Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

Squish

Written by S. E. Ward

Illustrated by Mike Rooth

I was at the commercial end of the spaceport, clearing Orion Roaches, when they opened the cargo bay doors on the Paul Bunyan and the Ant tumbled out. It sat there a moment—stunned, probably; I couldn't quite remember where I'd seen a blue Ant species before—and ran back into the ship before anyone could step on it.

Crap, I thought. There went my long weekend with Günther.

See, once upon a time, I was an entomologist. Sarah Smith-Schmidt, Ph.D., lover of insects across the span of the explored galaxy. Fangs? Beautiful. Eyes? The more the merrier. Multi-segmented bodies for which I had to create brand-new nomenclature? Be still my heart.

And then, on a Martian layover (with Günther, our second honeymoon), one of the little buggers bit me. Rodmov's Weevil. Green with tiger stripes. Cute as the dickens. Stowed away on a shipment of hydroponic cellulose. (Well, we thought it was hydroponic.) Toxin that corrodes steel.

I woke up two weeks later with a robotic leg, a case of arthritis that made solar flares worse than tax time, and an altered opinion of Rodmov's Weevil. I was grounded. Earth. The next time I saw a weevil, I squished it. With the robotic leg.

It felt good.

For a moment, I glared at the cargo ramp. If no one else had been watching, I might get through at least one sweaty, Ant-free night with my husband before anyone set the quarantine. But Mike, the bay supervisor, lifted his eyebrows in that "what are you standing there for?" look he always gives me when I've got things I'd rather be doing.

I held up my hands. "Mike, Günther's coming in from the Ceres Research Station tonight, okay? I haven't seen him in three months. Just quarantine the ship. I'll get to it on Monday."

"And what do I tell Fred Gold when he comes in on Monday to pick up his electronics shipment? 'Sorry, Fred, you've got Ants. Sarah? Oh, sorry, she couldn't stick around. She had to go and—'"

The screech of the ship's quarantine doors drowned his voice. I saw his lips moving. Didn't help.

The doors closed. "'—So I guess you'll have to call her in bed on my videophone!'"

I stared. Mike stared back. The little vein on his temple started to throb. I could get rid of the Ants, or I could find myself locked in a cargo bay until Monday.

I sighed. "Let me call Günther."

Mike let me use his videophone. It rang four times, and the screen blipped to life. I cringed at the tanks and tanks of insects lining the wall behind Günther's desk; if they were on the transport ship, their residents would be staying with us until he went back to Ceres.

"Ja, Günther Schmidt. What is it?" I couldn't see Günther, but I heard him banging around under the desk; one of his specimens had probably gotten loose. He clicked his tongue like he always did when he was concentrating. (I'd grown very familiar with the sound on our honeymoon, and it always left me in a good mood.)

"Hi, teddy bear," I said.

Günther shot up so fast his glasses fell off. I winced at the crack of his skull on his chair.

"Gummibärchen!" He clambered into his chair, a capture jar in hand. He wiggled his eyebrows. "You are after a little preview of the weekend, ja?"

"No, sweetie. Sorry. I've gotta work."

Günther swore—in German—and I just stopped myself from doing the same.

"Mike is a scheisshund," Günther said. He rubbed his head so his streaky grey hair went everywhere. "It can't wait? I packed the 'Shorts.'"

Every nerve ending in my body went poink. The Shorts. The ones from the German-Martian engineering colony. The ones Günther had replaced three times after I tore them. Off. And then some.

"'Schnitzel inside?'" My mouth went dry when Günther nodded and a sly smile crept across his face.

Mike was a dead man.

But I shook my head. I didn't want to have to face both Mike and Fred Gold. Fred was five feet even, ninety pounds sopping wet, and the first person in history to make an AI shut itself down from sheer mortification.

"Sorry, teddy bear. Not even for schnitzel."

Günther's smile fell. "What's more important than schnitzel?"

"We got Ants."

And I cringed inside when Günther jumped and smacked his head on the back of his chair again.

"Welche spezies?" he roared. "Gott in himmel—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, teddy bear, settle down!" I held out my hands to the videophone camera, but Günther kept bouncing in his chair like a five-year-old on candy. "English! English!"

