Buffalito Bundle

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  He shook his head, "There's no need, Mr. Conroy. You've got a male there."

  "How can you tell under all this fur?"

  "Blue tag. Blue for males, red for females."

  "Handy system," I said.

  He glanced at my visa and consulted a schedule. "Your ship doesn't leave until one this morning, so you've got plenty of time to settle in. I'm on duty here till midnight if you need anything. And if I don't see you again, well, you have yourself an enjoyable trip home, Mr. Conroy."

  A few minutes later and I was in my cabin on the good ship Bucephalous. The economy class cabin I had shared with three other travelers on the trip in had been upgraded to the more spacious and private accommodations typically used by couriers, courtesy of Mr. Jensen and the Wada Consortium. It included a separate pen and restraining couch for Reggie as well as special atmospheric controls to ensure his flatulence didn't cause any problems.

  My luggage had been impounded when the authorities closed the Lil Doggie, and apparently released when I was. Jensen had arranged for its transfer and everything was right where it should have been in the cabin. Reggie settled into his pen, bleating happily, and I laid back on my own couch to go over recent events. I was about to be wealthier than I had any right to be, though I was still probably blacklisted from ever performing again. That irked me. I'd just told an Arcon that I wasn't going to remain a courier, I was a hypnotist. Still, at five hundred thousand per doggie it was tempting. But, I asked myself, was it any kind of life for a hypnotist? I held up two images in my mind, courier and hypnotist, comparing and contrasting. An idea bloomed. It was risky, a gamble, but it combined the best of both worlds, if I didn't end up executed.

  I got up from my couch and checked on Reggie. He had curled up on a blanket in his pen and fallen asleep. I slipped into the cabin's tiny bathroom, regarded myself in the mirror. I created a new trigger phrase and started to implement my idea.

  A half hour before midnight I left the Bucephalous and quickly made my way to the nearest registered facility. Barely a block from the space port, this one was even larger than the last I'd visited. It was like a vast buffalo dog warehouse with humans and Arconi scurrying about. I tried not to look nervous, and figured as long as I didn't lie I'd be fine. I presented my papers at the door, confirmed that I was a courier, and was in. Time was short and I wasn't very choosy. There were dozens of smaller pens, with the doggies in each assigned by particular combinations of height, weight, tongue color, and so on. I looked for one that was more or less the same size as Reggie, scooped it up and headed for the an available Arcon on the far side of the pens.

  "You are a courier?" he asked, and I nodded an assent. "This is the buffalo dog you've selected?" Again I nodded. "Fine, let me have it." He wielded his medical scanner with professional boredom, studied the readout and turned back to me. "You've made a fine choice. She's in perfect health. Give me a moment to administer a sterilizing agent and you can take her."

  "A female?" I said, trying my best to look disappointed. "I'm sorry, I wanted a male. It's a Friday, you know, unlucky day for females. I'll just carry this one back."

  The Arcon dismissed me with a shrug, likely having heard far stranger courier superstitions. He didn't spare me a second look as I carried the doggie back toward the pens; there was plenty of other work for him. I made my way past the pens of doggies but didn't stop to replace the female. Instead I walked toward the exit, trying hard to keep my pace natural and unhurried. No one stopped me and I was back out onto the street without incident. I was now a smuggler.

  The trip back to the port was the longest block I'd ever walked. That feeling of being followed returned, and as I rounded the corner I caught a glimpse of two Arconi in my peripheral vision. The trigger phrase leapt to my mind, but it was too early to use it. It was useless until after midnight. Instead I took the red tag out of my pocket and affixed it to the buffalo dog's left ear. According to the tag she was now Carla Espinoza. I entered the space port and detoured into a small pub with an elaborate exhaust system and took a seat at the bar. Most of the clientele were couriers, each with a buffalito tucked under one arm. It was common for couriers to enjoy a drink before boarding the ship home to Earth. Say one thing for the Arcon psychic faculty, it made clearing customs efficient and quick. We'd all be able to get through in under ten minutes. Well, maybe not all of us. It was still a bit before midnight and Sergilo, my fat and friendly Arcon was still on duty and sure to recognize me. I ordered an overpriced beer, put it on the Wada Consortium chip and settled in for a half hour's wait just to be safe. I was on my second beer when four Arconi entered the pub. One of them was Loyoka.

