SOMETHING WAITS

by Bruce Jones

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pronto, if not sooner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pause.

  “Uh…what would that be, sir?”

  “How’s that?”

  “The stolen property, what was it?”

  “I can’t provide you with that information, Sheffield.”

  “Can’t provide—“

  “It’s classified, Sheffield. Sensitive. You can appreciate that. Colony Six is a Top Secret installation. Half of these buildings house classified information and material. The object this cadet stole is highly confidential. I understand there are no more than two of them in existence and both are here at Colony Six. Or were here. I want it back.”

  “Yes, sir, but how will I be sure…I mean, if I don’t know…”

  “I’ll grant you that’s a problem. That’s why you were chosen, Sheffield. My reports tell me you’re one of the best in the Colony. Top of your class. This could be the most memorable assignment of your career. The most important. Are you game, Sheffield?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  * * *

  Of course she was game. Like the best swordsmen in the Colony, she’d been itching to get a look at what lay outside those steel walls. Now she had her chance.

  Evening was coming on fast. In a few minutes she’d have difficulty discerning Leakwood’s trail, clear as it was.

  The dandleflies were out, zeroing in on her like attacking missiles, rolling their crystal wings deliriously in her sweat glands. She found a Mulinaw bush without much effort, broke one of its berries between her fingers and spread the glistening oil over her limbs. The dandleflies buzzed off in resentment. She’d done her homework.

  The ground beneath her slippers grew steadily softer, danker, as she’d read it would toward evening. The Rhunks would be pushing up any time now. She fingered the hilt of her sword warily…

  A species of un-catalogued bird-lizard screeched abruptly above her head. She twisted around and caught sight of its yellow-blue plumage spiraling swiftly across the mauve sky, arrowing gracefully to a nearby fern, landing not so gracefully with a light plop. As she watched, it began kicking convulsively, then stiffened and began dissolving rapidly into the devouring fern.

  She knelt down beside Leakwood’s latest boot print and took a reading with the infra-heat device snapped to her girdle. To her amazement the little needle hovered just over the seven minute mark. Leakwood must be very close. Calculating her rate of pursuit, he must have slowed considerably within the last hour. Odd. He couldn’t have tired this early in the hunt. Was it indeed to be an ambush? Or had he finally come to his senses, fearing the coming night, his lone vulnerability?

  She produced a food tab from her belt and chewed it reflectively. Leakwood was a hard one to figure all right: cautious, introverted, rarely talking at all during the few times she’d been with him. Still, she couldn’t believe he’d do her harm. He may not have shared the other men’s physical passion for her, but she thought she’d always seen something like affection in his eyes.

  He was an odd one, though.

  She twitched reflexively. A pungent odor assailed her nostrils. Her perfect nose wrinkled in revulsion. She craned about for the source, right hand gripping the dark hilt of her blade. Behind her a soft plopping sound became evident. She whirled in time to see the dun snout of a female Rhunk poking through the soft loam amid clumps of its own excrement.

  She stepped back gingerly, eyes riveted to the enormous block-like head, twitching ears and blinking yellow pupils. The smell became overpowering. It hadn’t seen her yet, so she moving backward silently, merging with the surrounding undergrowth… watched in repugnant fascination as the thing heaved its rhino-like bulk out of the damp earth and yawned enormously.

  It was everything both field manual and Commander had described…

  * * *

  “Now, I’m sure you’ve made yourself familiar with the wildlife on this planet, Sheffield. Let me emphasize that the three hundred and sixty-eight pages before you do not exaggerate in describing the ferocity of these creatures. They are many and varied—and nearly all lethal. I realize that swordplay is very much the fashion of the day—that some of you young people are quite proficient with a blade. However, I’m going to insist you also carry a sidearm.”

  “But sir—“

  “Please. I’m well aware of your prowess and reputation, Sheffield, and that the blade has recently been recognized as an official Fleet weapon. But this planet is different. Aside from this AWOL, only seven men have ventured outside these steel walls. We lost two of them because we weren’t sufficiently prepared. I’ll not allow that again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take a look here at page twenty-nine of the manual, Sheffield. Tell me what you see.”

  “A Rhunk, sir.”

  “Ugly brute, isn’t he?”

  “He is, sir.”

  “Ugly and huge and deadly. You’ve heard stories of how they can rend animals twice their size to shreds with those tusks while holding them securely with those ghastly tentacles. You’ve heard and read how their hides are comparable to the finest alloys we know, how a certain percent of their make-up is non-molecular. You know they’re virtually indestructible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Patently unstoppable. But! They can be fooled.”

  “Fooled, sir?”

  “Hoaxed, conned! There’s only one animal on the planet a full grown Rhunk won’t attack and immediately disembowel. Do you know what that animal is, Sheffield?”

  “Another Rhunk, sir?”

  “That’s very good, Sheffield, very astute. Yes, another Rhunk. And we can make another Rhunk! We have made another Rhunk--here in our labs at the Colony. With the aid of this instrument you see in my hands.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “It’s called a Colifax.”

