Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  The sus­pect res­pon­ded thusly: "What?" And then: "What for?"

  "Being drunk and di­sor­derly," sa­id Cop­per A.

  "Fair cop," sa­id She­ila, as sot­to vo­ce as she co­uld ma­na­ge. Of co­ur­se, Hud­son was pretty di­sor­derly sto­ne cold so­ber.

  "Hush," says I, and I ga­ve a sharp tug at the fis­h­ho­ok I was hol­ding. Well, it ca­me lo­ose. So, from the so­und of it, did Pat­rick’s ton­sils.

  Attention shif­ted from Bobby to the sight of Pat­rick we­eping si­lent te­ars and clut­c­hing at his wed­ding tac­k­le, and of me hol­ding up that stu­pid tin fish that had un­til so re­cently be­en in­de­cently at­tac­hed to him.

  "Go't 'uke owt!" I grin­ned, bright as co­uld be. I nor­mal­ly so­und a fa­irly ur­ba­ne fel­low-you co­uld etch glass with my pub­lic-spe­aking vo­ice-but at ne­ed I ha­ve a Lan­cas­hi­re ac­cent you co­uld use to pro­mo­te the growth of ro­ses. The gre­at thing abo­ut which is that, li­ke any thick, ru­ral ac­cent, it ma­kes you so­und stu­pid and har­m­less to ur­ban sorts li­ke a co­up­le of coc­k­ney cop­pers. I might ha­ve be­en ab­ro­ad o'nights in Lon­don, but my ac­cent was le­aning on a fi­ve-bar ga­te so­mew­he­re, che­wing on a hay-stalk. I co­uld see the fil­ters mar­ked "Nor­t­hern Mon­key" clic­king in­to pla­ce in front of the cop­pers' vi­si­on as they re­la­xed.

  Bobby wasn't ha­ving any, alas.

  "Ishmael!" cri­es he. (I gloss over, he­re, the na­me I ac­tu­al­ly had at the ti­me, sa­ve to ob­ser­ve that fo­ol Hud­son used it in the pre­sen­ce of the ar­res­ting of­fi­cers, not so­met­hing that par­ti­cu­larly helps yo­ur law­yer.) "I ne­ed a law­yer!"

  "Speak to the duty so­li­ci­tor," I sa­id, kno­wing my stock of go­od­will with the firm's pro­fes­si­onal in­dem­nity par­t­ner now­he­re ne­ar high eno­ugh for this.

  "Hold on!" sa­id Hud­son. "I tho­ught you we­ren't al­lo­wed to re­fu­se a cli­ent?"

  "That's bar­ris­ters," I sa­id, nod­ding in Pat­rick's di­rec­ti­on.

  "And I'm too drunk to act and you ha­ve to go thro­ugh a so­li­ci­tor to get to me," sa­id Welch, ta­king the con­ver­sa­ti­onal ball with a smo­ot­h­ness that con­ti­nu­es to ser­ve him well in co­urt.

  "You're not his so­li­ci­tor, then?" as­ked Cop­per A.

  "No," I sa­id, os­ten­ta­ti­o­usly eye­ing his sho­ul­der num­ber-he had just re­ali­sed the­re we­re two law­yers pre­sent and he'd bet­ter be­ha­ve, no harm rub­bing it in so­me, eh?-“just a so­li­ci­tor. Not ac­ting for him at all."

  "Is she all right?" as­ked Cop­per B, po­in­ting at Ro­wen.

  Sheila was le­aning aga­inst a handy fen­ce, te­ars stre­aming down her che­eks, sha­king, si­lent and we­ak kne­ed. She was tur­ning blue due to an ina­bi­lity to in­ha­le. She ap­pe­ared to be ma­in­ta­ining con­ti­nen­ce, but it was a clo­se run thing.

  "She's fi­ne," sa­id Pat­rick. “Just ne­eds a mo­ment to com­po­se her­self."

  Dubiously, Cop­per B stu­di­ed the tat­too on She­ila’s left fo­re­arm.

  "What are you do­ing out he­re an­y­way?" as­ked Cop­per A, as he pul­led out his han­d­cuf­fs to the­ir ap­po­in­ted pur­po­se.

  "Fishing," I sa­id, sud­denly and acu­tely awa­re of how la­me it was as an an­s­wer.

  "Ah, af­ter the Pi­ke, then?" sa­id the Cop­per.

  Dumbstruck? You bet I was…

  Sheila lo­oked smug.

  She wo­uld, at that. Her dam­ned fish story bac­ked up by the law, no less!

  I ga­ve her a lo­ok to say not a fuc­king word, sun­s­hi­ne, and Pat­rick did li­ke­wi­se.

