“Who wants to pollute with a V8?” I ask.
He claps and glances at me. “Technology. Hmm. Carbon monoxide gets burned before hitting the atmosphere. Hmm. Now it is carbon dioxide. That ends up in capture ditches populated with conversion units. With carbon removed, O2 releases into the environment—like trees on EB do. We’ve no rain, so no acid rain. Nitrogen stays nitrogen.”
“We don’t need more CO2,” I say.
“Polluting? No. You know this already. Hmm Once-Other?”
“Ah yes,” I say. “A pocket of air saved me this morning.”
He nods in understanding, pats my arm and points.
“The tent system is a real pleasure,” he says.
I nod disinterestedly.
“Hmm. Pitches at the touch of a button. Fulfills all needs from moments of personal solitude to interludes of romance, to emergency housing, to breakdown, to coming home and finding your house tilted or maybe buried. Hmm?”
He pats a front wheel.
I head towards the lesser model as he adds, “We’ve already installed the five-hundred horsepower kit.”
“That’s not high on my priorities list,” I lie.
“Of course not,” he assures. “Just making idle though informative chat. Hmm?” We both know no such thing exists in his showroom.
“The required stress tests on h...it?” I ask and chastise self for almost saying her.
“Five-hundred trouble free miles of the High Desert...certified. But oh. With six-wheel drive, she hugs sand like nothing before. No chain drive. Shafts. Bullet proof. Almost no chance of a drivetrain failure. Central Transfer case with eight ratios. Ten gear transmission. Hmm?”
I mentally reconfigure her drive train, note the asking price and keep going towards the smaller one in the far corner, which has but four wheels.
With enthusiasm, I examine what is visible of its V4 engine. Sit astride the saddle, grip the handlebars and hunch down below the windshield as though there is wind blowing through my hair.
Soonsaan observes with a knowing eye, rubs his elbow, squeezes his nose and glances back-n-forth between the six-wheeled beauty upon the pedestal and back to where I sit enraptured and enthralled.
“I like this one,” I enthusiastically remark and glance down at the gear lever.
“A magnificent machine, Once-Other. It’s been honed to a new perfection of speed, agility, reliability, and endurance.”
He crosses his arms as I check the smaller one over.
I work the clutch lever and ask, “How quickly does it find neutral when hot or cold.”
He drums his fingers on the saddle in that nervous way of his, locks them together as though about to pray, stretches his arms out forwards with palms outwards and cracks his finger joints. As always, I shudder.
“She’s well worth every penny if you’re being chased by either too satisfied or very dissatisfied ladies. Hmm?”
He’s about to continue when Francisco, face landscaped with joy, rushes up but on seeing me it changes to concern. “Once-Other,” he communicates, “I thought you were in the store...few minutes ago.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well. The front door was open and there was an outline of someone inside.”
“Someone has entered my store without permission?” I ask of no one but self.
CHAPTER 28
Of Unexpected And Lame Excuses
Head tucked behind the fairing, knees tight to the saddle, elbows bent and hands gentle on the handlebars I storm through downtown, weaving around SandRiders and avoiding pedestrians.
Turning tight around a corner I just manage to miss the tent pegs of a traveling carpet vendor. He leaps backward, expresses his displeasure in crude, though precise sign language, kicks at sand and heads into his tent.
The street is relatively quiet but pedestrians tend to cross without looking left-n-right-n-left-again. Behind me a sand-cloud billows larger than those made by the four wheels of my old SandRider. Ahead, a mother and her child retreat in horror at the sight of me bearing down on them. Both shake their heads in chastisement.
I open the throttle a little more, hunch down further out of the wind, glance at the high-rises to my left and make a hard right winding the throttle open to the stops.
More-n-more fists are shaken as I speed onwards. In self-defense, I broadcast my predicament to one-n-all present. Various acknowledgments return. Some arrive colored with encouragement while others are shaded with caution advised. Most though complain about the sandstorm billowing off my six new wheels.
