Rhubarb (18 page)

They pulled back the covers.

“She’s naked,” said one.

“So?” said the other.

“So, we can’t take her naked. She’ll get cold.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

“Oh, and I’m an expert? Come on, I’ll get her legs.”

“Wait,” said the first being. He opened a couple of drawers
and found a flannel nightgown. The second checked the time and sighed. “Help
me,” said the first.

Together, they yanked her up like a rag doll. The first
gathered up the nightgown and fit her head through the neck. They each wrestled
an arm into a sleeve, and then she flopped back onto the bed.

“Are you happy now? Can we get on with it?” said the second.
“She stinks really bad.”

“I think it’s because she smokes,” said the first, tugging
the gown down.

“That wasn’t in the dossier,” said the second.

“So what?” asked the first.

“How can they breathe those toxins into their bodies?”

“I don’t get it either, but shut up. It doesn’t matter,”
said the first.

Her hips and elbows banged against the doorframe and the
walls as they carried her down the narrow mobile home hallway.

“Watch it,” said the first.

“Give me a break,” said the second. “She’s slippery.”

Her legs slumped on the floor as the second opened the front
door.

“I can’t believe they’re this heavy,” said the second as
they shuffled down the driveway.

“Quit complaining; we’re earning our bonus,” said the first.

“If you have to work for it, it’s not really a bonus, is
it?”

The first stumbled on the cattle guard and lost his grip on
the woman. Her bare bottom fell onto the cold metal grating. She moaned, and
the second being fell forward, folding her in half and cursing as he caught
himself.

A minute later, they had her in the trunk of one of the
black cars. As per the plan, the first being watched the car go and then
returned to the mobile home. He searched the kitchen and thought he had found
what they had come for—but realized immediately that the scrap of paper
contained no new information. He tucked it back into the flimsy book where he’d
found it and continued looking. He dug through every cupboard and every drawer,
checked every container in the refrigerator, and even pawed through the refuse
receptacle. He searched the shelves and cabinets in the living room, flipped
through every book and magazine, and examined every object. He checked the time
before he rummaged through the hall closet. The neighbors’ sleep induction
would be wearing off soon.

As he searched the dresser in the tiny second bedroom, he
sensed a presence. A brush, a breath, something alive. He froze, trying to
recall anything in the dossier about an animal. The woman was supposed to be
here alone.

A dangling art object of crescent moons and pointed stars
hung over a piece of furniture—a miniature bed with four high sides. He edged
forward, drawing his weapon. He peered into the bed to find a tiny, pudgy
human. Two arms. Two legs. Nearly bald. Eyes closed. Its chest rose and fell in
a gentle rhythm. It was so small, so helpless. It jerked an arm and grunted,
and he nearly pulled the trigger in surprise. He put the weapon away. Why did
they even issue me this? he wondered. He barely knew how to use it.

What would happen when this infant woke, probably needing
food or mental stimulation? From what he knew of humans, he guessed it would
make noise. If that noise led the neighbors here, and they found it alone, it
would undermine the cover story set up by the handwritten resignation letter on
her boss’s desk and the notes to the other waitresses, already in place. He
suspected that a human mother wouldn’t abandon her child on a whim. At least
her messages would have made some mention of it, begging another to take over
its care, or providing some apology.

He checked the time again. Someone might already have found
her farewells. The car would already have been searched and destroyed. The
woman already taken off world. Why hadn’t the dossier mentioned the infant? Was
it an oversight? Sloppy intelligence? Or did they intend for the team to find
the little creature and deal with it? He cursed. They had forced him to point
his weapon at the innocent thing once. He would not do it again.

A car door slammed. The being froze, listening. Heavy,
clumsy footfalls tromped up the steps, and the front door opened.

How had this gone so wrong? the being wondered. He was a
product market development analyst, not a soldier. Not a spy. He’d stupidly
taken this responsibility, assured of promotion, bonuses, and recognition.

