Witpunk

by Claude Lalumiere; Marty Halpern

  He looked down at the stroganoff and turned almost as white as my mother's uniform.

  "May I be excused?" I said, wiping my mouth. I've got some stuff I'd like to do and obviously I haven't been able to get it done today."

  "Go ahead. Milt will clean up. A week's training here," she added to him, "and then you can wear the uniform. Have a good six-month probationary period, and I'll let you ride up front with me in the van, where Lynn's father used to sit. Lynn!"

  I paused in the doorway. "What?"

  She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. "The gun, silly."

  I'd carried it off without thinking. And of course, that was when Milt finally made his move. But he wasn't thinking either; he just lunged at my mother and she smacked him right in the mouth with the heel of her other hand, knocking him off the chair onto the floor. When I left, she was dabbing at his split lip with a napkin, holding the barrel of the gun under his chin. I resisted a joke about crying over split Milt.

  Upstairs in my room, I fired up the computer, turned on the modem and got into the police computer. That was one of the few things I had learned that my mother hadn't taught me – in fact, I think it was the only thing she herself couldn't actually do. I tried to show her how once, but she just couldn't get it. Couldn't hack it was the way she put it, and she didn't even understand why I laughed when she said it.

  Fortunately, the police still hadn't run Milt's prints, so I jiggered some stuff around to fix it so that they never would. In a town of this size, there's very little urgency to run someone's prints – nobody expects someone on the ten most wanted list to turn up on a shoplifting charge. My mother would say they were just lazy, good thing for us. Perhaps she was right, but I preferred to think that it was more like maybe the police were closing one eye and working with the Busy Hands system. There are lots of police families on my mother's client list, and you can practically eat off their floors.

  I suppose it was cold, but I couldn't bring myself to feel particularly bad about my father. He'd never been a very good father; if he had, my mother would have given him a lot more latitude. I took care of his records while I was in the police computer – Carol would appreciate the favor – and then downloaded the arrest reports for the day. My mother wouldn't be going out to the jail again for a while, but it's always good to keep current. And who knew but that Carol might have another rush job to fulfill? She would appreciate that favor, too.

  And she'd remember all these little favors I did her, so when I turned eighteen, she'd back me up when I finally went to my mother and told her how I felt. I mean, Busy Hands is a wonderful service and I'm very proud of the way my mother started it with nothing and built it into the fine operation it is today. But the fact is, I really, really hate housework, even when someone else is doing it. It's just so boring.

  But I think I've developed a real taste for the catering business.

  Deep Space Adventure #32

  Jerey Ford

  On the second giant planet in orbit around the star that defines the stinger of the Scorpion constellation, at a spot along its vast equator, in the mazelike crystal gardens, where sharp shards of clearas-water atomic lattice structures thrust into absolute night, some smaller than the width of a pencil, some taller than skyscrapers, Colonel Rasuka, famous explorer and two-fisted astronaut of the Deep Space Corps, donned in bubble helmet and sporting his jet pack that allowed him to float among the formations like a goldfish through coral holes in the deep sea of the Far Tortuga, turned his lantern slightly to the right, and unbeknownst to him, awakened a dormant, ineffable entity that latched onto that stream of a beam of illumination only to ride its reflection back into the eye of Rasuka, who later that day returned with the alien presence percolating in his gray matter back to his ship, The Empress, where he moved among the crew, becoming more and more bizarre in his proclamations and twitching movements, until, all of a sudden, pop, out of the top of his head shot a brainiac thing with pulsing cerebellum and a dozen long tentacles, two of which sported the obligatory bug eyes, searching out other crew members in order to feed off their energy by slipping a tentacle up their nose and draining out their bodily essence until finally the creature was stopped by the Robot Friend of Man, Executor 1000, looking for all the world like a metal scarecrow with twinkling Christmas-light eyes and a screw for a nose, who zapped the thing with a ray gun, disintegrating it into a pile of wet ash, but not before all of the humans had been killed, leaving the robot alone in space, lost in space, to whisper in his voice like the whir of an electric can opener, "Good riddance, " to one and all.

  The Wild Girls

  Pat Murphy

  I was thirteen years old when I met the queen of the foxes.

  My family had just moved from Connecticut to California. It was a hot summer day, and the air conditioner in the new house wasn't working. My father was at his new job, and my mother was unpacking boxes while she waited for the air conditioner repairman to come. I helped my mother unpack a box of dishes, but when I dropped a china plate (one of a set of twelve), my mother suggested that I go out and play. There was an edge in her voice.

  I didn't argue; I went outside. The backyard wasn't much: an expanse of tired-looking grass bordered by dusty shrubs and flowers. A high wooden fence blocked my view in all directions.

  I opened the gate in the back fence and looked out at a dirt road that ran alongside a rusting set of railroad tracks. Our new house was on the very edge of a development on the very edge of town. On the far side of the railroad tracks, was a walnut orchard – rows of trees with dark rough trunks and smooth pale branches.

