Service Goat

  Service Goat

  Piers Anthony

  Service Goat

  Copyright © 2016 by Piers Anthony

  All stories are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission.

  Cover Art

  Mac Hernandez

  Design

  Niki Browning

  Editor-in-Chief

  Kristi King-Morgan

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  ISBN 13: 978-1539167983

  ISBN 10: 1539167984

  Dreaming Big Publications

  www.dreamingbigpublications.com

  Contents

  1. Mystery

  2. Pact

  3. Conspiracy of Silence

  4. Doctor

  5. Ceremony

  6. School

  7. Horns

  8. Raccoon

  9. Revelation

  10. Dilemma

  11. Gamble

  12. Deal

  13. Betrayal

  14. Conclusion

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Mystery

  They called him a landscape engineer, but what it really was was ditch digging. Brute muscle and little else, in areas that the power excavators couldn't reach. Assistant to a machine, really. The pay wasn't great, but it kept Ben Hemoth in shape, and it was a job he could get. Until such time, if ever, as his name was cleared so that he could return to his real profession: newspaper investigator. Ben was good at that; he could sniff out the faintest scent of mischief and get the story an ordinary reporter missed. Until he made a damned stupid careless error and got canned.

  He reviewed it yet again as he jammed the spade into the rooty ground. High school kids were getting high on something new and doing crazy things. What was the story? His newspaper wanted the scoop. So he had gone to the likely source: the kids themselves. He knew they'd be evasive, but he could tell a lot by what folk refused to say, and he could sniff out a lie from a fair distance. “Is it Drug A?” and of course they would deny it, but the denial would be either true or a lie, and he could generally tell which. “Is it Drug B?” Soon enough he would zero in on it.

  His mind replayed the scene of his disaster, as it insisted on doing with dismaying regularity. The kids saw him coming, literally, as he entered their hangout of the day, and moved to intercept him. Anyone who thought contemporary seventeen year olds were stupid was a fool. It was like a chess game, with move and counter move, and the kids could play it as well as anyone. There were protocols, and the person who followed them could at least get a hearing.

  An uncommonly pretty teen girl with multicolored hair swirling to her waist left the group and oriented on him. “Hey, big man. Looking for something nice?”

  This was clearly their designated representative of the hour. He would talk to her and possibly learn something, or pass her by and get nowhere at all with any of the others. That was the way of it. “Oh, yeah, beautiful. But you're underage.”

  She smiled, and the heat of it was like a tanning lamp. “I'll be sixteen on Sunday.” It was playful; she was more likely seventeen.

  It was time for the introduction. “Ben Hemoth. Newspaper.”

  “Venus Intra.”

  He laughed. “Intra Venus. I like it.”

  “And I like Behemoth.” She had evidently known of him and his nickname, which was hardly a secret. Hers was of course her stage name. He would not question it; he hardly cared about her real identity.

  Ben signaled the waitress. “Drinks. Her choice.”

  “You're wasting your money,” Venus said. “We're not going to tell you.”

  “Maybe the pleasure of your company is enough.”

  Now she laughed. “Try me.”

  He focused. “Is it Drug A?”

  Her face went poker; he could not read it at all. “No.”

  “Damn, you're good.” The compliment was sincere.

  “I've admired some of your pieces in the paper. Take me home with you for an hour; you'll like it, and I won't tell.”

  And she probably wouldn't tell. Young as she was, she was surely experienced. He would quite forget his real mission, and maybe also lose his wallet. “Sorry. Not what I came for.”

  The drinks arrived: innocent root beer complete with straws. The kids were naturally into the harder stuff, but knew better than to do it in public.

  Venus sipped her drink. “I could give you one rare experience.” She slowly drew her shirt open to expose one bare breast. It was choice.

  He sipped his own drink. “I don't doubt it. But my wife wouldn't understand.”

  “She doesn't understand you anyway. I like you, Ben. You're my kind of man.”

  “What, black hair, brown eyes?”

  “Those too. You must weigh three hundred pounds, and it's all muscle. That really turns me on. I want to feel it grinding my belly. So I'll give you one anyway.”

  One experience? It was fiendishly tempting, as his relations with his wife were marginal and Venus was in a physical class of her own. But that was folly. “No.”

  “Too late.” She got up and left the table.

  Uh-oh. He felt the first twinge of unreality. She had somehow spiked his drink! Maybe when he was distracted by her breast. He had to admire her finesse.

  He poked his finger down his throat, triggering the vomit reflex, and spewed the brown liquid back into the cup. It was a trick he had learned in the army. But he knew he had already absorbed more than a safe amount. This stuff was powerful.

  He needed to get home in a hurry, before the drug took full effect. He lurched to his feet and staggered out of the cafe. No one opposed him; in fact the kids had disappeared. They had outsmarted him, and now were leaving him to his promised experience.