  "Yeah, the Pi­ke," sa­id She­ila, not he­eding the war­nings. "My dad ca­ught him back in the 'se­ven­ti­es."

  "Her," sa­id Cop­per B.

  "Her?" we va­ri­o­usly cho­ru­sed, and "How do you know?" ad­ded She­ila.

  "She's stuf­fed and mo­un­ted in a pub up Car­s­hal­ton way," says Cop­per B, grin­ning with rat­her mo­re ma­li­ce than I tho­ught was pro­per in an of­fi­cer of the Qu­e­en's Pe­ace.

  "Get away!" sa­id She­ila. "How co­me it isn't in the re­cord bo­ok, then?"

  "She was a co­up­le of oun­ces un­der the re­cord, it tur­ned out, when she was lan­ded the se­cond ti­me."

  "When was this?" I as­ked, men­tal­ly le­afing thro­ugh tho­se ne­urons mar­ked spor­ting tri­via, me­anin­g­less, sta­tis­ti­cal, an­g­ling, part of a ne­uro-lin­gu­is­tic com­p­lex that can con­s­ti­tu­te an­y­t­hing up to forty per cent of a ma­le bra­in by mass and one of the few unaf­fec­ted by al­co­hol.

  "About ten ye­ars ago," sa­id Cop­per B.

  "Explains it, then" sa­id Welch. "It isn't the sa­me fish." This last, you'll ap­pre­ci­ate, de­li­ve­red with the flat fo­ren­sic fi­na­lity of co­un­sel-in-tra­ining.

  Copper B just ra­ised an eyeb­row. "You me­an you're af­ter-?"

  "The very sa­me," we all ag­re­ed. Well, all sa­ve Hud­son, whom Cop­per A had well on his way up­ri­ver to the paddy wa­gon by this ti­me.

  Copper B sho­ok his he­ad. "Myth, pu­re myth. You're bet­ter off hun­ting pigs in the Fle­et ditch, or grif­fins in Bren­t­ford."

  He sho­ok his he­ad aga­in. "Anyway, is one of you go­ing to ta­ke this?" He in­di­ca­ted the tac­k­le box.

  "Ain't mi­ne," sa­id Pat­rick.

  "Nor mi­ne," sa­id She­ila.

  "Belongs to yo­ur sus­pect," I ad­ded, with a deg­ree of scha­den­f­re­ude for which, in ret­ros­pect, I fe­el mildly as­ha­med.

  Friend cop­per's fa­ce fell. He'd ha­ve to gi­ve an in­ven­tory of the who­le thing. The who­le, dam­ned thing. The cus­tody ser­ge­ant wo­uld wri­te down every one of a tho­usand items or so, his ears bur­ning with Hud­son's hel­p­ful com­ments on his spel­ling and iden­ti­fi­ca­ti­on of items. The ser­ge­ant's ears might burn, but the­ir he­at wo­uld be as not­hing to the fo­cu­sed, high-energy plas­ma of the ga­ze that wo­uld se­ar smo­king ho­les in the un­for­tu­na­te plod who bro­ught in this over-equ­ip­ped fo­ol on a pen­ny-worth char­ge of thre­ate­ning be­ha­vi­or.

  I li­ke it when this hap­pens. Ar­rests, de­ten­ti­ons and ot­her im­pe­di­men­ta of sta­te rep­res­si­on sho­uld, in my vi­ew, be lar­ded with as much bal­lsac­he and pa­per­work as the wit of man can de­vi­se. Thus are the exer­ti­ons of sta­te for­ce li­mi­ted to when they are ab­so­lu­tely ne­ces­sary. It is red ta­pe that is the stuff of ci­vi­li­za­ti­on, you may de­pend on it. It stands, I say, to re­ason.

  Anyway, mut­te­ring darkly, our con­s­ta­bu­la­ti­ve scep­tic stal­ked off, vi­sibly lis­ting un­der the we­ight of Bobby's tac­k­le.

  "We go­ing to ac­com­pany him to the sta­ti­on?" as­ked She­ila.

  "Nah," I sa­id, "I co­me out wit­ho­ut me har­mo­ni­ca."

  "What if they in­sist on se­ar­c­hing his flat?" sa­id Pat­rick, sud­denly re­cal­ling the exis­ten­ce of Part I of the Po­li­ce and Cri­mi­nal Evi­den­ce Act. (Under which, in cer­ta­in cir­cum­s­tan­ces, an ar­res­ting of­fi­cer can ta­ke the sus­pect ho­me and in­sist on a se­arch of his pre­mi­ses; it's ra­re, but it hap­pens.)

