Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  The thing ope­ned its mo­uth. The wrong way, li­ke a ver­ti­cal slash. The in­si­de was wa­ter­me­lon-pink, full of tom­b­s­to­ne te­eth. Oran­ge tom­b­s­to­nes. Glo­wing even in the mo­on­light.

  “Candy- blossom?” it sa­id. Or that is what I tho­ught it sa­id, an­y­way. It so­un­ded li­ke one of tho­se wind-chi­me ma­go­di­es that that lan­g­ha­ar by the be­ach sells. What was the word he used aga­in? Oh, Ja. Mel­lif­lu­o­us. Mel­lif­lu­o­us with just a lit­tle bit of lost-child des­pa­ir.

  Nothing that lo­oks li­ke a cross bet­we­en a nig­h­t­ma­re and tra­in-smash sho­uld spe­ak li­ke that. Not even to an old po­ac­her. My bag of il­le­gal spiny lob­s­ter twit­c­hed whe­re it lay on the sand.

  The cre­atu­re jum­ped li­ke a star­t­led rab­bit. He po­in­ted the thing in his - hand? - at the bag and bac­ked off. I was happy he was po­in­ting it at the bugs. I didn’t know what a set of se­mi-see-th­ro­ugh rods in the­se mo­dern day­g­lo-fas­hi­on-de­sign co­lors did. But so­met­hing abo­ut the thing sa­id “gun.”

  A spiny lob­s­ter stuck out a fe­eler and went “ eer­rrrrk.” A bleddy scary no­ise in the qu­i­et, if I say it myself. The thing cro­uc­hed and aimed the gun-go­ody, wa­iting. Hey, the bugs co­uld ma­ke a sud­den mo­ve and find out if it was a ci­ga­ret­te ven­ding-mac­hi­ne or not. Me, I was out of he­re.

  I ten­sed myself to ma­ke the dash. Just a few se­conds and I’d be go­ne be­hind that big gray gra­ni­te bo­ul­der. And then I’d be away. I’d sne­aked aro­und the­se gra­ni­te bricks and scrubby fynbos for thirty ye­ars. If the bleddy army co­uldn’t catch me, then furry fe­eler-fa­ce Can­dy-blos­som hadn’t a chan­ce.

  Suddenly my ears pic­ked up a fa­mi­li­ar so­und. One I was used to lis­te­ning for.

  Put- put… Pat­rol bo­at.

  Old Can­dy-blos­som he­ard it too. His fo­ur eyes ne­arly bug­ged out. And then, from up the hill, we he­ard a ra­dio-crac­k­le.

  Shit. Not even to sa­ve my li­fe from this ali­en thing was I go­ing to be ca­ught he­re! That bleddy ma­gis­t­ra­at at Vre­den­burg wo­uldn’t gi­ve a damn how I’d be­en ca­ught this ti­me…

  “Candy- blossom? En­ku?”

  I didn’t ha­ve to be a min­d­re­ader to un­der­s­tand the ali­en. It was just as sca­red of be­ing ca­ught as I was. And I’d bet “Enku” me­ant ple­ase.

  “Oh, bug­ger it. Ja. Co­me.” I pic­ked up the bag.

  It sto­od, lo­oking bleddy pat­he­tic.

  “Man! He­re­tj­ie-tog, fol­low me, dam­mit.”

  It still didn’t mo­ve, just ma­de a mi­se­rab­le lit­tle “ee­ep!ting” so­und. The pat­rol-bo­at was get­ting clo­ser.

  “ Ag! Can­dy-blos­som.”

  “Candy- blossom?”

  “ Ja, all right then, bleddy Can­dy-blos­som. Now co­me.”

  It did.

  ****

  Down he­re on this patch of be­ach the­re was no co­ver, un­less you co­un­ted the pi­les of half-dry was­hed-up kelp. I’d got myself ca­ught on­ce be­fo­re, hi­ding in one of tho­se pi­les. The bleddy pat­rol had stop­ped and sat down on the rock next to my pi­le for a smo­ke-bre­ak. The bug­gers we­re par­king off may­be three fe­et from whe­re I was lying un­der that stin­king kelp. They didn’t ha­ve a clue that I was lying the­re with a stre­ep­sak of per­le­mo­en and tho­se dam­ned kelp- gog­gas craw­ling all over me. Ai. It still ma­kes me gril just thin­king abo­ut it. Even­tu­al­ly I just had to scratch, even if it me­ant get­ting ca­ught.

