The Outpost (40 page)

“And vulgar.”

“Look,” said Little Mike, “I am the best goddamned artist in the galaxy, maybe the best who ever lived. I make Michelangelo and Picasso and Morita look like amateurs. I can’t excel at everything, so I don’t think it’s asking too much for my spaceship to know where the hell we are.”

“There’s a logical flaw in your argument,” the computer pointed out. “Being the best goddamned artist in the galaxy has nothing to do with—”

“It wasn’t an argument, it was a statement!” growled Little Mike. “We’re going to wipe these bastards out. I mean, hell, if Catastrophe Baker and Hurricane Smith and Gravedigger Gaines are all fighting on the same side, then the aliens are doomed. I’ve got to find them before the war’s over, so I can paint them and capture them for posterity.”

“If you plan to capture them for posterity, why not paint them
after
you’ve captured them?” asked the computer.

“I’m going to capture them on canvas, not in the flesh,” said Little Mike. “I’m five foot three, I weigh 120 pounds dripping wet, and I’ve never fired a weapon in my life. How the hell am I going to capture aliens that can blow the Navy out of the spaceways? My job is creating a masterpiece or two while there are still some of them left.”

“Perhaps you should have attached yourself to Catastrophe Baker or Hurricane Smith at the outset. From what you’ve told me, they are almost certain to come into contact with the aliens.” The computer paused. “In fact, I could signal one of them right now, and—”

“And if the aliens are closer to us than Baker or Smith, you’ll have broadcast our position to them.”

“Ah—but I don’t
know
our position,” said the ship triumphantly.

“Then how the hell would you expect Baker or Smith to find us?”

“They’re heroes,” answered the ship. “Heroes always find a way.”

“Who told you that?” asked Little Mike.

“It’s on my library crystals.”

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

“I cannot differentiate.”

“Some computer!” snorted Little Mike.

“You get what you pay for,” answered the computer calmly. “You could have bought me the ability to make value judgments, which would require me to instantly know the difference between fiction and non-fiction. You chose not to. Now you must live with the consequences of your penury.”

“Let’s get back to the problem at hand, instead of making groundless accusations. Where the hell are we?”

“My accusations were not groundless,” said the computer.

“Fine, they’re not groundless,” said Little Mike with a defeated sigh. “Now where are we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check your fuel gauges, and your internal chronometer. How far did we fly? How long did it take? What can you deduce from that?”

“Everything is relative,” answered the ship. “I know how much fuel I used, of course, just as I know the duration of our trip. But to know precisely where we are, I must calculate the speed at which the Tudor/Plantagenet system is moving in relation to the galaxy, and indeed the speed of the galaxy in relation to all the other galaxies. In response to your query, I shall commence my calculations now. Please do not interrupt.”

Little Mike sat patiently for five minutes, then ten more, and finally another hour. Finally he spoke up.

“How long is this likely to take?”

There was no response. For a moment he thought the computer had gone dead, but then he heard the gentle whirring as it computed the size and speed of every moving object in the universe.

“There’s a war going on, you know,” said Little Mike.

The computer blinked an acknowledgment, but couldn’t spare any brainpower to respond.

Little Mike made himself a sandwich, opened a container of beer, watched a holo show, and went to bed. When he woke up in the morning, the ship’s computer was still lost in its calculations.

“This is ridiculous!” he snapped. “Cancel the order.”

Another acknowledgment blinked, but once again the computer couldn’t spare even the slightest portion of its brainpower to reply.

After six more days had passed, Little Mike ran out of food. The beer was gone a day later.

Just as he was certain that he would die of starvation before the ship determined where they were, the computer suddenly came to life.

“I am pleased to announce that we are on Margaret of Anjou, the moon of Henry VI.”

“Good!” said Little Mike. “Now let’s get the hell out of here!”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Wherever the action is.”

“Oh,” said the computer. “Did I neglect to tell you? The war’s as good as over.”

The Outpost and the Aliens

I began sweeping the floor again.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve swept up in the last hour,”

said Willie the Bard. “How much cleaner does the place have to be before you’re happy?”

“It’s just nervous energy,” I said. “They’re fighting a war out there, and we’re stuck here at the Outpost.”

The Bard glanced out the window.

“Uh … I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he said nervously, “but we’re not as far from the war as you think.”

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“A ship just landed.” He continued staring at it. “It’s not like any other ship I’ve ever seen.”

“Damn!” I said. “We’ll just have to defend the place as best we can.”

“We?”
repeated the Bard. “I’m a historian. I’ve never held a weapon in my life.”

“I can’t stand them off all by myself,” I said. “Einstein’s blind, deaf and mute. You’re elected.”

“Get Reggie to help.”

