“Yeah, Once-Other. You sure took me in a big way.”
“I did?” I stammer.
His smirk materializes left of mouth and centers. “Yeah. I paid double. What with the tour fee price and the same again for the use of my third-eye camera. Quite the shrewd businessman you are. Been told by others what they paid. The highest is ten percent extra for a camera. Quite astute you are.”
I smile for I had actually charged four times for his tour not merely double. I wait for a follow-up, a demand for a refund—but no, nothing. Yet he feels he has overpaid. That he is not demanding a refund says something. But what? Does he think I will feel obligated or somehow indebted to him?
“My prices are my prices,” I remind him and self.
“Yeah. They sure are.”
I update my watchful companions Maggie and Madsen and am shocked that neither was aware of the image storm I’d encountered. I hide my disorientation spells once again and make a note to self to get a checkup. “Tomorrow we’ll skip a day. Got a doctor’s appointment.”
After a momentary hesitation and a sharp glance my way, he nods, turns and meanders down an aisle of arms. He touches one and sets it to swinging and moves on touching hands, elbows, fingers, forearms, and biceps.
“We should spend time here today and get into the financial side of pre-owned parts,” I say.
“You buy for less than you sell. There’s more to know?”
“Should we head out to the Oil rig then Peter?”
He strolls along a row as though lost in a dream, brushes hanging arms with his fingertips and sights down a row of legs then straightens some twitching fingers. They go right back to twitching. He holds them jammed together, releases them, they twitch on.
“Yeah! Like you said. There’s sure no Neatness with these fingers Once-Other. None at all. But you’re damn fine recovered. Damn courageous that was?” He smiles as if he is a true comrade-in-arms and meanders over to several torsos in the rear.
I catch up with him and inspect his eyes. There’s an agenda happening that much I perceive. But the details elude me. Also, he has a new sense of confidence, a certainty of future results.
“Trying to figure me out Once-Other? Am I good? Bad? Worse than bad?” He touches the bulge under his arm and peeks sly-like at me. “What’s the estimated value of your stock, assets, and goodwill? You can tell me. Do you even know?”
“Damn fine nothing to do with you. Can you stop doing the whatever you’re doing?”
He turns on me with his eyes flashing hot-n-cold, steps closer on legs stiff as tree trunks and with unexpected power says, “Who were you before, Once-Other?”
My muscles turn to water and my arms hang heavy. My neck gives and my head flops to one side. My knees and ankles threaten to give. I struggle to stay upright while tracking two ghostly snakes as they enter my chest and slither towards the one place where entry is forbidden, my UWMD folder. Still, over-n-above all else I am analyzing events.
Anything more physical and violent and I would know this is Peter’s doing. With Peter electronics would be at play and the vibrations would be evident. But so high a level of control over others can only be achieved by a Here-Born and worse—by a Desert Driver. If it’s the same Desert Driver, he would need to be close...real close.
I stagger sideways, hit my head on an overhead frame and pain drives the snakes away some. But poison’s symphony races to duty its flame licking at my brain. Through the waves of pain, a metallic clinking resounds.
I grasp at it and focus on the timbre of each ring. Vision partially returns. I glance around, but Peter is no longer where he was. The clinking rings out once again coming from outside the tent. I step to the entrance.
Peter squats next to my SandRider tapping the wheel rim with a large screwdriver. He turns to me, smiles and says, “This doesn’t even make a scratch on the wheel rim Once-Other. That’s quality for you.”
“Yes Peter,” I say while quenching the fires within with images of waterfalls cascading through my head. As the flames die, my mind races onwards desperate for answers to Peter’s strange and weird behavior. Nothing.
He toggles the screwdriver between his fingers a bemused look on his face. I glance at my toolbox and find it open. He re-enters my store and replaces the screwdriver. I close the toolbox.
“For a moment it appeared you had a heart attack,” he says. “I figured I’d best get ready for an emergency as we must do back on Earth. So I went right out and checked your wheels for soundness as is required when an Emergency appears imminent—it’s the Law back home. But you look okay now. You all right?”
