Jim Baens Universe-Vol 2 Num 5

by Eric Flint

  How much of this absurdity was being mistranslated by my badly programmed ear-nanos? A lot, I figured, adding that I really must speed up learning the local dialect, the old-fashioned way, in order not to depend on them.

  "Of course," Katske added, "the very next year, the people rose up en masse and voted to declare legislation an act of extreme moral turpitude. Nevertheless, those laws have never been repealed. They remain on the books."

  "Including the one against aliens landing without permission," interjected Inspector Coalshack.

  "And you think I have committed this crime, because—"

  "Because I told them."

  A figure stepped through the far doorway. And I let out a low sigh.

  "Nuts."

  Despite wearing native clothing—a long, magisterial gown, complete with glittering spikes on a high collar—she was instantly recognizable. Those pointy little Demmie teeth weren't vampirized, the way Lieutenant Morrel's had been. Still, they glittered, as the Clever Gamble's Chief Engineer grinned at me, without any trace of friendliness.

  "That's Commander-Artificer Nomlin to you, Advisor Montessori. I have always found my peoples' penchant for nicknames so immature, don't you agree? And with the Captain not around—"

  "Where is he?" I demanded, taking several steps toward her, my hands suddenly clenched, ignoring the two men, who jabbed me with their weapons. "Where is Olm! And Guts and the others? Do you know what happened to the ship?"

  Her smirk faded into a look of passing concern. "The Gamble? I haven't a clue. In fact, I've heard nothing since that night in the sub-urb, when we were attacked and I got separated from the others. I remember getting knocked under some bushes, then wandering around in a daze, till morning, when I finally stumbled into town and asked a friendly policeman for help." She nodded to Coalshack. "I can only assume that the Gamble had to leave suddenly. Or she was destroyed."

  "Your uniform, does it still transmit and receive?" Mine had been shredded, after violent attacks by everything from werewolves to zombies. I had hoped that would explain the silence.

  "Beats me." Nuts shrugged. "I traded my tunic for these clothes. They're pretty, don't you think? I mean, for prison duds."

  "Prison. But . . . ." I stammered. "You mean you're—"

  "Also under arrest? Of course! I'm an alien invader too, just like you. Only they've promised to be lenient. Haven't you, boys?" She smiled as Katske and Coalshack nodded. "If I help them solve a little problem."

  "What problem?"

  "The problem, you dense Earthling. The crazy condition of this poor planet! The sickness that brought their civilization to the brink of collapse and filled the world with monsters."

  I turned back to the old man. "It's a sickness?"

  Dr. Katske nodded. "The affliction is called Leininger's Disease, after its discoverer, who diagnosed the first wave of walking dead. Amid the ensuing panic, and because it bore many hallmarks of a weapon, the nations of that time accused each other of biological warfare. They even hurled a few bombs back and forth, destroying several cities, before everyone realized—that this tragedy transcended all borders, even death."

  "But—" I couldn't help arguing. "Didn't people adapt? At least for a while? Those exhibits in the hallway—"

  "—don't tell the whole story." Katske shook his head. "Yes, for a little while, people seemed willing to adjust to new conditions. Even to redefine 'life' in a more inclusive way."

  "I saw relics of that era. But the time of tolerance collapsed, didn't it?"

  "Spinning into distrust, madness, and finally a virtual state of war among the different castes—except for in truce zones, like this giant palace of parasitism that we're standing in."

  I wanted to learn more, but it was time to focus on the practical. "So you knew who I was, even there in the hallway?"

  "Not at first. Running into you there, spotting your exceptional curiosity about this world, was a stroke of luck. Of course, I hurried to notify the Cal'mari Cops, who sent over the inspector here, to rope you in. But I was actually there, in the Hall of Heroes, to do research."

  "Research."

  "For clues to a special, secret place," Nuts cut in, with a hushed tone of relish and mystery that was typically Demmie. "They say it holds the key. And if I help them, they promise not only a pardon, but a big reward."

  "What key? Helping them to do what?"

  "The key to Leininger's disease," answered Dr. Katske. "And helping us to find a cure."

