The Outpost

by Mike Resnick

  “How long until it blows?”

  Crazy Bull checked his timepiece. “Maybe ten more seconds. Don’t worry—we’re clear.”

  They both looked at the viewscreen where, nine seconds later, the alien flagship exploded. For a brief moment it seemed almost as bright as a supernova.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” said Sitting Horse with his less-than-firm grasp of human history. “It’s General Custard and the Big Little Horn all over again!”

  Hellfire Van Winkle and the Aliens

  Hellfire Van Winkle sped toward Edith of Scotland, the smaller of Henry I’s two moons.

  “So you thought you could hide here?” he muttered aloud as the alien encampment showed up on his sensor screen. “Hell, if I could find the last Landship in the jungles of Peponi, I can sure as hell find a military outpost on a dead moon.”

  He fell silent again, the current moment less real to him than the past. He remembered the sights and smells of Peponi, the feel of the thornbush as it scraped against his safari jacket, the taste of cold pure water on a hot afternoon, the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline rush when he finally got a Demoncat or a Sabrehorn or a Landship in his sights.

  What the hell was he doing here, fighting aliens he’d never seen in a ship he hadn’t adjusted to in a section of the Frontier that hadn’t even been mapped when he was a young man? He was not only half a galaxy away from where he wanted to be; he was millennia away.

  Time hadn’t so much passed him by as played a nasty trick on him. He didn’t fit here, didn’t belong in this era, wasn’t comfortable anywhere except perhaps the Outpost, where he could rub shoulders and swap stories with other misfits. But misfits though they all were, none fitted in as awkwardly as Hellfire Bailey. (Make that Hellfire Van Winkle, he corrected himself with a grimace; one more example of Time thumbing its nose at him.)

  Yes, he’d outlived his time, no question about it. Now he had to prove that he hadn’t outlived his usefulness as well.

  The problem was that he was tired of outliving things. He should have been dead and buried 4,700 years ago. He hadn’t enjoyed the past dozen years, and he didn’t anticipate enjoying the next dozen either. So if I survive this battle, what will I do with the rest of my life? Just sit around remembering the past and feeling cheated because it was taken away from me before I was through with it? That’s no way for anyone to live.

  His mind made up, Hellfire Van Winkle yelled out a “Geronimo!” that no one else could hear, aimed his ship at the very center of the military encampment, and increased his speed.

  Just before he hit, he idly wondered if the explosion would be visible all the way to the Outpost. He was not surprised to discover that he didn’t really give a damn.

  Big Red and the Aliens

  The tunnel was cold and damp, and it smelled like a sewer. Small alien animals scurried to and fro, and ugly alien insects clung to the ceiling. Big Red tried not to notice them

  He’d landed on Henry IV, well away from the main body of alien soldiers. Hurricane Smith had said to leave them for him, and he was more than happy to do so. His scanner found a prison in a deserted city halfway around the planet, and he landed near it with the intention of releasing any human prisoners who had been incarcerated there.

  A mile from the city’s walls he’d found the tunnel’s exit. He’d come almost two miles now, and by his estimate he had to be near the center of the city. So far there’d only been two branches, neither of them any more promising than the main corridor.

  It was possible, of course, that he’d walk for another couple of miles and find himself outside on the far side of the city, but he doubted it. The tunnel may have smelled like a sewer, but it wasn’t constructed like one. It had to lead somewhere, and he was intent on following it to its end.

  He proceeded another three hundred feet, and then the tunnel took a hard turn to the left. Twenty more feet and he came to a metal door.

  He pushed against it. No luck. He tried to find a latch or handle to pull on. Nothing.

  Finally he withdrew his laser and melted the door. Then he waited a few minutes so he wouldn’t burn through his boots as he stepped over the molten slag.

  He came to a ramp that led upward at a slight angle and followed it. Before he’d ascended halfway he heard alien voices, and he froze. He concentrated on the voices, but he couldn’t differentiate them well enough to determine how many aliens were above him. He waited until he heard footsteps retreating, made sure his burner had recharged itself, and climbed silently to the top of the ramp.

  Two aliens had their backs to him, and never knew what hit them. He pulled the corpses into a darkened area, then surveyed his surroundings.

  Corridors jutted off in every direction. As he was trying to decide which one to follow, he heard a strong masculine voice singing a bawdy song about a young mutant maiden who had three of everything that could possibly be considered worthwhile.

  He crept toward the voice, pistol in hand, peering into the darkness, ready for anything. The voice became louder (and the song even bawdier), and finally he emerged into a huge chamber surrounded by of a number of prison cells. There were no doors on the cells, but he knew from the faint humming permeating the area that they were protected by a force field.

  The voice had reached the point in the song where he had everything required to satisfy the mutant maiden grafted onto his body, and was just beginning the final verse when it stopped almost in mid-word.

  “Watch yourself!” it said suddenly. “Everything’s hot.”

  “I know,” said Big Red. “Where are the controls?”

  “On the far wall. Are you the advance party or the whole show?”

