HARLEY TAKES A WIFE
KEN SCHOLES
It came to pass that old Harlan Bosco Sussbauer, last of the Big Space Rock prospectors on the far edge of the Frontier System, found himself feeling quite alone, terribly lonely, and in dire want of companionship. And so, Harley took a wife, as one does.
Of course, it didn’t happen in such straightforward fashion. And Harley was far too nervous and careful a man to take anyone or anything, so perhaps it is more accurate to say:
It came to pass that Harley bought a bride.
But truly, because Harley Sussbauer considered himself above all things a practical man, it also started, as these things inevitably should, with a plant. A cactus, to be more specific.
“Howdy, Pilgrim,” the cactus said in a low, gravelly voice when Harley opened its shipping pod. “My name’s Duke.”
Harley blinked behind spectacles that made the world greasier and grayer than it really was. “Uh…howdy? I’m Harley.”
“You’ll always be Pilgrim to me,” the cactus drawled. Then he rustled in his enviro-dome. “I’d offer to shake yer hand but I’m told I can be a bit of a prick.” The cactus guffawed.
Harley looked down at the packing material and owner’s manual, then looked back at the cactus. Talk to your plant…AND YOUR PLANT TALKS BACK! That’s what the sales pitch had been. And it had been well on a decade since the last of the other prospectors had folded up, and ceded their claims to Big Space Rock Mine Co-op, of which Harley was now the sole member. It had taken some time for the loneliness to settle in, but when it did, he sat down like an engineer to sketch out his options and draw a blueprint toward his happiness. And every fiber of his being agreed with that time-honored bit of sage counsel.
Start with a plant and see where it goes.
Within just those first few introductory moments, Harley suspected he’d made a terrible mistake. But he was the last prospector in the belt for good reason. Harley had a stick-to-itiveness borne of some patience and a good deal of pathological persistence in the face of contradictory facts. And so he committed fully to giving this new addition to his life a fair shake.
“Where are you going, Pilgrim?” Duke asked on their first morning.
“Down to the mine to check the mites.”
“Alone?” Harley heard disdain in the cactus’s voice.
“Well…”
“So why again,” Duke asked, “did you buy me?”
And then suddenly, it was bring your cactus to work day. Every day.
His father had patented his Mighty Tiny Mining Mites™ but had never seen them spring to life in the Frontier System. And Harley had seen them bring home the bacon, even in a trickle, that let him outlast the others with their more conventional approach. But for Harley, going to work meant visiting a mobile monitoring station near whichever asteroid of the week happened to pay off. He watched ancient television reruns on one monitor and rat-sized drones on the others as they ran their course, bringing back small amounts of the various ores and minerals as they wandered.
One thing was certain: Harley no longer felt alone. Or lonely.
After a hundred “what’s that’s” and a few hundred “what’s this do’s,” Harley started missing his loneliness a smidge.
And after a few weeks, he more became certain: The off switch on the AI-induced plant was looking more and more tempting and, at some point, his politeness was going to collapse in upon him.
At six months, to the day, he took his cactus to breakfast instead of work.
“I’m sorry, Duke,” Harley said, “but it’s not working out. I think I’m going to need something different.”
Duke shrugged. “Remember how I told you I was a bit of a prick?”
Harley shook his head. “No, it’s not you, Duke. It’s me.”
Duke nodded. “Well, that’s a comfort at least. Have you considered therapy?”
Harley shook his head again. “I don’t think therapy would help our situation.” He sighed. “I think,” he finally said, “I need to consider taking a wife.”
“Whoa there, Pilgrim. That’s quite a bit more of a mouthful than a prickly cactus,” Duke said. “Are you sure that’s where this here experiment-gone-wrong is pointing you?”
Harley wasn’t sure. Not by a damned sight. But he nodded his head anyway, and in that moment, everything changed.
Duke’s drawl vanished and an overenthusiastic, very young voice—too loud for the large empty room they sat in—replaced the cactus. “Well then, Mr. Sussbauer, let’s see about getting you into the soulmate of your dreams. Have you considered the benefits of a customizable artificial mail-order bride? Let’s see what we have on the showroom floor. Everything—I’m sorry, everyone—we have is fully customizable to your wants, wishes, and needs. And, of course, if you’ll be returning Duke, we’ll apply that refund to the cost of your new companion.”
Harley sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Who is this? Where did Duke go?”
“Hi,” the cactus said with more enthusiasm than its enviro-dome seemed designed for. “I’m Todd with Acme Artificials, Incorporated, the Frontier System’s number one source for Labor, Love, and Other Mechanical Oddities.”
