The Outpost (49 page)

I started carrying them back to the ship piece by piece, which took the better part of the day. I spent the next week exploring Margaret of Anjou, hoping against hope that I would find another ancient treasure cache, but one was all there was. Still, given the money that museums and art galleries would pay for my haul, I had precious little reason to be disappointed.

I waited until I saw the last of the alien ships leave Henry VI. I figured they’d never have done that if they hadn’t been ordered to retreat, and that meant the war was over, so I got into my ship and brought it back here, using a slide rule and a pocket calculator.

Now I plan to celebrate with a bottle of Tomahawk’s best Cygnian cognac, and them I’m off to the Commonwealth to see what my treasure’s worth on the open market.

“That’s it?” asked the Bard.

“That’s it,” answered Little Mike Picasso. “How much are you going to use?”

“None of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s obviously a total fabrication.”

“Have it your way,” said Little Mike. “You going to be here for another couple of minutes?”

“I live here,” said the Bard.

“Good,” said Little Mike, walking out the door.

“You’re really not going to use it?” I asked.

“It’s a fabulous story!” said the Bard, finally letting his enthusiasm show. “I’m going to use every word of it. I just didn’t want to say so to that arrogant little bastard!”

Little Mike re-entered, carrying a holographic painting of a purple alien landscape.

“A genuine Dalyrimple!” he announced. “Worth at least three million credits back in the Commonwealth.” He turned to the Bard. “So you write your history and I’ll sell my treasure and we’ll see who winds up happier.”

“Nice painting,” said Max. He reached out and pointed. “I especially like this weird-looking tree.”

“Don’t touch it!” snapped Little Mike, slapping Max’s hand.

“Sorry.”

“I’d like to see what else you have in your ship,” said the Bard.

“Even though you’re not writing it up?” said Little Mike.

“I’m an open-minded man,” said the Bard. “Convince me I’m wrong.”

“Let’s go,” said Little Mike. He carried the painting out the door, followed by Willie the Bard.

“Nice painting,” remarked Baker. “If you like ugly alien landscapes.”

“Paint’s still wet, though,” said Max with a grin, holding up a purple forefinger.

“Should we tell him?” asked Big Red.

“And rob history of a story like that?” said Max.

The Bard returned a few minutes later.

“Where’s Little Mike?” I asked.

“Wrapping his paintings back up. You don’t leave treasures like those just sitting around, you know.” The Bard lit a smokeless cigar. “Him and his silly propositions! As if he could pull the wool over my eyes!”

“You saw right through him, huh?” asked Max.

“The way I see it, everything about his story was true except where it took place. He probably never set foot on Margaret on Anjou. He made that part up, just to throw us off the track in case there are more treasure caches wherever he got the paintings. My guess is that he was probably on one of Henry I’s moons.”

“Well, it sure makes sense when you explain it that way,” said Max, just before Little Mike returned to the Outpost and sat down next to the Cyborg de Milo. She immediately got up and moved to an empty table.

“It’s time for me to go,” said the Earth Mother, getting up and walking to the door. She turned to me. “Good-bye, Tomahawk. I should be back in six or eight months.”

“Good luck,” I told her.

“You know,” said Nicodemus Mayflower, “it’s time we left on our honeymoon.” He escorted Sinderella to the door. “See you around.”

They followed the Earth Mother out to the landing field.

“Our noble little group seems to be getting nobler and littler,” remarked Max.

“Well,
we
aren’t going anywhere,” said Crazy Bull.

“At least, not as long as our credit’s good here,” added Sitting Horse.

“Hey!” said the Bard suddenly. “You two never told me what you did during the war.”

“You never asked,” said Crazy Bull.

“I’m asking now.”

“Too late,” said Crazy Bull. “Now it’s gonna cost you.”

“Right,” said Sitting Horse. “You want a story, you pay for our booze while we tell it.”

The Bard nodded to me. “Put their drinks on my tab.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said Crazy Bull.

“I guess this means we don’t get to scalp him, huh?” added Sitting Horse.

Reggie brought them each a refill.

“Okay, you’re drinking my liquor,” said the Bard. “Now let’s have the story.”

“Who gets to tell it?” asked Sitting Horse.

“You told the last one, so it’s my turn,” said Crazy Bull.

“What ‘last one’?” interrupted the Bard. “You guys have never told me any of your adventures before.”

“You think you’re the only hot-shot historian on the Frontier?” shot back Crazy Bull. “There’s a guy on Modesto III who not only buys us drinks but pays for our room while we’re there.”

“Yeah,” chimed in Sitting Horse. “He pays for first-rate stories, so that’s what we give him. I can’t say what you’re going to get, since you’re only buying us whiskey—and cheap whiskey at that.”

“In fact, if the whiskey was any cheaper,” said Crazy Bull, “I’d probably tell you a story where the aliens win.”

“Are you going to tell me your story, or are you going to bitch all day?” demanded the Bard.

“Art can’t be rushed,” said Crazy Bull.

The Bard signaled to me. “Tell Reggie that’s all the booze I’m paying for.”

“History, on the other hand, can be rushed all to hell and gone,” continued Crazy Bull quickly.

“Then get on with it.”

“Right.”

The Battle of the Big Little Horn

It was twilight (said Crazy Bull), and the wind was blowing gently from the west. Sitting Horse and me, we crawled up the hill on our bellies until we could see just beyond it. Geronimo was off to our left, and Vittorio was leading his warriors on our right flank.

