Best of Beyond the Stars Page 3

  “Tom, Madeline wants to see you,” Avalon said. I focused on her face. Her blue eyes still had that searching quality to them, but she was smiling.

  “Gunny’s awake?”

  “And asking for you. I’ve already taken the other two in to see her.” Her gaze lingered on the Zeron screen and I stood up to distract her. I’d spent most of the day preparing a data package we could send off to UEF Command about Avalon’s... condition. She looked at the screen and started laughing. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwriting.”

  I followed her gaze. I had indeed fallen asleep on the keyboard. The screen was full of gibberish. Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll fix it later. Let’s go see Gunny.”

  The sun was low and red on the horizon; I’d slept for hours. I had a sudden pang of indecision. Maybe I should have sent off the message to UEF, but this was the kind of thing that Gunny needed to know, especially since we’d agreed to let the alien‌—‌K-Tor‌—‌live. Maybe they’d want him as a specimen. And the baby, too. The political dimensions of this whole situation hurt my head. I needed Gunny to take it off my hands.

  Mambo and Hercules were nowhere to be seen as Avalon led me through the compound to the medlab. Gunny was sitting up in bed. Her gray bob was a mess of finger-combed tangles, but she had color in her cheeks and she was alive. I smiled. “Gunny.”

  “Corporal,” she said, a chill in her tone. My smile died and I instinctively came to attention. “I understand you made an agreement with this woman regarding my medical care.”

  Avalon started for the door. “Maybe I’ll leave you two alone‌—‌”

  “Stay, ma’am. I want to thank you for saving my life.”

  “K-Tor is the real doctor,” Avalon said. “I’m more of a scientist, really. Geneticist by training.”

  “Gunny,” I said, trying to put some urgency in my tone without alarming Avalon, “I need to speak with you.”

  “Here’s the real doctor now,” Avalon said. K-Tor made some whirring sound behind me‌—‌probably a greeting‌—‌and I heard the slap of his bare feet on the tile.

  Gunny’s eyes shifted over my shoulder. Her hand disappeared under the covers and reappeared holding a slim pistol. Mambo called it her “lady gun,” a five round old-school projectile weapon. Gunny fired right past me, so close I could feel the heat from the muzzle against my forearm. Again and again she fired until the weapon was empty. The shattering sound of the discharges deadened my hearing to a low hum.

  I spun around. K-Tor was sprawled on the tile, leaking black blood everywhere, his bare torso stitched with five angry wounds. Avalon was on her knees, her mouth open in a scream, but all I could hear was the humming sound. A hand grabbed my collar, dragging me down until I was nose to nose with Gunny. Her sour breath washed over me and her growl barely penetrated my damaged hearing.

  “Mission complete.”

  * * *

  In hindsight, I suppose Mambo and Hercules didn’t break their word to me. They didn’t pull the trigger that killed the alien.

  K-Tor. His name was K-Tor, I reminded myself again.

  Sure, Mambo gave Gunny the weapon, and Gunny never actually promised anything, so technically everyone had a clean conscience.

  But I don’t live in a world of technicalities. I live in a world of actualities.

  I could have rationalized what happened by saying that even if Gunny had died, the UEF would have sent another Eraser Unit to hunt the alien down. That’s probably true also.

  It was dark when we left the planet’s surface. Mambo pushed the Gs harder than normal as we climbed like she couldn’t wait to get rid of the place. I wondered if she felt guilty about what had happened. I know I did.

  However I turned it over in my head, I came back to the same place: I promised to keep K-Tor alive, and K-Tor was dead. That’s on me.

  We paused in high orbit so Mambo could do her flight plan calcs to take us to the rendezvous point. Hercules was already asleep. Gunny was watching me.

  “Had to be done, Tom,” she said.

  I didn’t react to the fact that she’d used my actual name. Instead, the only thing I could think about was Avalon’s soundless scream.

  “Course laid in, Gunny,” Mambo called out. “Our uplink is hot if you want to transmit now.”

  “Tom,” Gunny said again.

