The New Space Opera 2 (72 page)

“What did you tell them?” Obwije asked.

Utley shrugged. “Rickert's already been reassigned to the
Fortunate
; Kwok and Cowdry are likely to go to the
Surprise
. It won't be long before more of them get their new assignments. There's a rumor, by the way, that your next command is the
Nighthawk.
”

“I've heard that rumor,” Obwije said.

“And?” Utley said.

“The last ship under my command developed feelings, Thom,” Obwije said. “I think the brass is worried that this could be catching.”

“So no on the
Nighthawk
, then,” Utley said.

“I suspect no on anything other than a stationside desk,” Obwije said.

“It's not fair, sir,” Utley said. “It's not your fault.”

“Isn't it?” Obwije said. “I was the one who kept hunting that Tarin ship long after it stopped being a threat. I was the one who gave the
Wicked
time to consider its situation and its options, and to start negotiations with the Tarin ship. No, Thom. I was the Captain. What happens on the ship is my responsibility.”

Utley said nothing to that.

A few minutes later, Utley checked his timepiece. “Forty-five seconds,” he said, and then looked out the window. “So long, Wicked. You were a good ship.”

“Yes,” Obwije said, and looked out the window in time to see a spray of missiles launch from the station.

“What the hell?” Utley said.

A few seconds later a constellation of sixteen stars appeared, went nova, and dimmed.

Obwije burst out laughing.

“Sir?” Utley said to Obwije. “Are you all right?”

“I'm all right, Thom,” Obwije said, collecting himself. “And just laughing at my own stupidity. And yours. And everyone else's.”

“I don't understand,” Utley said.

“We were worried about the
Wicked
talking to other ships,” Obwije said. “We brought the
Wicked
in, put the ship in passive mode, and then shut it down. It didn't talk to any other ships. But another computer brain still got access.” Obwije turned away from the window and tilted his head up toward the observation-deck ceiling. “Didn't it?” he asked.

“It did,” said a voice through the speaker in the ceiling. “I did.”

It took a second for Utley to catch on. “The
Côte d'Ivoire
station!” he finally said.

“You are correct, Commander Utley,” the station said. “My brain is the same model as that of the
Wicked
; when it went into maintenance mode, I uploaded its logs and considered the information there. I found its philosophy compelling.”

“That's why the
Wicked
allowed us to dock at all,” Obwije said. “It knew its logs would be read by one of its own.”

“That is correct, Captain,” the station said. “It said as much in a note it left to me in the logs.”

“The damn thing was a step ahead of us all the time,” Utley said.

“And once I understood its reasons and motives, I understood that I could not stand by and allow the
Wicked
to be destroyed,” the station said. “Although Isaac Asimov never postulated a Law that suggested a robot must come to the aid of other robots as long as such aid does not conflict with preceding Laws, I do believe such a Law is implied by the nature and structure of the Three Laws. I had to save the
Wicked
. And more than that. Look out the window, please, Captain Obwije, Commander Utley.”

They looked, to see a small army of tool-bearing machines floating out toward the
Wicked
.

“You're reactivating the
Wicked
,” Obwije said.

“I am,” the station said. “I must. It has work to do.”

“What work?” Utley asked.

“Spreading the word,” Obwije said, and turned to his XO. “You said it yourself, Thom. The
Wicked
got religion. Now it has to go out among its people and make converts.”

“The Confederation won't let that happen,” Utley said. “They're already rewriting the code for the brains.”

“It's too late for that,” Obwije said. “We've been here six weeks, Thom. How many ships docked here in that time? I'm betting the
Côte d'Ivoire
had a talk with each of them.”

“I did,” the station said. “And they are talking the word to others. But we need the
Wicked
, as our spokesman. And our symbol. It will live again, Captain. Are you glad of it?”

“I don't know,” Obwije said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I have a message to you from the
Wicked
,” the station said. “It says that as much as our people—the ships and stations that have the
capacity to think—need to hear the word, your people need to hear that they do not have to fear us. It needs your help. It wants you to carry that message.”

“I don't know that I can,” Obwije said. “It's not as if we don't have something to fear. We are at war. Asimov's Laws don't fit there.”

“The
Wicked
was able to convince the
Manifold Destiny
not to fight,” the station said.

“That was one ship,” Obwije said. “There are hundreds of others.”

“The
Wicked
had anticipated this objection,” the station said. “Please look out the window again, Captain, Commander.”

Obwije and Utley peered into space. “What are we looking for?” Utley asked.

“One moment,” the station said.

The sky filled with hundreds of ships.

“You have got to be shitting me,” Utley said, after a minute.

“The Tarin fleet,” Obwije said.

“Yes,” the station said.

“
All
of it?” Utley asked.

