Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 63: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Help-Plants By David Riley Art by Clyde Duensing Ill lannery eased the control stick down, Pietewin the small, four-man cruiser to settle on the lush vegetation that covered the brow of the hill, a good thirty metres from the all-pervading jungle. Tall, purple, tree-like plants rose up from beyond the broad indigo river that curved around the foot of the hill before meandering back into the jungle’s depths. The river water reflected the cloud-streaked sky overhead as Queldon’s sun rose to its zenith, a brick red furnace high in the sky. A small man with large dextrous hands and a drinker’s nose, Flannery O’Casey turned to his com- panion at the back of the cruiser, hunched like an oversized goblin on the two adjoining seats, his long arms linked around his knees. Uncomfortable though the Queldonian’s position may have been, it was the only satisfactory way in which the three metre tall amphibious native could fit into the pas- senger space of the craft. Fullgor’s red eyes stared resignedly from beneath the capacious ridge of his brow plate. Flannery laughed jerkily, his nervousness only just under control despite the three hours he’d had to get used to the Queldonian. He’d paid Fullgor well to guide him here. Too well, he thought, remembering how successfully the creature had haggled with him earlier in the day. Fifty Queldonian talents was far too much, he was sure. Still ... “So this is where we'll find the famous Queldonian Help-plant.” Flannery stared through the windscreen at the sentient vegetation. Large, purple, fleshy tendrils rose about the cruiser, recoil- ing from the cooling jet-tubes along its flanks. Smoke billowed from plant life scorched by their landing. “Rare — Help-plant — now is,” Fullgor breathed, his voice the asthmatic wheeze typical of his race. “But it grows hereabouts? There’s sure to be some here, isn’t there? That’s what you told me at the hotel. I'd find Help-plants here, you said.” Flannery tried to edge the worry from his voice. Down to less than enough talents to pay for his hotel room and fuel for his flight out of here, after unsuccessfully searching for Help-plants for two months now, he couldn’t afford any more failures. An alcoholic space-trader’s tale about the near- mythical plant had seemed too good an opportunity to Flannery six months ago on Guerdion Major, where he’d just off-loaded a shipment of tree-spice. Help-Plants Aboriginal Science Fiction —Summer1998 =). COO ys “They'll grow anywhere. Don’t need much room. Just plant em and watch ’em grow. That’s all,” the old spacer had said. “But watch it. The Droid Corporations don’t like ’em. Do away with mechan- icals fer good. Who'd want to pay out good money fer somethin’ that'll need replacin’ in a few years’ time, worn out an’ useless, when yer can breed yer own Help-plants. As many as yer like. Fer free. Whoever starts off sellin’ em can make a fortune, They'll sell like crazy. The big boys know of ’em, though. That’s why they’re rare. Damn near killed ’em off fer good. Killed off a few o’ the traders as tried to get ’em off planet, too. So watch yerself if yer try it, boyo. They’re worth a friggin’ fortune to you or me. But to the Droid Corporations they’re nowt but a menace. An’ they’ve only one way o’ dealin’ with things like that.” Many times since _ he’ dle landed . on Queldon in search of the plants, he'd’ wondered whether the’ Droid Corporations (Interplanetary Robotics, Robo- Servants Incorporated, and Mitsubishi-Honda Meca-Slaves) had succeeded in exterminating every last Help-plant. No one he asked, until he met Fullgor, had been of much'help, though he’d fol- lowed up a few false leads, some of which had almost ended in his death. Which was why one hand never strayed very far from the gun hidden away in a pouch on his jacket. The Queldonian might be big and strong, with a hide as tough as a dinosaur’s backside, but a shot from the blaster would scorch a hole through his torso big enough to stick his arm through if he tried anything funny. “Help-plant here,” Fullgor assured him. His wide, toothless, lipless mouth broadened, though whether it was a grin, a grimace, or a frown, Flannery could not tell. The Queldonian’s round, heavily gilled head was all but inscrutable. Even his eyes, beneath their protective, transparent lids, were characterless orbs, like blood-red marbles. “Good,” Flannery said. “I’d almost given the frig- gin’ things up as a myth,” he added, his nervousness increasing his tendency to talk too much. A touch of a button released the overhead canopy. Moist air, odorous with a stunning array of smells, blew over them, filled with sounds of hidden wildlife. The sun’s light burned Flannery’s exposed hands and the bald spot at the back of his head. In Queldon City the sun’s rays were filtered for off- worlders’ benefit through membranous domes. Copyright © 1998 by David Riley O)