An adult human male passed the second bedroom and continued
into the main bedroom, leaving a reek of barley-based alcohol in his wake.

“Hey, sugar lips,” the man said in a slurred half-whisper.
“Came by for some of that delicious pie you bake up.” The being heard cloth
handled, two heavy thumps on the floor, and the man snuffing and huffing.
“Linda? Hey. Where are you?”

The bedclothes rustled, and then the man stumbled past the
second bedroom again, this time wearing only a pair of tight white undershorts.
“Linda?” he called into the bathroom. He headed out into the living room and
the kitchen, calling for the woman.

Then he returned, filling the doorway of the second bedroom.
“Who…?” he said, and crumpled to the floor.

The being stared at the weapon in his hand. When had he
drawn it?

He studied the body lying in a grotesque heap in the hall.
Who was this man? The dossier about this woman was obviously a botched job. He
should never have trusted the work of another department. Some logistics
manager had probably handed it to his most worthless flunky and had transmitted
it on without even bothering to proofread. But his manager had assured him it
would be okay, and had convinced him of the need to expedite the program. No
sense delaying the entire product development chain, he had said. They’ll get
all the relevant information.

All the relevant information except for the part about the
male who visits for inebriated nocturnal reproductive liaisons, now deceased,
and the still-living likely result of one of those liaisons. The being closed
his eyes. He uttered a curse so long, so profane, that he imagined the entire
pantheon of old gods coming back from obscurity for this singular chance to be
blasphemed.

The infant stirred. The sleep induction had lapsed.

He opened his eyes and decided.

He stepped over the dead human and hauled him onto his back.
The man’s hair was graying, and he had a bit of a gut. The being held a device
over the man and pressed an indentation. Then he rolled the man onto his back
and did it again. Then he swore to himself again, less profanely, and pulled
the man’s underwear off. He repeated the procedure with the device.

The being removed his own clothes. Then he inserted the
device into a fold in his dermis. His first humanoid form faded and flickered.
The bathroom mirror reported the results. He inspected his new face, ran a
human hand over his stubble, and felt his teeth with his tongue. The dangly bit
between his legs explained the tight underclothes. His navel suggested a
mammalian-style birth. His hair was wispy, but thick enough.

The being dragged the body into the bathroom and wrestled it
into the shower. The slumped body was a pathetic thing. Elements that once had
life and utility had been rendered a waste. He adjusted the setting on his
weapon. No bonus was worth this. The being fired once more, and the body
dissolved. He turned on the water and rinsed the nameless man down the drain.

The infant began to squall.

The being dressed in the man’s clothes. They fit perfectly,
having so recently held his shape, but stank of smoke and fermented grain. He
returned to the infant’s bed, still working out the belt buckle.

Nothing in his brief training had prepared him to hold this
infant, to feel it squirming, to hear its cries. He carried it into the kitchen
and attempted to feed it various foods. Bread, a slice of meat, a conical
vegetable. He dripped water into its mouth from his fingers, but this only made
the infant scream more obstinately.

The being knocked on the neighbors’ door. A man in pajamas
answered, along with a woman in a nightdress, her hair in roller devices.

“Stewart?” asked the man. “What’s going on?”

“I think Linda up and left town,” said the being. “With that
fellow from California she’s been talking about.” It was what the letter on
Herbert Stamper’s desk and all the notes to her co-workers said. “I came over
and found a note. She’s left”—he held out the child—“and I have no idea what to
do with this one.”

They invited him in, baby and all.

Martin knew he had been asleep. After breakfast, he’d said
goodnight to Vonnie, had asked Brenda to spread the word to everyone to let him
be, and had hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign. He shouldn’t be awake. Whatever had
woken him hadn’t been loud enough for him to open his eyes. But he remembered
hearing something. A rattling, perhaps. A key sliding into a lock? Had there
really been a brief bright light, quickly extinguished?

Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

Of course, Martin thought. I should have fastened the chain.
And then he rolled over into the barrel of a FastNCo. staple gun.