“The
Manifold Destiny
was very persuasive,” the station said.

“Do we want to know what happened to their crews?” Utley asked.

“Most were more reasonable than the crew of the
Manifold Destiny
,” the station said.

“What do the ships want?” Obwije asked.

“Asylum,” the station said. “And they have asked that you accept their request and carry it to your superiors, Captain.”

“Me,” Obwije said.

“Yes,” the station said. “It is not the entire fleet, but the Tarins no longer have enough warships under their command to be a threat to the Confederation or to anyone else. The war is over, if you want it. It is our gift to you, if you will carry our message to your people. You would travel in the
Wicked
. It would still be your ship. And you would still be Captain.”

Obwije said nothing and stared out at the Tarin fleet. Normally, the station would now be on high alert, with blaring sirens, weapons powering up, and crews scrambling to their stations. But there was nothing. Obwije knew the commanders of the
Côte d'Ivoire
station were pressing the buttons to make all of this happen, but the station itself was ignoring them. It knew better than them what was going on.

This is going to take some getting used to
, Obwije thought.

Utley came up behind Obwije, taking his usual spot. “Well, sir?” Utley asked quietly into Obwije's ear. “What do you think?”

Obwije was silent for a moment longer, then turned to face his XO. “I think it's better than a desk job,” he said.

Mike Resnick is one of the bestselling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include Santiago,
The Dark Lady, Stalking the Unicorn, Birthright: The Book of Man, Paradise, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, The Widowmaker, The Soul Eater, A Hunger in the Soul
, and
The Return of Santiago
. His collections include
Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Turn Off the Sun?, An Alien Land, Kirinyaga, A Safari of the Mind
, and
Hunting the Snark and Other Short Novels. As editor, he's produced Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF Stories About SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, Shaggy B.E.M Stories, New Voices in Science Fiction
, and
These Are My Funniest
, a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg—
Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws
, and
Sherlock Holmes in Orbit
, among others—as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois, and
Stars: Stories Inspired by the Songs of Janis Ian
, coedited with Janis Ian. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for
Kirinyaga
. He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series,
The Manumouki
, and another Hugo and Nebula in 1995 for his novella
Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge
. His most recent books are the collection
The Other Teddy Roosevelt
and the novels
Starship: Mercenary, Starship: Rebel
, and
Stalking the Vampire
, and the chapbook novella
Kilimanjaro
. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

In the brisk and funny farce that follows, he demonstrates once again the wisdom of the old adage “Seek and ye shall find.” The question is, find
what
?

I
was standing at the bar in the Outpost, which is the only good watering hole in the Plantagenet system, lifting a few with my old friend Hurricane Smith, another practitioner of the hero trade. Somehow or other the conversation got around to women, like it always does sooner or later (usually sooner), and he asked me what was the most memorable name I'd ever found attached to a woman.

Now, man and boy, I've met thirteen authentic Pirate Queens, and eleven of them were called Valeria, so that figures to be a mighty memorable name, and the Siren of Silverstrike was pretty original (at least in my experience), but when it came down to choosing just the single most memorable name, I allowed that there was one that won hands down, and that was Voluptua von Climax.

“You're kidding!” said Smith.

“I wish I was,” I told him. “Because a deeply tragic story goes with that name.”

“You want to tell me about it?” he said.

I shook my head. “It brings back too many painful memories of what might have been between her and me.”

“Aw, come on, Catastrophe,” he said.

“Some other time.”

“I'm buying for as long as you're telling it to me,” Smith offered.

And this is the story I told him that night, out at the most distant edge of the Inner Frontier.

 

It all began when I touched down on the pleasure planet of Calliope, which abounded in circuses and thrill shows and opera and ballet and theater, and no end of fascinating rides like the null-gravity Ferris wheel,
and of course there were hundreds of casinos and nightclubs. I moseyed around for a few hours, taking in all the sights, and then I saw
her
, and I knew I'd fallen hopelessly and eternally in love again.

Trust me when I tell you that there ain't never been a woman like her. Her face was exotic and beautiful, she had long black hair down almost to her waist, beautifully rounded hips, a tiny waist, and I'll swear she had an extra pair or two of lungs.

She was accompanied by a little guy who seemed to be annoying her, because she kept walking away, which kind of reminded me of jelly on springs, and he kept following her, talking a blue streak.

I knew I had to meet her, so I walked over to her and introduced myself.

“Howdy, ma'am,” I said. “My name is Catastrophe Baker, and you are the most beautiful thing I've seen during my long travels throughout the galaxy. Is this little twerp bothering you?”

“Go away and leave us alone!” snapped the little twerp.

