Jim Baens Universe-Vol 1 Num 6

by Eric Flint

  "Well, for one thing that's all you're really going to want to talk about now, until you're sure you know enough to master the technology—right?"

  The President looked like she wanted to deny it, but then dropped the innocent face and admitted, "Yeah, but wouldn't you do the same?"

  "Probably. Anybody with a brain would. So you get some researchers, your best guys who know both nuclear and mitochondrial DNA as much as anybody does on this world, and I'll spend a couple days talking to them. I can tell them enough in one day that they could piece it out themselves from there. But in another day I can show them the how-to. It's going to be a matter of making the tools to make the tools you need. You're still pretty far away from the big facts you need, so don't think it's going to happen in a week. I'm guessing you're another seventy or eighty years from when you would see clearly which development road to take if you didn't get any help."

  "We're that close? That's not bad. It could have been thousands of years. How much more are we talking about? How long can other races like us live?" Allen asked.

  "Other races with mitochondria and similar intercellular bodies, like me, anywhere from five hundred to a couple thousand years. Races with only nuclear DNA, a lot longer. Races that don't use DNA, and there are a few, tend to be so strange that we can't talk with them anyhow. There's one race we know lived thousands of years before they got any bio-tech. Now we're still waiting to see how long they live with artificial help. If you count being a slug going up and down a giant tree a zillion times as living. I wanted to wait to speak to you about this because no matter how hard you try this is going to be a major disruption. It's going to screw up your economy as people panic and run around trying to dump old investments they figure will do poorly and pump money into harebrained schemes they hope will work. There will probably be some nuts that refuse it on principle, maybe even some wackos who'll try to kill off people using the tech. I'd have rather been well on my way before you started to even talk about it."

  "How old are you?" President Rice asked pointedly.

  "Allowing for all kinds of adjustments for star flight, about twelve hundred years on my own clock."

  "Wow, you've seen so much then. . . ." Sergei seemed awestruck.

  George gave a human snort of derision. "As if you don't see the same things over and over again. Anyway, how accurately do you remember when you were twelve? How much do you remember that isn't clouded by what you have thought in the last couple of years? We have had some races who learned to store memories and then in a few centuries play them back to refresh what was forgotten. The service is never popular. You don't want to go back and have to relive with fresh horror the cruelty of hatchlings and how damn green you were as you were growing up. Plenty of things are better remembered in a haze of time distance. Growing old is not for looking back; its advantage is you can keep looking forward. You get another chance to get it right."

  The audience, and that's how they all felt about meeting President Rice, wound down and promises were made. Rice finally asked about sharing information about the motive power of his ship and George casually informed her that he'd promised that secret to Jed as payment for being his tour guide, as well as minor gifts to the other two astronauts for their help.

  "He tells me he'll have to resign to do this, but he figures if he's selling starship drives he can get back into space on his own."

  That stunned her. She'd been steeling herself, willing to pay anything he could name as a price, and the human race was getting it almost as a tip. Nothing Jed would charge as a businessman could compare to what George could have demanded. George had a written finding from her to go in public at his own risk, and security from her own people to draw on when he wanted. There was a huge list of scholars and businessmen, religious leaders and plain interested citizens who wanted to chat with him or sell him something. More than he could ever talk to if he spent years on Earth, but he indicated he wanted to leave in weeks.

  At the end, President Rice shook their hands and let the guards show them out. In the hall George quietly informed the guards that he wanted to use the restroom. That produced a quick little conference, with a lot of appraising glances. Especially gauging his overhang in the rear. "The Truman bathroom?" one muttered. "No, the one with the bidet!" a marine guard insisted, pleased with himself. The humans waited while they hustled George down the hall. It was one of the strangest problems ever thrown at the staff. They left the White House in a Hummer with darkened windows and watched the reporters swarm over the limo behind that they seemed to be escorting. Jed noticed George had learned to roll his eyes as an expression from President Rice. He was well suited to it.

  * * *

  Four days later they were at Jed's home in New Mexico. Three generations back it had been a ranch house, but the land wasn't able to support them in a modern economy. Now his family kept the land while seeking other careers. The property was edged with a ten-foot chain-link fence with razor wire on top. That had cost more than his five generations removed grandfather had paid for the land. Electronic sensors told them of any attempted trespass. The fence was a necessity given liability case law, because empty land was an attractive nuisance, and only fenced in could Jed freely stock and hunt on his own land and make some money off various lease arrangements. The fence made it easy for a Secret Service helicopter to patrol the area, and they had a very low signature platform that could not be heard at the house. At least, he couldn't hear it. George could when they were outside. Jed left his dog at the kennel, worried how he'd react to a four-hundred-pound bird. He wasn't the friendliest dog.

  But they didn't hole up there. George went into town with him to get groceries, the house having been empty for months, riding in the pickup bed because the cab was unbearably cramped. His legs bent the wrong way at the wrong distances, and his head ended up almost against the windshield. He enjoyed riding with his head poked through the sliding window so they could talk, and he kept up a barrage of questions as he net-surfed through his ship with his computer link spex. Yet he had questions about the land, too, as they drove along. George seemed to multitask like that well.

