Bimbo On the Cover

By Maya Bohnhoff and Beckett Gladney

“There’s a bimbo on the cover of the book. She is blonde and she is sexy; She is nowhere in the text. She is a bimbo on the cover of the book.”

A bimbo can happen to anyone, even to an Analog-favorite writer like Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff. And when it does, there’s nothing to do but to write a song about it—which is just one of the Things you’ll find in these pages.

Along with Things, you’ll see what might happen when we finally make First Contact. You’ll read the advice an alien would give to the lovelorn. You’ll find that houses can be haunted by things that are far nastier than ghosts; that wishes can be granted in unexpected ways.

But not all stories can have happy endings. Some of them will disturb you or remind you that there are things worse than death.

Every story will have you turning the page to find out what happens next. From funny to serious, from dark fantasy to straight-up science fiction, and even into mystery, Maya is a master storyteller and we are delighted to present this collection of her work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780991002665

Book preview

Bohnhoff

I here present some of the fiction that has caused me to be accused of complicity in ruining the genre. Science fiction and fantasy, I have been told, should be serious business. Oddly, none of my literary heroes seemed to believe that, so I am in good company, I think, when I say: plplplplplplpl!

The song Bimbo on the Cover was inspired by a conversation I had with Lois McMaster Bujold at my first Nebula weekend. I had just seen the paperback cover for a Miles Vorkosigan novel that I’d just read in Analog and commented to her that the Miles on the cover of the book was not at all the way I (or the Analog artist) had pictured him. She admitted he was, in her mind, more like the Analog artist’s conception of him. I asked, naively, if she didn’t have some control over her book covers. She ruefully admitted that she did not and pulled a cover flat out of her purse. In fact, she said, I need to talk to Jim (Baen) about this.

This was a cover set on the bridge of a space ship with three interesting elements 1) a puckish Miles seated in the command chair while, behind him 2) a brawny dude supports a 3) wilting and half-naked woman clad only in a diaphanous pink negligee.

I’ve read that serialization, I said. I don’t recall those characters being in it.

They’re not, Lois answered and concealed the cover flat once more.

Not long after this, I saw a short lyric in Analog penned by Michael Flynn that began with the Bimbo verse. I believe Michael also wrote about ray guns. I added a slew of verses to this based on Lois’ experience and my own (the title and reviews) and others’ and added recently a verse contributed by a Catholic friend that I think simply must be there.

A greatly expanded version of the lyric appears in P.R. Frost’s novel, Hounding the Moon.

To my knowledge this collection of short fiction is the only cover I have had which actually featured a bimbo. The one time I gave a cover artist (Darrell Sweet) the perfect opportunity for a bimbesque cover (on my third novel, The Crystal Rose), he showed remarkable restraint, obscuring my bimbo’s fulsome bosom with a bowlful of magic.

This collection and the cover thereof is my way of addressing that universal imbalance.

BIMBO ON THE COVER

There’s a bimbo on the cover of the book.

There’s a bimbo on the cover of the book.

She is blonde and she is sexy;

She is nowhere in the text. She

Is a bimbo on the cover of the book.

There’s black leather on the bimbo in my book.

There’s black leather on the bimbo in my book,

While I’m sure she’s lots of fun,

My heroine’s a nun

Who wears black leather on the cover of my book.

There’s a dragon on the cover of the book.

There’s a dragon on the cover of the book.

He is long and green and scaly,

But he’s nowhere in the tale. He

Is a dragon on the cover of the book.

There’s a rocket on the cover of the book.

There’s a rocket on the cover of the book.

It’s a phallic and a stout one,

But my novel was without one.

There’s a rocket on the cover of my book.

There’s a castle on the cover of the book.

There’s a castle on the cover of the book.

Every knight is fit for battle,

But the action’s in Seattle.

There’s a castle on the cover of the book.

There’s a blurb on the backside of the book.

There’s a blurb on the backside of the book.

There’s one story on the cover;

Inside the book’s another.

There’s a blurb on the backside of the book.

And my name is on the cover of my book.

Yes, my name is on the cover of my book.

Although I hate to tell it,

The publisher misspelled it,

But my name is on the cover of my book.

They reviewed my book in Locus magazine.

They reviewed my book in Locus magazine.

The way Mark Kelly synopsized it,

I barely recognized it,

But they reviewed my book in Locus magazine.

Well, my book won the Nebula award.

Yes, my book won the Nebula award.

Still it ended in remainders,

Ripped and torn by perfect strangers,

But my book won the Nebula award.

So put that bimbo on the cover of my book.

Put a bimbo on the cover of my book.

