by Mark Wandrey
Rick looked from the Wrogul to Sato and back. In a way, it was good to hear his suspicions about Sato’s mental health were valid. The pinplants were the key, so it would seem. “Why don’t you remove the pinplants?” he suggested.
“No,” they both said at the same time, though the bud’s words were delayed by a fraction of a second by their translators.
“Then what do we do?” he insisted.
“Continue on,” Sato said. “All of us.” Rick cursed and went out the door into the afternoon heat.
* * *
“He’s upset with me,” the bud said.
“Well, you basically reminded him he’s just a meat sack, and then questioned his religion.”
“Religion is questionable,” the bud replied, again deadpan.
“So are you,” Sato said. If Wrogul had eyelids, it would probably be blinking them at him in confusion. It was amusing enough to make him laugh. “You hungry, bud of a friend?”
“Yes, are those huge crustaceans for me?”
“Lobsters,” Sato said, “and yes. They aren’t too big?”
“Not at all. One at a time, please?”
Sato nodded and picked up one of the bags. The lobster was maybe 40 centimeters from head to tail. Its large claws were bound closed with rubber bands. He carefully opened the bag and upended the contents into the Wrogul’s tank. There were a couple of small bluish colored lights at the bottom of the support tank. Sato could just see the lobster settle at the bottom and begin examining its new surroundings.
The Wrogul slid off the side and fully into the water. As soon as it began diving, the lobster sensed a predator and tried to flee. There was nowhere to go. Nemo’s bud seized the crustacea and pulled it into a many-tentacled embrace. Even through the water Sato heard cracking shell and could see some discoloration enter the environment.
Whatever filtration system kept the water clean quickly pulled the pollution away, along with little bits of cracked shell, an antenna, a bunch of legs, etc. “Adios,” Sato said to the departed lobster. The bud surfaced a few seconds later.
“The other too, please?”
Sato nodded and sent lobster #2, which was a little bigger, to the same fate as the first one. It took the Wrogul a little longer to finish that one off before surfacing.
“What about the shells?”
“The support unit can handle them.”
“Not in my design,” Sato said, his eyes narrowing.
“No, Nemo improved them.”
“I can’t keep calling you Nemo’s bud,” Sato said.
“You don’t have to. I finished reading the books, and I’ve picked the name Dakkar.”
Something tickled at the back of Sato’s mind, but it didn’t form into a complete thought or memory, so he accessed the Aethernet. Dakkar had a number of entries, from a region in the African nation of Senegal, some 21st century fiction, to a number of musical references. However, the oldest reference was certainly the one the Wrogul meant.
“The secret identity of Captain Nemo?” Sato asked.
“Precisely. Prince Dakkar was an East Indian prince Captain Nemo used as an alias.”
“So Nemo comes from you? Doesn’t seem right.”
“I was going for book order,” Dakkar said. “Dakkar appeared in Mysterious Island, which was a crossover sequel to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”
“Oh, I see.”
“It has an interesting feel, Dakkar, in my language. I think Nemo would approve.”
“That’s your name,” Sato said with a shrug. He came back to the tank with the little package of seaweed. It had thawed in the intervening time. “Is this okay?”
“I cannot translate the language,” Dakkar said.
Sato rendered the Japanese into Wrogul for him.
“I’ll try it,” was the pronouncement.
Sato opened the package and held it at water level. Dakkar used a tentacle to pluck a piece and take it underwater to his mouth parts. There was a delay, as he sampled it for his liking.
“It is obviously old and has been frozen; however, the nutrients are welcome. Please put it in the water, but not with the plastic?”
“Sure,” Sato said and dumped it in.
Dakkar continued to perch on the edge of the tank, plucking pieces of seaweed from the surface of the water where it floated, and regarded Sato. “What does religion do for you?”
“Me personally? I don’t really have any religion,” Sato said. I don’t think I do, anyway. Did I before? He tried thinking about the pinplants he had now. Nothing.
“No, for Humans. Religion, and the dispute over it, has caused incalculable death among your species.”
“Not just our species,” Sato cautioned him. “Many species. The Zuul are deeply religious; they fought a war of reconciliation thousands of years ago before the Three Songs came about.” He stopped. Where did that come from?
“Precisely what I mean; what good can come of it?”
“On Earth, religion led to both Dark Ages, and some of the greatest periods of enlightenment for our species’ history. It is, without a doubt, a double-edged sword. So I guess the answer is, I don’t have an answer. To some, it gives a reason to hate; for others, it gives a reason to hope; and for still more, it gives a reason for…everything.”
Dakkar listened patiently as Sato explained, slowly catching bits of seaweed and consuming it.
“Can you tell me about how we met?”
“Not yet,” Dakkar said.
“Yeah, you’re Nemo’s bud, all right. Why not?”
“Because we decided to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“If I told you, it would spoil the surprise.”
