How Beer Saved the World

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “People,” Deirdre spoke out as her shipmates glared at her with exasperation. Lulu turned to Jack with an alarmed look and a steel gaze.

  “You keep this quiet, yes? You not let this get out,” Lulu pleaded.

  Jack’s jaw had dropped. “People? You’re trafficking in humans?”

  Short Stack spoke up. “Not humans... mutants.”

  Then it all made sense. Mutant refugees would pay to escape Isis, but few had any real money. Most smugglers wouldn’t touch a job like that. But Lulu always had a soft spot in her center. It would take a lot of refugees to make the trip worthwhile, and you could probably make just as much with a legit cargo.

  “You stupid sons of bitches,” Jack exhaled. “Do you know what the Isis Regime will do WHEN they catch you? The Confederation doesn’t give a damn what happens on Isis, they got fifty worlds to worry about! The Public Protectors will take your ship, yes, but that ain’t the worst of it. You’ll be treated like enemies of the state, political prisoners, not common criminals. They’ll send you to some damn penal colony for life, and that’s IF you’re not summarily executed.” Jack looked at Deirdre, “It’ll be worse for you, kiddo. You know that.”

  The mutant girl just nodded.

  Lulu spoke for her crew. “Is all right, Jack. You just be sure you tell no one, okay?”

  “Damn straight!” Jack said as he picked up his black jacket. “The Navy screwed me over plenty, fighting for causes, risking my ass for other people’s freedom. Well, I got some freedom of my own now, and I’m gonna’ keep it! People should mind their own business, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  With that, he put on his jacket and walked down the gangway.

  <<>>

  “This is Isis Traffic Control to MJS Sundancer, sending approved flight plan now. Please maintain present course and speed until you reach the outer marker.”

  “I copy, Isis Control,” Jack answered. It'd been an especially long flight, and he was out of bottled water. But, in less than six hours, he would be checking into a starport hotel and taking a nice long bath. He would have loved to pay Chad another visit, but Jack hadn’t heard from him in months. Apparently, Chad and his family moved and left no forwarding address. Jack worried about his friend, but without any more information, that was all he could do. He checked over the flight plan on the heads-up display.

  Control’s course put him down on a pad near the starport’s warehouses, a little out of the way but no big deal. He did a cursory check and found that, once again, he would be parking next to the Vagabond.

  Jack considered paying them another visit, like he did on Tortuga a while back, but no. Vagabond and Sundancer had been avoiding each other lately. Best not to stir anything up, especially on Isis. A few more maneuvers and Sundancer fired its retros for a nice, soft landing on the docking pad. When all lights read green, he looked at the access control and stretched his arms. He heard the groan of the gangway’s release, and soon his feet walked down the ramp on a beautiful, sunny, Isis day.

  He looked across the field. Yep, that was the Vagabond all right. The old piece of junk looked as decrepit as ever. Why didn’t Lulu just trade it in for a newer ship? A few years, a few payments, and it would be theirs. Then he remembered it would probably take Lulu’s crew a lot longer than that to pay off a new ship. After all, they weren’t smuggling beer.

  Jack saw Public Protectors marching toward the ships, steel-blue uniforms looking snappy with their scanners at the ready. Jack reached into his jacket pocket for his manifest. Another inspection and another medical exam were all that stood between him and that bath. Then he saw the old maintainer truck.

  It just passed the Sundancer when smoke suddenly burst out of its engine compartment. The driver got out and checked under the hood. From where Jack stood, it looked like a ruptured coil... no big deal. But the driver looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Old trucks like that are bound to have some breakdowns so Jack wondered what the guy was stressing about. Hell, only one or two of the Public Protectors even paid much attention to it. Then Jack noticed how the driver’s eyes kept darting to the Vagabond.

  Lulu stood by Vagabond’s gangway watching the whole affair, trying to be cool, but Jack knew her better than that. She was shaking. Then, Jack saw people crawling out of the near side of the truck. Not people, exactly, mutants, four of them, two adults and two children. Their clothes were ragged and their bodies malnourished. A king, a queen and two of a kind; Jack knew he was in the wrong suit. Chad, his wife Emma and their two kids were hiding behind the busted down truck. Shit, Jack thought, this wasn’t going to end well.

