They found her in bed. One being set an object on her forehead. After a moment, it melted, sending insectile tendrils trickling around her ears and through her hair. Her body stiffened as if in pain, and her breath shortened. Her mouth opened in silent terror, and then she relaxed.
They pulled back the covers.
“She’s naked,” said one.
“So?” said the other.
“So, we can’t take her naked. She’ll get cold.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”
“Oh, and I’m an expert? Come on, I’ll get her legs.”
“Wait,” said the first being. He opened a couple of drawers and found a flannel nightgown. The second checked the time and sighed. “Help me,” said the first.
Together, they yanked her up like a rag doll. The first gathered up the nightgown and fit her head through the neck. They each wrestled an arm into a sleeve, and then she flopped back onto the bed.
“Are you happy now? Can we get on with it?” said the second. “She stinks really bad.”
“I think it’s because she smokes,” said the first, tugging the gown down.
“That wasn’t in the dossier,” said the second.
“So what?” asked the first.
“How can they breathe those toxins into their bodies?”
“I don’t get it either, but shut up. It doesn’t matter,” said the first.
Her hips and elbows banged against the doorframe and the walls as they carried her down the narrow mobile home hallway.
“Watch it,” said the first.
“Give me a break,” said the second. “She’s slippery.”
Her legs slumped on the floor as the second opened the front door.
“I can’t believe they’re this heavy,” said the second as they shuffled down the driveway.
“Quit complaining; we’re earning our bonus,” said the first.
“If you have to work for it, it’s not really a bonus, is it?”
The first stumbled on the cattle guard and lost his grip on the woman. Her bare bottom fell onto the cold metal grating. She moaned, and the second being fell forward, folding her in half and cursing as he caught himself.
A minute later, they had her in the trunk of one of the black cars. As per the plan, the first being watched the car go and then returned to the mobile home. He searched the kitchen and thought he had found what they had come for—but realized immediately that the scrap of paper contained no new information. He tucked it back into the flimsy book where he’d found it and continued looking. He dug through every cupboard and every drawer, checked every container in the refrigerator, and even pawed through the refuse receptacle. He searched the shelves and cabinets in the living room, flipped through every book and magazine, and examined every object. He checked the time before he rummaged through the hall closet. The neighbors’ sleep induction would be wearing off soon.
As he searched the dresser in the tiny second bedroom, he sensed a presence. A brush, a breath, something alive. He froze, trying to recall anything in the dossier about an animal. The woman was supposed to be here alone.
A dangling art object of crescent moons and pointed stars hung over a piece of furniture—a miniature bed with four high sides. He edged forward, drawing his weapon. He peered into the bed to find a tiny, pudgy human. Two arms. Two legs. Nearly bald. Eyes closed. Its chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. It was so small, so helpless. It jerked an arm and grunted, and he nearly pulled the trigger in surprise. He put the weapon away. Why did they even issue me this? he wondered. He barely knew how to use it.
What would happen when this infant woke, probably needing food or mental stimulation? From what he knew of humans, he guessed it would make noise. If that noise led the neighbors here, and they found it alone, it would undermine the cover story set up by the handwritten resignation letter on her boss’s desk and the notes to the other waitresses, already in place. He suspected that a human mother wouldn’t abandon her child on a whim. At least her messages would have made some mention of it, begging another to take over its care, or providing some apology.
He checked the time again. Someone might already have found her farewells. The car would already have been searched and destroyed. The woman already taken off world. Why hadn’t the dossier mentioned the infant? Was it an oversight? Sloppy intelligence? Or did they intend for the team to find the little creature and deal with it? He cursed. They had forced him to point his weapon at the innocent thing once. He would not do it again.
A car door slammed. The being froze, listening. Heavy, clumsy footfalls tromped up the steps, and the front door opened.
How had this gone so wrong? the being wondered. He was a product market development analyst, not a soldier. Not a spy. He’d stupidly taken this responsibility, assured of promotion, bonuses, and recognition.
An adult human male passed the second bedroom and continued into the main bedroom, leaving a reek of barley-based alcohol in his wake.
“Hey, sugar lips,” the man said in a slurred half-whisper. “Came by for some of that delicious pie you bake up.” The being heard cloth handled, two heavy thumps on the floor, and the man snuffing and huffing. “Linda? Hey. Where are you?”
The bedclothes rustled, and then the man stumbled past the second bedroom again, this time wearing only a pair of tight white undershorts. “Linda?” he called into the bathroom. He headed out into the living room and the kitchen, calling for the woman.
Then he returned, filling the doorway of the second bedroom. “Who…?” he said, and crumpled to the floor.
The being stared at the weapon in his hand. When had he drawn it?
He studied the body lying in a grotesque heap in the hall. Who was this man? The dossier about this woman was obviously a botched job. He should never have trusted the work of another department. Some logistics manager had probably handed it to his most worthless flunky and had transmitted it on without even bothering to proofread. But his manager had assured him it would be okay, and had convinced him of the need to expedite the program. No sense delaying the entire product development chain, he had said. They’ll get all the relevant information.
