by Mike Resnick
She turned to him, and he almost did a double-take at the alien staring at him through the transparent helmet.
“Sonuvabitch, that’s perfect! I keep forgetting how fast you can do that!” He paused. “Let me go first, just in case anyone’s watching. If they see us both emerging from my ship, we can make up some story about how you snuck aboard and got the drop on me—but if you climb down first, without keeping your gun trained on me, they’ll know it’s bullshit.”
She stood aside as he walked by her and slowly climbed down to the ground. She joined him a moment later.
“Okay, push the gun in my back as if you’re urging me to speed up.”
She did as he ordered, and he put his hands in the air and started marching toward the aliens’ headquarters. It took him a few strides to adjust to the lighter gravity, but no one noticed either of them until they were within a few hundred yards of the huge protective dome. Then a number of alien soldiers, all heavily armed, raced out and trained their weapons on him. He ignored them, as did Langtry Lily, and continued walking.
Once they reached the dome they paused in the airlock until the readout said that they could remove their helmets. All of them did so, and then Langtry shoved the gun into his back again and he began walking forward again.
They marched toward a small building, and as they neared it an officer emerged. He took in the situation at once, and a smile spread across his alien face.
“Hurricane Smith!” he said. “This is our lucky day! Do you know how much the Monarchy will pay to get you back?”
“They won’t pay you any more than they’re offering to certain select bounty hunters,” answered Smith.
“Oh yes they will,” said the officer. “There’s a shortage of heroes these days, or hadn’t you heard?”
“You must be thinking of Catastrophe Baker, or maybe the Cyborg de Milo,” said Smith. “I gave up the hero business when I got married.”
The alien threw back his head and laughed. “You?” he said disbelievingly. “Hurricane Smith, the most prolific deflowerer of alien females in the galaxy? What did you marry—a gigantic horned toad, or perhaps a twenty-legged spider that ate her last husband for breakfast?”
Smith shot a quick glance at Langtry Lily. She still appeared in alien form, but her expression was anything but amused.
“I married the most wonderful female anyone’s ever seen,” answered Smith quickly. “A creature of rare and delicate beauty, exquisite manners, remarkable empathy—and above all, iron-clad self-control.” He emphasized the last four words for Langtry’s benefit.
“Are you describing her or proffering a legal brief for her?” asked the officer.
“If I was too forceful, I beg your forgiveness,” said Smith. “Write it off to love.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad for your sake that you’ve known love, since you’re about to become intimately acquainted with pain and degradation while we’re waiting for the Monarchy to make an offer for what’s left of you.”
“If you really plan to ransom me, you’d be much better advised to feed me and treat me well,” said Smith. “The Monarchy doesn’t buy damaged goods.”
The officer looked around. “Do you see the Monarchy anywhere?” he said with an amused laugh. “They won’t know you’re damaged.”
“Not only won’t they know I’m damaged,” replied Smith. “They won’t even know it’s me.”
“Oh, yes they will. When the time comes we’ll cut off a finger or gouge out an eye and send it to them, and they can match it against your fingerprint or your retinagram.”
“How very foresightful of you,” said Smith dryly.
“I graduated at the top of my class in officers’ school,” was the reply.
“What did you study—sadism, with maybe a minor in rape and pillaging?”
The officer laughed again. “You have a wonderful sense of humor, Hurricane Smith! I’m almost sorry that we’re going to have to torture you.”
“Who says you have to?”
“You capture the enemy, you torture him. Those are the rules.”
“Ignore them.”
“Actually, I’m not that sorry.”
The officer signaled to two of his soldiers to bind Smith’s hands behind his back. As they approached, Langtry Lily tensed noticeably.
“Don’t worry, soldier,” the officer said to her. “You’ll be prominently mentioned in my report.”
Smith’s protective suit was quite heavy, and there wasn’t much give to it. As the soldiers pulled his hands behind his back, he winced in pain.
An instant later, Langtry Lily hissed and spat at the two soldiers. She hit one in the face, the other on the chest. The liquid sizzled and began burning holes in them.
“I don’t know what he is, but he’s not one of us!” cried the officer. “Kill him!”
Smith dove for the officer and grabbed his weapon, but it was too late. Half a dozen laser beams and energy pulses had ripped through Langtry’s body. Her outline seemed to blur for a moment, and then, as she lay dead on the ground, she was once again a Pelopenne.
“You bastards!” bellowed Smith. “That was the woman I loved!”
He killed the officer, then used his corpse as a shield and turned his pistol on the others. The element of surprise was on his side, and he killed half a dozen of them in the first few seconds of battle, but the rest quickly regrouped, found cover, and began shooting back.
The corpse couldn’t absorb many more beams before it fell apart, and Smith backed away, looking for some place to make a stand.
And then, before any of the enemy knew what was happening, they were mowed down from behind by a female alien carrying a laser rifle. It was doubtful that any of them ever even saw who killed them.
