by Mark Wandrey
“Bring your papers inside,” one of the soldiers said.
Rick nodded and took the folder of papers on the truck they’d gotten from the salesman.
Sato watched and waited, wondering what he would do if Rick didn’t come back. What if he gets in a fight with the soldiers and loses? Jail in Guatemala didn’t sound appealing. Rick had only been gone a minute, and he was already considering starting the truck and running for it.
The door to the checkpoint opened again, and Rick emerged. He was carrying something and not moving in any hurry.
“What happened?” Sato asked his travelling companion.
Rick got back into the cab and handed Sato a container. It was a ceramic dish with a cover, warm to the touch. Sato took the cover off and found it full of steaming tamales.
“Holy crap,” Sato said and scooped up one of the tamales. In a second, he had it unwrapped and was eating with his fingers. It was hot, filled with succulent meat, and spicy almost to the point of intolerance. In short, delicious.
Rick handed him a canteen, which proved to be full of black tea sweetened with honey. Sato was eating his third tamale before he realized Rick had started the truck, and they were trundling down the road again.
“What happened to the soldiers?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
“They didn’t need the food any longer.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Sato swallowed, then shook his head. “Not really,” he said.
Rick nodded and fished out one of the last tamales. His helmet opened, and he ate mechanically. Sato finished off the last of the food without comment. He occasionally looked at Rick and wondered what he’d done. Truthfully, he didn’t want to know. All that mattered was they were back on the road. His stomach full, he soon fell asleep.
* * *
When Rick walked into the brightly lighted guard post, the two men instantly realized he was something other than a truck driver working into the evening.
“W-what are you?” one demanded in Spanish.
“You don’t want to know,” Rick said. One of the two moved toward a pair of rifles on a wall-mounted rack. Rick drew his main sidearm in a blur, pointing it at the man. “This can end one of two ways,” he said. “Is your job worth your life?” Instantly they both put their hands in the air. “That’s what I thought. Sit over there.” He gestured at the room’s only table, situated near the door and opposite a pair of bunks. Clearly the outpost was only manned by two men at a time.
They both quickly complied, and Rick found handcuffs to secure them to the table. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but it wouldn’t need to. Once their already minimal threat was reduced to basically zero, he searched the room. They had a radio, which he disabled, and a small safe holding a pair of pistols and some money. He didn’t need either, so he left them. In a small stove he found their dinner, a dish of tamales that were warmed and ready to eat. Those he did help himself to, in addition to a thermos of tea. A refrigerator held more tamales, as well as some additional food, so he wasn’t leaving them with nothing. He took the food and headed for the door.
“Who are you?” one of the men asked.
“What are you?” the other added.
“The answer to both questions is, you really don’t want to know. I’m sure you want to report this. It would be a mistake.” Without another word, Rick left them.
He didn’t know why he didn’t tell Sato about not harming the men. Clearly his benefactor was nervous about him. Maybe Rick liked it that way? On the surface it was a little cruel. Sato was a simple man, with seemingly two-dimensional motivations. Except where they found themselves, of course. The strange woman following them on the maglev was disturbing and suggested Taiki Sato was more than met the eye on several levels. She’d said she knew him years ago, but Sato acted like he didn’t know her.
It appeared they were both suffering from a loss of memory, or Sato was a more accomplished liar than he appeared on the surface. Rick considered all of this as he drove the twisting mountain roads in near total darkness. Between the vision enhancements of the Æsir armor and his pinplant-multiplied response speeds, he was using at most 5% of his brain power to operate the truck. He was more concerned about their diminishing fuel reserves than he was about driving off the road in the middle of the night.
He compared the road he was driving to the maps from the Aethernet and turned at the next crossroads. About midnight they reached the outskirts of Esquipulas. A Puma gas station was closed, but he could see it had a cash reception machine, so he pulled in and parked. Sato hadn’t moved, even as he stopped the truck, so he climbed out and gave the pump a look.
It wasn’t set up to take credits, of course. In fact, it would only accept Guatemalan quetzals. He pulled out the wad of various currency they had and found a single 5-quetzal coin, not even enough for a liter of diesel.
Rick sighed and examined the machine in detail. It was an unremarkable model with a wireless programming feature. It took him less than a second to reprogram the machine to think a credit chit was a valid quetzal denomination. He slipped in four one-credit coins, after which the reader said he had a balance of 200 quetzal.
Rick pumped diesel until the balance was zero, replaced the hose, and reversed the programming. Whoever emptied the coin slot would find his credits and make a real profit off the fuel. The 25 liters he’d put in wasn’t a lot. Not even a quarter of a tank for the truck. Considering the ‘low fuel’ warning had come on just after crossing the border, it was an improvement, if a nominal one.
He drove the truck through Esquipulas without any notice. A vehicle or two were moving about on unknown purposes, just like his own. Another gas station on the far side of town tempted him. Ultimately, Rick passed without stopping again. He decided it was better to get out of town before someone began to wonder what a moving truck from San Salvador was doing in nowhere Guatemala.