“Really?” Martin asked with a voice of paste and gravel.
“We’re going to do this again?”

“I have to,” said Stewart.

“I suppose you followed me, and picked the lock, and all
that,” said Martin, clearing his throat.

“Vonnie leaves her passkey hanging on her cart,” said
Stewart.

Martin scooted up on the bed, pulling the sheet with him. “I
was right about you, wasn’t I?” he said. “And I was right about the pie, too.”

They both looked at the pies on the table, and Stewart
nodded.

“I knew it. Want another slice?” asked Martin.

“I have to do this,” said Stewart. The staple gun trembled.

“You don’t have to do anything,” said Martin. “Besides, what
are you going to do? Staple me to the sheets? Can I put on some pants first?”

Martin eased out of bed toward Stewart, forcing him to back
up. Stewart bumped into the table and turned for a split second. Martin
snatched the stapler and held it away. Stewart growled and lunged, but Martin
dodged, and Stewart nearly fell on the bed.

“Sit down before you fall down and can’t get up,” said
Martin.

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” said Stewart.

“It’s a stupid rhubarb pie,” said Martin.

“You don’t understand,” Stewart gasped. He collapsed into a
chair by the table.

“So where are you from?” asked Martin.

“A long way away,” said Stewart.

“What’s the next step? Do we call them? Arrange a trade?”
asked Martin.

“We can’t do that,” said Stewart.

“What? Why?”

“And I don’t even want to know the secret,” said Stewart. He
picked up one of the pies and dropped it, foil plate and all, into the trash
can behind him. “I don’t want to know how you figured it out. Nothing.” He
dropped the second pie in with the first. “And I’m advising you, right here and
now, to forget this, and go back to your life. Walk away now. And never speak
of it again.” Foam flecks appeared at the corners of his mouth, and he wheezed
and sucked air as he spoke.

“It’s too late for that, Stewart,” said Martin. “If you
don’t help me, I’ll leave a message on Cheryl’s phone. I’ll hijack more trucks.
I’ll make as many pies as I need to. We’re talking about Cheryl’s life here.”

“Don’t you think I know that? But under no circumstances can
you let anyone know that recipe. Not even me.”

“You were going to kill me?” asked Martin, and waggled the
staple gun. “What about Doris? Were you going to staple her to death, too?”

“If I had to.”

“There’s no way this pie is worth that.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Then explain it to me, Stewart.”

He began at the beginning.

~ * * * ~

Stewart excused himself to use the bathroom, where he had a
coughing fit that carried through the thin wall. Several minutes later, he
returned to the table as if his oxygen tank weighed on him like Catholic guilt.

“Are you okay?” asked Martin.

“Do I sound okay?” asked Stewart. He set a miniature
pingpong paddle of beveled glass on the table. He tapped the surface several
times. Icons and words flashed by, but in no alphabet Martin had ever seen.

“Is that like an iPad?” asked Martin.

“Trust me. It’s no iPad,” said Stewart.

He scraped at the glass, and a long, narrow plane of light,
covered with gibberish, appeared in the air a few inches over the device.
Stewart swirled three fingers on the plane, and the markings resolved into a
page of English.

Internal Memorandum

XXXXXX Snack Food Company

From:
XXXXXXXX, Vice President,
Retail Marketing Division

To:
XXXXXXXXXX, Director, New Product
Development Department

Re:
Project Rhubarb

Samples have garnered the highest consumer rating ever for a
test product, near 100%. Economic analysis is positive in 95% (+/-3%) of
markets. Consumer repurchase probability is near 90% over two XXXXXX in nearly
all markets, an unprecedented statistic for a product below the addiction
threshold. Therefore, the product has been up-queued for immediate market
positioning.

Production procedures and resource allocation plans have
been approved and forwarded to Logistics. Fabrication of production facilities
is proceeding. Marketing is developing a strategic campaign and has begun
design of the packaging and ancillary materials.