Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  Josh was­hed his fa­ce and hands with the hot to­wel and then rub­bed the back of his neck. That not be­ing eno­ugh, he dug in both ears, was­hed be­hind them for the first ti­me in months, then stuck the to­wel up un­der his shirt and ga­ve him­self a go­od rub-down. When he fi­nis­hed the for­merly whi­te to­wel was a dark gray with so­me yel­low et­c­hing.

  He drop­ped it in the bas­ket as the at­ten­dant ca­me back thro­ugh and then de­ci­ded to lo­ok aro­und at his fel­low tra­ve­lers. The­re we­re two Ter­rans ac­ross the ais­le from him, an ol­der man and a girl Josh fi­gu­red was his da­ug­h­ter. They didn’t lo­ok ali­ke or an­y­t­hing, but she was way yo­un­ger than he was. She was re­al­ly pretty, too, but kind of old, may­be twenty, we­aring “two ban­g­les and a fe­at­her,” with her hands fol­ded de­mu­rely on her lap and her eyes clo­sed. Re­ading, to­oling or me­ming, not sle­eping, from the ways her eyes we­re mo­ving un­der the­ir lids.

  Josh ca­ught the man lo­oking at him and he lo­oked kind of angry. So Josh de­ci­ded to lo­ok so­mew­he­re el­se. He lif­ted him­self up on his se­at and lo­oked at the se­ats be­hind him. The­re was anot­her co­up­le, the­re, two cat­li­ke Na­lo, a ma­le and a fe­ma­le. Aga­in, the ma­le must ha­ve be­en the dad be­ca­use he had the re­al­ly de­ep black fur of an ol­der Na­lo with gray aro­und the jowls. The fe­ma­le was yo­un­ger, Josh co­uldn’t even gu­ess how yo­ung, with light tan, thin, fur. She was re­ading a pad, one po­in­ted ear twit­c­hing oc­ca­si­onal­ly. Na­lo mostly wo­re a sort of long ro­be but hers was short, ba­rely re­ac­hing the tops of her thighs and was cut low in the front so he co­uld see her cle­ava­ge. It was the most fas­ci­na­ting thing he’d ever se­en. When she in­ha­led the lit­tle ha­irs on her bre­asts sort of bris­t­led.

  After a mo­ment, as if re­ading his mind, she lo­oked up from the pad. He grin­ned at her and she slowly drew her lips back, re­ve­aling a mo­uth full of per­fectly for­med, ex­t­re­mely sharp, te­eth. He wasn’t too su­re abo­ut Na­lo ex­p­res­si­ons, but he didn’t think it was a smi­le. So he smi­led aga­in, lips clo­sed, she­epishly, and slid back down the back of his cha­ir.

  The fres­her was at the front of the com­par­t­ment so he strol­led up the­re and did his bu­si­ness. The­re we­re in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons in Ga­lac­ta ex­p­la­ining how a hu­man sho­uld use the flus­her. He fol­lo­wed them ca­re­ful­ly, con­fu­sed and, at ti­mes, hor­ri­fi­ed by so­me of the ot­her in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons. When he was do­ne he wan­de­red mo­re slowly down the ais­le, lo­oking at his fel­low pas­sen­gers.

  Most of them we­re To­oleck and most of tho­se we­re fe­ma­les, pro­bably bu­si­nes­swo­men from the pads and chart-ho­los. The­re we­re a co­up­le of li­zar­d­li­ke Jo­otan, one of them sit­ting right next to an Adoo! He won­de­red if the slug­li­ke Adoo was be­ing ta­ken to the Jo­otan salt-mi­nes but pro­bably not. The war had be­en over for a lo­o­ong ti­me. Ter­ra and the To­olecks won, be­ating the Jo­otan and the Or­tu­li­ans over a sixty par­sec sec­tor, and the Adoo had mostly mo­ved to Go­ola­gam which was the­ir an­ces­t­ral world. It had be­en ta­ken over by Adyl whi­le they we­re go­ne, sin­ce they’d lost con­t­rol of it ne­arly three tho­usand ye­ars be­fo­re to the Yem­nor, and the­re’d be­en qu­ite a few wars the­re sin­ce they’d mo­ved back. Each of which the Adoo had won with em­bar­ras­sing ease gi­ven that the Adyl we­re abo­ut three me­ters tall, he­avily ar­mo­red in­sec­to­ids re­la­ted to Na­ri­ans. Get­ting be­at up by a bunch of slugs had to be em­bar­ras­sing. It wasn’t far from Na­ri, co­me to think of it.