  “The whole show,” said Big Red, walking cautiously to the control box.

  “Hey! I know you!”

  Big Red turned and looked into the cell.

  “I know you too!” he exclaimed. “You’re Backbreaker Barnes! I saw you the night you fought for the title!”

  “I wish you’d seen me on one of the nights I won,” replied Barnes ruefully. “And you’re the one they call the Quadruple Threat—basketball, baseball, track, and … and something else.”

  “Murderball,” said Big Red. He indicated the control box. “Do you know if I can just melt this thing, or is it booby-trapped?”

  “They’re not expecting company. Go ahead and melt it.”

  Big Red fried the control box, which sparked and sputtered for a fraction of a second and then went dead.

  Backbreaker Barnes walked to the front of his cell and cautiously extended his hand. When he didn’t receive a shock, he smiled and stepped out into the corridor.

  “I don’t know what brought you here, but I’m mighty glad to see you. Big Red, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Are you the only one here?”

  “I am now.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They captured about a dozen of us and locked us down here. Once or twice a day they’d drag two of us up to ground level, stick us in an arena, and make us fight to the death.”

  “You killed them all?”

  “If I hadn’t, the aliens would have. Those were the rules: two men went in, one came out. The first day I knocked Captain Mazurski out and refused to kill an unconscious man, so one of the aliens blew him away. The second day I got Mukande Nbolo so bloody and groggy he could barely stand up. I stopped fighting, even when they threatened me. I thought they were going to kill me for refusing an order, but instead they decided Nbolo was in no shape to fight again the next day so they shot him instead. After that I knew it was me or my opponent, that there was no way both fighters were ever going to be allowed to live, so I killed each of them as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

  “Well, I suppose I can’t blame you for staying alive,” said Big Red.

  “It wasn’t that hard,” admitted Barnes. “I didn’t have to fight anyone like, say, you.�
�� He stared thoughtfully at Big Red. “I wonder how you’d have done?”

  “Let’s be glad we’ll never have to find out,” said Big Red. “Now, how the hell do we get out of here?”

  “The most direct way is straight up, but even if you loan me your screecher we’re going to be outnumbered by hundreds to one. I suppose the best way is to go back the way you came.”

  “Right,” said Big Red. “We’d better get going. I had to kill a couple of guards. For all I know, they’re late calling in or reaching a checkpoint.”

  “Do you know the way back?” asked Barnes. “We were chained and blindfolded when they brought us here. The only way out I know is up through the arena.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can find it. I know it’s on a lower level, and there were only a couple of branches the whole way.”

  “Okay, lead the way.”

  Big Red tossed him a sonic pistol. “Here, take this.”

  “Nice screecher,” said Barnes admiringly. “Beautifully weighted.”

  “Believe it or not, I won it in a track meet.”

  “Are you still in shape?”

  “I try to keep fit. Why?”

  “That wasn’t an academic question,” said Barnes. “I just heard some footsteps coming in our direction. Let’s get moving.”

  Big Red broke into a trot, his long, loping stride eating up ground as he descended to the tunnel level and began retracing his steps. Backbreaker Barnes, panting heavily, his muscular body built for strength rather than speed, followed as best he could. When Big Red pulled too far ahead, he slowed down so as not to lose contact with Barnes.

  After a mile they stopped and listened for sounds of pursuit.

  “I think they gave up,” gasped Barnes.

  “We’d better keep running anyway,” said Big Red. “They can always signal ahead to others.”

  “How much farther have we got to go?”

  “Maybe a mile and a half.”

  “I’m beat,” said Barnes. “I can’t run that far.” Suddenly the sounds of footsteps and voices came to their ears. “They’re going to catch us anyway,” continued Barnes. “We might as well have it out right here.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Big Red.

  “I’m undefeated. That’s why they let me live.” He took a fighting stance. “Besides, I like being the champion.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” said Big Red. “They’re going to be here in another minute!”

  “And they’ll find me standing over your body.”

  Barnes dove for him, but Big Red was too quick. He sidestepped, and pushed Barnes head-first into a wall as he raced by. Barnes bellowed in pain and turned to face his opponent, but all he got for his trouble were two quick kicks, one in the groin, the other to his left knee. He fell to the floor, cursing.

  “I told you I played murderball,” said Big Red.

  The alien voices became louder.

  “Help me up!” cried said Barnes, clutching his shattered kneecap. “They’re almost here!”

  “Give them my regards, Champ,” said Big Red.

  He started running again. He’d barely broken a sweat when he reached the safety of his ship and took off.

  The Earth Mother and the Aliens

  In a small interrogation room on Elizabeth of York, the sole moon of Henry VII, the Earth Mother faced a pair of aliens.

  “Name?”

  “The only name I answer to is the Earth Mother.”

  “That is not the name on your passport.”

  “I am not responsible for that,” she answered calmly.

  “What is your purpose for coming here?”

  “There’s a war. I’m not a warrior. I heard you had a hospital here. I want to help.”

  “But the hospital is run by and for members of our race. Why do you not work at a human hospital?”

