Bud Webster - The Three Labors of Bubba

“What are you mumbling about?” asked Mike.

“Oh, nothing,” Bubba replied. “Just expectin’ Ralph 124C41+ and gettin’ Babbitt. I’m more excited than I think I am, is all.”

“Were you born this cryptic, or did you receive a series of electrical shocks?”

This time Bubba laughed out loud, which earned him startled looks from the guards.

The group was led off into a corridor to the left before they reached the double doors. Hoss said, “This is the way to the guests’ wing. Things may not be so bad after all.”

The walls were less institutional here, with decorative hangings and colors that lay restfully on the eyes. Hoss pointed out several objects high in the corners that he said were part of the security system; not only visual receptors, but outlets for aerosols.

“There are oftentimes officials here who are in danger from assassins,” Hoss explained. “These precautions ensure their safety.”

“I spect they prevent them from any number of things, Hoss, if your folks are anything like mine.”

“Perhaps. My actual experience with this area is extremely limited; I only know what I’ve read.”

The party was halted at a door that opened without any keying device, as far as Bubba could tell. The leader of the guards led them inside and spoke at length to Bubba. Without even a nod to Hoss, he turned smartly and left.

“Well. It could, indeed, be very much worse,” Hoss said, sitting on a padded bench. “We have been accorded guest status, as I assumed. We have access to the complex, although we’re limited to the living quarters and recreational area.”

“What if we go beyond that?” Bubba asked.

“Don’t look for trouble,” Mike said before Hoss could speak. “It will be in our back pockets soon enough.

Hoss nodded. “If we go too far in the wrong direction, we’ll be gently but firmly removed and sent back here—and then locked in. It would be considered impolite.”

“Hmph. My mother would come back and whop me upside my head if I insulted my host, and she had a good right arm. I guess I can leave off trying to be Bat Durston for a while.”

“ ‘Bat…’?”

“Inside joke. Forget it.”

Hoss stretched where he sat, and then stood. “We should explore the Gardens. I understand that they’re at their peak right now. You may bring your smoking apparatus.”

“Uh-huh,” Bubba said noncommittally. “Can’t hurt to stretch m’legs, I s’pose. Lead on, big fella.”

They left the room and Hoss consulted a plaque set in the wall just outside the door. “The Gardens are this way.”

They set off down the corridor and after a few turns, Bubba could smell a subtle change in the air: a bit warmer, more humid, and laden with odd but pleasant odors. As they drew closer to the end of the hall, he noticed that it opened directly into the forest they’d seen from the landing area; it looked like Frank Lloyd Wright had been given carte blanche to design and build his heart’s desire, and Bubba was, for once, speechless at the sight.

There were trees with feathered leaves, ferns that grew in complex geometric patterns, and flowers beyond counting; flying animals (neither birds nor insects as near as Bubba could tell) went from blossom to blossom; small, lemur-like creatures with scales stared with huge eyes and frank interest at the two figures, the filtered light glinting off their iridescent skins before they leapt away into the bush.

Overhead, Bubba could see larger arboreal animals sitting on the heavier limbs, idly chewing the thicker leaves that drooped.

Bubba stood slowly, feeling his back and knees creak with the movement. He looked around at a truly alien landscape, filled with wondrous life. He heard the thrumming of insects, and a breeze laden with mysterious aromas lifted his thinning hair where it stuck out under his cap. He closed his eyes and just stood, taking it all in.

After a long moment, Hoss said, “Bubba, you are leaking. Are you unwell?”

Bubba said nothing. “It is an autonomic response to an emotional stimulus, Hoss,” Mike explained. “He is definitely not unwell.”

“Then I will wait until he is ready,” the Thunt replied quietly.

“I’m fine, boys, just fine,” Bubba said, opening his eyes and wiping his sleeve across his face. “I thought I could get on top of this, but I believe I’ll just let ’er go.” He turned to the Thunt. “See, we humans take pride in bein’ in control, Hoss. We rarely are, but we like to fool ourselves. Now, I’m in the middle of something I’ve waited for all my life, and I’d like to think I’m drivin’ this hummer—only thing is, I ain’t, and I know it, and life’s too short to pretend I am. From here on, I’m just gonna enjoy the ride, and let somebody else steer. So,” he added brightly, “you got us out here for something besides making my dreams come true. What’s up?”

“We are free of surveillance here, by law. I would discuss the upcoming trial with you.”

“Trial… hmph. For a minute there I’d forgotten about that. What’s up?”

“As my Champion, if you satisfy the council and my Progenitors, my name will be returned to me and I will be reinstated as a Thunt. If you do not satisfy them…” He shrugged eloquently.

“What happens then?”

Hoss was silent.

“One would effectively be banished,” another voice said. Hoss leapt up at the sound.

“One could own no land, could neither buy from nor sell to anyone on Thuntun.” The Thunt who had spoken was slightly larger than Hoss, gray, with an air of authority. He looked straight at Bubba, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Hoss.

“Worst, one would be forbidden to breed; no self-respecting female would have him. One would be forced to the Outer Colonies, to live the rest of his life alone, in disgrace.”

“Doesn’t sound right to me, somehow,” Bubba replied, eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t sound right at all.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s right, Champion. It is the law. It is the Principle.” His tone was slightly bitter. “The Principle has served us well for a thousand generations. It cannot be changed for one individual.”

Hoss was standing stiffly, almost vibrating with held-in tension. Bubba patted his shoulder, reaching up to do so.

“Well, back home we have laws, too, right many of them. Some say that the law’s lost sight of justice in a lot of cases, and that there are times when people should judge a man by the best of what he’s done, not the worst of it. Hoss didn’t kill anyone, he just stopped a war you couldn’t win. He’s being treated like he started the damn thing. By the way, I didn’t catch the name.”

“You don’t ask names Out Here, Bubba,” Mike said quickly. “They’re either offered freely or kept private.”

“No,” the stranger answered. “Your friend has come far, and has agreed to aid someone not of his kind. He has at least earned that.” The Thunt drew himself up to his full height. “I am Bish t’ak Tellim, son of Prath, son of Ian, daughter of Leens, daughter of… of many other Progenitors whose names would mean nothing to you.” He relaxed visibly.

“I am Allen Poe Hudgins Pritchert, son of a mess of folks, some of whom I’ve never heard of.” He offered his hand to the alien. “Be pleased if you’d call me Bubba. M’friends all do.”

The Thunt looked at his outstretched hand, then took it carefully in his own—whether to prevent injury or through squeamishness wasn’t clear. “I am honored that you share with me your Name of Equals. My… friends… call me K’tine.”

“Look, K’tine, all this standin’s got my back in a bad mood. Set yourself and we’ll enjoy the park together.”