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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 62

by Edited by Eric Flint


  Whatever the Prus­si­ans' ot­her fa­ults, the­ir ma­in­te­nan­ce of the pantry was su­perb. Sar­di­nes, crac­k­nels, tin­ned ste­ak and kid­ney pie, a ro­ast phe­asant, and Yor­k­s­hi­re pud­ding with hard sa­uce ca­me ra­pidly to light. It was not qu­ite my club in Lon­don, but with a few bot­tles of wi­ne to for­tify our­sel­ves, it was mo­re than ade­qu­ate. A na­ti­on that pro­du­ces an '89 Troc­ken­be­ere­na­us­le­se can­not be en­ti­rely be­yond ho­pe of re­dem­p­ti­on. Par­ker in­t­ru­ded on­ce on my pre­pa­ra­ti­ons to call at­ten­ti­on to the eas­tern ho­ri­zon, whe­re it ap­pe­ared bri­efly that a lit­tle fi­re bur­ned, ba­rely abo­ve the half-se­en li­ne se­pa­ra­ting sea from stars. At first the glow was ruddy, then bril­li­antly whi­te li­ke a pho­tog­rap­her's fla­re, sin­king slowly to­wards the wa­ter. Fi­nal­ly it win­ked out.

  It was not un­til the next day that I le­ar­ned the me­aning of this ap­pa­ri­ti­on. That fla­re had be­en the de­ath thro­es of the Prus­si­an di­ri­gib­le, the hydro­gen fla­me of its bur­ning gas re­ser­vo­irs se­aring its fra­me to in­can­des­cent whi­te­ness. Des­pi­te his wo­und, Par­ker was a su­perb con­ver­sa­ti­ona­list, so that we spent the last part of the eve­ning sit­ting by the fi­rep­la­ce, pon­de­ring the fu­tu­re of Euro­pe over a go­od Port [MM2] and fully ri­pe­ned Stil­ton che­ese, fol­lo­wed by so­me su­perb Bel­gi­an cho­co­la­tes. A pro­perly ma­de swe­et Cham­pag­ne com­p­le­ted our eve­ning.

  In the mor­ning, a tor­pe­do-bo­at des­t­ro­yer of the Fle­et res­cu­ed us. On sho­re a spe­ci­al tra­in fet­c­hed us back to Lon­don. Hel­mes­ham as­su­red me that all was well. The tre­aty was sa­fe in Pa­ris, whi­le the Prus­si­ans and the­ir pup­pet had be­en sent to a wa­tery gra­ve.

  "But, Hel­mes­ham, what clu­es led you to all this? And what be­fell the air­s­hip? Su­rely the­re was so­met­hing I had not se­en?" I la­ter as­ked.

  "Sir John, the­re was not­hing but the ele­men­tary pro­cess of ra­ti­onal de­duc­ti­on from the plet­ho­ra of in­for­ma­ti­on at hand," Hel­mes­ham sa­id. "The tra­in had cle­arly pas­sed thro­ugh Wo­king and not re­ac­hed Over­s­haw. It had not go­ne off eit­her si­de of the tracks, or on­to so­me si­ding. Hen­ce it had eit­her be­en swal­lo­wed up by the earth or sa­iled off in­to the sky. The most re­ve­aling clue was the spring you fo­und, pre­ci­sely whe­re lay the cap and bot­tle."

  "The spring? A lit­tle patch of gre­en in the mid­dle of a gre­at dro­uth?" I sa­id.

  "Ah, Sir John, but the patch was not gre­en, it was only wet," Hel­mes­ham ex­p­la­ined. "Had you lo­oked un­der­fo­ot, you wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly ha­ve no­ted that the grass in that pud­dle was ne­arly as se­re as that el­sew­he­re in the fi­eld. No, that was no spring, it was the re­ma­ins of the ton­nes of wa­ter bal­last which the air­s­hip dum­ped pre­ci­sely at the mo­ment it lif­ted Og­let­hor­pe's car from the ra­ils. From the trol­ley's spe­ed, and our as­t­ro­no­mer-who will be on the ho­nors list as so­on as the mat­ter's not a sec­ret-the exact in­s­tant of the di­sap­pe­aran­ce co­uld be cal­cu­la­ted. The chur­c­h­bell re­port re­ve­aled the co­ur­se and spe­ed of the air­s­hip, sho­wing it was too over­bur­de­ned to re­ach He­li­go­land in a sin­g­le night. The pa­per's back pa­ges ga­ve the lu­dic­ro­us sta­te­ment of two fis­her­men, who saw a dra­gon sto­op low he­re and lay a mon­s­t­ro­us egg.

