I quickly tossed all I’d collected into the pewter box, then secured it the tub, under towels in my bedroom’s bathroom, where all the junk could listen to was the drone of the fart fan. Back in the sitting room I made a quick sweep with the bug sniffer, then turned on the bug jammer. Goldman and the Yularians winced at the barely audible screeee of the little device.
“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger crap,” I stated, “but I don’t want Bertha---or Bertha’s real bosses…which damned sure aren’t you or your guys---listening to what we’re going to say.” I had to give him credit; Goldman blinked a few times, looked hard at me, then the vixens, then back at me…and then nodded, smiling.
“Tom,” he began, “you’re a good friend, and you haven’t let me down yet. I knew it was a wise move bringing you on-board when all this started, and I think you’re about to earn your dog biscuit.” Then he paused and looked guiltily at the two Yularians on the couch. “Uh… Sorry.”
“Sorry---about what, Art Goldman?” B’naah stoically replied. “We’ve only seen Tom eat toast, home-baked biscuits and Triscuits. What are ‘dog biscuits’?”
The agent’s mouth dropped open and I laughed, almost choking on my coffee. “Never mind,” I eventually said. “The thing is, Art, Bertha’s not what she used to be, and I think you and your crew know that.” I gave him a challenging look, and he nodded.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he acknowledged. “We’ve known something was going on almost from the beginning, and we were careful not to tell you too much. That’s one reason we gave you that hypno-mind-wipe fail-safe, praying to God it would never need to be triggered.”
“You really did that to Tom?” L’raan asked, her voice sharp. “You did that to someone you call your friend?” Oh, she wasn’t happy at all!
“We had to do it,” Goldman said, surprised at her anger. “We believed there were unknown players in this, and had the information Tom knew---knows---fallen into enemy hands…” The agent shook his head and held up his hands, palms out. “We just couldn’t take that chance, and Tom agreed.” I nodded.
“I wasn’t kidding when I told you that,” I added. “This could mean genocide, and we’re not going to take unnecessary chances.”
“We began receiving limited information via a special radio link---what we came to call ‘Bertha’s private-to-us radio channel’---shortly after you left for your rejuvenation treatment on Yularia,” Goldman stated, “and as time went by the information convinced us that we were dealing with an intelligence not connected with the Yularians, nor did we believe it had anything to do with the other three alien species the Yularians had contacted, either. The thing is, we did---and do---know where it’s coming from!”
This was new! “Huh?” was all I could say.
Goldman nodded, grinning. “Yep! Our mysterious friends are transmitting from the comfort and convenience of the abandoned International Space Station!” The aliens looked confused, but I was shocked down to my toes.
“That thing’s been vacant for years!” I barked. “The orbit’s decaying and it’s supposed to burn up in the atmosphere in---well, most any time now!”
The agent shook his head, but he was no longer smiling. “Nope on all counts, Tom. Nearly a year ago we noticed the orbit change. It wasn’t sudden; apparently the new occupants hoped to sneak it past us by doing it gradually, but we watch all the junk orbiting earth closely, and our observers quickly saw the difference, and have been carefully monitoring it all along. It’s perfectly stable, and obviously inhabited. We say ‘inhabited’ since when we sent an unmanned probe up to look it over---”
“They shot it down?” I offered.
Goldman shook his head. “No, nothing that drastic. The probe simply veered off-course, never coming anywhere near the ISS. We send another---and it veered off-course, too. After the third one, and the third turn-aside, we figured we’d better leave whatever it is alone until we know more. Our long-distance visual observation equipment shows nothing new, so there’s apparently no space ship docked there; at least we can’t see one. The information we get is pretty one-sided; we’ve sent questions and tried to establish two-way communication, but our questions are almost always ignored; the information we receive often has nothing to do with our inquiries.”
