Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

The mutant girl just nodded.

Lulu spoke for her crew. “Is all right, Jack. You just be sure you tell no one, okay?”

“Damn straight!” Jack said as he picked up his black jacket. “The Navy screwed me over plenty, fighting for causes, risking my ass for other people’s freedom. Well, I got some freedom of my own now, and I’m gonna’ keep it! People should mind their own business, and that’s what I intend to do.”

With that, he put on his jacket and walked down the gangway.

“This is Isis Traffic Control to MJS Sundancer , sending approved flight plan now. Please maintain present course and speed until you reach the outer marker.”

“I copy, Isis Control,” Jack answered. It’d been an especially long flight, and he was out of bottled water. But, in less than six hours, he would be checking into a starport hotel and taking a nice long bath. He would have loved to pay Chad another visit, but Jack hadn’t heard from him in months. Apparently, Chad and his family moved and left no forwarding address. Jack worried about his friend, but without any more information, that was all he could do. He checked over the flight plan on the heads-up display.

Control’s course put him down on a pad near the starport’s warehouses, a little out of the way but no big deal. He did a cursory check and found that, once again, he would be parking next to the Vagabond .

Jack considered paying them another visit, like he did on Tortuga a while back, but no. Vagabond and Sundancer had been avoiding each other lately. Best not to stir anything up, especially on Isis. A few more maneuvers and Sundancer fired its retros for a nice, soft landing on the docking pad. When all lights read green, he looked at the access control and stretched his arms. He heard the groan of the gangway’s release, and soon his feet walked down the ramp on a beautiful, sunny, Isis day.

He looked across the field. Yep, that was the Vagabond all right. The old piece of junk looked as decrepit as ever. Why didn’t Lulu just trade it in for a newer ship? A few years, a few payments, and it would be theirs. Then he remembered it would probably take Lulu’s crew a lot longer than that to pay off a new ship. After all, they weren’t smuggling beer.

Jack saw Public Protectors marching toward the ships, steel-blue uniforms looking snappy with their scanners at the ready. Jack reached into his jacket pocket for his manifest. Another inspection and another medical exam were all that stood between him and that bath. Then he saw the old maintainer truck.

It just passed the Sundancer when smoke suddenly burst out of its engine compartment. The driver got out and checked under the hood. From where Jack stood, it looked like a ruptured coil… no big deal. But the driver looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Old trucks like that are bound to have some breakdowns so Jack wondered what the guy was stressing about. Hell, only one or two of the Public Protectors even paid much attention to it. Then Jack noticed how the driver’s eyes kept darting to the Vagabond .

Lulu stood by Vagabond’s gangway watching the whole affair, trying to be cool, but Jack knew her better than that. She was shaking. Then, Jack saw people crawling out of the near side of the truck. Not people, exactly, mutants, four of them, two adults and two children. Their clothes were ragged and their bodies malnourished. A king, a queen and two of a kind; Jack knew he was in the wrong suit. Chad, his wife Emma and their two kids were hiding behind the busted down truck. Shit, Jack thought, this wasn’t going to end well.

They were less than twenty meters from freedom, but the Public Protectors were getting closer. Jack looked toward the customs men as they approached and made up his mind. No, not well at all.

Captain Jack Galloway strode to the Sundancer’s port side access life-support panel. Whispering softly, he said, “I’m gonna’ miss you, honey. I’m gonna’ miss you a lot.”

Risk is part of life. The only question is which risks are worth taking and which aren’t. A lump rose in his throat.

Grabbing the release handle firmly, he gave it a sharp pull and his contraband flowed all over the docking pad in a waterfall of golden suds. “Rocket Fuel Beer,” the best brew in the entire galaxy, flowing over Jack’s shoes and lapping against the Sundancer’s landing gear. Protector Johnson stopped in his tracks, and his eyes grew as wide as shot glasses as the precious brew cascaded on the ground.

Jack didn’t dare look at the broken down truck. His eyes focused on the men in the steel-blue uniforms. Waving as the lawmen approached, he mumbled, “That’s right you bastards, just keep looking at me and my pretty beer. Keep looking over here.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of light as the sun shone briefly on the Vagabond’s rising gangway. A minute later he heard the engines of the old freighter roar. Then, strong arms pushed him to the ground and he fell with a splash. Bathing in a puddle of beer, he felt it soaking into his pants and his jacket as his hands were bound behind his back.

As the Vagabond ascended to the sky, it cast a shadow over Prisoner Jack Galloway. He felt the momentary cool shade touch his face while Protector Johnson’s voice commanded, “You are under arrest! Do not resist. Obey all commands. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. I sure hope you enjoy drinking Isis Piss from now on, ass-hole.”

Mind your own business, stop fighting other people’s wars. Some things Jack would never learn. Pursing his lips, he took a deep sip of the foaming beer from the puddle around him. He figured he might as well enjoy it now, there ain’t no beer in jail. At least it was the good stuff.

“To veffen ! Beer by any other name!” Betsy Carroll, the Terran Ambassador to N’Ferra, cried.

Vkandwe Asayana—or Scholar Asa as Betsy liked to call him—smiled, pushed his mug against hers, and took a sip. “Refreshing, isn’t it? A cool, dark beer on a warm day… what could be better?” He settled his great mottled wings on his back, adjusted his brown half-cape decorously, and leaned forward over the wooden bench. “Would you like to see how veffen is made?” His dark eyes, usually so luminous, were grave.

But Betsy took no notice of this. “Would I!” No human had ever seen how veffen was made. The N’Ferrans considered it sacred.

Yet, fortunately for the humans, the N’Ferrans did share their veffen , even exporting a small amount for a ridiculously high price. Most humans believed veffen to be akin to a rich Irish stout, even though it had a taste all its own that was rich, nutty, and bitter as all dark beer, yet with a hint of entrancing sweetness.

“I have an invitation to the next veffen —making ceremony.” Asayana’s lips twitched with something that wasn’t a smile. His four-fingered hands stayed folded and his wings were quiescent, which was never a good sign. “You might say I’m ‘requested and required’ to be there. My people say it’s time.”

“I don’t understand,” Betsy said. “Does the making of veffen require a specific time?”

“Not exactly,” Asayana said. “But you’ll find out more at the ceremony. I’ve been told I can only share so much information with you prior to that time.” He looked away, as if in embarrassment. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Your people are that stiff regarding the making of veffen ?” Betsy looked closely at her friend, the first N’Ferran who’d ever shown interest in learning more about the humans and their ways. But Vkandwe –Scholars–were legendary in their fearlessness, at least on this world. “Why should the making of veffen be so shrouded in secrecy, anyway?”