The Outpost

by Mike Resnick

  “Every last one of ’em true,” Baker assured her. “Except for them what ain’t.”

  “It will be an honor to fight side by side with you against the aliens,” she said.

  “Well, I do a lot of things side by side with women of all types, shapes and sizes,” said Baker. “But fighting aliens is one of the things I do best alone.”

  “Side by side or on our own, we’ll decimate the bastards!” she said enthusiastically.

  “Maybe we’ll just invite ’em in for a drink and try to find out what got ’em so all-fired riled in the first place,” said Baker.

  Venus threw back her head and laughed. “You’ve got a wonderful sense of humor, Catastrophe!”

  “I know I have,” he replied. “But I ain’t taken it out of mothballs yet today.”

  “Maybe we should give some thought to facing off against the aliens,” said Big Red.

  “Are you in that much of a hurry to meet your maker, son?” asked the Reverend Billy Karma. “Don’t count on sitting at His right hand if things go wrong. I was speaking to Him just this morning and He never mentioned you.” He turned to the room at large. “Leave us not rush foolishly into a situation that can be just as foolishly avoided.”

  “Men!” muttered Sinderella disgustedly. “All talk and no action!”

  “I keep offering you some action, honey,” said Billy Karma, “and you keep turning me down.”

  “You should have said Yes to him,” interjected the Earth Mother. “The odds are he wouldn’t have done a damned thing about it.”

  “Oh yeah?” Billy Karma shot back. “What makes you think so?”

  “Experience.”

  “You never had no experience with me.”

  “I’ve had more than my share of experience with men, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re all a bunch of totally worthless blowhards.”

  “I take exception to that remark!” snapped the Reverend.

  “See? Sinderella was right—all talk and no action.”

  “What kind of action do you want?” demanded Billy Karma. “I could knock your teeth out if that’d make you happy.”

  “You try it, and ten seconds later you’ll know for sure if there’s an afterlife or not,” replied the Earth Mother.

  The Reverend stared at her for a long moment, then decided not to find out if she was telling the truth.

  “Ah, what would you know about action anyway?” he settled for saying.

  “More than you, that’s for sure,” said the Earth Mother.

  “Hah!”!” he responded. “Who’d ever want you?”

  “Lots of men.”

  “Name one.”

  “Gladly,” said the Earth Mother. “Moses Jacoby Zanzabell.”

  At the sound of the name, a hush fell over the Outpost.

  “The Moses Jacoby Zanzabell?” asked the Reverend Billy Karma at last.

  “There’s only one.”

  “But he’s the richest man in the galaxy!”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he took a liking to you?”

  “Liking is an understatement,” said the Earth Mother. “He wanted me so badly that he bought me.”

  “This I gotta hear,” said the Reverend Billy Karma.

  “Me, too,” said Max.

  The Trillionaire’s Toy

  You know (began the Earth Mother), I was a pretty good-looking woman 25 or 30 years ago. I realize it’s hard to believe now, but that’s because sooner or later gravity catches up with all of us. But back then, I was a knockout. I looked just like Sinderella, only I was blonde. (Or, at least, I was frequently blonde.)

  Most people, when they heard about Moses Jacoby Zanzabell, who was the galaxy’s first and only trillionaire, couldn’t believe anyone could be so rich. I didn’t have any problem with that. I couldn’t believe anyone could be so ugly.

  I was working at the Tower of Babel, a high-class brothel located on Green Cheese, a moon of Pirelli VII, when I first saw him. Oh, I knew who he was, all right; a man like that doesn’t exactly dwell in obscurity.

  Anyway, he came into the place, left his bodyguards at the door, and spent a few minutes considering his choice—and then he selected me.

  Now, not only was he the ugliest man I’d ever seen, but he was also in the running for the foulest-smelling one as well. So when he announced that he wanted to spend the night with me, I refused. This seemed to amuse him, because he was obviously not used to people denying him anything he wanted. He walked over to me, pulled out his wallet, and place a fat wad of banknotes in my hand.

  “A million credits for one night,” he said with a smile—and I noticed that he needed dental work too.

  “Not interested,” I said.

  “But you work here!” he insisted. “You can’t say no to a paying customer.”

  “I just did.”

  “Well, it’s against the law for a business to advertise a service and then reject a legitimate offer.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I quit.”

  “Just a minute!” he said urgently. “No one’s ever turned me down before.”

  “Consider it a learning experience,” I told him.

  “I consider it stimulating beyond belief,” he admitted. “It’s a brand-new experience.”

  “I’m not trying to stimulate you,” I said. “Just the opposite.”

  “It’s not working,” he said. “Now, what’ll it take to make you change your mind?”

  “Nothing you can say or do,” I told him.

  “I didn’t get where I am by taking no for an answer,” he said, walking to the door. “I’ll be back.”

  And sure enough, he was back the next night.

  “All right,” he said, walking right up to me. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “I own palaces all over the galaxy,” he said. “I just built one on New Fiji. I think we’ll go there.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

  “Yes you are,” he said. “Check with the government.”

  “What has the government got to do with it?” I demanded.