  He’d just star­ted to clo­se his eyes to re­ad aga­in when the To­oleck ste­wards star­ted ser­ving din­ner. A tray ex­t­ru­ded from the back of the se­at in front of him with the din­ner co­ve­red by a crystal-plas war­mer. When he to­ok it off he sig­hed; pro­to-carb chic­ken in so­me sort of sa­uce. He pic­ked up the prongs and prod­ded at it. Yep, pro­to-carb, had to be. No re­al chic­ken was ever that rub­bery.

  It was pretty go­od, tho­ugh; the sa­uce was cre­amy and not spicy. The­re we­re no­od­les in so­me sort of che­ese sa­uce, too. He avo­ided the ve­ge­tab­les on the ba­sis that an­y­t­hing gre­en had to be bad for you. The­re was so­me sort of fru­it, tho­ugh. It was kind of funny, sort of li­ke an oran­ge but pur­p­le and with a re­al­ly thick rind. When he got that off, by bi­ting in­to it with his so­mew­hat pro­mi­nent in­ci­sors and te­aring, which he’d got­ten go­od at in Pa­pua, he fo­und that the in­te­ri­or was fil­led with lit­tle glo­bes. He pop­ped one in his mo­uth, sus­pi­ci­o­usly, and was ple­ased to find that it was so­met­hing li­ke a kum­qu­at, swe­et and tangy at the sa­me ti­me. He ate all the lit­tle glo­bes, gre­edily, get­ting ju­ice all over his hands. But the­re was anot­her warm to­wel in the tray and he used that to cle­an up.

  When he was do­ne he to­oled the com­mand and the tray fol­ded back up along with his mess. Well, ex­cept for the stuff that had got­ten on his clot­hes, which he brus­hed off on­to the flo­or. Small bug­li­ke bots scut­tled out of the walls and pic­ked up the deb­ris, un­no­ti­ced.

  Fed and happy he chec­ked his plant and saw that they we­re abo­ut three qu­ar­ters of the way to To­oleck, pas­sing over the last bit of the Ca­na­lit Rift. They we­re just ap­pro­ac­hing Re’as, an un­der­de­ve­lo­ped pla­net that had be­en set­tled by To­olecks se­ve­ral tho­usand ye­ars ago. The Re’as we­re hos­ti­le to­wards the To­olecks, which had con­qu­ered them as part of the far-span­ning, and fast de­ca­ying, To­oleck Em­pi­re. The To­oleck we­re in the pro­cess of slowly wit­h­d­ra­wing from Re’as and not enj­oying the ex­pe­ri­en­ce. Re’as ter­ro­rists we­re al­ways blo­wing up air-car bombs in Don­lon or sho­oting To­oleck sol­di­ers or so­met­hing el­se to ex­p­ress the­ir ge­ne­ral dis­sa­tis­fac­ti­on with the To­olecks.

  On the ot­her hand, when the Re’as we­ren’t fig­h­ting the To­olecks they we­re fig­h­ting each ot­her or sin­ging abo­ut fig­h­ting or wan­de­ring aro­und the ga­laxy as mer­ce­na­ri­es or ca­su­al mus­c­le. They cal­led it “fol­lo­wing the wild bes­le­em.” They spo­ke a ver­si­on of he­avily ac­cen­ted Ga­lac­ti­ca that was fa­irly si­mi­lar to To­oleck, but co­ar­ser and, in ex­t­re­me ver­si­ons, ne­arly in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le.

  Josh kic­ked his fe­et and won­de­red what to do next. He had a co­up­le of hun­d­red bo­oks lo­aded in his plant but he re­al­ly didn’t fe­el li­ke re­ading. He’d de­ci­ded that spa­cing was bo­ring. So much for be­ing a spa­cer. Not­hing but hyper­s­pa­ce to lo­ok at most of the ti­me. What he wan­ted to be was… rich. Rich eno­ugh to buy a pla­net. Rich eno­ugh that he’d ha­ve a gir­l­f­ri­end li­ke that Na­lo girl, with re­al­ly fi­ne fur.