  Avalon’s scream was just on the edge of my hearing now, overpowering the hiss of the electronics around me and Hercules’ gentle snoring. At least she was still alive, I told myself. That was something.

  “Corporal!” Gunny’s voice cut through the images in my head.

  “Sorry, Gunny. What was that?”

  “Do you have our Kill Report ready to transmit?”

  “Just finishing it now, Gunny.” The Kill Report was a simple form. How many aliens killed, what planet, time and date. There was a space for amplifying details but no one ever used it. All anyone cared about was the body count. I loaded it into the transmit queue.

  My message about Avalon and cross-species genetics was there already, complete with Zeron data files.

  I deleted it.

  “Kill Report ready to transmit, Gunny.”

  A Word from David Bruns

  In the 1980s, when I was a plebe (civilian translation: freshman) at the US Naval Academy, I attended a lecture by a local Maryland author. Tom Clancy, an insurance salesman, had just published his debut novel with the Naval Institute Press.

  I don’t recall Mr. Clancy as a dynamic speaker, and truth is, the only reason I attended the lecture was because my English professor offered extra credit. But I can say with great certainty that The Hunt for Red October had a profound influence on the next ten years of my life. After graduation, I went on to serve six years in the nuclear submarine force.

  Such is the power of story.

  Sidebar: People often ask me if the underwater cat-and mouse world of Soviet-US submarines described in THFRO was really accurate. Instead of answering, I tell them a story. When I was still a midshipman, serving on a fast-attack sub for a summer, a grizzled chief started reading Clancy’s book to see what all the fuss was about. After the first few chapters, he threw it away. “Too much like being on watch,” he said. So, yeah, Clancy did a pretty solid job.

  Thirty years after that chance meeting, I quit my job as a corporate itinerant to become a writer. I had just published my first science fiction trilogy, The Dream Guild Chronicles, when Fate connected me with a recently retired career naval intel officer who had a headful of stories. Together we cowrote Weapons of Mass Deception, a contemporary military thriller much in the style of Tom Clancy. When the science fiction muse came calling again, I started to mix in some of my military background.

  “The Epsilon Directive” touches on one of my favorite themes: a young person trapped between duty and conscience. Tom, who has grown up in a world where he has known only war, is expected by his military family and his country to do his part to fight the Scythians‌—‌even when it conflicts with what he thinks are his personal values. The cruelest irony assigns him to a military unit at the tip of the spear: an Eraser Squad on the front lines of the killing.

  I’d like to say I hope you enjoy “The Epsilon Directive,” but if you’re read this far you already figured out that’s not why I wrote it. I wrote it to make you think.

  I still write sci-fi and contemporary thrillers (and everything in between). You can find me at www.davidbruns.com.

  Hanging with Humans

  by Patrice Fitzgerald

  Planet Zeldar

  “LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND qualtrids, welcome to today’s live broadcast! Here at The Zeldar Show, we know how to entertain. I’m your host, Trazil Krang, and I’ve been voted Funnest Guy in the Galaxy five years in a row. So be ready for some fun! Every day a different planet, and every day a different willing victim. Ahem... I mean, contestant!”

  [Laughter]

  “Let’s jump right in and introduce you to today’s new player. Please welcome
Glendorp Freundzap!”

  [Applause]

  Glendorp appears, wearing purple and orange shorts on all twelve legs.

  “Ha ha! Glendorp here is a real snappy dresser, isn’t he, folks? But we’re going to put him into another shape altogether for his trip down to the third planet in a system far away from here. And you can’t believe what they look like there!”

  Live feed from game destination planet opens. Bipeds appear.

  “Isn’t that amazing? They’re a funny-looking group of aliens, am I right? Hard to imagine we could get Glendorp here to fit in with this hairy two-legged crowd, but we will! We spare no expense on The Zeldar Show to bring you the best in intergalactic adventures. Now, let’s send our contestant out of the studio so he can get ready.”

  Glendorp exits.