“Yes I am,” and I scrutinize him for thoughts both in his mind and on his face.
He must realize I’d never believe they have laws anywhere close to that stupid. He examines me smiling coldly. The poison retreats from its current skirmish, the snakes slip fully back into their dark den, evaporate and vanish. My strength returns, eyesight improves.
I glance around the crowd outside and some window-shoppers but cannot spot a Desert Driver. I turn to Peter to find him standing with his back to me.
He gazes across the desertscape all relaxed in his air-conditioned suit his hands at ease upon his hips. How had he turned so fast and in complete silence? Am I going senile from Crier poison? Am I missing moments in time?
In case not I scan the desert again. Nothing. No one. What if Peter is simply a relay point? If so, he would not be aware of what is going on, which would explain his innocent demeanor and perhaps his split personality.
He speaks, voice now less compelling almost comforting, “You okay Once-Other?”
I nod yes.
“Well then? Who were you before Once-Other?”
My mouth once again snaps open in auto-response but at the same time a scent wafts by and saves me. Like those legendary EB sharks, I’m tuned to the scent of blood upon the air. Yes, indeed. Fresh is about and close by.
“Once-Other?” Peter insists.
I shush him; sniff the air, estimate direction, and my eyes follow my nose. Wernt’s eyes follow mine and we see him more-or-less, one-two-three as one. It is one bad-on-bad Desert Driver.
I control the weak knees sight of him engenders, request calm and endurance of self and change gears. “Inspect this one in detail and you’ll know bad when you see bad,” I whisper to Wernt. I wait—but he says nothing.
“Peter? No. Okay, I’ll explain. His clothes are old and worn. No Neatness with those. Black leather jacket all torn and tatty. One sleeve empty of arm. Broken nose pointing all over and never replaced nor repaired.
“Deep blue eyes with a history of pain in them. Dark brown hair loose and flying all unruly upon the breeze. No Neatness there either. His black leather pants and boots are...well I see you get the point.”
“Yeah I do,” Peter says.
I point to my own dramatic self. “Note my shiny red shoes. My black pants neatly ironed with the sewn-in creases. The red two-finger broad belt, my white shirt so immaculate it deserves a Neatness Award and...which should be pending...my hair so well contained with Fat-n-Grease by Hardins one can count each strand with ease. In this way, one comprehends good but he’s bad-on-bad.”
Wernt ignores me and stares intently at the Desert Driver. I touch his arm, but he ignores that as well. I nod understanding and provide him further enlightenment.
“Get this. First off. He is a Desert Driver so watch yourself. Bad manners will have you dead in all-of-an-instant. More-or-less. Also! He’s missing an arm and you’ll note how he scowls when he peers morbid like at those pre-owned fingers you touched that are still askew.
“But! Despite that he is without an arm, please do not speak to him as you have to me. As I said, it will get you dead.”
We watch the Desert Driver’s approach and much of my fear vanishes. After all, he has but one arm. Is he the one who attacked me?
The virtual snakes return, entwine my lungs and I fight just to breathe. They dissolve as mysterious
ly as they arrived. I take a deep breath and say, “Come closer Peter. Even the bad-on-bad appreciate Neatness—you’ll see.”
“You don’t know him? Never seen him before?”
I wave his questions aside. “This one’s been on the Rocklands and with his arm hung free a cactus-blade lopped it off sudden like—and now? Here he is. But where else would he go? My store stocks pre-owned parts that none can compete with. Still, it’s strange he made so basic an error. Well, business is business.”
Wernt rubs his arm as though it hurts.
“Now. Where will a one-armed Desert Driver get a girl with all her limbs if he doesn’t have them?”
Peter frowns in response.
“Nowhere is where,” I say.
“Why didn’t you take better care of your wife?” he whispers.
I gasp struggling to understand but as quickly dismiss it and laugh at myself for being a trifle neurotic. He had obviously muttered about his own wife. Whatever happened between them, I do not know for equally obvious reasons.