  * * *

  Nuts led me into the next room, where several lab benches were stacked high with equipment, much of it archaic looking and rather dusty.

  "The best I been able to figure," she explained, "The people of this world have been in a dark age for quite some time, centuries at least. But they didn't go down without a fight! Across the globe, people mounted efforts to study what was happening to them, in secret labs like this one."

  "I see. But why in a giant casino?"

  "Because that was where the money was, especially toward the end. Universities and governments collapsed, but the law of supply and demand—catering to vice—seems to have greater staying power. In fact," she motioned to some ledgers that lay spread open on a table. "According to these notebooks, work on a cure continued here—and a number of other places—until just a hundred or so years ago."

  Dr. Katske carefully opened one of the volumes and ran his fingers along some lines of writing, in the local language. "Near the end, they were excited about something big. Researchers in one of the hidden labs made a breakthrough, decoding the essence of the ailment! Even ways to change it, or heal it. Only then—"

  His hand stopped, where the writing did, halfway down a page.

  "Let me guess," I asked. "Management lost interest. By then, aristocratic vampires had taken charge of places like this." I jerked my thumb backward, toward the main part of the building, where jangling tones sang an endless and monotonous song of predatory profit. "I don't imagine they much relished the idea of a cure."

  "Well, it was complicated. But something like that."

  I could well imagine, there would be a variety of opinions concerning what the word "cure" meant, in a case like this. Should the right to act and move and enjoy existence be restricted to the living? There were some artificial and simulated intelligences of my acquaintance, who might demur. On the other hand, something really ought to be done about the state of terror that the "standard" population of Oxytocin—the child-bearing core of the species—suffered every day, and especially every night.

  "So, you want to re-start the research?" I turned to Katske and Coalshack. "Fine! Help us get in touch with our ship. By now, Commander Nomlin must have told you our peaceful intentions. We can assist in countless ways, scientific, cultural and financial. As new members of the Interplanetary Alliance, you can call upon immense resources! Why, even our ship's doctor, Commander-Healer Paolim, could probably crack this nut, with facilities aboard the Clever Gamble. Meanwhile, skilled mediators can initiate an open dialogue among all your different types and castes . . ."

  This time, it was the police inspector who spoke up. "I'll answer that," said Coalshack.

  "First, we're still not at all sure that we can trust you aliens. Second, from what I gather, your ship seems to have troubles of its own. You folks are hardly able to take care of yourselves, let alone others.

  "And finally, we don't need outsiders to find us a cure! One already exists. They talk about it, right here!" He slammed his fist down upon the nearby journal. "Somebody found it, in Obtainia!"

  "Ob . . . tainia? What's that?"

  "You mean where," Nuts murmured. "And that seems to be the problem. One that calls for my abilities, not those of a mere bone-setter and purveyor of herbs!"

  She stepped aside and, with a flourish, offered my first view of a gleaming apparatus that was under fabrication, on a nearby bench. Roughly spherical in shape—an ornate concatenation of wires, tubes and gears—it shimmered under the surface
reflection of several nearby mirrors and lamps, but also with a constantly-shifting array of inner glows. Soft, clickety sounds emitted, as wheels turned within wheels.

  "Of course I've been limited to the primitive parts and tools available here, on a backward world," Nuts commented with her usual tact, making the two natives frown. "Still, I think you'll agree, Advisor, that I've made pretty good progress."

  I stared at the compact ball, about the size of my head and clearly designed to be portable. The florid style couldn't be more Demmie, as I marveled at a mixture of elegant efficiency and madly ingenious overconstruction. Pondering the little machine's purpose, it came to me, all at once, with a gasp.

  "You're . . . making them a finder!"

  Nuts smiled. "Indeed. And spare me any of your prissy objections, that this violates the Protocols of Contact, along with a dozen treaties. Allow me to remind you, Advisor, that these people really need the thing that this apparatus will find.

  "Furthermore, need I also suggest that we need it, too? These fellows have our lives in their hands."

  9.

  All right, I confess that I decided to help.

