For Us Humans

by Steve Rzasa

  “That’s a plus. So there’s like—how many around here? Ghiqasu in general, I mean.”

  “Approximately 20,000 in Wyoming and Colorado at any given time.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot, given Wyoming’s only got about 700,000 people.” I put my face back to my tablet while I nibbled at my food. A few more comments.

  “Why do you insist on consulting your device?”

  “The tablet? I need to keep my Facebook page current.”

  “Frivolous antics.” Nil took a drink of water. Yeah, they drink water, just like we do. “I would fail to smell how that is vital.”

  “Because.”

  Hoped that would hold him. He ate some more burger, but apparently they don’t have rules about asking questions with a full mouth on his planet. “Why?”

  Oh, boy. “Because to maintain my cover as Lancaster Foss I have to stay active on my Lancaster Foss Facebook page. So it looks like the arrogant middleman for art thieves is still doing his arrogant middleman-ish stuff and doesn’t drop off the face of the Earth.” The touch screen on the tablet took the brunt of my irritation. Blotches of rainbow colors under every fingertip. “So you just stuff beef in your trap and I’ll go on posting about how Lancaster is going score some big sale.”

  “Why is it the authorities would not be suspicious of someone posting their criminal intent?’

  Man, it was like kindergarten. “Lancaster poses as an antiques dealer. His ‘score’ involves legit pieces—at least that’s what he tells everyone. What he posts about. My contacts on the thieving side of the line know the real deal.”

  Nil nodded. Finally. “I understand.”

  “That’s a relief.” I kept typing.

  “How do you keep track of pretending to be somebody else when that person is also pretending to be somebody else?”

  Oh, please, you could have thrown me under the semi right then and I wouldn’t have complained. Much. “Lying is key to my profession.”

  “You must be very good at it.”

  Jerk. I chewed on some shrimp. “Like you don’t lie, Mr. Supposed Art Collector.”

  “I never said I did not.”

  “You insinuated, though. You know that word, don’t you?”

  “Yes. We Hounders place a lower premium on falsehood. It is unnecessary for our work. This—” He tapped that monstrous snout of his. “Does not lie.”

  Someone came by the table. The waitress? I looked up from my tablet. Ah, no.

  It was those two Observers. Up close their skin was actually more textured than Nil’s. Both stood a few inches shorter than us. One had black and brown hair, while the other’s was a rust color. They looked wiry, and ornery.

  “You guys lost?”

  They ignored me. Jerks, in addition to the ornery. Instead the one with rust-colored hair leaned in close to Nil. “You smell strange.”

  The armored plates on Nil’s snout tightened together. Don’t know what it meant, but he looked ticked off. “Nothing is wrong with my scent.”

  “Then your senses must fail you, if you’re taking a meal with zhich.” His voice was nasal and rough.

  Wait, a what? Zilch? “You got a problem with me, buddy? Why don’t you bug out to your own table—or better yet, your own planet.”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, zhich.” He sniffed Nil. Next thing I knew, he had one of those white cylinders in his hand. Like Nil had used when he mouthed off to the guys in the truck that tried to run us off the road. Two sniffs. “I erase your scent.”

  Nil slammed both hands on the table and stood. His plate exploded on the floor in white shards. Burger went flying across the booth. What a waste of good food.

  I put myself between them. Not a hot idea when you consider they were both growling. Softly, but still growling. The qwaddo with brown and black hair grabbed my shoulder. “Move aside, human.”

  Bad idea. I latched on to that arm and twisted it back on itself. He made a funny barking noise. Must’ve meant it hurt. Good. I bent him around and put his ugly snout into my plate of shrimp.

  More good food wasted. Better not have gotten any on my tablet.

  “You and your four-armed freak friend had better clear out, before I call the cops, or before I break your arm.” I pressed harder. He winced. “Try anything with the other three arms, I’ll definitely do Option B.”

  “Unhand him.” The red-haired qwaddo glanced back and forth between me and Nil.

  “Fort . . . Foss, please do. It’s not worth conflict.”

  Okay, fine. I let the surlier qwaddo go. Thought for a sec maybe he’d strangle me with all four of his arms. He glared past me at Nil. “Traitor.”

  Wait, what?

  The other one tapped Nil right on that tattoo thing on his forehead armor. “Try not to embarrass your species more than you already have, death-smeller.”

  They cleared out. Good thing too, because our waitress was hiding back at the bar. Guy there was talking real quick on his cell phone.

  I kicked aside a shrimp. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “Intolerance abounds on all worlds.” Nil wiped grease from his shirt. “I believe our meal is done.”

  “Understatement of the century.” I flashed my best grin at the waitress. “Check, please.”

  <<<>>>

  We drove around for a while. It was more of an aimless trip, if you ask me. I had no idea where to go next. Nil stared sullenly out the window. Perfect. “You want to maybe use your super-sniffer so we can get on to our man before he skips town?”

  “We are on the right track, as you humans put it.” He tapped a finger against the glass. “Turn here.”

