Jim Baen’s Universe

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Jim Baen’s Universe Page 16

by Edited by Eric Flint


  Valdez me­owed with ple­asu­re from the re­ar of the truck.

  Brie lo­oked away from the fla­ming bo­at in ti­me to see a lan­d­s­li­de swe­ep ac­ross the ro­ad in the block ahe­ad. So­me­one’s split-le­vel ranch ro­de the mo­ving earth li­ke a drun­ken cow­boy on a de­mon bron­co.

  From Big Red to the sli­de, bra­ke lights flas­hed. Be­fo­re bloc­ked traf­fic loc­ked her in, she bac­ked up and he­aded down a si­de stre­et. A block la­ter, a hu­ge sin­k­ho­le stop­ped her. A bro­ken ma­in gus­hed wa­ter from the ho­le. Brie co­uld just ma­ke out the wrec­ked sha­pe of a lit­tle whi­te hat­c­h­back un­der the um­b­rel­la of spray. A man with a cell pho­ne to his ear sto­od ne­ar the ho­le.

  Brie pul­led com­p­le­tely off the ro­ad on­to a dirt la­ne. Val­dez jum­ped in­to her lap and lic­ked milk from his paws. “I ho­pe ever­yo­ne’s okay,” she sa­id. As tho­ugh he he­ard her, the man po­in­ted at his pho­ne and wa­ved her off with a thumbs up.

  “Sweet god­dess, Val­dez,” she sa­id. “The who­le city’s ha­ving tro­ub­les. We ne­ed to get our smi­les out the­re.” Brie lo­oked aro­und. The dirt la­ne di­sap­pe­ared in­to the sha­dows of a blo­oming cherry or­c­hard. She in­ha­led frag­rant air and smi­led. “I know this pla­ce. This is Ida Chap­man’s or­c­hard. I hel­ped her pick du­ring high scho­ol.” She la­ug­hed, put Big Red in ge­ar, and he­aded for the equ­ip­ment exit at the far si­de of the fa­mi­li­ar ma­ze of pink tre­es and dirt la­nes. “Val­dez,” she sa­id, “Ida’s hel­ping us de­li­ver smi­les. To­night, we burn a can­d­le for her.”

  With a lit­tle bo­un­cing and jos­t­ling and a few qu­ick swer­ves, she and Val­dez ma­na­ged to re­ach the Le­eman bu­il­ding. The­re, a crew of hard-fa­ced stre­et wor­kers cor­do­ned off her nor­mal ap­pro­ach. She he­aded aro­und the block to en­ter the lot from the ot­her si­de.

  ****

  Alan yel­led, “Mo­re, dam­mit!”

  Only sta­tic res­pon­ded. He’d used all his adj­us­t­ments. Brie’s num­ber was ri­sing fast. He chec­ked the win­dow.

  To his hor­ror, two uni­for­med EMTs ran from the bu­il­ding and jum­ped in the­ir truck. Lights flas­hed. The si­ren wa­iled, and the truck was go­ne.

  Alan chec­ked his scre­en. When Brie’s num­ber hit 99, he scre­amed, grab­bed his keys, and sprin­ted for the do­or. He threw the bolt, rip­ped open the do­or and ram­med in­to Mor­gan. “Lo­ok out!”

  “Stop!” Mor­gan grab­bed for him. “Doc, let her go! We’re part of this.”

  Alan twis­ted away and ran down the sta­irs. Si­de cram­ped and short of bre­ath, Alan hit the lot run­ning. In spi­te of fo­ur hun­d­red dol­lars worth of cof­fee, a small crowd wa­ited for Brie’s truck. He sho­ved past them, glan­cing in the di­rec­ti­on of the­ir glassy sta­res. The red truck was he­ading for the lot en­t­ran­ce.

  Alan ran to his car, jum­ped in, fi­red it up, and ra­ced to­ward Brie’s spot. The crowd scat­te­red. Alan skid­ded in­to the par­king spa­ce.

  Morgan sto­od at his front bum­per, sha­king his he­ad, dre­ad­locks dus­ting back and forth ac­ross his sho­ul­ders.

  In his re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror, Alan saw the ri­di­cu­lo­us red truck with a black no­se slo­wing to en­ter the lot. He co­uld see the ditzy smi­le on Bri­e­an­na’s ob­li­vi­o­us fa­ce.

