  “I thought it was Rubber and Lace,” said Nicodemus.

  “Close, but no cigar,” said the Gravedigger.

  The Romantic Tale of Velvet and Leather O’Toole

  Nobody knows when they came out to the Frontier (began Gaines). Hell, they might even have been born out here. I do know that they grew up in Nightmare Alley, which was the criminal sector of Port Raven, a nondescript little world in the Willoughby Sector—and anyone who can stay alive in Nightmare Alley for more than a day or two has developed some real survival skills.

  They weren’t the brightest girls I ever met—there’s no way they could ever have gotten accepted on Aristotle like the Cyborg Venus did—but they obeyed the laws, worked hard at their jobs, and saved their money.

  As a matter of fact that’s how I came into contact with them. Seems we were both using the same bank at the time. I wasn’t thrilled with Port Raven, but it had a branch of the Bank of Spica, and that’s where I kept my main account.

  The girls were pretty in a plain kind of way, if that makes sense to you. Nothing wrong with either of them, but they didn’t make you want to bay the moon or go slay dragons the way that, say, Silicon Carny does. One always dressed in velvet and the other always wore leather, and after a while any other names they might have had just faded away and they were Velvet and Leather, the O’Toole sisters.

  The bank was run by a skinny little runt who went by the name of Throckmorton Lewis Frothingham. I’ll swear his name weighed more than he did. He was a precise little man. He always looked like he’d just come from his tailor, even when it was hot and muggy out. There are still a few people here and there who wear glasses, but he’s the only one in my experience who wore a pince-nez—you know, the spectacles that fit on the bridge of your nose. He always had a silk handkerchief stuck in the cuff of his left sleeve, and his shoes were polished to within an inch of their lives.

  I spent a lot of time at that bank, waiting for various bounties to be wired to me—well, to Spica, actually, but then they’d notify the Port Raven branch—and I saw a lot of the sisters. I don’t know what kind of jobs they had, but they were paid in cash on a daily basis, and every night just before the bank closed they’d stop by and deposit their money. And little Throckmorton Lewis Frothingham was always there to greet them, and exchange a few pleasantries, and personally handle their transactions.

  Then one day, with no warning at all, the Bellargo Gang showed up, seventy-three members strong, to rob the place.

  “The Bellargo Gang?” said Baker. “I haven’t heard of them in close on to a dozen years now. Whatever happened to them?”

  “Stop interrupting and maybe you’ll find out,” said the Gravedigger.

  The girls were there (continued Gaines), and maybe two or three others, a couple of robot tellers, plus Frothingham, of course—and me.

  “You’re a bounty hunter!” whispered Frothingham. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “All my money’s on Spica,” I answered. “Whatever they do to your bank, it won’t cost me a credit.”

  “But it’s your job to bring these villains to justice!” he said.

  “I’ll take on any half dozen of them,” I said, “but there’s got to be better than fifty of ‘em here. The way I see it, my job is to stay alive until I can meet them under more favorable circumstances.”

  The whole time we were talking Bellargo himself was staring at me, and finally he walked over.

  “Ain’t you Gravedigger Gaines?” he said.

  “Some people call me that,” I answered.

  “You’ve been a real thorn in my side over the years,” he continued. “You’ve killed six of my men, and four or five others deserted rather than take a chance of running into you.”

  “What a waste,” I said.

  He looked puzzled. “A waste?”

  “If they quit, I don’t get any bounties and you don’t get any flunkies.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, Gravedigger Gaines,” he said. “It seems a pity to kill you.”

  If he wanted me to beg for my life, he was in for a long wait, but then he noticed the O’Toole sisters, and he swaggered over to them.

  “Hi, ladies,” he said. “I can tell you’ve been saving yours
elves for a real man.”

  “When one shows up, be sure to let us know,” said Velvet.

  “Everybody’s a humorist today!” snarled Bellargo. I thought he was going to take a swing at her, but then his gaze fell on Frothingham. “How about you?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything funny about a bank robbery,” he answered in a shaky voice.

  “Must be cold in here,” said Bellargo. “Look at how his hands are trembling.”