He paused to drain his mug of coffee, and I asked him if he wanted more. Nope. Apparently he’d had all the mud he could stomach, and he continued. “Four breadbox-sized sealed containers showed up one day in my office. How they got there, who delivered them---we didn’t know, and still don’t. Before we could go into panic mode and evacuate the complex I received a message via Bertha’s channel telling me that these were ‘upgrades’ to the simple security AI machine in your home, and to install them ASAP. That night Bertha woke me, and the next day we arrived to pick up the Yularian attack devices and install the ‘upgrades’.”
“If the boxes were sealed, how did---?” I began, but was cut off.
“We were told to place one box on top of Bertha’s CPU---that’s built into your bedroom closet, remember---and place the other three boxes in your attic, near where the spiders’ radio transmitter is located. Then we were told---very firmly---to leave them.” The two vixens’ eyes were fully open by now, and my own were stretched so wide they hurt. “Apparently whatever was in those boxes handled the ‘upgrade’, and we have no idea what was done.” Goldman shrugged his shoulders. “We’re way out of our league here, folks, and I for one am scared shitless.”
“Art old buddy, you’re not the one staring death in the face, only to have the threat blown away,” I said, standing and moving to the TV and Blu-Ray player. I switched the set on, then inserted the disc I’d received of the eventful Five After Midnight show. This time it only took me moments to locate the various frames with their damming evidence, and I thought Art would faint when he saw what happened to the wolves. “That’s why I secured our medallions and your watch, my friend. Apparently Bertha---or whatever it is now---uses those things to monitor everything around us, and has the ability to kill at will. In this case I’m thankful it did---but how much longer will it be before it decides to kill one or all of us?”
“I…I…I---” the agent sputtered, but I held up a calming hand.
“We’re not blaming you, Art,” I soothed, “but I thought you needed to know just how big this thing has gotten. I knew some of it early on, remember, or I’d have never agreed to put what was left of my life on the line with this so-called publicity tour.” I padded barefoot over to where the vixens were curled up wide-eyed on the couch, and I sat down between them, pulling them close. “The three of us have been face-to-face more than once with something far beyond our understanding, and I think I speak for us all in saying that we’re getting damned tired of it.”
The unspoken declaration of the aliens’ and my bond didn’t go unnoticed by Goldman, but after nodding he only spread his hands, saying, “What do you want me to do about it? What do you think I can do about it? The last thing in the world I want to do is get any of you hurt---or killed. Folks, I’m just as much over my head in this as you are!”
B’naah oozed out of my protective embrace and slowly climbed to her feet, then she padded over to the agent’s chair. Reaching out a slender hand that seemed like it was wearing a forearm-length black furred glove, she gently stroked the man’s cheek. “Art Goldman,” she softly said, “my people apparently know---or at least suspect---that there are forces at work that are beyond even our understanding, and I believe it is time we merged our efforts.” Goldman looked like he was going to either cry…or jump up and run. Thankfully, he stayed put and kept quiet. “My mate on our home world is a ranking member of our ruling alliance council, and I believe he is actively investigating this. Also, our new Yularian ambassador to Earth, D’naad, recently had his own look at our deadly enemy, and he has now pledged his resources to help us. You should note that he, too, has a ‘gift’ from Bertha, a medallion similar to the ones L’raan and I have, and I don’t doubt i
t has similar capabilities to the ones we’ve been wearing. Even Booker, our guard, has one of Bertha’s gifts, a little black decoration he wears on his shirt and uses to stay in touch with Tom.” She looked at me, then back at the agent. “Perhaps it’s time we retrieved our own strange little devices and tried asking Bertha for guidance. If she refuses, we have the option of locking the devices away again, but as it’s been pointed out, they ‘saved our butts’, so maybe we should be glad to have them.”
I had to admit---the old gal had a good argument to counter our paranoia. Goldman and I looked at each other for a long moment, then he nodded. I sighed, reached over to the coffee table, then switched off the little bug jammer. “Thank you!” L’raan quietly barked, rubbing her ears and massaging her temples. You have no idea how much that thing hurts!”