“He’s a robot,” I said. “A robot can’t harm a sentient being, or, through inaction, allow harm to come to one.”

“Stupidest thing I ever heard,” muttered the Bard.

Then Reggie spoke up from his position behind the bar. “On the contrary, I have absolutely no moral or ethical compunction against harming Men or aliens.”

“You don’t?” I said.

“None whatsoever.”

“Good. Then grab a weapon and—”

“However,” he continued, “the only thing I know how to do is make drinks. I am totally ignorant of firearms and military tactics. If you would like to take the necessary fourteen hours to reprogram me …”

“I don’t think there’s time,” I said.

“There isn’t,” confirmed the Bard. “They’re already marching out of the ship. Seventeen—no, eighteen—of ’em.”

“Okay,” I said. “There’s no way I can take them out with standard weapons. This calls for something special.”

I reached behind the bar and pulled out the molecular imploder.

“I didn’t know you had an imploder,” said the Bard.

“I’ve never had occasion to use it before.”

“It’s an impressive-looking weapon,” he said admiringly. “What powers the damned thing?”

“Fission, fusion, who the hell knows?” I said. “I just know that it turns things into jelly—aliens, humans, spaceships, buildings, everything.”

I walked to the doorway, aimed the imploder, and activated the trigger mechanism.

And nothing happened.

“Isn’t it loaded?” asked the Bard.

“You don’t
load
an imploder!” I snapped. “You just aim and fire it!”

“Maybe it’s not getting any power,” he suggested.

I checked the gauges. “Everything reads right. Everything should be working. What the hell is wrong?”

“Let’s ask the expert,” said the Bard. “Toss me the computer.”

I did as he asked, and he tapped out the problem for Einstein, who replied a moment later.

“He says that they’ve probably got some kind of atomic neutralizer that’s messing up your power source, and that you should use a laser cannon or a pulse torpedo instead.”

“This is the Outpost, not a fucking military vessel!” I yelled, as the aliens approached to within two hundred yards. “I don’t
have
that kind of weaponry!”

Another exchange of messages.

“He says it’s an interesting problem.”

“That’s
all
he’s got to say?” I said frantically.

“He says he’s never seen an insoluble problem. He just doesn’t know if he can solve this one in the time remaining.”

The aliens seemed to sense that we were defenseless and increased their pace.

“Well?” I demanded.

“He says he’s working on it.”

“Tell him he’d better finish working in ten seconds!”

He finished in eight seconds. I followed his advice, and that was the end of the alien invasion, and, for all I knew, of the whole damned war.

***

Part III

History

The war was over.

They started coming back in ones and twos. I had Reggie give each of them a free drink as they entered, and the Bard waited patiently for everyone to get in a talkative mood before he started recording the true history of the war with the aliens.

When Hurricane Smith came back alone, no one asked him what had become of his beloved Langtry Lily. He just had a look about him that said such questions wouldn’t be welcomed, and might well be severely dealt with.

Three-Gun Max wasn’t his usual talkative self either. He took his drink—I never knew him to turn one down—and carried it over to a table, where he just sat and stared silently at it.

The Injuns—that’s what we call Sitting Horse and Crazy Bull—were the next to arrive, and it was obvious they were in a good mood. So was Big Red.

Sinderella and Nicodemus Mayflower entered together, holding hands and staring and sighing at each other like a pair of teenagers who had just discovered how truly opposite the opposite sex is.

More of them straggled in, some looking happy, some depressed, some tired, some triumphant. All we needed was a catalyst, someone to break the ice.

That’s when Catastrophe Baker showed up.

He walked in, clomped over to the bar like he was still outdoors, and said in his big, booming voice, “Hiya, Reg! Pour me a tall one.” He turned to me. “How’s it going, Tomahawk?”

“Pretty good,” I answered.

“I saw an alien ship out there,” said Baker. “I was half-hoping they’d taken over the Outpost. Might have been fun to throw ’em out on their ears.”

“They’ve been disposed of,” said the Bard.

“Pity,” said Baker. “I hate it when a war ends while my blood’s still up.” He stared at the Bard. “I don’t suppose
you’d
like to engage in a little rasslin’ and eye-gouging and the like, just for the hell of it?”

“Not me,” said the Bard. “My job is recording history, not making it.”

“Seems kinda limiting to me,” said Baker.

“We can’t all be heroes,” said the Bard.

“The hell we can’t!” said Crazy Bull. “Me and my partner managed.”

“Yeah?” asked Baker.

“Yeah,” echoed Crazy Bull. “Maybe we aren’t full-time heroes like some, but we were heroic when we had to be.”

“Or sneaky, anyway,” added Sitting Horse.

“Sometimes being sneaky is all it takes,” agreed Baker.