Breaking free of downtown, I zero in on Pre-owneds Galore. Despite my haste, I note that even this early hundreds of tourists are lined up at the carousel. We’re looking at one damn fine tourist season this year.
With the sun shining from the east and still at the correct angle I too discern a silhouette inside my store. I slide to a stop, hit sand running, charge inside and slam to a halt as a massive mental short erupts rendering me virtually dead on arrival.
Seated at my table is Peter Wernt.
He is dressed in the same silver-gray colored fan-n-fit. His Nomadi, alive and active, lies next to a glass of my water. He has my ID Check connection drawn close and his brow wrinkles and furrows as he strives to gain access.
Something is indeed wrong with this man—this EB.
What it is I have failed to discern. I must tread here with care. I cannot afford a bout of screwball snorting. Also, I’ve trouble enough with Madsen as well as that nagging fear in my gut which has now become a natural part of my life within this campaign of ours.
Nevertheless, I’m aware of EB’s who have no respect for the property of others and who will tamper as they please and without permission. Perhaps that is Peter, a man without consideration of others.
Wait and see I advise myself.
I rock on my heels listening to sand scrunch beneath my boots. The seconds tick by and he slowly becomes aware of my presence. He turns, stares a moment as though seeing a ghost, and says, “Well damn Once-Other. Good morning to you, one-two-three.”
I wait, silent.
A trace of doubt slithers across his face.
I tap my foot. His eyes linger on my shoes.
His brow creases with questions. “Yeah. Ah? Once-Other? Yes. After what happened I thought...no longer...good you’re alright and damn fine indeed.”
He slow-grins as though we are friends enough to share this parody of our speech mannerisms and waves at the table. “Yeah—please excuse the natural curiosity,” he says as a cold calculation flashes in his eyes.
I unclench my fists and waggle my fingers. They relax as anger eases. I present him a stiff smile that nevertheless hides my snarl.
He stands and extracts a pack of cigarettes from a hip pocket. Flips it from hand to hand, shows it is unopened and says, “I picked up a faint whiff of tobacco around so I brought this brand with me today. I hear they’re sought after out here.”
He offers me the pack.
“Did you not consider me dead?” I ask ignoring his offering.
He glances to the entrance, back at me. “Yeah. Right. Oh. Okay. Kinda yes—kinda no.” He drops the pack onto the table as though it’s worthless and sips more water.
I wait, silent.
His eyes narrow, a new light turns on deep within them and he says, “You told me to keep a distance...no matter what.” And he peers over the glass brim at me.
“This is true,” I concede.
The lights in his eyes switch to a triumphant glow. “Yeah. I panicked...left you down there—can’t deny that. Journey alone in the cage did something...don’t understand what. Scrambled my mind, emotions....”
“Well, okay Peter,” I say hoping to stem his blatant lies.
Now without a doubt something is very wrong or dangerous or both but about which I have no clue. Further questions plague me. Danger for whom? Myself alone? Our campaign? Is he merely weird?
Unfortunately, the road to any answers requires spe
nding time with him. I gulp and accept my own challenge. And with my goals redefined, I resume my campaign but add this new path of discovery and set course towards finding out whom Peter Wernt is and why he is here and all else worth knowing.
I inexplicably break out sweating. Peter notices but says nothing. My temperature drops as suddenly. I walk over and inspect the ID Check connect. It’s powered on but without my Nomadi, he cannot log into remote databases.
“Do you verify against violent criminal parts?” he asks.
I note he made an effort to sound conversational.
Again, doubt rages. I should send him on his way. Something is more than bad here—rotten. It in fact smells to high heaven yet remains hidden.
I consider his questions, him, my predicament and Madsen’s face if I bow out on this one now. I decide once again, right or wrong, to continue my campaign with this EB while hoping for answers to unanswered questions.
Where had Peter been when his Quaaseon flask depleted?
Is there a connection to Jiplee?