  “Okay, folks, here comes the best part. What our friend Glendorp doesn’t know is that he won’t be the only Zeldarian down on what they call ‘Earth.’ We’re sending our special guest star Kalacha Swanssa to join him... and she’s going to be his target ‘Earthling.’ Here’s Kalacha now.”

  Kalacha appears, and she is smoking. Literally.

  “So, Kalacha darling, what do you plan to do while you’re down there?”

  “Trazil, I’m going to do whatever the audience tells me to do. And that may include creating some problems for today’s contestant.”

  [Laughter]

  “Sounds like fun, Kalacha! All right, let’s send you back out of the studio so he doesn’t see you... There you go darling... Isn’t she something, folks? She’ll come back to us in Earthling form in just a minute, but first let’s say hello and goodbye to Glendorp as he takes off for the alien planet where he’ll spend this episode. Come right down here beside me, Glendorp. There you go.”

  [Laughter]

  “Okay, let’s see you up close. Wow. What a transformation! So that’s what their heads look like. With all that stuff on top‌—‌what is it? Some kind of vegetable matter? And only two eyes. A wonder they can see anything, am I right? So Glendorp, can you move comfortably in this get-up?”

  “Sxmcntoatuhharipeipamia.”

  “Oh, sorry, folks‌—‌we’ve already equipped him with the translator. He’s speaking the language of Earth. We won’t be able to understand him until we have the language filter on. But he looks great, in a bizarre sort of way. And you can see he’s got the transporter on his arm‌—‌is that an arm? I don’t know! Funny color he is, too. Well, that’s the way they look on this planet. What can you do?”

  [Laughter]

  “Off you go, Glendorp.”

  Glendorp disappears. Kalacha walks back on.

  “Whoa, Kalacha! Even as an Earthling you look great. Or as great as an Earthling can look, am I right? So, I know you can’t talk to us now, but you’re clear on this mission: Glendorp is getting the chance to experience a typical Earthling rite of passage‌—‌going to a high school prom. And you’re going to make sure you’re the girl he asks. Then the fun begins! Are you all set?”

  “Xmowerhhoipnbm.”

  “Whatever she said must be right, folks! So here you go, Kalacha. Have a great time, and may The Zeldar Show begin!”

  * * *

  Glendorp Freundzap found himself standing in a narrow room. It was dominated by metal boxes attached to the walls, and otherwise empty apart from a bare wooden bench in front of him. He was compressed into an Earthling body and wearing a strap that ran around his middle and between his two lower appendages.

  According to the brief orientation course he had been given, this was a place of education for young people here, and the item he was wearing was designed to cover the male Earthling’s primary reproductive organ. The organ seemed extraordinarily vulnerable, hanging out the way it did.

  He appeared to be alone in the room, but loud voices could be heard nearby. To his relief, the automatic translator was working. Their words made sense, and he hoped that he, in turn, would be able to communicate with the denizens of this planet.

  Six of them came around the corner, in much the same state of undress as him. One of them had on no clothing at all.

  “Hey, it’s the new guy,” the unclothed one said.

  “What’s your name?” said another. “I’m Jake Bradshaw, and numbnuts here is Rich.”

  The Earthling reached out a hand in what Glendorp knew to be a gesture of greeting and welcome. He did his best to respond appropriately, stretching out his unfamiliar limb and working the digits.

  “Glen... dorp.” His name sounded funny in this language.

  “Glen Dorp?” One of the guys slapped another one on the back. “Did you hear that, Krakowitsky? His name is even goofier than yours.”

  “Yeah, Krak, you’re going to love this guy. Finally, someone else to slam in the name department.” The fellow put his arm around Glendorp’s shoulders. “Where you from, Dorp?”

  The others laughed, and four of them turned to open the metal boxes behind them.

  “I am from... Zeldar.”

  “Where the hell is Zeldar? Is that in Indiana? I think I knew a girl from there once.”

  “No, you idiot. It’s in Illinois. You don’t know any girls from Indiana. Girls run when they see you coming.”