  They were less than twenty meters from freedom, but the Public Protectors were getting closer. Jack looked toward the customs men as they approached and made up his mind. No, not well at all.

  Captain Jack Galloway strode to the Sundancer’s port side access life-support panel. Whispering softly, he said, “I’m gonna’ miss you, honey. I’m gonna’ miss you a lot.”

  Risk is part of life. The only question is which risks are worth taking and which aren’t. A lump rose in his throat.

  Grabbing the release handle firmly, he gave it a sharp pull and his contraband flowed all over the docking pad in a waterfall of golden suds. “Rocket Fuel Beer,” the best brew in the entire galaxy, flowing over Jack’s shoes and lapping against the Sundancer’s landing gear. Protector Johnson stopped in his tracks, and his eyes grew as wide as shot glasses as the precious brew cascaded on the ground.

  Jack didn’t dare look at the broken down truck. His eyes focused on the men in the steel-blue uniforms. Waving as the lawmen approached, he mumbled, “That’s right you bastards, just keep looking at me and my pretty beer. Keep looking over here.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of light as the sun shone briefly on the Vagabond’s rising gangway. A minute later he heard the engines of the old freighter roar. Then, strong arms pushed him to the ground and he fell with a splash. Bathing in a puddle of beer, he felt it soaking into his pants and his jacket as his hands were bound behind his back.

  As the Vagabond ascended to the sky, it cast a shadow over Prisoner Jack Galloway. He felt the momentary cool shade touch his face while Protector Johnson’s voice commanded, “You are under arrest! Do not resist. Obey all commands. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. I sure hope you enjoy drinking Isis Piss from now on, ass-hole.”

  Mind your own business, stop fighting other people’s wars. Some things Jack would never learn. Pursing his lips, he took a deep sip of the foaming beer from the puddle around him. He figured he might as well enjoy it now, there ain’t no beer in jail. At least it was the good stuff.

  On the Making of Veffen

  Barb Caffrey

  “To veffen! Beer by any other name!” Betsy Carroll, the Terran Ambassador to N’Ferra, cried.

  Vkandwe Asayana—or Scholar Asa as Betsy liked to call him—smiled, pushed his mug against hers, and took a sip. “Refreshing, isn’t it? A cool, dark beer on a warm day... what could be better?” He settled his great mottled wings on his back, adjusted his brown half-cape decorously, and leaned forward over the wooden bench. “Would you like to see how veffen is made?” His dark eyes, usually so luminous, were grave.

  But Betsy took no notice of this. “Would I!” No human had ever seen how veffen was made. The N’Ferrans considered it sacred.

  Yet, fortunately for the humans, the N’Ferrans did share their veffen, even exporting a small amount for a ridiculously high price. Most humans believed veffen to be akin to a rich Irish stout, even though it had a taste all its own that was rich, nutty, and bitter as all dark beer, yet with a hint of entrancing sweetness.

  “I have an invitation to the next veffen —making ceremony.” Asayana’s lips twitched with something that wasn’t a smile. His four-fingered hands stayed folded and his wings were quiescent, which was never a good sign. “You might say I’m ‘requested and required’ to be there. My people say it�
��s time.”

  “I don’t understand,” Betsy said. “Does the making of veffen require a specific time?”

  “Not exactly,” Asayana said. “But you’ll find out more at the ceremony. I’ve been told I can only share so much information with you prior to that time.” He looked away, as if in embarrassment. “I’m truly sorry.”

  “Your people are that stiff regarding the making of veffen?” Betsy looked closely at her friend, the first N’Ferran who’d ever shown interest in learning more about the humans and their ways. But Vkandwe–Scholars–were legendary in their fearlessness, at least on this world. “Why should the making of veffen be so shrouded in secrecy, anyway?”

  Something wasn’t right about all this.