We saw a number of the enemy gathered around their campfires, but there was no sign of General Custard yet, and—

“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded the Bard.

“You wanted a war story, I’m giving you a war story.”

“But you’re making it up! It’s set on Earth, for Christ’s sake!”

“Nobody in the Outpost ever made up a story for you?” asked Crazy Bull.

“Not like this!”

“Well, of course not like this. How many Injuns come out here, anyway?”

“But you’re making up a story about a battle that took place more than seven thousand years ago!”

“Sure—but it was a doozy.”

“I’m not getting through to you at all,” said the Bard, totally frustrated. “I want to know what happened when you left the Outpost to fight the aliens.”

“We won,” said Crazy Bull. “But the story of the Big Little Horn is much more exciting.”

“Right,” said Sitting Horse. “There’s no General Custard in the story about the aliens. Take my friend’s word for it: you’ll like the story he’s telling much better.”

“You drive me crazy!” muttered the Bard.

“Maybe he doesn’t like having Geronimo and Vittorio in it,” suggested Sitting Horse.

“Well, I could replace them with Tonto and Shoz-Dijiji, I suppose,” said Crazy Bull.

“Who the hell are they?” asked the Bard wearily.

“They’re fictional, but they’ll do just as well as Geronimo and Vittorio,” answered Crazy Bull. “After all, me and my partner here are the stars of the story. They’re just spear carriers.”

“Bow-and-arrow carriers,” corrected Sitting Horse.

“You guys still don’t seem to understand my problem,” said the Bard. “How can I write this up as a battle against alien invaders in the Plantagenet system?”

“Change the names,” said Crazy Bull.

“That’s dishonest!”

“Who’s to know?” asked Sitting Horse. “We won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Look,” said the Bard, who seemed on the verge of tears, “all I want to know is what happened when you went out to fight the aliens.”

“It’s dull,” said Sitting Horse.

“Not all history is wildly exciting,” answered the Bard.

“You really want to know?” asked Crazy Bull.

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure you wouldn’t rather hear about how the Sioux defeated General Custard at the Big Little Horn?”

“No!”
screamed the Bard.

“Okay,” said Sitting Horse with a shrug. “We found the aliens’ flagship and blew it up.”

“Not much of a story, was it?” said Crazy Bull.

“You expect me to believe that the two of you blew up the biggest ship in the aliens’ fleet?”

“I don’t know if it was the biggest,” said Sitting Horse.

“But it might have been,” added Crazy Bull. “It was at least a mile long.”

“And you destroyed it all by yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

“We put a bomb behind the captain’s toilet.”

The Bard looked from Sitting Horse to Crazy Bull, then back again. “Just how dumb do I look?”

“Just how honest an answer are you looking for?” asked Sitting Horse.

“I’d be more likely to believe you actually fought at the Little Big Horn,” said the Bard.

“The Big Little Horn,” Crazy Bull corrected him. “And we told you you’d like that story better.”

The Bard turned to me. “They’re paying for their own booze from this moment on.”

He stalked off to his table.

“We really did blow it up,” said Crazy Bull to the room at large.

“I believe you,” said the Reverend Billy Karma.

“You do?” said Crazy Bull, surprised. “Then I must be remembering it wrong.”

“Why does everyone hate me the second they meet me?” demanded Billy Karma self-pityingly.

“To save time,” said Silicon Carny.

Willie the Bard threw back his head and laughed.

“Don’t you even think of putting that in your magnet opium,” threatened Billy Karma, “or me and Jesus will both come back from the grave to haunt you!”

“I thought one of you had already come back from the grave,” said Big Red.

“He did,” admitted Billy Karma. “But he didn’t have no staying power. With me by his side, we’ll haunt this hack historian day and night.”

“Well, it’s good to know you’re going to straighten him out,” said Big Red.

“No matter what I do, he’ll still scribble lies about me in his notebook.”

“I meant Jesus, not the Bard.”

“Jesus’ll take a lot less work than the Bard,” said the Reverend Billy Karma.

“That’s comforting to know, since a few billion people still worship him,” said Big Red.

“I don’t know that they worship him so much as they hope he’ll pull their coals out of the fire,” said Max.

“You mean their souls,” Billy Karma corrected him.

Max shrugged. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

“You know,” said Catastrophe Baker, “we ought to take up a collection and buy a wedding present for Nicodemus Mayflower and his lady.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Reg, pull a hundred credits out of the strong box and give it to Catastrophe.”

Pretty soon everyone was ponying up, and finally Baker did a count. “Twenty-six hundred credits,” he said. “We ought to be able to get them something nice for that.”

“You could get something nicer for fifty-two hundred credits,” suggested Bet-a-World O’Grady.

“Are you offering to match the pot?” asked Baker.

“Not exactly,” said O’Grady. “Are you willing to bet it on a double-or-nothing proposition?”

“With you?” said Baker. “Not a chance!”

O’Grady shrugged. “It’s your loss.”

“It’d be our loss if we took you up on it,” said Baker with absolute conviction.

“What kind of bet were you gonna offer?” asked Billy Karma.

“Oh, something simple and even-handed,” said O’Grady. His eyes narrowed. “Have you got any money on you?”

Billy Karma emptied his pockets. “I got exactly seventy-three credits, four New Stalin rubles, and six Maria Theresa dollars.”

“Precisely the sum I had in mind,” said O’Grady, walking over to the bar. “Reggie, have you got a pack of matches?”

“Forget it,” I said. “He’s never even seen a pack of matches.”