Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Rosel G Brown

  “Roan!” an agonized voice roared. By the gate, Raff’s massive white-maned head loomed over the crowd. “This way, boy!”

  “Dad!” Roan lowered his head, threw himself against the slow-moving bodies in his way. The gill-thing was close now—and there was another—”

  And then he was at the gate, and Raff’s hand was stretched out to him above the crutch.

  The gilled creature thrust itself before Roan, arms spread wide. Roan whirled and saw the other—and beyond, a third, coming fast. He feinted, dived between the two nearest.

  The steel grip caught his arm.

  He looked up into the old-shoe face, swung his doubled fist.

  Both hands were caught now. He kicked, but only brushed his toes against the horny shins.

  And then Raff was there, his brown face twisted, his mouth open. Over the mob road, Roan couldn’t hear what he was shouting. He saw Raff’s thick arms swing up. The crutch came down in a crashing arc on the gilled head, and for an instant the grip loosened, and Roan pulled a hand free.

  And then a gray-green figure loomed behind Raff, and a threefingered hand struck, and now Raff’s face was twisted in a different way, and he was falling, going down, and the white head was flushed suddenly crimson, and he lay in the yellow dust on his face, and Roan felt his throat screaming—

  His hand was free, and he struck.

  He felt something yield, and ripped at it, feeling his jaws open, teeth hungry for the enemy. Then both hands were free, and he smashed at the old-leather face, seeing it reel back. And then the other was at him with three-taloned hands clutching. Roan seized two long fingers in his two hands and tore at them and felt them break and rip—

  And then he was falling, falling, and somewhere voices called, but they were far away, too far, and they faded, and were gone.

  And he was alone and very small in the dark.

  VII

  Gom Bulj’s diamond stickpin glittered like his eyes, and he smoked his cigar as though he had tasted and wearied of all other cigars in the Universe.

  “You’re a wild one, Terry,” he said, both eyes staring at Roan. “What was the idea of crippling up Ithc? You should see his hand. Terrible!”

  “I hope he’s ruined,” Roan said, not crying, not thinking about the ache that made the side of his head feel as big as Gom Bulj’s. “I wish I’d been able to kill him. I will kill him the first chance I get.” He had to stop talking then, remembering Dad, trying to help, then falling.

  “There was no need for dramatics. No need at all. If you’d come along quietly, you’d have found life in the Extravaganzoo most rewarding—and I’d still have the use of Ithc. Did you know you nearly tore his finger off?”

  “He killed Dad,” Roan said.

  Now there were tears. His face tried to twist and he felt dried blood crack on his skin; but he stood as straight as the Ythcan’s grip on his arms would let him, and looked Gom Bulj in one eye, the other being busy now with some papers spread on the desk.

  “I know everything you’re going to say,” the entrepreneur said, “so don’t bother to say it. Just let me indicate to you that you are a very lucky Terry, Terry. If you weren’t a valuable Freak, I’d put you out the nearest lock for the trouble you’ve caused me. But I’m a business man. You’ll start in as a scraper-punk and double in greenface.” He jerked his huge head at the threefingered guard. “Take him along to a cubicle on number two menagerie deck with the other Freaks. And see there’s a stout lock on the door.”

  Green arms like cargo cranes turned Roan and propelled him into the corridor. The vibration of the engines and the stink of ozone were more noticable here than in the deep-carpeted office of the ’zoo owner. For a moment Roan felt a surge of excitement, remembering that he was aboard a ship, in deep space. He wanted to ask where they were bound, how long the voyage would last, but he wouldn’t ask the Ythcan. He might be one of the one’s who’d helped to kill Raff. Roan couldn’t tell them apart. But there was one he would recognize.

  Roan sat in the limp hay that was his bed. The metal-walled cell smelled of animals and old air. He was sore all over but his mind was clear, and he listened to the sound that had awakened him with a feeling of suspense that was almost pleasurable.

  Something was working at the latch to his door.

  He looked about for a weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing but four stark walls and the used hay. Not even clothes. They had taken his tunic away. He thought, I’ll have to fight with my hands and teeth, and he crouched, ready.