All the relevant information except for the part about the male who visits for inebriated nocturnal reproductive liaisons, now deceased, and the still-living likely result of one of those liaisons. The being closed his eyes. He uttered a curse so long, so profane, that he imagined the entire pantheon of old gods coming back from obscurity for this singular chance to be blasphemed.
The infant stirred. The sleep induction had lapsed.
He opened his eyes and decided.
He stepped over the dead human and hauled him onto his back. The man’s hair was graying, and he had a bit of a gut. The being held a device over the man and pressed an indentation. Then he rolled the man onto his back and did it again. Then he swore to himself again, less profanely, and pulled the man’s underwear off. He repeated the procedure with the device.
The being removed his own clothes. Then he inserted the device into a fold in his dermis. His first humanoid form faded and flickered. The bathroom mirror reported the results. He inspected his new face, ran a human hand over his stubble, and felt his teeth with his tongue. The dangly bit between his legs explained the tight underclothes. His navel suggested a mammalian-style birth. His hair was wispy, but thick enough.
The being dragged the body into the bathroom and wrestled it into the shower. The slumped body was a pathetic thing. Elements that once had life and utility had been rendered a waste. He adjusted the setting on his weapon. No bonus was worth this. The being fired once more, and the body dissolved. He turned on the water and rinsed the nameless man down the drain.
The infant began to squall.
The being dressed in the man’s clothes. They fit perfectly, having so recently held his shape, but stank of smoke and fermented grain. He returned to the infant’s bed, still wor
king out the belt buckle.
Nothing in his brief training had prepared him to hold this infant, to feel it squirming, to hear its cries. He carried it into the kitchen and attempted to feed it various foods. Bread, a slice of meat, a conical vegetable. He dripped water into its mouth from his fingers, but this only made the infant scream more obstinately.
The being knocked on the neighbors’ door. A man in pajamas answered, along with a woman in a nightdress, her hair in roller devices.
“Stewart?” asked the man. “What’s going on?”
“I think Linda up and left town,” said the being. “With that fellow from California she’s been talking about.” It was what the letter on Herbert Stamper’s desk and all the notes to her co-workers said. “I came over and found a note. She’s left”—he held out the child—“and I have no idea what to do with this one.”
They invited him in, baby and all.
Chapter 14
Martin knew he had been asleep. After breakfast, he’d said goodnight to Vonnie, had asked Brenda to spread the word to everyone to let him be, and had hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign. He shouldn’t be awake. Whatever had woken him hadn’t been loud enough for him to open his eyes. But he remembered hearing something. A rattling, perhaps. A key sliding into a lock? Had there really been a brief bright light, quickly extinguished?
Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.
Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.
Of course, Martin thought. I should have fastened the chain. And then he rolled over into the barrel of a FastNCo. staple gun.
“Really?” Martin asked with a voice of paste and gravel. “We’re going to do this again?”
“I have to,” said Stewart.
“I suppose you followed me, and picked the lock, and all that,” said Martin, clearing his throat.
“Vonnie leaves her passkey hanging on her cart,” said Stewart.
Martin scooted up on the bed, pulling the sheet with him. “I was right about you, wasn’t I?” he said. “And I was right about the pie, too.”
They both looked at the pies on the table, and Stewart nodded.
“I knew it. Want another slice?” asked Martin.
“I have to do this,” said Stewart. The staple gun trembled.
“You don’t have to do anything,” said Martin. “Besides, what are you going to do? Staple me to the sheets? Can I put on some pants first?”
Martin eased out of bed toward Stewart, forcing him to back up. Stewart bumped into the table and turned for a split second. Martin snatched the stapler and held it away. Stewart growled and lunged, but Martin dodged, and Stewart nearly fell on the bed.
“Sit down before you fall down and can’t get up,” said Martin.
“You don’t know what’s at stake,” said Stewart.
“It’s a stupid rhubarb pie,” said Martin.
“You don’t understand,” Stewart gasped. He collapsed into a chair by the table.
“So where are you from?” asked Martin.
“A long way away,” said Stewart.
“What’s the next step? Do we call them? Arrange a trade?” asked Martin.
“We can’t do that,” said Stewart.
“What? Why?”
“And I don’t even want to know the secret,” said Stewart. He picked up one of the pies and dropped it, foil plate and all, into the trash can behind him. “I don’t want to know how you figured it out. Nothing.” He dropped the second pie in with the first. “And I’m advising you, right here and now, to forget this, and go back to your life. Walk away now. And never speak of it again.” Foam flecks appeared at the corners of his mouth, and he wheezed and sucked air as he spoke.
“It’s too late for that, Stewart,” said Martin. “If you don’t help me, I’ll leave a message on Cheryl’s phone. I’ll hijack more trucks. I’ll make as many pies as I need to. We’re talking about Cheryl’s life here.”