  "You ma­ke it so­und so ob­vi­o­us," I sa­id.

  "Dispatching the air­s­hip was far easi­er than de­du­cing its exis­ten­ce," Hel­mes­ham ex­p­la­ined. "We pur­su­ed the air­s­hip, flying di­rectly abo­ve it. We drop­ped on it wi­ne bot­tles fil­led with pet­rol, swat­hed in bur­ning cloth, and set fi­re to its bro­ad flat back, in turn ig­ni­ting the hydro­gen cells wit­hin. A di­li­gent se­arch by the fle­et has re­ve­aled no wrec­ka­ge, tho­ugh with a sub­ma­ri­ne bo­at the trol­ley might yet be re­co­ve­red. Og­let­hor­pe's a gre­ater mystery, one I've not yet pe­net­ra­ted. He was a no­ted Fran­cop­ho­be, who might ha­ve set his hat­red for the French abo­ve his duty to King and Em­pi­re."

  But I had not lo­oked un­der­fo­ot, not at the co­lor of the grass, and thus it was Hel­mes­ham who de­du­ced that Og­let­hor­pe's trol­ley had be­en win­c­hed in­to the sky by Prus­si­an air­men. Thus it ca­me to pass, at the end of the War of the Aus­t­ro-Hun­ga­ri­an Suc­ces­si­on, that Hel­mes­ham re­ce­ived the most pri­zed me­dal of the Ro­yal Flying Corps, the St. Mic­ha­el's Cross, gi­ven for suc­ces­sful sin­g­le-han­ded com­bat aga­inst a Hun­nish Di­ri­gib­le. The ap­pe­aran­ce of "1913" as the ye­ar of com­bat, in the Of­fi­ci­al His­tory of the Corps, is wi­dely ta­ken to be a typog­rap­hic er­ror.

  On a per­so­nal no­te, I was de­lig­h­ted to pro­cu­re from an anon­y­mo­us so­ur­ce a com­p­le­te set of Og­let­hor­pe's den­tal re­cords, to be in­c­lu­ded in my se­arch for fi­nal pro­of that the cri­mi­nal men­ta­lity ine­vi­tably re­ve­als it­self in the mis­c­re­ant's den­ti­ti­on.

  Naturally, this ta­le will not be re­ad by ot­hers, at le­ast not in my li­fe­ti­me. I am, af­ter all, an ho­no­rab­le man, who wo­uld not dre­am of pro­fi­ting from the con­fi­den­ces of my fri­ends, a po­int of ho­nor not al­ways se­en among the clo­se ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces of pri­va­te in­ves­ti­ga­tors. Tho­se who wish to re­ad an his­to­ri­cal work from my pen sho­uld in­s­te­ad con­sult my Bri­ef His­tory of the Gre­at In­va­si­ons of 1896 and 1906, in a me­re ele­ven vo­lu­mes, the­reby edu­ca­ting them­sel­ves and at the sa­me ti­me le­ar­ning the er­rors of that li­ber­ti­ne so­ci­alist, who­se works ha­ve the Mar­ti­ans die of pla­gue rat­her than the exer­ti­ons of the Army and Fle­et, even tho­ugh it is far less li­kely that a Mar­ti­an co­uld con­t­ract an earthly di­se­ase than a man co­uld lo­se his te­eth to the ches­t­nut blight.

  ****

  Astromonkeys

  Tony Frazier

  So I sli­de on­to the bar­s­to­ol, and Jill says, "Dig­ger! I ha­ven't se­en you in a whi­le. Be­en out fig­h­ting cri­me? Or was it mon­s­ters?"

  "Lawyers," I say. "Long story. I told you, I'm re­ti­red from the su­per­he­ro bu­si­ness."

  "Right," she says. "So who's yo­ur fri­end?"

  "This is Da­ve," I say, and then, no­ti­cing the way Jill's lo­oking at him, I add, "And he's way too yo­ung for you."

  "Is he?" Jill says. I can't bla­me her for lo­oking. Da­ve's a go­od-lo­oking guy. Bet­ter-lo­oking than me, al­t­ho­ugh that's not sa­ying much. "So Da­ve, do you ha­ve an ID?" she asks.

