by Thomas Stone
Penbrook stepped to the cabinet and pulled the cover shut. “All right. Let’s see, I’d like a hot sandwich, pastrami on rye with mustard and Swiss cheese.” He slid the cover open again and stepped back.
Nothing was there.
Penbrook paused. Without saying anything, he pulled the cover shut and announced his choice again. He re-opened the cover with the same result. “I don’t understand,” he said, “it’s always worked. But I’m not hungry, so...”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Jennings, “more likely, you’ve been sneaking into my people’s fields and stealing what you need.”
“We’re hundreds of kilometers from anywhere,” said Fagen, “and he doesn’t have a vehicle.”
“Well, I don’t believe in magic,” said Jennings. “He’s gotta eat somehow,” he added. Jennings turned away and mumbled loud enough for all to hear, “Stuck with two loonies.”
“I don’t understand,” stammered Penbrook. “It’s always worked.” He sat down at the chair as if his legs could no longer support him. “How am I going to eat now?”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll feed you and see you get back to Earth.”
Penbrook shook his head as he stared at the floor. “Back to Earth? They’ll never let me leave.”
“This is crazy,” said Jennings. “We’re right back where we started.” He turned to Ellis. “You got a decision to make, boy. You can either come with me or stick here with this clown show. I’ve had enough.” With that, Jennings strode from the room. No one tried to stop him.
Fagen looked back to Penbrook. “What about the armor you wear? Is it really from the creatures? How’d you get it?”
“Ah yeh, the skins. Those skins are what got me in such a fix.”
*
“It was self-defense,” Kathleen said flatly.
The man raised his hand to his chin and struck a thoughtful pose. “You see your species as advanced, yes?”
“How do you mean?”
“Technically, evolutionally, culturally.”
Kathleen took in a breath. “Yes. Since we’ve begun our exploration of the universe, we’ve encountered and catalogued thousands of species. A small number we consider sentient but not advanced. Only one species seems to be advanced technically beyond us, although we don’t understand their motives and we consider them to be dangerous.”
“And that species is…?”
“The Tec’Lissir.”
“Why do you consider them dangerous?”
“Because they indiscriminately kill members of other species.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Kathleen knew she had said too much.
“But you have also killed a member of another species.”
“It was self-defense,” she repeated.
“You are guilty,” he said, “as is your entire species. Do you have anything left to say in your defense?”
“Is this some kind of trial?”
“Look at it as an inquiry.”
“By whom?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out by now. We are kitzloc.”
Still under the spotlight, light shimmered from the man and his form began to morph into something larger and thicker. His clothes transformed into a pale yellow and grey scaly skin. Shoes vanished to be replaced by slender, taloned-tipped feet. Fingers changed to claws. The creature grew as she watched until it towered over her, taking the form of an upright lizard. Most extraordinary of all was its countenance. A new face had replaced the human mask, a face reminiscent of a child’s, except for the eyes, which glowed crimson.
In reflex, Kathleen staggered backward. The holograph, if that’s what it was, vanished in wisps of smoke that curled upward and dissipated. The spotlight on the beast as well as the one on her shut off simultaneously, casting her into complete darkness, leaving her shivering.
*
The men hadn’t moved from the room where Penbrook said he mysteriously got his food. Penbrook rubbed his head where Griswold had hit him. “After everybody was gone and it was just me, I guess I went a little crazy. I couldn’t think straight and I no longer cared what happened to me. I loaded up with what weapons and ammunition I had and went out into the sands. I don’t know how long I stayed. Days, I guess. I was foolish. I ran out of water and became so weak I passed out in a little gully.
I woke in the evening, too weak to get up, but it was cold so I dug into the sand, pulled my parka over my head, and buried myself, my weapon at my side. I don’t know how long I lay in the grave I’d dug for myself.”
Young Ellis edged against a stack of dishes and they tumbled, clattering to the floor. “Sorry,” said Ellis sheepishly as he bent and restacked the plates.