If Sato hadn’t known Wrogul don’t have lips, he would have sworn the alien had an ear-to-ear grin. Someone knocked on the door.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
Rick wasn’t going anywhere; he was just pissed. Right in the middle of the confrontation with the alien—religion being the issue, of course—he’d remembered his childhood, starting with Sunday School and proceeding into early religious school. When his father had left the picture, his mother couldn’t afford the school anymore, which was when he went to public school and met…
“Son of a bitch,” he snarled as he walked. “I can’t remember a friend from my childhood, but I remember Sunday School?” Someone walking the opposite direction missed a step and gawked at him as Rick stomped past.
Rick tried to remember as much as he could as he wandered. He recalled how he’d largely stopped going to church after growing into his teens. How his mother had been so disappointed when he’d taken an interest in becoming a mercenary. What else could he do? He was smarter than average, with no drive for a particular science or trade. What he did have was physical ability. The thoughts of whatever religion he’d had ended at his leaving for training.
“Take this,” his mother had said, holding out a golden medallion.
“Your Saint Christopher medal,” Rick said in confusion. “The one grandpa gave you before he died?”
“Yes,” she said, taking his hand and pressing it into his palm.
“But…I don’t know if I—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, closing his hand over it. “He believes in you.”
“I wonder where the medal is?” Rick wondered aloud. Destroyed on a Winged Hussars ship? Had he had it with him when he died, so it was only atoms? In some anonymous box of personal items back in New Warsaw? “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not like it did me any good.”
He was about to turn a corner when his armor’s automatic systems stopped him in his tracks. A threat alarm was going off. He backed up to put the brick building to his right between the perceived threat and himself, then evaluated it. A drone of some kind, sweeping down a side street. What was the chance of a surveillance drone in Tuxtla Gutiérrez? Less than zero.
A pair of young men had been playing a game with sticks in the street, a
nd they’d stopped to gawk at him. Rick lifted his index finger over his mouth and said, “Shhhh.” Their eyes bugged out, and they ran. Subtle, he thought.
Since his armor was literally covered in sensors, he didn’t have to do the classic ‘head around the corner’ maneuver to look. Rick just held his hand around the corner. The sensor data wasn’t dense, but he didn’t need much. What he got was like a wireframe drawing in black and white of the street, people, cars, and the drone in question.
The drone was a block away, hovering around a box truck. The truck was surprisingly similar to the one they’d driven across Central America in, which immediately caught his attention. A pair of people were gesturing at the drone, which took no notice of them. Since he wasn’t the center of the drone’s interest, Rick moved around the corner so he could get a better view of it.
Rick looked at the specs for the drone. It was capable of independent operation for 96 hours or more and could cover 2,500 kilometers. It used a tiny nuclear decay battery and could carry a variety of payloads. This one appeared to have a satellite uplink, as well as a small weapon he couldn’t identify. This wasn’t the sort of thing you found in rural southern Mexico. He doubted the government here could afford to field them. His pinplants said they ran upwards of 20,000 credits apiece, but also required a service cart for every six, and those ran another 5,000 credits.
Maybe the Republic could have these, Rick thought. Or Sato’s ex-girlfriend? She seemed to be tied into the planet’s intelligence assets.
The two people were a man and a women who’d climbed out of the box truck. It had markings indicating it was from a farm. The model looked identical to the one he’d bought that was parked back at the hotel. Uh, oh. Even a block away, Rick could hear the man screaming at the drone and making rude gestures. He clearly wasn’t happy about something. Rick took a closer look at the truck and saw its front tire was smoldering. The drone must have shot it out.
The drone continued to hover in front of the truck, not moving. The man had had enough; he stooped over and picked up a rock. A bolt of electricity arced out and hit the man, who dropped like a felled tree. The woman screamed.
“That’s enough,” Rick said and raised his arm. The lasers contained in his arm weren’t powerful. They were, however, precise, and invisible to the naked eye. The 250-kilowatt infrared laser hit the drone directly in one of its six impellers, destroying it. The drone slewed violently sideways, and Rick saw its weapon spin around, searching for the attacker. Can you fly with only five? How about four? He fired again. The shot cut off two arms holding the impellers, and the drone crashed to the road.
He jogged down the side street toward the wreckage. He guessed Sato could tease some secrets from its brain. The woman was screaming and shaking her husband. “He’ll be okay,” Rick said to her. “It was a stunner.” She wasn’t listening, so he went to the downed and smoking drone. “How do I deactivate this th—”
Kaboom! The drone exploded with more force than Rick would have expected. The shock wave knocked him back a meter and blew out the windshield of the farm truck, along with every store front window for a block in both directions.
The armor’s automatic systems kept him on his feet; stabilizing blades instantly extended and dug furrows into the concrete. He steadied himself and walked to the crater in the roadbed.
He swept the immediate area for any signs of casualties. The closest had been the stunned man and the woman, neither of whom appeared to be wounded. The charge had to have been a self-destruct, or it would have been packed with an advanced shrapnel payload. He was pretty sure it hadn’t seen him, but its presence left only one conclusion. Someone knew they were here.