  * * *

  A Colifax. It hung now from the gold chain of her G-string, the cold metal pressing uncomfortably against her bare tummy, banging distractingly when she walked. Until this moment, it had been a heavy, unwanted piece of Colony technology she’d have given a week’s pay to be rid of. Top Secret or not.

  Now she wasn’t so sure. If it could somehow protect her from this incredible monstrosity erupting from the soil…

  For it was obvious now that nothing else could. The emerging Rhunk was an awe-inspiring study in armor-plated destruction. Nothing short of a T-3 missile could bring it down, of that she was sure. Even with sword in hand she felt, for the first time in her life, totally ineffectual. That guy from Colony Twelve must have been out of his mind, or—like her—had never seen a real Rhunk in the flesh.

  She stumbled back through the creepers as it lifted its nose to sniff the evening air. She emerged into a small clearing on the other side. As she turned, she came face to face with another Rhunk.

  A big one this time. A male.

  She stiffened. The thing was staring directly at her, had heard her coming, in fact. The thick lattice of jungle hemmed her in from all sides. There was no place to run, no place to even turn. For the first time in her young life, real fear found her.

  Stay frosty. That was the rule. Her rule. With palsied fingers she tore the Colifax from her waist and knelt slowly to the wet earth, setting it in front of her—eyes never leaving the bloated form of the big Rhunk before her. Its nose was in the air now as the female’s had been, taking in the full scent of the human with the aid of a steady evening breeze wafting directly toward it. The thin, veined membranes of its four nostrils flared red, and she thought she detected a sudden tremor pass along the great ridges of its broad back.

  Methodically then, as if confident of the helplessness of its prey, the monster advanced on her, muscles riding in sensuous rhythm along its muscular flanks, tentacles twitching in eager anticipation.

  She reached out for the Colifax, depressed a red button.

  The hotness that flooded her body was immediate and not altogether un
pleasant. No pain, really, but it left her with the distinct feeling she was being pulled slowly apart from all sides like heated taffy, pulled and softened and molded. Changed. She refused to panic; she knew, as Colony Command had warned, the morphing process would reverse itself the moment she touched the green button. Even now her fear was ebbing as she took on the proportions and character of her new body. Even the approaching Rhunk appeared less menacing with the advent of her new height, her muscular girth.

  Its nostrils didn’t flare any less, however, and the tremors riding its back increased if anything. It was still intensely interested in her for some reason. But if not as food…what?

  Even before it moved over and deliberately crushed flat her Colifax with its massive hoof, sealing her fate forever, she knew: even before it wrapped its twenty tentacles about her ardently and adjusted her to mounting position she understood. For she had looked deep into its eyes and they revealed all. Perfect as the Colifax was at imitating, it couldn’t quite disguise the familiar personality behind those eyes, the quiet, introverted but highly imaginative brain. And in that instant, she knew exactly why Leakwood had led her this merry chase, and what piece of Fleet equipment he’d stolen.

  She’d miss her friends, of course, and life at the Colony. But most of all, she’d miss her sword. Even with the highly sensitive tentacles at her command, with seven thousand pounds of female Rhunk behind them, it was difficult to be as gracefully as Dejah Thoris.

  Here’s a nasty little piece of work.

  I’m not particularly proud of the story that follows. Not because I don’t think it well written; I wouldn’t have included it were that the case. Not because of the obvious sexual overtones either; sex is probably the least prevailing theme of this short tale. And not because I don’t think it’s a good stor;, I do. Maybe, in its simplicity and terse approach, it’s among my best, at least in that regard. And not even because I wasn’t once very proud of it indeed. But times change, and change things, including us. They have a way of doing that, you may have noticed. Most of us change with them to one degree or other and whether that’s a good or bad thing does not preclude its inevitability. We begin life knowing nothing, but endlessly fascinated by all around us and ravenous to learn. Later on, we think we know it all, have it quite figured out, thank you, and are pretty goddamn taken with our new-found self-absorbed stupidity. Still later on we concede there may be a few things we might actually not know with absolute certainty, a few more we may never entirely grasp, but that’s okay too, because it shows we’re learning, right, and therefore still growing, also a good and righteous thing. And still, still later we find we are in a place of knowing way too much, so much it’s crowding out and messing with the simplest of our thought processes—recall, for instance--while simultaneously aware we really know, have actually learned, almost nothing. At least nothing much worth knowing. This is called The Great Reawakening. It is here we long for those oblivious days of self-absorbed stupidity. Also called: Nostalgia. It is a dangerously time-wasting state of mind, but probably, considering all that went before, some kind of necessary one, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why. I think the fortunate ones are those lucky bastards who never look back. I wish I could do that. But I’m a writer. If I’m not constantly juggling the past with the present nothing comes out of the typewriter. You heard right: typewriter. Nostalgia, see? What comes next--I suppose finally--is that long arrived-at but irreversible beginning walk to what’s politely referred to as The Big Sleep.