It all moved quickly from there. Todd remoted onto the cafeteria’s holo-table and took Harley quickly through his options, then began building his perfect companion based on a series of questions a bit too similar to those that had led to Duke.
When they were finished, and the loan was approved, Harley and Duke finally got to the monitoring station to check the day’s work.
“I’m glad you decided to keep me, Pilgrim.” There was something like affection in his voice now. “I’m going to do you and your blushing bride right proud.”
And then for the next three weeks, while he waited for his bride’s imminent arrival, Harley heard all about just what kind of family they would make together—and wondered again about just how large a mistake he might have made.
Harley wore his Sunday finest for maybe the third time in a decade for the big day, and was pleased that it still nearly fit him. He even put a bow on Duke’s enviro-dome for the occasion. Then they trundled off to the docking bay to meet the supply shuttle.
The crate looked like your standard cryo-pod for reasons of discretion—not that there were any prying eyes or nosy neighbors to consider. The NuFedEx lift-load-bots brought it down along with the rest of the quarter’s supplies, then fastened themselves back into the shuttle for departure after Harley accepted the shipment on his e-tab.
He activated the co-op’s mechanicals to haul the other items and then looked at the crate from Acme.
“It’s your big day, Pilgrim. How are your feet?”
Harley looked down. “They’re fine, I reckon.”
Duke chuckled. “Mine are shaking in their boots for you.”
“I thought you said this was a good idea?”
“I think that was Todd.”
Harley shrugged and faced the crate, extended his finger, and pushed the single button on its control panel. With a pop and a hiss and a rainbow of lights, the crate started to hum. An LED started counting down from one hundred.
At zero, the lights on the crate went out with a click.
Harley found himself closing his eyes as the lid swung open. It was as if something inside him compelled him to give Mrs. Sussbauer just a bit more time.
He squeezed them shut and then after it had been too long, he forced them open.
“Well, I’ll be a sassafras-assed sumbitch,” Duke said.
Harley stared into the cold, blue, killer eyes of his new bride. Blue like steel, blue like gun smoke on high noon air. Harley watched the mouth curl into a sneer that pulled at the handlebar mustache, watched the rough hands move across ruffles and lace for a gun belt that wasn’t presently worn.
“There isn’t room in this one-hopper town for the two of us, Pilgrim,” the mail-order bride said in a voice far too deep and far too familiar for his liking.
“Nope,” the cactus finally said, “that’s not awkward at all.”
Unlike Duke, the gunslinger bride had no operating manual and no visible switch. But he was quieter than the cactus, settling into following Harley as he returned to the cafeteria where he could pace more comfortably.
Harley kicked himself. A private man, he’d not wanted to open the crate in front of the lift-load-bots. If he had, then it would’ve been simple enough to start a return. But now, he only saw one path forward.
“I’m sorry,” he told his new bride, “but this isn’t going to work for me.”
The veil dropped and behind it, the eyes narrowed. The right hand moved toward the right hip. “Exactly what are you saying, Pilgrim?”
Harley sighed. “There’s been a mistake.”
“Shipping me without my six-guns,” the bride growled, “seems the bigger mistake.” The eyes widened quickly before narrowing slowly again. “Otherwise, I make for a beautiful bride.”
Harley felt his face grow hot. “It’s not you. It’s me.” He exhaled and sat down abruptly. “Maybe I should talk with Todd.”
The bride looked around. “Who’s Todd?” He sized up Harley, then sized up the cactus. “You named your cactus Todd?”
“My name’s Duke,” the cactus said.
“My name’s Duke,” the bride said.
“Todd’s the sales rep who…” Politeness. “He was our matchmaker,” Harley said. “And based on our conversation, I’m confident there’s been a mistake.”
“You believe I’m someone else’s intended?”
“I do,” he said.
“Saints be praised,” Duke the bride said.
“I’ll get Todd,” Duke the cactus said.
“Unfortunately, Todd is no longer with the company,” a flat-voiced woman monotoned when they finally got through. “This is Megan. Can I help you?”
“I’m having a problem with my bride,” Harley said.
“Mr. Sussbauer, that just can’t be possible.”
“He arrived today. He’s standing right here.” Harley looked over at the bride. “Say something.”
“Howdy, ma’am.”
Harley could almost hear her eyebrows twisting. “You did not order a male bride.”
“No,” Harley said, “I did not. But I have one nonetheless.”
