Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  "We he­ad to the back of the ho­use, and we go in­to this bed­ro­om, and it's li­ke wal­king in­to a hos­pi­tal. The­re's a bed with ra­ils, and mo­ni­to­ring equ­ip­ment, and IV's, and the­re in the bed is this kid. I say 'kid,' turns out he was 13, but he was tiny, you know, fra­il, li­ke a stick. And he lo­oks li­ke he co­uld be As­t­ro's kid brot­her. And he's fast as­le­ep.

  "The wo­man co­mes char­ging in­to the ro­om be­hind us, sa­ying 'Don't you to­uch my Da­vey!'"

  Jill lo­oks at Da­ve. "So you we­re the kid in the bed?"

  "Hey, who's tel­ling the story?" I say. "Don't skip to the end. The wo­man says, 'Don't to­uch my Da­vey!' As­t­ro ig­no­res her, still, lo­oks at me and says, 'This is Da­vey Lo­pez. He's be­en in a co­ma for six ye­ars. The mon­keys are co­ming af­ter him. We ha­ve to pro­tect him.'

  "Well, the wo­man starts fre­aking out, li­ke 'What are you tal­king abo­ut, mon­keys?' And we're he­ading back to the front of the ho­use, and As­t­ro sug­gests we­apons might be a go­od idea, sin­ce he lost the stop sign. So I he­ad out to the ga­ra­ge and grab a sho­vel, be­ca­use I'm, you know, Dig­ger, and I co­me out in­to the front yard, and the wo­man's re­al­ly fre­aking out, be­ca­use As­t­ro's out the­re hol­ding her co­uch. He lo­oks at me and says so­met­hing li­ke, 'The big­ger, the bet­ter.' The wo­man's ha­ving a to­tal cow, and then the mon­keys start ap­pe­aring down the stre­et, and the wo­man shuts up and runs in­si­de.

  "So then we start fig­h­ting mon­keys. So­me of them are small, li­ke the ones we fo­ught be­fo­re, and so­me are big, li­ke ba­bo­on si­ze. I run out and fi­re up the Dril­ler Be­am Ge­ne­ra­tors on my wrists. I dig this big trench and throw up the dirt on one si­de for a bar­ri­er, but the mon­keys just swarm right over, and I swe­ar to God I am not ma­king this up, so­me of them sho­ot fla­mes out the­ir butt and fly over."

  "No way," Jill says.

  "They had an air for­ce, swe­ar to God," I say. "So I'm run­ning back and forth, smac­king mon­keys with a sho­vel, and As­t­ro's flying over­he­ad, swin­ging at the flying ones with a co­uch. And it's li­ke, did you ever see Zu­lu? Whe­re the­re's li­ke fifty Bri­tish tro­ops fig­h­ting fi­ve tho­usand Af­ri­can war­ri­ors? Sa­me damn thing. They we­re ever­y­w­he­re. It was ho­pe­less.

  "So I lo­ok up to see if As­t­ro has any ide­as, only I can't see him. No As­t­ro, no co­uch. Just this big, gre­en, craw­ling lo­zen­ge that slams in­to the gro­und. As­t­ro's lying in this shal­low cra­ter, co­ve­red with bi­ting, po­un­ding mon­keys, and he's not mo­ving. I run over the­re, and I dig the Dril­ler Be­am Ge­ne­ra­tors in­to the gro­und and blast this hu­ge wa­ve of dirt and rock that knocks the mon­keys off of him for a mo­ment. Then I go in swin­ging the sho­vel, and the mon­keys back off.

  "I lo­ok down, and As­t­ro's in bad sha­pe. His clot­hes are torn up. He's ble­eding from li­ke a hun­d­red bi­tes. I kne­el down and help him sit up and say, 'Are you okay?'

  "And he says, re­al qu­i­et, 'I gi­ve up.'

  "I wasn't su­re I he­ard him right, so I as­ked him what he sa­id, and he says it aga­in. 'I gi­ve up.' I as­ked him what he me­ant, and he sa­id, 'Why ke­ep fig­h­ting? They're go­ing to win so­me­day. Might as well be to­day. What am I sta­ying aro­und for? I might as well ta­ke off, just li­ke he did. Just li­ke ever­y­body will, even­tu­al­ly.'

  "And I'm li­ke, 'What are you tal­king abo­ut?'

  "And he lo­oks up at me, and he says, 'I'm ti­red.' And then he fa­des away. Dis­sol­ves in­to smo­ke."

  "What?" Jill asks.

