Last Dance of the Phoenix Read online

  Yeah, she was pretty revolting, all right.

  “Had I refused this assignment it’s possible I could have lost my scholarship as well as my class score to this point,” she explained. “By completing this…project, I will earn the equivalent in your scholastic system of a master’s degree in endocrinology. My status will also improve, hopefully to the point of being able to pick and choose future study assignments.” She coughed, sneezed and shivered even harder, then looked defiantly at me. “And maybe I’ll even attract a mate!”

  Great. I send her back, she’s screwed; I keep her as my observer, and I’m branded as a pervert who likes young “foxy” females. But lordy, did she stink!

  “Can I take you to your embassy for medical help?”

  One ear perked up a bit, and she explained, “The ship’s med techs gave me injections they claimed would alleviate the worst of the symptoms and effects---in a day or so. They also gave me pills and supplements they emphasized I must take tonight, or the sickness will last longer.” Her defiance seemed to lose some of its edge.

  I sighed, then heaved myself to my feet and said, “Ready to earn your degree?” Her head tilted sideways just like a dog’s and I could see the confusion in her weary eyes. “C’mon, let’s go home, and we’ll see if we can get you cleaned up a bit. Once we get some food into you, you might feel better, too.”

  And that, my friends, is how I wound up with my very own young female Yularian “shadow”. But on the ride home I kept my old Cadillac’s windows down. This furry, red and black and white “shadow” stank!

  Chapter 2

  Peace and Tranquility – NOT!

  The ride home from the Jacksonville space port took a solid hour, during which time my new Yularian observer’s condition visibly deteriorated. As prearranged, my car had been brought to the space port and the key left with the service desk attendant, so there was little delay in loading my one bag and L’raan’s trio of totes and a rolling duffel into the trunk, and then we hit the road. Luckily, I’d also asked that my cell phone be charged and left in the car’s console, and before I’d cleared the nearby southbound on-ramp to I-95 I was calling the local Yularian embassy to get my passenger some help.

  “From what you’re telling me, Mr. Thomas Barnes, your young observer is simply experiencing a reaction to cold sleep, compounded by the anti-infectives and antibiotics treatment she was given before she left our home world. The ship’s medics would have given her any additional medications deemed necessary, and in a few days she should be recovered.” The bastard sounded so smug I wanted to reach through the tiny handset and wring his snout off. “Also, she will find all necessary personal care items awaiting her at your home. We’re sorry Dr. N’looma couldn’t join you, but she had us provide everything a female Yularian---herself in this case---might desire, including a special bed and appropriate, er, clothing, all in her room.” Now the bastard was being condescending, and I could feel my blood pressure beginning to climb. “Should either of you find we have overlooked something, please feel free to contact us. Goodbye!”

  Goodbye, indeed.

  I kept one eye on L’raan as I piloted the Caddy through the usual crush of traffic, prepared to duck over to the road’s shoulder should she start puking, but instead, she simply nodded off. It wasn’t terribly hot on the road, so I eased her window up to lessen the wind blast on her and adjusted the other windows to keep a steady flow of air through the car. Had I run the air conditioner, I feared I’d never get the stink out of it.

  Home. It was a bigger tweak than I thought it would be to pull off the rural county road and up to my electric gate, which was obediently clattering open in response to the button press on the car’s HomeLink transmitter. When I’d last passed through that portal it had been on the way to my very possible death. Since I was to be the first human to undergo the aliens’ rejuvenation process, there were no guarantees that it would work---at all. Actually there would never be a “guarantee” on the process since there was always the chance of a lethal snafu with any radical biomedical process, but the first subject under the knife was always the riskiest. So far, however, that risk was paying off. Other than my stinky little passenger, life was looking mighty damned fine.

  “Wake up, kiddo,” I gently called as we rolled to a stop near the garage. When that didn’t rouse her I repeated it, adding a couple of gentle shoulder nudges that caused her head to wobble like a bobble head doll’s. Her vertical-pupiled eyes slowly creaked open, but didn’t seem at first to be focusing on much. Then they snapped open wide and for a moment she appeared to be terrified; no doubt waking suddenly to an alien environment can have that effect. “We’re home, L’raan,” I carefully offered, hoping to avoid a full-blown panic attack. After all, her kind had fangs and claws, and even ill she could no doubt be a handful.