Penbrook took a breath and began anew. “Anyway, I lay there until I thought maybe I had died. I slept, I guess, until I awoke with something pressing down on me. Something pushing on me from above. It was heavy, I couldn’t breathe, and I struggled. The weight suddenly released and I sat up, pulling up the gun at the same time. Its back was turned to me, but it sensed me and whirled about. I didn’t wait: I shot it point blank. Damn near blew it in half. That’s where I got the skins. More like plates really. After I calmed down, I decided to return to the complex. I naively reasoned that since I’d managed to kill one of the beasties I might somehow continue to carry on with my work, at least until Braithwaite decided to relieve me. But they never did.”
“I returned to the complex and adapted to a schedule of my imposing. The kitzloc were still around, they’re always around, but they didn’t snatch me like the others. They let me live.”
“Why?” asked Ellis.
“Because I killed one of them. You don’t understand. They have a twisted way of looking at things. They kept me alive because they needed me in this plan of theirs.”
“What plan?”
Penbrook spread his hands and looked about himself. “Why, this. Everything that’s happening here.”
*
Jennings’ gear was already in the truck, so there was no reason to tarry. He went to the vehicle and climbed up to the cab, opened the door and swung inside. The truck started up with a throaty growl and console lights blinked on, the glow playing over Jennings’ face. He looked out the window at Minerva-Too, briefly considered the option of stealing it, then thought better. The AI wouldn’t cooperate even if he could get inside. He slipped his vehicle into gear and pulled forward.
As the front tires hit the ramp, Jennings stopped and opened the side door. Leaning out, he looked back, thinking perhaps young Ellis might change his mind and follow him, but it wasn’t the case. Jennings climbed down and went to the switch that opened the garage door. He looked back one more time before depressing the mechanism. As gears whirred, the ramp began to open. Jennings climbed into the cab, locked the doors, and drove up and out into the desert night, leaving the entrance open. Screw ‘em, he thought.
Jennings clicked on the transceiver, telescoped the antenna, and announced his position into the airwaves. Static and white noise leaked from the radio. As the truck bounced along in darkness split by the beams from his headlamps, Jennings switched the receiver to auto-tune and listened as the tuner ran through the spectrum. Nothing. He was completely alone.
Doubts crept in over his actions at the underground complex. Perhaps he’d been too hasty, too rash. “No,” he said aloud, “Fagen’s going to die. They’re all going to die. None of ‘em know when to quit, but I sure do.”
His lights played over the dunes as he made his way. One hour passed and he became more comfortable with his decision. After two hours, his eyes grew heavy and his stomach grumbled. Time for a break, something to eat and hot tea – just a short stop to gather himself. Jennings stopped the truck at the base of a small dune but kept the engine idling.
He unbuckled the straps that kept him from bouncing off his seat and stretched before climbing into the rear compartment. Everything was in order although coated with a fine layer of dust. He noted to himself to have someone give it
a thorough cleaning upon his return.
His return. What had happened since he’d left Boomtown? What kind of problems had Luther Cross stirred up? Coming back empty-handed wouldn’t sit well with everyone. Would his men still be loyal to him?
He drew water from the onboard tank into a small kettle mottled black from years of use and placed it over a propane burner. What would he say on his return?
He could tell them Harry had murdered Cummins and subsequently succumbed to a kitzloc infection. That was something but not enough to pacify an already disgruntled population. He needed something solid. Promises had been made, people believed they would be returning to Earth soon and the supply ships would return. The last part was probably true, but without something substantial to give them, they were sure to turn on him. He needed to come up with something to save his position and maybe even save his life.
The tea kettle began to whistle and Jennings poured the hot water over a strainer into a tin cup. He dropped the strainer into the cup and while the tea filtered into the water, he found an overripe apple and consumed it in four bites, seeds and all. He hoisted the cup to his lips and blew over the steaming top before sipping.