  “They declared you a living monument in exchange for a ten million credit donation,” said Zanzabell. “Then, since they control the sale of all monuments, they agreed to let me purchase you for another forty million credits.” He smiled. “I own you.”

  I had my lawyer check it out, and somehow it was all true. Now, I realize it seems crazy to spend fifty million credits for a woman—any woman—but as he explained it, he made more than that every ten seconds, so it didn’t seem quite as crazy to him.

  So I went to New Fiji with him, and he showed me my room, which would have comfortably held two murderball fields and a race track. The bathroom could have held a small lake, and did sport an impressive waterfall. Zanzabell stopped at the door and told me he’d be by to pay me a visit in an hour.

  I had barely finished exploring my new quarters when he showed up, carrying a bottle of Cygnian cognac. He didn’t smell any better than usual, so I suggested we drink first. He filled our glasses, and he drained his while he was ogling me, and before I’d even taken a sip of my own drink, he’d made it halfway through his second glass.

  He started slurring his words by the third glass, and I saw he had trouble focusing his eyes by the fourth. I kept him talking until he’d finished the whole damned bottle. When he finally decided it was time to take me to bed, he stood up, reached a hand in my direction, and collapsed onto the floor.

  I dragged him to the bed, managed to lift him onto it, and took a long, luxurious bath. When I was through, I dialed up a good book on my computer and spent the next few hours reading it, until I heard him starting to stir in the bed.

  “Where are you?” he mumbled.

  “Right here,” I said, walking over to him.

  “I can’t remember a thing,” he said.

  “I remember everything,” I said. “You were fabulous!”

  “I was?”

 
; “The best I’ve ever had,” I assured him. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Now it all comes back to me. I really was fabulous, wasn’t I?” He got shakily to his feet. “I’ll see you again tonight.”

  And when he came to my room, I saw to it that we had a repeat performance of the previous night.

  The third night he brought drugs along with the liquor. I pretended to take them while he used up the entire supply.

  This went on for almost two months. Each night he would get so drunk or stoned that he passed out, and each morning I would tell him how wonderful he’d been in bed and how much he had pleased me, and he always pretended to remember rather than admit that he couldn’t recall a single thing.

  I realized that I couldn’t keep this up forever, so after sixty days had passed, I asked for my freedom.

  He refused.

  Now, I could have tried to escape, but he had guards everywhere, and I’d never have made it to the front gate. And I could have tried to win my freedom in the courts, but my lawyer assured me that it could take years. I could have waited for some hero like Catastrophe Baker or Hurricane Smith to rescue me, but the fact was that I didn’t know any heroes back then.

  So I decided to take advantage of the same male psychology that had kept me safe thus far.

  The next time I saw Zanzabell, I threw my arms around him, apologized for being so foolish as to ask for my freedom, and swore my eternal love for him. He disengaged himself and looked very uncomfortable.

  “You’re all I want!” I panted. “All I’ll ever want! Once a day isn’t enough anymore! I want you to visit me in my room at least three times a day—and I’ll kill any woman who tries to stop you!”

  “Nobody gives me orders!” he snapped. “Now back away!”

  “But you’re all I live for!” I told him. “You’re even better in bed than you are in business, and I won’t share you with anyone!”

  He suddenly looked like a trapped animal.

  “Get away from me!” he said.

  “Never!” I cried, kneeling down and grabbing his legs.

  Well, he had his men pull me away and lock me in my room, and every day for the next week I repeated my performance, and he kept looking more and more like a trapped animal as the week wore on, and finally he just ordered his guards to give me my freedom and return me to the Tower of Babel.

  I cashed in all the jewels he had given me in exchange for the sexual favors he was sure he’d gotten, and used the proceeds to buy my own brothel. Thanks to my knowledge of the male of the species, it was a remarkable success.

  “So he never once got you into bed?” asked Sinderella.

  “That’s right,” said the Earth Mother.

  “If the Reverend doesn’t calm down, we have to have a long talk.”

  “What the hell is going on?” demanded the Cyborg de Milo angrily.

  “I don’t think I understand the question, ma’am,” said Catastrophe Baker.

  “There’s a war out there! Aliens have decimated the Navy. They’ve already landed on Henrys IV and V, and they’re headed for Henry II. And all anyone wants to do is talk!”

  “That’s not quite all we want to do, honey,” said the Reverend Billy Karma.

  “You lay a finger on me and I’ll lay one on you,” said Venus in a threatening tone, “and we’ll see who has the more potent finger.” She turned to Baker and Smith. “I can understand the rest of these clowns, but you two are bona fide heroes. Why are you still sitting around this place instead of going out there and wiping out those alien scum?”

  “What’s your hurry?” asked Smith. “No one’s shooting at the Outpost yet.”

  “Right,” added Baker. “It’s been my experience that there ain’t no problem so urgent today that it won’t be even more urgent tomorrow.”

  “Besides,” said Bet-a-World O’Grady, “everyone knows that violence is the last resort of the incompetent.”

  “The competent don’t wait that long,” said Venus contemptuously.

  “I never yet saw a war that was worth rushing into,” said Smith.

