The Outpost (32 page)

Hurricane Smith turned to Langtry Lily. “I really should go with them.”

She whispered something to him.

“Certainly, my dear,” said Smith. “I’ll be happy to have you come along.”

In another minute, Hellfire Van Winkle and Little Mike Picasso and Sahara del Rio and Sinderella and Nicodemus Mayflower and Argyle and Bet-a-World O’Grady and Sitting Horse and Crazy Bull and the Earth Mother and Achmed of Alphard and Silicon Carny all started making their way to their ships.

“What about you?” Max asked Willie the Bard.

“Somebody’s got to wait here and write down the survivors’ stories,” said the Bard.

“If there
are
any survivors,” said Max. He turned to Big Red. “You going or staying?”

“I’m going,” he said. “That is, if I can leave my computer with Tomahawk.”

“For safe-keeping?” I asked.

“For communicating with Einstein,” said Big Red, indicating the blind genius who sat alone at his table. “His brain may prove to be the difference between victory and defeat.”

He tapped out a good-bye to Einstein, then handed me the computer and walked out the door.

“How about you, Max?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m going off to slaughter aliens,” he said. “There never was any question about it. But I see about half a dozen unfinished drinks sitting on various tables, and it’d be criminal to pour them out.”

He began walking from table to table, downing all the half-empty glasses.

“Protect her, Max,” said Reggie.

“Her?”

“The Cyborg de Milo,” said Reggie. “She’s half robot. I feel a remarkable affinity toward her.”

“You got the hots for a lady cyborg?” asked Max.

“Just do what I asked.”

“If half of what we heard about her is true, it makes more sense for
her
to protect
me
,” said Max.

“Please,” said Reggie in almost human tones.

Max stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay, Reggie—you’ve got it.”

“Thank you, Max,” said Reggie.

“Remember this the next time Tomahawk tells you to water my drink.”

Then Max went out to his ship, and the Bard, Reggie and I were alone again, except for Einstein. We fell silent, each wondering how such a mismatched bunch of heroes would fare against the alien invaders.

I had a premonition that we didn’t have long to wait before we learned the answer.

***

Part II

Truth

Achmed of Alphard and the Aliens

After picking his way through the Wedding Rings, Achmed of Alphard set his ship down on Henry VIII. It was a cold, dark, forbidding world, with a temperature of minus 93 degrees Celsius, a gravity about half of Galactic Standard, and an atmosphere of pure ammonia.

He’d picked up a neutrino reading where there shouldn’t have been any, and had homed in on it. Sure enough, the aliens had set up a repair and refueling station there among the huge outcroppings of rock and ice.

Achmed checked his weaponry, made sure his burner and his screecher were fully powered, and stuck a trio of energy grenades in his belt. He set his ship down twelve miles away from the station. His oxygen canisters could keep him supplied with air for almost ten hours; given the light gravity, it shouldn’t take him more than a couple of hours to reach the station. He’d eliminate any guards with his laser rifle—no sense using the screecher and letting them know the enemy was nearby—and then he’d take out the station with the grenades. Then he’d return to his ship. Even with a couple of unforeseen obstacles, he should have a good five hours of oxygen to spare.

Before he donned his protective spacesuit and left the ship, he raised the Cyborg de Milo on his subspace radio.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m on Henry VIII.”

“What the hell is there?”

He told her.

“Good,” she said. “Just sit tight until I’m through here, and I’ll be out there to wipe them out.”

“I’m going to do it myself,” said Achmed.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “You’re no commando. Leave this work to the people who are fit for it.”

“How do you know you’re fit for something until you try it?” he retorted.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Ask me in ten hours.”

“I haven’t got time to say it politely. You’re no Catastrophe Baker. Just sit tight until I can get there.”

“I appreciate your concern, Venus,” replied Achmed, “but I can’t let other people fight my battles for me.”

“Who says it’s
your
battle?” she demanded.

“You did, back at the Outpost.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“I aim to do my part,” said Achmed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I’ll sneak up on them and be gone before they even know I was there.”

“They
already
know you’re there. You can’t land a ship ten miles away without their knowing it.”

“Twelve miles,” he corrected her.

“Ten, twelve, it makes no difference,” said the Cyborg de Milo. “They’ll know if you land anywhere in the same hemisphere.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Your courage does you no credit,” she insisted. “It’s born of ignorance. Leave the killing to the killers.”

“I plan to make you proud of me,” he said, breaking the connection.