  Morgan ca­me aro­und to the dri­ver’s win­dow. Alan rol­led it down.

  Morgan sho­ok his he­ad. “You bet­ter mo­ve, Doc.”

  “I did it!” Alan sa­id tri­um­p­hantly. He held up his wrist to show Mor­gan his watch. “7:29! Q has eno­ugh da­ta. It’s not pre­ci­se, but an ap­pro­xi­ma­ti­on is bet­ter than not­hing.”

  “I don’t know what-”

  “Give it up, Ras­ta-boy! I win!”

  “Win what?”

  “I’m go­ing back to Li­ver­mo­re!” Alan’s la­ugh was shrill and giddy. “I’m cal­ling Marg, ta­king her to din­ner, and flying to Ka­u­ai.” He re­ac­hed for the pho­ne on his dash.

  It rang.

  “Don’t an­s­wer it,” Mor­gan sa­id.

  Alan’s hand sho­ok. He lif­ted the re­ce­iver.

  A wo­man’s vo­ice sa­id, “Alan?”

  “Marg?” He smi­led and win­ked at Mor­gan. “I was abo­ut to call you.”

  “I’ve be­en in an ac­ci­dent.”

  His grip tig­h­te­ned on the pho­ne. “Whe­re are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m at the air­port. I wan­ted to say go­od­b­ye.”

  “I don’t un­der­s­tand.”

  “A wa­ter ma­in bro­ke. I dro­ve in­to a hu­ge ho­le. I had the pic­tu­res of yo­ur lo­ver. I didn’t ha­ve ti­me to chan­ge. I was so­aked. I was co­ming-”

  “My what?”

  “I didn’t un­der­s­tand un­til I met Bran­don.”

  “Who?”

  “Brandon Wol­fe, my EMT. He pul­led me out of the car. He ga­ve me his fi­re co­at and a cup of cof­fee. His lit­tle sis­ter ma­kes the best cof­fee.”

  “There was a fi­re?”

  “I can’t help it. I lo­ve him. I sup­po­se it’s li­ke you and yo­ur bim­bo. An­y­way, fa­ir is fa­ir. We’re using yo­ur tic­kets. Got an ear­li­er flight. We le­ave in a half ho­ur.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s so ro­man­tic! He qu­it his job to go. He’s so spon­ta­ne­o­us, so pas­si­ona­te. He just se­ems to mo­ve with the flow of things.” She pa­used. Wet so­unds ca­me from the pho­ne. Then, bre­at­h­less, she sa­id, “It didn’t se­em right to not say go­od­b­ye. No hard fe­elings, Alan. I re­al­ly do ho­pe you and yo­ur… yo­ur wha­te­ver, are happy.”

  Alan’s vi­si­on dar­ke­ned at the ed­ges. The pho­ne was cold in his hand. “Marg,” he whis­pe­red. “You don’t un­der­s­tand.”

  “We tri­ed, Alan. This is for the best. We’re both free. Alo­ha.” The li­ne went de­ad.

  Thirty mi­nu­tes. He co­uld ma­ke it. He drop­ped the pho­ne, bur­ned rub­ber in re­ver­se, then flo­ored it for the stre­et. At 7:29 and thirty se­conds, he pas­sed a lum­be­ring, red blur and ra­ced away to­ward the air­port.

  ****

  At Big Red’s win­dow, Mor­gan stro­ked Val­dez’s neck whi­le Brie ste­amed milk, her smi­ling, blue eyes twin­k­ling with na­tu­ral ma­gic.

  The ste­amer fell si­lent and she han­ded him his lat­te.

  “Thanks,” he sa­id.

  She slip­ped her ha­ir back over her sho­ul­der then held up a cho­co­la­te-co­ve­red cof­fee be­an. “Free for my fa­vo­ri­te re­gu­lar, Mor­gan. You al­ways smi­le, and you ne­ver miss a day.”

  “You’re a con­s­tant in my li­fe too, Brie.” Sud­denly shy, he as­ked, “Brie?”

  “No be­an?”

  Morgan to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. The min­g­ling scents of eucal­y­p­tus in­cen­se, cof­fee, and cherry blos­soms bra­ced him. “A fri­end’s pla­ying ba­njo at a club dow­n­town. I won­de­red-”

  “Of co­ur­se,” she sa­id. “But I ha­ve to be ho­me by ten. A lot de­pends on me get­ting up early.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Mor­gan ope­ned his mo­uth. Brie la­ug­hed and put the be­an gently on his ton­gue.

