Cautionary Tales (26 page)

Ian did not need to consult with Doane and Catto. “No.” Now it was up to the bully.

“I have not completed my presentation,” Mawker said without rancor. “I do not bluff. You will accept. But I prefer it to be voluntary, on the basis of full understanding.”

“We prefer to be free,” Ian said evenly.

“That is the key. We not only want you, we need you. Funding is always a problem, in part because we can't tell Congress what we seek or accomplish, so we have to make do with what we have. We must use our best. And you three have, largely on your own, become our best.”

Ian still did not trust this. “Make your point,”

“We need you to train our lesser successes. To demonstrate what you do, and enable them to do it too. To see through the eyes of others,” he glanced directly at Ian. “To deflect attention.” He glanced at Doane. “To suppress the awareness of others, in effect becoming invisible.” He looked at Catto. “And other skills, perhaps some we have not yet recognized. We need your enthusiastic participation.”

“Provided we surrender our freedom,” Ian said.

“No.”

Now Ian was startled, and so were Doane and Catto, in tune with his mood. “No?”

“That is the nature of our offer,” Mawker said. “We want you to return to manage the project. The three of you; this is a multi-species effort. Under my supervision, the first year, to familiarize yourself with the protocols. Then directly, when I retire.”

The three of them stared at him.

“You can continue to live here,” Mawker continued. “This can be a useful outpost. We can pay off the mortgage; that at least is within our means. You can continue to range the local forest as you have been doing. Even finish your education, Ian; you are already close to your degree. You have learned to relate to the larger world; that is a skill we also need. We need to be able to interface with normal folk, without betraying our special skills. Starting with your attendance at the funeral and memorial service for Chloe, a fine generous woman. All three of you.”

He paused. “I might add that we do have other predator animals there, and other domesticated ones, who need the help of each of you to fulfill themselves. Also a maiden, seventeen, highly telepathic but uncontrolled. She's rather pretty, but emotionally insecure, as you might imagine. I think you would find her worthwhile in more than one venue, Ian. She truly needs a talented and understanding friend. The pay is low, but there are compensations. What we are doing may some day change the world. It is, actually, a secret but glorious vision. One you surely share.”

Ian realized that Mawker had come well prepared, and had won the day. Indeed, they could not refuse.

They were no longer lost things.

Note:
Jeani Rector of
The Horror Zine
asked me to contribute, saying they were not limited to horror. So I wrote “Inversion,” about a young woman who was not exactly what she appeared to be, but Jeani rejected it because they don't do erotica, not even when there is horror. So I wrote “Lost Things” and she liked that very well, and later anthologized it in What Fears Become. When I learned that they could not afford to send out author's copies of this 380-page tome I decided to do something about that, and paid for 60 copies for contributors. I received many thank-you notes from authors and artists, some of whom were my fans. It was simply the right thing to do. Jeani worked her posterior off promoting the volume, and I believe it was well received. Horror is not my thing, but horror writers are as dedicated to their genre as I am to fantasy, and deserve similar treatment.

Caution: a stink

16. Privy

Zeke gazed at the decrepit privy. It was half-shrouded by bushes and weeds, barely visible from the road, but he could make out the half-moon carved in the rickety door. And it stank; he could smell it from a hundred feet away. It was a literal shit house.

He pondered how he had come to this desolate backwoods outhouse. Maybe he was delaying because he didn't want to approach closer. His wealthy playboy Uncle Z—Zeke, after whom he had been named 21 years ago—had died in a car accident and his will had spread his considerable holdings across the wider family. This isolated property in the Florida swampland had been left to Zeke, when he came of age. He had hardly known about it as a child, but now he was technically adult and he had come to take possession.

Zeke shook his head. He might have thought that rich Uncle Z would have done better by his namesake. Sure. Zeke might have won a hundred million dollars in a lottery, too, while he was dreaming. This was grimy reality.