Megan was quiet for a moment. “Well, this is a pickle indeed. Because we haven’t shipped your bride yet. She is right here. There was a last-minute problem with your credit application that Todd was supposed to take care of with you, but…” The way her words trickled out made it sound like Todd could have just as easily died a slow and terrible death as have been fired. “Is there any chance that you have friends playing a prank?”
Duke cut in and laughed. “Harley has friends?”
Harley scowled at the cactus. “I don’t have any friends.” He considered for a moment. “And wouldn’t that be a terribly expensive prank?”
“I’ve seen everything in this line of work,” she said. “What is the bride doing now?”
He glanced over to meet those piercing blue eyes. “He’s staring at me. He reaches for his guns a lot even though he isn’t wearing any.”
“He sounds…potentially problematic.” Now her voice became serious, nearly conspiratorial. “Can we talk privately?”
Harley nodded for the cactus to follow him out of the room, then lowered his voice when they were behind a sealed door.
“There is another possibility,” Megan said, “but I would need to examine your bride. We have no record of the shipment, and I doubt you have the biomechanical scanning equipment we would need.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Dastardly Al might be up to something.”
Harley felt a headache coming on and closed his eyes. “Dastardly Al?”
“Dastardly Al’s All-Android Caper Gang. Surely you’ve heard of them?”
Harley had not, but she educated him. “Wanted on New Colorado and New Texas both. New Wyoming’s marshals haven’t been able to make anything stick, but Al’s been active in the system for maybe a decade. Folk legend stuff.”
Harley shrugged though no one could see him. He’d never heard of them but couldn’t imagine what might bring them to his co-op. “What would they want with me?”
“Maybe they’re looking to expand,” she offered.
Harley laughed louder now. “I’m a prospector not a gangster.”
“And that,” Megan said, “brings us back to Todd’s unfinished business. How would you feel about killing two turkeys with one shot?”
He waited while she explained. “Your father established credit with his prototype mites as collateral, but our understanding is that the Mark Two is a better machine, likely more valuable.”
“It is,” Harley said, “but they still only bring in a trickle. They just aren’t designed for large production.”
“Yes, we’ve heard. And Acme has some ideas around that; our CEO, Amos Anderson Acme, would like to chat with you.”
Harley first felt his father’s stubborn boot prodding him to close the conversation down. But he’d limped by on credit and scrimping, following a vision that had started in another system with another Sussbauer. There had been an initial buzz about his mining mites when they’d first arrived and started chewing their tiny tunnels. Of course, his father, Horace Sussbauer, had died en route to the co-op and his son had carried on, sporting his black armband for three solid years. “I’d be happy to schedule a holo-con with Mr. Acme.”
“Mr. Acme is old school and prefers to meet in person. And he’s going to want to see the mites in action.”
“Mr. Acme is coming here?”
She laughed. “Oh no. He doesn’t have the time for that kind of travel. Two weeks and three days out from our corporate offices in Anarchy Territory, New Texas, by hop-shuttle…talk about the farthest edge of the existence. He’d like you to bring a mite and give him a demonstration here. At the very least, it should raise your credit limit sufficiently. At the very most, you could join Mr. Acme in becoming one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in the system.”
So after it was all said and done, Harley Sussbauer agreed to close up the co-op, secure all but one of the mites and a portable command dock, and pack his bag into the co-op’s seldom used shuttle. He would secure his cactus and bride in their respective shipping containers and put himself in stasis for the trip to New Texas.
Looking back, he’d later wonder what had compelled him to take his third trip “to town” and decided it must’ve been the combination of loneliness and the disappointment of having things go so surreally astray in his attempts to fix it. He’d never had any interest in making it rich anywhere but the asteroid belt, and he had less interest in wealth than he did in living the life he wanted to live. But the idea of meeting with a person, of sitting in a room and having a conversation…well, it sparked something in him.
It must indeed be the loneliness, he thought. Because now, how Harlan lived his life mattered less than not being alone. And the only thing worse than no company was ill-fitting company. And now he was getting ready to put himself to sleep for a few weeks—over a month if he counted the return trip.
And he couldn’t stop thinking about the sales rep’s voice. Megan. Todd’s voice had not left such an impression.
Harley chuckled.
“What are you laughing at, Pilgrim?” his bride and his cactus both asked in stereo.
“First woman I’ve talked to in ten years,” he said.
The gunslinger bride’s eyes narrowed for the hundredth time. “Keep it up, and it’ll be your last. I’m the jealous type.”
Harley said nothing. He sealed his two companions into their crates, fired up the automatic pilot, and settled into his own crate for a little shut-eye.
In his dreams, Megan had blond hair and had also been oh, so lonely and—
“Mr. Sussbauer?”