  "Put down the buffalo dog and step away from the bar!"

  There were other couriers in the room and none of them seemed the least bit alarmed. Those at the bar were all setting their doggies down and keeping their hands in plain view as they moved away. I did the same, sliding a bowl of peanuts under Carla Espinoza's woolly beard to keep her happy. This was it. "Spumoni Heimdahl," I whispered to myself. I blinked and almost stumbled. Something had happened, but I wasn't sure what.

  Ignoring the other couriers, Loyoka came for me. "I told you I'd be keeping an eye on you, Mr. Conroy. Is that your buffalo dog?"

  "Yes," I said. His gaze never left mine. "Though technically I suppose it belongs to the Wada Consortium. I'm just the courier."

  "The same Wada Consortium that recently employed a courier found to be a smuggler? Don't you find that a bit of a coincidence, Mr. Conroy?"

  "Not really," I said. "That courier was executed. They needed another one fast and I was available. I don't see anything coincidental about that at all."

  He pushed past me to the bar and picked up the buffalo dog, studying the tag on her ear. She gave a bewildered bleat as he pulled her from her bowl of peanuts.

  "And this is Carla Espinoza?" His eyes narrowed.

  "Yes, she is," I said, giving him a quizzical look.

  "This is the woman you had on stage during your performance last night?"

  I laughed. "No, this is a buffalo dog I selected from one of your registered facilities. I just named her after that woman."

  He grunted then, and thrust the buffalo dog into my arms. "Then let's get you safely through customs, Mr. Conroy, I wouldn't want you to miss your ship." He nodded to the other Arconi who lined up to either side and behind me and together we all marched over to clear customs.

  It was after midnight and the customs officer was a short and attractive Arcon, almost human looking. The name Sergilo came to me as I waited in line, but I couldn't place why. I was fairly certain I'd never met her; not all the Arconi had come to my shows. When it was my turn I presented my courier license.

  She glanced at it, at me, and then at Loyoka and his friends. Loyoka moved to stand next to her, the better to see me. "Mr. Conroy," she said, reading my name from the license, I have just three questions for you. Please respond 'yes' or 'no.' Are you a licensed courier? Did you obtain this buffalo dog in the prescribed and lawful manner? And is this the only buffalo dog you will be transporting?"

  "Yes, I am a licensed courier. Yes, I acquired this doggie appropriately, and yes, this is the only buffalo dog I'm transporting."

  Loyoka stared at me. His face bore a look of surprise and stunned amazement. The customs officer nodded and waved me through, but Loyoka stopped me as I tried to go past, turning me back to him with a hand on my arm.

  "One extra question for you, Mr. Conroy, if you please," he said. His eyes burned into mine. "Are you a smuggler, Mr. Conroy? Yes or no."

  Irritably I pushed his hand away. "You've asked me this before. I am not a smuggler."

  He blinked and then turned to the other Arconi he had brought with him. Three other heads gave slight shakes and Loyoka returned his attention to me. "My apologies, Mr. Conroy, I appear to have misjudged you. Please, no offense intended."

  "Right, you were just doing your job. Fine. Are we finished?"

  "Completely
. Safe travels to you, Mr. Conroy." With that he turned and left, the other three Arconi leaving with him. The customs officer gave me a perplexed look and signaled for the next person in line. I turned, and with Carla Espinoza safely under my arm, boarded the ship.

  I proceeded to my assigned cabin and let myself in. My first impression was that I was in the wrong place. Or perhaps some other courier had mistakenly claimed my cabin. For whatever reason there was already a buffalo dog in the room, secured to a makeshift acceleration couch in a pen. I spun around to leave and saw a hand made sign I'd missed before because it was pinned to the back of the door. SPUMONI HEIMDAHL it read in large thick letters. I blinked, felt a moment's dizziness, and realized I was in the right room after all. I locked the door and moved to reset the cabin's atmospheric controls.