Had Uncle Z's vaunted fortune been a sham? Instead of phenomenal estates he had overgrown lots with abandoned privies? No, because Zeke's grasping cousins had done very well. Only this particular property was left, which nobody else wanted, so no one had tried to screw him out of it. Now he understood why. Zeke's lofty aspirations were crashing into crap.

“Is this it?” Avoca called from the car.

Which was another issue. Avoca was the perfect woman, intelligent, motivated, and beautiful. Zeke was well-smitten with her and wanted to win her. She was worth more than anything his uncle might have left him. He had prevailed on her to accompany him while he checked out his inheritance, just in case there was a fancy castle on it, or a platinum mine, or something else that would make up for the inadequacy that was Zeke himself. That would make him seem worth her while, because she was among other things a competent part-time real estate agent. She was professionally interested in properties of any type, and would travel anywhere to appraise them. But not, he feared, in this mess. It had been a serious hope that now was dissipating with the stink of disappointment. Avoca did not have to settle for a poor man. She wasn't a gold digger, but there were limits. He marveled that she had even agreed to accompany him here.

“Nothing much yet,” he called back. “I'll investigate.” As if that would change anything.

“I'll help,” she said, emerging from the car. That was part of what made her desirable: she pulled her weight, not being a helpless flower.

“Ah, maybe you should stay back,” he said.

Too late. Avoca's nose wrinkled. “What is that odor?”

Zeke sighed. “It seems to be from what is left of my uncle's establishment. He liked to travel in a camper. You can see where he had a paved spot there to park it. And a privy.”

She came to stand beside him, her dark hair swirling about her slender shoulders. “So I see. But I have a problem with it.”

“The stench,” he agreed.

“That, too.”

Now she was going to politely rebuke him for wasting her time. All he could do was take it like the man he wished he could have been. “Something else?”

“How long has this property been deserted?”

That surprised him. “A good decade, since Uncle Z died.”

“So the privy hasn't been used in ten years.”

“So it seems.”

“Yet it still stinks of excrement.”

Now he was really surprised. “You'd think it would have composted by this time.”

“Yes. Let's investigate.”

He was surprised a third time. “But the smell!”

“Precisely. It's a mystery. I love mysteries.”

“But if it gets on us—”

“We'll take a joint shower.”

That silenced him. He had barely gotten to first base with her. A shower would be at least third base. Suddenly he liked the stink. “Let's go.”

They approached the privy. The odor advanced to a smell, then to a stink, and finally to a fulsome stench. It was all Zeke could do to keep breathing, but Avoca seemed to be handling it well. It was so thick it seemed almost visible as a thick foul mist surrounding the tiny shack. He found himself straining it through his teeth.

“This is definitely not natural,” Avoca said tightly. He knew it was not emotion but the noxious vapor that tightened her throat.

“Not natural,” he agreed as tightly. “What could possibly cause it?”

“Perhaps more important: why?”

“Why?” he asked blankly. “A stink has to have a reason?”

“Yes, when there's seemingly no natural cause.”

“Maybe to keep people away?”

“Bingo.”

“But uncle Z's long dead! Who would care who might snoop around his outhouse?”

“That is the mystery,” she agreed zestfully. “Let's find out.” She pulled open the warped door.

Inside there was just a single toilet hole. The putrid essence wafted up and out from it, almost tangibly. They peered into it, Zeke almost believing that the flowing miasma should be blowing back their hair. There was only darkness.

Avoca fished in her purse and produced a small flashlight. She shined it down the hole.

“No shit,” Steve said, amazed. He was speaking literally: there were no feces. It was simply a perfectly round descending tube leading to a floor about ten feet below. There were indented handholds along the side.

“This is somebody's secret access,” Avoca said. “Protected by an aversive smell. There is bound to be something interesting down there.”

“Bound to be,” he agreed.

“And we need to discover what. Hold my purse.” She had extracted a pair of rubbery gloves and donned them.

