TableofContents

by Low Bo

  "Find her? Dare not go near her. She almost blinded me. Not to mention Gambo."

  "Oh, she's always like that." Jason's head shook, his next chord turning sour in Glib's auditories. "But Vincent Gambo, man, he's a tough one. Runs some of Los Frisco's top rackets."

  "Out of our minds." Glib wobbled from the bunk. The floor seemed far away when it finally found its pseudopods. Even the walls appeared none too solid.

  "What about this Bobbibrown?" The human asked. "Can we go to it?"

  "Unwise. Much trouble is mine." Glib spread its tentacles, mimicking a human shrug. "It probably thinks I'm still in the chapel, copying ancient album covers as punishment for failure. And if Bobbibrown learns of my attempt on Matecca..." Glib rested a limp ocular on a tentacle and stared at the floor. Humans were such filthy things, so much dirt here, dirt to clog the pseudopods and Zappa knew what kinds of germs. Where was their biom? Health laws required one now.

  "Maybe there's something else we can do." Jason stroked a series of chords.

  Glib's pain vanished beneath the rhythmic waves of sound.

  The human shifted on the chair, played again. Glib stretched, and the redness had vanished from its ocular. It gazed at the human. "Plan?"

  "Let's go upstairs." Jason rose. "I think better with an amp-"

  Bardog's Big Tongue throbs and pokes the sheets. The Flavor vanishes. Big Tongue seems to do what it wants. Big Tongue brings the haunting sadness of before memory. Takes a long time for Bardog to retract it back into its maw.

  Bardog looks around, finds nothing marked with any Flavor, climbs from the bed, and shakes itself. It starts for the stairs, gazes hungrily at the shadows overhead.

  Parking lot beckons. Tarmac must be clean by nightblack.

  * * *

  Nightblack. Launch plumes light the sky and bandnoise shakes the parking lot. Bardog hides in the shadows by the back steps. Little tastes everywhere, but so what? Cars jam the lot, but plenty of room around back for the limo when it pulls up.

  The driver emerges and opens the side door. Twin red dots arc past him. Matecca and Gambo climb out. White dress Matecca, white suit Gambo. Arm in arm they sweep past the shadows, past Bardog, and inside. The driver waits, face brightening as he lights a cigarette.

  Bardog scoots beneath the limo, inches up behind shiny black shoes that smell rather yummy. Two cigarette butts still smolder by the driver's toe. Little Tongue flicks out, sweeps one in. Hot but no matter. Bardog drops it, brings its eye closer and stares.

  How to change Flavor? Must savor first, but can't eat. Slowly its snout tightens; Little Tongue extends to poke the cigarette butt. Gently now. Just savor.. Just savor...

  "-a deal?" Gambo asked her, holding the champagne bottle above Matecca's glass.

  "Indeed we do." She smiled and he poured. Matecca didn't even flinch when his hand brushed hers. A cashier's check for a cool million lay folded against her left breast. More money than she'd ever thought about. Far more than Broken Dreams could ever be worth.

  Sure, the asshole would make another million in profit. Talk about gullible, the Taltos had offered him two million, intending to tear down the place and build some sort of shrine. Why her bar she didn't know and didn't care, not after this kind of money.

  "We're almost there, sir,'' Bullson called from the driver's seat.

  "Sure you don't want to hang around for another bottle?" Gambo asked.

  "If it's all the same to you," Matecca crossed her legs and sipped champagne. "I'll just pick up a few items and clear out."

  "I don't see a problem." Gambo pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her another. Matecca shook her head and took another puff from her own, plainer brand. Perhaps those fancy brown things were an acquired taste. Maybe she'd find out when she reached France.

  In the cool clear Alps, she'd find a place. Somewhere she could be alone and take up painting again. Goodness, it had been ages since she picked up a brush. Not since art school...

  The limo halted. Matecca gazed at the shabby square of brick that had been her life for ten years. Damn, what an ugly shack. Filled with ugly people too, like that Jason.

  Bullson opened the door for them. Gambo carelessly flicked his butt past the driver's ear, and giggling, Matecca did likewise. Ignoring the hurt look on Bullson's face, she brushed by him and started into Broken Dreams-

  No more Matecca? Bardog whines then hushes when Bullson's feet move. Still beneath the limo, Bardog stares at Matecca's cigarette.