The voice hung somewhere in a void, tiny and far away. But it was in a place no voice should be and the weight of everything pressed hard on Harley’s eyes. He pushed back and opened them a slit, bright light flooding him.
Now he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, you’re awake.”
Harley worked harder at his eyes, becoming painfully aware of how dry his mouth was. As if reading his mind, he felt a straw press to his lips. “Drink,” the voice said.
Something sweet and cold flooded his mouth. Apple juice.
“Welcome to New Texas, Mr. Sussbauer. You had quite a trip.”
The disorientation from stasis licked and bit at him like a passive-aggressive tomcat and he shook his head against it. Then he opened his eyes. He was on a sofa in a reception area and a blond woman sat near him, an instacup of apple juice in her hand. “What happened?”
The woman leaned forward, her eyes wide. “There was an attempt on your shuttle. Marshal thinks it was Dastardly Al’s All-Android Caper Gang. They ran them off and escorted your shuttle into our care. Mr. Acme offers his sincerest apologies for such a rude and unexpected awakening.” She paused. “I’m Megan Miller.”
Now Harley could smell her—it was a soft, clean, floral smell—and he suspected that it could intoxicate him given enough time. He sat up and blushed, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “I can’t imagine what they’d want with me.”
“Maybe,” she said, “they’re interested in the mites. Mr. Acme certainly thinks it possible.”
Harley scowled. He couldn’t imagine what else it would be. “Does the marshal have any idea where they ran off to?”
Megan shook her head and then stood. “No, they’re a slippery lot. But Mr. Acme is prepared to hire a security escort for your return trip, and he’s already authorized repair work to your shuttle. He’s quite distressed about this development.”
Harley watched her walk around a large wooden reception desk beneath a simple sign that read ACME ARTIFICIALS. She was dressed in a pantsuit and loafers that were silent on the thick burgundy carpet. She was pretty enough to bring out all of his awkwardness, but if she noticed, she had the grace to overlook it.
“Our technicians are getting to the bottom of your gunslinger bride. It does appear to be one of ours, but it was reported as stolen several years ago.” She glanced down at the desk, pushed some buttons. “And Mr. Acme is hoping to see a demonstration of your Mighty Tiny Mining Mites™ once you’re feeling up to it. Are you ready for coffee?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“And maybe,” she said with a quick grin, “you’d like to meet Mrs. Sussbauer?”
Now Harley really blushed and stammered. “I-I reckon that would be fine.” Then an afterthought brought the tiniest stab of guilt home. “And where’s my cactus?”
“That particular model is a bit…vocal.” He appreciated the politeness in her tone as she chose her words. “So we’ve left him crated for now. He’s in the other room along with your luggage.”
She went to the 3D-All printer, pressed more buttons, and returned with a cup of coffee. “With chicory,” she said as she brought him the mug.
“Thank you.” Harley took it and sipped. It was perfect.
Already, the stasis fog was lifting. He’d made three trips in a decade. The first, he’d stayed awake and killed the time with reruns and mining tutorials. But after that, he’d slept the time away. And each time, he’d been more than ready for the solitude of his solitary co-op upon his return. Of course, none of those trips had involved attempted space-jackings and law enforcement.
Megan returned to her desk and work. Harley sat and drank his coffee. A bright red, old-fashioned telephone jangled, and she lifted the antique handset to her ear. “Yes, Mr. Acme?” She smiled at Harley as she said it. “Yes, he’s awake. I’ll tell him.” She put down the phone. “The marshal may also want a word later. But Mr. Acme is ready to meet whenever you are feeling ready. He’s very keen to see your mite in action. And I imagine you’re ready to meet the missus.”
He felt the heat in his face again and told himself it was the coffee. But it wasn’t. It was a strange mix of embarrassment, maybe shame, and an extra helping of a little more awkward. He’d gone most of his life quite fine with being alone and then some corner had turned, and he’d become one of those people.
He’d bought a talking cactus.
He’d bought a gunslinger bride.
And now, he sat in a room with a real woman—the first he’d been near in years—who knew these things about him and continued to be polite and engaging anyway.
Of course, it was her job. And it made him curious about what took a person into the business of artificial love and labor. Gauging things from this single, spartan room, business was not booming despite his confidence that loneliness abounded in the Frontier System.
Harley swallowed more of the coffee. “I think I’m ready.”
