"What about her home planet? Exactly what kind of gods-forsaken place is it?"
"You don't want to know," the guard rolled his eyes as he spoke. The temperature there rarely exceeds eighty degrees Fahrenheit-brrrr! The water in their ocean is excrement-blue, as are the skies. They eat nuts harvested from huge plants called trees and something called fruit that grows, if you can believe the wild tales on the net, wrapped in a skin the color of our eyes."
"No meat? No insects? How can I live in such a place? If I don't freeze to death, I'll starve," Smafi whined. "Why'd the Emperor ever agree to such a pact with her leaders?"
"Who knows? My job is to throw you in the wormhole. Or throw you to that thing. I don't care which. Though I have to admit a certain curiousity about-"
"It's cruel and unusual punishment, that's what it is. Call for my uncle, the Duke! I know if he sees this," he jerked his thumb toward the female, "he'll do something to help me."
"It's too late for that. Your uncle's already spent a fortune in bribes and you've exhausted all your legal appeals. Make up your mind and be quick about it. I can't go home until I have observed you perform at least once just to make certain it's physically possible for you to mate with it-uh, her."
"Assuming I can, then what happens to me?"
"After spending a night of ecstasy with her here in this room, at the second dawning tomorrow, the two of you will be transported to her ship for the journey to her home planet. That's assuming you're able to satisfy her."
"What if I fail? Not that I would, of course."
"Then, it's down the wormhole, or is that up the wormhole? Who knows?"
The creature stirred. Smafi stared at it in disgust as it reached its thin, smooth, upper limbs out to him while its glistening, pink mouth seemed to grow across its face, revealing white, pebble-like teeth."
"I do believe she's inviting you to do your duty," the guard observed.
"No!" Smafi exclaimed, recoiling in horror. "Take this collar off me and pitch me into the wormhole! Anything in the universe would be better than this!"
*«*
A former Captain in the Confederate Army, John Travers sat alone in his cell at The Salisbury Confederate prison in Salisbury, North Carolina. He wore the uniform of the South but that was not the only irony in his situation.
They're really going to execute me, he thought. Not that I blame anyone for not believing me. In his mind he could hear the jeers his protests of innocence had elicited during his court martial proceeding.
Near the end, the presiding general had leaned forward, peering closely at Travers, remarking in a voice tinged with kindness, "Make it easier on yourself, son. Just admit that you set those Yankees free. For God's sake, do not persist with this outlandish story of yours. Tell the truth, son. This is your last chance to salvage even a part of your honor."
"But I am telling the truth, Sir," Travers had protested. "One instant those fifty Yankees were there in the compound, standing against the prison wall, and the very next instant they simply vanished. As I've testified, I saw them disappear but, for the life of me, I can't describe exactly what I saw, except to say it was a kind of door that opened for an instant and then-."
"Enough!" The presiding general exclaimed impatiently, rapping his gavel sharply on the table. "We're not going through all that again."
After that, the panel of officers had retired briefly into an adjoining chamber, returning in less than five minutes. "Guilty as charged," the presiding general had announced, "and hereby sentenced to execution by firing squad with all due speed. May God have mercy on your soul."
So, it's come to this, Travers thought. I'm twenty-one years old and I'll not live to see another springtime in Charleston. Thank God my parents died before I could disgrace them. Even if the generals had decided to spare my life, I'd have been branded a traitor and I could never have gone back to Charleston. It's just as well Anna Grace jilted me. He goaded himself with the bitter memory of the "Dear John" letter he'd received from his sweetheart after she'd learned of his arrest.
Travers' thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of one of the guards loudly harassing the other prisoners as he made his way down the corridor. Recognizing the voice of the hated Yankee traitor who now guarded the men he'd betrayed, Travers cursed under his breath and waited for the abuse he knew was coming. All too soon, the guard dragged his stick across the bars that imprisoned him. "Hey, Travers," the Yankee shouted gleefully, "they told me to ask about your last request. What can I get for you? How about something you've never had before? How about a woman?"
