Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J F Bone

  Hector Marks was perfectly content to let me depart, but Copenhaver ran after me for twenty or thirty meters.

  I suppose she wanted to dissuade me from eating the female, but I didn’t give her a chance. I left her pointing a primary digit at me and saying something to Hector Marks.

  George Banks was distant to me for several days thereafter, but eventually he called me into his office. I suppose Copenhaver had exhorted him to have nothing to do with me, but he had no other confidante, and his nervous system was in poor shape from being whipsawed by his constant struggle between instinct and training.

  “I would appreciate it, Xar,” he said, “if you wouldn’t stalk females where Miss Copenhaver can see you. You upset her rather badly.”

  “I am sorry, but one must get one’s meat where he finds it.”

  “I know but she doesn’t,” Banks said. “Another thing; don’t activate your aura so powerfully. Miss Copenhaver complained that she was forced to follow you almost thirty meters before she could break away. It frightened her.”

  “So I’m to starve and emasculate myself for this woman?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he protested. I noticed that his voice was as ragged as his appearance. He was positively haggard. Sex was harassing him to the point of irrationality. He had become protective. My hearts ached for him.

  “I think I might be able to solve your problem,” I said. “Could you arrange to bring yourself and Copenhaver to my lodgment tonight at 1900 hours?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Tell her I wish to apologize. Tell her a lodgment is interesting. Tell her there will be interesting pictures. Tell her to bring a camera. Lie to her if necessary, but bring her.”

  “What have you in mind?”

  “You’ll have to trust me, but I have your interest at heart.”

  “That’s not reassuring,” Banks said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  He did rather well because at 1900 hours the gate guard admitted Banks and Copenhaver. The closed video circuit showed them plainly as they moved through the intricacies of my lodgment toward my quarters under the central dome.

  “It’s interesting,” Copenhaver said as she looked about, “but I don’t know why I came with you.”

  “Possibly because I asked you.”

  “I don’t trust you. Your kind is only after one thing.”

  “Sure—we all are. Us men are violent, sexy, persistent and impatient.”

  Copenhaver snorted. “Don’t pretend you’re not You couldn’t be anything else. You’re the product of video training, a member of a sex culture.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I was born and raised on an asteroid, taught by robots, and I never saw a man except my father until I was fifteen.”

  “You certainly had a deprived childhood and adolescence.”

  “I’m waiting for the right man.”

  Banks sighed. “Why don’t you return to Earth and wait there?”

  “Frankly, George, I like to watch you squirm. You made me feel bad about Alcinaria, and I haven’t forgotten it.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “So I’ll make you suffer now. It makes up for some of the rotten nights you gave me.” There was a cold vicious note in her voice that made my mandibles quiver and my chelae close convulsively. Suddenly I was more than Bank’s friend. I was his ally. Such a thing shouldn’t happen to a functional male, and if I had any power I would use it to bring decency and honor back to the human race. This sort of thing simply couldn’t be allowed to persist.

  I watched as they moved closer. “This place is impressive,” she said. “Except for the insect odor, it reminds me of a Turkish mosque.”

  “It’s about the same age and it has domes,” Banks replied. “But that’s about as far as the resemblance goes. You’ve never been inside a mosque, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this isn’t a church; it’s a house. Several hundred generations have lived here.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now stop talking. We’re coming to Qot’s rooms and females in the master’s quarters are seen and not heard.”

  “I won’t—”

  “You’ll do as I tell you. This is Mallia, not Earth. Now shut up!”

  Copenhaver was silent. I applauded mentally as I opened the curtains of my divan and greeted Banks ceremonially before I made the dinner announcement.

  “I have had a fat neuter roasted,” I said, “since you prefer your meat cooked. Eat and be welcome.”

  “Do I have to?” Copenhaver whispered to Banks.

  “It would be an unforgivable insult to Xar Qot and to the memory of the neuter if you did not,” Banks murmured.

  “You will find the meat delicious,” I said. “I am sure you will enjoy it. Earthmen tell me that it is like lobster, which I believe is a delicacy.”

  “Lobster gives me indigestion and nightmares,” she said.

