In a way I felt sorry for the young vixen. In recent days she’d had her entire world turned upside down, not to mention nearly dying from poisoning. Now the one bright spot of normalcy in her life had just flown away, possibly never to be seen again, and it amazed me that she didn’t simply crumble into a furry, weepy lump. Still, she was noticeably subdued as I worked the telephone, making final arrangements to appear on television shows, give interviews and make appearances at special functions all over the country in the next two months. Most details of the public relations schedule had been worked out long in advance, but couldn’t be finalized until I was back on Earth and settled in. Yet there was one small item the Yularians hadn’t counted on: We weren’t driving to these appearances (except the nearby ones), nor were we traveling by public or government aircraft.
I’d been a private pilot until my health crapped out, and I fully intended to fly us wherever we needed to go.
Art Goldman had everything arranged and amazingly streamlined. I had special waivers waiting for me at the Jacksonville FAA office, and a doctor met me there and gave me an extensive physical, which I of course passed without a hitch. Then a flight instructor grilled me on current FAA rules and regulations, and a pair of (brave!) inspectors rode with me on a check ride---in my old twin-engine airplane, which I’d sorrowfully sold to my friend Art five years earlier. The whole process took an entire day, but by the time it was done I was in proud possession of my updated, reinstated, shiny-new private pilot’s license, and Art presented me with the keys and a fresh bill of sale for my (formerly his) Diamond DA-42 turbo-diesel four-seat airplane! Of course I gave him a rather fat little check in return (we were the best of friends, but that airplane was expensive!), and I also had all the proper forms and insurance papers filled out, certified, notarized and filed.
But the bottom line was, I had my little twin-engine airplane back!
Having a bit of fame and financial security had its benefits, and after the first movie made from one of my books became a hit I netted enough money to realize one of my lifelong dreams---and I bought my first airplane. Like boats and sports cars, the first one is never “good enough”, and over the years I’d traded up to newer, fancier models, finally settling on a sleek little composite-body four-seat twin. When my health finally ended my ability to maintain my license I reluctantly sold the airplane to my old friend, who was qualified to fly virtually anything with wings. He’d taken me up in it a couple of times, and even gave me some illegal, unauthorized stick time after my license had expired---but it just wasn’t fun anymore. The rejuvenation process turned all that upside down, and I was itching to get back in the air.
However, all was not smooth with one of the Yularians. Considering the previous attempts on our lives, L’raan thought the idea of flying in a small, unarmed aircraft to various interviews, engagements and such was sheer madness. Of course it was madness; that was the whole idea! Art and I hoped to lure the bad guys out of hiding where they could be caught, and we also didn’t want to get innocent civilians killed in the process---which could very well happen should we travel on commercial airliners or any other form of public transportation. If, instead, we simply let the military haul us around, the bad guys probably wouldn’t dare try anything, so we’d be safe…and absolutely nothing would be learned. What the bad guys did NOT know was Art and his boys would shadow us on land, in the air and by satellite everywhere we went, and would have agents sprinkled throughout any crowds and audiences. We would be almost as well-protected as the president, only covertly, and with Bertha’s new little “trinkets” we’d always be in touch, since Art would have that capability, too. The vixens were given similar small medallions, and the one I wore was disguised as a nondescript gold Christian cross---with a black cabochon onyx in it---on a small curb link chain around my neck. Nobody would even look twice at it.
Preparations for the first out-of-town interview, an appearance on a wildly popular late-night talk show, took a solid week, and I have to say that once the vixens mulled over the travel plans---with all the “hidden” security---they settled down. For a short while, though, it had been touchy.
“I will not participate in this insanity!” L’raan angrily stated when she realized we three would be flying to the distant interviews in my little airplane. “Our enemies have almost killed us time and time again, and this only invites them to complete the job!”
It was B’naah, however, who best defended the scheme, and eventually brought L’raan around.