Rick walked over to check on the man. A quick scan showed his vitals were steady. The truck was the worse for wear. He dug a 100-credit chit from his trench coat pocket and sat it next to the women, who stared at it in confusion. “For the damages,” he said, then turned and quickly walked back toward the hotel.
He had to use the navigational aid to find it. He was surprised to see he’d walked four kilometers. Still close enough.
“Damn it,” Rick growled and hurried his pace.
He didn’t want to run, not when he now knew there were eyes on them. He settled for a somewhat conspicuous half-jog, which chewed up the intervening kilometers in only 15 minutes. As he turned the corner into the hotel parking area and their truck came into view, so did a line of people outside their hotel room. “You have got to be kidding me.” Rick came to a stop and gawked. At least 20 people were milling around outside their room.
He scanned the crowd and vehicles, looking for police, military, or anyone who might be armed and dangerous. To the contrary, everyone looked like locals. My God, what has Sato done this time?
Rick slowed his approach so he appeared to be walking up, and not racing into a confrontation. With his enhanced senses, he could easily hear the people’s conversations.
“I believe it’s from Saint Francis,” a man said.
“I think maybe Saint Clement, or Saint Beuno.”
“No, it’s Archangel Raphael himself!” a woman said reverently. A woman Rick recognized as the grandmother of the girl the bud had healed.
Rick gently pushed through the crowd, getting several complaints that he should wait his turn, and more than few shocked exclamations when they felt his metallic armor. As he reached the door, a young boy was being led out by a crying man and woman. Both were repeating thanks and said, “Santo del Mar.” Saint of the Sea was the translation for Rick.
“Sato,” Rick said, saying it loud enough so they’d hear him. He was still several people from the door and didn’t want to crack any ribs getting through.
Sato’s head came around the doorframe, eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw Rick, his expression turned to recognition, then chagrin. “Rick, things got out of hand.”
“No shit?” Rick said.
“Please, let him through,” Sato said in Spanish. “He is Santo del Mar’s guardaespaldas.”
Rick’s translator said the last was roughly bodyguard. He guessed he was indeed a bodyguard. The crowd parted, both at Sato’s words, and from turning to look at Rick. Some whispered to each other, and others crossed themselves and fell back as if Rick were brandishing a flaming sword.
Inside their room, a teenage boy was sitting in front of the bud’s watery home, with the Wrogul perched on the edge, two of its tentacles embedded in the boy’s head. “Sato, what the fuck?”
“The old lady with the kid came back,” Sato explained, holding his hands out for patience. “Her sister had an inoperable brain tumor. Dakkar took it out in like 10 seconds.”
“Dakkar? What?”
“Oh, that’s his name,” Sato indicated the Wrogul. “He chose a name.”
Rick wanted to know more about the name, but he wanted to know more about how the grandmother’s sister had turned into enough people for a soccer game. “Okay, and the crowd?”
Sato gave a sheepish grin. “I think they both called all their friends and relatives. The Republic doesn’t have a medical center down here; the closest is Coatzacoalcos, 350 kilometers north.”
“So you just opened Dakkar’s Wrogul Free Clinic?”
Sato looked chastened. “That wasn’t the plan. After he helped the sister, a girl with a deformed heart valve was brought in, then another girl who couldn’t hear. By the time I realized they weren’t just showing up, we had a line…” He looked confused and made a helpless gesture. “These people need help.�
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“So do we,” Rick said, and sent a clipped video of his encounter with the drone through their pinplants.
“A Zuul design,” Sato said immediately. “They’re expensive.”
“Yes, and someone sent one after us.”
Sato’s eyes slid out of focus.
“What are you doing?”
“Hacking into the city’s air traffic control system. The world government set up a planetary system some years ago when fliers became common after the fifth starport opened.” His eyes darted around for a moment, then he shook his head. “Yeah, there are a dozen of them around here. We’re made, all right. Damn it, must have been the girl.”
“And you don’t know why she wants you.”
“Yeah,” Sato agreed. By then the Wrogul had withdrawn his tentacles from the boy, who was standing and walking as the crowd applauded.
Rick spotted a wheelchair by the door. Another miraculous healing. Swell. “We need to get out of here.” By the looks of the small crowd, Dakkar had finished working his way through all of them. There was a small trashcan next to the tank which had a pile of…things that looked suspiciously like bloody pieces of meat. Despite having been in combat many times, including having his own arm cut off by a laser, he felt his gorge rise.
A new man and woman moved to the front of the milling crowd. Rick instantly recognized them as the two with the disabled box truck, the ones assailed by the Zuul drone. The woman now held a little girl in her arms. Rick was certain it was Dakkar’s first healing candidate, Nina. One hell of a coincidence, Rick thought.
A quick discussion took place outside, with Nina’s mother and father pointing at Rick, while Nina waved at Dakkar, who lazily waved back. “What were you thinking?” Rick asked Dakkar, his translator flashing the appropriate color patterns. Nina laughed and pointed when she saw it.
“They seemed to need help,” Dakkar replied. “All the ailments were immediately treatable. It’s pathetic they weren’t already taken care of, considering the availability of Galactic Union medical science on this planet.”