The Outpost (33 page)

“If you are truly God’s spokesman, nothing can make you renounce Him, is that correct?” asked the alien.

“What are you getting at?”

“The truth,” replied the alien. “And the truth is that nothing can make me renounce
my
God, because I believe in Him with every ounce of my being. If you have been telling the truth, I will not be able to make you renounce yours.”

“I don’t know about this,” said Billy Karma, unable to look away from the weapon. “God understands that men ain’t perfect.”

“My race has that much in common with your God,” said the alien. “
We
understand that you’re not perfect either.”

Billy Karma watched as the light glinted off the metal point of the weapon. “What are you gonna do with that thing?”

“I am going to test the strength of your belief.”

He approached Billy Karma and slowly lowered the point until it was resting on the human’s thumbnail.

“The Lord is my shepherd …” intoned Billy Karma.

The alien leaned down, and the point went through Billy Karma’s nail and thumb. The Reverend screamed in agony.

“What is a shepherd?” asked the alien.

“You go to hell!” grated Billy Karma as the blood gushed out of his thumb.

“This could be very time-consuming,” said the alien. “You agree, do you not, that I could pierce all ten of your fingers?”

Billy Karma made no reply.

“But that would be dull and repetitious. After all, you have so many fingers.” The alien paused. “But you have only two eyes.”

Billy Karma pulled his head back as far as he could.

“You look uncomfortable,” said the alien. “I had hoped you would have adjusted to the chair by now.”

He took a step closer.

“You leave my eyes alone!” screamed Billy Karma.

“Certainly,” said the alien. “Just renounce your God and admit that you are a spy left behind by your Navy.”

The Reverend Billy Karma took one last look at the bloodied point of the weapon.

“God is a fiction,” he said. “I have no use for Him and no belief in Him. I am a spy, left here by the Navy.”

“Who is your commander?”

Billy Karma sighed deeply. “Whoever you like.”

The three aliens put their heads together and whispered to each other. Then they turned back to Billy Karma.

“What are you going to do to me?” he asked apprehensively.

“We’re going to amputate your hands and feet, so that you cannot sneak back here or operate any weaponry, and then, when you are no longer a real or potential threat to us, we are going to put you aboard your ship.”

“What if I just promise not to spy on you or fire any weapons?”

“If you would betray your God, why would you not also betray us?” said the alien.

“What about my eyes?”

“That is between you and your God,” answered the alien. “At some point you will have to look Him in the eye and explain why you renounced Him.”

Six hours later they carried the Reverend Billy Karma to his ship. He was unable to walk, or to manually operate the controls, but his voice brought the ship’s computer to life, and shortly thereafter he took off from Henry V.

His most immediate problem was how to feed himself until he received medical attention. Then there was the problem of adjusting to the prosthetic hands and feet he was sure he would need.

But those were trivial.

The biggest problem of all would come when he finally had to confront God and explain what he had done.

Sahara del Rio and the Aliens

Sahara del Rio’s ship settled into orbit around Henry VII, and she ordered her computer to scan for life forms.

It had been a long time since she’d seen any military action, and in the past she’d usually been a spectator. When Earth was attacked by the Sett Empire, all aliens—Sett and non-Sett alike—had been rounded up and placed in camps until the brief battle was over.

In fact, she’d spent a lot of time in places she didn’t much like. Bigotry was outlawed within the Monarchy, but there were always “legal exceptions” and “extraordinary situations.” Like the fact that she couldn’t purchase a first-class spaceliner fare anywhere in the spiral arm. Or that she had to stay in the Alien Quarter on Spica II. Or that she was not allowed to dine in The Fatted Calf, Deluros VIII’s finest restaurant.

Oh, it wasn’t bigotry, she was assured. Take the spaceliner, for instance. The seats were created for humans, not humanoids such as herself. The company had received so many complaints that humanoid aliens found the seats uncomfortable that they no longer offered them to any race but Man, since they constantly had to refund the price of the ticket.