  Was it safe to drive in this condition? Did he have a choice? He needed to get out of here.

  Mistake. The street ahead wee-wawed and became a cotton candy ribbon that wouldn't stay still. He tried to stay on it, but soon slid off to the side and into a ditch. Then he faded into a delirium of glorious dreams, some of which featured Venus.

  Next thing he knew, he was in a holding cell with several drunks and a splitting headache. In what seemed like rapid order he was convicted of drunken driving, resisting arrest, and his wife gave him notice of divorce.

  It seemed it had been a considerable experience. He wished he could remember the details.

  Because he was well known and popular, and this was his first offense, he wound up with parole, but no job and no wife. He got what odd jobs he could, and quietly investigated the teen gang that had destroyed him, hoping to get evidence to clear his name.

  All he learned was that after dispatching him they had stolen a gasoline tanker truck and driven it off a bridge. He understood how that could happen, from his own experience. That drug pretty well abolished realistic limits. All of them were dead in the fireball.

  Or were they? He checked more closely, and found the one survivor: Venus. She had somehow been blown clear, and had not sought medical help. He understood why: they would have found the drug in her system and put her away for that and her criminal record. So she was hiding out with friends, for now, until the heat faded.

  He also learned that she was a runaway who had been around a while. She was actually eighteen, though she pretended to be younger to get along with the gang.

  He located her and confr
onted her. She was in a sad state, her lovely hair burned off, her memory gone, probably more from the drug than the crash, except she knew she could not go to the authorities.

  There was no revenge to be had here, and she remained a lovely creature. What could he do? He took her in. “You screwed me out of my job and my marriage,” he told her.

  “I don't remember, but I probably did. I apologize. But I like your type.”

  “Now you can screw me physically, as often as I want it. In return you get anonymous board and bed.”

  “Deal,” she agreed without hesitation.

  “One condition. No drugs of any kind.”

  “Was it a drug that wiped me out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deal,” she repeated. “I'm off it now, forever.”

  That was it. She moved in with him, and she was every bit as good in bed as she had once hinted, not only willing but eager. She had learned how to get along with men; each act of sex was a confirmation of her expertise. That was the one thing he had gained from this mess. She had nowhere to go and no desire to go. She was literally happy to serve him sexually. Slowly she was also learning how to be a housewife. She was no genius, but she was not stupid, and she was constantly alert for other ways to please him. The gang had been her home and she had done what it took to stay good with it. Now Ben was her home.

  But both their lives had been ruined, and Ben wasn't satisfied with that. He wanted to vindicate himself and resume being a solid citizen. He was willing to take Venus with him, and she made it clear she wanted to be there. But there seemed to be no viable avenue.

  He spat into the trench as he finished the day's job. He just had to hope the avenue appeared.

  Venus met him at the door, her robe open, ready for the sex he liked to have first thing. Her hair was starting to grow back, now its natural light brown color, but it would be years before it matched its former splendor. That was one reason she now wore a wig when out of bed. Fortunately she had other assets, which she proudly accented by inhaling. “But maybe this time you want to wait,” she said.

  “What could possibly be worth delaying a tryst with a creature like you?” he asked gallantly, but there was truth in it.

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased as always. “This.” She held up a letter. “It was addressed to both of us, so I opened it. I was nervous because no one's supposed to know I'm here, or even alive, for that matter. There's no return address, no name. But it's really good news, I think.”

  Ben took it and read it. It was a job offer, with an obscene amount of money and perhaps more important, the promised clearing of his name and hers so they could both return to higher status without records. There was no address, only a number.

  “This smells like a scam,” he said regretfully. “I was tricked, so might argue my case in court if I ever got the chance, but you have a gang rap.”

  “I don't think so. I'm slowly remembering bits of my life from before. The gang was just a side interest. I've seen scams. I've worked them. I remember screwing you, now, with the drug, and I'm sorry. But this is something else.”

  “I need to think about it. There's got to be a catch.”

  “We'll both think about it,” she said, and hauled him to the bed.

  They thought about it between bouts of mutual delight. Then he called the given number, knowing they would recognize his own number.

  “Ben Hemoth here. You sent a letter. I'm not into criminal activity, regardless of my present reputation.”

  “Not criminal,” the man said. “It's legitimate but secret.”

  “Send me your literature and I'll decide.”

  Ben expected argument, but there was none. “Done.”

  Two days later the package arrived, with the money and no return address. They were that sure he'd take the job. There was no contract, no terms of employment, just the stricture that no one else was supposed to know about the arrangement. Find out and call when he had the information.

  “How come they trust you with all that money?” Venus asked.

  “They have evidently researched me enough to know that I honor any deal I make, to the letter.”

  “Yes you do. I'd like to be that way.”

  “You can be. You have a new identity. Make integrity part of it.”

  “I'll try,” she promised, evidently intrigued by the notion.

  He pondered. What they wanted was simple enough: a private investigation of--

  A goat.