Travers' face flamed with embarrassment he tried to hide from the guard.
"Look at you blushing like' a girl," the guard needled Travers. "You still got any of them medals you used to strut around here in before you got in trouble? For a price, I just might be able to smuggle some old gal in here to relieve you of your virginity before the sun rises."
"Get out of here. Leave me in peace," Travers growled, adding, "you Goddamned, traitor-scum."
"Just trying to help," the guard answered, unperturbed. "I sure hate to see you die a virgin just like all the rest of your baby-faced comrades out there. What fools! Fighting and dying to protect the sweet flower of southern womanhood , those sweet, magnolia blossoms, that they ain't never as much as touched."
Acknowledging only to himself the bitter truth of the guard's remarks, Travers muttered, "I'll be glad to die just to get away from vermin like you."
"Soon enough, Travers. Soon enough. You'll be rid of me before the cock crows twice. Oh, by the way, Reb, traitors don't get no last requests," the guard guffawed as he wandered to the next cell to torment another prisoner.
The memory of the day he'd left home to go to war played in Travers' mind unbidden. With a group of other young men, all under age twenty-one, who'd volunteered at the same time, he'd ridden through Charleston in the spring of 1861. Half the countryside had turned out to see them off. Riding on the finest steeds; dressed in scratchy new uniforms with the sun glinting off swords gaily festooned with their girls' bright scarves, they'd been so full of themselves and so certain of victory.
They were convinced they'd be back in two or three months, victorious and forever celebrated as heroes. But that was a lifetime ago, Travers thought while sitting on his cot, morosely holding his chin in his hand and staring at the tiny window near the ceiling. Thinking he could discern the first rays of the last dawn he'd ever see, Travers gazed at the window and whispered to himself, "Maybe some of the others will take the victory home eventually, but it's all over for me."
"What the Hell?" he exclaimed as it dawned on him that he was not looking at the window at all but, rather, at a strange glowing spot beside the window. He leapt up from his cot and raced to the window. The fiery spot on the stone wall was now growing rapidly.
"Fire!" Travers called out only to be answered by the din of dozens of prisoners banging on their cell bars as they always did in response to any noise. He was dimly aware of some wit calling out, "Pay no mind! He's just practicing for when he's in front of the firing squad!" Loud guffaws and more banging followed that.
Terrified, Travers reached out, trying to beat the fire out with his hands, but they just seemed to melt into the wall. Quickly jerking back, Travers stumbled backward toward the other side of the cell. Examining his hands, he was amazed to find himself unharmed. I've gone mad, he thought, and that thought was confirmed as a giant, amorphous, vaguely lizard-like creature materialized from out of the glowing wall.
Smafi sat very still for a long moment, carefully examining Travers' cell through the tiny slits in his hooded eyes. Seeing Travers, Smafi stood to his full height, placing himself at eye-level with the human, and spoke in his most authoritative voice, "I demand to know where I am, sir."
Transfixed, Travers stared at the creature he really didn't believe was there but who was making a noise that set his teeth on edge.
Recognizing the folly of voice communication, Smafi pr
ojected his question telepathically and probed Travers' mind for a reply.
"A prison?" Smafi questioned. "By the Great Shidon, what kind of prison? Who's in charge? I demand to be taken to your leader."
Smafi tried to sort out Travers' jumbled thoughts but it was impossible. He understood that Travers was a soldier but had no idea what a "civil war" might be. It was just too absurd that a species would do battle with its own kind, much less its own neighbors. More importantly, he misunderstood the fine points of Travers' situation. Perceiving that the human was somehow very different from all the other prisoners, Smafi mistakenly concluded that Travers was a guard or someone who carried authority.
"Take off your garments," Smafi growled, then switched back to telepathy and restated the command. When Travers hesitated, Smafi pulled a sharp, jewel-encrusted dagger from a fold in his skin. Brandishing the weapon menacingly, Smafi beamed another thought. "I will disguise myself as one of your kind until I get a better understanding of this environment."