He checked his weaponry one last time, climbed into his suit, and opened the hatch.

He never saw the pulse blast from the alien weapon that shattered both his helmet and his head before he could even step out of the ship.

Sinderella and the Aliens

Sinderella got the alien ship in her sights.

“Lock on,” she commanded.

“Locked on,” responded the computer.

“Fire.”

“Firing.”

The alien ship became an enormous red blossom, then vanished.

“That’s three of the bastards,” she said. “Now let’s scram before they spot us.”

“I require directions.”

“Take us to the Wedding Rings.”

“Which of the six rings?”

“Take your choice,” said Sinderella.

“I am not programmed to make value judgments. I require guidance.”

“All right,” she said. “Anne Boleyn.”

“Course laid in. Shifting to light speeds.”

“Good. And while you’re at it, see who’s available on the scrambled channel.”

“Working …”

“This is Nicodemus Mayflower,” said a familiar voice. “How are you doing?”

“So far, so good,” answered Sinderella. “Maybe
I
can’t match the aliens physically, but my ship sure as hell can. I’ve taken out three of them that were in transit from Henry VI to Henry VII.”

“Good!” said Mayflower. “Now, unless you’re skilled in evasive maneuvering and defensive warfare, get the hell out of there. One ship might go unnoticed and unavenged, but not three of them.”

“Don’t worry, I’m headed toward the Wedding Rings right now. I should be safe there. I don’t think they can afford the time and manpower—well,
alien
power—it will take to find me in all that debris.”

“Fine,” said Mayflower approvingly. “It’s a good place to sit out the rest of the war.”

“I’m not sitting anything out,” she replied. “I’m just sort of regrouping, giving them time to get their minds on something else before I re-enter the battle.”

“Okay, but take it easy. We’ve got enough heroes out here. Don’t try to be another.”

“These bastards beat the Navy. We need all the heroes we can get.”

“Being a hero isn’t something you learn on the job,” said Mayflower. “You nailed three of them, and that’s something to be proud of—but they probably weren’t expecting to be attacked in their own spacelanes. Now that they’re ready for you, you’re liable to get your ass whipped.”

“It’s
my
ass,” she said stubbornly.

“Well, there’s those of us who’ve grown increasingly fond of it and would like to see it survive intact.”

“Thank you, Nicodemus Mayflower,” said Sinderella. “I haven’t blushed in more than a dozen years—but if I still could, that would have brought a rush of color to my cheeks.”

“Just take care of your cheeks,” said Mayflower. “
All
of them.”

“Not to worry,” she replied. “Who’s going to chase me all the way out to the Wedding Rings?”

“Braking,” announced her ship. “We have arrived at Anne Boleyn.”

“Okay, Nicodemus,” she said. “I’m going to kill the connection, make a sandwich, take a nice long Dryshower, and—” There was a stunned silence. “
Oh, shit
!”

“What is it?”

“Five of the bastards! They were waiting right here for me. They must be able to read our scrambled channel!”

Another silence.

“Damn! They’re shooting at me!” She paused. “It may be easy to hide in the Rings—but it’s hard as hell to maneuver with all the junk floating around here.” Another pause. “Something hit me! I don’t know if it’s a rock or one of the aliens!”

“Where are you? I’m on my way, but it’s a hell of a big ring!”

“You’ll never make it! They just—”

The radio went dead, and a moment later Sinderella’s ship began spinning end over end, one more piece of debris in the Wedding Ring known as Anne Boleyn.

The Reverend Billy Karma and the Aliens

The Reverend Billy Karma crept through the valley, wondering just what the hell he was doing here. It was one thing to call down the wrath of God upon these alien infidels, but it was quite another to be the personal bearer of that heavenly wrath.

But somehow or other his enthusiasm had momentarily gotten the better of him, and here he was, in plain sight of the aliens’ encampment on Henry VI, hoping against hope that nobody had spotted him, or that (better still) Baker or the cyborg lady were launching attacks at some other point on the perimeter, attacks that would not only send these alien fiends straight to hell but (even more important) would create enough of a distraction to allow him to find a nice, safe hiding place and sit out the rest of this undeclared war.

He sat down behind a huge, blue alien tree, trying to catch his breath and bring his racing pulse back to some semblance of normalcy.
God, what I’d give for a smoke! Or a drink. Or that gorgeous little Sinderella!

He scanned the horizon. He’d seen alien vegetation before, but it had usually been green. Had to be, for photosynthesis to work. But this stuff was all blue—the trees, the shrubs, the leaves, even the flowers.