  “Right,” agreed Baker. “If this war can’t stick around until we’re ready to fight it, it wasn’t worth the effort in the first place.”

  The Cyborg de Milo got to her feet and walked to the door.

  “To hell with all of you!” she said. “There’s vermin out there that needs defenestrating! I’ll do the job alone if I have to!”

  She stalked out of the Outpost and headed back to her ship.

  “I never saw anyone so goddamned anxious to get her head blown off,” said Three-Gun Max.

  “Lot of guts, though,” opined the Gravedigger.

  “Good-looking broad, too,” added the Reverend Billy Karma.

  “Fine,” said Sinderella. “Chase her for a while.”

  “She’s off to fight the aliens,” said Billy Karma. “Just how crazy do I look?”

  “Do you want a frank answer or a friendly one?” asked Sinderella.

  “I withdraw the question,” said the Reverend uncomfortably.

  “That’s a mighty brave lady facing mighty long odds,” said Smith. He looked over at Baker. “You think we ought to go with her?”

  “I got room for a couple more drinks yet,” answered Baker. “Maybe by then they’ll have taken a shot at us and we’ll have a real reason to fight.”

  “Yeah,” said Smith thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  It was a voice no one had ever heard before.

  “Who said that?” I demanded.

  Reggie, my robot bartender, rolled over to me. “I did, Tomahawk.”

  “You?” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could talk.”

  “I’ve always been able to,” said Reggie.

  “But you’ve been tending bar here since the day we opened and you’ve never said a word!”

  “I never had anything to say until now.”

  “And now you do?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been listening to everyone’s stories, and now I’ve got one of my own to tell.”

  “We’re all ears,” said Baker.

  “It doesn’t have a title,” said Reggie, “because I am just a robot, and not creative like the rest of you. So with your permission, I will just call it Reggie’s Story.”

  Reggie’s Story

  Once upon a time (said Reggie) there was a gathering place for the most extraordinary people in the galaxy. It attracted heroes and bandits, artists and athletes, ministers, geniuses, prostitutes, bounty hunters, gamblers, even aliens. Since I am a robot and haven’t been programmed for creativity, let’s call it the Outpost for lack of a better name.

  Unique people came to the Outpost to drink, to tell a story or two, and mainly to mingle with other very special people. It was a haven for them, a place to hide from the mundane and the commonplace, from the fawning adulation and the irrational resentment of the populace at large.

  And because they were extraordinary people, they sometimes forgot that there was a galaxy of normal people out there, a galaxy that needed the kind of men and women who were drawn to the Outpost.

  One day an alien fleet entered the system. The Navy tried to stand against them, but was destroyed. There was a moment, a single instant in time, when the heroes of the Outpost might have turned the tide of battle, might have driven the aliens not only from the system but from the entire galaxy. But instead of doing what they were born to do, they talked and they drank and they talked some more, and then the moment was gone. The aliens took advantage of their lethargy to destroy the Outpost and everyone in it, and within five years the entire Monarchy had fallen beneath their onslaught.

  That’s the story. It of course has nothing to do with this Outpost or these heroes.

  Thank you for listening.

  Catastrophe Baker got to his feet.

  “All right, Reggie,” he said, walking to the door. “I was going out there anyw
ay.”

  Reggie didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear me?” said Baker.

  Still no answer.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He only talks when he’s got something to say,” said Little Mike Picasso.

  “And now he’s said it,” added Nicodemus Mayflower.

  Gravedigger Gaines got up. “I’ll walk you out to the ships,” he said to Baker.

  “You ain’t leaving me behind!” said the Reverend Billy Karma. “Me and the Lord got to protect that little cyborg lady.”

  Hurricane Smith turned to Langtry Lily. “I really should go with them.”

  She whispered something to him.

  “Certainly, my dear,” said Smith. “I’ll be happy to have you come along.”

  In another minute, Hellfire Van Winkle and Little Mike Picasso and Sahara del Rio and Sinderella and Nicodemus Mayflower and Argyle and Bet-a-World O’Grady and Sitting Horse and Crazy Bull and the Earth Mother and Achmed of Alphard and Silicon Carny all started making their way to their ships.

  “What about you?” Max asked Willie the Bard.

  “Somebody’s got to wait here and write down the survivors’ stories,” said the Bard.

  “If there are any survivors,” said Max. He turned to Big Red. “You going or staying?”

  “I’m going,” he said. “That is, if I can leave my computer with Tomahawk.”

  “For safe-keeping?” I asked.

  “For communicating with Einstein,” said Big Red, indicating the blind genius who sat alone at his table. “His brain may prove to be the difference between victory and defeat.”

  He tapped out a good-bye to Einstein, then handed me the computer and walked out the door.

  “How about you, Max?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m going off to slaughter aliens,” he said. “There never was any question about it. But I see about half a dozen unfinished drinks sitting on various tables, and it’d be criminal to pour them out.”

  He began walking from table to table, downing all the half-empty glasses.

  “Protect her, Max,” said Reggie.

  “Her?”

  “The Cyborg de Milo,” said Reggie. “She’s half robot. I feel a remarkable affinity toward her.”