  “There aren’t any in this system. You have either destroyed our Navy, or at least chased them to a system we control where they can get all the help they need.”

  “Then why should we need any help at all?” asked one of the aliens.

  “Because a small group of Men has taken up the battle, and you will find that, in their way, they are more formidable than the Navy.” She stared at the two aliens. “If you don’t need medical help yet, you soon will.”

  “Why should we believe you?” asked the second alien.

  “I am unarmed. I am in what we call late middle age, and I am fifty pounds overweight. I have high blood pressure and diabetes. Surely even you must realize that I pose no threat to you—and I do possess medical knowledge that may be unknown to you.”

  “Are you a doctor among your own people?”

  “No.”

  “A nurse, then?”

  “No. But in my prior profession, I was frequently called upon to heal the wounded.”

  “Why didn’t you send them to a medic?”

  “Our social structure would probably make no sense to you. Just believe me that there were valid reasons why they did not want anyone to know that they had patronized my business.”

  The aliens exchanged knowing smiles. “Perhaps you are not as incomprehensible as you believe,” said the first one. “All right, Earth Mother. You may work in our hospital as a nurse.”

  “But know that you will be under electronic surveillance at all times,” added the second.

  “That will be perfectly acceptable,” said the Earth Mother, getting to her feet. “Which way do I go?”

  One of the aliens got up. “I will show you.”

  He led her to a small dressing room, waited while she donned the uncomfortable and ill-fitting blue-gray robes of an alien nurse, and then escorted her to a ward, where she was introduced to her superior.

  Her first job was emptying and cleaning alien bedpans. As she collected them, she carefully studied the anatomy of the wounded alien soldiers. Later, in the nurses’ dormitory, she joined a few of her workmates in the group shower, and spent as much time scrutinizing them as they did her. Yes, she decided, it should work just fine. A few days, a little gossip, maybe a little surreptitious observation, and I should know everything I need to know. We’re not all that different, your race and mine, and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t bring my non-medical expertise to the situation at hand. I mean, hell, we’ve already got a few empty wards filled with brand-new beds. Now all I have to do is figure how much to charge to fill them.

  She looked out at the ward. An alien soldier, his foot blown off, his torso swathed in bandages, still managed to pinch a nurse as she walked by.

  The Earth Mother smiled. This is going to be even easier than I thought.

  Argyle and the Aliens

  “I’m approaching Henry V,” said Argyle. “I should make contact with the aliens any moment now.

  “Have you gone crazy?” demanded Gravedigger Gaines’s voice on the subspace radio. “Most of their forces are on Henrys IV and V!”

  “Well, there wouldn’t really be much sense going to Henry I, would there?” replied Argyle.

  “Three-Gun Max is already on V, and I think Venus is on her way there. Leave the fighting to them and get your ass out of there.”

  “Happily,” said Argyle. “I’m no fighter.”

  “Then why aren’t you back at the Outpost?” said Gaines.

  “They’re aliens. I’m an alien. They just might listen to me.”

  “Idiot!” snapped Gaines. “You’re as much an alien to them as you are to us.”

  Argyle frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted.

  “Then maybe it’s time for you to start thinking, and get the hell out of the system.”

  “Thanks for your concern, but I really think someone has to try reasoning with them.”

  “The time for reasoning was over when they blew a hundred Navy ships out of the sky.” Gaines paused. “I’m going to have to break off communications with you. Even with a scrambled signal, you’re getting close enough to the planet for t
hem to home in on you.”

  “I’m not trying to hide my presence,” said Argyle. “There must be someone on the other side who will listen to reason.”

  “Your giant computer listened to reason,” noted Gaines, “but it didn’t do either of you a hell of a lot of good, did it?”

  “We’re not savages. Neither are they. Surely history is on our side.”

  “History is usually on the side with the best weapons,” said Gaines. “Over and out.”

  Argyle maintained his distance from the planet until the aliens signaled his ship.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “My name is Argyle. I’m a native of—”

  “Your vessel, fool!”

  “It’s a spaceship. What do you wish to know about it?”

  “Registration. Point of origin. Duration of current voyage. Destination. Armaments.”

  “I’m having my computer feed you all the data now.”

  “What is your purpose for being in this system?”

  “I was having a drink with my friends on Henry II,” said Argyle.

  “Are you a human?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a member of a race allied with the Commonwealth?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Remain in orbit. Two of our fighter ships will approach you and escort you to the planet’s surface.”

  “I will do as you request,” said Argyle. “Then I would like to speak to someone in charge.”

  “That was an order, not a request.”

  “Then I will do as you order,” Argyle corrected himself. “But I would still like to speak to someone in authority.”

  There was no response, and a few minutes later two fighter ships showed up. They flanked him and herded him to the hastily-assembled spaceport.

  Once on the ground he was escorted, at gunpoint, to an interrogation room, where the slightly bored alien bureaucrat was waiting for him.

  “We have no record of an Argyle owning a ship with the registration number of RP1034CB.”