  He bro­ught up a to­oling abo­ut the Se­cond Ori­on war and spli­ced him­self in as an In­ser­ti­on Com­man­do. The mis­si­on was to res­cue… a pretty Na­lo girl, a mem­ber of the re­sis­tan­ce, who was be­ing held by the Jo­otan sec­ret po­li­ce. He’d just got­ten thro­ugh the lu­dic­ro­us Jo­otan de­fen­ses aro­und the­ir he­ad­qu­ar­ters and burst in­to the ro­om whe­re the Na­lo girl was ti­ed up and be­ing thre­ate­ned by black-clad Jo­otan po­li­ce when the to­oling was auto­ma­ti­cal­ly sa­ved.

  “Ladies, gen­t­le­men, ne­uters and?T*Re­en,” the To­oleck cap­ta­in sa­id, “we are ap­pro­ac­hing hype­rj­un­c­ti­on with To­oleck at this ti­me. Ple­ase di­sen­ga­ge all net con­nec­ti­ons and con­fi­gu­re yo­ur com­fort zo­nes for lan­ding.”

  Josh sig­hed and trig­ge­red the res­t­ra­ints, squ­ir­ming a lit­tle as the plas­tic wrap­ped ac­ross his body, legs and fo­re­he­ad. He co­uld turn his he­ad to the si­de and he wat­c­hed as the pur­p­le of hyper­s­pa­ce ga­ve way to shif­ted stars and then the pin­p­ricks ca­me to­ge
t­her in­to nor­mal lo­oking pins of light. The G class star of To­oleck was bri­efly vi­sib­le as the win­dow auto­ma­ti­cal­ly po­la­ri­zed to pre­vent blin­ding. The ship was po­in­ted at To­oleck on the way in but as they ap­pro­ac­hed the pla­net it ban­ked to en­ter the lan­ding pat­tern and Josh got his first glim­p­se of a new pla­net.

  It lo­oked… gray.

  ****

  “It’s cold!” Jala sa­id, wrap­ping her arms aro­und her­self. She was we­aring a light en­vi­ron­ment ca­pe but the war­mer was ha­ving to re­al­ly work in the bru­mo­us con­di­ti­ons in Don­lon. The ra­in was she­eting down as they wa­ited un­der a for­ce do­me for an air­cab and she shi­ve­red and pul­led Josh to her.

  “We didn’t bring any clot­hes for this,” she sa­id.

  “My fa­ult,” Ste­ve an­s­we­red, shrug­ging. He was we­aring a slightly he­avi­er en­vi­ron­ment jac­ket and frow­ned as he saw Josh shi­ver. “We’ll go to the ho­tel and then or­der so­me ap­prop­ri­ate clot­hes. I’d for­got­ten it was autumn ye­ar in Don­lon.”

  The pad they we­re wa­iting at ga­ve a go­od vi­ew of the city of Don­lon and to Josh the pla­ce lo­oked not much dif­fe­rent from Bo­wan. Fe­wer me­gas­c­ra­pers and a clus­ter of very low bu­il­dings ne­ar the mid­dle, but pretty much block af­ter block of big bu­il­dings. It ac­tu­al­ly lo­oked li­ke Bo­wan, the part they’d li­ved in, in the win­ter. Lots of cold ra­in and fog.

  “Revod Ho­tel,” his fat­her sa­id when the cab­rank got to them.

  “Please to pla­ce yo­ur lug­ga­ge in the bo­ot,” the cab­bot sa­id in a we­ird ac­cent. “Yo­ur” ca­me out as “you we­re.” “Ple­ace to plass you we­re lo­ogad­ge in ter bo­ot.”

  “Why’s it so­und li­ke that?” Josh sa­id as he tos­sed his bag in the trunk of the cab.

  “That’s what most of the lo­cal To­olecks so­und li­ke,” his dad an­s­we­red. “It’s cal­led Norky.”

  “Cool,” Josh sa­id as he set­tled in­to the con­for­mal bac­k­se­at.

  “Where you from, guv­nor?” the cab­bot sa­id as it lif­ted in­to the air.

  “Terra,” Ste­ve an­s­we­red.

  “Well, uh co­ur­se, guv­nor,” the cab­bot sa­id. “Whe­re 'bo­uts?”

  “Bowan,” Josh sa­id. “Last. We tra­vel a lot. We we­re in Pa­pua be­fo­re that.”

  “Papua!” the cab­bot sa­id. “Got a ma­te works in Pa­pua as a lo­ader. Na­me of C4T7J315. Don’t sup­po­se you ran in­to him, eh?”