  I we­ig­hed it up. I de­alt with this stuff mo­re than Welch.

  "Not re­al­ly," I sa­id, "but it'd be funny if they did. Es­pe­ci­al­ly if they got a WPC along to help se­arch."

  I ha­ve a twis­ted mind in this way. I can, so­me­how, spot the most em­bar­ras­sing po­ten­ti­al con­se­qu­en­ce of any si­tu­ati­on (tho­se Dr. Pep­per ads used to spe­ak to me on a very ba­sic le­vel). We all tur­ned it over in our minds: Bobby Hud­son, wat­c­hing whi­le of­fi­cers went thro­ugh his vi­deo col­lec­ti­on for "evi­den­ce" (the bo­xes fre­qu­ently turn out to con­ta­in the sus­pect's stash).

  I sup­po­se he co­uld la­ugh off an or­di­nary por
n col­lec­ti­on, even if it was fe­ma­le of­fi­cers (for ma­xi­mum po­ints, go­od-lo­oking ones with hu­ge tracts of land) do­ing the se­ar­c­hing. But The Na­ked Or­c­hes­t­ra? Even Hud­son's hi­de ain't that thick. Just pic­tu­ring Bobby's res­pon­se to that (or the one with the dwar­ves, which I shall not even try to des­c­ri­be) be­ing held up by a lady in uni­form, she ra­ising an eyeb­row and sa­ying not­hing.

  Priceless.

  Well, the who­le sorry epi­so­de mo­re or less fi­nis­hed with us go­ing for a wan­der thro­ugh so­uth Lon­don in the wee ho­urs, ar­ri­ving at Brix­ton nick along abo­ut dawn or a bit la­ter, wa­iting aro­und for a co­up­le of ho­urs whi­le they fi­nis­hed mes­sing up Bobby's night, He'd had a ni­ce warm ri­de, the gob­s­hi­te, ga­ve his na­me and ad­dress and, ap­pa­rently, fell as­le­ep in the cus­tody su­ite and had to be car­ri­ed in­to the drunk tank.

  So he'd had a co­up­le of ho­urs sle­ep, whi­le we sto­od out­si­de Brix­ton nick, trying to see if we had eno­ugh cash on us to get so­met­hing to wa­ke up with and if not, did we ha­ve the energy to find an ATM. I was get­ting ratty by this ti­me on three gro­unds. I was cold, damp, and ti­red. All my ci­ga­ret­tes we­re too wet to light, and smel­led of ri­ver-no cle­ar mo­un­ta­in bro­ok, eit­her-and ever­yo­ne el­se was out.

  We got thro­ugh to abo­ut a qu­ar­ter of ten, con­si­de­rably ref­res­hed-ca­fes had ope­ned, and I don't think the McDo­nalds the­re ever clo­ses-and re­tur­ned to the cop­s­hop to find Hud­son emer­ging blin­king in­to the light.

  Fond ho­pes of se­ri­o­us po­li­ce bru­ta­lity we­re das­hed. He'd had a few ho­urs' sle­ep in the warm whe­re he'd dri­ed out, a free bre­ak­fast and ac­cess to a was­h­ba­sin. Fi­nal re­sult, a ca­uti­on for be­ing drunk and di­sor­derly, and when we went in to col­lect him, a stern tal­king-to from a uni­for­med ser­ge­ant for all of us.

  Which left only get­ting a brew and the Sun­day pa­pers in.

  Alas, I'm a com­pul­si­ve stor­y­tel­ler. Scar­cely a we­ek af­ter, I'd go­ne for a lun­c­h­ti­me ref­res­her af­ter a he­avy Fri­day night, and be­gan to tell the ta­le aga­in, to a co­up­le of old so­aks I hap­pe­ned to sha­re a tab­le with. Lit­tle did I ima­gi­ne how that sim­p­le ac­ti­on wo­uld even­tu­al­ly le­ad to, among ot­her things, one of the Ma­gel­la­nic Clo­uds-the Les­ser, I think-and a wing of Val­hal­la that is con­s­pi­cu­o­usly ab­sent from any of the ex­tant Nor­se le­gends.

  ****

  Introducing: Stories by new authors

  Fancy Farmer

  Pam Uphoff

  "Hi, wel­co­me to this edi­ti­on of Fancy Far­mer of the High Fron­ti­er!"