Giving her a lopsided smile, I said, “Sets my teeth on edge, too, but it sure comes in handy.” I stood, stretched, then headed to retrieve our “jewelry”. Moments later we all had our devices back in place, and Goldman said, “Do you want the honor, Tom, or should I?”
Sighing, I said, “What the hell. I’ll be the goat.” Taking a deep breath I said, “Bertha! We need to talk!”
Chapter 24
As Cold As Ice
“Hello, Tom,” the machine voice said. “Do you feel you settled all your concerns to everyone’s satisfaction?”
I got such a chill, I thought my rejuvenated bladder would turn loose and embarrass me. “How do you mean, Bertha?” I replied, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
“Now really, Tom,” the amazingly rich, yet machine-cold voice chided, emanating from the tiny crucifix I was wearing, and from the devices the Yularians and Goldman had as well. (How did it do that?) “You twice packed my modules into a pewter box, put them in a Fiberglas bathtub and covered them with towels, then turned on a droning exhaust fan. You then huddled within the hoped-for ‘protection’ of a sonic masking device---a device that I provided to Art Goldman’s agency.” Oh...shit! Goldman’s swarthy complexion visibly paled and he closed his eyes in apparent defeat. “It doesn’t take a genius---or an AI of even average intelligence---to determine what you’ve been discussing.”
“You’re anything but an ‘AI of even average intelligence’, Bertha,” I challenged, “wouldn’t you say? You were plenty smart when L’raan and I were first attacked, and after your ‘upgrades’ you hit the IQ ball clean out of the park.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. Talking smack with a mysterious, lethal alien intelligence made me terribly nervous, especially since said alien intelligence had no face.
The machine voice laughed! At that point my bowels threatened to join my bladder in a duet of betrayal, and an inane thought flashed through my terrified brain, wondering how much the hotel would charge to clean the upholstery where we all were sitting. “You humans have such a delightful sense of humor,” the voice stated, “but in humor we digress. The four of you were, of course, discussing the incredibly dangerous situation facing your worlds, and you seem to be in a quandary as to the assistance I can provide.” Other than the nasty little surprise Art Goldman recently received in my kitchen, I couldn’t remember ever seeing him frightened---but now he was visibly shaking, apparently frightened to his very core. Huddled together with me on the couch, the vixens were so terrified even my numb human nose could smell their fear.
“OK, ‘Bertha’…or do you prefer to be addressed by some other name?” I said, working even harder to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Bertha is fine, Tom,” it replied, “just as long as you realize that, no, I never really was your formerly humble little security AI. I regret that I had to maintain that deception, but at the time I felt it necessary. We’re well beyond that now, but to avoid confusing you in an emergency, and perhaps to add an element of confusion for our common enemy, it’s probably best we continue using that name. Unfortunately, my true identifier is a bit beyond your kind’s comprehension.” Shitshitshit---this thing is really alien. “So---what would you like to discuss first?”
Actually, once we got past the idea of having a powerful, truly alien intelligence overseeing our every move, we stepped down from our “red alert” panic and were able to converse with “Bertha” in a reasonably productive manner.
“What are you, Bertha?” I finally asked. “We know you’re camping out in the abandoned International Space Station, but you’ve made it clear that you don’t want anybody coming for a visit. If you're trying to help us, why are you so secretive?”
“To use a universal term understand by all civilized life forms,” the voice said, “let’s just call me 'the police'. I’ve tracked a miscreant to this area, and I’m trying to apprehend…it…with as little loss of your kind of life as possible. I’m ‘secretive’ because my kind are so fundamentally different from you, besides not being able to name me, it would almost be impossible for you to even comprehend me. By remaining unseen I hope to avoid any negative impact to your societies that contact with my kind might have. You have stories of such catastrophic, tragic encounters in your literature, and even you, Tom, as a creator of science fiction tales, have touched upon the concept more than once. Since both your kind and mine possess the means to create destruction on a truly frightful scale, it’s best we not risk such an instinctive, irrational panic.”