  “As a Fearless One, Betsy–” his voice trilled up on the “y” but otherwise pronounced her name flawlessly, unlike most other N’Ferrans, scholars or no “—I truly hate not being able to give you this knowledge in advance.”

  Ah. Now Betsy understood his look away. Asa was angry. And anger was rarely shown in N’Ferran society, because it was seen as a loss of face.

  She wondered how the N’Ferrans were able to deal with humans, as even the calmest humans had difficulty in keeping their feelings off their faces unless they’d had specific religious training. But the N’Ferrans refused to allow anyone deeply religious to step foot on their world, claiming a privacy violation.

  And most humans weren’t all that religious anyway. So the monks went elsewhere, while the “great lumpen unwashed,” as Betsy had once delightfully told Asa, came to partake in the veffen.

  Asa held up his clear mug and studied the contents. Then, thoughtfully, he took another sip. “No wonder the humans line up for this at their festival of beers–what did you call it again?”

  “Oktoberfest,” Betsy said. “Though our beers are not a patch on N’Ferra’s own veffen, truly.”

  Asa shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed trying the various beers over the past six boryani as we’ve wrestled with the cosmos. My favorite is the Guinness stout–but don’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise,” Betsy said. She clinked her mug again with Asa’s, and took another sip. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She didn’t realize this was the last time she’d ever see her friend alive.

  <<>>

  Three days later, Betsy received a large, elegant scroll through diplomatic channels at the Embassy addressed to “Elizabeth Carroll.” The handwriting was obviously not human and the ink was not stock.

  Because of this, she walked into her back office—the one with all the safeguards. The one so rarely used, as the N’Ferrans, aside from Scholar Asa and a few others among that fearless caste, seemingly didn’t care if the humans lived or died—so long as they kept drinking their veffen.

  Betsy frowned. The only N’Ferran who knew her full name was Scholar Asa, but as he couldn’t pronounce Elizabeth, he’d dispensed with writing out her full name after the equivalent of a few months. But he’d told her once when deep in his cups that if he ever had need of her, he’d write to her formally—and through diplomatic channels, as he obviously knew how to reach her at home.

  She opened the scroll, written out in the N’Ferran script only she among her staff of six had truly mastered. “Asylum?” she wondered as she read. “Why does Asa want that?”

  Betsy checked the various places Asa usually used to leave her a message—while the N’Ferrans didn’t use much technology as a whole, the Fearless Ones had become adept at the use of voicemail and various computer-aided devices (providing they’d been adapted for the N’Ferran four-fingered hand)—and found... nothing.

  Worse yet, a quick check of Asa’s lodgings found that he’d not been there since Betsy had last seen him, even though he’d lived there for the better part of forty years. And no one knew where he had gone, either.

  None of this was customary for a Fearless One, much less someone with the high status of Vkandwe Asayana. Someone who was openly a friend to the Terran Ambassador—someone who saw the benefit of peaceful commerce, trade and knowledge, even though the trade-off for the N’Ferrans was that a human spaceport had been built on N’Ferra’s outsized moon.

  And not everyone on the N’Ferran Ruling Council had liked that, Betsy remembered. Even though with the spaceport, she and the other Terrans had pledged to defend N’Ferra with their lives if pirates ever attempted to attack... which was a realistic possibility considering the popularity of veffen.

  She called Charlie Simmons, whom the N’Ferrans believed to be her cultural attaché, into the office and motioned him to a chair next to her desk. He actually was her spymaster, though he’d had little to do over the past five years he’d been stationed here. “What do you make of this?”

  He read over the document, questioned her over the words, and then sighed. “I’ve heard that Scholar Asayana has angered the N’Ferrans in some way,” he said. “This communiqué would seem to indicate what I heard is the truth.”

  “What else have you heard?” Betsy asked intently.

  “Asayana’s life is said to be forfeit unless he bows down to the Ruling Council... and then shreds his wings.”

  “What?” Betsy asked in astonishment. “Why would the Ruling Council want him to do that?”

  “They wish to humble the Fearless Ones is my guess,” Charlie said. “And they may wish to humble us as well through his friendship with you.”