I don’t care what gets drawn

If you’ll just leave the cover on.

(Don’t remainder me!)

So put that bimbo, dragon, castle, rocket,

Vampire, elf or magic locket—

Please put a bimbo on the cover of my book!

I chose to kick off this collection with a story that appeared in Baen’s Universe. It’s one of my favorites and hews very close to the dream that inspired it. The dream ended just before the very end, leaving me to figure out which of many ways I might end the tale.

The house at 94 Twining Lane had a reputation. It was known in real-estate circles as a haunted house. This did not mean, of course, that it was literally haunted, merely that prospective buyers wouldn’t touch it—presumably because they thought it was haunted.

It sat on a large corner lot that had once been nicely landscaped, but was now in dire need of many things, such as water and hedge trimmers. The house itself was charming at first glance, but on closer inspection had that air of neglect that suggests everyone in the family had died suddenly and simultaneously, leaving no heirs. Its shingles were unpainted, its shutters an indescribable shade of gray-blue-green, its windows dusty.

It had come to Ian Werther’s attention via an article in the local estate agent’s newsletter written by a Matthew Houghton. Apparently the house had floated from agency to agency, never selling. Houghton suggested, tongue in cheek, that there was a point at which it was best to simply burn the place to the ground, sow salt, and start over with a blank lot.

Ian prided himself on having sold every property he had undertaken to sell, and therefore found the idea of an unsaleable house first amusing, then intriguing, then preposterous. He could not imagine an unsaleable property.

Which is how he came to be standing in a curling fog on the walkway in front of 94 Twining Lane at 9:30 pm on a damp Friday evening, understanding for the first time in his life that old adage about curiosity having killed the cat.

His own curiosity had been complicated by convenience. His office was along High Street—about two blocks from the corner of Twining and Oxford—and his home was a mere three blocks up Oxford. He had toyed with the idea of swinging down this way on his way home from work, but hadn’t settled on it until after a visit to the High Street Pub. After a pint of stout it seemed like a much better idea than when he’d originally conceived it.

When he reached 94 Twining Way on his homeward walk, he saw a most curious thing: a man he recognized as an estate agent from a competing agency was surreptitiously entering the house through a front window that gave onto its long, shadowed porch.

Ian, even more curious, waited a moment then followed. He was standing on the walkway dithering when he heard a peculiar scraping sound down near his feet, turned, looked down, and went quietly into shock.

At his feet was a human skull, but not merely a human skull. Issuing from its mouth and fanning out onto the walk was something that looked like a cross between a starfish and a giant sea bass with an impossible set of crocodile teeth arranged within its broad, flat mouth. A mouth quite capable of snapping his foot off at the ankle, Ian would have said.

What he actually did say was, Oh my. And what are you?

He expected no answer, and was even more thoroughly shocked when he got one.

The jagged, crocodilian two-foot-wide lips rippled and emitted a sentence: I am the Resident. The voice was deep, sonorous, and slightly gravelly. Very much as one might expect the voice of such an impossible creature to be.

A troll’s voice, Ian thought. He said, I see. This is your house, then. I’d thought it was abandoned.

It is not abandoned. It is my house and you are trespassing.

Ian flashed upon having once seen a joke sign in a tourist shop proclaiming that Trespassers will be eaten.

I’m deeply sorry, he said. I had no idea the property was tenanted.

That’s no excuse, said the Resident, for you to break into my home to vandalize it.

I’ve done no such thing.

Pardon, but I saw you enter.

That wasn’t me. That was someone else. A name came to his mind then that went with the man he’d seen enter the house. Colin. Colin Lancaster. He’s an estate agent too. He went in through that window. He pointed at the window beneath the eaves of the front porch.

One flounder eye slid sidewise to gaze balefully at the house. The skull tilted with the motion so that its empty sockets were also pointed in that direction. Oh, honestly. Can’t you fellows ever tell the truth? Liars, the lot of you. Deserve to be eaten.

I’m not lying, Ian said urgently, watching the starfish tentacles groping ever closer to the toes of his shoes. He’s why I’m here. I mean, I saw him go in and I followed him, wondering what he was up to. Do you…do you have any idea why someone would want to sneak into your house?

Common enough event. Petty theft at first. Lift this, then that. Some valuable stuff in there, let me tell you. Then not so petty. Drew the line at that. Last one tried to burn it down. Clear the lot. Put me out of a home. The tentacles furled and unfurled—an echinoderm analogue for the wringing of hands, Ian suspected.

He cleared his throat. But you didn’t let him, of course.

I did not. The denial was uttered with more than a hint of pride.