“Granddaughter,” she began, “it’s understandable that, given your frightful experiences, you might not want to expose yourself to further danger, and if you desire to go home now I’ll contact our embassy and make the arrangements. I’ll even make sure you are given credit for the time spent here, which---while incomplete---will nevertheless enhance your grades and further your advancement toward your degree.” L’raan snorted. “Sadly, since we have not solved the mystery of who is trying to eliminate us, we also cannot protect you from additional attempts on your life during and after your trip home. As the humans say it, you will be completely on your own.”
Oh, L’raan did not like that!
“It’s not that I want to go home,” the young vixen whined, “I simply do not agree that traveling in Tom’s unarmored aircraft is safe.” Her ears were back and she was literally quivering with rage---or fear. Perhaps both.
B’naah, on the other hand, looked perfectly relaxed. So much for appearances. After a moment of contemplative silence the old vixen literally sprang from her cushion, lunging at the young female…and catching her granddaughter totally off-guard! Crouching over the cowering younger female like a wolf over a rabbit, the elderly physician bared her still-formidable teeth, snarling, “Safe? Since when has any of this been safe?”
The young Yularian couldn’t escape; she couldn’t even burrow further into the couch’s cushions. “You have always had at least a protective layer of defense between your precious hide and these mechanical monsters,” the old physician snarled, “while I spent eternal moments nose to nose with one---so do not preach to me about being safe!” She quickly buried her fangs in L’raan’s throat fur, growling, then released the terrified vixen’s throat and continued, “In case you haven’t been paying attention, youngster, all of us may die if we don’t find out who or what is behind this. That’s all Yularians and humans, and possibly other species, too. Our lives hang on being able to flush these monsters out into the open, so we can rip their throats out!” Once again the snarling old physician buried her fangs in L’raan’s unprotected throat fur, then released her. “Has it not been made clear to you what we’re facing? Our lives mean nothing if we cannot discover who or what our enemy is! Not yours, not mine, not Tom’s, not even your precious F’leek’s.” B’naah nimbly climbed off her thoroughly cowed granddaughter and stood scowling at her. “I gladly place my life in the hands of Tom and his friends because the price of not doing so may very well be species death.” She snarled at L’raan, disgusted. “It is time, youngster, for you to hunt the @#^#!!!!---*…or cower in your den and let your children starve.”
I didn’t know what the hell a “@#^#!!!!---*” was---from the sound of the comment probably some terribly dangerous prey animal from their ancient history---but I know the effect it had on L’raan. She cringed like she’d been slapped, then whining, with her head down, ears flat and tail drooping, she slowly crawled off the couch and approached me in my old recliner. She started to get down on the floor, but knowing what was coming I stopped her.
“Enough!” I barked. “You will not present your throat to me again in this house.”
“But---” she whined, “I must! I shamed both myself and my grandmother, and I---”
“No, L’raan,” I said, reaching out and, pulling her down and into the chair like a child, wrapped her quivering body into a firm embrace. She momentarily reminded me of my old German Sheppard dog, which loved to crawl into my lap when she was a pup---but L’
raan was certainly no dog. “It’s all right to be afraid; we’re all afraid,” I soothed. “If you remember, I promised you and B’naah that I’d do everything in my power to protect you, and I fully intend to keep that promise.” She looked up into my face, her eyes wide. I glanced at B’naah before continuing, “But this is war, and war requires risk, often great risk.” I paused before explaining, “If The Enemy thinks we are relatively unprotected, it may show its hand---or claw, or tentacle---in public, or at least in a place where Art and his people can take direct action against it. We’re going to be very well guarded, guarded in ways you can’t even imagine and I cannot tell you about, but also guarded in ways we hope won’t be obvious to those who wish us harm.” I gave the vixen a comforting squeeze. “Things may get exciting, but I think we’ll come through it just fine---but for it to work your grandmother and I need you to help us, to make things look as normal as possible for the next couple of months.” Smiling at her, I said, “Think you can do that?”