She opened the door, and he went through. This room was better decorated. Unlike the other, it had a large window that looked out on a salt flat beneath a blistering sun. It was an office, decorated with an antique Terran theme. In one corner, his bag, his mining kit, and his crated cactus were carefully arranged. Various mechanicals were scattered around the room: a canary in a jar; a chimpanzee dressed as a clown that appeared to be asleep in a cradle; a baby grand piano complete with a pianist dressed in period clothing; and, in the center of the room, a woman who took his breath away.
She was tall, blond, and like the gunslinger, her eyes were blue, but with the warmth of a summer sky. She wore a simple dress and held a bouquet of daisies. “Hello, Harlan,” she said. “I’m Abigail. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
He stammered and blushed while a tall, older gentleman dressed in a bow tie, suspenders, and lab coat stood from the oak desk behind her. “Mr. Sussbauer, I’m so sorry for the way this has gone. And I hope it wasn’t an overstep to have you wake up here rather than down at the spaceport in the marshal’s care. Brady is an old friend and agreed to take his report from you here, later.” His smile was narrow but sincere. “I thought this would be a more comfortable beginning.”
“I appreciate your hospitality,” Harley said.
“Abigail,” he said, “would you wait for us with Megan?”
She nodded and flashed Harley a grin. Then left.
“Abigail,” Harley said after she was gone. But as she passed, he noticed that, unlike Megan, she had no scent that went with her.
“You can change her name to whatever suits you, of course.” The gentleman stepped forward and extended his hand. “Amos Anderson Acme,” he said. “I’m a fan of you and your father’s work.”
Harley shook it. It was firm and dry. “It’s slow going,” he said, “but we get it done a little bit at a time.”
“It was a shame he didn’t get to see his dream come true. I’m sure he’d be proud of what you’ve done with his legacy.”
Harley wasn’t so sure. But he’d gotten his stubbornness from his father, and he’d inherited the life he lived now, fashioned from his father’s lab-infused dreams. “I’ve tried to do right by him. And over the years, I’ve made some adjustments.”
Acme rubbed his hands together. “I’m eager to see it. It’ll dig through anything, correct?”
Harley chuckled. “Not anything. There are surfaces too hard, too hot, or too cold.”
Acme pointed to the window. “How about salt?”
Harley shrugged. “Sure. But I’m not sure what it would find out there.”
“And the Mark Two has more customization and programmable features than the Mark One your father showed me?”
Harley nodded. “Yes.”
“And,” Amos said, “I take it that Abigail is more what you had in mind in the way of a bride?”
He gulped. “Yes.”
“Then I propose a test and, if it goes well, I’d like to talk with you about more than raising your credit limit.”
Harley’s eyebrows arched. “More?”
Amos nodded. “I think there are potentially multiple applications for a device like your mites. Shall we get started?” He rubbed his hands together again and this time, the gesture seemed off. But Acme smiled, and Harley let the smile reassure him.
“Sure,” Harley said. “We can set it up right here.” He nodded to the window. “We’ll just need to put the mite out. What exactly are you hoping to see, Mr. Acme?”
Acme opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph. It was on retro-yellowed paper in black and white of an older man and a boy. Acme pushed the photo across the desk and tapped it with his finger. “That’s me and my father,” he said, “shortly after we crossed the gate. If you look closely, you’ll see he’s wearing a pocket watch. The same watch that his father and his father before him carried.”
Realization dawned slowly for Harley. “And it’s out there somewhere?”
Acme nodded and his face took on a sudden and dramatic weight of sorrow. “I took it from him without permission, and then I lost it racing around the salt flats with my friends as a boy.” Harley saw the beginning of tears. “I don’t have words for how much guilt I still bear, though my father’s been gone decades now.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Platinum. Glass and steel, too, of course.” Now Acme’s right eye twitched, and Harley noticed that the left one seemed to be the only one making tears.
Harley pulled the mite and control dock from his mining kit. Then opened them both up and starting poking at the settings. He adjusted the range finder, loaded in the specs, and grinned as the rat-sized mite spun to life. “This should be easy enough. If it’s still out there.” He looked out the window again. “Worst case is that it might take some time. If I had the entire pack, it would go faster.”
Acme was rubbing his hands together again, and it tickled Harley’s imagination. He’d seen the move in a dozen ancient movies, and nearly always it was a villain move.
Maybe, Harley thought, he has some kind of condition. Trying not to notice, he forced a smile. “I think we’re ready.”
Acme picked up the red phone on his desk. “Megan? Can you come in here?”
The door opened. Harley saw the excitement on her face shift to concern for a moment when she saw Acme’s face. Her eyebrow went up.
Acme was on his feet again, gesturing to Harley. “Can you put Mr. Sussbauer’s Mighty Tiny Mining Mite™ outside?”