  If I turned right, the dirt road would lead into town. If I turned left, it would lead away from town, into unknown territory.

  I turned left.

  For a hundred yards or so, the dirt road ran parallel to our neighbors' back fences, then it left the housing development behind. To my right were the railroad tracks and the walnut orchard; to my left, another orchard and an open field. Farther along, the dirt road and the railroad tracks passed near a small creek. I clambered down the embankment to walk along the creek.

  It was cooler by the water. Soft-leafed green trees shaded the gully. Moss grew on the rocks and jays shrieked at me from the trees. The creek turned, and a tiny path led up the bank through a tangle of bushes and vines. I climbed the path and entered an overgrown woody area, where gnarled old trees shaded the weedy ground. Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of something orange – a brilliant, unnatural, day-glo color. I followed the path toward the color and found a small clearing where the underbrush had been cut down. A large armchair, upholstered in fabric that was a riot of orange daisies on green and turquoise paisley patterns, sat under a twisted tree. In front of the chair was a large, flat-topped boulder; on the boulder was a teapot with a broken spout. Boards had been wedged among the branches of the tree to make shelves. Haphazard and not quite level, the shelves supported an assortment of odd items: a jar of peanut butter, a battered metal tin, a china cup with a broken handle, two chipped plates, a dingy teddy bear.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" a girl's voice asked.

  I looked toward the voice, startled. A girl about my age, dressed in ragged jeans and a dirty T-shirt, sat on a low branch of the tree to my left. Her face was streaked with red-brown clay – vertical stripes on her forehead, horizontal stripes on her cheeks. Her hair was a tangle of reddish curls, held back with a rubber band and decorated with a blue jay feather.

  "I . . . I was just looking around," I stammered.

  "Who said you could come here?" she asked, her voice rising. "This is private property."

  I felt my face getting hot. "Sorry. I just. . . ."

  "You think you can come poking around anywhere?"

  "I said I was sorry. . . ."

  "You kids from the development think you own everything."

  "I didn't mean. . . ."

  "Why don't you just go back where you came from?"

  "That wo
uld be fine with me," I managed to say, just before my voice broke. I turned away, feeling tears on my face, and immediately tripped over a rock and fell hard, catching myself on my hands and one knee. When I scrambled to my feet, the girl was standing beside me.

  "Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?" I snarled at her, trying to cover my tears with anger. "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

  She was studying me, her head cocked to one side. "You haven't been here before, have you?" she asked, her voice calmer.

  I shook my head. "My family just moved to this lousy neighborhood."

  "Your knee is bleeding," she said. "So's your hand. Come on and sit down. I've got band-aids."

  I sat in the armchair, and she washed my cuts with water from the creek, carried in the china cup. She took a box of band-aids from one of her shelves. While she dabbed at my scraped knee with a wet bandana, she explained that some kids had been there a few days back and messed with all her stuff, pulling down the shelves and tipping over the chair. "There are some really mean kids around here," she said. "You're lucky I didn't just start throwing rocks at you. I can hide in the trees and nail a kid with a rock from thirty feet away."

  She sat back on her heels, studying my bandaged knee. "Well, I guess you'll be okay now." She met my eyes with a steady gaze. "You asked who I am, so I guess I better tell you. I'm the queen of the foxes."

  "The queen of the foxes," I repeated.

  "That's right – the queen of all the foxes." Suddenly she was on her feet. "Come on. I'll show you something cool."

  No time for any more questions. She was running away through the trees, and I followed.

  She led me to a place by the creek where you could catch orange and black newts with thoughtful eyes. The queen of the foxes caught one and handed it to me. It felt like cold rubber on my hand. It didn't struggle to escape. Instead, it blinked at me and then started walking with high, slow steps, as if it were still moving through water.

  At first, I stayed on the bank of the creek. When I said I'd be in trouble if I got my clothes dirty, the queen of the foxes pointed out that my bleeding hand had already left smears of blood and mud on my shorts. Since I was already in trouble, I might as well have all the fun I could. So I got into the creek too, freed the newt that she had caught for me, and caught another.

  Then we sat on the bank and dried out. While we were there, she painted my face with clay from the bank. War paint, she called it. She showed me how to make a squawking noise with a blade of grass. A couple of blue jays sat in the tree and scolded us for making such a racket.

  "Hey, what's your name, anyway?" I asked her.

  "My name? She leaned back and looked up at the branches of the trees. "You can call me Fox."

  "That's not a name."

  She shrugged. "Why not?"

  "I can't tell my mother that your name is Fox. She won't believe it."

  "Why do you have to tell her anything?"

  "She'll ask."

  She shrugged. "So make up something she'll like better. You call me Fox, and I'll call you Mouse."