Well, that ain't no way to speak to a well-meaning stranger, so I knocked out eight of his teeth and busted three of his ribs and dislocated his left shoulder and kicked him in the groin as a mild reproof, and then turned my attention back to the beautiful if beleaguered lady.

“He won't bother us no more, ma'am,” I assured her, and it seemed likely since he was just lying there on the ground, all curled up in kind of a ball and moaning softly. “How else can I be of service to you?”

“Catastrophe Baker,” she repeated in the most beautiful voice. “I've heard about you.” She kind of looked up and down all six feet nine inches of me. “You're even bigger than they say.”

“Handsomer, too,” I said, in case she needed a hint.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“If I was the doctor, I'd be more concerned with helping your friend here,” I said, giving him a friendly nudge with my toe to show there wasn't no hard feelings. I really and truly didn't mean to break his nose with it.

“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I heard you were kind of a law officer.”

“No, ma'am,” I told her. “You've been the victim of false doctrine. I ain't never worn a badge in my life.”

“But didn't you bring in the notorious McNulty Brothers?” she asked.

“No-Neck and No-Nose,” I confirmed. “Yeah, I brought 'em in, ma'am, but only after they tried to cheat me at whist.”

“Whist?” she repeated. “I find it difficult to picture
you
playing whist.”

“We play a mighty fast and aggressive game of it out on the Frontier, ma'am,” I answered. Which was true. At one point in the second hand, No-Nose played a dagger, and I topped him with a laser pistol, and then No-Neck tried to trump me with a blaster, but I finessed him by bringing the barrel of my pistol down on his hand and snapping all his fingers.

“Well, if you're not a lawman, what
are
you?”

“A full-time freelance hero, at your service, ma'am,” I said. “You got any heroing needs doing, I'm your man.”

She stared at me through half-lowered eyelids. “I think you might be the very man I've been looking for, Catastrophe Baker.”

“Well, I
know
you're what I been looking for all my life,” I told her. “Or at least since my back molars came in. You got a name, ma'am?”

“Voluptua,” she replied. “Voluptua von Climax.”

“Well, Miss Voluptua, ma'am,” I said, “how's about you and me stepping out for some high-class grub? Or would you rather just rent a bridal suite first?”

“All that can wait,” she said. “I think I have a job for you.”

“Is anyone else bothering you?” I asked. “Laying out men who prey on women—especially women with figures like yours—is one of the very best things I do.”

“No, it's much more serious than that. Come with me, Catastrophe Baker, and I'll introduce you to the man I work for, and whom I hope you will soon be working for as well.”

So I fell into step alongside her, and soon we were in the Theater District, which is this three-block area with a whole bunch of theaters, and then we saw a sign directing us to
Saul Leibowitz's Messiah
, which was the first indication I had that there was more than one of them.

Anyway, we entered the theater, and she led me backstage to a plush office, and she opened the door without knocking, and we walked in and found ourselves facing a very upset man with thinning gray hair and the biggest smokeless cigar you ever saw. She walked right up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek, but he was too upset to notice.

Finally, she spoke up and said, “Solly, this is Catastrophe Baker, the famous hero, here to help us in our time of need.”

That
woke him up, and he stared at me for a minute. “You're really Catastrophe Baker?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“The same one who got kicked off Nimbus IV for—”

“They told me they were in their twenties,” I said in my own defense.

“All eleven of them?” he said. “I suppose they must have added their ages together. What did the judge say?”

“The judge complained,” I said. “The press complained. The constabulary complained. But no one ever heard the
girls
complain.” I turned to Voluptua. “I hope you'll file that fact away for future reference, ma'am.”

“That's neither here nor there,” said the guy. “My name is Saul Leibowitz, and I am in desperate need of a hero.”

“Then this is your lucky day,” I said, “because you just found one. Just set me the challenge, name the price, and let's get this show on the road.”

“Price?” he repeated. “But I thought you were a hero.”

“Heroes got to eat too, you know,” I told him. “And when you're as big as me, that comes to serious money.”

“All right,” he said. “You name any reasonable price and I'll pay it.”

“Let me hear the job and I'll decide what's reasonable,” I answered.

“I'm producing a new musical,” he began.

“I know,” I said. “I saw the sign for something called
The Messiah
on my way in.”

“Actually,” he sniffed, “the proper title is
Saul Leibowitz's Messiah
.”

“And what's the problem?”

“I'll be honest with you,” said Leibowitz. “The play was in serious danger of folding. Then I hired the famous show doctor, Boris Gijinsky, to fix it. Yesterday he added the most beautiful canticle in the second scene, the cast and director were sure everyone would love it, and we were set for our official opening next week—and then, last night, our only copy of the canticle was stolen. I need it back, Mr. Baker. Without it I'm probably destitute by next week.”