Harley tried to identify the look that passed quickly between them but couldn’t. Megan smiled, nodded curtly, and took the humming mite into her hands carefully. “Yes, Mr. Acme.” She held it at arm’s length. “Do I need to do anything special?”
Harley shook his head. “Just set it on the ground. Point it toward the flats.”
She took it and left the room. Acme went to the window and motioned for Harley to join him. Harley put the control dock on the desk, nearby, and stood near Acme.
Something was definitely wrong with the man’s eye as it blinked rapidly. But once again, Harley forced his attention away and pointed out the window to a small object that moved quickly toward the salt flat. “There she goes.”
Acme clapped and the clap turned into more hand-rubbing of the nefarious sort. Only this time, he seemed aware of it, and his leaking eye widened a bit as he watched his own hands.
The red phone rang, and Acme picked it up. “Yes, Megan?” He nodded. “I understand.” He put the receiver down and turned quickly to the door, careful not to look toward Harley. “I am afraid,” he said over his shoulder as he moved quickly, “that I have an unexpected and rather urgent matter to attend to. It shouldn’t take long. I’m certain you can manage your mite for a few minutes without me?”
Harley opened his mouth to respond but Acme was gone, through the door, before he could say a word.
Maybe it was the coffee kicking in, or maybe it was that he was moving further and further past the initial fog of a stasis wake-up. Whatever it was, Harley found himself suddenly of the thought that perhaps things were not exactly on the up-and-up here at Acme Artificials.
He spent the first ten minutes checking his control dock, adjusting the programming on the mite as it established a pattern and began moving through the salt. Staring out the window, Harley wondered just how long his mite would take to track down such a specific item.
Then he started examining the mechanicals around the room. The bird was the only one functioning and all of them seemed older models.
Finally, at about twenty minutes, Harley went to the door and paused. He put his hand on the knob and that was enough to send him back to the mite controls, tweaking and adjusting. After another five minutes, the door opened, and Megan pushed her face through. It was red now with exertion or frustration.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sussbauer. Are you doing okay in here?”
He tried to channel nonchalance. “I’m fine.”
She was gone before the words were completely in the air, and now the look on her face added to his rising questions. He waited and then returned to the door.
He put his hand on the knob again and willed himself to turn it.
Locked.
Harley pressed his ear to the door. Beyond it, he heard nothing and now he found himself digging into the hazy fog of his first memories waking up here. There was a front door, or at least he thought there was. A narrow door in, the ornate door into Acme’s office. What else?
Harley paced and pondered. He’d been muddled at best upon waking up and then distracted by Megan and the tale she spun.
When Harley flushed this time, it was down into his boots, and not from a slight social embarrassment. This heat came from having been not just any fool, but specifically a damned fool. Whoever these people were, he doubted they were with Acme Artificials, Inc. And the more he thought about Acme’s hands and eye, Harley knew he was now using the term “people” loosely.
No, he was surely in the hands of Dastardly Al and his All-Android Caper Gang.
And I’m their current caper, it seems.
For some reason, apart from his embarrassment, Harley didn’t feel the level of anger one might think normal for the circumstances. It was as if some part of him sat on the fence, willing to wait for whichever feeling made the most sense to feel in the moments sure to unfold on the trail ahead. He didn’t feel really any anger, and at this point, if these were indeed captors, they’d been nothing but polite and accommodating beyond the subterfuge.
No, instead Harley felt curiosity.
He looked around the room again, then listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he went to his luggage. His control dock wasn’t finding a network to access and it had him curious about the cactus. What had Megan said? That particular model is a bit…vocal.
It was true. But he wondered now why they might not want Duke in the picture.
Harley went to the crated cactus and pushed its activation button, watching the indicator lights spin to life. The packing crate opened with a click and a hiss.
“Hey, Duke,” he said, “we have a problem.”
“You mean besides the other Duke showing up in a wedding dress and complicating our perfect little family?”
Harley nodded. “I think we have been and currently are being hoodwinked by Dastardly Al and his gang. Are you connected? Can you get the marshals?”
“I can get them, but it’ll take a few days.”
Harley looked out the window. “Aren’t we on New Texas?”
Duke chuckled. “Sorry, Pilgrim. We are a long way from New Texas. We are currently on Nephi.”
Nephi was the third moon of New Wyoming, known for being a bastion for the lawless and lost, high above the surface of the system’s least policed planet. It had one small port and a scattering of unincorporated communities made up of people who didn’t want to be easily found. It was also a leading source of salt in the system.