  But the door didn’t open. Instead, a metal panel swung back. Suddenly Roan was looking through bars into ochre eyes in an oval face with skin as pale and smooth as a Tay-tay leaf, and a cloud of soft hair the color of early sunshine.

  She laughed, a sound like night rain, and Roan stared at the soft red mouth, the white teeth, the tip of a pink tongue.

  “You’re . . .” Roan said, “you’re a human woman!”

  She laughed again, and he saw a delicate purple vein that throbbed faintly in her white throat. “No,” she said in a voice like the murmur of evening wind in the crystalline leaves of the Never-never tree. “I’m a mule.”

  Roan came close to the barred window. He looked at her: the slender neck, the shapes of yielding roundness under the silver clothes, the tiny waist, the long, slim lines of her thighs.

  “I’ve seen pictures,” Roan said. His voice seemed to catch in his throat. “But I never, ever saw . . .”

  “You still haven’t. But Pa said I could pass for Pure Strain in a bad light.” She put her hands on the bars. They were small and smooth. Roan put out a hand and touched her.

  “A mule’s a cross between two human strains that never should had got mixed up together in the first place.” she said carelessly. “Mules are sterile.” She looked at him:

  “You’ve cut your head. And you’ve been crying.”

  “Will you—” Roan started, and swallowed. “Will you take your tunic off?”

  The girl looked at him, still smiling, and then the pale cheeks suddenly were pink. She laughed, but it was a different laugh.

  “What did you say?”

  “Please—take off your tunic.”

  For a long moment the ochre eyes looked into Roan’s blue ones. Then she stepped back from the door, her soft hand slipping from under Roan’s for a moment. She did things to the silver garment and it fell away, and she stood for a moment poised and straight, and then she turned slowly, all the way around.

  Roan’s breath came hard through the turmoil in his chest.

  “I never dreamed anything could be so beautiful,” he said.

  The girl drew a quick breath, then bent, snatched up her garment, and was gone. Roan pressed his face to the bars, caught a glimpse of her as she darted past a lumbering, bald humanoid who turned and stared after her, then came clumping up to the cell door. He looked angrily at Roan.

  “What the hell’s wrong with Stel?” he barked. He looked down, clattering keys. “All right, Terry, the vacation’s over. I’m Nugg. You work for me. I can use some help, the devil knows.”

  The door clanked open. Roan stepped out, measuring the alien’s seven foot height. The creature raised a fist like a stone club.

  “Don’t get ideas, runt. Just do your work and you’ll get along. You’ll need some shoes, I suppose. And a tunic. Around this place clothes are the only way to tell the Freaks from the animals.”

  “Who was she?” Roan said. “Where did she go?”

  Nugg glared at him. “Keep your mind off Stel. Stellaraire, to you. She dances. She’s got no time for Freaks and scrapers. I know about you; you’re a mean one. You watch your step, Terry, and tend to your scraping—and your greenface. Now come on.”

  Roan followed the hulking humanoid along the echoing corridor, noisy with the rumble of ventilators, the clamor of voices, the thump of feet, to a dingy room of shelves heaped with equipment. Nugg hauled a large duffel bag of used clothing from a locker and dumped it out onto the floo
r.

  Roan discarded a bra affair that might have fitted a midget Stellaraire, a zippered tube that seemed to be made of human skin, a hexagonal wired corset, and a gauze veil before he came up with a simple buttoned tunic only a few sizes too large. But he found a marvelous belt made of flexible metal links that fitted itself perfectly to his waist. He also found a pair of heavy hide sandals.

  Nugg grunted. “Get down to C deck. One of the boys will tell you what to do. And stay out of trouble!”

  Roan rode down the lift, stepped out into a sour reek of stables, a vast, still room echoing with grunts, squeals and the shuffle and clatter of hooves and the pad of horny feet. Through bars he saw shaggy pelts of black and pink and tan, glistening hides, scaled, knobbed, smooth, the flash of light on horns, tusks, fangs, the curl of sinuous tails, the reach of taloned limbs, and tentacles that groped restlessly.

  “You—oo son of a bitch—itch,” and echoing voice said.

  Roan turned. On the other side of a massive grill a seven-foot Ythcan glowered, one three-fingered green hand thrust through the bars, the thick fingers closing futilely an inch from Roan’s tunic. The other hand was a round knob of dirty bandages.

