Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille

by Steven Brust

  I sighed, and mused, and drank coffee, and presently Tom showed up next to the table. “How are things, Billy?”

  “Okay,” I said. There was a slight bulge in his jacket about belt level, where he had the .45 stashed, and his pockets were heavy with extra magazines. He sat down across from me.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m going to have a talk with Carrie.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “Yeah. And she has a message for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said to tell you that Souci’s back in town.”

  “Great,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

  Just about then we were joined by Christian, who put his feet up on the booth and lit a cigarette. “So, how are you gentlemen today?”

  “Getting by,” I said. Tom nodded.

  Christian said, “Has there been something happening lately?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “From the looks on your faces, I’d say you were upset about something.”

  “We’re both pinheads,” explained Tom.

  “I see.”

  There was silence, then Christian cleared his throat. “So, what’s a pinhead?”

  “Ask Libby,” I suggested.

  “Who?”

  “The bartender.”

  “Oh. Bartender. Beer. Now, there’s an idea. See you gents later.” He strode into the taproom and sat at the bar. Tom and I continued our commiserating, the details of which I will spare you. But an hour or so later, as I got up to leave, I noticed that Christian was still sitting at the bar, presumably learning what a pinhead was, according to the wisdom of Libby Sangretti. I made a mental note to ask one or the other of them what she’d said, but, with one thing and another, I never got around to it.

  I found Jamie looking out the window of our apartment. Leaning against the wall next to him was an Ithaca 12-gauge side-by-side double-barreled shotgun. I said, “Is it loaded?”

  “Huh?” He snapped his head around. “Oh. You startled me.”

  “And you didn’t go for your gun?”

  “Should I have?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, it’s loaded. But the safety’s on.” He indicated the big black .357 lying on the counter as if it were just another kitchen utensil. “That’s loaded, too, but there’s no round under the hammer.”

  “That’s a great comfort to me. What were you thinking about?”

  “Guns.”

  “What about them?”

  He shrugged. “I was shot once, you know.”

  “No, I hadn’t known that. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “You seemed to enjoy picking out your toys.”

  “I did. You would have, too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But I was standing here thinking that I might actually have to use one of these. I mean, point it at someone and pull the trigger.”

  “Think you can?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not completely, I guess.”

  He stood there a moment longer, then turned to me. “Libby once told me she was afraid of guns, because it would be too easy for her to shoot someone. Now I know what she means.”

  “I understand.”

  He nodded and turned back to the window. I came over and stood next to him. “Like, for instance,” he said, “wouldn’t you kind of like to just open up the window and blow that little motherfucker away?”

  I followed his gaze. Short, curly-haired Claude was leaning against a tree, watching our apartment from just across the street, arms folded, as calm as you please. I didn’t answer Jamie, in part because I found myself agreeing with him.

  “Souci?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Billy.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Oh, right. You don’t have your camera on.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Umm, welcome back.”

  “Thanks.”

  One…two…three…four…

  “So, should we, um, get together or something?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Have lunch? Some drinks?”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  “Take a walk?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Want to talk?”

  “What about?”

  “Ummm. Never mind. Look, I’ll, uh, call you again, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Fred told me that there are many imitations of the British commando knife of World War II, because in spite of the brittleness of the blade it is one of the best antipersonnel knives ever invented. He also said that it is easy to identify the real thing by the imprint on the guard. I couldn’t read the tiny writing of the imprint, so I don’t know what the real one said or why a fake one couldn’t say something equally illegible which would fool me.

  He called it “a very sexy weapon,” which may give you some idea of what he’s like. The phrase made me shudder, in part because I could almost see what he meant. The knife, all twelve inches or so of it, was painted with nonreflective black paint. The hilt was cigar-shaped and fit my hand better than I’d have thought just looking at it, and better than I sort of wished it did. There was a little nob at the end, which I guess was a screw or a nut that held it together.

  The guard was small, because, according to Fred, this was not primarily a knife-fighter’s weapon, but one intended for sticking in the backs of one’s enemies. Certainly the blade had that look; it was very slim, and had a flattened-out diamond shape. It really did have a good edge, and as I ran the point along my inside forearm directly above the artery and watched the impression the blade made, I realized how incredibly easy it would be to just exert a little more pressure there. It would take hardly any effort.

  Hardly any effort at all.

  Eventually I put the knife in its sheath, took the harness off, and set it on the floor, and I went over to my futon and lay on my back, staring at the big, beige, soundproofing tiles on my ceiling.

  “How’s it going, Tom?”

  “All right. Carrie and I talked and got some things straightened out.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How about with you?”

  “I’m doing all right. I talked to Souci today.”

  “Oh, really? How is she?”