  “Neuters are very digestible,” I replied. “I speak from a lifetime of experience.” I signalled the kitchen and immediately the household workers appeared with the neuter. He was lying on a huge silver dish, well browned, garnished with parsley and with an eddal in his mandibles. I had to admit that he looked every bit as tasty roasted as raw. The delicate odor from his steaming carcass tickled the hair cells on my trabeculae. My mandibles clashed in the eating reflex as I tore off a steaming foreleg and laid it before Copenhaver.

  “Eat!” I said.

  “I’ll try,” she replied. I could see her throat working. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t eat too much?”

  “Enough is as good as a feast,” I said.

  Copenhaver shuddered.

  “Now, Xar, why have you asked us here?” Banks asked some time later. He pushed the empty shells aside and leaned back with a satisfied expression on his face. It pleased me that he had enjoyed the neuter, nor did it surprise me that Copenhaver was still eating. Females can be gluttonous.

  “Your companion is not done,” I said. “It would be impolite to interrupt.”

  “I’m finished,” Copenhaver said with a sigh. “I couldn’t eat another bite.” Her voice was softer than usual. “Hector was wrong,” she said. “Your people don’t eat each other because they must. They do it because they enjoy it. That leg was delicious.”

  “Thank you. The neuter’s spirit will be grateful,” I said.

  “Why—you do have a faith!” she exclaimed.

  “I think your main problem is diet,” I said. “You should eat more. Happiness and understanding now radiate from you.”

  “I’m stupefied with food,” she said.

  “To business,” I said. “I asked you here to demonstrate to Copenhaver the thing that gives the male power in our society. If she is to know my race, she must know our physiology. Remember our female to male ratio is seven to one. Males are always outnumbered, yet the males rule. No male could possibly withstand a concerted female attack, yet we are never attacked. Males tend to be solitary and females gregarious, yet they never combine against us. Females have important places in society, industry and government, yet the supreme power is in the hands of males. You might well ask why—”

  “Why?” Copenhaver asked.

  “It is glandular. Males possess two pair of aural glands located near the base of our first and second pair of limbs. When stimulated by strong emotions these secrete a potent aerosol that first stimulates curiosity in the female and then depresses motor activity and excitability.”

  “So that’s why I ran after you. You were angry.” Copenhaver said.

  Banks smiled but his eyes were worried.

  “Observe,” I said as I touched a button on my dais console. A door in the far wall opened and a female darted into the room. Her movements were quick but indecisive. She chittered, clashed her mandibles and raced around the periphery of the room skillfully dodging the bric-a-brac and objects d’art set along the walls. “She is frightened,” I said unnecessarily.
“Now watch. I shall stimulate my aura.”

  It was no problem to become angry. I thought of Copenhaver’s tone of voice just before she entered this room. My carapace turned jade green. The female slowed, stopped and approached me. Her movements were no longer frantic.

  “She feels that she must placate me,” I said.

  “I understand,” Copenhaver said softly. “It doesn’t pay to make a man too mad.” She flexed her torso lazily and turned to face Banks.

  I gestured at her. “Observe,” I said to Banks. “Is she not different? I thought my aura would have an effect. It used to irritate Mallory ap Banks, and it was possible that it would affect a human female. I understand there are scents human females use to attract males.”

  “Perfumes,” Banks said absently, never removing his gaze from Copenhaver. “But they don’t work like this. You could say that’s about the sense of it.”

  “Probably,” I replied. The truly nauseous nature of Banks’ statement didn’t occur to me until later, and his face remained blank; so I had no idea what he had done.

  “Is the effect permanent?” he asked.

  “Not in my race. I cannot say about yours, yet I would guess that it probably won’t last more than twenty hours.”

  “Who cares,” Banks said.

  I rose. “You may use my divan,” I said as I herded the female out the door through which she entered. “It is the best cocoon silk over urethane foam.”

  “Um,” Banks said.