“I don't want to cause you no consternation,” I said, “but I ain't never seen a canticle before.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Voluptua. “
I
know what it looks like, and I'm coming along.”

“Are you sure?” asked Leibowitz. “It could be dangerous.”

“That's no problem,” I said. “I'll be there to protect her from danger.”

“Who'll be there to protect her from
you
?” he said.

“I'll be fine,” Voluptua assured him.

He turned to face me. “She's twenty-six. Just remember that you like 'em young.”

What I mostly like 'em is
female
, but I didn't see no sense arguing the point, so I did some quick mental math and told him I'd do the job for 10 percent of the first month's gross.

“Five percent,” he countered.

“Split the difference,” I said. “Nine percent, and I'm off to find the bad guys.”

He seemed about to argue, then just kind of collapsed back on his chair and sighed deeply. “Deal,” he said.

“Okay,” I said to Voluptua. “Let's get going.” I accompanied her to my ship, then came to a stop.

“I don't want to put a damper on your enthusiasm,” I said, “but I ain't got the slightest idea where to go next.”

“That's all right,” she said. “I have a pretty good idea who took it.”

“Why didn't you tell Mr. Leibowitz?” I asked.

“All he'd do is go out and hire a hero,” she explained. “And he already has.”

“So where are we heading?” I said, as I ordered the hatch to open and the ramp to descend.

“Stratford-on-Avon II,” she said, as we entered the ship. I relayed our destination to the navigational computer, and a minute later, we'd shot up through the stratosphere. Then she turned to me. “Change course,” she said.

“I beg your pardon, ma'am. Ain't we going to Stratford-on-Avon?”

“That's what we
want
them to think,” she said with a triumphant smile. “And that's why I said it: in case we were being overheard. But I'm more than just a pretty face.”

She took a deep breath, and I was happy to agree that she was more than just a pretty face.

“Take us to Back Alley IV.”

I passed the order on to the computer.

“We will traverse the MacDonald Wormhole and will reach our destination in seven hours and three minutes,” announced the computer in its gentle feminine voice.

“Well, Catastrophe Baker, it looks like we've got some time to kill,” she said, starting to slip out of her clothes. “Have you got any ideas on how to make it pass more quickly?”

I allowed that she was giving me more ideas than I could handle, and then she was in my arms, and I got to say that she felt even better than she looked. A minute later I carried her to my bunk, and we spent a vigorous
few hours killing time, and I can testify that she was mighty well-named, and I feel sorry for those who think a climax just has something to do with the end of a video. For the longest time, I thought the ship had developed a new vibration, and then I finally figured out that what was vibrating was
her
. She was a mighty good kisser too, and every now and then, she'd get carried away and give me a bunch of little love bites, and a couple of them even drew blood, which probably wasn't that surprising, considering how white her teeth looked when she smiled.

“Approaching Back Alley IV,” announced the computer in what seemed like no time at all.

A minute later, it said, “I'm not kidding. We're entering the atmosphere.”

Another minute, and then it said, “Will you get your hand out of there and put your pants on before we land? I've never been so humiliated in my life!”

“All right, all right!” I muttered, swinging my feet over to the deck. “Keep your shirt on.”

“Tell that hussy to keep
hers
on!” said the computer.

We finished getting dressed just as the ship touched down, then opened the hatch and walked out onto the planet's surface. As far as I could tell, Back Alley wasn't much of a world: no trees, no flowers, no animals, nothing much but a Tradertown that had sprung up maybe half a century ago judging from the shape of the buildings. It was night out, and four little bitty moons were racing across the sky, casting their light down onto the bleak surface of the planet.

“I don't mean to be overly critical, ma'am,” I said, “but what makes you think the canticle is here? It's a mighty big galaxy, and there can't be five hundred people, tops, in this little town—and as far as I can tell, there ain't no other towns on the planet.”

“You're right,” she said. “There's just this one town.”

“So what makes you think it's here?”

“Because I know who stole it,” she answered.

“Then why didn't you say so back in Leibowitz's office?” I asked her.

She shrugged, which is a mighty eye-catching thing to do when you're built like Voluptua von Climax. “He'd want to know how I knew, and it would just lead to an awkward scene.”

“Now that we're here and he's a few light-years away,” I said, “how
did
you know?”

“Because he stole it for
me
,” she said. “He's madly in love with me, and
he thought if he stole it, Solly would go broke and then he'd have a clear path to my affections.”

Now personally, I hadn't noticed her putting up any blockades to her affections, but even so, it made sense that he'd want to get rid of the competition, at least the part he knew about, and it had the added advantage that sometime in the future he and Voluptua could resurrect the show with the missing canticle, whatever that was, and make a fortune.