"That's all true," I agreed. “Therefore, we have to ask very very carefully. Here we go." I began moving.
"I don't like this," Ned moaned.
"It's my blood."
"It's our blood."
We drew near the circle of stalks, arranged in a tall, conical chamber. They turned to regard us.
"Greetings, fellow greenlings," I boomed. Then, because there was no need to beat around the bush, so to speak, I said, "Can you direct us to the Great Hall of Marvels?"
There was a long, sap-curdling silence, before the tallest of the three unfurled a dripping tentacle. The trembling tip waved towards a wet cave-like opening in the far wall.
"That is the way."
"In the name of all things spineless, we thank you," I said as we moved towards the cave.
"I see," said the same Boff in a voice as cold as day-old peas, "from your uniforms that you are visitors from the Western Stalk."
A ghostly Ned appeared beside a translucent placard explaining that the swirls and dips on this particular Boff identified a Senior Commandant.
"The Third Root of the Western Stalk, I see," continued the Senior Commandant drolly. “The Legion of the Foul Swampy Odor."
"Yes, Senior Commandant, that is true. I am Tendril Ruta and this is Offshoot Bega. A great pleasure to meet you. We would be happy to discuss our service with the Great Stalk at length with you later, perhaps at a suitably loathsome watering hole. But now our time is short. Thank you again."
I turned to leave but the Senior Commandant stopped me with his words.
"The Legion of the Foul Swampy Odor is a proud and noble unit, with a history littered with fallen enemies and sap-covered heroes of Boff."
I didn't know where this was going but I knew I wouldn't like it. “All true, loyal Commandant."
"Yes, I know. My very own unit. But we have no Tendril Ruta and no Offshoot Bega. You are frauds!"
Ah, bitter irony! To be exposed not as chimps but as imposter vegetables! What were the odds of that? For anyone else, no doubt low. For someone named diz Astor, well . . . .
The three Boffs moved to flank us, their razor scythes flicking in and out with very disturbing, slightly damp, snicks.
The Commandant's tentacles were bobbing and weaving and darting, like a frenzy of giant earthworms. I wondered - would the earthworms survive when the Etzans took Earth?
"Diz!" Trina shrieked in a whisper. Another interesting effect. “You clown! I told you!"
Yes, she did. I'd ignored her then and I ignored her now.
Several quivering tentacle tips pointed at me and the Commandant made a rumbling, grating noise. “My honor is offended. I demand ritual combat!" All seven of his razor scythes flicked in and out in unison, each dripping with viscous yellow threat. “We will fight to the death!"
The Boffs closed in. Our backs were to the wall. Happily, that wall held a doorway.
"No, we won't," I countered.
"You admit your infraction? Very well. Assume the position of Thagalog, and I shall dispatch you slightly more quickly and with slightly more pain than you would suffer in combat. Of course, it will also be with far greater ignominy."
Hmm. No, not even remotely tempting. Trina and I kept slowly backing away.
"I think not," I said.
The Commandant rustled angrily. “It is a matter of honor! There is no other way!"
"Oh, but there is," I said. I was thinking madly, hoping for a bolt of inspiration, but all I received was a thin and malnourished ray of impertinence. It would have to do. It always did.
The Commandant was plainly suspicious. He trundled forward, saying, "Oh? What, then?"
"We'll just run away," I said, then grabbed Trina's tentacles and sprinted into the cave mouth.
"Cowards!" I heard from behind us, followed by the rustle of 3000 churning Boff feet.
Perhaps the one advantage humans have over Boffs, physically, is that they can run just a little bit faster. Somehow those tiny little finger-legs just can't move those big heavy bodies all that quickly. This advantage isn't much use in a fight, but it is a great deal of use in running away.
With these thoughts in mind I hurried us down the passage. The walls were dripping and damp, and the center of the roof much higher than the sides, to accommodate the tall Boff stalks. We ran and ran and ran, and then ran some more. My lungs burned and my legs ached, though not in the way the Commandant had intended. We ignored the occasional cross-passages, even dimmer and danker than the one we were in, and stayed our course.