  I wasn’t do­ing that aga­in.

  Up the slo­pe was mostly tho­se big gra­ni­te bo­ul­ders and scrubby lit­tle re­nos­ter­bos­si­es. Not an easy pla­ce to hi­de but al­so dam­ned ne­ar im­pos­sib­le to ke­ep a skir­mish-li­ne pat­rol in con­tact with each ot­her.

  You co­uld he­ar the dumb tro­eps vlo­eking the­ir way thro­ugh the bus­hes. Hell. The­re must ha­ve be­en a co­up­le of hun­d­red of them up the­re. This wasn’t just a pat­rol out lo­oking for old Pi­et Ge­el po­ac­hing in the mi­li­tary re­ser­ve aga­in. They must be out lo­oking for Can­dy-blos­som he­re. Lo­oking for him se­ri­o­usly.

  I’d be­en won­de­ring if I’d do­ne so­met­hing re­al­ly stu­pid. May­be I sho­uld gi­ve this mon­s­ter to them. I me­an he was… an ali­en. Li­ke from the X-fi­les, on the te­evee down at Min­na’s pla­ce. But they sho­uldn’t ha­ve co­me se­ar­c­hing for him li­ke that, not with half the bleddy Mi­li­tary Aca­demy out af­ter him. That got me mad. I’d had them lo­oking for me be­fo­re. Right now old Can­dy-blos­som and me we­re up the sa­me dam­ned cre­ek. I’d get him away, then, may­be…

  There was a lit­tle vlei just up the hill in a bit of a flat-patch the­re. The wa­ter is the co­lor of ro­o­ibos tea that’s be­en bo­iled for two ho­urs, with this red-brown scum on it. At the de­epest it is just over knee-de­ep, and it’s full of pla­tan­nas and wa­ter­b­lom­me­tj­i­es. I pul­led old Can­dy-blos­som out in­to it, and ma­de him lie down in bet­we­en the lily-le­aves. Then, pul­led a co­up­le of them over him and put one on his fa­ce. I lay down next to him, with a le­af on my fa­ce, too.

  I he­ard them splash in the shal­low wa­ter. Co­uldn’t he­ar what they we­re sa­ying, be­ca­use my ears we­re un­der­wa­ter, but I know tro­eps. The­re hasn’t be­en a tro­ep born that is go­ing to walk in­to the wa­ter de­eper than half-way up his bo­ots, if he gets that wet. Not on a win­ter’s night, that’s for su­re. All I had to worry abo­ut was that the­re’d be so­me snot­kop of­fi­cer wat­c­hing them. A torch sho­ne ac­ross my fa­ce. I lay still. The tor­c­h­light stop­ped blin­ding me. Mo­ved on.

  The splas­hing stop­ped. We wa­ited.

  I ga­ve old Can­dy-blos­som a nud­ge. We got up. The skir­mish li­ne was dow­n­hill from us now. On the sea I co­uld see not one pat­rol bo­at but all fo­ur. All aro­und whe­re we’d be­en. Not, than­k­ful­ly, whe­re we we­re go­ing. I po­ured the wa­ter and a happy lit­tle plat­tie out of my bo­ots and led old Can­dy-blos­som over the rid­ge.

  Now, you le­ave a bo­at on the be­ach, and an­yo­ne can see it. Put it in the open wa­ter and it’s pretty ob­vi­o­us in the mo­on­light. Co­ver it with kelp and it gets full of tho­se dam­ned kelp- gog­gas. Me, I al­ways le­ave the bo­at in a patch of three big gray rocks just off the be­ach. Who no­ti­ces if the­re are three or fo­ur rocks? They’re hig­her than my old bo­at. I put a bit of kelp on the back and just le­ave her the­re.

  She sta­yed the­re three months, last ti­me I got ar­res­ted. They tho­ught I’d co­me over the fen­ce. Le­lik is niks, ma­ar stu­pid… Li­ke, I’m go­ing to climb a ten-fo­ot ra­zor wi­re fen­ce when I can just row aro­und? So the old bo­at just sta­yed the­re. Even in the day­ti­me no­body no­ti­ced her. Okay, it me­ans I get myself wet get­ting out to her, but what is a bit of wet­ness to old smok­ke­la­ar li­ke me? I co­uld see my rocks be­low us, and in two mi­nu­tes we’d be away.

