by M. D. Cooper
Poor Pushever.
I never thought I’d hear myself say those words.
Anyway, Ramaswamy was later heard enthusiastically asking Kirsty about her hobby of sewing stuffed toys, so I do not think she will be lonely for long.
**Voice of Ramaswamy** “Damn skippy.”
Ramaswamy, could you refrain from injecting comments if you don’t mind. Allow me to at least preserve the illusion of solitary communion with my voice recorder.
**Voice of Ramaswamy** “And as for ‘poor Pushever,’ what about poor us? Those bastards will be through the walls before you can say Wot.”
I hope he is not right.
Oh God. That one was loud.
DAY 108
Finally, finally, finally! The ship is here. It frightened off the Wots before it even set down, as the thunder of its descent resounded through the murky skies. By the time it plonked itself outside Camp Squalor, no sign remained of their presence but the BRCM.
The boys from the mining outpost kicked wonderingly at the refuse-crusted rampart.
“It is art,” Pushever told them, boastful to the end.
“I’ve seen guys get fired for less,” said the pilot. “But I guess that don’t apply to tenured professors.”
Pushever smiled mysteriously.
The truth is that I prevailed on him to keep quiet about the Wots. They are uninteresting, food-obsessed menaces. The best place for them is obscurity. Long may they remain on the shores of their methane lakes, subsisting on their deadly dull diet of hydrocarbons. One day they may be re-discovered, but no one will be able to blame us.
The last couple of weeks have been a nightmare, though. We had to keep two sentries on the roof around the clock. Two more of us, meanwhile, would run round and round the hab, keeping the Wots away from the walls. I now know what it is to live on the edge of extinction.
Pushever refused to join in our self-preservation efforts. While we were busy trying to stay alive, he fed all his notes to the Wots, and deleted all his photographs and data.
**Voice of Ramaswamy** “How did you make him do that, Ben?”
I quoted poetry at him until he begged for mercy.
**Voice of Ramaswamy** “Come on.”
Oh, all right. I threatened to expose his hoax with the urine in my sample canister. It would ruin his reputation if that got out, wouldn’t it? He still denies it, but I have the photographic record and DNA evidence.
**Voice of Ramaswamy** “Ha ha ha, hee hee, hoo hoo hoo” etc.
Go on and get packed, Rammy. I just have a few things to do here.
Later
Aboard the ship. We’re lifting off in a minute … three, two, one, up we go! What an absolute joy to think I will never have to come back here. I never wish to lay eyes again on these murky, drizzling skies, the barren rockscape, or the black depths of Lake Eerie. All the same I’m glad I’ve got a window seat. Any minute …
There she goes!
**Voice of Kepler** “Holy fuck! Camp Cozyhome just blew up!”
(No, it is not really called Camp Squalor. American grade-schoolers do not know words like that. Camp Squalor was just my private name for it, for obvious reasons.)
It has never looked more beautiful than it does now, fountaining up in fiery fragments that flicker out and turn black before raining back to the ground around the cold lab and the BRCM.
**Voice of Kepler** “Fess up, Ben. How did you do it?”
What do you mean I did it?
**Voice of Kepler** “You were the last one out. Go on. You were about to tell your diary, anyway.”
My …
**Voice of Kepler** “Oh, Rammy told everyone about that.”
The bloody backstabber. Oh well. All right, Kepler, but you mustn’t tell anyone. You see, there were a few Wots hiding in the cold lab. Before I left, I let them into Camp Squ … Cozyhome. I … hee hee hee … They died with full bellies, anyway.
**Voice of Kepler** “But why did the hab blow up?”
Hee hee … ah. Sorry. Liquid methane is the solvent for their life processes, like water is for humans. As soon they entered the hab, which is obviously far warmer than their natural habitat, they began to sweat methane. Their sweat would have evaporated until the air was 5% methane vapor. Then it detonated. Isn’t that a beautiful sight?
Actually, we cannot see it anymore. The ship is tearing out through the upper reaches of the atmosphere. But now I can return to my undergraduates without regrets, secure in the knowledge that given the cost of building outer system outposts, no one will be coming back here for a long, long time.
**Voice of Kepler** “Great. You covered our tracks. Now can you stop muttering into that thing and fucking listen to me for once?!?!”
Much, Much Later
Well, it feels as if it is much, much later. In reality, we are not even halfway to the mining outpost yet.
Everyone else is asleep.
Ramaswamy and Kirsty are snuggled up together, the armrest between their seats folded away.
Zoya is sleeping off the indigestion caused by eating too many yogurts.
Hiroto and Pushever snore side by side, looking remarkably similar, despite the one being Japanese and the other a goateed llama. One is young and one elderly, that’s the only difference. Well, when a Pushever has shot his bolt, another one arises to take his place. So it is and so it will ever be in academia, But that is naught to me as I shan’t be going back to my university anyway.
I cannot publish my paper about convection in the methane lakes of Titan. The chain of evidence leads inevitably to the Wots. So, goodbye a potential 5% raise, a better desk, and possibly a few speaking invitations.
I do not care.
Kepler is sleeping with her head on my lap.
How did this happen?