I was expecting things to get worse - after all, the Senior Commandant thought he was pursuing renegade veggies, unless he realized we were the missing humans. Either way, we could expect more attention.
But there was none. Foolishly, I eventually began to relax, to think we'd escaped. As if cued by my complacence, alarm bells began to ring.
"OK, Ned," I said calmly, trying to ignore the painfully strident whoops that were spanging off my ear drums. These were real, not a result of Ned's brain-poking. “What now?"
"Quickly, Ned," Trina put in.
"I got you this far, didn't I?" Ned asked petulantly, appearing as a tiny man on tiny hoverscooter, flitting beside us.
"Yes. Into the middle of the most secure building on Boff. But I'm prepared to forgive you if you get us out."
Ned looked at me sadly. “Listen carefully, Court. There is no plan, from here on. You're in; the rest is up to you. Though I will say that if I were you, which in a sense I am, I would keep running."
We did exactly that.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," Trina wheezed later, "maybe Ned could at least change our uniforms?"
"Already done," Ned replied, and I passed it on.
I glanced down at a modified array of squiggles and dots.
"You are now Underlings of the Fourth Root of the Second Tree. A bit less prestigious, but it should also be a bit more safely anonymous."
"I hope we get the chance to find out," I gasped. Being a Finger requires me to be in top physical condition. It does not require me to enjoy it. Trina, in contrast, seemed to relish the physical exercise, though I sensed she was bothered by the prospect of being flayed for a warmdown.
We ran past a floating holo-sign; horrible green dips, dashes, and curlicues on a brown background.
I glanced at it once, very deliberately, getting it into focus. I wasn't looking at it for me, but for someone else who could supposedly read the local lingo.
"Get it?" I rasped.
After a long pause, Ned grew into the form of a long Nubian body, clad in skimpy shorts and a tiny top, revealing bulging muscles. He began loping along beside me, a gazelle beside a stomping mule. “Yes. We're on course," he replied, then shot ahead, shrinking away to nothing in the distance, as if he'd been rocket-launched. Of course it was a simple visual trick. Of course I didn't like it.
"Stop!" Trina hissed. I skidded to a halt beside her; she was already doing the bent-legged quad-burning crawl. I imitated it as a squad of big ugly troops emerged from a side passage, stomping along angrily on their tiny feet. They passed us without a glance and shuffled off down a side passage.
Either Ned or I - I'm not sure who - imagined a Boff in a shoe store:
Clerk: These size ones fit perfectly. Will there be anything else?
Madam Boff: Well, yes, actually. Another five hundred pairs.
"How much farther?" I burbled. Despite his sprint into the distance, I knew Ned was where he always was: right behind my eyeballs.
"Much," Ned said.
We ran on. The thick Boffian air wasn't much help - it burned and stung and stank. Our hall evolved into dim twisty passages, dank and dripping, like Quasimodo's hideaway. I half-expected to be jumped by trolls or some other earth fairy-tale creatures. But of course the true irony was that our pursuers were far worse than the demons of old earth stories. You know things are going badly, I've always said, when your reality is worse than your nightmares. It is a sad comme
ntary on my existence that I frequently get the opportunity to say things like that.
Our tunnel ended in a large cavernous chamber, out of which two paths exited, each cut through the far wall at different angles. A fork.
"Hmm," Trina said.
"Two paths diverged in a Boff, and I . . . “
"What?"
"Nevermind," I said, thinking.
Which to take? We couldn't afford a mistake, but there was no clue. I asked Ned; he had no idea and said so in extraordinarily colorful terms.
"We'll separate," I announced to Trina. “You take the left. I'll try the right."
"Are you nuts?"
"You want the right? Fine."
"We're going to separate?"
"Trina, dear, we have mere minutes, maybe far less, before they find us. If we split, we can cover twice as much as ground. Travel down your tunnel for no more than ten minutes - if you've found nothing by then, come back. If you find something sooner, come back. We'll meet right here."
The poor thing looked frightened. “You'll do fine," I counseled.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that. I'm worried about you."
"Oh," I said. Then I shrugged and trotted down my tunnel. I took a suck from my drinking tube, but hit the wrong button and shot stale coffee around the inside of my aspara-suit. No matter. Onward. With the fate of a planet hanging in the balance there was no time for personal hygiene.