  Many hours later, long after the Bucephalous was on its way back to Earth, one of Gibrahl's registered buffalo dog facilities discovered it was missing a doggie. Reggie and Carla were getting along fine, enthusiastically doing their part to ensure the first litter of buffalo pups born off Gibrahl. To his courier, Reggie was worth five hundred thousand. To a smuggler, plucking an extra buffalito was worth ten million. But I'm a hypnotist, and I was coming away with Earth's first fertile and soon-to-be pregnant buffalo dog. I figured I could set my own price. That's show biz.

  Buffalogenesis

  If you're reading through this collection in order, or have at least read the first story, then what I'm about to tell you will make sense. If not, stop what you're doing right now, and go back and read “Buffalo Dogs.” I'll wait…

  Ready? Okay, so here's the thing. When I wrote that first story, I had no idea I was starting a franchise. I had no intention or expectation that I would ever take up the Amazing Conroy and Reggie again. But, as they say, the author is always the last to know. Years passed, and I wrote several more stories: The next one to get published was “Telepathic Intent,” which takes place about three years after the events in the first story, when Conroy has begun building his corporate empire (having broken the Arconi monopoly on buffalitos) and he and Reggie are off having adventures while making some business deals. Soon after that story appeared a reader contacted me and cried “Foul!” How could Reggie be with Conroy? According to the events described in “Buffalo Dogs,” Conroy should have turned Reggie over to the Wada Consortium and gone off to build his fortune using the pups from his smuggled buffalito, Carla Espinoza. Whoops! This is what happens when you don't pay attention to your own creations. I'd gotten it wrong, wrong, wrong. Here's the moral: when you paint yourself into a corner, always remember you can jump out a window. “Buffalogenesis,” the novelette that follows, was my window.

  One moment I was having a very enjoyable dream involving a gorgeous reference librarian and an inappropriate repayment plan for some late books, and then the girl, the books, and the library itself all faded away, leaving me standing in an abattoir. It was all concrete, bad lighting, and meat hooks. The heavy odor of industrial cleaner hung in the air, but failed to mask the scent of blood that had me on the edge of retching with my first breath.

  “Well, well, well,” said a voice behind me, “if it is not Amazing Conroy. Come home like hypnotist prodigal son.”

  Even if the setting hadn’t clued me in, I would have recognized that voice by the second syllable. Deep and gravelly, with a thick Russian accent, it made me realize that I was dreaming and a rogue telepath had just invaded my unconscious mind. The very person I’d left the planet to avoid had found me already.

  I turned to face him, a giant of a man, big as any Russian bear and twice as mean. Close-set, piggy grey eyes glared down at me from the maniacal face of Gregor Ivanovich Skazhitski, dream tracker and professional enforcer for a Russian black market beef tsar. The butcher’s whites he wore bore innumerable blood stains. Wet flecks of red speckled his face and beard, his hands and arms. It was real only in so much as it reflected his image of himself. The man wasn’t big on subtlety; he planned to slaughter me.

  “Gregor,” I said, “What a surprise! But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble. You could have just sent a card. Or flowers, flowers are always nice.”

  One of Gregor’s ham-like hands clapped me on the shoulder and nearly drove me to my knees. “Conroy, Conroy, do not be so comical. I think I detect nothing amazing about you. Perhaps you are victim of, how do you say? Misnomer? I expect you be amazing. I expect you have my money and buy back shame you have brought my sister.”

  I winced. I’d managed to forget the particulars of why I owed Skazhitski. During my last performance on Earth I’d mistakenly allowed Gregor’s sister to be among my volunteers. I’d been booked into a seedy club in Kansas City, a private, after-hours function for some movers and shakers in town for a cattle industry convention. The teenage girl had snuck into the room, but nonetheless her brother blamed me. After all, I’d pulled her up on stage and hypnotized her.