Ah. Well, of course not. I mean, you are obviously a very fine…uh, steward. A worthy guardian of this property.

I am the Resident, it said as if that explained everything.

Certainly…and I can see that you have everything well in hand. I should let you get on about your business. God knows what Mr. Lancaster is doing in there. He glanced pointedly at the house.

The Resident wasn’t buying it. You are the only trespasser I see at the moment, so I shall have to deal with you in any event.

Ian sweated. Look, Mr. Resident, I’m telling you—this other fellow, Lancaster, is in your house right this moment doing Lord-only-knows what. Stealing, vandalizing. I was on my way to stop him.

A tentacle tapped the toe of his left shoe. You lot are all alike—less spine than I’ve got.

If I prove to you that I’m telling the truth will you let me go?

Not a chance.

Why not?

Because I’m the—"

Resident. Yes, I see. But don’t you care what he might be doing in there—while you’re out here arguing with me?

The eyes rolled toward the house again. Good point. I’d best dispatch you quickly then.

It scurried forward, sending Ian into a backward leap worthy of the Siamese kitten he and Helen had adopted. The thing was quick, and those tentacles seemed to be able to morph in both length and utility.

Won’t do you any good to run, the thing said and elongated one tentacle to thump its bony shell on the cranium. Ask him. He’d tell you if he could.

Sardonic humor from a nightmare wearing a human skull was almost more than Ian could take. He was at the point of gibbering when there was a thump at the front of the house and Colin Lancaster let himself back out onto the front porch through the living room window. He was carrying something. Something roughly the size of a watering tin.

The merest whiff of petrol reached Ian’s nostrils.

Well, I never, said the Resident.

I told you so, said Ian. Well? Are you going to get him?

I’ve still got to get you. You’re closer.

What? You can’t do both? What sort of—of Resident are you? Oh, look at him, Ian added desperately as Lancaster padded down the length of the porch toward Oxford Street. He’s getting away. And I’m pretty sure that’s a petrol can he’s got there. Now, if I could just find a rock or something, I could bean him for you.

He felt in his pockets for coinage. Alas, it had all gone to the High Street Pub—all he had were his house keys and a pocketful of business cards. He stuffed these items back into his pockets and glanced feverishly about, hoping the garden might run to some nice hefty stones.

The Resident beat him to the punch. I’ll protect my own, thank you, it said and reached out to a nearby rose bush up which a large snail was taking its evening constitutional. It suctioned the snail right off the bush, morphed its tentacle into a good approximation of a throwing arm and zinged the snail at the intruder just as he slipped from the porch rail into the side yard.

The snail connected with a crunchy splat (no doubt lethal to the snail) and Lancaster let out a startled cry. He dropped the petrol tin, which hit the ground with a metallic thud and rolled away. The agent began a frantic search for it, swearing under his breath.

Good shot! said Ian admiringly. You’ve a great arm there. A shame you don’t have a larger projectile—you might be able to bring him down.

The Resident responded to this encouragement by slithering past Ian on the walkway to pluck a white edging stone the size of a tennis ball from the tatty flower bed.

Oh, yes. That ought to do. Ian took a step back up the walk in the opposite direction. Then another. But with him scrabbling around like that, he’ll be hard to hit.

Lancaster was indeed scrabbling around, frantically looking for his petrol tin.

Watch this, said the Resident, and with a tremendous side-arm hurl that would have been the pride of any baseballer, plunked the would-be vandal on the derriere.

This time the cry was louder and followed by a string of obscenities. The agent stumbled forward, found his petrol tin with his feet, toppled over it and landed face-first in the grass.

Bravo, said Ian, then, Oh, dear, he’s still trying to get away. I’m afraid you’re going to lose him.

Nothing of the sort, said the Resident and scuttled off toward the side yard in a blaze of echinodermic speed, its skull-shell clattering crazily along the walk after it.

Ian ran.

He ran straight down the garden path, across the street, and down the alley that ran along the back yards on Oxford. He was perhaps two blocks from Twining when the darkness behind him lit up in a flash of glory. He did not pause to look, nor did he stop running until he stood, panting and quaking, on his own back porch.

He was unlocking the door when he heard the sirens and glanced back the way he’d come. Fire lit the low-hanging clouds and trailing fog with a warm yellow glow. The red lights of the fire brigade strobed in a cheerful accent.

Clear the lot, indeed.

He let himself into the house, locked the door and took the stairs two at a time. Helen was already in bed asleep, not even waking when he turned on the bathroom light. He flung himself into the shower and let the hot water wash away the gruesome, crawling sensation that seemed to inhabit the space between his muscles and skin.