The armor automatically monitored his physical condition, he noted as it added some stimulants to his system. He’d been awake for 31 hours now. Sleep would be good, but now was not the time for a snooze. They needed to make time while they could.
So he drove on through the night while Sato quietly snored in the passenger seat. The rugged country picked up again as they left Esquipulas behind, long stretches of valley broken by bridges, tunnels, and mountain passes. He passed other vehicles going in the opposite direction twice before dawn. One was a lumbering old dump truck he passed while navigating some switchbacks. The other was a bus crowded with people and baggage on the roof. The second one proved the most difficult, because he encountered it where there wasn’t enough room to pass.
Amazingly, the bus driver simply reversed for almost a kilometer to where the road was just wide enough for them to pass without swapping paint. He was sure they were less than a millimeter apart at one point. Then the bus driver waved, and they were on their way.
As morning arrived, Rick was navigating down a forest road paralleling the Rio Ixcan. They crossed into Mexico without need of a border crossing encounter. There were no guards on this particular road. The truck bounced over a last huge rut and onto Mexican Highway 307. Ahead was another 500 kilometers of twists, turns, and switchbacks, but they were now out of Central America. The rest should be easy.
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Sato opened his eyes and yawned. He’d been dreaming about riding rollercoasters. He tried to concentrate on the memory, but as usual, it fell from his grasp. He was surprised to see the sun was up, and they were moving along at maybe 50 kph on a smooth, paved highway.
“Did I sleep all night?”
“Yes,” Rick answered. “You looked really tired, so I just let you sleep.”
Sato yawned again and nodded. “Why are we going s
o slow?” A car laid on the horn as it passed them on a corner.
“Diesel crapped out an hour ago. I think one of the backroads might have torn something out.”
“Where are we?”
“Just outside Tuxtla Gutiérrez,” Rick explained. “Either we need new transportation, or another option. The fuel cell efficiency is below 25% and dropping.”
Sato nodded and stared out the windshield. They were passing some houses now as a city was nearby. It was still early, so there wasn’t much traffic sharing the road with them. Something was drawing him. First to Earth, now toward America. Like much of his life, he couldn’t remember the last time he was there. Or if he’d ever been there. He was pretty certain he’d been there.
“Everything is so damned fuzzy.”
“Sorry, sir?”
Sato shook his head. “Just thinking aloud,” he said.
“Well, we’re almost at the end of the line. What do you want to do?”
“Might as well find a hotel while I figure out what to do.”
“Aren’t you worried about that woman?”
“McKenzie?” Rick nodded. “She can find us if she wants to.” Sato made a face as a word, a name, danced on the edge of his memory. “We need to take a break and see how Nemo’s bud is doing.”
Rick nodded as he examined the businesses along the road. “That look okay?”
It was a small roadside motel, probably dated back to before first contact, with 20 or so rooms. Certainly operated by a family. It even had a little restaurant attached, harkening back to ages past.
“Should be fine,” Sato said, and Rick steered the nearly dead truck into the driveway.
An old stoop-backed woman was pushing a wobbly housekeeping cart between rooms. A young child in a brightly colored dress holding a doll was following the woman. Sato got out to arrange the room. Since it was daytime, Rick was too obviously out of place. The office was empty, and he had to ring the bell to get someone’s attention. A middle-aged man came in through a door and stopped when he saw who’d rung the bell.
“Hola,” the man said.
“Hello,” Sato replied, using his pinplants to directly access the translator he wore around his neck in a pendant. “I need a room, please.”
“Uhm, sure,” the man said and stepped up to the counter. “How many?”
“There are two of us. Two beds please.”
“The truck yours?”
“Yes. We’re moving…scientific equipment.”
“Oh,” the man said, his eyes narrowed curiously. He fumbled with the pegboard of keys before selecting one. “It’s 1,400 pesos, sir.”
Sato checked their stash and found 500 total pesos. The clerk was asking about $70 dollars, according to the Aethernet. He didn’t want to further tip the man’s level of suspicion. What would be worse, giving him a pile of various countries’ currencies, or credits? Sato settled on credits and placed a 5-credit chit on the counter. As he expected, the man’s eyes went wide.
“Sir, I cannot give you change.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Sato said. He held up a 25-credit chit. “We might be here for 2 days. We just need to rest, quietly. This is yours when we leave. Deal?”
“Yes, yes,” the man said. “Very good!”
It should be, Sato thought. Thirty credits was worth about 65,000 pesos.
“Room 9,” the man said and passed him the key. Sato scooped it up and left without comment.
“Number 9,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat. The hotel only had one floor, laid out in an L configuration. The open area between the arms had once held a pool, as evidenced by the ancient rusting ladders and diving board. Now it was a garden. Their room was in the crook of the L, and Rick backed the truck to within a meter of the hotel room door.
It was impossible to hide moving the duffel bags and water-filled module from the back of the truck, so they didn’t try. Rick and Sato did it quickly, though, to minimize exposure to prying eyes.
Inside the room, Sato unlocked the module, making sure the door was facing up so they didn’t flood the hotel room. The door slid aside, and Nemo’s bud half crawled out on top of the container, flashing brightly.