  Dave lo­oks pa­nic­ked for a se­cond and says, "Uh."

  "It's co­ol, Jill," I say. "He turns twen­ty-one to­day. I pro­mi­sed that I wo­uld buy him his first be­er on his twen­ty-first bir­t­h­day, and it's im­por­tant that I ke­ep that pro­mi­se, so co­uld you just bring us two be­ers? Ple­ase?"

  "Oh, you're vo­uc­hing for him, so that ma­kes it okay? It's my li­qu­or li­cen­se on the li­ne, you know," she says.

  "Just bring the be­ers," I say. "I pro­mi­se, the­re won't be any prob­lem."

  "And you ke­ep yo­ur pro­mi­ses," she says.

  "I try."

  Jill brings us each a mug and draws one for her­self. "First one's on me," she says. "Happy bir­t­h­day."

  "Thanks," Da­ve says.

  "No, first one's on me," I say, gently mo­ving Da­ve's mug to the si­de. I'd ha­te to ac­ci­den­tal­ly knock over the kid's first be­er with the Dril­ler Be­am Ge­ne­ra­tor graf­ted on­to my wrist. They're such a pa­in in the ass, so­me­ti­mes. I swe­ar to God, so­me­day I'm just go­ing to cut 'em off with a hac­k­saw. The only re­ason I ha­ven't so far is then I'd ha­ve to chan­ge my na­me, and I wo­uldn't know what to call myself. "I told you, I ma­de a pro­mi­se."

  "What's so im�
�por­tant abo­ut this pro­mi­se?" Jill asks.

  "Long story," I say.

  "Tell her," Da­ve says.

  "You su­re?" I ask.

  "Sure, I don't mind," he says. "It's a go­od story, and she wants to he­ar it. You want to he­ar it, don't you?" he asks Jill.

  Jill nods, be­ca­use of co­ur­se, she wants to he­ar an­y­t­hing I don't fe­el li­ke tel­ling her.

  "Okay," I say. "So I was eating this bur­ger. This was back in L.A., what, eight ye­ars ago, when I was wor­king so­lo be­fo­re we for­med GoDS 2.0."

  "The ones who di­ed," she says.

  "Yeah, them," I say. "So li­ke I sa­id, I was at Tommy's eating this bur­ger. Tommy's was li­ke a lo­cal le­gend. They ma­de the most dis­gus­ting chi­li bur­gers on earth. Ab­so­lu­tely fan­tas­tic.

  "So I'm stan­ding out­si­de, be­ca­use the­re is no di­ning ro­om. I ta­ke a bi­te of this bur­ger and get chi­li all over my fa­ce. And they don't ha­ve nap­kins the­re, just the­se pa­per to­wel dis­pen­sers mo­un­ted to the walls li­ke you'd find in a pub­lic res­t­ro­om. So I'm re­ac­hing for this pa­per to­wel, and sud­denly, my bur­ger's go­ne. Just snat­c­hed right out of my hand.

  "I lo­ok aro­und to see who to­ok my bur­ger, and ever­y­body's lo­oking up. So I lo­ok up, and the­re, sit­ting on the ro­of, hol­ding my bur­ger, is this big, gre­en mon­key."

  "A mon­key," Jill says. I nod. "And it's gre­en."

  "What I sa­id. And he's just sit­ting the­re lo­oking at me, li­ke 'Ye­ah, I to­ok yo­ur bur­ger. What are you go­ing to do abo­ut it?' Ca­use he do­esn't know how high I can jump, right? So I jump up the­re af­ter him, and he scre­ec­hes and throws the bur­ger at me. Hits me right in the fa­ce. Chi­li ever­y­w­he­re."

  Jill sup­pres­ses a gig­gle.

  "Yeah, re­al funny. So I'm up on the ro­of, wi­ping the chi­li out of my eyes. I lo­ok aro­und, and now he's on the ot­her end of the bu­il­ding, still scre­ec­hing at me."

  "So what did you do?" Jill asks.

  "What was I sup­po­sed to do? I co­uldn't le­ave this mon­key run­ning aro­und lo­ose. I went af­ter him. He tri­ed to get away, but I'm, you know, re­al­ly fast, so be­fo­re he co­uld ta­ke two steps, I had him pin­ned down with my hand aro­und his scrawny lit­tle neck."

  "Aw," Jill po­uts.