  “Let’s get you settled in,” I stated, “and let you eat some food. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel better.” What else was I going to say? The truth? Your embassy doesn’t give a shit about your problem, kiddo, so lotsa luck! I didn’t think it wise to gift her with that bit of information just yet.

  A quick dash around the car and I got her door open, then offered her a steadying arm to lean on as she wobbled to her feet. I’d seen half-dead dogs that looked and acted more energetic, and certainly smelled better. At least she hadn’t pooped, peed or puked on my poor Caddy’s leather seats.

  The house was by no means new, having been built a good half-century earlier, but it was roomy, comfortable and fully contained on one floor. I hated stairs in my youth, and swore that, if possible, I’d never live in a multi-story house. The guest bedroom, which in earlier decades had been the older of my two daughter’s room, was in one corner of the back, while my bedroom was at the other rear corner. The renovations to accommodate Dr. N’Looma had been performed while I was away having my body rebuilt, so I was looking forward to seeing what was new.

  We bumbled down the hallway past my long-gone younger daughter’s room---now used as a library/study/computer room---and the adjoining bathroom---now supposedly renovated, like the bedroom, to accommodate a Yularian houseguest. “And here is your own personal hideaway, young lady,” I began as we entered her room---

  Of course that’s when everything seemed to cut loose at once. She convulsed, hacked and barked a time or two, then puked a great deal of a thin, vile something that smelled long dead and looked worse. Then she went noodle-limp and if I hadn’t caught her and eased her to the floor---trying not to settle her in her pool of vomit---she’d have dropped like a furry sack of potatoes. L’raan’s lower gut rumbled like thunder, both her bowels and bladder cut loose, and there was no way her thin little modesty shorts could contain it. She was moaning and writhing with cramps, but I was more worried about her getting choked on a fresh stream of vomit so I held her head to the side and tried to keep her airway clear. A couple of more spasms produced a bit more from each end, then the worst seemed to be over. I hoped.

  Then the poor thing started crying.

  At least that’s what it looked and sounded like, although it was a bit different from how humans do it. Ah, what’s an old man to do in a case like this? Panic? Get mad? Have a stroke? Naahhh… I’d raised two daughters and cared for a beloved wife in her final years of life. Plus, I’d raised, housebroken and lived with two German Shepherd dogs until their deaths of old age, meaning I’d dealt with horrible, disgusting messes like this many times. That’s one reason I’d bought and worn out several steam-vac units, and unless someone had moved it while I was gone, I had one stored in the utility room; I just hoped it still worked!

  “Shhh… Hush, now. You’re going to be all right. Just relax,” I soothed, brushing her disheveled head hair/fur back out of her eyes. Yularian males and females had long scalp hair like we humans did, but it was more the consistency of fur, and both sexes usually gathered it into modest ponytails---foxytails? ---rather than cut it short or style it. L’raan’s was black, like the fur on her lower
arms/wrists/hands/lower legs/feet, but it also had a streak of purest white running through it, like what I could see of her belly fur and the fur on her lower face/muzzle and throat.

  She whimpered and moaned for a few minutes, but it was evident that the worst of her spasm had passed, and in time she began to struggle to sit up. That’s when she realized just what she’d done, and she began to cry again, this time in obvious embarrassment. I wasn’t having any of that, either.

  “Hush, L’raan,” I said not unkindly. “Knock off the tears and apologies, dear; they’re not needed. You’re sick, and sickness like this requires no excuses; it only asks that you get better.” She looked mortified---at least that’s what I read of the expression on her vulpine features---and I smiled as I said, “Remember, I’m a lot older than you, and believe me when I say that I’ve dealt with far worse in my long life.” She still looked shattered, so I helped prop her to somewhat of a sitting position---unpleasant for her considering what she’d blasted out her nether end---and said, “If you think you can stand, let’s get you to the bathroom and into the shower. If you don’t think you can stand, I’ll pick you up and carry you. Either way, you’re going to have a good, hot shower!”

