One day after Calamity Jane’s arrival and subsequent departure
Paul Bunyan leads Babe back to her stall. The black and white goat tries to follow the blue ox inside, but Paul bars its entry with his California pine walking stick. The goat nips at the offending implement, and Paul whacks it on the top of the head. Bad idea.
The goat lowers its head and prepares to slam Paul into the doorframe of the stall. Just as the beast charges, Crank materializes out of thin air and grabs it by a single horn. Pressing downward, Crank coaxes the goat into a sitting position in the hay. The yautja warrior gazes at Paul Bunyan with indignation and a sliver of pride.
"Do not initiate battles which have no need to be fought," Crank cautions. "It is only a simple-minded animal."
Paul Bunyan examines Crank. A wry smile creeps onto his now clean-shaven face.
"What do you know about it, spaceman?!" Paul sarcastically drawls. "They have goats where you come from?"
"No," Crank replies.
Paul snorts callously and folds both arms over his wide chest.
"Didn't think so," Paul continues. "Babe is mine...And I don't take kindly to some mangy creature asserting itself. Making her act real particular and not like my Babe at all."
"They are animals...Seeking company with each other," Crank insists. "There is no harm done. Antagonizing the beast will not help. Do you get pleasure from it? Such acts are dishonorable. We are all stuck here together. As Simone says...We should make the best of it."
Paul rolls his eyes and stares with detachment in Crank's direction.
"Is there a reason you came in here, spaceman?" Paul says. "I'm trying to get Babe bedded down for the evening."
Crank takes a single step towards Paul Bunyan. He watches carefully as the large ooman flinches and grows rigid. Another step. Now, Crank is a mere two feet from the frontiersman. There is roughly an eight inch height difference. The yautja youth stares hard into Paul's face.
Paul Bunyan secretly believes that Simone has disclosed the details of their previous conversation. Why else would the spaceman mention her name? He also believes this is Crank's way of showing who is cock of the walk.
Paul's grip on his wooden walking stick tightens, and he plants his feet. He won't stand a chance against Crank's shoulder cannon or fancy metal stick. But, he'll be damned, if he doesn't go down fighting. The scent of Simone's perspired flesh returns to his nostrils and Paul sizes up Crank with wary eyes.
"I have need of wood," Crank says in a level voice. "A large quantity of it. You say, you are a lumberjack. You can get the wood. I'm sure it will do you good having something constructive to do."
Paul meets Crank's gaze, not sure if there is a challenge to the yautja's statement. If there is one, he chooses to ignore it.
"Sure, buddy!" Paul says. "I can gather you up some wood. I do need something to keep the old noggin busy. Mind if I ask, what you need it for?"
"I will give you the details later," Crank says. "For now, I only need lumber. The more the better. There are no trees. I don't care where you get it. As long as you do not gather wood from the ooman food store. That structure must remain untouched."
Without another word, Crank strolls heavily from the barn. Paul leans against the stall door and scratches Babe's ear. He watches Crank go with a fierce scowl. Who does this spaceman think he is?
With a small measure of regret, Paul Bunyan glances down at his prosthetic leg. The leg fashioned for him by Crank. The spaceman isn't all bad. But he is still a spaceman. It isn't right for him to be carrying on with human females. No matter the time or the place. Not to mention, ordering humans around on their own planet. Assuming they are on Earth anymore.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Paul's brow knits and he twists his mouth into a curious expression.
-
-
Sherlock Holmes is seated on his stack of hay bales, when Paul enters the warehouse. Holmes is in a state of bliss—from his constant opium smoking. A light haze hangs in the air. Paul waves a hand in front of his face to clear away some of the smoke.
Striding to where Sherlock sits cross-legged on his bales of hay; Paul stops less than a foot from the famous detective. He looks down into the Englishman’s face and meets his clouded gaze.
“Mr. Holmes?” Paul says forcefully.
Obviously, not forcefully enough because Sherlock remains still as a statue, having not heard Paul’s appeal. Paul Bunyan sighs heavily and tries again.
“Mr. Holmes? If I might speak with you?” Paul repeats in a much louder voice.
Finally, Sherlock reacts to Paul’s voice. A genuine smile alters the detective’s face and he opens his arms for a hug.
“Watson…My good man? How wonderful you could come!” Holmes exclaims.
Paul plays along, allowing Sherlock to hug him. No use telling the Englishman who he really is, if it will help him get what he needs. After a fierce hug, Sherlock releases Paul Bunyan and wipes at his moist eyes.
“Oh, Watson…I never thought you’d come,” Sherlock says around the emotional lump in his throat. His voice is even more choked off than it had been with just the opium high. “Pull up a seat. We have much to talk about.”
Paul is only willing to go so far with this charade. He decides to get to the point. There is precious little time to lose.
“Holmes…I need some of your opium,” Paul demands in a firm voice.
Sherlock tilts his head and shoots Paul a disbelieving look.
“Really now, Watson!” Sherlock exclaims. He is unable to hide the shock in his voice. “You’re always telling me how horrible the stuff is. Trying to wean me off of it. What could you possibly want it for?”
Paul thinks back to the stories Sherlock Holmes has told them about the famed Dr. Watson--during his continuous opium binges. Dr. Watson, the great scientific mind. Dr. Watson the army doctor. Dr. Watson, the undercover genius.
“It’s for an experiment,” Paul says smoothly. “I want to test it for purity.”
Sherlock Holmes slaps a hand on his knee and reaches for the opium pouch in his front pocket. Paul Bunyan knows there is at least one more such pouch in Sherlock’s other pocket as well.
“Is that all?” Holmes exclaims. “Here it is, Watson! Be sure and tell me what you find.”
Paul Bunyan whirls on his heels. He does not even bother to respond. He has what he wants. A smile tugs at Paul’s lips as the ornery goat saunters into the farmhouse. Followed by a piercing scream from the great Sherlock Holmes.
-
-
The Diner
D'tak, Glor, and Flade'ha are no longer in their hunter's vessel. The three muscled yautja warriors stand motionless, eyes fixed on the ooman settlement only meters away. D'tak turns to Flade'ha.
"Hunt leader!" D'tak says warily. "There is no indication that a transporter has been used in this area. Not within the last few days...Or the last few months...Or ever. No residual radiation...No transporter signal...Nothing. We've checked the data over and over. So, what was it that transported the traitor away? Do you think...There are others here?"
Flade'ha turns to face D'tak; the interface of his mask flashing with his growing frustration.
"Speak plainly, D'tak!" Flade'ha snaps. "You are not an ooman, who speaks in hidden messages. What do you mean by 'others'? Who else, besides a yautja would know the traitor is here?"
D'tak looks to his fellow subordinate for support. Glor does not fail him.
"The Drukathi, Hunt Leader," Glor says with more confidence than D'tak could muster. "Do you think they are here? Do you think they are aiding the ooman female and the traitor?"
A smile encompasses Flade'ha's entire face; such that his mandibles and tusks open wide.
"That would make for a very interesting hunt," Flade'ha says.
D'tak shifts his gaze to Glor once more. Even with their masks on, Glor can sense his young counterpart's anxiety. A run-in with the Drukathi would not be ideal at all.