  Bob’s Yeti Problem

  Lawrence Person

  One mor­ning Bob Krus­den step­ped out­si­de his ca­bin to dis­co­ver three ye­ti car­cas­ses em­bed­ded in his front yard.

  He was pretty su­re they we­re ye­ti rat­her than big­fe­et, as the­ir pelts we­re a han­d­so­me sil­ver-whi­te rat­her than brown. Two of them we­re se­mi-na­ked, we­aring only so­me sort of we­ird lo­in­c­loth and ban­do­le­er ar­ran­ge­ment, whi­le the third wo­re what se­emed to be a dull brown uni­form. All three we­re suf­fe­ring from what Bob had le­ar­ned to des­c­ri­be, du­ring his three se­asons wri­ting for St. James Stre­et, as “mas­si�
�ve blunt tra­uma.” Two we­re plan­ted fa­ce down a go­od half-fo­ot in­to the pi­ne-ne­ed­le co­ve­red lo­am out­si­de his ca­bin, and the one in uni­form se­emed to ha­ve co­me down on top of the ot­hers. All three had bro­ken limbs and we­re sur­ro­un­ded by co­pi­o­us qu­an­ti­ti­es of dri­ed blo­od.

  Bob was, to say the le­ast, sur­p­ri­sed. Tho­ugh it had be­en get­ting clo­se to dusk, he was su­re the­re had be­en no de­ad ye­ti in front of his ca­bin when he had co­me ho­me from his af­ter­no­on hi­ke the day be­fo­re. From the lo­oks of things, they had fal­len from a gre­at he­ight so­me­ti­me du­ring the night wit­ho­ut him wa­king. That didn’t sur­p­ri­se him. Trish, his ex-wi­fe, had al­ways sa­id he co­uld sle­ep thro­ugh an air-ra­id si­ren. Cer­ta­inly he had slept thro­ugh her lo­ading up the­ir dow­n­s­ta­irs fur­ni­tu­re and le­aving di­vor­ce pa­pers on the pil­low.

  When he had ren­ted the ca­bin for the sum­mer, he was pretty su­re the re­al es­ta­te agent hadn’t men­ti­oned any ye­ti, de­ad or ot­her­wi­se. Mo­re­over, the fact that ye­ti we­re ge­ne­ral­ly tho­ught of as mytho­lo­gi­cal cre­atu­res, and ones na­ti­ve to the Hi­ma­la­yas rat­her than the Roc­ki­es, me­rely he­ig­h­te­ned the odd na­tu­re of the si­tu­ati­on.

  Bob won­de­red what to do. He had co­me up to Co­lo­ra­do to spend ti­me cran­king out scre­en­p­lays far from Hol­lywo­od’s cla­mo­ring Ba­bel, and had al­re­ady fi­nis­hed two with a third in prog­ress. De­aling with cyrpto­zo­olo­gi­cal re­ma­ins wasn’t part of the plan.

  He fi­nal­ly de­ci­ded to he­ad on in­to town. Ed might know if an­y­t­hing li­ke this had hap­pe­ned be­fo­re and who he sho­uld con­tact. Be­si­des, he was out of cor­n­f­la­kes.

  ****

  Bob pul­led up in front of Ed’s Ge­ne­ral Sto­re, Hun­ting Em­po­ri­um and In­ter­net Caf. Ed Rid­ley was a man of many ta­lents, most of which in­vol­ved avo­iding re­al work. The ge­ne­ral sto­re por­ti­on of the bu­si­ness of­fe­red stap­les at only mo­de­ra­tely usu­ri­o­us pri­ces, whi­le the hun­ting supply por­ti­on sold lu­res, ba­it, ro­pes, hand-war­mers, am­mo, etc. for a go­od three to fi­ve ti­mes what you wo­uld pay at yo­ur lo­cal spor­ting go­ods sto­re. The In­ter­net caf con­sis­ted of fo­ur For­mi­ca tab­les with old, bat­te­red iMacs ho­oked up to a lan­d­li­ne up­lo­ad and sa­tel­li­te dow­n­lo­ad for a prin­cely $10 an ho­ur (one ho­ur mi­ni­mum), mostly for hun­ters who wan­ted to send E-ma­il or check the­ir stocks. But the­se days Ed’s big­gest cyber­s­pa­ce ven­tu­re was swap­ping de­er and elk le­ases on­li­ne, le­aving the sto­re’s ac­tu­al grunt work to his sul­len te­ena­ge son, Mi­ke, who was busy stoc­king cans of be­ans when Bob ca­me in.