  No more Matecca. No more Broken Dreams. No more parking lot? No more food? Or Flavor?

  Bardog wrinkles its snout, spreads its maw, and tries to extend Big Tongue. Big Tongue is stronger than Little, does different things that Bardog still can't remember. Big never used in the parking lot, but only from before.

  Big Tongue wraps around the cigarette stub and savors, savors deeply. Down to the single bits, the tiniest portions of Flavor that tell Bardog who the smoker is, what she looks like, even what she's made of.

  Big Tongue takes the Flavor apart. Bardog puts it back together.

  "-So we have a deal?" Gambo asked, holding the champagne bottle carefully above Matecca's glass.

  "No, we don't." She smiled and he poured. She pulled the check from her bra, a check for a cool million. More money than she'd ever thought about. Matecca dropped it in Gambo's drink.

  "Well, okay then." Gambo shrugged. "As long as you keep Broken Dreams open."

  "And the parking lot full." Matecca clinks her glass against his. They smile-

  There, Bardog decides. Much better. Plenty of food now, forever. Having changed the butt's Flavor, Bardog lets it dissolve gleefully in the back of its maw.

  Still hungry, Bardog extends its snout for the other butt, past Bullson's tapping foot, and wraps Little Tongue around it.

  "-So we have a deal." Gambo paused with the bottle directly over the woman's glass. Don't let her change her mind, he prayed, don't let her change a damn thing.

  "Indeed we do." She smiled so he poured. Things had worked out better than he'd ever imagined. The Talto crechepriest had offered a sweet twenty-five million for that wretched little flytrap of a bar.

  Gambo had made quite a tidy profit. He could even retire. How tedious his life had been with all the cheap-ass wheels and deals, bodyguards and killers, on the take cops and greedy hookers. It was all so dull, so senseless.

  What he really wanted was a place where he wouldn't be disturbed. An estate as far from Los Frisco as he could get, a country place in another country, say England. He would write poetry, why he hadn't thought about that in years.

  "We're almost there, sir," Bullson called from the driver's seat.

  "Sure you don't want to hang around for another bottle?" Gambo asked. Within hours she and all the rest of them, even that suck-up sadistic Bullson would be out of his life. Bobbibrown would be here in the morning-

  Bardog howls! The cigarette dissolves. Bardog scoots from beneath the limo right between Bullson's feet.

  "Hey!" Bullson jumps, then, as Bardog zips under the next car. "What the hell kind of biom is that?"

  Bardog huddles next to the back steps. Changing the Flavor of one only changes that one's Flavor. Why hadn't it realized?

  Nothing could be done. Not even with Big Tongue. Perhaps that's the difference between little tastes and Flavor. Little tastes just don't matter. Flavor is Flavor, and maybe so sweet because it can't be changed.

  The bandnoise cuts off. Something going on inside. Bardog rises, oozes up the stairs and inside.

  No sooner through the biom door than the human door bursts open. Bardog tumbles into the wall as Bullson runs by. Bardog rolls to its feet and follows.

  So much excitement, Big Flavors, little tastes, all spread everywhere. Jason up on stage points a gun at Gambo.

  "No, wait, you don't understand." Matecca steps between them.

  "Put it down, asshole," Bullson shouts, stance wide, gun aimed toward Jason.

  "Not, I think," Glib eases
up behind Bullson; a weapon clutched in both tentacles touches Bullson's back.

  "Stop it, all of you!" Matecca shouts. "Jason, don't you dare hurt him."

  "But..." Jason stares at her, blank-faced.

  "He's the new owner." Matecca slips the check from her blouse and holds it in the air. "Vincent Gambo paid a great price for Broken Dreams. Now it's his."

  Jason lowers his gun.

  Bullson lowers his gun.

  Bardog crawls under a table.

  "Cheater! Hurter!" Glib shoves Bullson over Bardog's table. Glib's weapon comes up; a blue beam burns a hole above Vincent Gambo's head.

  Bullson stumbles, almost stepping on Bardog's ped. Bullson fires, knocking Glib into the wall. Sap spatters everywhere; a dollop clings to Bardog's maw.

  Jason drops his gun and runs to the Talto. He kneels down, feels a place just below Glib's limp oculars. "Oh my God."

  "This was self-defense." Bullson faces him, gun still in hand. "You saw it."