Laughter caught in Travers' throat at the thought of this slimy lizard-thing thinking he could disguise himself with clothing alone. The creature stepped closer; the sparkling dagger inches from Travers' face. "All right, hold your horses," Travers muttered as he began peeling away layers of clothing.
"There now," Smafi spoke as he adjusted the clothing. A deep furrow creased Travers' brow as he peered closely at the creature who seemed to be turning into a large, well-groomed man who could have been Travers' identical twin.
"1 can speak to you now in your own tongue," Smafi volunteered and smiled as if quite pleased with himself. Perspiration beaded Travers' forehead and he stumbled backward, fighting a wave of nausea.
"For the love of the gods, man," Smafi exclaimed, "have you never before witnessed a shape change? The gods know how I hate this form but it's necessary for survival. I assure you I'd never assume this disgusting form if there was any other alternative."
Travers still stared at the mirror image of himself and listened incredulously as Smafi spoke in a voice identical to his own. "Call your leader," Smafi ordered. "I am prepared to demand the courtesy due my high-born position."
"Call them yourself," Travers spoke through half-clenched teeth.
"Oh, very well. I don't need you anyway," Smafi muttered impatiently before quickly scanning Travers' mind for the proper address for the authorities. "Hey, Yankee traitor-scum! Come here!" Smafi called out authoritatively At the sound, the other prisoners answered as they always did by banging on the bars, causing a great commotion that Smafi took for a reply from those in authority "Good! They have heard. They will come now." Smafi spoke confidently. "Now, turn around," Smafi ordered and Travers obeyed before the creature could threaten him with the dagger again.
Travers faced the glowing wall. Now the light in the opening was a whirlpool with a multicolored vortex that undulated and repeatedly folded in on itself only to fold outward again, always in constant, swirling, motion.
"Good-bye!" Travers heard Smafi's words at the same time he felt the creature's booted foot on his backside.
"I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming," Travers screamed as he was swallowed by the wormhole. He was still screaming when he was deposited feet-first into the room from which Smafi had departed. Wearing only his drawstring drawers, and feeling more than a little foolish and vulnerable, Travers clamped his hand over his mouth and warily scanned the room before making his way to a door.
Peering cautiously into the next room, he muttered, "By God, I am dreaming," as his eyes beheld the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen in his entire life lying on a bed of white satin in the middle of the otherwise empty room.
"I've died and gone to Heaven," he murmured as the vision of perfection smiled lovingly at him and reached her arms out to welcome him. Quickly closing the distance between them, Travers sat beside her, gently touching her face with his fingertips, reassuring himself that she was real. Looking deeply into her beautiful blue eyes, it seemed perfectly natural to him when he felt her thoughts mingle with his own, filling the dark recesses of his mind with light and laughter. He smiled with deep contentment as she assured him that very soon they would journey to a place he sensed was very similar to Charleston in the early spring.
***
Smafi paced back and forth in Travers' cell, waiting for the authorities he thought he'd summoned. Hearing footsteps, he concentrated on probing the approaching figure's thoughts.
"By the Great Shidon!" Smafi cursed inside his head as he realized with horror that Travers had been awaiting execution and the hour of his execution was now at hand. Quickly he turned toward the wormhole but all traces of it had disappeared. He warily positioned himself for an attack on anyone who opened the cell door and waited with his dagger drawn.
The Yankee guard started up his usual clatter, dragging his stick across the bars. "Time to meet your maker, Travers," he called out cheerily as he opened the cell door. "What the fu—," the guard's words were cut off as his wind pipe was severed by a swift thrust of Smafi's dagger. The other prisoners, hearing the commotion, answered as usual. While the Yankee guard writhed soundlessly on the floor, Smafi yanked the key ring from the dying man's hand and walked out the cell door.
Feeling awkward in human form, Smafi immediately morphed into his lizard-like state and slithered out of the Rebel uniform, though he rolled it up and kept it with him. The din of the other prisoners dwindled slowly away as one-by-one they were silenced by breathtaking terror at the sight of a huge lizard-like creature walking down the narrow corridor and opening the door to the outside.