But of course there was no photosynthesis going on here, he realized; otherwise all these trees and bushes would be producing enough oxygen for him to breathe. This must have been one of those planets God made very early on, before He got the knack of it.

Suddenly the Reverend saw some dust off to his left …
Damn! If You had just given this fucking world a breathable atmosphere, I wouldn’t be wearing this stupid helmet, and I would have heard whatever it is that’s getting so close to me.

Billy Karma flattened himself against the ground, hoping the shrubs surrounding him would protect him from view. He couldn’t hear if the aliens who were raising the dust were approaching or walking away, and he didn’t dare raise his head to look. He simply lay motionless, his eyes closed tightly, and whispered a few prayers and a couple of admonitions to the Lord.

Then a six-fingered hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

The Reverend Billy Karma found himself facing a trio of aliens, all mildly humanoid in shape, all wearing protective suits and helmets.

“Who are you, and why are you spying on us?” asked the alien, its voice coming out cold and without inflection through the translating device built into its helmet.

“Do I look like a spy?” demanded Billy Karma. “I happen to be a man of the cloth.”

The three aliens stared at him. “You are composed of flesh and bone, not cloth.”

“That’s a human expression,” explained the Reverend. “It means that I am a man of God.”.”

“That is a contradiction in terms,” said the second alien. “
We
were created by God in His image. Therefore, you cannot be.”

“Nonsense,” shot back Billy Karma. “God created Man, and Satan created all the other races, meaning no offense.” He stared at the aliens. “Now that I come to consider it, the three of you look exactly like Golem.”

“What is Golem?”

“A Golem is kind of a devil.”.”

“Curious,” said the first alien. “You look very much like a Bixtel.”

“What’s a Bixtel?”

“A devil.”

“I’ve had enough of this blasphemy!” snapped Billy Karma. “I have a number of bibles in my ship. I’d be happy to give them to you so you can finally learn the truth of things.”

“The truth is that you are a great liar,” said the first alien. “Probably you are a manifestation of the Prince of Liars Himself.”

“Hah!” said Billy Karma. “I repeat:
Hah!
My God can whip your false idol in straight falls without working up a sweat!”

“We shall see,” said the first alien, producing a hand weapon. “Start walking.”

“Where?”

“I will tell you when to stop.”

They proceeded to the encampment, then entered a Bubble. When the hatch closed the aliens waited for almost a minute, then removed their helmets and told Billy Karma that he could do the same.

“You mean God made you oxygen-breathers?” he said, taking off his helmet and setting it on the floor. “Must have been one of His very few oversights.”

The first alien indicated an odd-looking chair. “Sit.”

“In that thing? It wasn’t made for real people!”

The alien pushed him into the chair.

“God is really gonna rake you over the coals for this!” promised Billy Karma, shifting uncomfortably as he tried in vain to find a position that was painless.

The second and third aliens secured his arms to the arms of the chair.

“What’s going on?” demanded Billy Karma, a slight tremor in his voice.

“We are going to question you,” said the first alien.

“How come you can speak Terran? I thought you needed a translating mechanism.”

“
I
can speak it. My companions cannot.”

“Where’d you learn it?”

“I am asking the questions,” said the alien. He leaned forward. “What were you doing outside our encampment?”

“I didn’t know you
had
an encampment there!” said Billy Karma.
 

“All right. What are you doing on Janblixtl?”

“What the hell is Janblixtl?”

“This world.”

“This world, you godless alien heathen, happens to be Henry VI,” said Billy Karma.

“You have not answered my question,” said the alien. He pulled a wicked-looking pointed weapon out of a pouch.

“I told you: I’m a man of God. I travel the galaxy, looking for men and aliens to convert.”

“Convert into what?”

“Into God-fearing Christians—something you wouldn’t know nothing about.”

“I do not believe you,” said the alien. “Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you are a spy, left behind by Man’s Navy when we chased them out of this system. I think your duty is to alert nearby systems to our presence, and to report to your superiors on our movements.”

“The only superior I acknowledge is God,” said Billy Karma. “And He don’t need me to tell Him what you’re planning on doing, any more than He needs the Navy to stop you. He’ll wipe you out in His own good time.”

“You insist on maintaining this fiction about being a spokesman of your God?”

“It ain’t a fiction! I’m a man of the cloth.”

“So you said.”

The alien held his pointed weapon to the artificial overhead light. The Reverend Billy Karma watched it in horrified fascination.