  What choice did I have, lacking any contact with our ship or crew, and with no higher authority to appeal to? At least, by assisting Commander-Artificer Nomlin to complete her project, I might try to restrict the finder's programming and scope, so that it would only seek the place that our captors desired, and nothing else. As if that sort of limitation was known to work, very often.

  Anyway, I knew that Nuts would find some way to make my life a living hell, if I didn't distract her with the camaraderies of work. So long as I was contributing to a joint project, she'd overcome her habit of tormenting me, whenever possible. Otherwise, I'd certainly be subjected to a series of imaginative "jokes," from itchy powder to short-sheeting, to skin-whitening. Demmies can be like that, if one takes a fierce dislike to you.

  So we fine-tuned her marvelous, hand-built, makeshift finder, and set it to the task of locating "Obtainia"—a secret enclave where (legend told) the people of this long-suffering planet might find salvation from their curse. Dr. Katske helped, by combing archives for clues. Not only there, in the Golden Palace, but also across the river, in dusty stacks and libraries belonging to the city of Cal'mari, where an underground network of standard-human Squidians struggled to maintain an ancient cause.

  To reclaim the planet for the living.

  (Gradually, I came to appreciate the difficulty of their situation, far more exacting than most other resistance movements. How could they maintain security when, at any moment, a member of their cabal might die—and thus be recruited to the other side? Generation by generation, the standard humanoids had developed devious methods to avoid this mode of failure. Their top recourse was drastic simplicity. Pre-emptive cremation.)

  Twice a day, Katske arrived, clutching documents or other objects from the past, which he presented for the finder apparatus to sniff and peer at, like a hound seeking a scent, while Nuts fine-tuned her calibrations and I struggled to keep the makeshift device focused on the task at hand. Meanwhile, at intervals, I kept my eyes open for any sign of her old uniform. Could they have stashed it on the premises? Might an undamaged tunic-transmitter be able to reach the Clever Gamble? Or Captain Olm? In spare moments, I glanced in closets and cabinets, choked with cobwebs, but they must have taken it elsewhere. Along with any parts that might be used to cobble together an old-fashioned radio. Alas.

  On the third day, something abruptly changed. The finder quivered over the latest sheaf of yellowed papers, then whirled about with an exhilarated clack, aiming several glowing dials and two fingers of a salvaged glove. Toward the southeast. A direction chosen not out of logic or evidence, but rather, the very distilled essence of intuition. A quintessentially Demmie approach to dealing with reality. The technologization of hunch.

  Nuts let out a joyous yelp. Inspector Coalshack grunted with tentative satisfaction. And, for the moment, I agreed, nodding with eagerness to follow those pointing fingers. Anywhere. Anything to get out of that place, away from the constant, thrumming vibrations of a kitschy castle of corruption. Besides, they hadn't even let us out to take in a floor show.

  "We'll leave at once," Katske announced. "All is prepared." He motioned toward a small pile of baggage.

  "It's late in the day," the policeman showed the luminous dial of his watch.

  "All the more reason to hurry, then. Let's go."

  Coalshack threw on his bulky trench coat, from which he could surreptitiously aim the deadly stake-thrower. But when Nuts tried to pick up the finder, she found that Katske had already taken the device out of its cradle, nestling it like an infant in the crook of his arm, under a fold of his dark brown cape. She flared a deep red flush of hurt feelings, then turned to glare at me, for the crime of noticing.

  Hey, is it my fault Demmies can't hide their emotions? Are humans "dispassionate and cool" just because we don't express every impulse or passion? Our Demmie friends pity us for this! But I was a teenager, once. And if you offered to keep me in that condition, for life?

  I'd rather wear a shirt made of Denebian hair moles!

  We departed Katske's hidden lab, passed through the vacant statuary hall, and emerged into the casino's crowded lobby, where I was reminded how popular the Golden Palace must be, among the many castes of Squid City. If anything, the crowds were even thicker this time, forcing us to weave our way, almost by ozmosis, between lycans, and vampires and werewolves. Oh my. Every creeped-out instinct told my nervous body to flee. But staying calm seemed the best policy in this "truce zone"—a special place, where the owners had a monopoly on predation. Draining wallets instead of arteries. Proving, once again, that there are many kinds of "sucker." And that all gambling is in vein.