Zeke accepted the purse, having little choice. What was she up to now?

She hoisted herself onto the seat, then squatted and put her feet down into the hole.

“Avoca!” he protested. “It could be dangerous!”

“After ten years? Don't be silly.” She lowered her torso.

“But whoever or whatever made this could be down there.”

“Nonsense. This passage hasn't been used in years. There are encrusted cobwebs and snail trails on the handholds.” She put the glowing flashlight in her mouth and levered herself down into the tube.

Zeke realized that it was futile to protest further. Avoca was a woman of decision, and she was on the trail of the mystery of the stench. All he could do was follow her down.

The tube opened into a tunnel to the side that angled farther down. It was definitely an artificial passage.

The passage led to a small room with a table and chair. On the table lay a notepad and an archaic computer keyboard.

“The smell is gone,” Avoca remarked, sniffing.

She was right. The foulness had abated as they entered the chamber. That was surely significant.

Zeke picked up the pad. There were words scrawled on it in what must be Uncle Z's script. “Activation code is
Hellova Stink
.” That was all.

“Interesting,” Avoca said, sitting on the chair and putting her hands to the keyboard.

“Wait!” Zeke said, afraid of invoking some unknown menace. But as usual with Avoca, he was too late. She had already typed the words.

A picture appeared on the opposite wall. It was a caricature of a human face, surely masking an utterly alien visage. “Hello, Zeke,” it said in an artificial accent.

Avoca looked at Zeke. In a halfway blinding flash he caught on to part of the purpose of this unit. “Your prior contact is no longer available. I am Zeke the younger, his nephew, with a female companion. Please clarify the nature of our business.”

The face did not hesitate. “You have served as a local tourist host, carrying imprints of assorted galactic travelers to gather local impressions. Each satisfied tourist pays a certain royalty in local currency. A sufficient client base ensures adequate compensation.”

This was a sightseeing arrangement! Like a tropical cruise visiting native cultures, for alien visitors.

Avoca picked up on the essence instantly. “How much compensation per client per impression?”

“One thousand dollars. This is negotiable if unsatisfactory.”

One grand per sightseer. It might be worth it, depending on what the host had to do for it.

Avoca nodded. “How many imprints can a local host carry simultaneously?”

“There is no limit, as imprints have no mass and do not interfere with the host. They merely observe and record the visual, sonic, tactile, gustatory and emotional impressions the host receives. But business depends on the interest generated by the observations.”

Aha. The right stuff could attract thousands of invisible peepers, and hundreds of thousands of dollars. “What, specifically, are tourists interested in?” Zeke asked.

“Native scenery, edifices, arts, cuisine, entertainments.”

Just so. The tourists wanted to see the most impressive landscapes, admire castles, peruse paintings, taste the most exotic food, and … “Entertainments?”

“Competitions, games, reproductive interactions.”

So the alien tourists wanted to snoop on human sports, play assorted games, and experience the wonders of native love play. If they were like humans in interest if not in form, and Zeke suspected they were, they would be especially interested in gambling and sex. Alien porn. The illicit stuff they could not get so freely at home. They would pay generously if satisfied.

“One moment while we consult,” Zeke said. He looked at Avoca. “We could generate a lot of business, as Uncle Z evidently did, by being socially liberal.” That was of course a euphemism for lowbrow shows and experience in the kinds of establishments that got periodically raided by police. “Are you in?”

She had done the assessment and math as aptly as he had. This would mean traveling the world, eating richly, and probably making a lot of love. With alien imprints eagerly absorbing the attendant views and feelings. A web cam galore.

“One thing could spoil the prospects,” she said. “The smell. We can't operate efficiently if we have to burn our clothes after each visit here.”

“It is a psychic repellent,” the screen face said. “Existing only here where the privacy of our enterprise is important. We can also provide what your uncle called the stink bomb from the skunk works: a device the size of a button that generates a prohibitively ugly odor, to be used only for self protection in emergency.”