  Fancy was, as al­ways, a na­use­atingly perky bru­net­te; at­ti­red to­day in a pink pa­is­ley ne­ola­ura­as­h­ley top­ped with her fa­vo­ri­te ruf­fled whi­te ap­ron. Her kit­c­hen mat­c­hed the ima­ge: na­tu­ral wo­od with flo­wer and spi­ce pic­tu­res on every ca­bi­net do­or, pink co­un­ter­tops, bu­si­nes­sli­ke sta­in­less ste­el pans, and pink plas­tic stir­rers and spa­tu­las stic­king out of a flo­wery de­ep pink va­se li­ke a mu­tant bo­uqu­et.

  "Today's re­ci­pe is Ve­ge­tab­le Af­ra­id­so. The in­g­re­di­ents in­c­lu­de three gar­lic clo­ves, fi­nely di­ced, which can be co­oked with the sa­uce or the ve­ge­tab­les." As she spo­ke the kni­fe in her ca­pab­le hands with the­ir per­fectly po­lis­hed na­ils flas­hed and chop­ped.

  "We'll use one cup, that's abo­ut fo­ur oun­ces or one hun­d­red fif­te­en grams, of gra­ted Par­me­san che­ese. For tho­se of you with the Xuny Autoc­he­eser, that's set­ting B43-G."

  She flas­hed her dim­p­led smi­le as she swung in­to her stan­dard ad­ver­ti­sing spi­el. "I pre­fer Xuny ap­pli­an­ces for all my co­oking ne­eds, be­ca­use they're re­li­ab­le and pro­du­ce aut­hen­ti­cal­ly fla­vo­red fo­ods."

  "For the sa­uce ba­se, di­al up one cup (three hun­d­red mil­li­li­ters) of he­avy whip­ping cre­am. On my Xuny Lac­to­ma­tic, that's set­ting eight. If you ha­ve a dif­fe­rent ma­ke or mo­del, be su­re to con­sult yo­ur ow­ner's ma­nu­al." She pat­ted each ap­pli­an­ce as if they we­re well-lo­ved pets.

  "We'll ne­ed abo­ut fo­ur cups of co­oked no­od­les. On yo­ur Xuny Star­c­her, that's

  setting D. I li­ke a wi­de no­od­le for this dish-abo­ut a num­ber fif­te­en." Ru­mor had it that sin­g­le and very lo­nely men in spa­ce we­re her ma­in wat­c­hers; The ad­ver­ti­sing agency had wis­t­ful­ly re­qu­es­ted a lo­wer nec­k­li­ne, and per­haps so­me pad­ding, but the CEO of Xuny had po­in­ted out they we­re be­ating the­ir com­pe­ti­ti­on cold in sa­les to spa­ce des­ti­na­ti­ons, so spar­k­ling cle­an and perky we­re he­re to stay.

  "You can use al­most any ve­ge­tab­le in this dish, de­pen­ding on what's ri­pe in yo­ur do­me-or hydro-gar­den." Her hands re­ac­hed out and pul­led ve­ge­tab­les from an ar­tis­ti­cal­ly ar­ran­ged bowl as she con­ti­nu­ed her non­s­top chat­ter, "My fa­vo­ri­tes are a mix­tu­re of red oni­on, abo­ut one eighth of a lar­ge one, sli­ced; two Nu­ke­in­ni and two Yel­low Pe­ril squ­ash, thin sli­ced. Re­mem­ber-" She sho­ok an ad­mo­nis­hing fin­ger at her vi­ewers, "-if they scre­am when you pick them, they are in­fec­ted with Xin12 and the en­ti­re plant sho­uld be up­ro­oted and put in the MO­LE­CU­LAR rec­y­c­ler!" Not that Xin12 was dan­ge­ro­us, just a ge­ne­hac­ker's joke go­ne fe­ral, but it was re­al­ly ir­ri­ta­ting af­ter the first shock had fa­ded.

  "We'll start by frying the sli­ced oni­on, then ad­ding the squ­ash." Pans siz­zled and spa­tu­las twir­led, "When they're all ten­der and brow­ned, add the gar­lic. Ot­her in­g­re­di­ents that re­qu­ire lit­tle co­oking, such as mus­h­ro­oms, sho­uld be ad­ded now al­so."

  "The sa­uce is just a mat­ter of ad­ding the Par­me­san to the cre­am and he­ating to melt the che­ese. Add salt to tas­te, or ac­cor­ding to the spe­ci­al re­qu­ire­ments of yo­ur en­vi­ron­ment." One gra­ce­ful arm wa­ved the sha­ker li­ke a ma­gic wand, whi­le the ot­her stir­red.