  Copenhaver’s mouth was half open, her eyes were half closed. She gave an impression of uncoordinated purpose. The effect on Banks was salutary. And then it struck me—“the sense of it”—“the scents of IT!” I grated my mandibles and departed quietly before I could do him bodily harm. To pun on my brilliant coup was the epitome of gaucherie. But before I left, I discharged the aura my disgust produced upon his bent head. He deserved it. It was only just that his words bring IT down upon him.

  I met Banks in his office the next morning. He was relaxed and at peace with the world. He looked at me with that peculiar expression which marks the zenith of masculine friendship. “Thanks, Qot,” he said.

  I felt honored. Few Mallians have ever been thanked by humans. But I wanted more than honor. “Did the effect last?” I inquired.

  “Until I got her home,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s still working or not.”

  “Will this affect your career?”

  He grinned. “No. Our laws have provisions about consenting adults.”

  I was about to reply when Copenhaver burst into the office. Her hair was uncombed, her clothing in disarray and her face was furious. In her hand she held one of the small but efficient energy weapons humans are so adept at making. “George, you swine!” she said in glacial tones. “I am going to kill you, and afterwards I’m going to kill your slimy cohort Qot.” Somehow she managed to make my name sound obscene.

  “Why kill me for doing what you wanted me to do?” Banks asked.

  “If you can’t answer that, you’re too stupid to live,” she said. Her voice was shrill and rasped unpleasantly on my hair cells. I felt the ancestral terror of a maddened female rise within me. I had no desire to be roasted by that frightful little weapon. Involuntarily my nervous system mobilized my defenses. Copenhaver was enveloped in a cloud of aura.

  The effect was instantaneous. She dropped the weapon. “Darling,” she said. “Sweetheart. Beloved.” She sighed and snuggled against Banks. Her eyes were wide and bright, her lips pursed and moist. I couldn’t help thinking that Copenhaver had walked right into IT. I chirred in disgust. I was behaving like a human.

  “I was counting on you Qot.” Banks said. “You came through beautifully. I figured she’d scare you blue.”

  “Green,” I said. “The reaction is similar to anger. And if this is going to be a regular affair, I’d better make you an aerosol dispenser for self protection.” I bent and picked up the energy weapon. Banks would be safer with it gone.

  “Go ahead,” Banks murmured. But his attention was elsewhere. I doubt if he heard me. He was deeply involved in requited love.

  I realize that in a good story an epilogue is redundant, but I am a bad raconteur and have left some loose ends. It is appropriate, I think, to mention that Shirley Copenhaver never again attacked George Banks and in due time they legalized their relationship into that peculiar state humans call marriage. Copenhaver ultimately produced the allowable maximum of three offspring and is very happy. George Banks ap Copenhaver returned to Earth where he became very rich and by virtue of Copenhaver’s power of attorney became the hereditary senator from General Dynamics.

  This latter event stemmed from the Emasculate Revolution on Earth which was principally my fault, although Banks received most of the credit. After Banks became rational about Copenhaver we discussed market possibilities of Mallian aura. We built a pilot plant with ICC funds and arranged distribution through Interworld Industries. Since Mallians are excellent biochemists, it was no trouble to synthesize several metric tons of essence which was shipped to Earth in bulk and packed there into suitable aerosol containers.

  Banks insisted that we call the product IT, for reasons which I could appreciate but not approve. However, humans enjoy puns, and the name would carry a great deal of free advertising from graffiti and indecent jokes. The product was an instantaneous success, which argued a need for IT. Even today when IT is illegal except for medical purposes, there is a thriving black market among husbands, lovers and politicians who lose their sex appeal through age or infirmity.

  IT had some consequences which I failed to foresee, and if Banks foresaw them, he failed to inform me. IT was the catalyst that overthrew the Matriarchy and replaced it with the Republic—a male dominant government that moved quickly to entrench itself. Whether this was a good thing is a moot question. Insofar as Mallia was concerned, it was a mixed blessing, although we get along with the male bureaucrats well enough. Naturally, once the revolution was successful the new power structure banned the sale of IT on Earth upon the specious grounds that IT corrupted public morals!