  "We all saw it." Gambo moves beside them, face pale. "The damn Hee-Haw tried to kill me."

  "And now it's dead," Jason says. "But according to the Treaty of Alliance, it must be buried right on this spot. The Talto Theocracy now owns this place; they're allowed to take possession of any burial grounds without charge."

  "Holy grounds?" Matecca stares at him.

  "Holy shit." Gambo turns even whiter. He rounds on Matecca and snatches the check from her fingers.

  "But we had a deal!" Matecca shrieks.

  "We're out of here." Gambo nods at Bullson. The guard shrugs and they head for the door. Matecca follows, screaming.

  Jason starts after her, glances once at the fallen Glib, grins, and then puts a hand on Matecca's shoulder. She glares at him, but stops.

  "Do you realize what you've done?" Matecca whispers.

  "You won't be sorry." Jason takes her arm, leads her back to the Talto. He kneels down beside Glib. "It's all right now, chum. They're gone." Gently he shakes Glib by its suit shoulders. Nothing.

  "Glib man, come on." Jason shakes harder. "It's cool. They bought all that burial crap."

  "What are you trying to do?" Matecca stares at him. Others gather around. So many that Bardog can't see.

  Bardog's tongue slips around its muzzle, laps at the dripping Talto sap. Such a wrongness to the Flavor, so bland.

  "-Bullets don't hurt you?" Jason asked.

  Glib caressed the Fendercaster. "Only one chance in a thousand. We're very redundantly built. But painful. You'll make up for that?"

  "I stand by my word." Jason nodded. "We'll each have what we-"

  The Flavor dwindles away. Bardog finds nothing; Glib feels nothing. Then, hidden deep beneath the blandness in what's left of Glib, Bardog savors a Flavor to end all Flavors. A big hall, bigger than Broken Dreams, with a parking lot stretching on forever.

  So much Flavor lost! Bardog charges forward.

  "Hey!" Jason stumbles back.

  Big Tongue extends and slides into the bullet hole just below Glib's oculars. Sap, clogging the neural tubes, flows back into the heartrings. The heartrings seal. Big Tongue slips out, having changed what must be.

  Memories explode! Bardog stares at a red sky, everywhere Taltos dying. Blue beams flash. But the sounds! Like bandnoise but incredible...

  "Did we make it?" Glib murmurs, its oculars focusing on Bardog. "A biomed? A prime C from the war? How did it get here? Was I really dead?"

  "A biomed?" Matecca follows Glib's gaze. "But that's Bardog. Bernie told me it was broken but good for trash."

  "It did mess with you a bit." Jason studies his feet. "And we let it. I didn't know what else to do."

  "You did good." Glib pats Bardog's head. "Your owner doesn't know what a bargain she got."

  Bardog's Little Tongue licks Glib's tentacle; good, much stronger Flavor.

  "You lost me a million dollars." Matecca, hands on her hips, glares at Glib.

  "I'll get you five million." Jason touches her shoulder.

  Matecca jerks, then looks at him, and finally smiles. "For what?"

  "For the new Fillmore." Glib sits up. "For Broken Dreams."

  "Deal." Matecca beams. She turns to Jason, takes his arm. "This was all your doing?"

  "Damn right." Jason grins at her.

  "Ever had your portrait painted?" Matecca puts her arms around Jason's shoulders.

  "Not with this face. Are you nuts?"

  "But you can buy a new face," Glib says. "After all, you have twenty million coming from Bobbibrown."

  "And all I got was a lousy five." Matecca shoves Jason away. "You cheat!" She turns and stalks toward the stairs. "I'll be in my office. Packing!"

  "Uh oh." Glib watches as Jason's fingers knot upon the Fendercaster.

  "It's cool." Jason suddenly grins. "After all, I am rich. Guess I'm just a money grubbin' man. Used to dream about wealth when I was a kid." He slips the Fendercaster off his shoulder and offers it to Glib.

  "No." Glib's tentacles come up, refusing the instrument.

  "But you wanted to learn." Jason holds the instrument out while Glib climbs to its pseudopods. "That was our deal."

  "It was." Glib pauses, looks around, then retrieves a cigarette butt from a nearby ashtray and pops it into its mouth. It offers one to Bardog.

  Bardog oozes back on its peds, refusing. No more little tastes, it decides. Only Flavors!