“I was wondering if something was wrong,” it said. “It’s been more than a day!”
“We’ve been traveling slowly,” Sato explained. One of the bud’s eyes regarded him. “We’re in a hotel in Mexico.”
“Mexico, a country south of the United States, in the Earth Republic, and long considered an economically underperforming democracy in North America.”
“Correct,” Rick said. “We’re undercover here; don’t want anyone poking around while we figure out our next step.”
“I understand,” it said. “I’d like some fresh food. Are there any small crustacea or saltwater plants?”
“I guess we need to go shopping,” Sato said. “I can use some food, too.”
“Maybe I should go,” Rick suggested.
“I think an Æsir will draw more attention than a Japanese guy in rural Mexico,” Sato said. Rick stared at him. “I’ll be fine. I saw a little market just down the road.”
Rick nodded slowly. “What’s the range on our pinplants?”
“Five kilometers, give or take interference.” Sato gestured at their surroundings. “Here, not much worse. I’ll yell if I run into trouble,” Sato said. Rick looked dubious. “You need rest. I designed your systems, and I know you’ll reach the end of your endurance and then just crash. What if you crash when we’re in trouble?”
“When aren’t we in trouble?”
Sato gave a little laugh. “Not often. Get some rest; I’ll be back soon.”
Rick eventually relented, sitting in a threadbare recliner, his armor’s glowing blue eyes dimmed to nothing. Of course, he could still be wide awake and just staring at Sato. There was no way to make sure. So Sato just shrugged, took the shoulder bag with their small currency, and went out the door.
They’d landed on Earth when it was early fall in the southern hemisphere. They’d crossed the equator and were heading steadily north, but it was still hot. His patchless Winged Hussars uniform, minus the life support systems, was uncomfortably hot. He decided the first thing on the agenda was more appropriate clothing.
The heat of the morning grew increasingly oppressive as he walked to the nearest intersection. Like many towns in Mexico, even small ones, Tuxtla Gutiérrez had a bus service. As luck would have it, a bus was just pulling up to a stop. Sato glanced in its direction of travel, deciding it was headed toward the center of town, and boarded when it stopped.
“How much?” he asked the bored looking driver, his translator speaking in Spanish.
“Fifty pesos,” the man said, giving Sato a curious look.
Sato found the coins and dropped them into the indicated machine, which chimed merrily. The driver grunted, and Sato sat in the empty first row. A moment later, the door clanked closed and the old diesel bus ground forward.
Satisfied with himself, he forgot to look at the passing businesses for several kilometers. Which was when he realized he couldn’t read them without first running everything through his pinplants. He was beginning to think he’d screwed up when he spotted a sign which translated to “Bargain Store.”
“Better than nothing,” he said, and pressed the strip along his window to signal a stop. The driver grunted, and the bus pulled to the sidewalk, the door opening. “Thanks,” Sato said as the driver stared at him exiting. The door closed again, and the bus pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke.
Sato didn’t waste time; he immediately went into the shop. As he’d hoped, it was filled with racks of clothing. He walked down, noting size tags and different styles. He had no illusions he could pass as an average man. Instead, he went for modestly successful businessman. Not a suit, but simple nice slacks, shirt, and a light vest he’d seen many wearing. He’d rather wear as little as possible. However, again, he was a Japanese guy in Tuxtla Gutiérrez so he took it down anoth
er notch in apparent wealth, adding a floppy hat.
Examining himself in the mirror, he nodded and walked to the front. On his way, he grabbed a backpack and stuffed his uniform in it, then went back and added several extra pairs of underwear, socks, and some cowboy-style boots.
The shop held a bare handful of customers, and a single matronly woman sat behind the old-fashioned mechanical cash register. She was reading a magazine that had handsome men posing on the cover with scantily clad women. “Hello,” he said.
She put the magazine down and looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, and she took in his details more carefully. “Who are you hiding from?”
“W-what?” he stammered.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Come with me.” She got to her feet with the weariness of age, glancing back when he didn’t follow. “Come along, fugitive.” What could he do except follow?
“You need older clothes,” she said, glancing at him again and running a hand along a rack of pants before pulling out a pair. “It’s good you picked business clothes; your stature is wrong for a worker. Chinese?”
“Japanese,” he answered automatically.
She nodded. “My grandson is a mercenary. I don’t know if he’s alive. Are you fighting the aliens?”
“I can’t say,” he said.
“Fair enough.” She took more pieces of clothing, and when she finished, handed them to him. “Put these on.”
Confused, he did as she said, going into the changing room again to emerge a short time later. She examined the results and nodded, handing him the hat he’d originally chosen. “Better,” she said.
He looked at himself in a full-length mirror and nodded. He could pass for a local, with the hat pulled down. “Nice,” he said. She merely nodded. “How much, ma’am?”
“Four hundred pesos.”
He took out a 100-credit chit and put it in her hand. Her eyes went wide, and she shook her head.
“No, I cannot.” She held it out to him. He smiled, took the backpack, and walked toward the door. “Go with God,” she said behind him as the door closed.