  “No, sorry,” Ste­ve sa­id. “Do­esn’t ring a bell. Knew a Norky do­zer­bot na­med D89Y4I673, tho­ugh.”

  “Revod Ho­tel’s a swank pla­ce,” the cab bur­b­led. “Not far from Se­ak Park. Got to watch the chan­ging of the gu­ards, guv­nor. The lar­va wo­uld enj­oy it.”

  “We’ll see,” Jala sa­id, lo­oking out at the mis­ting ra­in. “Don’t you ha­ve we­at­her con­t­rols, he­re?”

  “Yes, mis­sus,” the cab sa­id. “This is what we li­ke for we­at­her!”

  The Re­vod Ho­tel tur­ned out to be a se­ri­es of two-story bu­il­dings ta­king up abo­ut a half block of pri­me com­mer­ci­al re­al es­ta­te. Josh co­uldn’t be­li­eve that so­me­body hadn’t al­re­ady bu­ilt a me­gas­c­ra­per on it. Dad wo­uld cle­ar the area in a he­ar­t­be­at.

  They pul­led in un­der a por­ti­co that didn’t even ha­ve a for­ce scre­en and the cold mist and ra­in hit them as so­on as they got out of the cab. Mom han­d­led the tran­s­fer whi­le he and Dad got the lug­ga­ge and dum­ped it on one of the wa­iting bel­lhops.

  “Right this way, guv­nor,” the flo­at sa­id, spin­ning aro­und and he­ading for the plascrys do­ors.

  The hop led them thro­ugh the lobby and to a bo­un­ce tu­be at the re­ar of the bu­il­ding, then up to the se­cond flo­or and down a cor­ri­dor to one of the out­bu­il­dings. The cor­ri­dor was sur­ro­un­ded by drip­ping plascrys and Josh co­uld see that small gar­dens we­re set bet­we­en the bu­il­dings. The ve­ge­ta­ti­on was mostly pur­p­le and lo­oked li­ke va­ri­ati­ons on moss and ferns.

  “Room B 219, guv­nor,” the hop sa­id as they re­ac­hed the ro­om. The do­or was wo­od on hin­ges, so­met­hing Josh had only se­en in his­to­ri­cal mo­vi­es.

  His dad ke­yed the lock and sho­wed Josh and Jala how to use the do­or­k­nob thingy. The­re was only one bed and the fres­her had so­me fix­tu­res Josh had ne­ver se­en.

  “What’s that?” Josh as­ked, po­in­ting at one of them. It lo­oked li­ke a se­at with a spi­ke on it.

  “That’s for… To­oleck,” his dad sa­id, has­tily. “You don’t want to use it. And I’d bet­ter ex­p­la­in the fres­her con­t­rols. You re­al­ly don’t want to hit the third but­ton, son. Hop, we’ll ne­ed a flo­at bed for my son as well.”

  “I’ll get one for the tyke right away, guv­nor,” the hop sa­id, then cle­ared his vo­ice cir­cu­its. “Hem…”

  “Sorry,” Josh’s dad sa­id and tran­s­fer­red a tip.

  “Right away, guv­nor,” the hop sa­id, flo­ating out of the ro­om.

  “Wow! A fo­un­ta­in,” Josh sa­id, exa­mi­ning the con­t­rols on the fres­her.

  “That’s for… Na­lo, son,” his dad sa­id, shut­ting down the jet of wa­ter that was co­ming out of the com­mo­de. “Fe­ma­les.”

  “And what’s the third… OH, MY GOD!” Josh sho­uted as a claw ca­me up out of the bot­tom of the com­mo­de, snap­ped at air and yan­ked dow­n­wards.

  “I told you not to hit the third but­ton!” his dad snap­ped. “Espe­ci­al­ly if you’re sit­ting down!”

  “That wo­uld of…”

  “Yes,” Ste­ve sa­id, exas­pe­ra­tedly. “It’s an Adoo set­ting. Just… go check what they ha­ve on the tri­dee, okay? I think the­re’s a hu­man cir­cu­it.”

  Josh sig­hed and went to the tri­dee, sit­ting on the end of the bed and to­oling it with his plant. He lo­oked at the se­lec­ti­ons and pul­led up Manny and Butch, a po­li­ce show that had be­en ex­t­re­mely po­pu­lar on Ter­ra… fi­ve ye­ars ago. Sin­ce it was in a pri­me-ti­me slot it was ap­pa­rently brand new to the To­olecks. He wat­c­hed an epi­so­de he’d se­en at le­ast three ti­mes be­fo­re for a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes, mo­ut­hing the words to one sce­ne, and was just abo­ut to chan­ge the chan­nel when it cut to com­mer­ci­al.