  After sniffling and whimpering a bit more, she let me help her to her feet, but she was so wobbly I still wound up pretty much carrying her to the connecting bathroom that both girls’ adjoining bedrooms had shared. And oh yes, the Yularian renovators had made some changes! The old bathtub-shower had been replaced with a glass-fronted walk-in shower, complete with both built-in and hand-wand shower heads. There was a heavy-duty fur dryer setup next to the shower stall, complete with multiple hot-air jets and a hand-held air wand. Even the toilet had been changed to one like was used on the Yularian home world. After all, when we humans perched on the crapper we didn’t need to accommodate a big, bushy tail.

  Thankfully the shower stall had several wall-mounted hand rails, as well as a molded-in seat; from what I'd seen of her, Dr. N’looma was apparently old-sliding-towards-really-old, and no doubt wanted the extra security. I had L’raan hold onto them while I quickly peeled off my own clothes down to my boxer shorts, then I told the now-wide-eyed female, “You’re in no shape to do this by yourself, and I know for a fact that your people don’t have the nudity taboos many of us humans do, so I don’t want to hear you squawk when I get those filthy clothes off you, and I also don’t want any backtalk from you while I help you get cleaned up. Understand?”

  Evidently she was still so upset about losing all control of herself that her natural Yularian arrogance didn’t assert itself. She simply nodded, embarrassed, and allowed me to get busy, and for the next thirty minutes I became a cleaning machine. To me she was a subject to be totally washed, dried and folded---well, she did fold into my arms toward the end, exhausted. Still, I washed the vomit, crap and piss out of her fur---of course letting her deal with the most-personal areas---and her entire pelt got a thorough scrubbing with the Yularian-specific, fur-friendly soap Dr. N’looma had ordered; then, while the fur was still wet, we worked a Yularian-specific conditioner into it before drying it with towels and then the warm-air fur dryer. By the time we were done she was virtually asleep in my arms, and she smelled a whole lot better---with one exception. Yularians sported a light vulpine-like musky scent, and to us humans it normally wasn’t at all objectionable. But when she’d gotten off the ship, this poor female--- Gaahhh!

  I bodily picked her up in my rejuvenated arms---she weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds---and carried her to her bed, careful to avoid the stinking horror on the floor. Carefully balancing her on one arm while stripping back the duvet bed cover and top sheet, I deposited her on the overly-soft bed and turned to go get the steam-vac from the utility room. “M-mr. B-b-barnes?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I-I’m s-s-sorry about---”

  “I told you,” I rumbled gently, “that there was no need for apologies. You can’t help being sick like that. Remember, I had to undergo the same anti-infectives and antibiotics that you did before I could journey to your world; I just didn’t have as bad a reaction to them, probably because I didn’t have to go directly into cold sleep. I did have to spend some time crapping my guts out, though, so I can certainly sympathize with you. It’s not an easy process.” Nodding toward the mess on the floor, “I’m going to get a machine to clean that up, and I’m also going to bring back a bucket for you to use if you get sick again and can’t make it to the toilet. OK?” She nodded weakly, so I added, “I’ll be back in about ten minutes, unless you want me to get you something warm to wrap up in, or some bed clothes to wear before I leave.” She shook her head so I ducked back into the bathroom and picked up hers and my clothes---bleah!---then left through the adjoining former bedroom, now office. The clothes washer and dryer were also in the utility room, so I made one efficient trip, returning in the promised time with the old steam-vac and a well-used plastic five-gallon pail.

  “L’raan,” I called, then had to touch her on the shoulder to wake her, “I’ve got to run the cleaning machine for a while, and it’s noisy. I didn’t want to scare you when I turned it on.” She muttered ascent, so I plugged it in and got to work. It’s amazing how well those things work, but having my carpets regularly cleaned and treated with a Teflon-based stain repellant also helped, and after a couple of hot detergent passes, followed by plain hot water-steam passes, the carpet looked---and smelled---like it had never been assaulted by an alien female’s innermost guts.