  “Fine. She says she’s on a diet.”

  Libby wiped out a last ashtray and turned the key on what was now an antique cash register. Her hair looked jet-black in this light, her face pale, her eyes very bright. “Okay, I’m done,” she announced.

  “Very good,” said Fred, pushing a pair of tables together. The last customers had left fifteen minutes before, and we’d all helped out getting the place ready. No one said anything about what we were gathered for, because they were afraid to, because they were enjoying the suspense, because they were busy, or, in my case, because I wasn’t terribly interested.

  Rich ran a bug detector around the room. Jamie said, “What about microphones from outside the building?”

  “Any microphone pointed at this building will only hear the D below middle C,” said Rich.

  “Ah,” said Jamie, and sat down at one end of the double table, Rose on his right, me on his left. Tom sat next to me with Fred across from him, next to Rose. Eve sat next to Tom, Libby next to Fred, and Rich took the other end, his back to the bar, facing the stage and Jamie. We all drank coffee, some of us with cream and sugar.

  Rich and Jamie stared across the table at each other, and I had a sudden premonition that they’d end up shooting each other before the meeting was over. I almost suggested that everyone put his gun behind the bar, but I couldn’t think of a way to say it that would have been taken seriously.

  “There are things some of you probably want to know,” said Rich. “May
be you should begin by asking them.”

  “I’m up for that,” said Jamie. “I’ll start. What the hell is going on?”

  Rich looked at his fellow conspirators, if you will, then back at Jamie. “Would you care,” he said, “to break that down a little?”

  “All right. First of all, why is it this place keeps getting nuked, and, second, why is it that every time it does we end up jumping to another city or planet or solar system or galaxy or dimension—”

  “And don’t forget time,” put in Rose.

  “Yeah,” said Jamie. “Like she said. What about it?”

  “Some of that,” said Fred, “we don’t know ourselves. I was hired originally as a waiter and bouncer, and I didn’t know any of the rest of it until Rich told me. I’ve never met Feng.”

  “Who has?” asked Tom.

  Rich held up his hand, as did Libby.

  “Where is he now?” asked Tom.

  Rich looked uncomfortable. “You know we’re dealing with time travel here, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Jamie, as if he’d been traveling through time all his life.

  “Well, then, now is a funny concept. I think I can say that he’s not anywhere—”

  “Look,” snapped Libby, “if you could go shooting through time and space anywhere you pleased, would you hang around in a restaurant that might get hit by a nuclear bomb any second?”

  “I would,” said Jamie.

  “You probably would,” said Rich.

  “I thought this place was safe,” said Rose.

  The four of us looked at each other. “Well,” said Rich slowly. “It is radiation-proof. And it does have means of jumping away from trouble very quickly as long as it has sufficient power, and it does have means of taking that power from a nuclear explosion.”

  “So,” said Libby, “as long as the bomb doesn’t hit so far away that we don’t get enough of the energy, or so close that we’re toasted before we can jump—”

  “And as long as everything works—”

  “We’re okay,” concluded Libby.

  “Oh, that’s just great,” said Jamie.

  “There’s a pretty big window for how close it has to be and how close it can come,” said Rich.

  “It’s worked so far,” added Fred.

  Rose said, “Can I have a—”

  “No,” said Jamie.

  “What else do you want to know?” asked Rich.

  “What it’s all about.”

  “Saving the future,” said Libby. “Is that noble enough for you?”

  Jamie stood up—no, rose to his feet—turned so we had a profile of his face, stuck his chest out, and deepened his voice. “Yes,” he declaimed, “Captain James Lindhal of the Time Travel Rangers shall go forth once more to—”

  “Will you sit down?” said Rich.

  “I was enjoying it,” said Tom.

  “Me, too,” said Libby.

  “I want a whiskey,” said Rose.

  Jamie sat down.

  Fred suddenly turned to me. “You haven’t said anything.”

  “I’m just listening. I’ll ask any questions I think of.”

  “Very well.”

  “Do you think,” asked Jamie of Libby in particular and the table in general, “you might be persuaded to be just a trifle more specific about what you mean by saving the future?”

  “It isn’t that easy,” said Rich.

  “What’s not that easy?” said Libby. “He wants to know what the whole thing’s about. Tell him.” She turned to Jamie. “A few hundred years from now a large group of nut cases are trying to wipe out all of Feng’s people. We have to fix things.”

  “What do you mean, Feng’s people? How many?”

  “As I understand it, the population of several worlds.”

  “Wow. So, you mean, find these guys and kill—”

  “No. This is time-travel stuff. Nothing works that easy. We can’t do anything that would change history, or, rather, the future history that allowed us to be here.”