Instinctive, irrational panic…by whom? I wondered, but kept my thoughts to myself. “Can you at least give us some idea as to where this…this miscreant is hiding,” I asked, “or even what kind of creature it is?”
“If I knew where it was, I’d certainly move to contain it. I know it has elements here on your world, Tom, as well as on Yularia---you’ve been victim to attacks by Yularian military equipment, as well as from augmented Earth wolves; also the repeated poisoning episodes. Still, I don’t believe it to be located on either of your home worlds at this time, so I will not vacate this convenient location until I have better information.
“As to the kind of…creature…it is—” Bertha surprised us all with a thoughtful pause. “I’m sorry, but that information would serve you no purpose at this time since your people have no means of directly dealing with it.” Cute. We can’t deal with it, but it can, if not thwarted, kill us with abandon.
Nodding, I took a hard pull on a fresh cup of the less-than-stellar coffee, hoping it would help quiet my shaking hands. Art Goldman and the vixens seemed content to let me be the Q&A guy, so after a few moments I continued. “What’s this…this miscreant trying to accomplish by killing us? It just makes no sense!”
“On the contrary,” Bertha countered, “to our adversary your deaths---and the complete elimination of all five of your species---makes perfect sense. You are not of its kind, and it’s far more of a xenophobe than you can imagine, even to the point that it puzzles me---and I’m…well, you could say I’m well-qualified to understand how xenophobes---those who have a pathological fear of aliens---think. But this xenophobe is beyond even my admittedly extensive comprehension. Again, to use your most basic term---it is totally nuts.”
Our conversation stretched on into the night, but with little real progress made toward how to catch the adversary. Bertha wanted the Yularians and me to continue our schedule of PR appearances, including accepting Simon Branch's invitation to appear at the upcoming Paws'N'Claws convention, with Art & Company doing their best to keep us alive. It was hoped that somewhere, somehow, the adversary would slip up and reveal itself---or at least give us some idea where it was hiding---before it managed to either kill us or cause some sort of catastrophic interstellar incident.
“You now know another of the capabilities your...trinkets...possess,” Bertha stated, “but for now what else they can do must remain secret.” When we objected Bertha explained, “If you know what they're fully capable of doing, you might try to rely on them in an emergency instead of taking more appropriate action, and the less the adversary knows about your defenses, the more likely it may drop its guard---or move overtly---thus giving us a chan
ce to neutralize it.
Neutralize. While that term sounded cold, what it had been trying to do to us seemed a whole lot chillier, and after a few more moments of nervous chatter we all agreed that Bertha's plan was the best of a less-than-satisfactory lot.
But being bait in a deadly “fishing expedition”---an interstellar game of “cops & robbers” played by creatures we were told we weren’t sophisticated enough to even comprehend...and with the fate of our very civilizations at stake---was the last thing any of us humans and Yularians wanted.
Especially when we didn't really know who---or what---the “fisherman” was.
Chapter 25
Fun & Deadly Games
Paws’N’Claws was an annual, much anticipated anthropomorphic convention attended by nearly a thousand people.
And others.
I’d been its Guest of Honor several times, mainly due to the popular books I’d written (and the movies based on them) that had adult-pleasing, realistic anthro characters doing adult-pleasing, realistic things. These weren’t books aimed at the children’s market; no, these books had all the angst, violence, drama (and a bit of sex) that otherwise-mainstream modern literature possessed. That they also had characters who were not of the human persuasion apparently stroked a chord many people didn’t know existed. Surprisingly, readers who otherwise wouldn’t have dreamed of reading something with non-human characters actually found they enjoyed my stories, and the movies based on the books did reasonably well at the box office, video sales and various rental markets, too. They served a modest but lucrative fan base that, in turn, helped keep my family and me fed over the years.
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