I embrace Once-Other’s Foundation, purpose and skills for perhaps winning with this Peter Wernt may still be possible. And so the battle resumes. This one to be fought in the fields, mountains and valleys of two minds—each with mutually foreign and unknown landscapes and conflicting purposes.
My goal I understand. But what is Peter’s?
With this unspoken declaration of war, I answer his question. “Well Peter, like all pre-owned vendors I’m connected to Local, State and Federal databases with a certified ID Check connection. The one before your eyes with which you fiddle...without my permission.”
He deliberately touches it and asks, “Do you really?”
“Let me show you. Here I place a spot of its blood.” I pull the receptacle open, he looks in and I slam it closed. “Then I add a drop of Bondo-stick-on which....”
“Bondo-stick-on?”
“We’ll come to that in due course.”
“Yeah. The later whatever thing.”
“As I was saying...Bondo-stick-on extracts the DNA code and embeds it into the sensor plate of a translation chip.”
I point to the chip’s location and say, “DNA is streamed to all databases. An ID Check certificate as an eCopy downloads. I’m sent a clear record or a violent criminal one. I provide every purchaser with two copies.”
He grins as I do when recognizing lies and says, “You sure? Never mixed up two or more...forgotten to check?”
“No mix-ups, no forgetting. We use ID Check to register all new stock and each sale. Unless an impossible to hack database is hacked—no errors possible. So! No C-POP.”
“You’ve never sold Criminal Pre-Owned Parts?”
“Damn accurately stated, Peter.”
“Hard to believe Once-Other.”
“Why do you ask?” I say.
“Ah? Well...you know...the attitude on Earth.”
“We are not all criminals nor zombies.”
He stares off into the distance as though alone.
“This your first trip here?” I ask.
“You’ve already checked my background,” he replies coldly.
“You’re right.”
Does he know his background is muddy, though more so empty? If yes, then he is incredibly calm at sudden probing questions. The less I tell him of what I know the better. And so I withhold that we cannot find any historical records about him. Does he even come from EB? Is Peter Wernt his real name? We change ours why not them.
The sound of a particular SandRider alerts me to Madsen’s presence. “Updates to participants gone out Once-Other. Oh. Wernt’s back. Damn fine but peculiar. I’ll reassign the new tourist. This time...don’t blow it an’ all.”
I bite my tongue.
Madsen adds, “Who is he? Why’s he here? Was he involved with Jiplee? I want everything. He’s an EB. Whatever is shutting you out—find it. Look for hardware on his person—there’s nothing he can use from a distance. Givin’ an order here an’ all. Failure’s no option.”
“Just about had your attitude....” But I abruptly drop the connection with Madsen for someone is attempting to break into it.
We switch to safe mode.
CHAPTER 29
Of Sandmasters And One-Two-Three
“Yes!” Madsen says. “All’s good for the party this weekend. I can’t wait to celebrate one damn fine new SandRider, one-two-three an’ all.”
I search for the intruder amongst a group of shoppers weighed down with bright green plastic bags. None registers as intrusive. We configure a deeper communications pipe. Madsen sends me a stream of urgent information and a terrible sadness descends upon me.
“No questioning this Once-Other,” he says.
I swallow a hard, dry lump.
“Franciscoa decided this? I ask.
“Yes...his alone an’ all.”
“Right,” I whisper laboring under the weight of what we dare not communicate.
“Comes to many an’ all Once-Other,” Madsen says.
“Yes...still...,” I reply barely able to muster any words.
“Live by Neatness alone,” he says and the old comradeship from our youth flickers alive for but a moment. He drops the connection, winds the throttle open and races away.
Once again, danger has increased but this time my old friend and companion Franciscoa has willingly stepped directly into enemy fire. I look up from the sudden sadness and my eyes find Madsen retreating toward the horizon. Hope wishes that Franciscoa comes through his chosen path alive.