  Roan stepped back and looked around for a weapon. Ithc raised his maimed hand and shook it. “It wa—as my skilled—illed hand—and. You—oo’ve ruined it for life—ife”

  “Good,” Roan said. “I’m going to ruin the other one too.”

  “You—oo wait there—ere,” Ithc said, moving along the grill. “I’m—mm coming to kill—ill you—oo.”

  There was a long-handled pitchfork against the bulkhead with straw and dung matted in the tines. Roan clanged it against the steel wall and ran to meet Ithc. A wide gate at the end of the grilled wall stood open. The Ythcan halted just beyond it and Roan stepped through, the pitchfork raised.

  Ithc made a sudden motion and the heavy, motor-driven grill slammed against Roan, knocked him off his feet, pinning him in the opening. The Ythcan planted a horny, three-toed foot against Roan’s chest and with his good hand drew a knife from behind him. He clicked a catch. The blade guard dropped off the knife. What was left was a glistening razor that made Roan bite his teeth to look at.

  “I’ll—ll cut your wrist tendons first—irst,” Ithc said. He leaned close, just out of reach of Roan’s hands. His gill flaps rippled, flushed pink. “Then—en I’ll do your eyes—ss . . .” He held his bandaged hand before him for balance, weaving the blade to and fro.

  Roan was watching the dagger.

  Every time it moved, he had his hands ready to grab. With a sudden, unexpected motion the Ythcan jabbed for his shoulder.

  Roan struck out—and the Ythcan jumped back, holding his bandaged hand. A red stain grew on it. Roan’s hand tingled from the blow he had struck.

  “Ow—ow,” Ithc keened. “Ow—ow.” He stepped back, holding the dagger by the point now and lining it up with Roan’s left eye. Roan got ready to dodge, then realized that was what he was supposed to do. The Ythcan would throw for some other spot.

  There was the clank of a door, then the sound of running feet along the corridor.

  Stellaraire’s woman-voice rang. “Ithc, you smelly animal! Get away from that gate. Let him up!” She was standing over Roan, long, thin legs planted astride him, fists on rounded hips. Ithc held up his blood-stained bandage.

  “Because of him—im I lost—ost my job—ob. Now I’m just a dirty scraper—aper.”

  “You’ll be worse than that if I tell Gom Bulj about this!” She pushed at the heavy gate.

  “He hurt me—ee.” Ithc said. “Ow—ow.” But he let the gate come open. Roan rolled over and sat up. He looked at the pitchfork, and the girl followed his look.

  “Terry, you’ve got to promise me you won’t start it again.”

  “I’m going to kill him.” It was hard for Roan to breathe. His ribs hurt.

  “He would have killed you if I hadn’t made him let you up. Now call it square!”

  Roan looked at her. “Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. He doesn’t move very fast.”

  “Look, you’ve got to forget what happened. He’s too dumb to hate.”

  “Hey—ey,” Ithc started.

  “You shut up,” Stellaraire snapped. “Now go on, get out!”

  Roan watched Ithc move off holding his bad hand in his good one. “All right,” he said. “I’ll leave him alone—until the first time he bothers me.” He lay back against the cold metal floor, wanting to moan, but not wanting the girl to see how much pain hurt him.

  “I have to get to work.” Stellaraire’s hand was cool on his forehead. “You take it easy a minute, honey.”

  “By the nine Gods, you’re a real sucker for punishment. You stay where you are, till you get your breath.”

  “He’s still walking. So can I.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, sugar. You’re a tough one. I saw the fight when they caught you. The Ythcans don’t have much brains, but they’re awfully strong. I saw Ithc’s hand before they bandaged it. It’s ruined for life. I’ve never seen anybody fight like that before, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot of fights in my carny days. What made you so mad?”

  Roan sat up, remembering, feeling the hot tears ready behind his eyes. “My father,” he said. “They killed my old man.”

  “Ah, sweety, that was a lousy thing to do.” She was kneeling, cradling his. head in her arms. “Go ahead; it feels better if you cry. But you fixed that Ithc good. He can’t be on Security any more; not with that hand. Gom Bulj has already sent him down here as a scraper.”