I sigh but snap back alert as in my peripheral view two bright silver apparitions reflect sunlight. I glance at them and everything changes for the worse.
CHAPTER 42
Of Sales Techniques And A Pre-Owned Arm
A Poip pair lurk amongst the tourists crowded around the carousel. They zero in on my Desert Driver prospect and stroke their chins—as programmed to do. They glance at one another their heads bobbing like jack-in-a-box twins.
Electronic language buzzes clear as sunlight.
They grip their holstered weapons and pause.
One leans across and whispers to the other—not that they can actually whisper.
The Desert Driver spots them, glances at their markings, their uniforms with guns-n-all and his countenance sets grimmer. The sales bells jangling in my head start to fade.
I lean towards Peter. “I hope to make a quick sale here. But as you can see, all comes down to timing. On the other hand, being ankle deep Poip are not fast sprinters...as you are, Peter.”
He double-takes on that and snorts his displeasure.
I examine the Desert Driver in detail and figure he’ll want around a five-thousand-dollar arm, mid to high range that is but not of superior quality. Now, as he has no time to bargain, he’ll have to pay what I say, which will be more than that.
Much more.
He walks faster but keeps a firm hold on his stump to prevent it bumping into anyone, or anything. Though preservatives allow us to replace damaged parts they do nothing to lessen the pain.
He arrives and without a greeting, examines my stock of pre-owned. Wernt checks him over in detail. I scrutinize Wernt and notice something is not right, or out of place, but I can’t place a finger on what.
The Desert Driver glances at Wernt and dismisses him out of hand. He then glares hard at me and a warm, radiating energy glides across my skin. I brush my palm down my arm and stare off into the desert as one with little or no interest in sales techniques does.
Yet I’m deeply curious that such a warmth comes from a Desert Driver. The seconds tick on by. Across sand, the Poip wait for confirmation downloads to complete. The Desert Driver’s eyes dance back-n-forth from Poip to pre-owneds and back.
“Are you perhaps interested in a leg?” I finally ask of him out loud.
“Leg?” he snarls. “Are you stupid? An arm!”
Having deliberately said the wrong thing I present him with my best—I’ve been corrected altogether smile which he and all others know is faked. There’re times during sales when irritating the buyer, ones who have little choice, can have a positive effect. Or so I’ve been told. Apparently it short-curcuits straight thinking.
Glancing at his remaining one, I retrieve similar arms from beneath the counter and lay them out for him. He inspects them, selects one with enough muscle yet is youthful, but not too young. He holds his selection to where his severed one would be and checks for compatible length, hairiness, coloring, and form.
He glances at the Poip then asks, “Do you have quality preservatives?”
“I only have quality,” I assure him. “Quality enough to ensure gradual growth and an eventual ninety-five percent match between a new and old.”
“Okay. How much?”
I indicate to Wernt that he should take note of this sales demo. Strolling out into the sunlight I inspect the distant horizon while working my Nomadi.
“Damn all sand—I asked how much?” the Desert Driver says.
“Not much,” I reply.
“What?” he growls.
Once-Other, the salesman, suddenly turns hard–n-fast, steps in face-to-face and shows him five fingers, three times and crosses them with two to multiply by.
The Desert Driver’s face turns red, shades to blue then to green...more-or-less. Meanwhile, he speaks rapidly but utters no sound. Likely he’s not well-practiced in the verbal arts of communicating.
I shrug, smile a sympathetic smile and my eyes glance ever so casual like at the Poip. They are now headed our way their grievous and dedicated intent apparent to one-n-all.
Next. Born of many, many years of practice, I allow one eyebrow to climb slowly but most assuredly up my forehead and my eyes to grow ever larger-n-rounder. A bead of sweat pops out on his lower lip.
He licks at it. “I’ll never forget your internal face Once-Other.” Nevertheless, he pays but as he does I once again feel faintly disorientated.