  “Hi, Mi­ke,” sa­id Bob. “Ni­ce day to­day.”

  “Yeah, wha­te­ver,” sa­id Mi­ke, not lo­oking up.

  Ed nod­ded at him from the co­un­ter as he pas­sed, crad­ling his pho­ne with his sho­ul­der and typing in­to his lap­top with the ot­her. “Three for Sa­tur­day night? Ye­ah, I think I can ar­ran­ge that,” he sa­id.

  Bob drif­ted aro­und the shop, pic­king up a box of cor­n­f­la­kes, a gal­lon of milk, a do­zen eggs, a lo­af of bre­ad, a can of Fol­gers, and a fo­ur-pack of to­ilet pa­per. By the ti­me he bro­ught it up to the re­gis­ter, Ed was off the pho­ne.

  “That’ll do ya?” as­ked Ed, run­ning a scan­ning wand over the items.

  “Yeah. Say, Ed, you ever see any ye­ti up the­se parts?”

  “Yeti?” he as­ked un­cer­ta­inly.

  “Yeah, you know, ye­ti, abo­mi­nab­le snow­men, big­fo­ot…”

  “Oh. Big­fo­ot! Ye­ah, we had our­sel­ves a lit­tle big­fo­ot bo­om down in Sil­ver­ton aro­und 1977, 1978 or so, whe­ne­ver they had that big­fo­ot on The Six Mil­li­on Dol­lar Man. Sin­ce then I can’t re­al­ly re­call too many sig­h­tings. Most of our cra­zi­es see sa­ucers or black he­li­cop­ters the­se days.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’m crazy, but this mor­ning I fo­und three de­ad ye­ti out in front of my ca­bin.”

  Ed stop­ped scan­ning. “Ye­ti?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Three of ‘em?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dead?”

  “Oh, ye­ah. Lo­oks li­ke they had fal­len a long way be­fo­re smac­king in­to the gro­und.”

  Ed scrat­c­hed his he­ad, then fi­nis­hed bag­ging Bob’s gro­ce­ri­es. “Can’t say as I ever he­ard abo­ut an­yo­ne fin­ding any de­ad big­fo­ots aro­und he­re.”

  “Well, I think the­se are mo­re ye­ti than big­fo­ot. They’ve got sil­ver pelts.”

  Ed nod­ded sa­gely, as tho­ugh an­yo­ne knew what co­lor ye­ti pelts we­re. “Well, I’d tell you call She­riff Par­ker, but he’s in Pu­eb­lo get­ting his gal­lblad­der out. That’ll be $18.46.”

  Bob fis­hed a twenty out of his wal­let. As Ed was ma­king chan­ge he had anot­her tho­ught. “Say, do you sup­po­se ye­ti are an en­dan­ge­red spe­ci­es?”

  “I wo­uld sup­po­se so, sin­ce no one ever fo­und a de­ad one be­fo­re.”

  “Well, may­be you bet­ter talk to the EPA then. I’ve got a card from one in Den­ver, a Me­lis­sa Spe­ed. She han­ded ‘em out when she was po­king aro­und he­re abo­ut that spit­ting tree spi­der thing.” Ed to­re off his re­ce­ipt and wro­te the pho­ne num­ber down on the back. “He­re, you might gi­ve her a call and see what she thinks.”

  Bob la­id the gro­ce­ri­es on the flo­or­bo­ard and fis­hed his pho­ne out of the Ex­p­lo­rer’s glo­ve com­par­t­ment. He kept it the­re for the sa­me re­ason he had era­sed the In­ter­net sof­t­wa­re from his lap­top: so he co­uld ac­tu­al­ly get so­me work do­ne. He de­le­ted the wa­iting pho­ne spam and di­aled the num­ber Ed had gi­ven him.

  “EPA fi­eld of­fi­ce, Me­lis­sa Spe­ed spe­aking.”

  “Uh, Ms. Spe­ed, I ha­ve a prob­lem, and I’m not su­re if you’re the right per­son to talk to.” He star­ted out­li­ning the si­tu­ati­on.