  “He didn’t have to kill Dad,” Roan said. “My father was a cripple. He was crippled defending me before I was born.”

  “How much real Terry strain do you have?” Stellaraire asked. “Your mother?”

  “I’m all Terry.” Roan said. “Raff was only my foster father. Ma wasn’t really human. They lived all their lives in a garbage dump on account of me and Dad got killed on account of me. And Ithc walks around with nothing but a bad hand.”

  “My folks were a funny pair,” Stellaraire said. “Pa was a water miner on Archo Four. He came of one of the Ganny crosses. Real short, like, and he could go fifteen minutes without taking a breath—and of course real course skin. Mother came from Tyree’s World. She was dark, with light hair, and real slender. I’ve got her eyes, but outside of that, I’m a kind of a throwback, I guess.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Roan said. “I love your eyes. If . . . if it wasn’t for Dad, I’d be glad they kidnapped me.”

  “That’s right.” Stellaraire smiled. “Just think about the good part.”

  “I’ve never had a friend before,” Roan said. “A real friend.”

  “Gee,” said the girl, and her eyes grew round like a child’s. “Gee, I could make you a list ten miles long of all the things men have called me since I’ve been with the ’zoo, but this is the first time it was ‘friend.’ ” Her hands moved gently over his chest and arms. “There are the oddest things about you. This fuzz; what’s it for?” She touched his cheek. “And your face is prickly.”

  “That’s my beard. I have to shave nearly every day.”

  “I like it. It gives me nice shivers to get scraped with it. But I wonder what kind of adaptation it was supposed to be for. Open your mouth.” The girl looked at Roan’s teeth.

  “You have such nice, white teeth—but so many of them.” She counted. “Gosh, thirty-two.” She looked thoughtful, moving her tongue inside her mouth. “I only have twenty-six.”

  “The better to eat you with, my dear—”

  The grilled door slammed open. A thick, boneless gray arm with a mouth at the end of it reached in, groped over Stellaraire, then curled around her and pulled her to the door.

  “Stellaraire!” Roan gasped, and jumped to his feet, grappling the arm.

  But Stellaraire was laughing, perched in the curve of the massive tentacle. Beyond the doorway, Roan saw a vast creature like a mountain of gray rock. The girl put a foot on a gre
at curved tusk, stepped up to the enormous head.

  “It’s just Jumbo. He knows how to work the lift and sometimes he gets loose.” Jumbo reached his mouthed arm into a bin and came out with a wad of hay which he stuffed into the other mouth, under his single tentacle.

  “Stel!” a rasping voice called.

  “Get that damned bull back down where he belongs.” The bald humanoid, Nugg, came stamping up. He looked angrily at Roan.

  “Stel, this Terry’s dangerous. You stay away from him.”

  “You’re not talking to your scraping crew now, Nugg!” Stellaraire said sharply. “Don’t go giving me orders. And you’d better keep an eye on Ithc. He started trouble with the kid here.”

  Nugg looked angrily at Roan. “All right, you. Get to work. I told you—”

  “He’s not working today. He might have busted ribs; that damned Ythcan goon slammed the door on him. I’m taking him to the vet right now.”

  “Look here, Stel—”

  “Tell it to Gom Bulj. Come on, Terry.”

  Roan looked up at the elephant, then up at Stellaraire. He put out a hand and touched the gray hide, then stepped into the curve of the trunk and was lifted up beside the girl.

  “This is the strangest-looking creature I ever saw,” he said, trying to sound casual. “And you don’t have to call me Terry. My name’s Roan.”

  He held on as the bull turned ponderously, swayed off along the corridor.

  “And I don’t need to go to any vet.” he added. “I’m all right.”

  “Suits me. I’ll take you to my room and clean you up. You smell like a scraper already. And I want to take a better look at that cut on your face.”

  VIII

  Roan’s eyes opened wide when he saw Stellaraire’s quarters. The single room, three yards by four, had a low ceiling which shed a soft light on three walls decorated with patterns of flowers, and a fourth which was a panel of greenish grass behind which small vivid fish waved feathery fronds, moving with dreamlike slowness through an eerie miniature landscape. There was a low couch by one wall, a table of polished black wood, a carpet of soft gray into which Roan’s feet seemed to sink ankle deep.