  "I had a vision while I was dying," Glib goes on. "I saw the new Fillmore West in all its glory. Man, the parking lot went on forever! Perhaps I've been caught up in this Fendercaster thing too long. I've forgotten the joys of middle management. I'm going to run the place soon as it's built." It glances down at Bardog. "With this little biomed at my side, of course."

  Jason nods thoughtfully. "Sometimes we forget what truly matters. Cheapness. The cheapness of fate. There's a song in that. I'll pay someone to write it."

  Bardog wriggles, delighted. Whole again, memories intact, it could change Flavor whenever it needed. Now it would always be safe and happy. Gazing hungrily at the Fendercaster in Jason's hands, Bardog licks its muzzle. Could it savor such an instrument? What Flavor is Zappa?

  THE TIMES SHE WENT AWAY

  Paul E. Martens

  The first time she went away, I was a young man, younger than her in fact. I was a poet and I thought myself dashing, even though I was working at my father's tavern at the spaceport. That was just to earn my keep, and perhaps a few dollars more to spend on girls. My hair was long, tied back with a black ribbon, and I wore a moustache that wasn't quite as lush as I supposed it to be. I was tall and strong, and really not a very good poet, but it was the image I cultivated, not the rhymes.

  When I wasn't waiting on tables or drawing foaming flagons of ale for the spacers and the whores, the merchants and the grifters, I sat by myself in a corner, posing for any ladies who might come in, a pad before me, a pen in my hand, looking dreamily out the window at the rockets and the shuttles that came and went with rattles of thunder and belches of flame.

  That's where I was when she walked in.

  Walked? She never walked in anywhere. She swaggered. She strutted. She strode. She burst into a room and claimed it and all who were in it for her own.

  Her short hair was dyed crimson and stuck up in unruly spikes. A spaceship was tattooed on one cheek, lightning flaring out from its engines, extending down her throat and on under her silver leather jacket. She stood in the doorway like a Colossus, though she wasn't more than a meter and an half tall, hands on her hips, blocking the rest of the gang with her from gaining entry until she had surveyed the bar and the bar had surveyed her.

  "This one will do," she decreed. "Until the ale is gone, or the tables are in splinters." The others crowded in after her, extras and supporting players in that particular act of the story of her life. She led them to the bar, laughing and shouting, jostling for a place next to her. She slapped down a wad of bills and said, "Bartender, start pouring."

  My father, taller and broader than m
e, with a real moustache, called over to me, "Peter, get your ass over here and help."

  Her eyes followed his. If a cat could smile at the sight of some prey to toy with, it would smile as she did then.

  I didn't know what to do as she stalked across the room. I looked around for some avenue of escape. I was used to luring an entirely different kind of fly into my web. What was coming for me now was a kind of fly that ate spiders for snacks then moved on up the food chain for something more filling.

  "Oh, no," she said. "He's much too pretty to waste yanking on a spigot. Stay here, pretty boy, and tell me things and I'll fill your head with lies about the suns you think are only stars." She pulled a chair close to mine and I breathed the air of other worlds, tasted danger and excitement I knew I would never know for myself.

  I swallowed and prayed my voice wouldn't squeak as I asked, "Where does the lightning strike?"

  She paused an instant as she got my meaning, then laughed from somewhere deep and real inside of her. "Ha! So you're more than merely pretty. It could be that later on tonight you'll find out where the lightning strikes." She leered happily at me. "I wouldn't even be surprised if it struck more than once." She stuck out her hand, as if she'd suddenly made a decision about me. "What's your name, boy? I'm Annie Jones."

  Of course I'd heard of her. When spacers told their tall tales to each other, they often spoke of Annie Jones. But I never thought she was real. And she couldn't be, not really what the stories said she was, at least. Pirate, smuggler, mercenary. Murderer, thief. Defender, protector. Fighter of lost causes. A trail of broken-hearted men and women across the galaxy. A giant. A monster. Part machine. All machine. An alien.

  She looked like a woman to me.

  I took her hand. "I'm Peter."

  We talked and the rest of the world went away.

  "Once we found a colony planet that had been forgotten for centuries. They thought we were gods." She laughed and pounded the table once thinking of the incongruity. "But who can tell the difference between gods and devils? Not their leader. After a very little time alone with me, he made me an offering that took me almost six weeks to waste. And I know a lot of ways to waste money."