  "Don't fe­el sorry for him," I say. "Be­ca­use now he was pis­sed off, and the next thing you know, his eyes glow gre­en and he zaps me with this eye­be­am that sends me flying."

  "Well, I ho­pe it hurt," Jill says. "Pic­king on a po­or lit­tle mon­key."

  "It didn't fe­el go­od," I say. "So he ta­kes off down the stre­et, and I go af­ter him. I spot this tras­h­can, one of tho­se he­avy, ste­el bar­rels. I grab it and ta­ke this hu­ge le­ap, fifty fe­et, easy. I co­me down right on top of him. Slam! Bar­rel o' mon­key.

  "And by the way, who­ever ca­me up with that phra­se, 'Mo­re fun than a bar­rel of mon­keys,' oug­h­ta' be bit­c­h­s­lap­ped, be­ca­use I had one, and it was no fun at all. The mon­key's scre­ec­hing and slam­ming and ban­ging in­si­de this thing, and then I he­ar the eye­be­ams start zap­ping, and the­se dents start pop­ping out li­ke big me­tal zits. Po­ink-po­ink-po­ink! But the bar­rel stays in one pi­ece, so I fi­gu­re it's over. I've got him.

  "And then so­met­hing lands on my he­ad and starts scre­ec­hing and pul­ling my ha­ir."

  "Another one?" Jill asks.

  "Exactly. I grab it by the scruff of the neck and pe­el it off my he­ad, and it's snar­ling and spit­ting, and then its eyes start to glow. Well, I know what's co­ming next, so I say to myself, 'I don't ca­re if it is an en­dan­ge­red spe­ci­es,' and I spi­ke it li­ke a fo­ot­ball."

  "Poor mon­key," Jill says, po­uting.

  "Yeah, po­or mon­key," I say. "So then so­met­hing zaps me from be­hind, and I turn aro­und, and the­re's three mo­re of the things. And I'm li­ke, 'How many of the­se gre­en, ra­di­o­ac­ti­ve spa­ce mon­keys are the­re?' Then the bar­rel go­es, FO­OMP! Fifty fe­et stra­ight up in­to the air, and now that one's lo­ose, and they all ta­ke off down the stre­et."

  Jill lo­oks at Da­ve and asks, "Do you ever show up in this story?"

  "Not for a whi­le," Da­ve says.

  "'Kay." She turns back to me. "Go ahe­ad."

  "All right, so I'm cha­sing the­se things down the stre­et, and the­re's mo­re sho­wing up all the ti­me, so now the­re's li­ke ten of them. I ha­ve no idea how I'm sup­po­sed to wran­g­le all the­se spa­ce mon­keys, and right abo­ut then is when this du­de co­mes swo­oping down out of the sky, we­aring this blue cos­tu­me with a big yel­low star on his chest."

  "Another he­ro," Jill says.

  "Guy na­med As­t­ro," I say. "I'd run in­to him a few ti­mes be­fo­re, back when GoDS 1.0 was still to­get­her. He wo­uld be fig­h­ting this mon­s­ter-that was his thing, fig­h­ting the­se ran­dom spa­ce mon­s­ters-and we'd show up to help out. I tho­ught he was okay, but the ot­her guys didn't li­ke him much."

  "Why not?" Jill asks.

  "Well, he was kind of a dork. No of­fen­se," I say, tur­ning to Da­ve. Da­ve wa­ves it off. "He didn't se­em all that bright, and he co­uld be a show-off at ti­mes. Li­ke, we'd be fig­h­ting this mon­s­ter, and I'd lo­ok over at him, and he'd sho­ot me this cocky lit­tle grin, li­ke 'Watch this shit,' and then he'd pull the cra­zi­est damn stunt you ever saw. Hell of it is, it'd usu­al­ly work. Then the mon­s­ter wo­uld dis­sol­ve to not­hing, ca­use that's what spa­ce mon­s­ters do when they die, ap­pa­rently, and just as we'd start to cle­an up the mess, As­t­ro wo­uld get this 'emer­gency call' and di­sap­pe­ar. Turn to light and fly away."

  "Turn to light?" Jill sa­id.

  "Yeah, that was his ot­her de­al, tur­ning to light. We mig­ht've tri­ed to fol­low him, ex­cept, you know, spe­ed of light. Hard to ke­ep up. An­y­way, he'd ta­ke off and le­ave us with the mess, and the ot­her guys kind of re­sen­ted him for it. It got to whe­re, af­ter a whi­le. I was the only who'd even res­pond to 'Astro alerts' an­y­mo­re. It was al­most li­ke I was his only fri­end."