As the feeling leached away, rational thought returned—or attempted to—allowing him to mull over the evening’s events. Colin Lancaster must have decided the Twining property would sell only if its haunted house was gone. Ian assumed he’d found some way of setting up a fuse or timing device so he’d be way before the fire got going. Clever, that.

He tried not to think about what might have happened to the other agent. He tried not to think about the Resident—the now possibly homeless Resident—preferring to let that memory drift way with the last of his adrenaline until it took on a dream-like quality.

Hot water possesses marvelous powers. After twenty minutes under the pummeling spray, Ian decided the whole thing must have been an ale bottle fantasy. By the time he climbed into his pajamas and slipped into bed next to his wife, he was convinced that stopping off at the pub on the way home had been a worse idea than stopping off at 94 Twining Lane. He vowed never to do it again.

Helen stirred as he settled down beside her.

Sorry I’m late, love, he told her. Stopped off at the pub…

She made a muffled sleepy sound, then said, You got a phone call while you were in the shower.

Dear God, he thought. The police?

It had only just occurred to him that any number of people might have seen his mad homeward dash, or even spotted him standing in the yard at 94 Twining Lane. If indeed he had actually ever stood there. He wanted to believe he had not.

But then what had he done?

Not…not the police…?

What? Not the police, silly. Um…a client. Mr. Reston or Restant, sounded like. Says he needs a new home ASAP. Something about a fire. She chuckled sleepily. Funny fellow. Said his last estate agent died on the job, but he was sure you wouldn’t let him down like that. Is that a warped sense of humor or what?

Ian barely managed to get up enough air to make words. Did he say…uh…how to contact him?

Said he’d get in touch. Soon. She yawned and cuddled up to his side. That’s awfully flattering, isn’t it? When the clients come looking for you?

Awfully.

Previously published in Analog Science Fiction magazine. Late one night, my husband—Chef Jeff Vader, All-Powerful God of Biscuits—peered out of our bedroom window and said, Hm. Looks like we’re having a little bit of an eclipse. The story was inevitable.

The Sagan Space Research Institute sat in the middle of the Arizona desert on a parcel of land that was good for observing astronomical phenomena and precious little else. The observatory dome, high on its artificial hill, had a commanding view of the surrounding plateau, which meant that it had a commanding view of exactly nothing.

The drive to the Institute from the town that shared its name was an uninspiring one, unless you were inspired by tumbleweeds and twists of yucca. Consequently, changes in the austere landscape were easily noticeable, even this close to sunset.

What the hell is that?

Dr. James Dunegan pulled his eyes from the griddle-flat stretch of road that led to the Sag (as it was affectionately known), and glanced at his companion.

What the hell is what?

That.

Jim slowed the car and peered out the front window past Akio Ozawa’s pointing finger.

That was a shiny metal building with a curving roof, sitting in isolated splendor on the parcel of land right next door to the Institute.

It’s a Quonset hut, said Jim, shrugging.

It wasn’t there Friday.

Squatters, maybe.

Fast squatters…There’s a sign, Akio noticed as they drew abreast of the building.

Amerkin Land Management, he read. Geez! They’ve got to be kidding!

Jim laughed. You know what they say, Ki. There’s a sucker born every minute. We’re probably looking at the future sight of the latest and greatest in retirement villages.

Oh, yeah. For people who’ve always wanted to retire to Mars, but couldn’t make the shuttle team.

On the rear deck of the Quonset hut, Sal Pal stood and surveyed the surrounding countryside. A lot with a view.

He grinned and gazed up into the endless sky, rubbing his hands together. His client would be here at any moment to close the deal. The Deal of the Millennium, as far as Sal was concerned. After this one, he could retire to some nice little garden spot and complete his family.

He spent a moment fantasizing about that eventuality, then went inside to wait for his client.

All set? Akio Ozawa peered over his partner’s shoulder at the computer display. All set. We start recording the eclipse at 1900 hours and thirty-seven minutes. Even if we’re late for work tomorrow night, Uncle Carl will start taking pictures without us.

Akio straightened and checked his wristwatch against the computer clock. Ain’t technology grand…How ‘bout some dinner?

Jim quirked an eyebrow at him. You buying?

The calibration on the telescope was complete before midnight and the two astronomers drove to a favorite all-night eatery in Sagan, passing the Amerkin Quonset on the way.

Will you look at that? Akio jerked his head at it. Our friend seems to have bagged a pigeon.

Huh? Jim squinted across the moonlit sand.

There’s a big ol’ limo outside the hut.