  Except the­re was so­me tro­epie gyppo­ing on the po­int. Okay. May­be he was sup­po­sed to be on gu­ard. Lo­oked mo­re li­ke he was ha­ving a smo­ke and a day­d­re­am. Funny, they rec­ko­ned the­se black tro­eps wo­uld be dif­fe­rent from the whi­te ones. But a tro­ep is a tro­ep is a tro­ep, li­ke they say.

  We co­uldn’t wa­it. I’d swe­ar blind that was a dog I he­ard. You can’t fo­ol dogs as easily as you can pe­op­le.

  “Stay he­re,” I whis­pe­red. It didn’t work. Can­dy-blo­oming-blos­som fol­lo­wed me an­y­way. The­re we­re no small rocks aro­und, but I to­ok a co­up­le of ni­ce un­der­si­ze pe­re­le­mo­en from my bag. The­re’s a go­od thick patch of bush in the gully just ot­her si­de of the he­ad­land. Co­up­le of bat-eared fo­xes ha­ve the­ir ho­le the­re, and this clo­se to mor­ning they’re pretty ne­ar to it. I know. They ne­arly ma­de me shit myself the f
irst ti­me I ca­me that way. I wa­ited till the gu­ard had ta­ken a ni­ce de­ep pull on that smo­ke, and chuc­ked the bat-eared fo­xes a pe­re­le­mo­en­for bre­ak­fast.

  Hey, I didn’t ex­pect that tro­epie to shri­ek li­ke that. “ Hai! Ha­ii!” and then to go in sho­oting. Sho­oting, no­gal! Shit. I felt sorry for the bat-eared fo­xes. They don’t even eat pe­re­le­mo­en. Still, we we­re in­to my old bo­at fas­ter than I can pull a sno­ek. I’ve be­en shot at on­ce be­fo­re and I didn’t li­ke it.

  Quiet li­ke mi­ce I ro­wed us away bet­we­en the bricks and kelp. I ti­ed off the bag and hung it over the si­de, as usu­al. If a Sea-fis­he­ri­es bo­at fo­und us now, I’d just cut the ro­pe. I wis­hed li­ke hell I co­uld do that with old Can­dy-blos­som, too. ‘Ca­use now that we we­re in the bo­at, I was thin­king, What am I go­ing to do with this… thing? I me­an, I li­ve alo­ne. But my gran­d­c­hil­d­ren are in and out of the pla­ce. May­be I sho­uld just-

  A he­li­cop­ter whop­ped away out of the dark with a se­ar­c­h­light, off to­wards Sal­dah­na.

  “Candy- blossom?”

  Ag, so what the hell co­uld I do? I just kept on ro­wing along the ed­ge, ke­eping ne­ar the bricks. The mo­on was ne­arly down now, and we still had a co­up­le of ho­urs till sun­ri­se. Hen­nie and so­me of his boys had be­en go­ing to set so­me nets for ga­lj­o­en when the mo­on went down. I won­de­red how they’d fe­el abo­ut that chop­per? It ma­de me la­ugh. I’ll bet old Hen­nie tho­ught the Sea-fis­he­ri­es boys we­re get­ting pretty bleddy sne­aky.

  We slip­ped ac­ross, with a co­up­le of ships shi­ning lights aro­und in the dark. They ne­ver sho­ne them at us. My word, but the­re are a lot of lit­tle bo­ats out the­re in the bay at night. All on per­fectly le­gi­ti­ma­te bu­si­ness, I’m su­re. They kept the Navy boys busy. The Aca­demy Re­ser­ve lo­oked li­ke a Chris­t­mas tree with all tho­se lights flas­hing aro­und. Me, I know you see much bet­ter wit­ho­ut a torch, but the army al­ways knows bet­ter, n?

  So we pul­led the bo­at up. I’ll say this for Can­dy-blos­som. He ga­ve me a hand. Ac­tu­al­ly, he ga­ve me fo­ur hands, and man, was he strong. I to­ok him up to the ho­use. It is not much of a pla­ce, but it’s my ho­me. Just an old stran­d­hu­isie, but my fat­her’s, my gran­d­fat­her’s and my gre­at-gran­d­fat­her’s be­fo­re me too. I put the spiny lob­s­ter and the pe­re­le­mo­en down, lit the lamp and got out a bot­tle of brandy and a co­up­le of glas­ses. Af­ter this lot I ne­eded a shot. Hell, I tho­ught we both ne­eded a dop or two.