“They weren’t such bad guys,” said Max, speaking up for the first time. “The aliens, I mean.”

“They were monsters,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.

We all turned and saw the Reverend Billy Karma. He looked different somehow. It took a minute for me to spot what had changed: he was now sporting a pair of prosthetic hands, one made of gold, the other of silver.

“If anyone kills you, they’re gonna want more than both ears and the tail as trophies,” said Baker admiringly. “That’s mighty impressive new hardware you’re sporting there, Reverend.”

“Got new feet, too,” said Billy Karma. “Courtesy of them godless alien heathen that Max here seems to have taken a liking to.”

“I didn’t say I liked ’em all,” answered Max defensively. “But just like there’s a bad apple in every batch of good ones, who’s to say there can’t be a good apple in every rotten batch?”

“It’s against the fourth and seventh commandments!” yelled Billy Karma. He frowned. “Or is it the second and ninth?”

“Max has a point,” said Hurricane Smith. “They weren’t all bad.”

“Let me guess,” said Baker. “At least one of the ones that weren’t all bad was a lady, right?”

Smith glared at him. “You know,” he said sullenly, “I can remember when I used to like you.”

“What’s not to like?” said Baker. “I’m strong, handsome, agile, noble, truthful to a fault, and one hell of a hand with the ladies.”

“That’s six reasons right there,” said Max.

“He’s not irresistible to
me
,” said the Earth Mother, entering the Outpost and heading to a nearby table.

“Or me,” added the Cyborg de Milo, following close behind her.

“I am glad to see that you are well, Venus,” said Reggie. “I was worried about you.”

“You were?”

“We have so much in common,” said Reggie. She looked at him curiously. “I am all machine, and you are at least half machine. Everyone else here is merely flesh and blood.”

“There was nothing to worry about,” said Max. “I told you I’d protect her, didn’t I?”

“Protect me?” said Venus. “I never once saw you after I left the Outpost.”

“I made sure things were safe in that ancient city before you showed up.”

“Then I suppose I owe you my gratitude,” said Venus with an obvious lack of sincerity.

“Happy to do it.”

“Of course,” she said, “you managed to miss more than six hundred armed aliens.”

“Well, I got rid of the first five thousand I came to,” replied Max smoothly. “I figured with all your weaponry you could handle a measly six hundred without working up much of a sweat.”

She turned to Willie the Bard, who was scribbling furiously.

“Why are you writing all this down?” she demanded.

“Someone has to,” he said.

“But he’s lying!”

“Today it’s a lie,” he pointed out. “But when my book is published, it’ll be the truth.”

“Aren’t you interested in what really happened?” she continued.

“I’m interested in everything,” said the Bard. “You guys tell me your stories and I’ll sort ’em out.”

“But you weren’t there!” said Venus. “How can you sort out the truth from the lie?”

“I’ll keep what makes the best history and throw the rest out.”

“Can you do that?”
 

“History is written by the winners,” answered the Bard. “That’s why it reads so well, why it has such a noble trajectory to it.”

“It don’t read well next to the Good Book,” put in the Reverend Billy Karma.

“What’s the Good Book but God’s version of history?” said the Bard.

Suddenly, Billy Karma grinned. “You know, I never looked at it that way.”

“Of course, that means you won’t want to rewrite it after all,” said Baker.

“Nonsense,” said Billy Karma. “God’s a busy man with a lot on His mind. I’m sure it can still use a little improvement here and there.”

“I didn’t know God was a man,” said the Earth Mother.

“She isn’t,” agreed the Cyborg de Milo.

“Now just a minute!” began Billy Karma hotly, jumping to his feet.

“Sit down, Reverend,” said Venus, pointing a lethal finger at him. “Or do you want to be carrying around some molten slag at the end of each arm?”

“Maybe you each have your own God,” said Sitting Horse placatingly.

“Are you suggesting that there’s a God for every being in the universe?” asked Baker.

“Of course not,” answered Sitting Horse. “Crazy Bull and I worship the same one.”

“Is it a male or female God?” asked Billy Karma.

“I don’t think that’s important,” said Sitting Horse.

“But just in case you’re curious, She’s got really big tits,” added Crazy Bull.

“That’s blasphemy!” roared the Reverend.

“You don’t think God has breasts?” asked the Cyborg de Milo.

“Hell, no!” said Billy Karma. “Matter of fact, He’s hung like a horse.”

“And you think that’s
not
blasphemous?” asked the Cyborg incredulously.

“Of course not,” said Billy Karma. “God made man in His own image. Hell, me and God could pass for twins!”

“I sure wouldn’t put that in your book,” said Baker to the Bard. “Nobody’ll read the rest once they read
that
.”