The control dock chimed, and Harley looked up. Moving across the room quickly, he saw the mite had come within range of a target that lit up the board. The mite adjusted course to capture what Harley assumed must be the watch.
He glanced at the door and wondered exactly how this was supposed to play out once Al had what he wanted. He put the mite into a holding pattern, moving in a slow circle around its target, then Harley went back to the cactus. “They are after a platinum pocket watch,” he said. “Acme—or at least the android pretending to be him—says it belonged to his father.”
“So all of this has been to find a missing watch?”
“Seems so,” Harley said.
Duke grunted. “They could’ve just asked you for a favor.”
Harley nodded. Then he heard a voice from the other side of the door. “No,” he heard Megan say, “I’ll take care of it.” He heard exasperation in her voice.
He shushed his cactus and closed the crate, hoping Duke would take the hint and not use this moment to prove the nature of his vocality.
He was back at the panel, moving levers and buttons, when the door opened and Megan stepped in. “I am so sorry, Mr. Sussbauer. Mr. Acme has taken unexpectedly ill and hopes you’ll forgive his sudden absence.”
Harley was never much of a gambler, but his best play now was clear, so he bluffed. “I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps we should reschedule? I would be happy to come back at another time.” He moved a few buttons. “Let me call back the mite and—”
She was quick to interrupt. “Oh, there is no need for us to reschedule. It’s such a long trip.” He saw her eyes quickly calculating as she took him in. “Mr. Acme has asked that we complete the demonstration without him.” Her smile was warm. “How is it going? Has it found anything?”
“Not yet,” Harley lied. “And Mr. Acme is certain it is out there?”
She nodded. “I suppose someone else could’ve found it, but that would be highly unlikely.”
Harley scratched his head. “I don’t recall exactly where the salt flats are in New Texas?”
Her eyebrow arched. “Southern hemisphere,” she said quickly. “Obviously near our headquarters.”
“Obviously,” he agreed but noted the eyebrow.
He silenced the dock and took it out of its holding pattern. “So I get Mr. Acme his watch,” he said, “and you send me and Abigail home?”
“After the ceremony, of course,” Megan said. Her eyes met his. The blue seemed something closer to the gunslinger bride’s shade now. “If, of course, you want a wedding.” She smiled. “It is nonbinding and simply a part of the complete companionship experience. Makes sense if you’ve come all this way.”
The mite had the object now, and he let it run in a loop. He put his body between Megan and the control dock. “And what happens if we don’t find the watch?”
Her look was blank enough that Harley found himself unconcerned with failure. “Well, I suppose we’d just send you and your cactus home. I’m sure Mr. Acme would be disappointed, but if the mites can’t be used for this type of work, his interest would be lessened considerably.”
Harley nodded. “And if it does indeed work?”
“The beginning,” she said, “of a potentially beautiful and profitable partnership.”
Now Harley saw his moment for what it was and seized upon it. “Don’t you reckon,” he said, “that all of the best and most lasting partnerships are built upon the bedrock of honesty?”
Megan blushed.
Harley continued. “Just to add a helping of honesty to this casserole of untruth, you should know that the mite already has the watch—if that’s what it really is.” He moved out of the way to show her the button his finger hovered over. “This here fuses the whole mite into a useless scrap of metal.”
Her eyes narrowed, and they were now fully gunslinger blue. “What do you want?”
“Not to deal with lackeys,” Harley said, in a firm voice that surprised him. “Go fetch your boss.”
Her face flushed. Then she picked up the red phone. “Get in here.” She paused. “No,” she said, “just get in here. We’re done.”
The door opened, and Acme swept into the room, a screwdriver jutting from an empty eye socket. The left side of his face sagged. “Have the you watch, then?” The voice was as garbled as the words that jumbled together.
“I do,” Harley said. “I assume I can call you Al?”
Acme rubbed his hands together and chortled in dastardly fashion.
But it was Megan who replied. “Yes, Harley,” she said. “You can call me Al.” She extended a hand. “Alyce Portman,” she said.
Harley blinked.
“And I’m hoping,” she said, “that, if you do indeed have my grandfather’s pocket watch in that mite of yours, you’ll do me the kindness of bringing it in.”
And despite the earlier deception, Harley felt the sincerity in her words, saw it upon her face. He stared at her and she stared back.
Quietly, Abigail and the gunslinger bride both entered the room behind Acme.
“You’ve been properly introduced to Abigail,” Al said. “This here is Tommy.” The gunslinger wore a gun belt now, and his hands stayed near the pearl handles of his Colt blasters while his eyes stayed on Alyce for direction. Abigail watched Harley, a breathless expression upon her face that made him uncomfortable.