He sat amid the tools and the hanging simulcons and drank the tea while considering his options, which appeared to be few. Glancing at his watch, he checked the time. It was hours before dawn, but there was no time to sleep. As he drained the cup, a single beep came from the instruments on the bulkhead. A green indicator light blinked from the truck’s motion sensor.
Jennings stood and crossed the space in two steps. Flicking another switch, the scanning screen for the motion sensors’ radar came to life. The display cycled once, twice, three times, showing nothing. The motion sensor alarm remained silent, but the one warning was enough to disturb him. Perhaps it was an anomaly, a glitch in the system, or maybe a small desert animal had triggered it, but it reminded Jennings of his situation. He was alone in a desert inhabited by dangerous creatures, much more dangerous than the people he had led for years.
The only way to be sure was to inspect the exterior of the truck, but he didn’t want to venture outside. Not alone. He returned to the cab, slid into the driver’s seat, and peered into the darkness beyond the windshield. A large shadow dashed across his field of view, startling him. Simultaneously, the motion sensor began to beep. He flicked on the headlamps, illuminating the desert, but whatever had passed was gone.
For a moment, he wished he had the resources of Minerva-Too. The cameras, the reinforced housing, the sleek technology. It didn’t do any good to wish, he needed to get out of the desert. He slipped the truck into gear and began to roll forward. As he put distance between himself and the spot between the dunes, he relaxed, only then noticing he was perspiring. He wiped his lined brow with the back of his hand.
“Gettin’ old,” he mumbled.
Jennings drove on through the night, headlights bouncing along over the sandy track. All radio bands were filled with static so he remained effectively out of communication. If not for the compass on his console, he would have been utterly lost. There were always the stars to steer by if things got squirrely. Jennings looked up through the windshield, checking the night sky. That was one thing you could always count on. After years on Mirabel, Jennings prided himself on knowing how to navigate by the night sky.
A chime sounded from the console and the low fuel warning light blinked red. “Holy shit,” Jennings muttered. Quickly figuring the math, he calculated he was ninety klicks from Boomtown. Not a problem, considering there were two nineteen-liter cans of diesel in the rear of the truck. Once again, he pulled up at the base of a low dune. Prior to exiting the cab, he adjusted the motion sensors, checked the radio signals – still nothing – and then climbed out. He jumped to the ground, landing hard.
Vimbacher in hand, he went to the rear and opened the storage hatch. Two fuel cans sat among tools. He leaned the gun against the truck and pulled out the cans one at a time. Both were full and Jennings strained to lift each. One at a time he carried them to the fuel port. Flipping up the cover, he bent to the first container, unscrewed the cap, and hefted it to the opening. Petrol began to flow.
He threw glances backward as he strained to hold the can in place. The costly diesel spilled from the opening, wetting his sleeves and chest, the odor thick and burning in his nostrils. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow passed, or was it just faint clouds in the sky as Jennings craned his neck to look? There were wisps of grey clouds overhead. He set the can on the ground and looked into the surrounding darkness. Spooked, he retraced his steps to the spot he’d left the Vimbacher. The weapon was gone. The sound of a footfall came from the front of the truck and Jennings reacted immediately, running to his left into the shadowed darkness afforded by the dunes. The ground fell off at an angle and Jennings miscalculated the slope and slipped. The sand was as fine as talc accounting for his boots easily sinking and, thinking it assisted him, he allowed himself to slide along on his backside until, at last, at the bottom he found himself chest deep in a sandpit and still sinking. Wind-milling his arms against the tide of sand, he swam and managed to stall his descent just long enough to take a breath as a shadow fell over his eyes.
A man in a uniform stood over him.
“Gary Jennings, I presume?”
“Pull me out,” Jennings said in an even voice. The soldier took his arm by the wrist and began pulling. He was a big guy and Jennings held on tight as he was pulled through the still-falling sand.