It is still a happy jumble in my mind but I will try to recreate the conversation as best I can.
She accused me of never listening to her, and when I asked what she had to say, she stated that I was a complete hypocrite.
Stunned, I said, “Why do you say that?”
“You pretend to be this total neat freak, always complaining about other people being messy. How hypocritical can you get?? You just blew up Camp Cozyhome! That’s messier than anything I’ve ever done in my life!”
“Maybe … maybe …” It was difficult for me to see myself as she saw me. “Maybe you’re right. Partly.”
“I am completely right. So just quit blaming me, OK? I’ve had enough of it!”
I was so horrified by her misapprehension that I clutched her hands without thinking. “Kepler, I do not blame you for anything. Well, maybe I did a long time ago. But I was wrong.” I hesitated, steeling myself to make another difficult admission. “The truth is I like your messiness.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It made life exciting. When Pushever started tidying up, everything got tedious and flat.”
“It did. I thought it was just me.”
“Me, too. So please continue to spread chaos wherever you go. I will be cheering you on from … from retirement.” I did not want to burden her with my conclusion that I would have to quit the university before they fired me for wasting my time on Titan.
“You’re retiring?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go into partnership! Ben, it’ll be fantastic! You’re just what the sponsors are looking for!” She sketched a vision with her hands. “Slightly balding, a little overweight, daffy little moustache—you’re the perfect everyday guy. See, the viewers want to identify with the adventurer. I’m a bit too attractive to get top ratings, to be honest.”
“I can certainly understand that,” I said, gazing at her freckles. “But Kepler, I … I am not cut out for adventures.”
“Are you joking? We just had one!”
The truth of it dawned on me with the suddenness of a Wot jumping out of a lake. She was right, again. We have had the most unusual adventure.
So it is decided. Well, Kepler
decided it. We will be going into business together and making oodles of money as adventurers. To celebrate our new partnership, she kissed me on the lips.
Several times.
I don’t actually care about the money. I just hope she keeps on doing that.
Now she is sleeping across my lap. The warm weight of her head, and the trickle of drool escaping from the corner of her mouth, have inspired me to compose my first poem in months.
Titan!
Bleak hellscape jewelled with hydrocarbon puddles
Land of drizzling rain
And excruciating tedium!
‘Tis true, I made an explosive discovery here
But no one will ever know Wot.
THE END
— — —
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The Last Bounty
by Barry J. Hutchison
How far would you go to save your arch-nemesis?
Once the baddest bounty hunter in the galaxy, all Konto Oon wants these days is a quiet family life with the woman he loves, and the respect of Deenia, the seven-year-old step-daughter who hates his guts. But when Deenia and her friends are taken hostage on a school trip, Konto must employ all his old skills to mount a death-defying rescue mission.
With a terrorist-filled space station between him and the hostages, and an infuriatingly upbeat boy from Deenia’s class for company, Konto's talents will be stretched to their limit as he goes after the most important bounty of his life - his daughter.
Can Konto defeat the terrorists, save the children, and earn the peaceful future he craves? Or is his violent past about to catch up with him, once and for all?
CHAPTER ONE
It was three hours before the kids were taken, and Konto Garr was not having the best of mornings.
“Remind me why you can’t do this again?” he asked, checking his reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. It had been years since he’d been off-planet, and he wanted to look … well, not his best, but good enough.
That annoyed him. He’d never seen himself as that guy—the guy who cared what people thought of him. But then, this was the first time he would be representing the family, as his wife had gone to great lengths to point out, and so he was feeling the pressure to put in the effort.
“Because I have to work,” said Maris, playfully shouldering him aside so she could claim her share of mirror space. She had to stand on tiptoes to see herself clearly. Konto, on the other hand, had to duck.
“So did I!” Konto protested.
“Yes, but I’ve got patients to see,” Maris pointed out, as tactfully as possible. “You’ve got …”
“Garbage to haul,” said Konto. He exhaled. “Fine. OK. You win.”
He glanced towards the kitchen door. The blue glow of the buzz-shield radiated into the hallway. The Snorkflies had been bad this season. One of the guys at work had lost the better part of his left arm to a cluster. Fortunately, he never really did anything, anyway, so the workload for the rest of them remained more or less the same.
“But, I mean, she doesn’t even like me.”
Maris glanced at him in the mirror, then decided the statement deserved a full stop-and-turn. “Are you crazy?” Maris said. “She adores you.”
“She told me I have breath like a Shizzfarmer’s breakfast,” Konto said.
Maris smiled. “She was being playful.”
“And that she hopes I die in a fire.”
Maris’s smile vanished. “She said that? Seriously? Deenia!”
“No, don’t,” whispered Konto. “You’ll make it worse.”
Maris shook her head. “She isn’t getting away with that. Deenia!”
The flickering blue of the buzz-shield snapped off. A girl, aged seven, wearing nothing but a scowl and a My Little Parnac onesie shuffled out of the kitchen. “What?”
“Did you tell your father you hoped he died in a fire?”
“No,” said Deenia. She tossed a glare in Konto’s direction. “I told him. He’s not my father.”
Maris’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed dangerously. “Apologize, young lady. Right now.”