  "I see," Jill says.

  "So he co­mes swo­oping down out of the sky, and he's got this stop sign that he's yan­ked out of the gro­und so­mew­he­re, and he's pop­ping the­se mon­keys on the he­ad with it. And the mon­keys are run­ning every which way. Li­ke, you ever see North by Nor­t­h­west? When the bip­la­ne's cha­sing Cary Grant? Kin­da' li­ke that, only with, you know, gre­en mon­keys.

  "So now we've got to fi­gu­re out what to do with all the­se un­con­s­ci­o­us mon­keys. I grab a tarp from this ne­arby con­s­t­ruc­ti­on si­te and start wrap­ping them up. At so­me po­int, this cop pulls up and se­es me with this tarp full of mon­keys slung over my sho­ul­der li­ke San­ta Cla­us. I start to say so­met­hing li­ke, 'Offi­cer, I'm glad you're he­re. We've got the­se mon­keys.'

  "And he says, 'You've got mon­keys? Whe­re've you be­en? Ever­y­body's got mon­keys! The­re's hun­d­reds of them pop­ping up all over the city! We got 'em in San­ta Mo­ni­ca he­ading east. They're in Hol­lywo­od he­ading so­uth. They're in Watts he­ading north.'

  "'Like they're con­ver­ging on one cen­t­ral po­int,' I say.

  "And by this ti­me, As­t­ro's the­re lis­te­ning in, and he gets this star­t­led lo­ok on his fa­ce, and says, 'I know whe­re they're go­ing. Grab on­to my back.'

  "I drop the tarp and wrap my arms aro­und his neck. The cop starts yel­ling abo­ut the stop sign be­ing city pro­perty, so As­t­ro drops that, too, and we ta­ke off. We get abo­ut twenty fe­et up, and the cop go­es, 'Hey!'

  "We lo­ok down, and the cop's got the tarp un­fol­ded, and it's empty. Just a lit­tle gre­en mist drif­ting up from the fab­ric. The cop lo­oks up at us and says, 'I tho­ught you sa­id you had mon­keys.'

  "I open my mo­uth to tell
him we did, but As­t­ro says, 'Let's go,' and sho­ots stra­ight up in­to the air. Did I ever men­ti­on I ha­te flying?"

  "Yes," Jill says.

  "I ha­te it," I say. "So we're flying aro­und up the­re, and now I'm glad I didn't get the chan­ce to eat any mo­re of my chi­li bur­ger, be­ca­use just the smell from my shirt is ma­king me want to hurl. I'm han­ging on tight, and I'm sca­red to de­ath that As­t­ro will turn his he­ad and smi­le at me, li­ke 'Watch this shit,' and then start do­ing bar­rel rolls or so­met­hing. But he just says, 'Lo­ok,' and po­ints down, and the­re's hun­d­reds of gre­en spa­ce mon­keys down the­re. And if you know an­y­t­hing abo­ut L.A. traf­fic at the best of ti­mes, you can ima­gi­ne the mess. We get past the worst of it, and then we co­me down in­to this ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od, and we land in front of this lit­tle ho­use.

  "We walk up to the front do­or, and As­t­ro knocks, and a co­up­le of se­conds la­ter, this wo­man an­s­wers. Mid-thir­ti­es, shab­bily dres­sed. Red eyes, li­ke she'd be­en crying. She lo­oked. ex­ha­us­ted. Just worn out in ge­ne­ral. And she lo­oks up at As­t­ro, and she gets this lo­ok on her fa­ce, li­ke she's se­en a ghost, and she says, 'Da­vey?'"

  Jill lo­oks at Da­ve. "So you're As­t­ro?"

  Dave sha­kes his he­ad. "It's com­p­li­ca­ted."

  I ke­ep tal­king. "So As­t­ro walks past this wo­man wit­ho­ut a word, right in­to the ho­use, and I fol­low him be­ca­use, what el­se am I gon­na' do? We walk thro­ugh this li­ving ro­om, and the­re's all the­se pic­tu­res, li­ke fa­mily por­t­ra­its. Mom, Dad, lit­tle kid. And the mom is the wo­man who an­s­we­red the do­or, only less ti­red. And the dad lo­oks kin­da' li­ke As­t­ro. Ol­der, but si­mi­lar.

 

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