  "Gone. And I re­ali­ze the mon­keys are le­aving me alo­ne, and I turn aro­und, and the ho­use is just co­ve­red with them. They're te­aring at the walls, po­un­ding on the ro­of. So I go run­ning to­ward the ho­use, and I fi­re up the Dril­ler Be­ams and di­ve un­der gro­und, co­me up in the li­ving ro­om. I run back to Da­vey's ro­om, and the walls are sha­king, and Mrs. Lo­pez is le­aning over the bed, scre­aming hyste­ri­cal­ly, and the kid's just sle­eping thro­ugh it all.

  "The wo­man's scre­aming at me, 'Ma­ke it stop! Ma­ke it stop!' And I don't know what to do. I me­an, you can only be­at up so many mon­keys. So I ask her, 'Mrs. Lo­pez, do you ha­ve a gun?'

  "She lo­oks at me li­ke I'm crazy and asks, 'What?'

  "'A gun,' I say, 'do you ha­ve a gun in the ho­use? May­be if we sho­ot a co­up­le, it'll sca­re the ot­hers away.' Which pro­bably wo­uldn't work, but it wo­uld gi­ve her so­met­hing to do ot­her than scre­am, and be­si­des, I was des­pe­ra­te, be­ca­use at this po­int, the walls are crac­king apart and dust is co­ming down from the ce­iling.

  "So she says, 'Da­vey's dad had a gun, I think, but I don't know whe­re he hi­des it.'

  "'Well, can we call him?' I ask.

  "She says, 'I don't know whe­re he is! He left us!'

  "I'm all, 'What do you me­an?' and she says, 'Fif­te­en ye­ars of mar­ri­age, and yes­ter­day, he says he can't ta­ke it an­y­mo­re. I'm ti­red, he says. I gi­ve up, he says. And then he just le­aves. I don't know whe­re he is!'

  "And that's when I fi­gu­red it out. As­t­ro wasn't Da­vey, but he was a part of Da­vey. Li­ke so­me fan­tasy of what Da­vey wan­ted to be, ma­de re­al so­me­how. The mon­keys, too. I don't know what they we­re, so­me ma­ni­fes­ta­ti­on of his il­lness, or may­be just his dep­res­si­on from his fat­her le­aving. May­be every ran­dom spa­ce mon­s­ter As­t­ro ever fo­ught was so­me ma­ni­fes­ta­ti­on of Da­vey's strug­gle for li­fe. Only every ti­me up to now, As­t­ro had won, and this ti­me, he had gi­ven up, be­ca­use Da­vey was gi­ving up. And as so­on as tho­se mon­keys got hold of Da­vey, he wo­uld die.

  "So I grab­bed the kid and I sa­id, 'Stop it, Da­vey. Ma­ke them stop. I know you're ti­red, but I al­so know you want to li­ve, be­ca­use if you didn't, the mon­keys wo­uld ha­ve just ap­pe­ared in­si­de yo­ur ro­om, in­s­te­ad of co­ming he­re from all over town. If you didn't want to li­ve, you wo­uldn't ha­ve sent As­t­ro to fight them, and you wo­uldn't ha­ve had him bring me he­re to fight for you. So just STOP IT!'

  "Which wor­ked as well as sa­ying 'Just stop it' ever works. The ce­iling to­re open, and the walls crum­b­led, and mon­keys ca­me swar­ming in from all di­rec­ti­ons. Mrs. Lo­pez fell down scre­aming, and I grab­bed Da­vey, to­re out the IV tu­be, and went in the only di­rec­ti­on I co­uld, stra­ight down.

  "So I'm car­rying this kid who we­ighs li­ke, not­hing, li­ke forty po­unds, li­ke he's stuf­fed with fe­at­hers, and I'm run­ning as fast as the Dril­ler Be­ams can car­ve a path for me, but I know it's ho­pe­less. I can't out­run them. My only ho­pe, Da­vey's only ho­pe, is to get him alo­ne and may­be talk so­me sen­se in­to him, which, you know, is pro­bably im­pos­sib­le, but I had to gi­ve it one last try.

  "So I tur­ned back to­ward the sur­fa­ce and burst up in­to a yard on the far si­de of the stre­et. And the mon­keys we­re the­re, wa­iting for me. So I jum­ped, as high and as far as I co­uld, over the­ir he­ads, hit the ro­of of the ho­use, then drop­ped in­to the back yard and to­ok off run­ning.

  "Did you ever see Fer­ris Bu­el­ler's Day Off? The bit at the end whe­re he's ra­cing his sis­ter ho­me? It was li­ke that. I'm jum­ping over fen­ces, get­ting cha­sed by dogs, bo­un­cing off tram­po­li­nes. And then I see what I'm lo­oking for.