She nodded, her tail gently thumping on my leg. And then she licked my nose. Gaahhh!
Working out amiable, comfortable sleeping arrangements, both at my house and on the road, took a bit of good old-fashioned diplomacy---meaning I had to compromise far more than I wanted.
The first night after F’leek left got a bit awkward, since L’raan didn’t want to sleep alone and B’naah…well, I knew the old vixen still had dark shadows of murderous little machines haunting her memories. The two females began snipping, snapping and dancing around sleeping arrangements a good hour before we’d planned to retire, but before it reached the point of bloodshed I stepped into the--- Well, let’s just say I “stepped in it”.
“Damn it!” I thundered. “Have you both forgotten that I understand Yularian?” Apparently they had. Lowering my voice from stage projection to merely unpleasantly loud, I barked, “You don’t want to sleep alone? Fine! The bed at the end of the hall easily sleeps two. You’re both family, so both of you use it. I damned sure don’t need a bed-warmer.”
Oh, that went over well. Not!
I got hurt-feelings whining from both vixens, something I really hadn’t expected. “What’s gotten into you?” I asked in exasperation. “Both of you are acting like spoiled children! Neither of you can sleep with me when we’re traveling, so you might as well get used to it now.” When their whining continued I growled, “You’re forgetting that this is my world, and my society would have a hissy-fit if it thought that a man was bunking with an alien female---much less two of them!”
“But---we aren’t…or at least I’m not having sex with you!” L’raan argued, and was promptly nipped by her snarling grandmother. “OW!” Ears laid back, she barred her impressive teeth, snarling in return.
“Knock it off, both of you,” I said, sighing. “Were you human, or were I Yularian, we’d no doubt be ‘bumping uglies’ like mindless critters---but we’re not the same species, and it’s just not going to happen.”
“But…but you wrote about love between dissimilar species in your books!” L’raan said, her head tilted in confusion. “I…we thought---”
“Ladies---” I began, sighing heavier, “I write stories for entertainment. What I write is not necessarily what I personally believe in---or practice. Most fiction writers do the same; we create characters and situations for the purpose of our readers’ amusement. One of my characters was a cold-blooded killer; I, on the other hand, have never killed a sentient being! Another of my characters was certifiably insane, yet I’ve never been judged as such---but the two of you are rapidly pushing me in that direction!” Their jaws hung open in surprise. “A different one of my characters wound up almost screwing the ears off a sexy female alien---” Their ears perked up and their eyes widened. I snorted and shook my head. “Forget it. Not gonna happen.”
So of course while at home both of them wound up sleeping---but only sleeping---with me in my king-size bed. When staying in hotels we always had adjoining rooms with a discrete connecting door---for security, of course. Funny thing, though; I usually wound up with a king-size bed in my room.
You do the math.
Chapter 19
Showtime!
The first time I took the vixens up in my airplane I feared I’d have to have the snug little cabin steam-cleaned. I’d worried that B’naah’s well-worn stomach might not tolerate flight in a small aircraft, but the old physician did fine. L’raan, however, proved that a fur-covered creature can damned sure turn “green around the gills”---or pale around the muzzle---under the right circumstances.
The elderly vixen made herself comfortable in the back seat, while L’raan happily buckled herself into the right-hand co-pilot seat, staring at the mostly electronic instrument panel like a delighted child. “I’ve never been in anything even remotely like this, Tom!” she enthused. “It’s wonderfully primitive, yet it has two big video panels!”
“Primitive,” I muttered. At least I didn’t have to wear the goofy-looking, hastily-constructed headsets the canid-like vixens were saddled with, nor did my “primitive” vehicle require its passengers to ride in cold sleep like their oh-so-high-tech starship “hoppers” did.
I went through my preflight checklist, spinning up the propellers on the twin four-cylinder turbodiesel engines and eventually taxiing out to prepare for takeoff. B’naah remained silent, seemingly at ease with the whole “primitive” procedure. Not L’raan. She asked so many questions about what I was doing I had to shush her several times just so I could complete my task and talk to the tower.