When it was over she stepped out of the shadows and approached Smith, stepping over the fallen bodies.
She gestured toward Langtry. “Was that your wife?”
“Yes,” said Smith, not knowing whether or not to lower his weapon.
“I thought so.” The alien female looked at him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“They make me ashamed to be a member of the same race.” She walked over to him. “I know how you feel. I lost a loved one in battle.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “We have that much in common.”
Smith eyed her up and down. “Maybe we have even more.”
“You think so?”
“Come back to my ship with me and we’ll explore the possibilities.”
“If they find me, they’ll execute me as a deserter.”
“If you don’t leave with me, they’ll execute you as a traitor,” noted Smith.
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
They began walking to the airlock.
“You know,” said Smith after a moment, “you’re really quite attractive.”
“But I’m not even a member of your race.”
“We have to look beyond that if there’s ever going to be peace in the galaxy.”
“Those are my feelings exactly!” she said. “But they sound so strange coming from a warrior like you.”
“I’m no warrior.”
“What are you, then?” she asked.
He put an arm around her as they continued walking, and found the texture of her alien skin oddly exciting.
“I prefer to think of myself as a peacemaker,” said Hurricane Smith.
Little Mike Picasso and the Aliens
Little Mike Picasso looked at his viewscreen. There was nothing but rocks as far as the eye could see.
“Can I breathe the air?”
“Yes,” answered his ship’s computer. “Of course, the first breath will kill you within five seconds, but …”
“Where the hell are we?” he demanded.
“I have no idea,” came the answer.
“Well, you’re supposed to know!” he snapped.
“I beg to differ,” said the com
puter. “You could have added an HT10547 state-of-the-art Navigational Computer to me before you came to the Inner Frontier, and you chose not to. It is hardly my fault that you have forced me to perform operations for which I was not programmed.”
“All I said was get me to one of the Henrys where the aliens were.”
“I know what you said. I have audio, video, and holographic recordings of it, and can instantly reproduce them should the need arise. That in no way alters the fact that I am not an HT10547 state-of-the-art Navigational Computer. I have done the best I could do under exceptionally trying circumstances.”
“You couldn’t find your nose with your finger,” complained Little Mike.
“I possess neither a nose nor a finger,” replied the computer.
“You know damned well what I meant,” said Little Mike. “Not only didn’t you find a world with aliens on it, but you don’t even know where we are.”
“I have not denied my limitations,” said the computer. “But it is unfair of you to keep referring to them, to say nothing of unkind and—dare I suggest it?—petulant.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“And vulgar.”
“Look,” said Little Mike, “I am the best goddamned artist in the galaxy, maybe the best who ever lived. I make Michelangelo and Picasso and Morita look like amateurs. I can’t excel at everything, so I don’t think it’s asking too much for my spaceship to know where the hell we are.”
“There’s a logical flaw in your argument,” the computer pointed out. “Being the best goddamned artist in the galaxy has nothing to do with—”
“It wasn’t an argument, it was a statement!” growled Little Mike. “We’re going to wipe these bastards out. I mean, hell, if Catastrophe Baker and Hurricane Smith and Gravedigger Gaines are all fighting on the same side, then the aliens are doomed. I’ve got to find them before the war’s over, so I can paint them and capture them for posterity.”
“If you plan to capture them for posterity, why not paint them after you’ve captured them?” asked the computer.
“I’m going to capture them on canvas, not in the flesh,” said Little Mike. “I’m five foot three, I weigh 120 pounds dripping wet, and I’ve never fired a weapon in my life. How the hell am I going to capture aliens that can blow the Navy out of the spaceways? My job is creating a masterpiece or two while there are still some of them left.”
“Perhaps you should have attached yourself to Catastrophe Baker or Hurricane Smith at the outset. From what you’ve told me, they are almost certain to come into contact with the aliens.” The computer paused. “In fact, I could signal one of them right now, and—”
“And if the aliens are closer to us than Baker or Smith, you’ll have broadcast our position to them.”
“Ah—but I don’t know our position,” said the ship triumphantly.
“Then how the hell would you expect Baker or Smith to find us?”
“They’re heroes,” answered the ship. “Heroes always find a way.”
“Who told you that?” asked Little Mike.
“It’s on my library crystals.”
“Fiction or non-fiction?”
“I cannot differentiate.”
“Some computer!” snorted Little Mike.
“You get what you pay for,” answered the computer calmly. “You could have bought me the ability to make value judgments, which would require me to instantly know the difference between fiction and non-fiction. You chose not to. Now you must live with the consequences of your penury.”
“Let’s get back to the problem at hand, instead of making groundless accusations. Where the hell are we?”
“My accusations were not groundless,” said the computer.
“Fine, they’re not groundless,” said Little Mike with a defeated sigh. “Now where are we?”
“I don’t know.”
“Check your fuel gauges, and your internal chronometer. How far did we fly? How long did it take? What can you deduce from that?”