“Seriously, Maris, it’s fine,” said Konto. “People have said worse.”
“Not the point,” Maris snapped, sounding almost as angry with Konto as she was with her daughter. “You work hard—”
“He hauls garbage.”
“You work hard to help provide for this family.” Maris glared at her daughter. “He has taken the day off today so he can go with you on your school trip.”
“He’s coming?!” Deenia yelped. “What? Why?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she bunched her hands into fists, stamped her foot, and marched back to the kitchen. “Why don’t you just ruin my life, while you’re at it?”
The blue glow of the buzz-shield returned. Konto smiled weakly at his wife. “No, you’re right,” he said. “I think I might be growing on her.”
* * *
It was two hours before the kids were taken, and things had not improved.
“You don’t mind if Larry sits next to you, right Konto?”
Nobosh Tar, property magnate, father of Larry, and all-round rich jerk, smiled insincerely from the seat directly facing Konto, as the shuttlecraft rocked and shuddered its way through the atmosphere.
“It’s just, he’s a puker, and … well, I don’t do well with puke. It’s the smell. And, you know, the sight and the sound, obviously, but mostly it’s the smell. Can’t stand it. Figured you’d be better equipped to deal.” His insincere smile became even more so. “How is the garbage business, by the way?”
“Steady,” said Konto, raising his voice a little to be heard over the excited chatter of the twenty-five children all strapped into the threadbare seats of the shuttle. Deenia had taken the furthest seat away from him as possible. Any further, and she’d have been flying the ship.
Miss Tresno, the class teacher, sat at the back of the shuttle’s passenger bay, where she could keep an eye on everyone at once. Having eight eyes made the job that bit easier, in much the same way her four arms likely helped when it came to rounding the rowdier ones up. She was the first off-worlder to teach at the school and, by all accounts, the kids loved her. At least, they did once they’d stopped screaming.
The other parent helper—a woman Konto had seen at the school gates a few times, but never spoken to—sat at the front, reading a magazine with a level of concentration more suited to bomb disposal. It was the perfect force-field with which to block out all social interaction, and Konto was annoyed at himself for not thinking of it.
Nobosh nodded. “Well, there’ll always be garbage, I guess. Although, I’ll be honest, I always thought we had mechs for that sort of thing.”
Konto felt himself blush, just slightly, but pushed it away through sheer force of will. There was no way he’d left someone like Nobosh Tar embarrass him. “Mechs don’t do organics. We deal with those. Mechs do the recycling.”
Nobosh’s smile became a full-blown grin. “Well, great. Good for you. Then you should cope with Larry just fine.”
Konto looked down at the seat beside him, to find a wide-eyed boy gazing up at him. He had copper-colored hair, rosy red cheeks and—wow—was he fat. That probably wasn’t the ‘correct’ terminology, Konto knew, but the kid could definitely stand to lose a few pounds. Maybe a few dozen.
“Hey,” said Konto. He nodded curtly.
“Hey,” said Larry, then he opened his mouth and a cascade of colorful vomit splattered across Konto’s boots.
“Seriously, Larry, already?” sighed Nobosh. He reached into the locker above him and pulled out a half-used roll of paper towels. “Here, Konto,” he said, tossi
ng the roll across the gap. “You might want to clean that up.”
* * *
It was one hour before the kids were taken, and Konto’s patience was wearing thin.
“In pairs. Two by two. Stay in line.”
Miss Tresno led the line, with the parent helpers spread out along it—Nobosh, magazine woman, then Konto at the back. Larry shuffled along just ahead of him, the only kid walking solo on account of the stench of vomit that hung around him like a toxic cloud. Eight times. He’d blown chunks eight times in forty minutes, each time—somehow—more spectacular than the last.
By the sixth or seventh time, Konto had expected the kid to start heaving up organs, but nope, the barf just kept coming. He did look dangerously close to popping out an eye during his last bout of violent retching, but his stomach seemed to be a bottomless pit of puke-fodder. The gift that kept on giving.
Deenia was near the front, somewhere between Miss Tresno and Nobosh. She was walking with … Juto? Juta? One of her friends, anyway.
He’d glanced at her during one of Larry’s vomit episodes and spotted a fleeting look of something like sympathy on her face, but it twisted into a sneer when she realized he’d spotted her, and she hadn’t looked at him again since.
Still, it was something.
The landing deck was strange, but familiar. He couldn’t remember ever visiting this particular station before, but he’d been on hundreds like it. It was an old converted mining station from back in the day. People like Nobosh—or people like the ones Nobosh desperately aspired to be—had bought them all for a handful of credits and turned them into shopping and entertainment centers. He’d never been a fan, but his job—his old job—had made them a necessary evil.
Still, that was a lifetime ago. Before Maris. Everything had changed then, and his old life was a relic of the past.
And yet, the barely noticeable humming of the deck below his feet brought him dangerously close to smiling.
And old woman stepped into his path, a bag slung across her shoulder. She was small, with wrinkled yellow skin like parchment paper. Unlikely to be dangerous, but that was the problem with old women—you could never tell. There was something troubling about this one, though, that he couldn’t quite place.