  As for myself, I became extremely wealthy; and wealth, of course, was my springboard to the power I desired. Through judicious bribery and subornation of the electorate I was elected to the Council of Mallia, and after a series of combats and assassinations, in which Copenhaver’s little energy weapon played its part, I became chairman of the Policy committee, and eventually Grand Chairman of the Council. I rather like the job, although ambitious youngsters occasionally try to take it from me.

  There is one sad note. Hector Marks, while recording the vernal activities at Solla Complex was set upon by a gaggle of females and eaten. Investigation proved it to be his own fault. His manuscript, Eat and Grow Great, would have seriously damaged our society had it been published. Its thesis was that we were gourmet’s delights which is true enough. The manuscript, however, is my prized possession and it will perish with me. Marks had, cleverly enough, deduced the existence of IT, and had obtained a supply from Banks to protect him from Mallians, whom he never really trusted. He used the essence effectively during the winter but had foolishly continued wearing it during the vernal equinox. He never realized that effloration inhibits the males’ ability to secrete aura for a very good reason. At this time it is a violent stimulant to the sexually aroused females. In consequence, the aerosol literally made Hector good enough to eat. And that, as Banks once nauseously remarked, is about the scents of IT.

  1976

  TECHNICALITIES

  It was an open-and-shut ease of murder . . . or was it? And if it wasn’t, then it wasn’t simply because of certain legal technicalities. But what they implied was incredible, those—

  IN THE POLITE JARGON of psychiatry, Barry Simmonds was a congenital psychopathic inferior with homicidal tendencies. To his peers he was a kill-crazy kook. Either definition was correct. That he had only once teen brought to trial was more accident than design, since the law strives with commendable sincer
ity to find and remove from society such people as Barry, Whether Simmonds had committed more murders than the one for which he was being tried was a moot question and one which was presently unanswerable. People are always disappearing. How many are killed is an unknown statistic, and Barry, unlike most psychopathic killers, was not admitting anything.

  Of course, admission was unnecessary, for if a killer was ever caught red-handed, Barry was the man. He’d had the incredible misfortune to shoot his victim almost under the nose of a deputy sheriff. He was arrested while the blood of the victim was still flowing. His right hand held gun powder traces, and the three holes in the victim were made with bullets from the gun found on the floor of Barry’s car. Fortunately, the deputy sheriff was a smart man. He didn’t listen to Barry’s explanation, but read Simmonds his rights and hauled him off to the pokey, like most intelligent officers, he knew that juries and judges were touchy about the rights of the accused and smart cops didn’t bother with confessions nowadays. That was a legal beagle’s job.

  Trial was held in Superior Court of Pierce County in Tacoma, Washington about a month later. Adam Farnsworth, the District Attorney, was handling the state’s case and Samuel Levenson was attorney for the defense. And that was what made this cut-and-dried homicide something special. For Levenson the Legend was the sort of trial lawyer from which folk epics were made. Like Reynard the fox, Levenson had an awesome reputation for cleverness. In his dozen years as a trial lawyer, Levenson had lost no cases involving clients accused of murder. Of course, Levenson had picked his cases in recent years, but there was a certain mystique that surrounded him, like the ones that had surrounded Clarence Darrow and Sam Liebowitz.

  Betting was two to one that Levenson had picked a loser this time, and the world, to whom the contest meant more than either the crime or justice, waited eagerly for the forensic fireworks to start. While most, people agreed that the best thing to do would be to put Simmonds away for the remainder of his unnatural life, certain formalities had to be observed. The coroner’s inquest reported death as the result of gunshot wounds. Simmonds was indicted on a true bill by the grand jury. He was formally charged with first degree murder by the District Attorney. Levenson appeared from nowhere and was accepted by Simmonds as counsel. After all, not even a kook like Simmonds had failed to learn of Levenson. A jury was rapidly empanelled, and now in Superior Court Number Three, County of Pierce, State of Washington, the state and the defense were meeting in a showdown battle that sent repercussions through the media as far as Moscow, where Pravdti took note of the trial and reported on the insanities of the imperialistic capitalistic bourgeois legal system as compared with the swift and errorless justice of the Marxist-Deoinist world.