  Ben stared at the text. So did Venus. “Maybe the money's fake,” she said.

  But it wasn't.

  Ben phoned. “You want this private, but the moment I start asking questions about a damned goat they'll know something's up. Nobody cares about a goat.”

  “Read the cover story,” the man said, and hung up.

  There was another page, and Venus was already reading it. “An unnamed company is considering building a big amusement park in this area, and wants to know any counter indications before it commits. Such as a rumor of a haunted goat. They don't want word of their interest to get out, lest the land suddenly escalate in value just before they start buying, but neither do they want to make a bad investment. This is one of several sites being considered, so the odds are against it actually being chosen, but the homework has to be done regardless. It could be a billion dollar park; everything has to be exactly right.”

  “There is a goat farm in the area,” Ben said thoughtfully. “I suppose if any of the animals were diseased, that could queer it. But I don't think the goat they want is part of the farm. They could just buy it, otherwise.”

  “For a pet,” Venus agreed. “Or milk. Or meat.”

  Ben started checking. He knew how to use the internet via aliases of identity and subject so that it would not be evident that anything was going on. “But why don't they do that themselves? They don't need me to research it.”

  “Some research has to be personal,” Venus said. “To keep it off the record. Even I know that. Also, they're doing it second hand, through you. If you get caught, they're still anonymous.”

  He looked at her. “You're right. You seem to have a feel for this.”

  “I'm learning from the best. But if you want a feel--”

  He took the feel. They dissolved into another session on the bed.

  Soon they identified the goat; a mature female virgin Toggenburg, unbred, with a token udder, weighing about 150 pounds. That breed was known as hornless, but some had them, as this one did. It had shown up mysteriously a week ago, and now was a Service Animal working with an orphan girl. There was definitely something odd about the association. For one thing, the child was blind, yet there were hints that she could see. She was now in the foster care of a doctor who had abruptly taken her on without explanation.

  Who had trained the goat? Service animals represented considerable investment by trainers who knew what they were doing. Who had placed it with a newly orphaned child? How had the Doctor gotten involved? There should have been a solid paper trail. There was none.

  Ben decided to start at the beginning. There had been a bad storm, with a tornado. Weather radar indicated something inside the storm that was distinctly unnatural, but a subsequent check of the vicinity had revealed only an obscure disturbance in the earth of the local forest. The girl and goat had somehow gotten together in that storm. Coincidence?

  “The hell!” Venus said.

  Ben tried to research the local police and hospital reports, but they were suspiciously vague about the incidents, almost as if there was a coverup. That was why the investigation had to be personal; there were no properly illuminating records.

  “Something's going on,” Venus said.

  He kissed her and squeezed her thigh. “You bet.”

  “That, too,” she agreed, twitching a muscle.

  Now the case was intriguing enough that Ben would have done it on his own, had he known. Goat, girl, and just maybe a UFO visit. A mystery worthy of his expertise.

&nbs
p; Chapter 2: Pact

  Doe stared down at the storm as the landing craft descended into its center. Soon she was in its inanimate wrath, the furious winds battering her capsule. She did not question why such a difficult landing was being made; that was not her present business. Her business was simply to gather data. It was her overwhelming imperative. In six months of this planet's calendar when her data banks were full she would return to the lander and take off to rendezvous with the Survey Ship elsewhere in the system, so that her data could be transferred to the master bank, her mission accomplished. Then she would be used again, perhaps on another planet in another form, or melted down for protoplasm, depending on circumstances. She knew this, and didn't care. All she cared about was her mission.

  The storm intensified. Fiercer winds gripped the capsule, tore it from the lander, and hurled it to the side. It sailed well wide of its mark and crashed into the ground. The shell cracked open, spilling Doe out onto the ragged ground.

  She got to her four feet, and flicked her tail, finding herself shaken but undamaged. The storm had moved on, satisfied with its path of destruction. But the crash had cost her her communication with the craft; she could no longer access its memory or its contents. It had been broken by the fall, and its organic mind had expired. She felt its absence.

  She did what was required, going to the wreckage and using her horns to cover it with brush so that it would not be evident. Within a local day it would melt itself down into innocuous metals sinking into the ground, and be unrecognizable as anything more than some obscure local spill.

  The concealment accomplished, she took stock. This was mischief. If she was to accomplish her mission, she would have to establish a viable connection to an equivalent mind, for she could not function competently alone. She was designed to extend the viable range of the lander's mind, not to be that mind. She was the tool, not the machine. Now that the machine mind was gone she would have to find an alternative.

  She invoked an emergency database to address this situation. Its essence was stark: GO NATIVE. That meant locating and addressing the mind of an animal of this planet that had the potential for intelligence. Pairing with it could double her own capacity and enable her to function at full capacity. With luck there would be a suitable creature. The preliminary survey had shown a number of types of animals, some not far from sapience.