  “Leave me alone!” said Frothingham. “You came to rob my bank. Rob it and go away!”

  “Your bank?” repeated Bellargo.

  “He’s the president,” said Leather proudly.

  “Good. Then he should know the combinations to all the computer locks on the safes.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Frothingham. “I’m willing to be robbed, but I’m not willing to collude with you.”

  “You’ll do what you’re told and like it!” said Bellargo, and then he made his fatal mistake—he slapped the poor little bastard right across the face.

  Two seconds later Velvet was flying through the air, and gave Bellargo’s head such a kick that it damned near left his shoulders. His neck made a huge cracking sound, and that was the end of Bellargo.

  In the meantime, Leather had jumped in among his men, raining blows and kicks right and left, and then Velvet joined her, and by the time I’d overcome my surprise long enough to pull my gun, seventeen of Bellargo’s men were laid out on the floor. Twelve of them never got up again, and I began to understand how the sisters O’Toole had managed to survive in Nightmare Alley.

  The rest of it was a rout. Velvet picked up a burner from one of the outlaws, Leather picked up a pair of screechers from another, and they started using the rest of the Bellargo Gang for target practice. I got in one or two shots, but they sure as hell didn’t need me.

  When the dust had cleared and every member of the gang was either dead or disabled, the two sisters rushed up to Throckmorton Lewis Frothingham.

  “Are you all right?” asked Leather solicitously.

  “Poor baby!” crooned Velvet. “Did they scare you?”

  At first I thought it was an act. I mean, how could two such formidable women care for a mousy little man like that?

  But it was anything but an act. Two weeks later Velvet O’Toole married her bank president in the morning, and three hours later, Leather married the same man in a tasteful afternoon ceremony. Then the three of them left on their honeymoon.

  “And that was the end of it?” asked Willie the Bard, scribbling furiously.

  “Not quite.”

  “What else is there?” asked the Bard. “Did they leave him?”

  Gaines shook his head. “I was back there about a year ago. They all live in this huge house—just the kind you’d expect a banker to own. The girls (well, women actually) still dote on the little bastard. Velvet has seven kids and Leather has eight. I’d love to tell you they look like the O’Toole side of the family, but the fact is that almost all of them look like their father.”

  “Poor kids,” offered Big Red.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the Gravedigger. “They’re each going to inherit a couple of million credits, and they don’t get a lot of teasing at school despite their looks.”

  “They don’t?” said Big Red. “Why not?”

  “Because Leather and Velvet are both on the school staff. Leather teaches martial arts, and Velvet coaches the murderball team. Let me tell you: no one messes with their kids.”

  “I can believe that,” said Little Mike Picasso. “Wish I’d had a mother like that.”

  “Think it through,” said Hellfire Van Winkle. “Maybe she could protect you from bullies, but would you really want to be disciplined by someone like that?”

  “You’ve got a point,” admitted Little Mike.

  “I sure do,” said Van Winkle. “A mother who can mete out that kind of punishment could turn you into an accomplished liar.”

  “Not that anyone here needs much help,” said Three-Gun Max sarcastically.

  “Every word spoken tonight was the truth,” I said, feeling a need to stand up for the Outpost’s clientele.

  “Is that a fact?” said Max.

  “Except for the ones that weren’t,” I answered lamely.

  “I imagine the Outpost has heard its share of both,” said Argyle.

  “You think buildings are sentient, do you?” said Max, still looking for an argument.

  “How the hell should I know?” asked Argyle.

  “Well, take it from me,” said Max. “They aren’t.”

  “Nonsense,” said Nicodemus Mayflower, his thin, angular face looking more Satanic than ever. “I knew an entire city that was sentient.”

  “Bullshit,” said Max.

  “Okay,” said Mayflower with a shrug. “If you don’t want to hear about it, that’s fine by me.”

  “Hey!” said the Bard. “I want to hear about it.”

  “Me, too,” I added, just to annoy Max.

  “If Max doesn’t want to listen, there’s a war going on out there,” said Catastrophe Baker, pointing to another explosion just beyond one of our moons. “He can go make the galaxy safe for the rest of us while we stay here and listen.”