Harley looked back to the control dock, hit another button, and moved a dial. “It’s on its way.”
Alyce put a hand on his arm and the warmth was as discombobulating as her smell. “Thank you,” she said. She looked at the breathless bride. “Go fetch, Abigail.”
Abigail left, and in her absence, an enviro-dome drifted through the doorway. Tommy watched.
“What the happy horseshit is going on here?” The voice was rough but female.
“Hey,” Duke the cactus said from his corner, “is that a cactus in your garden or are you just glad to see me?”
Harley’s eyes narrowed. “You have a cactus in the gang, too?”
Alyce grinned. “No. Daisy is my relationship practice. I got her from Acme.” Their eyes met briefly. “Just like you.”
Harley watched the controls, then started the shutdown process once Abigail returned holding the mite. Harley moved his fingers over the unit and opened its cache.
The pocket watch lay within, scratched and dented. Alyce reached for it, then paused and met Harley’s eyes. “May I?”
He nodded, and she lifted it out. Carefully, she turned it over in her hands, then opened it and squinted down.
“There it is,” she said. She held it out to him, and he saw the engraving. For Cedric Acme, it said, 03/11/97.
“So it really was Acme’s watch?”
She nodded. “Follow me.”
They left the office and passed through the reception area to the only other door. Everyone followed them in procession as if on parade. Duke took up the rear.
Beyond the reception area lay what appeared to be her workshop: tables, bins of body parts and other bits of electronic detritus, toolboxes, shelves, and racks crammed full of props and costumes. And in the far corner, ancient and rusted, stood a small antique safe.
She spun the dial, and he watched the left right sequences as she paused at 3, 11, 9 and 7.
Harley could feel the anticipation in the air as it clanked open, and Alyce slowly swung its heavy door. There was a pause and then a muted gasp.
Empty.
“Well, that’s a fine howdy-do,” Duke the cactus said to the empty safe.
“That’s a fine howdy-do, indeed,” Daisy the cactus agreed.
At the end of it all, they sat around the empty safe on chairs gathered from around the three-room prefab.
“Well, most of it went well enough,” Abigail said.
“I wish my eye had been more cooperative,” Roger said.
“I wish I’d gotten to use my six-guns,” Tommy said.
Dastardly Al shrugged. “We did find the watch and the combo for the safe.”
“But,” Harley said, “I’m guessing I am back to the proverbial drawing board when it comes to matrimonial bliss.”
Abigail reached over and patted his arm. “Sorry, sugar.”
Tommy reached over and did the same. “Truly sorry, Pilgrim.”
Alyce chuckled. “But you do get to keep the cactus.” Her blue eyes held his and she offered an apologetic smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Harley shrugged. “If you’d just asked, I’d have likely said yes.”
She nodded. “Lesson learned.”
“So what’s next?”
“Oh, I reckon we’ll get you pointed toward home, get the prefab torn down and loaded, and get on to the next thing.” Alyce waved her hands in the direction of the wedding gown now placed back on the rack. “And, you know, your credit with Acme was fine. And I’m sure Todd will be glad to hear from you.”
Harley shook his head. “An android bride may not be in the cards for me,” he said. “No offense,” he said to Abigail.
“None taken.” She and Tommy were in stereo and everyone laughed.
“What’s this I hear, Pilgrim?” Duke’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You having second thoughts about taking a wife?”
Al’s eyes went wide with mock outrage. “Taking a wife? Who talks that way anymore?”
“Exactly,” Daisy the cactus said.
“Harley does,” Duke said. “As in Harley takes a wife.”
Now Abigail joined in. “Oh no. That won’t do.”
“Nope,” Harley said. “I surely don’t see me taking a wife.”
Alyce grinned. “Maybe,” she said, “Harley takes a girl on a date?” She paused, let her eyes meet his again. “Sometime? If you want to?”
Harley looked at Duke, then looked back at Dastardly Al and her gang. He was already here. And it might just be the oddest way to meet someone, but he felt this meeting all the way down in his boots.
“Well,” he finally said, “there’s no time like the present.”
And so it came to pass that Harlan Bosco Sussbauer, the last prospector of the Big Space Rock Mine Co-op, did not take a wife after all and, instead, took a girl—Ms. Alyce Portman of New Wyoming specifically—on a date.
It was, as they told their grandchildren many years later, nice enough as first dates go. And, of course, Mrs. Portman-Sussbauer would add quietly for their waiting young ears, that despite the empty safe, her biggest caper had gone exactly as planned.