  “Huh? Oh, I see what you mean. But then how—”

  “Feng,” said Libby, “says that, up to a point, history will correct itself, and beyond that point it is impossible to do anything that will change it.”

  “Okay, then—”

  “The exceptions are things he calls nexus points, which are intersections of—” She stopped, looked puzzled, stared at me, then at Fred, and finally turned to Rich and said, “You explain it.”

  Rich said, “They can trace effects, so they can find places where if you do this thing, it won’t change history until after the time you left, from the future. Does that make sense?”

  “It almost does,” said Tom. “That’s scary.”

  Rose nodded.

  Tom turned to me. “Do you believe all this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m not sure why, though.”

  He nodded. “That’s about how I feel.”

  Jamie said, “So, what do we do?”

  “Each time we’ve jumped,” said Rich, “it’s been to a nexus point. Unfortunately at most of them we didn’t stay long enough to accomplish our mission. On the plus side, with all the jumping, we’ve been lucky enough not to lose anyone on the team.”

  Jamie said, “How does it know where to go when a bomb hits?”

  “Got me,” said Libby. “Rich? Eve? Fred?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Jamie said, “But what’s the job?”

  “We don’t know exactly. Doing whatever we have to to save Feng’s people.”

  “You’re sure they’re the good guys?”

  Rich said, “Would you grow up?”

  “It was a joke,” said Jamie.

  “Do you want in?” said Libby.

  “If you didn’t think we did, why did you give us the guns?”

  “Because they tried to kill Billy, which means you guys are in danger whether you want to be or not, so we owe you the chance to defend yourselves.”

  “Who tried to kill Billy?” said Rose, staring at me. Jamie and Tom were also doing the wide-eyed thing.

  “That guy who was killed in here,” I said. “I found out that someone thought it was me. They also tried again last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” said Rose.

  “Because I was stupid.”

  “So what else is new?” said Jamie.

  “Shit.”

  “But that’s another thing,” Jamie continued. “Why did they try to kill Billy?”

  He looked from Rich to Libby to me, but it was Fred who answered. “I have a theory.”

  I said, “I’d like to hear it.”

  “I’m not certain of this, but it seems to me that if Feng’s people can go into the past, so can the other guys, and it may be that Billy is the one who will stop them. They have to kill Billy in particular.”

  I studied the tabletop. It had a nice mosaic pattern of black against green.

  “Well,” I said after a time. “That really sucks.”

  Intermezzo

  I’ll tell me ma when I go home

  The boys won’t leave the girls alone.

  “I’ll Tell Me Ma,”

  Traditional

  The motherfucker has a gun.

  It just kept going over and over in his head like that, like a chant. He couldn’t explain it the way he’d be able to years later—in terms of unwritten rules, customs, and so on—he just felt the outrage.

  He was in an alley next to a park with six of his friends. They’d started in the park, and then the, he didn’t know, five or six or seven or eight of them had taken off down the alley. They were fighting because they were fighting, and he would win his fight because he always won, but, The motherfucker has a gun. It almost overshadowed the other statement that pierced his thoughts like a dagger: He’s pointing it at me.

  One of the things he most enjoyed was those delicious moments when he could step back and just watch himself in action; when thinking and planning were beside the poin
t, and the motions of his fists, the sounds of flesh striking flesh, the blur of action around him, all became—as he wouldn’t be able to express it to himself until years later—surreal. It went beyond being impressive to someone else or to himself; it was strange and mystical and like nothing else, and the people he was pounding into the ground were beside the point.

  There was a tug, high on his right leg, and somewhere—way, way back—there was pain.

  The motherfucker has a gun. The motherfucker just shot me. The motherfucker just fucking tried to fucking kill me.

  And, I’m going to kill him.

  There was a baseball bat in his hand so he threw it, and he wasn’t surprised until later that, after turning four and a half lazy circles, it actually connected, bam, right in the head. He hoped he hadn’t killed him yet, so he could do it again, and so it was, because the motherfucker was starting to stand up already. But then he was there, and then he had the gun, and it was pointing at the motherfucker’s head, and he was slowly, so slowly, squeezing the trigger, and eyes were wide with fear, and he knew he was about to die, and—

  “Don’t, Jamie. Don’t kill him.”

  Tip’s voice. Shit. What did he want? Well, fuck it, then, and Jamie threw the gun down the alley and started pounding. He’d beat him to death, then. That would be more fun, anyway.

  He was gone. So far gone that he was no longer even watching himself; it was just happening, and he was never fully aware of what went on between then and when Tip’s voice finally penetrated for the second time.

  “Jamie. Stop it. Jamie, Jesus, you’re killing him. Jamie—”