  Old Can­dy-blos­som to­ok one lo­ok at the bot­tle and got ex­ci­ted. “Can­dy-blos­som? Can­dy-blos­som? “ He pic­ked up the bot­tle, and tri­ed to open it by pul­ling the lid off. Lo­oked li­ke he’d ne­ver met a screw-cap and he ne­eded a drink badly.

  I grab­bed it back. It was my brandy, af­ter all.

  “Hey. Los uit. I’ll gi­ve you a drink, but you can’t ha­ve it all!” I po­ured him a shot in­to the glass. A go­od do­ub­le. And you know what he did?

  He stuck that gun thing in­to it.

  It tur­ned blue. All of it. Bright glo­wing blue.

  “CANDY- BLOSSOM!”

  He pres­sed the but­ton on the thing. I didn’t end up de­ad, al­t­ho­ugh, Ja, I did duck be­hind the tab­le. Then he pic­ked me up. I me­an right up, off the gro­und, li­ke I we­ig­hed not­hing. “Can­dy-blos­som. En­ku?” and he held the brandy bot­tle in one of the ot­her hands.

  Ja- nee, well, what co­uld I say? “Okay. Can­dy-blos­som. En­ku En­ku. Wha­te­ver you li­ke!”

  “Splidzat.” He put me down, and, with my bot­tle of brandy in hand he wal­ked out­si­de. It wasn’t qu­ite dawn… just gray. And the ro­ad in front of my pla­ce was full of this big thing. Long, and that sa­me kind of blue as the thing I tho­ught was his gun. So­met­hing spi­ral­led out of it. Old Can­dy-blos­som tur­ned back to me.

  For a bleddy bad mi­nu­te I tho­ught he was go­ing to ta­ke me with him. In­s­te­ad he po­in­ted this thing that I’d tho­ught was his fin­ger at my do­or­s­tep. It’s just a pi­ece of the rock, that oupa-gro­otj­ie sha­ped. Can­dy-blos­som cut that sha­pe in it. With red light. I rec­kon if he co­uld cut rocks, he co­uld ha­ve sli­ced sol­di­ers. Then he clim­bed in­to that se­at- ma­go­die that had spi­ra­led out and… who­op he was up in­to the thing. With my bot­tle of dop. With not so much as a dan­kie oom or a wa­ve go­od­b­ye.

  Two se­conds la­ter he was go­ne. The only thing to show he’d ever be­en he­re was that twisty sha­pe he cut in my step.

  I won­der what it me­ans. May­be, it is li­ke the mark the Is­ra­eli­tes put on the do­or. You know, when the ali­ens co­me they won’t kill me and the gran­d­c­hil­d­ren.

  Ja, well, may­be. But, Ag well, it is pro­bably just ali­en-ho­bo for “you can get a dop off this old ba­lie.”

  ****

  The can­dy-blos­som wasn’t very pu­re. Ba­rely go­od eno­ugh for the ship to run on. Two en­ku was a qu­ite a pri­ce for such a lit­tle. Still, the en­ku glyphs sho­uld pro­tect the abo­ri­gi­nal for so­me ye­ars. And with its li­fes­t­y­le, it ne­eded them.

  ****

  Glossary for the Af­ri­ka­ans-dep­ri­ved:

  (Note from the aut­hor: The lan­gu­age in the story is Af­ri­ka­ans of the di­alect used by the Ca­pe Co­lo­ured, as the­ir ori­gi­nal khoi-san has di­sap­pe­ared. It’s abo­ut as dif­fe­rent as En­g­lish in the de­ep So­uth spo­ken among black Ame­ri­cans is to “pro­per En­g­lish” spo­ken by so­me­one from the up­per crust of New York or Bos­ton.)

  Ag = och

  Dankie oom = thanks, un­c­le (uncle = any ol­der ma­le, a term of en­de­ar­ment and res­pect)

  Dop = stiff drink.

  galjoen = a pri­zed re­ef-fish which it is to­tal­ly il­le­gal to net.

  gogga = cre­epy-crawly

  gril = shud­der

  Heretjie- tog = For God’s sa­ke

  Ja= Ye­ah

  Ja- nee = lit. Yes-no. Mo­re or less me­ans “Well, okay.”

  langhaar= lon­g­ha­ir

  Lelik is niks, ma­ar stu­pid… = Ugly is not­hing, but stu­pid…

  Los uit = le­ave it alo­ne.

  magistraat = ma­gis­t­ra­te

  magodies = thing-a-ma­j­igs

  Nogal = yet

  oupa- grootjie = gre­at gran­d­fat­her

  Perelemoen = aba­lo­ne

  Platanna/plattie = lit. Flat-An­na. Cla­wed aqu­atic to­ads, slimy, black flat, ugly as hell.

  renosterbossies = rhi­no­ce­ro­us bus­hes. Scrubby grey-le­afed mac­chia.

  rooibos = lit red-bush her­bal tea. Iron oxi­de red.