  "It's this shed for gar­den to­ols. Alu­mi­num. Flimsy. I di­ve in the­re and wed­ge the do­or shut with a ra­ke. I put the kid on the flo­or, and I co­ver his body with mi­ne, whi­le the mon­keys are out­si­de, ho­oting and scre­ec­hing and po­un­ding on the walls. It was li­ke, did you ever re­ad that story, "The Mon­key's Paw"? Whe­re the pa­rents are hud­dled in­si­de the ho­use whi­le the storm is ra­ging, and the­re's this po­un­ding on the do­or?

  "It was li­ke that, onl
y with hun­d­reds of mon­keys' paws, and gre­en eye­be­ams rip­ping thro­ugh the walls over­he­ad. And I just put my he­ad down and star­ted bab­bling in­to Da­vey's ear. I don't even re­mem­ber what I sa­id."

  "Yes, you do," Da­ve says. "You sa­id you'd pro­mi­sed As­t­ro you'd pro­tect me, so if they wan­ted to kill me, they had to kill you first. And you didn't want to die with chi­li on yo­ur shirt."

  "Oh ye­ah, I did say so­met­hing li­ke that," I say. "And then I sa­id, 'Don't kill me to­day. Gi­ve me one mo­re day. I pro­mi­se you, it won't lo­ok as bad to­mor­row as it do­es to­day, and even if it do­es, it won't lo­ok that bad the next day. Just one mo­re day. If you can ma­ke it thro­ugh one mo­re day, you can ma­ke it thro­ugh one mo­re we­ek, and be­fo­re you know it, I'll be bu­ying you a be­er on yo­ur twen­ty-first bir­t­h­day. In fact, I pro­mi­se I'll buy you yo­ur very first one. What do you say? I co­uld re­al­ly use that be­er, kid. Co­me on, you owe me, you al­re­ady ru­ined my bur­ger!'

  "And then the po­un­ding stop­ped. Si­len­ce.

  "I sto­od up, and I lo­oked out thro­ugh the ho­les in the wall, and it was just so­lid gre­en mon­keys, as far as the eye co­uld see, co­ve­ring ever­y­t­hing li­ke As­t­ro-turf. And no­ne of them we­re mo­ving.

  "So I ope­ned the do­or, and I pic­ked the kid up, and I step­ped out­si­de. And the mon­keys are dis­sol­ving, one by one, in­to gre­en mist, just li­ke As­t­ro had. I walk out of the yard, in­to the stre­et, and the­re's mo­re mon­keys and mo­re mist, un­til the­re's just a few strag­glers left. And off in the dis­tan­ce, I can see one big mon­key run­ning, li­ke he's co­ming la­te to the party, and he's car­rying so­met­hing, but I can't tell what. And he co­mes up and sits down right in front of me, and he holds out his paw and hands me this Tom­mybur­ger.

  "There was a dri­ed le­af stuck in the chi­li, but I ate it an­y­way. It was go­od."

  Jill do­esn't say an­y­t­hing for a whi­le, just lo­oks back and forth from Da­ve to me to Da­ve. And then she asks him, "Is that re­al­ly what hap­pe­ned?"

  Dave shrugs. "Hell if I know. I was as­le­ep."

  Jill picks up her mug and sa­lu­tes with it. "Well, then, he­re's to you, Da­ve. May you ne­ver mess with anot­her mon­key in yo­ur li­fe."

  "What abo­ut me?" I ask. "I did most of the work."

  "Yeah, but you ne­ed to get mes­sed with every now and then." We all clink mugs, and Jill and I sip.

  "So," Jill says, wi­ping a dar­ling lit­tle fleck of fo­am from her lip, "was that the day you ca­me out of the co­ma?"

  Dave lo­oks at me, flas­hes me this grin I ha­ven't se­en in ye­ars. A cocky lit­tle grin that says, Watch this shit. "Who sa­id I did?" he asks, and then he fa­des cle­an away.

  Gone, li­ke smo­ke.

  Jill's jaw drops. I re­ach over and snag Da­ve's be­er. Sha­me to let a go­od be­er go to was­te.

  ****

  Giving it 14%

  Ani Fox

  He was re­ading a co­mic bo­ok when it hap­pe­ned. “Ombud­s­man.” Fi­ona’s vo­ice buz­zed over O’Mal­ley’s con­so­le. “Ti­me to work. Le­vel A, Ma­in Con­fe­ren­ce Ro­om.”