  By this time the Yularian had curled up in the middle of the bed somewhat like a woman-size fox, her snout buried in her lush tail-tip, and had quit reacting to the noise I was making. I took the steam-vac out of the room, and soon returned with a pitcher of cool water and a small bowl which I put on the night stand, and I left a folded sheet-blanket on the foot of the bed. With “blackout” drapes pulled, a dim nightlight burning in the bedroom and another one burning in the bathroom, its door pulled mostly shut, I left her sleeping and pulled the bedroom door shut. I made a quick pass through my own shower---a real luxury now that my body wasn’t falling apart---and once done with that, and with fresh clothes and a welcome glass of malt Scotch whiskey to warm my innards safely in-hand, I made my way to a very special piece of Yularian equipment sitting on the desk in my office. I had an extremely long-distance call to make, and I didn’t expect it to be a polite conversation.

  One thing that often came with old age was the ability to verbally rip somebody a new asshole, and in my dotage I’d become quite adept at the art. The Yularians were arrogant, elitist bastards, but I’d also had time to get a good mad on---and it was showtime.

  Chapter 3

  A Scent of Danger

  The Yularian interstellar videophone was a marvel of alien engineering; compact, self-powered, easy to use. The ease-of-use factor was a feature I’m sure the aliens regretted, especially once I warmed up to my task.

  “Hello from Earth; Tom Barnes speaking. With whom am I conversing?” Before my rejuvenation the fox on the other end always knew damned well who was calling, but I always started a videophone conversation politely, carefully observing my alien benefactors’ social courtesies and conventions. Of course that was subject to change rather quickly if the fuzzy bastards on the other end of the unknown light year span copped an attitude---which they were all too prone to do.

  “Greetings, Tom Barnes,” the fox (of undetermined sex) answered civilly. “I am called S’naat, technician third under Dr. N’looma. Is there a problem?” So far, so good. Now to drop the dirty turd.

  “Greetings to you, S’naat. Unfortunately, there is indeed a problem, and with all due respect for your exceptional knowledge and high authority, I fear I must immediately place the problem at Dr. N’looma’s feet.” When the fox began to bristle at the professional slight, I took an unusual-for-me diplomatic approach. “This of course could be routed through normal protocol, S’naat, but please understand that I’m trying to both save time---this is a ve
ry sensitive matter, you see---and…” I dropped my voice conspiratorially and looked the technician directly in his/her eyes, both a gesture of challenge and, in some cases, a mark of peer respect. “…I’m trying to hold down the number of Yularians who will get their tails shaved. The fewer who know of this, the better.”

  Hot damn, but that got the fox’s attention! “T-tails---shaved?” it stated. (Sadly I couldn’t tell their sexes apart from a small-screen image unless I got a better look, preferably at tits or lack thereof.) Shaving a Yularian’s tail was done as punishment for a major criminal offense that did not require physical incarceration, and a shaved-tail Yularian was both a sad sight and an ostracized one, even if he/she were still working. The rat-like tail had to be maintained fully nude of fur for the duration of the sentence, which could be up to ten planetary years. If the crime demanded worse punishment, the offender was exiled to a prison planet. Few returned.

  “Now,” I prompted, not letting the technician think too long on the subject, “is Dr. N’looma currently working, or is she at least available through a secure video link? I really cannot afford to delay talking with her.” Here was the make-or-break point. Would S’naat pass the apparent hot potato up to its immediate supervisor, or would it --- damn but I wished I could have determined its sex! --- make the leap (out of fear) and bounce me directly to Dr. N’looma? I could almost hear the Final Jeopardy countdown music in my head.

  After what seemed an eternity of contemplation (I still couldn’t read their expressions all that well) S’naat looked directly at me and said, “Let me see what can be done,” and the screen switched to an eye-wrenching on-hold pattern I’d seen all too often.

  “Okay,” I muttered around a smoky sip of Scotch, then settled in to wait. Five minutes passed, seeming like five hours, and then the screen flickered several times before clearing to show---