  We gave way for a dozen haughty draculoids, gliding by in single file. Several sniffed audibly as they passed our little group, evidently picking up the scent of living blood. But only one of them turned to give Nuts a brief, drooling leer.

  Which made me wonder . . . if truce zone rules held so well in one place, why not others? According to those exhibits in the hallway, there had once been hope for some kind of modus vivendi. Some way to co-exist. People of all kinds had tried. Ingenuity and goodwill, versus the suspicion and hate. It must have been a very close-run thing, and tragic as hell.

  As my mind wandered, I collided with an oversized figure, dressed in a fur coat that stank to high heaven. A hand the size of a beer stein grabbed the collar of my native blouse and lifted me . . . high enough to realize that the fur wasn't a garment, after all. And the worst part of the smell came from a mouth, filled with tusks.

  "Watch who you bump into, luncheon meat," growled a voice like gravel in a gearbox. Two pale blue—if bloodshot—eyes blinked at me a couple of times, before registering dim recognition. "Hey! You look familiar, for a small fry."

  "He . . . hello Lorg," I managed to croak.

  A couple more blinks, then a deep chortle. "Aren't you that guy who tried to sing his way out of being dinner?"

  "Yeah . . . well . . . I'm still here. So it worked."

  "Huh! I guess it did, at that! And you survived the corpambulant graveyard, too. Go figure," the wolfman chortled. "Say! I been wondering about that weird noise you made, that night. How'd you do that?"

  "What? You mean when I sneezed?"

  "Har. Some sneeze! Can you do it again?"

  The thought had already occurred to me, with his face just inches from mine. But I passed on the temptation to look around for a sharp light. We human emissaries are taught to use our secret weapons sparingly. Talk is almost always a better substitute.

  "Lorg, this is a truce zone. I think you'd better put me down."

  "Yeah? Well I'm not afraid of you no more. So who'll make me?"

  I glimpsed Inspector Coalshack, returning this way with a grim expression, his hand raising a bulge inside his cloak. I had to settle this quickly. So I lifted a finger in front of Lorg's tusk
y, aromatic face and pointed at one of the many little peepholes and spy lenses, scattered across the ceiling.

  "Management," I said.

  One word can be more effective than twenty. Lorg considered, blinking rapidly, several more times. Then, the hairy lycanthrope let his grip slacken.

  "Oh. Yeah." He looked left and right, nervously. "Guess I'm just irritable. Been constipated, lately." He set me down. "Anyway, watch where you're stomping, standard. You could still find yourself on somebody's menu."

  "Sure thing, Lorg," I answered, straightening my clothes and nodding for Coalshack to hold back. "Till then, try adding fiber to your diet . . . and some mints."

  * * *

  Joining Coalshack, I resumed weaving through the crowd, more carefully. "This way," he said, eyeing me warily. I had been scanning the throng as we proceeded, and he clearly knew that I was considering all options. Clearly, the cop was sharp, as well as strong. I let him guide me through a shrouded entryway, rimmed with soft neon lights, into a dimly-lit bar.

  A small band played onstage. The singer, who looked as if she had been sewn together from scrap parts, crooned a melody whose lyrics seemed to consist of variations on the word "Uhn!" Still, there was something about her performance that made it alluring, instead of nauseating. Since coming down to this planet, I had come to appreciate the harmonies of zombie music. Moldy oldies. They kind of grow on you.

  The others—Nuts and Dr. J Katske—were already seated at a booth, some distance from the stage, across from a pair of scruffy types. One of them was clearly a were-creature of some sort. Not a wolfman. Maybe some lanky variety of Yeti. The other was a standard humanoid, though tough-looking, with a three-day beard and a mean sidearm at his hip. By the time I approached, some kind of deal seemed to have been struck, because Katske pushed forward a bag that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins, Then, he and the man clasped each others' thumbs in the local equivalent of a handshake. Everybody stood.