  O’Malley ro­se and put on his co­at. It had be­en in the clo­set, wa­iting in shrink-wrap and de­sic­ca­tors for a go­od fo­ur­te­en months. He rol­led his sho­ul­ders, swal­lo­wed his fe­ars and de­ve­lo­ped the mi­en of a man ge­nu­inely thril­led to be wor­king for Star­D­ri­ve. Ha­ving wor­ked less than ten full days in the past ele­ven ye­ars, his mas­tery of this skill had pa­id the rent for qu­ite so­me ti­me now.

  “Fiona, you may be the only per­son he­re that I truly lo­ve.”

  “I’m a com­pu­ter.” The vo­ice re­ma­ined dis­pas­si­ona­te and hol­low.

  “My po­int exactly.”

  O’Malley wor­ked in the tal­lest bu­il­ding in the wor­ld-the Star­D­ri­ve To­wer. Ma­na­ge­ment ar­ran­ged wor­kers ac­cor­ding to rank. Each suc­ces­si­ve rank ear­ned a se­at of po­wer in a small of­fi­ce one step clo­ser to the shi­ning be­acon of prog­ress, ot­her­wi­se known as Le­vel A, the Top or HQ. He wor­ked on the se­cond flo­or and had ne­ver be­en cal­led to an of­fi­ce hig­her than the hun­d­redth flo­or.

  He to­ok an ele­va­tor down to the fo­yer and stop­ped be­fo­re The Do­or. Abo­ve it hung an epic pa­in­ting of a star­s­hip bre­aking the bo­unds of light. Star­D­ri­ve’s sta­ted go­al was to pro­du­ce a fas­ter than light spa­cec­raft. The Chi­ne­se felt that, for form’s sa­ke, even the eli­te sho­uld en­ter and le­ave via the ma­in do­or. It was per­haps the only ves­ti­ge of the­ir eig­h­ty-ye­ar Com­mu­nist ex­pe­ri­ment. O’Mal­ley put his hand in the fin­ger­p­rint re­ader, half ex­pec­ting to get a shock. In­s­te­ad, the do­or ope­ned and he en­te­red. The Do­or ga­ve one ac­cess to a spe­ci­al ele­va­tor, fil­led with so­fas and up­hol­s­te­red cha­irs, which fi­red di­rectly to the exe­cu­ti­ve flo­ors high abo­ve.

  He sat whi­le the ele­va­tor con­ve­yed him to the exe­cu­ti­ve en­t­ran­ce. Fo­ur enor­mo­us jade Fo­oDogs gu­ar­ded the cor­ri­dor. O’Mal­ley had he­ard ru­mors from his fel­low Om­bud­s­men that Star­D­ri­ve had li­be­ra­ted them from a fa­iling na­ti­on-sta­te. Be­yond tho­se lay va­ri­o­us per­so­nal of­fi­ces gu­ar­ded by the Dra­gon La­di­es of the Im­pe­ri­al Ro­yal Sec­re­ta­ri­al Ser­vi­ce: be­a­uti­ful, lit­he, Asi­an wo­men of in­de­ter­mi­na­te age who wo­uld ser­ve tea. Pos­sibly they we­re al­so ca­pab­le of typing, cal­cu­la­ting par­tic­le mec­ha­nics or kil­ling a man with one blow. O’Mal­ley wo­uld pro­bably ne­ver know.

  He was us­he­red in by one such stun­ning be­a­uty, han­ded a cup of Irish Bre­ak­fast tea-Twi­ning’s bag still in the cup to show they ca­red-and plun­ked at the end of an enor­mo­usly long and, the­ore­ti­cal­ly, in­ti­mi­da­ting tab­le.

  “I am Num­ber One,” a vo­ice an­no­un­ced. Ten som­ber, mid­dle-aged Chi­ne­se men we­aring blue pin­s­t­ri­pe su­its fa­ced him. In the lo­gic of The Or­ga­ni­za­ti­on, Num­ber One ac­tu­al­ly ran­ked fo­urth in the cor­po­ra­te sche­ma.

  “Good day, sir.” O’Mal­ley sip­ped his tea. They had over-bre­wed it by fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. He smi­led and drank mo­re.

  “We ha­ve a prob­lem,” Num­ber One con­ti­nu­ed. They all smo­ked; O’Mal­ley co­uld ba­rely ma­ke out the ro­ugh vi­ci­nity of his vo­ice. In all the ti­me he had be­en wor­king for Star­D­ri­ve, he had ne­ver go­ne mo­re than three sen­ten­ces be­fo­re one of his bet­ters wo­uld omi­no­usly say “we ha­ve a prob­lem.”