  These creatures spoke very quickly. And moved quickly too. One of them took off the cloth wrapped around his loins and flung it toward another Earthling. There was some snapping of the strap that Glendorp was wearing around his middle, which hurt. He found himself shoved against one of the metal boxes on the wall, and he slid down to the chilly floor.

  It was all very puzzling.

  “Lay off him, you guys.” Jake reached out a hand and helped raise Glendorp from the ground. “Stick with me, Dorp, and I’ll protect you from these douchebags. We’re about to go to lunch. Want to join us?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Glendorp started to follow the two Earthlings who were ambulating toward the exit, but Jake stopped him.

  “Hey, bro, don’t forget your pants. I don’t know how it is in Zeldar, but here in Iowa we wear pants to lunch.”

  * * *

  Glendorp sat at the table with the group of males. He was having a hard time keeping up with the conversation while also ingesting nutrients. When he got back to Zeldar, he was going to mention to the game show people that a longer orientation period would be advisable. It was quite confusing to be in a new body, wearing unfamiliar vestments, dealing with an alien language, and also trying to accomplish the task of finding a “prom date.”

  Well, that’s probably why they called it a game. No doubt it was more entertaining for the observers at home if the contestant was insufficiently prepared. Glendorp had never seen the show himself, it was his mother who had persuaded him to become a contestant. She watched The Zeldar Show every day and had insisted he apply. Glendorp now realized that he might have made a mistake in avoiding the broadcast.

  As he scooped up a desiccated potato slice and placed it in his mouth to masticate, he heard a strange sound coming from “Rich,” the Earthling on his right. The noise was apparently made by forming the mouth into a tight round shape and pushing air through it with force.

  “Don’t whistle, you jerk. Chicks don’t like that. They want somebody with class.” Jake said. “Like me.”

  Jake stood up and spoke to the approaching female. “You’re new, right? You must be, because I couldn’t have missed a girl who looks as hot as you.”

  Glendorp noticed that Jake displayed his teeth after speaking to the female. This, he knew, was a traditional Earthling means of indicating warmth, humor, or affection. Glendorp practiced displaying his teeth. The female looked at him.

  Rich shoved his sharp arm bone into Glendorp’s ribcage. “Introduce yourself,” he mumbled, keeping his own teeth displayed. Glendorp wasn’t sure how to do that, so he experimented with making the same sound that Rich had. He was pleased to successfully reproduce it on the first try.

  The girl looked at him directly. He noted that she had some kind of shiny
, colored substance on her talons. Perhaps this was a secondary sex characteristic of this species. None of the males at the table had colored talons. Glendorp wondered what evolutionary advantage it might provide.

  Rich shook his head at Glendorp, then stood and extended his hand to the female. “I’m Rich, and this is Dorp. He’s brand new too.” The female merely stared back, saying nothing. “So... um... want to sit at our table? What’s your name?”

  The female placed her tray on the table and sat down between Glendorp and Rich. “I’m Kalacha. I am transfer student.”

  Glendorp noticed a peculiar difference in the behavior of the male Earthlings now that the female had come close. They seemed less inclined to talk to each other, their focus now entirely on this member of the female gender. He decided to take advantage of the gap in conversation to advance his task in the game.

  “Kalacha. I am seeking a female to accompany me to the prom. Would you do so? I am prepared to supply you with sufficient nutrients beforehand and will be able to secure a vehicle for transportation to the event.”

  Kalacha turned to him. “Yes. I will go with you.” She lifted her tray and displayed her teeth, then walked away from the table.

  Rich opened his mouth. “You dog. And I thought you were slow.”

  Jake laughed. “Gotta hand it to you, Dorp, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Darn it! I was going to ask her to the prom,” Rich said. “But I was going to use a little bit more finesse than that. Like, get to know her for an hour or so before springing it on her.”

  Jake punched Glendorp on the shoulder. “Well done, man. I would have asked her myself if I wasn’t dating Samantha. Who would kill me, of course, if I didn’t take her to the prom.”

  Rich was still shaking his head. “Dorp, you are unbelievable. Just cool as a cucumber, snatching the hot new girl out from under my nose on your first day.”