The tunnel turned tight and dank and twisty, or, actually, tighter and danker and twistier. I was ignoring the musty side passages, hoping not to get lost, when it abruptly opened up into a huge chamber with walls so far away they were almost invisible. I kept moving forward, though Boffs were everywhere. Many of them were soaking in various pools. Others were arranged in clumps. Some were plainly soused. The postures and arrangements were a dead giveaway, I realized suddenly. By Jupiter's Great Spot! A cocktail party! At least none of the Boffs were even giving me a second look.
Correction. None, except one. That one was careering at me, trundling on those busy little finger-legs, transfixing me with a tripod yellow gaze. I picked up the pace of my shuffle, but it was no use. The new one had the angle on me; intercept was inevitable. At least he hadn't raised a cry yet. I steeled myself, waiting. Deep in the cavern there was so much green around me that I felt like a pea surrounded by soup.
My pursuer pulled abreast of me and a bevy of horrifying tentacles reached out from under a host of disgusting fleshy sheaves and grasped at me. Fondlingly. Pinkly. Grotesquely.
"Come here often?" leered what I suddenly realized was a lusty sprout.
"No!" I blurted.
"Me neither," agreed my new friend cheesily. “I am Ront."
"I am not interested," I replied, which seemed like a solid candidate for Biggest Understatement in Human History.
"But I am!" said Ront suavely. Ridges of mottled flesh above each eye waggled up and down.
"No!" I crackled. “My buds are dormant! Go away!"
Ront blanched, a sweep of pale green climbing up his dusky shaft.
"Go on! Scram! And take your pollen!" I repeated, feeling giddy and bold. I wasn't busted! I was only the object of a drunken Boff's lascivious attentions. Although which was worse wasn't clear.
"So rude!" Ront lamented. “What is the younger generation coming to? I wanted only a simple exchange of genetic material. But nooo-" at this point he made what had to be an obscene corkscrewing gesture with two intertwined tentacles, then turned and shuffled off, listing slightly. Fortunately he was hammered - squashed, perhaps. If he'd been sober, my insult might have provoked combat.
But it hadn't. I was feeling pretty good. I had survived yet another shimmerball from that fabulous spaceball pitcher, Fate. I should have known to recognize my optimism as a warning sign. But I didn't. Instead I floated on through the party, even finding myself tempted to put on a drinking display in the various tubs. I could show them a thing or two about sucking down syrup.
"Uh oh," said a low deep voice in my ear. Ned's voice, of course. “We have a problem," he said slowly.
My tentacles waved a Boffian salute to a general as I murmured, "I can't wait to hear this."
"The experimental morph-pack. The field generator is overheating."
That sounded, well, like more than a problem. It sounded like a disaster. But I remained calm while passing through the center of a loose group of young warriors. “Overheating? How bad is it?"
"Bad enough."
"'Bad enough'? By the ice crystals on Neptune's butt! How much longer will it last?" I started looking around for a refuge. There was nothing. Nada. Zip.
"If I don't do anything about it, about seventy seconds."
"Then do something about it, and quick, silicon-brain!" This last wasn't really fair - Ned's quantum computers were based on a host of materials, only some of which were bio-organic silicon.
Ned replied in a measured tone. “I need to shut it down to see if I can re-route the circuit."
Shut it down? Shut it down?
"Then I won't look like a Boff!" Around me lurked hundreds of large, nasty Boffs. They would doubtless express their dismay with a human in their midst in a variety of interestingly eviscerative ways.
"Not for several minutes, you won't. But if I don't fix this, you'll never look like one again."
Great Zot! I was about to court disaster once again! "O.K. Just wait until I'm clear of this bunch of critters."
"Can't," Ned said. “The damage will be irreparable in thirty seconds."
I would need at least two minutes to clear the huge crowded chamber. I turned away from the entrance and plunged deeper into the cavern.
"Ned," I said calmly, "I believe you have a death wish."