And then it was time to fly!
The little airplane’s load was moderate so once I gave the engines full-throttle it didn’t take long before we were clear of the pavement and I could rotate the nose skyward. Light aircraft tend to bounce and dip in the often-unsettled air far more than large, heavy machines, and my little composite-body twin was no exception. As we gained altitude and I became more vigilant in my visual sweeps for other aircraft I soon noticed that L’raan had gotten very quiet and uncharacteristically still. B’naah seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the ride, but L’raan--- Oh, this was about to get ugly! Her eyes were so wide I thought they’d bug out of her head, and she was panting hard and frequently swallowing, a sure sign she was getting thoroughly airsick.
“B’naah!” I yelled. “Is there anything for nausea in that little med kit you carry? L’raan’s in trouble, and I damned sure don’t want her blowing chunks in here!”
The old doctor felt it best to keep a few medical items handy when we were away from the house, in case I developed a rejuvenation-related problem. None of us expected we’d need it for one of the Yularians! She dug in the toiletry-size bag, then quickly assembled a small hypo and charged it from two different vials. Unbuckling her safety harness, she leaned forward and deftly jabbed the needle into her granddaughter's upper left arm, eliciting a yelp of pain from the young vixen. “Close your eyes!” she barked over the stereo drone of the engines, and moments later L’raan did as ordered. Since we were still in the vicinity of the airport, I had to pay most of my attention to flying the airplane and watching for traffic, only sparing occasional glances at my ill passenger.
But damned if B’naah’s concoction didn't work! Within moments L’raan’s desperate panting eased (I’d already directed most of the fresh-air dashboard vents to blow on her) and she began to relax. And relax. And relax. In fact, within ninety seconds the young vixen was virtually asleep, and I, too, began to relax. In time I said, “B’naah, my dear, you saved the day. Whatever you gave her looks like it’ll hold her until I can get us safe back to the airport.”
“No!” the old physician barked. “Do not cut this flight short on her account!” When I questioned her statement she explained, “I am to blame for this, Tom. While I have flown many times in small machines, my granddaughter hasn’t, and I was remiss in not preparing her for the unsettling motion such light machines have.” When I pointed to the now-snoring vixen, her long tongue lolling out the side
of her muzzle, B’naah added, “She will sleep for the next several hours, but her subconscious mind will experience the movements, and it will remember and learn from them. The next time we fly, she will only require a mild sedative. Soon she will require nothing.”
And so it came to be that both Yularians became good traveling companions as we crisscrossed the country by air, ever mindful of the welcome shadow presence of Art Goldman’s heavily-armed guardians who remained just out of sight---but always on alert.
One of the first major public interviews was on the wildly popular Five Past Midnight show, hosted by comedian Harvey Melton. While such shows were mostly populated by publicity-hungry TV and movie stars hawking their recent projects, Melton often did “straight” interviews on his show if the subject matter and person(s) involved were topical. Scoring the first network TV interview with the first human to be rejuvenated by aliens (accompanied by his alien handlers!) guaranteed him Nielson ratings comparable to a Super Bowl broadcast.
It also guaranteed our mysterious would-be killers the highest-profile exposure should they decide to make an attempt to do us in. Melton always taped his show earlier in the day before a live audience, and Art’s people were liberally sprinkled throughout the crowd, as well as placed in key locations back stage. The vixens and I learned in time how to spot incognito guardians, but this early in the game we had no idea who or where they were.
One intentionally-visible exception to that was Harry “Booker” Jones, a dark mountain of a man who traveled to venues ahead of us and coordinated security with whatever resources were available. In the case of Melton’s show, there were nearly twenty staffers who dealt with various aspects of security, both for the show host and for his guests. Jones’ contradictory-sounding instructions were to always be visible, but keep a low profile.
Last Dance of the Phoenix Page 16