Oh, yeah. I see it. Monster thing, isn’t it?

As they drew level with the Amerkin signboard, two figures emerged from the metal building out onto the silver plain.

God-zilla! Akio coughed. That one guy would need a limo that big just to handle his weight! I hope he’s not the buyer, or that little guy is going to be in a real jam when he finds out how worthless this hunk of land is.

Jim’s eyebrows shot upward as he caught a glimpse of the rotund figure towering over the tiny one next to it. In a jam? You mean, he’s going to be jam! I wonder who our new neighbor is going to be?

I think I was right the first time—Godzilla.

Well, my friend? What do you think? Sal Pal’s smile was pleasant and ingenuous.

His large companion surveyed the property with the eye of an aesthete. He nodded. (Or at least Sal thought he did. With someone like Iskar Drootz, it was hard to tell.)

Yes, he said sonorously, the tones rolling around his massive chest like bearings in a bass drum. Yes, it is quite stunning. Quite. I am pleased.

He took a deep breath of the desert air. It rattled the purifier element in his filtration mask, making Sal think of the snake he’d been forced to kill that morning.

Drootz faced him, gazing down from his immense height, over his immense girth with huge watery eyes. We have a deal. He held out his hand.

Sal took it firmly and waggled it from side to side, then up and down and around in rhythmic ceremony.

You have a firm grip for a man-being with only one thumb, commented Drootz. It makes you seem quite trustworthy.

Sal let his eyes flicker wide open in glittering, black innocence. But, my dear Iskar! he objected. I am completely trustworthy. The property is yours. You may take possession of it immediately.

Excellent. My crews will be right on schedule.

Moments later Sal Pal was counting his profits and wondering if he could scare up another of those delectable reptiles for dinner.

Akio Ozawa gazed through the tinted window of Jim Dunegan’s Honda and realized that he thoroughly enjoyed their late afternoon drives to work. The broiled desert, with its garnish of stunted greenery (if you could call it greenery) had a strange beauty at this time of day. The vermilion hues of sunset wrapped themselves around the deepening shadows of sandy tussocks and twisted growth in lovely, bizarre forms reminiscent of a Martian landscape.

He took a deep breath of the warm, dry air that rushed through the window into his face and let his eyes wander ahead to where the Sag sat like a beached space station on the plateau. I sure hope that development isn’t going to be one of those big, ugly, sprawling ‘burbs that end up looking like a prefab pre-cancerous growth.

Jim chuckled. Hey, it’ll probably be one of those amusement parks with the big Matterhorn rides. They’ll import snow, trees…water.

Maybe we can find out. Akio sat forward in his seat. There’s that little guy from last night. Looks like he’s pulling up stakes.

Jim slowed the car, curious. That was fast. He’s only been here four days, max.

We could stop and be nosy neighbors.

Jim shrugged and pulled the car over in front of where the little real estate agent was struggling with a signboard that was easily three times his size.

Akio was the first one out of the car. Hi! Need a hand?

The man stopped struggling and blinked at him blankly. A…Oh! He laughed. A hand! Yes, yes, I suppose I do.

With all three of them pulling and prodding, the placard was quickly dispatched and they stood smiling at each other.

Thank you much, said the real estate man, nodding.

You’re welcome, said Jim, nodding in return.

So, said Akio, after a moment of silent nodding. I guess this means you sold the property.

The real estate agent’s odd, pupiless eyes slid quickly over both their faces. He smiled. It was a very pleasant, ingenuous smile. Yes, yes. As you say, I sold the property. A very big sale. Very big.

Yeah? How many acres?

Acres? Oh, very many acres.

So. Akio surveyed the parcel. What are they going to do with it?

Do with it? The blank look popped back, faded toward wariness, then disappeared in a grin. Oh, a resort. You know. Playground for the rich.

Well, I hope they don’t ruin the landscape.

Oh, no! I don’t think they will do that. They want it to…retain its…primitive quality—its natural beauty.

That’s good to hear. Uh, could you tell us who ‘they’ are?

The black, bottomless eyes flickered skyward, then came back to rest on the Amerkin signboard. Oh, big development company. Foreigners, though. You would not have heard of them—Drootz Limited. He shrugged.

No, I guess not, said Akio. Well, anyway, it’s good to know it’s not going to be some big ugly industrial complex.

No, no, my friends. Nothing of the sort…By the way, let me introduce. I am Sal Pal. He held out his hand.

Akio took it and shook it firmly up and down. I’m Akio Ozawa.

Jim Dunegan, said Jim, shaking the proffered hand. "We’re on staff at the Sagan