  A… very pretty girl with brown ha­ir and… well… re­al­ly… uhm… was hol­ding up a bot­tle of so­met­hing.

  “Libro,” she whis­pe­red, hus­kily. “Lib­ro… for… men.”

  “Aaah,” Josh whim­pe­red, ab­so­lu­tely po­si­ti­ve that the next thing he was go­ing to do was go out and buy so­me Lib­ro… wha­te­ver it was… “So that’s what nip­ples lo­ok li­ke… I didn’t know they we­re pink…”

  “What?” Jala sa­id, tur­ning aro­und from whe­re she’d be­en un­pac­king. “Jos­hua Dam­ley Par­ker! What are you wat­c­hing?!”

  “A com­mer­ci­al,” Josh sa­id, re­ve­rently, as the chan­nel was chan­ged. “Oh, Mommm.”

  ****

  Breakfast was anot­her new ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  “Well,” Josh’s dad sa­id, scan­ning the me­nu. “They’ve got… qu­ite a se­lec­ti­on…”

  “What are nan­huch or what is a nan­huch…” Josh as­ked, he­si­tantly.

  “Uhm… you wo­uldn’t li­ke it,” his dad sa­id. “The in­tes­ti­nes of so­met­hing li­ke a lo­cal pig, lo­oks mo­re li­ke an ant, stuf­fed with its bo­ok-lungs.”

  “Ooooo!”

  “Better than hag­gis, trust me. Try the ira­vo [1] , that ought to be sa­fe,” his dad sa­id. “And so­me… ol­li­en [2] . That’s… sort of li­ke por­rid­ge…”

  The ira­vo when it was ser­ved by a bot­wa­iter tur­ned out to be strips of… well pro­bably me­at. Fri­ed. They we­re chewy but tasty. The ol­li­en
lo­oked a lot li­ke oat­me­al.

  “What’s this ma­de of?” Josh as­ked, sus­pi­ci­o­usly.

  “Sort of whe­at,” his dad sa­id, cle­aring his thro­at. “Put so­me of the ke­at­le syrup [3] on it. That will… help.”

  There was a big pot of the stuff in the mid­dle of the tab­le and Josh sus­pi­ci­o­usly stuck a fin­ger on so­me of the gre­en vis­co­us li­qu­id that was stuck run­ning down the out­si­de. He lic­ked the stuff ner­vo­usly and then smi­led.

  “Hey! It’s corn syrup!” he sa­id, hap­pily.

  “Close eno­ugh,” his dad rep­li­ed. Dad was ha­ving the nan­huch. It smel­led li­ke fish.

  After a bre­ak­fast of ira­vo sli­ces and ol­li­en with lots of ke­at­le syrup, Josh was re­ady to ad­mit that To­oleck wasn’t qu­ite the bar­ba­ri­an pla­net it had first se­emed. Gosh knows they had so­me de­cent tri­dee chan­nels.

  Darohs was a fa­mo­us shop­ping mall that was just down the stre­et from the Re­vod Ho­tel. Af­ter bre­ak­fast and da­ring a bri­ef bre­ak in the ra­in, the un­der­d­res­sed thre­eso­me dar­ted down the stre­et to the sto­re.

  Josh’s dad pic­ked up a he­avi­er en­vi­ron­ment co­at and Josh, af­ter whi­ning to get a fa­ke li­zi­be fur ca­pe just li­ke Ci­lo the Bar­ba­ri­an wo­re, set­tled on a blue and gre­en tog­gle but­ton co­at ma­de from so­me we­ird, ro­ugh, ma­te­ri­al. It had a ho­od, and when he pul­led it up he co­uld pre­tend he was Ci­lo the Bar­ba­ri­an, ma­king his way thro­ugh the nor­t­hern was­tes and bat­tling ice-worms. His mom at first was go­ing to get an en­vi­ron­ment co­at li­ke his fat­her and then Dad tal­ked her in­to bu­ying a fa­ke ne­ga­nah fur co­at. It was light blue and glo­wed li­ke fi­re un­der the sun-pa­int. She tur­ned aro­und in it, lo­oking at it from all si­des in the vi­ew scre­ens and sig­hed.