At the edge of pit, Jennings rolled onto his back and peered at the soldier. “Who are you?”
“Major Denforth, Security Associates.”
Jennings sat up and noticed other soldiers. “You working for Braithwaite?”
“I am contracted, yes. And you, you are Jennings, yes?”
Jennings sighed and stood, shaking sand from his clothes. “I suppose I am.”
“Then I arrest you. Conduct yourself as ordered.”
“What about my truck?”
“Leave it.”
“No way. Not unless you want to pay for it.”
Denforth stopped and looked back to Jennings. He was grinning, showing his straight, white teeth. “You’re in no position to dictate terms.”
The Major motioned to two of his men and they stepped in, grabbing Jennings by the arms and pulling him along. Jennings saw more of the contract security contingent in their pale yellow desert suits and armor. They were serious, sober men on a mission to find Fagen probably. Then Jennings saw someone else standing among the soldiers sneering at him: Luther Cross.
“I might have known,” muttered Jennings. Then, in a louder voice, “What’d you tell them, Luther?”
Luther shrugged. “Nothing but the truth. You were helping a known criminal.”
*
“I killed it,” said Penbrook quietly as if confessing a crime. He looked to Fagen, then to Harry. “At the time, that’s what I intended. It was what I wanted – to kill one of them. But I wish it had never happened. I’ve paid a price.”
“What price is that? Are you infected?”
Penbrook smiled. “Infected? Yes, I suppose. But not like the others, not like him.” He looked to Harry.
Harry said, “The infection, so to speak, is administered with varying doses, but the important thing to know is that it’s all up to the intent upon transferal. That determines the level of effect. Whatever the kitzloc’s intention is during the initial attack determines what happens to the subject. You know, like me, Penbrook here, and others.”
“The others died,” said Fagen.
Harry lowered his eyes and studied the floor. “They have specific plans for Penbrook and me.”
“Such as?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
Fagen looked to Penbrook. The old man was alert and following the discussion with interest. “How about you?” asked Fagen.
“Me?” said Penbrook. “I agree with Commander Irons. They’re
doing something with us, using us…”
Harry nodded but he knew Penbrook wasn’t telling the whole story. There was something else. Harry just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“They have a purpose in using us. It’s why I’m still alive. I’ve seen Commander Irons before.”
“Where?”
Penbrook tapped his head with a bony forefinger. “In me noggin. In my dreams.”
Ellis shifted his feet and knocked into another stack of dishes.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Fagen, “back upstairs. But I want to hear more. I want to know where Bobbi and Kathleen are. That’s our focus now.”
Ellis looked at Fagen as they filed from the room. “Do you really think Gary left for good?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s out of the building,” said Harry. “He took his truck.”
“How do you know that?” asked Ellis. “You’ve been right here with us.”
“Not entirely,” said Harry, walking out of the room. Tringl’s arm was casually thrown over Harry’s shoulders. They looked like best friends.
*
Jennings watched Major Denforth through the window of the vehicle as the military man conversed with Luther. It was still dark and Jennings was tired. His wrists were bound behind his back making it impossible for him to lean comfortably against the seat. The cushion sat low so Jennings’ kneecaps were nearly at eye-level. He peered over them with thick lids wishing he could nap for awhile. Jennings could not hear what Denforth and Luther were talking about but he assumed they spoke about him because they kept looking in his direction. After a few minutes, Denforth broke away and strode to the vehicle. He opened the door and looked at Jennings.
“What’s causing the EM interference?”
“I don’t know. What did Cross tell you?”
“He doesn’t know, but he says it might be Fagen’s doing.”
Jennings shook his head. “It isn’t Fagen that’s doing it.”
“So? What is it?”
Jennings looked at Denforth with weary, bloodshot eyes. “It’s them, soldier-boy.”
Denforth leaned down until he was centimeters from Jennings’ face. “Talk sense or I’ll put you back in that pit right now.”