  "No you won't."

  "Then what should I call you?"

  "Call me Newt," I said, thinking of the slow-moving amphibians with their thoughtful eyes. "That would be good."

  Somehow or other, the afternoon went away, and I realized that I was hungry and the sun was low in the sky. "Hey, I've got to get going," I said. "My mother will be really pissed."

  "Ah," she said, lying back in the grass. "I don't have to worry about that. I don't have a mother."

  "Yeah?" I squinted at her, but her eyes were closed and she didn't notice. As I tried to figure out what to say, I heard a man's voice calling in the distance. "Sarah! Sarah, are you there?"

  She frowned. "That's my dad," she muttered. "I better go talk to him." She ran off through the trees toward the voice. After a minute, I followed.

  The path led to an old white house on the edge of the woods. It wasn't like any house I'd ever seen before – there was no driveway, no yard. A dirt road ended in front of the house, where a battered old sedan was parked beside an enormous motorcycle. Weeds grew in the flowerbed beside the front steps, and there was all kinds of junk near the door: a cast-iron bathtub half filled with water, a barbecue built from an oil drum, a pile of hubcaps. The paint on the house was peeling.

  Fox stood on the front porch, talking to a burly man wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. They looked up and saw me standing on the edge of the woods. "This is Newt," Fox said. "Newt, this is Gus. He's my dad."

  He didn't look like anybody's father. He didn't have a beard, but he needed a shave. He had three silver studs in his left ear. His dark hair was tied back with a rubber band. On his right arm, there was a tattoo, an elaborate pattern of spiraling black lines.

  "How's it going, Newt?" Gus didn't seem at all startled at my strange new name. "Where did you come from?"

  "My family just moved here, mister uh. . . ."

  "Just call me Gus," he said. "I don't answer to mister."

  I nodded uncomfortably. He didn't look like anyone's dad, but it still seemed strange to call him by his first name.

  "I found her in the woods," Fox said. "Showed her where the newts live."

  "That's good. I'm glad you found your way here." He seemed genuinely pleased. "Be nice for Sarah to have some company."

  I kept looking at the tattoo. I had never met anyone with a tattoo before.

  He walked down from the porch and sat on the bottom step. "You interested in tattoos? Take a look." I studied his arm. "You can touch it if you like. It's okay."

  Gingerly, I traced one of the spiraling lines with a finger.

  "Got it in New Zealand from a Maori fellow. It's supposed to attract good fortune. Seems to work. Right after I got it, I sold my first short story."

  There was a little too much implied by all that for me to absorb, but I nodded as if I understood.

  After a minute, he stood up and said, "You want to join us for dinner? Nothing fancy – just canned chili."

  "No, thanks," I said. "I'd better go home."

  "Don't forget to wash your face," he suggested.

  Fox and I washed up with the hose outside the house, and then I headed home.

  I got home just when my father got back from work. He was telling my brother that he shouldn't just be sitting around watching trash on TV. My mother was complaining about the cost of fixing the air conditioner. I snuck up to my room and changed before anyone noticed my muddy clothes and wet shoes.

  When I got downstairs, I set the table, and we had dinner.

  My mother and father did not like one another much. Dinner was just about the only time they sat down together. A vague sense of tension hung over the table, centering on my father. He was always angry – not about anything in particular, but about everything, all the time. But he pretended he wasn't angry. He was always joking, but the jokes weren't very funny.

  "I see you've decided that meat is better if it's black around the edges," he said to my mother that night. The London broil was well-done, though far from black. "That's an interesting theory."

  My mother laughed at my father's comment, pretending that he was just joking.

  He glanced at me. "Your mother thinks that charcoal is good for the digestion," he said.

  I smiled and didn't say anything. My own strategy for dealing with my father was to say as little as possible.

  My father turned to my brother. "What educational shows did you watch on TV today? I'm sure you can learn a great deal from watching 'The Price is Right.' "

  "I didn't watch TV all day," my brother said sullenly.

  "Mark explored the neighborhood this afternoon," my mother said.

  "I see – out looking for trouble. I'm sure there are just as many young hoodlums in this town as there were in Connecticut. I'm confident you'll find them." Once, in Connecticut, the police had brought Mark home; he'd been with some boys who had been caught shoplifting.<
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  "I met some kids down the block," Mark said. "They all belong to the country club. Can we join the country club so I can go swimming with them?" This last question was directed to my mother.

  "Swimming at the country club?" my father said. "Now isn't that nice? Maybe we need to get you a job so that you don't have so much time weighing heavy on your hands."

  Mark didn't say anything. My father was talking about how young he had been when he had his first job. I noticed that Mark was staring at me, and I could feel it coming. He was going to say something to get my father off his case and onto mine. When my father paused, Mark said, "Hey, Joan, how come you always hold onto your glass when you eat? It looks really stupid."