“I haven’t put anything in it yet,” replied the Bard. “But I suppose enough of you are here that I should start.” He turned to the Cyborg de Milo. “What was all this about killing six hundred aliens?”

“I did.”

“So tell me about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I killed six hundred aliens.”

“That’s it?”

She nodded. “That’s it.”

“It’s going to make a mighty thin chapter,” said the Bard.

“I’m into killing, not bragging.”

The Bard sighed. “Okay, have it your way. But nobody’ll ever know you were here.”

“What do I care?” she asked.

“It’s your immortality,” explained the Bard. “That’s what history’s all about. It shows you were here, that you made a mark on the pathways of Time.”

“
I
know I was here.”

“But no one else will know.”

“Once I’m dead, what difference does it make?” said the Cyborg.

“It’s the only way to be sure you’ll never be forgotten,” said the Bard, “that your memory will live in song and story.”

“And how does that benefit me?” she asked.

“Right,” chimed in the Reverend Billy Karma. “She’s going to the Good Place or the Bad one, and either way, that’s immortality enough for anyone.”

“But if they don’t exist, then
this
”—the Bard tapped his notebook with a finger—“is all the immortality she’s got.”

“Bite your tongue!” snapped Billy Karma. “God wouldn’t have invented sex except to give us a hint of what’s to come if we lead the good life.”

“You think heaven is non-stop sex?” asked the Earth Mother.

“What else
could
it be?” shot back the Reverend. “That’s why we call it heaven.”

“Have you ever sat down and seriously discussed this with God?” she continued. “Or maybe a good psychiatrist?”

“No need to,” said Billy Karma. “It’s self-evident.”

“I don’t know that I’m interested in
either
kind of immortality,” said the Cyborg de Milo, taking a swig of her drink, then signaling Reggie for a refill.

“All right,” said the Bard. “If you don’t want to be remembered, you don’t want to be remembered.” He turned to Max. “You were on the same planet, right?”

“Henry V, right,” said Max.

“You want to talk about it?”

“It’s still kind of painful,” said Max. “But what the hell, why not?”

Three-Gun Max Finds A Friend

It was after I’d made the city safe for Venus (began Max, as the Cyborg de Milo snorted contemptuously). I set my ship down a few hundred miles away, ready to take out a small alien army all by myself.

But before I did, I figured I owed myself a meal, since wiping out all those aliens figured to burn up a lot of calories. I was sitting there outside my ship, cooking some steaks over an open fire, far enough from the aliens so their sensors wouldn’t be able to spot me, when I felt the muzzle of a screecher pressed between my shoulder blades.

“Raise your hands,” said a thickly-accented voice, which I knew had to belong to one of the aliens.

“If I do, I’ll burn the steaks,” I said without turning around.

“So what?” asked the alien.

“If you’re going to kill me anyway, it doesn’t make any difference what I do with my hands … but if you’re
not
going to kill me, then it’s be criminal to burn ’em.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted thoughtfully, walking around to the other side of the fire. He kept his gun trained on me while he tried to figure out what to do next.

“Well, if you’re not going to shoot me,” I said, “you might as well join me. There’s enough food here for both of us.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking a plate and squatting down next to the fire. “It’s been a long day, and I haven’t eaten since sunrise.”

“You got a name?” I asked.

“Wordsmith,” he said. “How about you?”

“Max.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got more hands than the usual human,” he said.

“I never found it to be a disadvantage,” I told him.

“That’s curious,” he said. “Everything I’ve learned about your society tells me that anyone as different as you should be an outcast, shunned by all.”

“Just what is it you think you know about my society?” I asked.

“I’ve read all the books and seen the usual indoctrination holos,” he replied. “I find your habit of eating newborn babies especially disgusting.”

“I’m not aware of any humans ever eating babies.”

“I suppose it’s a secret ritual,” he said sympathetically.

“I have a feeling that you’re a victim of false doctrine,” I said.

“False doctrine?” he repeated, puzzled.

“Propaganda.”

“But I
saw
the holos!”

“You saw the wonders of computer animation and special effects,” I said.

He stared at me for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

“Did you see holos of people cooking babies?”

“No, just eating them raw.”

“Well, there you have it,” I said. “I’m living proof of the fact that Men always cook their meat.”

“Yeah, I guess you are,” said Wordsmith. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is.”

“Why?”

“I’m no warrior,” he confessed. “I’m a poet. I joined the military after I read about what you did to babies. Now that I know you don’t eat your young, I think I’ll go back home and finish work on my first collection of poems. I specialize in unrhyming hectameter.”

“Will they let you leave?” I asked.

“Why not?” he said. “They have no use for a poet.” He paused. “Actually,” he added ruefully, “they have no use for anyone who doesn’t kill, maim, and torture.”