  Which ended Max’s objections to hearing the story.

  A City Older Than Time

  It was out on the Other Arm—the one where Earth isn’t—that we found it (said Nicodemus Mayflower).

  There were these two competing groups of archaeologists, and neither of them trusted the other, so they each hired some bodyguards to make sure that the other side’s bodyguards didn’t attack them.

  (Yeah, I know, that made it more likely. But how are you going to talk any common sense to guys who like to travel halfway across the galaxy just to dig in the dirt?)

  Anyway, we came to this binary system that wasn’t on any star maps, and since I was the guy who first spotted it, they told me I could call it anything I wanted, so the brighter star became Alpha Nicodemus and the other one was Beta Mayflower—and if you don’t believe me just check any navigational computer that was programmed after 6519 G.E.

  Well, for some reason, they decided that the third planet circling Beta Mayflower was the most likely to have whatever it was they were looking for, so we landed, and sure enough, there was this ancient city, filled with crystal spires and marble streets and quartz windows that acted as prisms and turned the sun’s light into an endless series of rainbows.

  We’d been there maybe two days when the other party of archaeologists showed up. Our leader told them that we’d already filed a claim, or claimed squatters’ rights, or whatever it is you do when you’re a scientist and you’re not into sharing. The other guys said that was all well and good, but there was no legal authority they could appeal to since the world hadn’t been mapped or claimed yet—so they planned to stick around and do their digging and studying no matter what we said.

  Tempers started heating up, and then suddenly we all heard a strange moaning sound. It seemed to be coming from the very center of the city, but when we all arrived there we couldn’t find anything at all. One member of our group decided that it had been made by the wind whistling through the biggest building in town, and a member of the other group said that no, it was obviously caused by gas escaping from a fissure in the ground. Then one of our people said that the only gas escaping was coming from their group, and while all of us bodyguards stood around staring at our employers and wondering what made them act like that, they almost came to blows.

  The only thing that stopped them was another moaning sound, this time from the north end of the city. We all traipsed over there as fast as we could, but when we got there we still couldn’t find anything.

  It was starting to get dark, so both sides decided to call it a day. My group went back to our camp on the east side of the city, and the other groups went off to set up their camp on the west side.

  It was while I was lying on my cot,
wondering what the hell I was doing here (and also trying to think of which of the girls I knew would be most impressed by knowing a man with a binary system named after him), that I suddenly seemed to hear a voice inside my head.

  “Nicodemus Mayflower,” it intoned.

  I sat up and looked around to see if anyone else had heard anything, but my companions were all snoring peacefully.

  “Nicodemus Mayflower,” it repeated.

  “I’m right here,” I said softly. “What do you want?”

  “The pain is almost unbearable.”

  “Maybe you should take a pill for it,” I said. “And by the way, who are you and where are you?”

  “I am Nesbudanne,”said the voice.

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but that’s no help at all.”

  “I am the city,” said Nesbudanne.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You ask where I am,” continued Nesbudanne. “I surround you. I am the delicate towers, the shining pavement, the glistening walls, the curving stairways, the highways, the walkways, the causeways. I am the sewer system beneath your feet. I am the mosaic tiles on the walls of the church, and the mural on its ceiling.”

  “All right, I get the picture,” I said. “But why are you in such pain?”

  “I was endowed by my creators, who have long since left me for more modern cities on distant worlds, with the gift of empathy. I can intuit your needs and react to them. Are you cold? I will warm the air. Are you hungry? I will activate my kitchens. Are you sleepy? I will dim my lights and play restful music.” Nesbudanne paused, and I thought I could hear an almost-human sigh. “But empathy has a downside as well. Your scientists hate their rivals, who hate them right back—and I have been bombarded with those emotions all afternoon and evening. I was never equipped to deal with such things. The agony is almost unendurable.”

  “I sympathize with you,” I said, idly wondering if sympathizing was the same as empathizing. “But what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Beyond my northwestern border is a valley known as the Dreambasin,” said Nesbudanne. “It is filled with hallucinogenic plants. Find some way to lead the parties there before I can stand the pain no longer.”