(“Does that mean if I’m uncomfortable in the economy class seats, I can get a refund?” she had asked. The ticket agent stifled a guffaw and explained why it was impossible.)

As for Spica II, the Governor had received numerous death threats. Since there were no human fingerprints on any of the missives, it was assumed that they came from an alien. And while no one in the government was a bigot, surely she understood the necessity of keeping all aliens under observation until they could capture the one who was causing all the trouble.

(“How long is this situation likely to last?” she asked as she was directed to the Alien Quarter. No one knew … but she finally got them to admit that it had already existed for 34 years with the end not yet in sight.)

The Fatted Calf’s
maître d’
explained the menu was prepared for the human palate, and that it could cause serious digestive problems for aliens.

(“But I’ve lived on Earth for six years, and eaten human food the whole time,” she explained.)

(“I’ve no reason to doubt you,” answered the
maître d’
smoothly, “but if we make an exception in your case, then we must admit every alien who is certain he can metabolize human food, and since most of them are not as truthful as you are, we could be legally liable.”)

She thought about these and other abuses, all the private insults and public humiliations, and deactivated her ship’s scanner. She’d been too long at The Outpost; she had forgotten what normal humans were like.

She took one last look at the scanner, saw that it had picked up alien life forms near the equator, shrugged, and instructed her navigational computer to lay in a course back to her home planet.

She’d lived among savages too long, and she was damned if she’d go to war on their behalf.

Catastrophe Baker and the Aliens

Catastrophe Baker, all six feet nine inches of him, walked boldly into the middle of the alien encampment on Henry III.

“My name’s Baker!” he bellowed. “Catastrophe Baker! And I’m here to settle the war by fighting your champion—winner take all!”

He was instantly surrounded by armed aliens. A hundred weapons were aimed at him. Finally one alien, wearing more medals and brighter insignia than any of the others, stepped forward.

“We have heard of Catastrophe Baker,” he said. “But how do we know you are that hero?”

“If I ain’t, your champion will beat me without working up a sweat,” answered Baker.

“True enough,” said the alien. “But we have already won the war, so your offer is meaningless.”

“You ain’t won nothing while I’m still standing,” said Baker.

“Blow his legs away,” said a feminine voice.

Baker turned and found himself facing a beautiful young woman.

“Now that’s a hell of a thing for a prisoner to suggest, ma’am,” he said. “Meaning no offense.”

“I’m not a prisoner.”

“Well, if push comes to shove, it’s an even worse thing for a turncoat to suggest.”

“I’m just a businesswoman. These people need weapons. I sell weapons. We fill mutual needs.” She stared at him. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“It goes with the heroing trade, ma’am,” said Baker. “I aim to take on their most fearsome fighter, wipe up the floor with him, and bring this unfortunate conflict to a close.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Ain’t nothing born, foaled, hatched or spawned has ever been able to make me holler Uncle. I don’t imagine these here alien scum got the exception.”

“Why should they fight you at all?” said the woman. “They’ve already defeated the Navy, and you’re here all by yourself. Why shouldn’t they just kill you and be done with it?”

He stared right back at her. “Are you
sure
you’re a woman and not just some alien look-alike?”

“I’m a woman.”

“You sure don’t sound like a member of the same race. You got a name, ma’am?”

“I’ve got lots of names,” she replied. “In my profession, it’s a necessity.”

“You got one you prefer to all the others?”

“Not really.”

“Then, since we’re on Henry III, I think I’ll call you Eleanor of Provence.”

“Isn’t that the name of the moon?”

“You’re every bit as round in the right places as the moon,” replied Baker.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I ain’t flattering you, ma’am,” said Baker. “You can’t help being beautiful any more than you can help being a deceitful, backstabbing, unscrupulous traitor to the human race. But at least you’re easy on the eyes.”

“You still haven’t answered the lady’s question, Catastrophe Baker,” said the alien commander. “Why shouldn’t we just shoot you down in cold blood?”

“Because you don’t want me to fall down.”

“Why not?”

Baker opened his tunic to reveal a number of explosives taped to his torso. “Because if I fall down, so will every alien and every structure within ten miles of me.”