  “But... you’re friends with several N’Ferrans—”

  “Not with a Fearless One, though,” Charlie interrupted. “Don’t you know what they are? What they give up to obtain the knowledge they seek?”

  “They’re... like monks, I thought,” Betsy said. “With a thirst for knowledge, even knowledge that would seem to be useless to them—thus the low-tech. A N’Ferran Fearless One becomes friendly with me, a spacegoing human from an obviously high-tech culture—”

  “That’s not entirely it.” Charlie’s voice dropped. “You know they sever all family ties, and while they do allow friendships—especially in a situation like this one, where there’s much potential benefit for all involved—a Fearless One is expected to give up his life on a moment’s notice if it will give him, or the N’Ferrans as a whole, knowledge they’d not otherwise have.”

  “But Asa has asked for asylum, Charlie! He’s done so formally, so I can’t refuse to admit that he’s done so... he must need me, or he’d not do this.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, Betsy, but I hold out no promises.” Charlie’s eyes were grave. “But you have to know that if Asayana truly wanted asylum, he’d have walked through the Embassy doors himself and told you. So this message can’t be all that it seems.”

  “I agree.” Betsy threw up her hands. “This whole thing makes no sense. Especially the business with the wings. To N’Ferrans, their wings are everything! They’re for status, display, to keep the rain off—even if they’re too old to fly any more, like Asa. Why would the Ruling Council want to take Asa’s wings?”

  “To humble him,” Charlie said bluntly. “But as important as Scholar Asayana is to you, Betsy, it’s more important that the N’Ferran Ruling Council would openly attempt to shame him in this fashion. As it stands, I’m sure that the veffen-making ceremony, and your open invitation to it through Asayana, is not what it seems. I’m betting that all of Asayana’s current problems have something to do with this ceremony, too.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a reach?” Betsy asked. “Asa’s in trouble, yes, and they’re about to have a veffen-making ceremony, yes... and they’ve invited me, yes... but—”

  “There’s too many coincidences here to suit me,” Charlie said. “Please, for the love of God and little green applies, don’t go!”

  “I have to,” she said quietly. “It’s a diplomatic function. Plus, Scholar Asa invited me. Why would he invite me to something that might be dangerous?”

  “And he’d request asylum if he wasn’t in danger himself?” Charlie pointed out with remorseless log
ic. “Come on! You know Asayana. He’s never evinced a wish to travel off-planet. So why would he request asylum now, knowing the only way to grant his wish, providing we can even find him to do so, is to put him on a ship bound for Earth... which might kill him at his age!”

  “He’s only seventy, or thereabouts,” Betsy argued.

  “And none of his people—not one of them—have ever traveled off-planet. No one has any idea if the drugs we use to endure deep space will work on a N’Ferran, much less one of his advanced age. Much less the fact that he may not be able to tolerate the additional gravity to break for space... Asayana has to know this.”

  “He should, yes,” she agreed. “He’s a scholar, and they collect what we might call ‘useless knowledge.’ You know they stay exempt from politics, which is why this is so bizarre... Asa sees me as being like him.”

  “Someone who’s getting to know the N’Ferran culture for its own sake definitely would be viewed as a scholar.” Charlie stated the obvious, but his eyes told her something else. “Tell me everything he said at your last meeting.”

  So Betsy went over it all. Again.

  Charlie listened impassively. “Let’s assume we do find Asayana. Can you grant him asylum?”

  “I think so.” She frowned. “It will anger the N’Ferran Ruling Council, but when we landed here, we insisted that if anyone ever wished for asylum, we must grant it. That’s the main reason we are only allowed to have six Terrans at the Embassy at any given time.”

  “Yes, and we’re all supposedly scholars, too.” Charlie snorted. “Though what we’re studying is definitely up for debate.”

  “We’re studying the N’Ferrans. They’re studying us, or at least the Fearless Ones are... I’ve never really believed the Ruling Council cared one way or the other about us, aside from drinking their veffen and making some hefty profits. So why start now?”

  Charlie’s blue eyes bored into hers. “What do you know about veffen?”