  Although well within the bounds of decency, some of the antics I’d put her through had not set well with her devoted and protective sibling. Gregor had accompanied a Russian beef syndicate leader, and earlier in the day quite literally ripped off the arms of the opposition during an “accident” and “misunderstanding.” The local authorities had been bought off, but it wouldn’t do for Gregor to maim someone else so soon, especially for a personal matter. Instead, he had visited my dressing room after the show and offered to let me buy back the insult to his sister. I’d agreed. It seemed better than the alternative. Gregor had named a huge sum, but I didn’t have anything approaching that kind of money. He took what cash I had and my marker for the rest, tacking on interest at a rate that redefined usury. Self-preservation being the better part of valor, I skipped town, skipped Earth, skipped the solar system.

  “I learn you are courier now, Conroy. It is buffalo dog work that brings you back. I learn this two hours ago when your ship land and its passenger list go online. I drop my other work. I take leave of absence so that I may come see you personally.”

  “How is work? Still in the enforcer business?”

  “I am still deciding which part I like best, hunting a man down in his dreams, or hurting him while he is awake. It is good that I get to do both.”

  “So rare to find someone who enjoys his work,” I said. “Speaking of work, I probably ought to be waking up about now. I have to turn over that buffalo dog you mentioned.”

  “Yes, is why I am visiting you. Surely you planned to contact me and repay debt you owe for insulting my sister.”

  Acutely aware of my arms and how pleasantly they remained connected to my torso, I nodded. “I should have half a million credits this morning,” I said. “More than enough to cover what I owe.”

  Gregor’s face broke out into a huge grin showing rows of perfect teeth that were surely the pride of Russian orthodonture. “Conroy, Conroy, always you are making with funny ha ha. That is not enough money for debt.”

  “What? Half a million more than covers the original marker.”

  “Da, but the interest I am charging you, it compounds daily. Plus, my sister fills with distress when she learns you leave planet without repaying insult to her honor. To ease her remorse I add punitive charges, malfeasance charges, liability charges. Then when you do not return for more than year, I add interest charges on other charges. They compound too.”

  “Your sister’s honor has compounded interest? Okay, how much are you saying I owe?”

  “Two million four hundred thousand nine hundred eighteen credits,” said Gregor. “You promised to pay for insult to my sister. But then you run. I give you last chance to honor your word.”

  “That’s crazy, I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “If you do not honor your word, I make you pay in other way. And do not think you can go missing again. I will find you when you sleep. I will catch you in your dreams.”

  I know a thing or two about the human mind. I looked around the slaughterhouse and thought about other nightmarish scenar
ios he could conjure and keep me in, and quickly put the thought out of my mind. “I’ll get you your money, Gregor. But I’m going to need more time.”

  “See, now you are amazing. I have every confidence you will figure it all out quickly like genius man.”

  Gregor stepped even closer to me, one hand still clamped to my shoulder. “Genius man, eh? Okay, Amazing Conroy, I will give you till noon tomorrow to find money you owe me. Maybe you can convince bosses you are now working for to give special bonus, or advance for next several jobs. I do not care. You buy back insult in one day, or I will track you down. I will avenge the dishonor you did my sister, Mister Amazing Conroy. I will pluck your arms off like butterfly wings. I will butcher you like calf and leave meat for crows and wolves and other creatures who will grow fat eating meat of man who breaks his word. Bye bye.”

  Gregor released me, pivoted around on one foot and began walking away. I called after him.

  “If, I mean, when I get the money, how will I find you?”

  “Do not worry of finding me. In one day, I find you. As soon as you go to sleep, I find you. Bye bye.”

  And just that simply the dream ended and I was lying in bed, chilled to my bones with a buffalo dog licking my face.

  I’m not really a buffalo dog courier. Prior to this trip I’d been making my living, such as it was, as the Amazing Conroy, stage hypnotist. I’ve never been an animal lover. It’s hard to make a fast exit from a seedy spaceport lounge when you’re dragging some leashed beast, ten kilos of kibble, and assorted squeak toys. Yet here I was, sprawled on a couch in a luxury cabin feeding treats to an alien critter. Oh, I’ll admit he was cute. Picture a bison from the North American plains, scale it down to the size of a breadbox, give it the kind of large, soulful, liquid eyes that you find on those velvet paintings hanging in your better art museums and you’re pretty close. The particular fellow on my chest I’d named Reggie, and I was being paid five hundred thousand credits as a courier to deliver him into the care of some suit from the Wada Consortium.