Through all my troubled youth, prison time, loss of my parents he was always there despite the poison that makes his life a Hell that I have but the faintest symptoms of by comparison. “Come back alive dear friend,” I broadcast wide and far but receive no acknowledgement from him.
With a tired sigh, I once again embrace my campaign duties and examine circumstances for clarity and possible clues to Peter.
It’s clear to me that this skirmish with Peter is unlike any previous one-on-one tour. Still, I’m reluctant to admit it may be more than a tour with a strange and peculiar EB. Keeping a hold of that allows for my deepest wish live on. I want Peter interested in our Rights and Constitution no matter how dim a hope that may be.
Perhaps, when all is said-n-done I worry needlessly. Maybe he’s a thoroughly unpleasant personality and nothing more. He could also be medically drugged and thereby close to mindless—but what switches his wild manifestations on and off I have no clue.
I jolt at his touch.
“You alright?” he asks his elbow nudging me.
There had been no sound nor hint of his approach. Had I been that introspective? From out the northern desert and sudden as a thundering duststorm, sounds that same SandMaster driving hard. I search sand but it is beyond the dunes and out of sight. I hold to full alert as a chill runs down my spine.
“What on Earth...Here-Born?” Peter says.
“A SandMaster,” I reply, voice shaky.
“Come on Once-Other,” he growls.
I take several deep breaths.
“Well...one damn fine eight-wheeled vehicle it is...used by Desert Drivers. Fitted with one engine up front and one in the rear—they’re seventeen-cylinder radial engines, air and liquid cooled, from way back on EB but updated here.”
His mouth hardens at such useless information yet he says, “Radial engine? What’s that?”
“Okay. Imagine a wagon wheel. Now imagine the spokes have cooling-fins around them. Next, envision that inside the spokes are pistons sliding up and down.
“Now see the pistons connected in the center to the wheel-hub and spinning it round-n-round very fast. Now fasten a propeller to the hub and imagine an airplane with this radial engine mounted in the front. There you go—radial engines.”
“I’m not really interested but at least get done with this,” he says and looks to the sky as though seeking divine patience.
“Now! Radial engines came to us by way of EB—as I�
��ve mentioned. Back then, they were built for light tanks and the airplanes of World War I and II, some earlier, and others later. Many saw service in other ways. Production ended around the 1980’s. You understand the change of dates we’re talking 1970’s in EB reality?”
He glares.
“So you do,” I confirm. “Okay. We found them as museum displays and junkyard relics. Over time, we redesigned and manufactured them ourselves—modernized them as well. Same way we did with all our internal combustion engines.”
He laughs without mirth and says, “Hell no! Here is what happened—Here-Born stole some engines and reverse engineered them—straight up theft. Period! And from us no less. Who are Desert Drivers anyway?”
“Oh. You know about these engines. Well, you’re wrong!” He makes to protest; I wave him silent. “Desert Drivers are descendants of Here-Born’s original soldiers. Back then, they had no duties other than those of a soldier.
“They, with the general public as recruits and volunteers, won for us our Independence from Earth-Born. Today their offspring live as Desert Drivers with minimal to no contact with others.”
“Interesting. More.”
“Their interaction with the Nomads is greater than with us the Free Marketeers. Population breakdown for you Peter. One Desert Drives, two Nomads, three Free Marketeers.”
“Tell me about the others?” he says.
Inwardly I smile at his interest. “Some of us believe that back in those early times, Desert Drivers split off from the Nomads. Before then there were supposedly us, Nomads and Northerners but there’s no proof of this.”
He sighs in exasperation and says, “Do you or don’t you know?”
I wait long enough to watch his simmering demeanor head towards boiling point. Just before he boils over I say, “Northerners and Desert Drivers are now one group. Desert Drivers own and run the electrical power grid with many power stations located around Here-Born. They also run all things mechanical in design.”
“Where are the large bodies of water, fast-flowing rivers? No one’s mentioned nuclear power.”
My virtual antenna hums and sparks, he has just confirmed he is getting information from other sources. Why would he? Well. Why not?
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