by Kira Bacal
quite the native -- using dialect yet?”
“I always liked amateur dramatics,” Mrs Weinbaum preened her thorax complacently. “Immersing myself in this role was no different from when I played Ix’Tlp in The Chrysalis Saga. Our local newstaper called my performance –“
“Yes,” I interrupted hastily before the frustrated thespian could pull out any old clippings or recordings. “I could tell. Now, about your presence here – “
“Hold on. We hadn’t finished talking about you.” Mrs Weinbaum had a lamentably good memory. “So: not a refugee, academician, tourist… Why are you on the lam, sister?”
I sighed. It had only been a question of time before she stumbled upon the truth. “I was on the losing side in a disagreement. It was healthier to get out of town. Way out.”
Her wings vibrated a little faster. “You were a soldier?”
I glanced at the TV Guide on her table. “Think ‘Sopranos’, not ‘Platoon’.”
“You don’t mean – “ Her voice dropped. “The Grrazzerr-!K’Lprn vendetta? You were part of the Family?”
I sighed again. I saw no reason to tell her that I was the reason a large number of the !K’Lprn clan had joined their ancestors ahead of schedule, or that the bounty on my head was reputed to be among the largest in history. Why make it easy for people to do the wrong thing?
“Wooeee! I can sure see why you had to beat feet, chickie! Those guys aren’t going to forget a grudge for an eon or so. So that’s why you ended up here, huh? Get as far away as possible from anyone who could ever even hear about the Vendetta!”
“That was the idea,” I acknowledged. “But now…”
“Pssssh. You don’t have to worry about me, dollink. Why would I want to cause trouble for you? I’m very happy here. What would I go back to? More rheumatism? No, thank you! Your secret is safe with me.” She paused. “Especially if you do me a little favor.”
My eyes narrowed. Here it came. Okay, what would it be? A squeeze for local currency? High tech items? The removal of some neighbor whose dog kept peeing on her plastic duck?
“So, you Aurigans are pretty good with the mind control, right? On humans, I mean?”
“Yes,” I agreed guardedly. “There are limits, of course.”
“Right, right. Well, see, here’s why I had you come over. I mean, sure it’s nice to have a little chat and all, kind of a welcome to the neighborhood and lodge meeting all in one. But as soon as I saw you zip over to nab little Joey, I thought, here’s the answer to my problem!”
“What problem?”
“Well, I have this neighbor. Saul Schwartz. He lives in the trailer across the way from me.”
“You want me to do something to him?”
“Exactly. You see, Saul, he’s such a nice man. We’ve gotten to be rather – close, if you know what I mean.”
“Close?” I repeated uncomprehendingly.
I swear the bug blushed. “You know. Close.”
Light dawned. “Oh. Close.”
“Right. At first it was no big deal. We’d go out to an Early Bird dinner together, maybe a weekday movie matinee. But then it got to be a regular thing. Every Tuesday, IHOP. Wednesday night, we go to Bingo at the JCC. Thursday is movie night at the Knights of Columbus Senior Center. Do you know, he’s even a good cook? He makes this wonderful jell-o salad. With mini-marshmallows yet!”
“So you want me to kill him because he’s become a pest?” I guessed blindly.
“Kill him?’ she squawked, nearly spiraling out of her hover, she was so upset. “Who said anything about killing? Oy, you’re giving me palpitations! No, I don’t want him killed. Are you meshuga? I’m telling you about this lovely man – a widow, poor thing – who makes me jell-o salads and you think I want him dead? Are you nuts? He’s going to teach me to make another dish, again with the jell-o only this time with raisins and pineapple chunks instead of the marshmallows and shredded carrots. Why would I want him dead?”
“Then what do you need me for?” I demanded.
“What are you, deaf? I already said, we’re getting close. Very close. And Saul wants us to get closer. Much closer.”
“Ah.” Suddenly things began to come together. I peered over at the prosthesis. “I assume that it isn’t – ahem – anatomically correct?”
“Listen, dearie, some things I can fake, you know? But let’s not forget. I’m from Ixides Prime. I reproduce by fission. Amorous activities among my species are strictly solo, you get my drift?”
“So what do you want me to do?” I asked, beginning to get panicky.
“Make with the mind control, chickie. Convince my Mr Wonderful that we had a lovely romantic night together. You can do that, right?”
“Oh,” I breathed a sigh of relief, my worst fears unrealized.
“Ewww.” Then I grimaced as the realization of what Mrs Weinbaum did want sank in. “You want me to implant some pornographic memories into this human’s mind, so that he keeps making you jell-o and going to Bingo with you?”
“Listen, chickie,” she said, shaking a reproving set of forelegs at me, “at my age, companionship is hard to find. Just wait: you’ll see. And I didn’t say anything about pornography. Just make it, you know, erotic. Artsy. Well, maybe a little soft porn, but remember my reputation.”
“This isn’t going to solve your problem, you know. Even if I do it, he’s just going to want a – a repeat performance. What then?”
“So? You’re maybe going somewhere?” she challenged, then backed down a bit after seeing my expression. “Look, would I ask you to do this thing that often? He’s an old fellow. I know – you can make him think he had some chest pain. He’s got a bum ticker. That will make him less likely to want a repeat for a while. Okay? After all, I’m doing you a pretty big favor too.”
Ah yes. I wondered how long it would be before she brought that up. Still, she seemed sincere enough. And if it would keep her mouth shut – and her feelers off her communication setup – then it was worth it. If not, well, there were plenty of ways to kill an insectoid; I just didn’t have any of the necessary equipment on me at the moment.
“I’ll even sweeten the pot,” she offered.
“Oh? How?”
“Do you know the driver of the car that nearly smashed poor little Joey into roadkill?”
I frowned. I had meant to look up the license plate so as to track down the driver and implant some unforgettable driver re-education lessons. “Not yet.”
She fluttered faster, her equivalent of a smirk. “I do. And her home address. And I’m very good at getting past security alarms.”
I frowned at her, but this time it was with calculation. “How much can you lift when you’re not wearing that prosthesis?”
“Why, you’re just a little thing. I won’t have any trouble carrying you around,” she promised brightly.
I sighed. “It’s a deal.”
“Now you just call me Honey and I’ll call you Daisy.” She beamed. “I knew we’d get along the instant I heard your name, I just knew it. It was Meant to Be.”
I sat back. How did I manage to go from professional assassin to kindergarten teacher to, er, romance broker for senior citizens? It was as my kindergarten teacher always warned me: the gods of irony ensure that payback is a bitch.
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About the author:
Kira Bacal is a physician and scientist who has worked at NASA and the US Senate, among other odd and wonderful places. She currently lives among towering trees in New Zealand with her two children and a vandalism-prone Leonberger.