  In between, we’re all, more or less, victims of Time, of the fashions and politics of a series of ‘presents.’ Which is why I’m not particularly proud (or ashamed) of this story. Of all those included in this collection it seems the most moored in the past, the least in tune with contemporary sensibilities. In short: people today just don’t think that way anymore. Which makes it, for me at least, just slightly dated, a subject of a certain Time and Place that, in this case I think, also makes it a victim. In a word: quaint. I can think of a lot of adjectives I might like my stories to be respectfully linked with: none of them is ‘quaint.’ I immediately visualize doilies and Geritol (contains more iron than a pound of calves’ liver, don’t you know? But did anyone ask the calf?)

  Not that this story’s wholly bereft of relevance, even now. Anything this involved with the basic physical and emotional drives of homo sapiens (in this case, perhaps, homo erectus) is probably good for a read or two more for some years to come. Still, I can’t shake a certain gnawing concern: is anyone under the age of twenty reading this apt to walk away scratching his head with indifferent wonder? Maybe a more pressing question would be: is anyone under the age of twenty reading?

  Assuming you are—you got this far--and can get a bit farther--past what at first may seem the ramblings of a card carrying chauvinistic pig--you might find some mild edification and even minor redefinition in what was back then and—published for the first time here in uncollected form--perhaps, even now that elusive thing we all call

  Driving home from work that evening, he made up his mind to do it.

  He’d rehearsed it a million times before in his mind, even gone to the physical lengths of securing the coil of clothesline from his wife’s supply in the garage, and purchasing the bottle of tablets from the pharmacy, placing them in the glove compartment (under a litter of concealing paraphernalia) for easy reference. For the day when he finally found the courage, the will. The strength. Well, today was the day. Today he set the wheels in what he knew would likely result in irreversible motion. Today he drew the line. He’d known it even as he’d left the office and climbed into his car for the long drive home. Today would be different. Today the longing and hoping and careful planning and, yes, the fearing would end.

  Paul swung the car deliberately from his usual highway route and onto the ramp and surface street that would eventually lead him past the house of his best friend. And his best friend’s wife.

  He could see her now in his mind’s eye, bussing about the house preparing Hal’s supper, soft, golden tresses moving sensuously as she went, full, generous breasts pressing maddeningly against that snug, white blouse she often favored. How many times had he seen that blouse in daily fantasies at the office? How many times had he opened it with trembling fingers in dream-tossed slumber next to his own wife? And now he was about to make those dreams a reality.

  He knew a sudden wedge of doubt there behind the Lexus’ wheel. Could he do this…really do it? Yes, every precaution had been taken, everything worked out as near to last second planning he could imagine. But it was crime! No refuting that. What he was contemplating was nothing less than a crime in any state in the union! No matter what rationale he clung to, this would change his life forever. Hopefully not ruin it—not his life or hers—but definitely change it. Nothing would be the same after this. It made his pulse quicken. It made him grin.

  He nosed the car through the quagmire of suburban New Jersey streets and felt his palms grow moist on the wheel. Don’t! his inner mind reprimanded. Don’t get bent out of shape now, blow everything you’ve finally worked up the courage for at the last second. He hadn’t achieved the top executive position at the firm by always playing it safe, without leaving a few broken bodies in his wake. This would be no different. That was the way to think of it, the smart way to approach it: as a job. Just another job. A very pleasant, very exciting job. Just thinking about it here in the car caused a stirring down there. It was going to be fine. Just another life decision; and you’re good at decision making, you’re the best!

  To retain the bravado, Paul pushed his mind in other directions, willed himself to think of the first time he seen her, that day Hal had brought him home from work to pick up some papers for the office he’d forgotten. Janice had met them in the hallway, wearing the white blouse and a short red skirt that showed long, shapely legs. She’d smiled at him, given him her hand a moment, insisted he bring his wife over for dinner sometime. Had she held her hand in his just a f
ew moments longer than absolutely necessary, perhaps feeling the same electric effect through her fingers as he did? He thought maybe she had. Was pretty damn sure of it.

  That weekend the four of them had gone to dinner and dancing in the city. He’d managed to dance with her twice without making it look obvious, reveling in her touch, her smell, the warmth of her nearly driving him mad. He’d found himself trembling on the way back home. Later, in bed with his own wife Jill, she’d asked him what was wrong when she touched him. He’d covered with the old back pain act. On subsequent nights when they did make love, it was always in the darkness—always Janice’s face he saw before him, her body in his arms, under him.

  Paul reached over and flipped open the glove compartment, lifted out the length of cord and bottle of tablets, slipped them into his suit jacket. Carefully he repeated the pharmacist’s words to himself: “No more than two tablets. One will make you a little dopey, two will put you out. Three will get you started toward coma. These things are very powerful, not to be taken lightly.” Paul remembered handing the druggist the fifty bucks, hurrying from the store like a breathless kid buying his first box of condoms. It would be almost funny if it was so terrifying. But that was kind of the point, right? The atavistic thrill that went with this?