  “Yeti?” she in­ter­rup­ted. “This bet­ter not be a prank call! We can tra­ce yo­ur pho­ne num­ber, you know!”

  “No, it’s no prank! I’ve got three de­ad ye­tis in front of my ca­bin, and I don’t know what to do.”

  After Ms. Spe­ed war­ned him that she co­uld ha­ve him in ja­il so fast it wo­uld ma­ke his he­ad spin for fil­ling a fal­se re­port, she had fi­nal­ly ag­re­ed to dri­ve down that af­ter­no­on.

  As he dro­ve back to the ca­bin, Bob felt a sen­se of re­li­ef that the who­le in­ci­dent was go­ing to be re­sol­ved so­on. It had oc­cur­red to him that he co­uld ha­ve sold the story to the Na­ti­onal En­qu­irer, but Bob ha­ted the tab­lo­ids, ha­ving se­en them lie abo­ut a few of his ac­ting fri­ends. He was al­so wary of any pub­li­city for him­self rat­her than his scre­en­p­lays. Bob was short, over­we­ight, bal­ding and wo­re glas­ses, and knew he lo­oked hor­rib­le on ca­me­ra. The few ti­mes he had ap­pe­ared on TV (right af­ter his first, as thus far only, Os­car no­mi­na­ti­on), he was sur­p­ri­sed at how un­p­le­asantly na­sal his vo­ice so­un­ded. When you ca­me right down to it, he was a mo­de­ra­tely shy per­son, and the idea of ap­pe­aring on Da­te­li­ne or the eve­ning news fil­led him with a cer­ta­in low-key ter­ror.

  However, his sen­se of re­li­ef was short-li­ved. When he got back to his ca­bin, he saw that the­re we­re now fo­ur de­ad ye­ti in his front yard.

  ****

  Speed was a frumpy, over­we­ight wo­man with frizzy brown ha­ir and the de­eply in­g­ra­ined frown of the Per­ma­nently Di­sap­pro­ving.

  “This bet­ter not be a wild go­ose cha­se, Mr. Krus­den!” she war­ned, eye­ing him sus­pi­ci­o­usly. “Whe­re are the­se three ye­ti you tal­ked abo­ut?”

  “Uh, fo­ur, ac­tu­al­ly, and-”

&nbs
p; “Four? You told me the­re we­re three! Did you kill anot­her one?”

  “No, uh, I didn’t kill any of them. This one se­ems to ha­ve fal­len from the sky li­ke the rest.”

  “Fallen from the sky? Do you re­al­ly ex­pect me to be­li­eve that?”

  “And I drag­ged the bo­di­es over he­re to the si­de of the ca­bin so I co­uld get in wit­ho­ut ha­ving to walk aro­und them. Plus they we­re star­ting to smell.”

  “Don’t you know what sort of-” Spe­ed stop­ped, lo­oking at the fo­ur de­ad ye­tis la­id out by the si­de of Bob’s ca­bin, then slowly re­ac­hed down to to­uch one of them. Af­ter a few mi­nu­tes of pul­ling at the­ir ha­ir and ope­ning the­ir gla­zed eyes, she sto­od up.

  “They are ye­ti, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I was trying to tell you.”

  “I ne­ed to ta­ke a Hal­dol,” she sa­id.

  ****

  It to­ok Bob a few mi­nu­tes to brew cof­fee, du­ring which Spe­ed ra­ged in­to her pho­ne at va­ri­o­us ot­her go­ver­n­ment fun­c­ti­ona­ri­es, bar­king or­ders and ma­king de­mands. When the cof­fee was re­ady, Bob han­ded her a mug.

  “Thanks,” she sa­id briskly, swal­lo­wing a pill and cha­sing it with the cof­fee. “Wit­ho­ut my Hal­dol, I get un­p­le­asant.” She went back to her pho­ne. “No I don’t want him to call me to­mor­row, I want him to call me right now!”

  After anot­her twenty mi­nu­tes of ha­ran­gu­ing ot­her bu­re­a­uc­rats and pa­cing back and forth ac­ross his ca­bin flo­or, Spe­ed fi­nal­ly rang off and put her pho­ne away. “Well, that’s fi­nal­ly set­tled,” she sa­id. “The FBI will be he­re to se­cu­re the sce­ne in an ho­ur or so.”

 

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