“Don’t you think I know that? But under no circumstances can you let anyone know that recipe. Not even me.”
“You were going to kill me?” asked Martin, and waggled the staple gun. “What about Doris? Were you going to staple her to death, too?”
“If I had to.”
“There’s no way this pie is worth that.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
“Then explain it to me, Stewart.”
He began at the beginning.
~ * * * ~
Stewart excused himself to use the bathroom, where he had a coughing fit that carried through the thin wall. Several minutes later, he returned to the table as if his oxygen tank weighed on him like Catholic guilt.
“Are you okay?” asked Martin.
“Do I sound okay?” asked Stewart. He set a miniature pingpong paddle of beveled glass on the table. He tapped the surface several times. Icons and words flashed by, but in no alphabet Martin had ever seen.
“Is that like an iPad?” asked Martin.
“Trust me. It’s no iPad,” said Stewart.
He scraped at the glass, and a long, narrow plane of light, covered with gibberish, appeared in the air a few inches over the device. Stewart swirled three fingers on the plane, and the markings resolved into a page of English.
Internal Memorandum
XXXXXX Snack Food Company
From: XXXXXXXX, Vice President, Retail Marketing Division
To: XXXXXXXXXX, Director, New Product Development Department
Re: Project Rhubarb
Samples have garnered the highest consumer rating ever for a test product, near 100%. Economic analysis is positive in 95% (+/-3%) of markets. Consumer repurchase probability is near 90% over two XXXXXX in nearly all markets, an unprecedented statistic for a product below the addiction threshold. Therefore, the product has been up-queued for immediate market positioning.
Production procedures and resource allocation plans have been approved and forwarded to Logistics. Fabrication of production facilities is proceeding. Marketing is developing a strategic campaign and has begun design of the packaging and ancillary materials.
Research and Testing has still been unable to recreate the exact formula. It is to be your top priority to obtain this formula from the local environment using all necessary means.
“What is this?” asked Martin.
“It’s the death warrant for your species,” said Stewart. “You have to know what the terms mean. ‘Production’ involves setting up processing and baking facilities at strategic locations on your planet. ‘Resource allocation’ means turning every possible inch of Earth into managed farms for wheat, palm, canola, sugar, cinnamon, and rhubarb.”
“That’s preposterous. If this is some kind of sick joke…” said Martin.
“I wish this was a joke. A huge amount of money was spent to prepare for this product, and when it didn’t deliver according to the timeline, heads rolled. They’re still rolling.”
“But a whole planet?” asked Martin. “To make pies?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Stewart. “A small, productive planet in a minor solar system? No problem.”
“But, if you hadn’t noticed, there’s seven billion people using this planet right now,” said Martin.
“Now do you understand why we can’t give them this recipe?” said Stewart.
“Then why in the world did you give me all of Linda’s cookbooks and stuff?” asked Martin.
“Because I never thought in a million years you’d actually figure it out.”
“What happens if they figure it out themselves?” asked Martin.
Stewart threw up his hands. “They’ve failed so far. We can only hope that they’ll eventually cut their losses and abandon the project. But as you read in that memo, the potential for profits is huge, and…never mind.”
“Don’t you clam up now,” said Martin. “Speaking as the sole representative for humanity, I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
“That automated production facility has been waiting on the edge of your solar system since 1987,” said
Stewart. “And the first step of the logistics plan is the atmospheric release of a targeted neurotoxin. Every human would be dead in a matter of hours.”
“That’s monstrous. Who does that?”
Stewart sighed and continued. “The fabrication facility can’t be retasked. It’s designed for this job and this job only. That means that they’re not going to sell it for scrap, recycle it, or pay to transport it somewhere else. It’s waiting up there. All it takes is the press of a button, and it’s on its way. Fully automated, completely unrelenting. You won’t even have time to ask why. Or who.”
“Can’t you see that we’re sentient?” asked Martin. “I mean, we like rhubarb pie, too.”
“Not like this you don’t,” said Stewart. “And anyway, you’re a few measly billion. There are trillions of us on thousands of worlds. You may register as sentient, but no one knows about you. No one will even notice that you’re gone, or were ever here. And even if they did, they’d probably consider this pie to be the pinnacle of your species’ achievements.”
“But you changed your mind about us,” said Martin. “Why?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“Cheryl,” said Martin.
“I know it doesn’t make sense, given what we planned to do to your planet, but I felt responsible for her.”
“So you raised her,” said Martin.
“I fell in love with that crying, spitting, drooling, peeing, pooping little thing. So I quit,” said Stewart.
“Then why can’t you go to them and tell them about us?”
“I’m a nobody, Martin. A low-level marketing functionary. I was on a fast track to management—that’s why they picked me to lead the recipe acquisition—but I was never a decision maker. And now? I’m less than a nobody. I’m not part of the company, or any company, now. And if I went back, no one would listen. You have to understand how my people think.”
Rhubarb Page 14