“Everything is relative,” answered the ship. “I know how much fuel I used, of course, just as I know the duration of our trip. But to know precisely where we are, I must calculate the speed at which the Tudor/Plantagenet system is moving in relation to the galaxy, and indeed the speed of the galaxy in relation to all the other galaxies. In response to your query, I shall commence my calculations now. Please do not interrupt.”
Little Mike sat patiently for five minutes, then ten more, and finally another hour. Finally he spoke up.
“How long is this likely to take?”
There was no response. For a moment he thought the computer had gone dead, but then he heard the gentle whirring as it computed the size and speed of every moving object in the universe.
“There’s a war going on, you know,” said Little Mike.
The computer blinked an acknowledgment, but couldn’t spare any brainpower to respond.
Little Mike made himself a sandwich, opened a container of beer, watched a holo show, and went to bed. When he woke up in the morning, the ship’s computer was still lost in its calculations.
“This is ridiculous!” he snapped. “Cancel the order.”
Another acknowledgment blinked, but once again the computer couldn’t spare even the slightest portion of its brainpower to reply.
After six more days had passed, Little Mike ran out of food. The beer was gone a day later.
Just as he was certain that he would die of starvation before the ship determined where they were, the computer suddenly came to life.
“I am pleased to announce that we are on Margaret of Anjou, the moon of Henry VI.”
“Good!” said Little Mike. “Now let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Wherever the action is.”
“Oh,” said the computer. “Did I neglect to tell you? The war’s as good as over.”
The Outpost and the Aliens
I began sweeping the floor again.
“That’s the fifth time you’ve swept up in the last hour,”
said Willie the Bard. “How much cleaner does the place have to be before you’re happy?”
“It’s just nervous energy,” I said. “They’re fighting a war out there, and we’re stuck here at the Outpost.”
The Bard glanced out the window.
“Uh … I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he said nervously, “but we’re not as far from the war as you think.”
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“A ship just landed.” He continued staring at it. “It’s not like any other ship I’ve ever seen.”
“Damn!” I said. “We’ll just have to defend the place as best we can.”
“We?” repeated the Bard. “I’m a historian. I’ve never held a weapon in my life.”
“I can’t stand them off all by myself,” I said. “Einstein’s blind, deaf and mute. You’re elected.”
“Get Reggie to help.”
“He’s a robot,” I said. “A robot can’t harm a sentient being, or, through inaction, allow harm to come to one.”
“Stupidest thing I ever heard,” muttered the Bard.
Then Reggie spoke up from his position behind the bar. “On the contrary, I have absolutely no moral or ethical compunction against harming Men or aliens.”
“You don’t?” I said.
“None whatsoever.”
“Good. Then grab a weapon and—”
“However,” he continued, “the only thing I know how to do is make drinks. I am totally ignorant of firearms and military tactics. If you would like to take the necessary fourteen hours to reprogram me …”
“I don’t think there’s time,” I said.
“There isn’t,” confirmed the Bard. “They’re already marching out of the ship. Seventeen—no, eighteen—of ’em.”
“Okay,” I said. “There’s no way I can take them out with standard weapons. This calls for something special.”
I
reached behind the bar and pulled out the molecular imploder.
“I didn’t know you had an imploder,” said the Bard.
“I’ve never had occasion to use it before.”
“It’s an impressive-looking weapon,” he said admiringly. “What powers the damned thing?”
“Fission, fusion, who the hell knows?” I said. “I just know that it turns things into jelly—aliens, humans, spaceships, buildings, everything.”
I walked to the doorway, aimed the imploder, and activated the trigger mechanism.
And nothing happened.
“Isn’t it loaded?” asked the Bard.
“You don’t load an imploder!” I snapped. “You just aim and fire it!”
“Maybe it’s not getting any power,” he suggested.
I checked the gauges. “Everything reads right. Everything should be working. What the hell is wrong?”
“Let’s ask the expert,” said the Bard. “Toss me the computer.”
I did as he asked, and he tapped out the problem for Einstein, who replied a moment later.
“He says that they’ve probably got some kind of atomic neutralizer that’s messing up your power source, and that you should use a laser cannon or a pulse torpedo instead.”
“This is the Outpost, not a fucking military vessel!” I yelled, as the aliens approached to within two hundred yards. “I don’t have that kind of weaponry!”
Another exchange of messages.
“He says it’s an interesting problem.”
“That’s all he’s got to say?” I said frantically.
“He says he’s never seen an insoluble problem. He just doesn’t know if he can solve this one in the time remaining.”
The aliens seemed to sense that we were defenseless and increased their pace.
“Well?” I demanded.
“He says he’s working on it.”
“Tell him he’d better finish working in ten seconds!”
He finished in eight seconds. I followed his advice, and that was the end of the alien invasion, and, for all I knew, of the whole damned war.
***
Part III
History