  Smokkelaar = lit. Smug­gler. ap­pli­es Ap­pli­es to po­ac­hers too.

  snoek = thyris­tes atun, long thin vi­ci­o­us pre­da­tory fish. Ca­ught on hand-li­nes. Only pos­sib­le by ha­uling so fast the fish do­esn’t get its he­ad. Stap­le lo­cal fo­od.

  snotkop = snot­he­ad

  strandhuisie = lit. Lit­tle Be­ach-ho­use = po­or, Ca­pe Co­lo­ured fis­her­man’s cot­ta­ge.

  troep/troepie = tro­oper, now ap­pli­ed to in­fantry. Ba­si­cal­ly the equ­iva­lent of “grunt.”

  Vlei = bog

  Vloeking = lit. cur­sing ge­ne­ral­ly swe­aring

  Waterblommetjies = lit. wa­ter­f­lo­wers. Re­la­ted to wa­ter­li­li­es, but gro­wing in shal­lo­wer wa­ter

  The Darkness

  David Drake

  "Hi, Li­e­ute­nant," so­me­one sa­id as he wal­ked in­to Rut­h­ven's ro­om. "Go­od to see you up and aro­und. I got­ta do a few tests with you back in the bed, tho­ugh."

  On the elec­t­ro­nic win­dow, a brisk wind was scud­ding snow over drifts and da­ma­ged ar­mo­red ve­hic­les. Rut­h­ven tur­ned from it; a jab of pa­in blas­ted the world in­to whi­te, buz­zing frag­ments. It cen­te­red
on his left hip, but for a few he­ar­t­be­ats it in­vol­ved every ner­ve in his body.

  "Your leg's still cat­c­hing you?" sa­id Dra­yer. He was the se­ni­or me­dic on this ward. "Well, it'll do that for a whi­le, sir. But they did a gre­at job put­ting you back to­get­her. It's just pa­in, you know? The­re's not­hing wrong re­al­ly."

  Pain li­ke this isn't not­hing, tho­ught Rut­h­ven. If he hadn't be­en na­use­o­us he mig­ht've tri­ed to put Dra­yer's he­ad thro­ugh the wall; but he had no strength and an­y­way, the­re was no ro­om for an­ger just now in the blur­red gray con­fi­nes of his mind.

  He eased his we­ight back on­to his left leg; it re­ac­ted nor­mal­ly, tho­ugh the mus­c­les trem­b­led slightly. The agony of a few mo­ments past was go­ne as tho­ro­ughly as if it'd hap­pe­ned when he was an in­fant, twen­ty-odd ye­ars ear­li­er.

  "Anyway, co­me lie down," Dra­yer sa­id. "This won't ta­ke but a-"

  Drayer no­ti­ced the win­dow ima­ge for the first ti­me. "Blo­od and Martyrs, sir!" he sa­id. What d'ye want to lo­ok at that for? You can set the­se pa­nels to show you an­y­p­la­ce, you know? I got the be­ac­hes on So­oner's World up on all my walls. Let me tell you, wal­king to my qu­ar­ters ac­ross that muck is plenty vi­ew of it for me!"

  Ruthven glan­ced back at the win­dow, cat­c­hing him­self in mid-mo­ti­on; his hip ig­no­red him, the way a hip ought to do. The snow was dirty, and what ap­pe­ared to be pat­c­hes of mud we­re pro­bably lub­ri­ca­ting oil. The Slam­mers' hos­pi­tal he­re on Pon­tef­ract sha­red a com­po­und with the re­pa­ir yard, a cho­ice that pro­bably ref­lec­ted so­me­body's sen­se of hu­mor.

  "That's all right," Rut­h­ven sa­id, wal­king to the bed; mo­ni­to­ring de­vi­ces we­re em­bed­ded in the fra­me. "I cho­se it de­li­be­ra­tely."