  The Secret Service liaison told George he was nuts to not send them out for supplies, but didn't try to stop him. He didn't think it was any of their business that they'd be visiting Jed's lawyer also. There was the business deal between them to work out and things George needed done for himself. The idea of power of attorney was a powerful new tool George wanted to introduce at home.

  It was a small town and Jed wore his big pistol 'open carry', as permited by state law . Many of the three hundred residents were independent rustics, an increasingly rare breed. They minded their own business to the point of nodding hello as if you didn't have a huge taloned alien walking with you, or politely asking your friend's acquaintance while ignoring the unimportant detail he had feathers. That's not to say a few eyebrows didn't nearly climb under their owner's hat.

  The wave of excitement they generated in the store, with children pointing open mouthed, was so entertaining they decided to have lunch in town. The local restaurant had a lunch counter and George was comfortable leaning on a stool while Jed sat. Jed got a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate malt. George knew already that a burgers, fries, and coffee were safe, and ordered doubles. Regardless of previous experience, he used what looked like a diabetic's testing machine to sample everything. Then, curious, he dipped the probe in the edge of Jed's malt. The tester flashed a blue light and buzzed.

  "I take it that's a 'no'?"

  "Well," he said, reading the tiny screen, "it probably wouldn't kill me. But for sure you'd have to hose out the back of the pickup when we got home and keep me out on the porch for a couple days."

  "Keep that in mind if you ever need medicine to get things moving."

  "No thanks, we have medicines with a much more measured response."

  They were on the end of the counter, and somehow, without them seeing him approach, there was a boy of perhaps
eight or nine years standing staring at George with wide eyes. Jed had never before seen George twitch with surprise, but then he'd never seen anyone manage to sneak up on him either.

  "Sorry, sir." The little fellow apologized when he realized he'd startled the big alien. He was in very worn jeans with empty belt loops, tennis shoes, and a faded plaid shirt with a white triangle of undershirt at the neck. His face and hair identified him as Native American, and he stood about eye to eye with Jed seated, which meant he still had to look up at George.

  "Humph, you're awfully quiet, you know that?" George asked.

  "Yes, sir. My grandpa takes me hunting and he'd send me home if I scared things off."

  "Well, you could have bagged me."

  The boy opened his mouth like he wanted to object, and hesitated. "May I touch you?" the boy asked instead.

  "Bobby, come away and stop pestering that, uh . . . man," the waitress scolded him.

  "I don't mind," George assured her. "The little ones are refreshing. See? I'm real," George showed him, taking Bobby's small hand in his big one. The boy grasped with both hands, feeling first the fingers and then squeezing the middle of a thumb until a black talon popped out involuntarily. Jed hadn't seen that before. He wasn't sure if anyone had. The boy reached up clear to the root of George's beak where his spex perched and ran a hand down the beak fearlessly. If George was getting a bit uncomfortable at the close examination, he didn't protest. He'd asked for it, after all. He'd only balked at two things so far, giving biological samples and telling how to find his home world.

  The kid sank fingers into the yellow ruff around his neck feeling the feathers. George returned the favor, amused, tousling the boy's black hair. When Bobby stepped back, there was a wisp of yellow on the floor. He scooped it up delighted and dashed out the door nimble as a deer before anybody could spoil his find.

  "Somebody will give him a million bucks for that if they see it," Jed predicted. "I hope that doesn't bother you."

  "It's not that I have any big secrets, it's just if I start giving blood and tissue and feathers to the biologists, the ghouls will have me bald and half bled to death in a week. Him, though—he means no harm at all. I like kids. I hope nobody takes it away from him."

  "Nobody here will tell," the waitress told him, refilling his coffee. By her dark looks she might be related. More of an age for a sister than mother. "But one thing I can tell you for sure, he's going to be insufferable," she predicted, shaking her head at the thought of it. "He'll be showing all the other kids he's got an actual Thunderbird feather."

  By the time they went to the truck, word had spread already. A few youngsters peeked at him around corners. When George waved they ran away. He seemed to think it was funny. None were as bold as Bobby; he should have celebrity status among his peers if he played his cards right.

  * * *

  The next morning Jed got up, and as usual George was awake. He didn't seem to sleep much and he'd made a pot of coffee already. Of course if Jed drank that much coffee, he wouldn't sleep much either. George was rooting around in the fridge. He had a big handful of habañero peppers and was eating them without cutting the stems off. Jed reflected it was too bad he wouldn't be here for the chili cook-off in the fall.

  "Okay, I'll cook a real breakfast now," Jed announced. "A mushroom omelet with hash browns and my world-famous blue cornmeal pancakes with genuine maple syrup." George seemed to be able to pack in about three times as much food as Jed.

