Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

Next morning, after a quick hot bath, we suit up and get ready to head back to T’ree Forks.

  Having once again cleared the planet of Centrists, Spud has Sky fly his hopper out to the Bar None Ranch to pick us up.

  “Breakin’ the wilderness rules is gettin’ to be a habit,” I comment.

  Spud takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly, “Fortunately, I only got the one brother who is still a teenager.”

  “Yeah, that’s the end of your problems,” I say, “‘cause teenage girls never get in trouble.”

  Spud looks daggers at me and says, “I was tryin’ not to think about that ‘un. And then there’s them two who ain’t teenagers yet.”

  “There’s more of you?” I ask.

  “Yep, the young’uns are off travelin’ with Pa,” says Spud.

  We are all standing out in the pasture as Sky lands. After a quick hello, we hop aboard.

  As we climb to altitude, I notice Buzz looking out the window at the passing ground.

  “Now Buzz, if you see any white animals keep yore trap shut,” I say. “If we tell Wolf that we have spotted a white spirit animal from a’ aircraft, he will likely get grouchy.”

  Buzz looks like he is surrounded by an alien species. Which he is.

  Wolf gives me a mock gruff look.

  Spud says, “Not to worry Buzz, inside joke. You see any unusual animals tell me, I wanna see ‘em too.”

  “You are very much unlike the humans at Oxford.”

  “We’s cowboys,” says Spud. “Different species entirely, we like to say.”

  “Pfft,” says Sky. “Not me, I’m educated. I went to flight school.”

  “I expect thet’s not nothin’ like Oxford,” says Spud. “Buzz here went to Oxford on that Brit planet. Listen to him talk. Seems like his and the Bridbury’s way of talkin’ is way different than ours.”

  “In actual fact, we know a lot of words, we just prefer to talk cowboy,” I tell Buzz. “It’s Wolf here, no one understands him.”

  “Hmph, Wolf speak truth. Plain truth.”

  “And we love ya fer it, brother,” says Spud.

  Eventually we run out of rude things to say to each other and sit quietly, lost in our own thoughts.

  “Okay, how about this?” I ask. “We are not from Earth, though our ancestors are Earthkind. Humankind started on Earth. Right? Now, wait a sec,” I hold up a hand, “bear with me. Humankind left Earth…”

  “Had to,” says Sky.

  I nod and continue, “…and moved to other planets. I mean, had to leave or not, we are all on new planets now. We are Earth humans, but were born and raised on not human planets. Ya with me so far?”

  I see a few noncommittal, maybe just plain bored, looks.

  “Are we all extraterrestrials now? We are not from Earth, though our ancestors were Earthkind, born and bred.”

  I glance around.

  “I’m seein’ a lot of puzzled looks here,” I say. Maybe a bit puzzled myself. Why I asked.

  “If I may venture an opinion?” asks Buzz.

  “Go fer it, partner,” says Spud.

  “It may be unpopular. One would hope that you won’t harbor bad feelings. Or feel the need to end me.”

  “No worries, cowhands are a’ open minded bunch, fer the most part,” I say.

  “On Bãngh, we …”

  “Bãngh?” says Sky, surprised. His face gets pale and he drops the yoke.

  The puddle jumper goes into a dive. Spud, who is in the right seat, grabs the copilot yoke and pulls us up.

  “Easy, Sky.”

  “Shit,” says Sky, turning to look at Buzz, wide eyed. “You’ve been to Bãngh? Damn. I hear those primitive savages grill up humans and eat them for breakfast. Like to dip them in ketchup. Naked gruesome savages, they say. How did you survive?”

  “Sheer exaggeration, my dear fellow. Bãngh is a friendly planet. I never saw a human eaten during my entire sojourn there,” says Buzz.

  “Wow, that’s a relief,” says Sky, shaking his head. “Rumors, huh? But they ain’t just a story like them Wookies? There really are Bãngh?”

  ”Yes,” says Buzz dryly, keeping his Bãnghness to himself. Then he continues, “As I was saying. We found the local Bãngh population to believe that they are a much more civilized and enlightened people than Earthkind.

  “The Bãngh story says that a ship of Norsemen left Earth during Earth’s twentieth century and settled on the planet Bãngh. They were an intellectual elite. They designed and built a ship in order to search out a new home. They set out to start their own civilization, a utopian society, as was popular in the lore of the time. They worked hard and thrived on the new planet. They created a peaceful, egalitarian world.

  The saga of Bãngh says that the Norse were gods. On the new planet they were isolated from the rest of Earthkind for hundreds of years. In the course of time, they believe that they evolved into much more intelligent beings. They also had the advantage of a sparsely populated planet. There were plenty of resources for all. Until there is not enough to go around, there is somewhat less pressure for violence. Bãngh had no war. And no armies, which showed an unbelievable lack of foresight. The Bãngh were not ready when the Centrists came.

  “Still, Bãngh believe that they are the only group in all the Cosmos which is exceptionally, supremely intelligent.”

  I breathe quietly.

  Buzz nods his head and says, “Many humans think that Bãngh, if they actually exist, must be stupid. Bãngh are not quite human, therefore they can’t be smart. Only humans can. Of course in this quadrant most believe that Bãngh are but a myth. Not unlike Reavers or Klingons.”

  “I reckon ever’one wants to be the first and the best,” I say.

  “Human and Bãngh were all originally human and interbred on Old Earth,” says Buzz. “Unless the old stories are not myths and Bãngh, as descendants of the Norsemen, are indeed gods. While humankind are mere mortals. In any case, the Bãngh are only to be considered as aliens because of our early emigration from that Earth. They too are Earth born.”

  “Yeah? Wow,” I say. “Who knows.”

  Buzz says nothing. Then nods to himself and says quietly to me, “Besides, were I to eat a human, I would use mustard.”

  Sense of humor, I like that.

  “Mustard?” I say. “Yuck.”

  “My head hurts,” says Spud.

  “How did you do at Oxford?” I ask.

  “First in class,” says Buzz.

  “Wow.” Maybe those powers Sir Jacob spoke of are true.

  Wolf just laughs.

  “Rockians? Rockkind? Rockers?” I wonder aloud. “Triassicans? Dynomites? Hey, I like it, we who hail from the dinosaur planets are Dynomites! And folks from Bãngh would be called Bãnghers.”

  I look around. Nothing. Why is no one ever listening when I have an ideological, or is it grammatical, breakthrough?

  “Michael will appreciate it. He is already dynamite,” I muse, to the air.

  24 The Worst