  “That, sir…” He enun­ci­ated to carry ac­ross the ro­om. “… is why you pay me. How may I as­sist?”

  The men ap­pe­ared em­bar­ras­sed. “We ha­ve a prob­lem with our spa­ce ship, with ac­hi­eving light spe­ed. We ne­ed yo­ur help.”

  “I’m sorry.” O’Mal­ley tri­ed not to drop his jaw. They we­re be­ing po­li­te, among ot­her things. Po­li­te­ness usu­al­ly me­ant so­me­one had di­ed. “I’m not an en­gi­ne­er or a sci­en­tist. I work for yo­ur hu­man re­so­ur­ces de­par­t­ment.” He sig­hed and then ad­ded, “At a very low le­vel.”

  “We know,” a dif­fe­rent vo­ice an­s­we­red. “But yo­ur na­me is O’Mal­ley and we tho­ught you might be ab­le to help us with this spe­ci­fic prob­lem.”

  He sip­ped his tea dry; a Dra­gon Lady re­fil­led it with Jas­mi­ne Whi­te le­af. He sa­vo­red its crisp swe­et­ness and tri­ed to be mo­ti­on­less. He had he­ard it wor­ked for li­zards and cer­ta­in kinds of rab­bits.

  “You see…” a third vo­ice spo­ke.

  “We ha­ve men hal­lu­ci­na­ting up­s­ta­irs,” the le­ader fi­nal­ly spo­ke, pus­hing for­ward. This was Han, the ac­tu­al num­ber one of Star­D­ri­ve. O’Mal­ley had ne­ver met him, but the Cha­ir­man Ma
o-si­zed ban­ners of him on every flo­or fa­mi­li­ari­zed a per­son with his ge­ne­ral li­ke­ness. He saw now that a wart or two had be­en tas­te­ful­ly air­b­rus­hed off the in­s­pi­ra­ti­onal pos­ters.

  “Europeans?” O’Mal­ley tho­ught he ca­ught the drift of the prob­lem. Hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons wo­uld be ter­ribly bad press.

  “No.” Han wa­ved dis­mis­si­vely. Euro­pe­ans ap­pa­rently we­re be­ne­ath his con­cern. “Na­ti­onals, of co­ur­se-im­por­tant men, pi­lots and en­gi­ne­ers.”

  “The na­tu­re of the­se hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons?”

  “Our men…” Han he­si­ta­ted. “The­se men are very trus­t­worthy and I know many per­so­nal­ly.”

  Great ten­si­on fil­led his vo­ice. The mes­sa­ge was cle­ar. I trust them, you bet­ter trust them too. Or el­se.

  “Our men be­li­eve they are se­e­ing lep­rec­ha­uns.”

  “Leprechauns.” O’Mal­ley kept a som­ber fa­ce.

  “Yes,” one of the adj­utants ag­re­ed.

  It all clic­ked. “I’m the only Irish em­p­lo­yee you ha­ve, then?”

  One of the men nod­ded with ob­vi­o­us dis­da­in. “It wo­uld ap­pe­ar so.”

  “And you felt that be­ing O’Mal­ley wo­uld gi­ve me so­me et­h­nic, so­me Irish born, in­sight in­to the­se hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons?”

  “Exactly.” Han nod­ded. Si­len­ce sat upon the bo­ar­d­ro­om. Fi­nal­ly, Han put out his ci­ga­ret­te and an­no­un­ced with fi­na­lity, “You le­ave im­me­di­ately.”

  O’Malley tri­ed not to spit. Al­t­ho­ugh he un­der­s­to­od that be­ing in the world’s tal­lest bu­il­ding al­so con­nec­ted him to the Star­D­ri­ve Spa­ce Ele­va­tor, he had ne­ver gi­ven it tho­ught. He’d re­ad the broc­hu­res du­ring tra­ining. A sa­tel­li­te sta­ti­oned many tho­usands of ki­lo­me­ters abo­ve the to­wers tra­iled a cab­le that lin­ked the bu­il­ding it­self and an an­cil­lary bal­last-we­ight sta­ti­on with a tu­be bu­ilt li­ke a hu­man spi­ne. In­si­de, a bub­ble-sha­ped ele­va­tor ma­de the tran­sit. Fi­ve ho­urs from to­wer to spa­ce sta­ti­on, fo­ur from spa­ce back down. No bends, no dis­com­fort, no sen­se of gee-for­ce or blas­toff; they even had so­me kind of gyros­co­pic system that buf­fe­red it aga­inst the winds in the up­per at­mos­p­he­re. You co­uld drink tea on the way up.