I made a hard turn through the swirling crowd, ignoring the drunken sprouts happily soaking in their tubs. I again felt a minor urge to show them some real soaking, but restrained myself. It wouldn't have the right impact, when my Boff suit snapped away in mid-soak.
Straight ahead, in front of the entire assembly of Boffs, appeared a tall urine-yellow curtain. Why oh why was everything on Boff so reminiscent of excretion? But it was the only cover; whatever was behind that curtain, it couldn't be worse than a thousand Boffs. Unless, Ned suggested, it was two thousand Boffs.
I snuck around the side and found myself in a dark alcove, which bore a set of odd protuberances on the walls.
No, not protuberances. Heads. The large, quite misshapen, and completely dead heads of various overgrown and nasty creatures, dripping teeth, horns, fangs, venom projectors, spine throwers, chem sprayers, and all manner of other hi-how-are-yas.
But what really got my attention was what stood below the heads, front and center in the alcove. Whole creatures. And not just from Boff - dead examples of creatures from two dozen planets were here, in crudely stitched, clumsily-taxidermied glory. With dismay I saw a human, an old gray-haired man with a roughly sewn incision crossing his neck where whatever stuffing was used had been inserted.
The curtain rustled. I could hear a sudden murmur of anticipation from the crowd, then silence. A whole new kind of bad feeling settled over me.
"Perfect!" Ned exulted. “Hold still!"
"Not with a bunch of corpses, no thanks," I said. My skin crawled, just a little bit, at the thought that I might very well end up in this very room, for eternity. Where, I wondered, would they put me? In a position of honor? Or hidden in a corner? And in what pose? I could see that the Boffs preferred to mold their victims into frozen positions of terror, mouths or breathers agape, arms akimbo. It was an odd feeling, like previewing your own grave. A bit damp, but I suppose it will do. You don't have anything a bit further from the ice machine? No? Very well, then.
"You can either stand here with a bunch of corpses, or be one," Ned advised. “Of course, I wouldn't rule out both."
"Of course you wouldn't." And then a moment later I was myself again. Two arms, two legs, one decidedly monkey-style body.
The crowd
hushed. The curtain started to rise.
"Oops," Ned said.
Great Zot! It was an unveiling! I decided Ned was right and instantly became a living statue. Unfortunately I ended up staring into the old man's face, and couldn't help wondering how he had ended up here. No doubt it had been thoroughly unpleasant, with the singular and rather unsatisfying irony that the situation had only gotten steadily worse, and then finally flat-lined at absolute zero, right here.
The curtain fully retracted, revealing my grim companions and I. The crowd gasped and murmured in appreciation. Ned pulled in a few bits of conversation. “Oh, Kurl, they are wonderful. You really caught them yourself?" I overheard.
"Oh, yes, most of them."
"Do the lansies put up much of fight?"
"Only at first. But I know how to handle them. Har har."
"Oh! So brave! What about the Cygnans?"
"I kill them by the vat," replied Kurl. He went on about his exploits at painful length; he was apparently the hunter - the artist, rather - who had constructed this gallery, which to the Boffs was high art. It was something like a Japanese rock garden, only here you had to kill the rocks.
My body began to ache; one of my arms was in the air, before my face, in the preferred position of horror. My biceps began to throb. Kurl went on and on.
"Oh my," Ned murmured.
"What is it?" I subvocalized with as much urgency as I could manage. Which actually was quite a lot. I knew that at least a thousand Boffs were staring at me. That meant three thousand swamp-yellow Boff eyes.
"It's worse than I thought. This is going to take a bit longer."
My arm burned with fire. “How much longer?"
"A while. Try to be patient, Court."
Oh, easy for him to say. It wasn't his arm that was sticking up-
"Do you want me to take over and lift that arm for you?" he cut in. “I'd be happy to. I could trigger a customized rigor-spasm that will lock it tight."
"Absolutely not. You know that's off limits." That was our deal; nevertheless, Ned always tried to get his mind on my body. “But what about Trina?" I lamented. Maybe splitting up had been a mistake - she was critical to the mission, and now she would be on her own for far longer than I had intended. We would miss our rendezvous. What would she do? Where would I find her? Would I find her?
The Blue Marble Gambit Page 16