“Then why should we have our champion face you?” asked the commander. “If he knocks you down, the effect will be the same as if we were to shoot you right now.”

“You give me your word of honor as an alien and an officer that you won’t shoot me and I’ll take the bombs off before the fight.”

“And if we refuse, what then?”

“I ain’t thought that far ahead,” admitted Baker. “A race that’s willing to take on our Navy don’t strike me as a bunch of cowards.”

“You have a remarkable way of expressing yourself,” said the alien. “Even when you are complimenting us, it sounds like an insult.”

“Have your champion make me apologize,” said Baker with a confident grin.

“You are much bigger than any of us. I don’t think it would be a fair fight.”

“Tell you what,” said Baker. “I ain’t twice as big as you. I’ll take on your two best at the same time.”

“It’s an interesting proposition,” said the alien commander. “But the stakes are unrealistic. I do not have the authority to call off the war—and when your Navy sends reinforcements, as I suspect it will, I very much doubt that you can get them to return to their base.”

“Okay, you got a point,” said Baker. “What stakes do you want to fight for?”

“We don’t need money and we don’t need weapons,” answered the alien. “And I have no idea what else you want. So why don’t
you
propose the stakes?”

“Okay,” agreed Baker, “I reckon I’d better, if we’re ever gonna get this thing up and running.” He looked around the area, and then his gaze came back to Eleanor of Provence. “Here’s my proposition. If I win, you give me the woman.”

“What?” she demanded.

“Us humans got to stick together,” said Baker. He smiled and winked at her. “The closer the better.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Fighting for outrageous stakes just naturally goes with being a hero.”

“Just a minute,” said the alien commander. “That’s what we give you if you win. What do you give us if
we
win?”

“I’ll fight the rest of the war on your side.”

“Isn’t that at odds with your stated beliefs?” asked the commander.

“Sure is,” answered Baker. “It’ll give me that much more incentive to win.”

“But if you
do
lose, you will place yourself under my command?”

“Right.” He shrugged. “It won’t be so terrible. I
like
fighting.”

“It’s a deal,” said the commander.

“Now wait a minute!” said Eleanor.

The alien turned to her. “I do not expect to lose this wager,” he said. “But even if I do, how can I turn down the proposition? If our champions lose, then, while I will miss your wit and charm and companionship, you are, after all, merely a salesperson of dubious loyalty who can be easily replaced. But if we win, we will secure the services of the famous Catastrophe Baker.” He turned to Baker. “How long will it take you to prepare?”

“As long as it takes me to unwrap these here bombs.”

“We shall be ready.”

Baker was watched carefully as he detached the explosives from his body and laid them gently on the ground. Then he looked around to see if his opponents had shown up yet.

They had. One was short and heavily-muscled, the other tall and lean, with the grace of a dancer.

“What are the ground rules?” asked the alien commander as the two champions approached Baker.

“What rules?” he responded. “This here is a freehand fight. Hitting, kicking, biting, and gouging are all legal. So are kidney punches—always assuming you
got
kidneys.”

“When is it over?”

“When only one of us is left standing.”

“I agree to your rules—or lack of them,” said the commander. His army moved closer, forming a circle about thirty feet in diameter around the three combatants. “Let the battle begin!”

The muscular alien charged Baker. He could have sidestepped, grabbed an arm, and twisted, but he was curious to see how he measured up to his opponent, so he planted his feet and took the charge against his chest and belly.

The alien bounced off.

Now the tall one approached cautiously, dancing on his toes like a boxer. Suddenly he launched a kick at Baker’s groin. Baker grabbed his foot before it landed, lifted it as high as he could, and twisted sharply. The alien flipped in the air and landed on his back with a heavy thud.

Baker grinned. “Come on!” he urged them. “Let me have your best shot!”

Both aliens charged him at once. He took two blows to the face and one to the neck, then swung a roundhouse at the taller, thinner alien and floored him. He felt a trickle of blood on his lip, licked it off, and turned to the muscular alien.