  "Sounds good." George got out of the way and perched on a stool. Jed laid out the things on the stone-topped kitchen island and rolled a mushroom across to the alien. "Try that and make sure it's not going to kill you," he asked.

  George ran it past the tester then tossed it the air, scooping it up in his beak with a snap. "Interesting flavor."

  Jed dropped some butter in the pan, sloshed a dash of milk in a mixing bowl. "I'd like to go for a walk and maybe shoot a few jack rabbits today," he suggested to George. He pulled an egg out of the carton and cracked it across the edge of the bowl.

  George made a noise Jed hadn't heard yet and ran down to the end of the work counter. He grabbed the tall plastic waste can and, bending, jammed his head in clear past the yellow ruff, making just about the same sound Jed would have made doing the same.

  "Hey, hey, hey, buddy. Get that bad stuff out. You need any help? You gonna be okay? I guess we can skip the mushrooms. Your little machine didn't catch that one, huh?"

  George retrieved his coffee and washed his maw out, spitting it in the trashcan, too. "No, the mushrooms are fine. It was these," he explained, resting a hand gently on the eggs. "The image . . ." He shuddered.

  "Oh, shit. I never thought. It must look as bad as a roasted baby on a platter would to me."

  "Not your fault," George insisted. "I am a rational being. I know these are not"—he warbled a word of his own—"people."

  "Yeah, sure you do—you should see the look on your face. I think we'll skip the omelet and go right to the pancakes. I'll cook up some hot sausage patties, too."

  "You shouldn't be able to read the expressions on my face. It takes a great deal of time, or being raised around the other race, to have such an understanding."

  "Well, maybe something subtle. But I know unreserved horror when I see it."

  "Pancakes do sound—better."

  * * *

  After breakfast they walked outside. Jed had his pistol and carried a box of extra cartridges in case George wanted to try it. George had his spex on again, but tinted darker. Jed picked the radio off his belt and squeezed it to talk to the Secret Service.

  "George and I are going to walk north. We're going to plink a bit and maybe shoot a rabbit or two. Don't freak out when you hear shots." He waited for the acknowledgment, then clipped the radio back on his belt.

  "Watch out for rattlers," Jed warned. "You know what they look like?"

  "I'm accessing it on the net right now," George said, tapping his glasses to explain their function. "It's not as easy to read as a screen, but the portability is great."

  "You gotta be careful stepping over rocks or logs where you can't see where you're putting your foot down. Rattlers have a venom they inject. Don't know what it would do to you, but it will make me real sick or even kill me."

  "This is something many people stop doing when they realize they can live for a thousand years."

  "What? Walking around where there might be rattlers?"

  "Taking chances. They stay at home, don't go out in a car or plane because it might crash. Don't go where they can't get to medical help within minutes. Have a cellar to duck into for storms or whatever. Reduce risk every way possible."

  "What about you?" Jed asked. "Flying between stars and stopping to hobnob with crazy violent natives. Doesn't sound like any way to make it to your second millennium to me." He stopped at a clump of bushes and gave a half-hearted kick at the base. Most of the ground was visible with single small bushes and clumps of low-growing cacti, but an occasion thick bunch of bushes formed islands of dense cover for rabbits to hide in.

  "I'm not entirely unprotected. My ship has armaments, and it's a very smart ship, been in the family for years." He picked up a rock as they walked along and tossed it high in the air. As it slowed down near the top of its trajectory, a small snout like a fountain pen appeared between George's fingers as he extended a hand. The rock shattered with a pock of thermal shock, leaving a shimmery line of hot air briefly and then it was quickly gone.

  "That doesn't surprise me at all," Jed drawled, "but the Secret Service would have puppies. I assume you had that when we chatted with Rice?"

  "Of course. Your turn," George challenged him, and tossed a similar target into the air.

  Jed drew his gun with deceptive casualness, thumbing the hammer back as he extended. The rock reached the top of its arch as his arm was fully extended, and at the same instant the 10mm spoke and the rock burst as a single sound.

  "Not bad for a primitive native weapon,
huh?"

  "Noisy, but powerful. I have serious doubts my armor would stop it. So I'm glad you're friendly."

  "You don't appear to wear any clothing, so how can you have armor?" He kicked the base of a new clump of bushes and tossed a fair-sized rock in the middle for good measure. George was watching intently but didn't ask what he was doing.

  "For serious armor, I do have to put it on, but I have some grown in my skin that's enough to give me an edge over my natural body. It could be made stronger, but it would start to get stiff and I'd be conscious of it. I don't look like I have pockets, either, but I have someplace grown to tuck my pistol away."

  "Yeah, but you have some pretty thick feathers on you, too. I don't think the Secret Service wanted to grope the first interstellar ambassador. I guarantee you didn't get patted down as well as I did, fella."

  "Ambassador, my butt. I'm just a tourist. Oh, I'll do what you'd call trading as I go along. But that's not why I'm here. I'm not going to clutter the ship up with bulky junk. Maybe some coffee, but not for trade, for myself."