Günther bounced again, but stiffened. He straightened his shoulders, pushed his glasses up his nose, and did the little tapping dance with his feet that meant he was only pretending to be a sane, rational adult. The steady click-click-click of his shoes made my eye twitch. I sighed.

"Which species?" he said. He turned as red as the Shorts.

"Blue ones."

Günther sat up. A creeping feeling ran up and down my spine, and I tried to remember where I'd seen the species before.

"How large?" said Günther. "Worker? Soldier?" He twitched in joy, and said, "Queen?"

I measured against my forearm. "Fifteen centimeters? Six inches? Worker. Ran straight back inside."

And in Günther's overjoyed scream, I remembered which species it was: Caerulus kalii. Discovered by Günther himself. Named during his Hindu mythology kick because they had six arms, were blue, and could clean a rabbit to the bone in fifteen seconds flat. I covered my face with both hands and wished I had never called him in the first place.

"Is there a colony?" he said. "Do you have a queen? How many did you see?"

"I don't know, Günther. I only saw the one. I've got to go in there tonight and see if there are any more."

Günther clasped his hands together. "Liebling, I will be your eternal servant if you could bring me live samples. I've never found a queen."

Oh, brother. "Günther, there's not that much schnitzel in the world."

"There could be! For you!"

I stamped my robotic foot against the floor. "Günther, hear that?" I rapped my leg with my knuckles. "Hear the ringing? I'm not an entomologist anymore. I'm an exterminator. I don't study them. I squish them."

He gave me his puppy eyes. "Please?" He bent down and rustled in something for a moment, then came up holding the Shorts. "There's schnitzel inside."

"Günther . . ."

If he weren't stuck on Ceres eleven months a year, it wouldn't be so bad. But until he decided he liked bees with non-necrotizing stingers and butterflies that ate nectar rather than blood, long weekends it was. I put up my hands.

"Fine, I'll see what I can do. First mandible that gets near me, though, and I'm turning the place into an abattoir."

Günther kissed the videophone camera. When he drew back, his lip print clung to the lens, and he grinned like he'd just been pithed.

"Ich liebe dich," he said. I forced a smile to hide the fact that I'd gone all gooey inside. (It's the German. And the schnitzel. And, well, Günther.)

"I'll see you when I finish the job, teddy bear," I said. "At least long enough to ruin another pair of Shorts."

Günther wiggled his eyebrows. As soon as we hung up, I rolled back my sleeves.

I was gonna find me some Ants.

****

The problem with Ants is twofold.

Y'see, while Earth ants are prone to milking aphids and starting wars, and are commonly possessed of a venom that makes you itch like the end of the world, they're pretty easy to deal with. I step, they squish.

Ants, on the other hand, always with a capital A, are intelligent little buggers. They tend to develop things like language or technology. It might not be high technology, but they'll at least build a machine to milk the aphids. This means that they're subject to quarantine. Ever since that mess between the Cetacean Republic, the animal rights loons, and Norway, the last thing we need on this planet is another intelligent species.

Since they are intelligent, though, that means that the quicker they die, the less likely anyone is to pass a law to keep the damn things alive.

So I put on my body armor. It's a carbon-bonded suit, kinda like a wetsuit. Günther thinks it's sexy as hell. I think it needs another two inches in the bustline.

Armored up, and armed with a respirator, a canister of hydrogen cyanide, and an up-to-date will, I hit the cargo bay. Mike saluted. I gave him the finger and entered my passcode for the quarantine door.

Inside, I turned on my headlight. All around sat crate upon crate of electronics, courtesy of LunaCorp. (As a kid, I always liked to watch the giant glowing logo wax and wane across the moon's face.) No Ants. However, a few of the crates had been opened. I crept closer, gripping the nozzle of my cyanide sprayer.

All I found was an empty cardboard box. "NEW!" it read. "TRANSLATRON 3000! BABIES! FOREIGN DELEGATES! FUN WITH YOUR DOG!"

"Hell, Fred, what are you up to now?" LunaCorp had come out with at least three universal translators in the previous fifteen years, all banned on Earth. One of them was almost entirely responsible for the mess with the whales, the loons, and Norway. Fred probably got the new model on discount for that very reason.

For the same reason, I didn't much like the idea of the Ants getting hold of them. Fred was bad enough, and all he cared about was the value of his alleged