  "The fresh no­od­les ne­ed to bo­il for fo­ur mi­nu­tes. Don't let them get soggy!" She sho­ok her he­ad and frow­ned, a very cu­te frown, of co­ur­se, "If you are using dri­ed no­od­les, start them a lit­tle so­oner; they will ne­ed to bo­il for abo­ut ten mi­nu­tes, de­pen­ding on yo­ur at­mos­p­he­ric pres­su­re!

  "Then dra­in the no­od­les, and toss them in the frying pan with the veg­gi­es." Two dan­cing mo­ve­ments, and mo­re siz­zling. "Po­ur the sa­uce over them and stir to co­at ever­y­t­hing. Ser­ve im­me­di­ately to yo­ur happy fa­mily!" She be­amed at the pre­su­med bac­he­lors whom polls sho­wed all wis­hed she was co­oking for them.

  "Sometimes I li­ke to add Fres­h­wa­ter Gi­ants or Crab­bi­es. For tho­se of you who­se Pon­do­mes are not yet pro­du­cing, and ne­ed to add pro­te­in to yo­ur fa­mily's me­als, this is an ex­cel­lent dish to con­ce­al the non­f­la­vor of reh­y­d­ra­ted shrimp or crab." The lar­ge fra­med ne­ed­le­po­int be­hind her tran­s­for­med in­to a pic­tu­re of brand na­me in­f­la­tab­le do­mes as she spo­ke.

  "In a one-g en­vi­ron­ment, this re­ci­pe will ser­ve fo­ur. In a high-g en­vi­ron­ment, you will want to in­c­re­ase the por­ti­ons; in low g, re­du­ce the por­ti­ons."

  She wi­ped her im­ma­cu­la­te hands on a crisp fol­ded to­wel, and pic­ked up a stack of pic­tu­res. "Next we­ek we'll ha­ve a re­ci­pe es­pe­ci­al­ly for you vi­ewers who bo­ught the new Cherry Bomb Bus­hes! Sky Gar­dens, Inc., still car­ri­es sap­lings, and gu­aran­te­es de­li­very to zo­nes one and two in eight we­eks; zo­nes three and fo­ur in six months; and the outer zo­nes in two ye­ars!"

  "I'd al­so li­ke to tell you abo­ut a spe­ci­al of­fer from El Fo­ur Farms! They ha­ve de­ve­lo­ped a new met­hod of shi
p­ping eggs for de­la­yed hat­c­hing. This is a spe­ci­al one-ti­me-on­ly-in­t­ro­duc­tory of­fer of two do­zen Nu­Fowl eggs in Co­ol­Gel(TM) de­li­ve­red an­y­w­he­re in hu­man spa­ce with a gu­aran­te­ed fifty per­cent hatch ra­te, no mat­ter how long the tran­sit ti­me!" The cherry bus­hes in the pics blo­omed and bo­re fru­it in her left hand whi­le the Nu­fowl pec­ked and scrat­c­hed in her right.

  "So, next we­ek we'll ha­ve Ro­ast Nu­Fowl in Spi­ced Cherry Bomb Sa­uce!" She bro­ught out her bro­adest smi­le and best dim­p­les and twin­k­led her eyes. "Until then, this is Fancy Far­mer of the High Fron­ti­er sa­ying, do­ub­le check yo­ur air se­als and al­ways use full spec­t­rum lights!"

  The system stop­ped tran­s­mit­ting and the vir­tu­al kit­c­hen di­sap­pe­ared from the ro­om, le­aving ba­re walls and a tab­le full of elec­t­ro­nics. Only Fancy re­ma­ined, perky smi­le fro­zen in pla­ce on "her" el­fin fe­atu­res.

  "Good show, Fancy." Ge­or­ge pat­ted an add-on pro­ces­sor cu­be as he pas­sed the tab­le, tur­ning off lights and ma­nu­al­ly dis­con­nec­ting from the grid. "Why, my mo­uth is wa­te­ring, I just may pick up so­me Al­f­re­do on the way ho­me. All systems on gre­en?"

  The ho­log­rap­hic fi­gu­re ani­ma­ted bri­efly, "Yes Ge­or­ge. Ha­ve you ever tri­ed co­oking any of the­se re­ci­pes in spa­ce, Ge­or­ge?" The perky ho­pe­ful lo­ok was stra­ight out of the show.

  "Me? Go in­to spa­ce? Not li­kely." Ge­or­ge twit­c­hed his sho­ul­der ner­vo­usly.

  Mike snic­ke­red, "Ge­or­ge has ne­ver left the Met­ro, let alo­ne the pla­net, Fancy." He smi­led back at the ho­log­ram that wo­re the sa­me fa­ce he used for his Ho­me­Ke­eper prog­ram, "I've be­en to Leo twi­ce," he sa­id pro­udly.