When the Yankee guard was found dead in Travers' cell, the other prisoners were questioned closely. Unwisely, the first prisoner truthfully described what he'd seen and was executed on the spot for insolence. Wisely, no one else ever mentioned the lizard-creature again. Jim Travers was listed as an escapee. Years later, when someone would ask one of the Yankee soldiers who'd survived Salisbury Prison what his worst experience of the war had been, a strange expression would cross the man's face before he quickly launched into the story of how he'd been captured by the Rebs.
Folks living in the Salisbury area complained about losing pigs, goats and calves for several days running in the spring of 1864. Some claimed to have seen a thief dressed in a Rebel uniform which led them to speculate that it was the traitor, Travers, who'd been reported as an escapee. Everyone was relieved when the trail of thefts ended abruptly just south of Salisbury at the edge of the dense piney woods, not far from Granny Woodson's cottage. A few said Dora Woodson might have bewitched the soldier and turned him into a lizard or something. Others laughed and made fun of those who believed in magic.
TYRANTS & PATRIOTS
by Rob Vaux
Normandie, Missouri November 9,1869
The Stars and Stripes flew crisply above the gallows in the town square. A cold wind blew beneath a cloudy afternoon sky, causing the hung bodies to swing slowly back and forth. They creaked as they turned, the only complaining they could still make.
Lt. Colonel Jacob Brighton stood grimly before the spectacle. His thick mustache twitched slightly as he stared at the assembled crowd. The population of Normandie-some 250 souls-had gathered to watch the flag-raising, and the hanging which followed. They milled silently about in front of him, their glum faces betraying their thoughts. A few had to be coerced here at gunpoint. He sniffed. Confederates never took defeat easily. If they had, the damn war would have been over a long time ago.
"This township," he called, "and all the goods and property therein, is henceforth liberated by the United States of America. My men and I are here to ensure Normandie's freedom from the pernicious rebellion which has infected our great nation. These," he gestured at the bodies behind him. "are the result of defying our will. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. Normandie is ours. And it will remain so for the duration of the war. You can resist that, as these men did, and suffer their fate. Or you can accept your situation and live your
lives in relative peace.
"As of six a.m. this morning, the town is under martial law. No adults will be permitted on the streets after sundown. All firearms will be confiscated and their owners fined. The •saloon is closed to nonmilitary personnel until further notice. A bill detailing these and other particulars will be posted by the end of the evening. Am I in any way unclear?"
A pensive shuffling of feet greeted him.
"Good. I won't deceive you with false promises, ladies and gentlemen: you're an occupied town and you're apt to remain that way as long as the rebels stay south of the Missouri River. I won't tolerate disobedience and I won't tolerate danger to my men; I hope this morning's display made that clear. But I also assure you that no-one in my command will take undue advantage of our position. There will be no pillaging, no looting, no 'military taxes' levied against you. As long as you don't give us any trouble, your homes and families will stay untouched. You'll be allowed to go about your business in peace, raise your children, farm your crops. And if trouble comes, my men and I will ensure that it doesn't touch this town: I promise you on my honor as an officer. In this day and age, that's the best offer you'll ever hear.
"If there aren't any questions," he intoned, "you're dismissed."
The wind blew harder as the crowd slowly dispersed.
***
From a nearby window, the young man watched them go. The basement around him was dank and confining, but it offered an unobtrusive view of the square, and the bluecoats weren't aware of it. Behind him, a pair of older men sat quietly around a card table. The tall one fidgeted nervously with his hat, while his companion slowly dealt out a game of solitaire. He was better dressed than his colleagues, with a satin vest and string tie setting him apart from their workman's denim. There was something else too: the sparkle in his eyes, perhaps, or the way his mouth turned to a quiet smile. He played his cards with practiced ease.
"Well, they strung 'em up," the young man by the window commented. "And not so much as 'bon voyage' or a 'Hail Mary' to help 'em."
Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More Page 12