CHAPTER 43
Of Preservatives And Bondo-Stick-On
I check the Desert Driver over, but no attack emanates from him. So he’s not my attacker. I hand him an injector bottle of Bondo-stick-on, an ID Check Certificate, the pre-owned arm in a wrap, extra preservatives and a battery pack with which to jump-start it.
He retreats in ungainly pain. As the crowd swallows him, he spares me a long hard glare. The Poip reset and follow him.
I touch Peter’s arm and say, “What a perfect opportunity. Here. Take this bottle of Bondo-stick-on. It and preservatives are the secret to pre-owned parts.”
He removes the cap and without asking sniffs at the contents. He immediately doubles over and gags and struggles back upright.
“Ask next time Peter. Now preservatives—you okay?”
He controls the gagging further and says, “Yeah. Get on with it!”
I wave at the general view, buildings, tents, people, desert and sky and spot something up in the blue. “Oh look...out there in the distance...an Arzern in flight. It’s unusual to see one or two on their own. They are flock-orientated. This one is probably setting up to drink some Crier water. Which we’ll come to later.” His eyes narrow.
I smile within and say, “Okay and moving on. Preservatives are everywhere. In the air, in sand, and some believe in the light. More important than that—it gets into your body pretty damn quick no matter where you hail from.”
I note his typical every-day-tourist disbelief.
He turns away and heads deeper into my store brushing his hands along a line of legs, and glances over his shoulder at me. He smiles with a high factor of minus-warmth and walks by a cactus but far too close.
I follow quickly as he says, “Yeah. Riveting stuff Once-Other. Keep up with me here.”
He hurries off behind a five sand-paces high display case containing Criers wrapped in the hides of Roanark Braer.
Glances beneath a tarp briefly, gazes up at the Arzerns hanging from the tent’s cross-beam, looks back at me and says, “Yeah. I figure you should keep going with all this...stuff. I get how critical it is. Yeah. Get with the preservative things and ah...the altogether.”
I desert him, retreat to the table and pour us each a glass of cold water.
He walks back slow and easy kicking at the film of sand on the floor. His rubber soles spit-sand-n-squeal on the faux wood floorboards. He stops in front of me, waits several seconds, takes the glass and says, “Yeah?”
“Peter...all began when our ancestors first arrived...as you already
know. The ships, including the one housing the central lab, crashed when landing and what they were working on fused into the atmosphere. The result being that you can now lop off a limb, even your head—with help of course, and it’d be no trouble at all because you’d just glue another one on.”
“That’s how this works? I never imagined...this can’t be true. Glue?”
He empties his glass and holds it out for more. I oblige him.
“Still takes a day or two to grow on and another three to heal...what did you say?”
“Glue?!” he says.
“No Peter. Bondo-stick-on is a cellular converter.”
“Huh?” he says and pulls out a chair, sits down, raps my ID Check with a knuckle and peers at me as though inviting a protest.
I ignore the invitation and say, “Okay. I’ll slow down some. Bondo-stick-on converts pre-owned limbs or members to the same cellular and chromosome structure as your current ones. We just call it a glue as a quick time reference. You know? A kind of non-acronym-acronym.”
He shakes his head as though ridding himself of something foul.
I add, “Preservatives work with Bondo-stick-on and together allow for this my business.” I wave at my store and goods.
He slams the glass down on the table, stands with hands on hips and glares at me. I take his elbow and head deeper into my store. He resists. I insist.
I guide him around a cactus. “Once preservatives get inside you, your body structure changes and you can almost be without a head and not be dead. Not for too long, though. Heads need fast replacement under anesthetics during an operation. They are not like arms. Accidental decapitation equals accidentally dead. You know? No?
“Okay. Look. There’s the whole spinal cord and those nerves to join. Strapped immobile while recovering is the worst. So heads must be changed out fast. Damned quick in fact. Heh-heh. Thereafter Bondo-stick-on works.”
He stops up and says, “What? I’m not getting it. You aren’t any good at this—are you?”
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