  Good thing nobody here tailgated as bad as back in Jersey. I turned sharply into the gas station without scratching any paint on the Bimmer. Poor thing looked even worse under the bright white lights of the canopy over the pumps. I parked us off to one side, away from the lamps and the convenience store. The red sign told me we were privileged to stop at a Kum & Go.

  Couple of white trucks at the pumps, but not our make and model. Funny, considering I’d seen about two dozen on I-25. What, did they have a sale on those around here?

  We sat there for a moment with the engine off. I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “Right, so listen up. I’m gonna go in there and see what I can find out.”

  Nil rolled down the window. He sniffed the air. “His scent is strong, but he is not here.”

  “You think? I guessed that when I didn’t see his ride.” I snapped off the seat belt. My hand was on the door handle but he was gonna open that trap of his again.

  “We must ascertain his whereabouts—”

  “I got a better idea. You sit and mope about your cranky brothers-in-arms back at the restaurant—where I lost a half-plate of perfectly good shrimp!—and I’ll find out when our boy was here. Meanwhile, you just wait here and behave.” I slammed the door shut.

  Stupid qwaddo.

  The inside of this place wasn’t any cleaner than the outside. I’d dare anybody fifty bucks to walk barefoot across that floor. The music was modern pop, which means I hated it. There were a couple of other people in line at the register—a mother holding two whining girls apart while trying to balance a coffee, and a bearded guy with a John Deere ball cap pushed way too far back on his forehead. He had enough facial hair to make Santa Claus jealous.

  The clerk rang up their purchases speedily—all the more impressive when you consider he was groovin’ to whatever music was blasting out of the single earbud plugged into his right ear. You could tell it was loud by the tinny screeching coming out of the other earbud dangling free down the front of his apron. Guess he wasn’t much for modern pop either. He had a pair of silver rings piercing his lower lip, black eye shadow, scraggly black hair, and enough tattoos on his forearms to fill a comic book.

  Right. Had to make this noticeable. I punched random numbers on my cell—not hard enough to actually dial, but enough to look real. I held it up to my ear and waited, foot t
apping, checking my watch—playing impatient wasn’t a stretch for me.

  The clerk glanced my way for second. Just long enough to make eye contact. I was about ten feet from the counter, behind and to the right of John Deere-slash-Santa. The clerk’s name was Phineas. No joke, the gaudy white and red nametag on his apron said so. He grabbed a couple cans of chew for his customer, ringing the price up with his free hand.

  “Great, voicemail.” I grumbled it loud enough for all to hear. Phineas didn’t look but Santa sure did. Waited long enough like there was a message playing, then—“Hey man, it’s Caz. You’re early or I’m late, right? Either way, if you get this, meet me over at Isaac’s. Then we’ll go hit the bar. You can introduce me to your friends, those girls you were telling me about. You got my number. Later.”

  There was enough irritation in my voice and my gestures as I jammed the phone into a pocket to warrant attention from Phineas the clerk. John Deere-slash-Santa left without so much as a “ho ho ho.” I would’ve paid to hear him say it.

  Phineas nodded. “No luck?”

  “Nah. He’s never on time—no big surprise there.” I reached for a magazine on the rack. Shockingly, Kum & Go didn’t carry The Economist, and there was no sign of Aviation History. So I slapped the nearest Maxim mag onto the counter, making sure the woman on the cover was very visible. She was eye candy for the clerk. He’d remember her body more than my face, after all. “The one night I’m in town, we’re all supposed to go blow off steam, right? And he’s supposed to meet me here.”

  That worked. He held the magazine reverently as he rang up the price. You’d think it was platinum the qwaddos had mined off the asteroids. “Bummer. Five twenty-eight.”

  I gave him six, and he rolled the change back across the counter at me. And remembered, belatedly, to give me the magazine. The music from his stray earbud was identifiable, at last: Aerosmith, bleed your eardrums loud.

  “I bet that loser never even showed,” I said.

  “Hey, maybe he did.” Phineas grinned. He was still looking at the magazine. “I might’ve seen him.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Bingo. “You see a white pickup from Colorado?”

  “A few.”

  “My pal, he’s the nervous type—you’d’ve remembered.”

  “That guy? Oh sure.” Phineas winked. “Nobody thinks I see a thing. It’s the headphones, man. They think I’m stoned or something. But I pick it all up. Yeah, I seen that guy. Dude with buzzed hair and a face like he’d been in a fight—crooked nose, you know?”

  “Oh yeah, can’t miss it.”

  “Where’d he get that tat on his arm? The military symbol, you know, crossed swords, man. Like those old ones in John Wayne movies—sabers, right? And it had a number three over top. Oh, and two shooting stars underneath. Was he one of those guys who went offworld with the qwaddos to fight aliens?”

  “Something like that. That’s my boy, all right.” Too bad he didn’t say his name. But a face was good. Tattoo might be even better. Something more to link to the scent Nil had picked up. And now I noticed the trio of security monitors hanging from the ceiling between the racks of chew and cigarettes behind Phineas’s head.

  Something to draw to Rutherford’s attention.

  “That dude of yours was all wide-eyed and gaunt. Man, I didn’t think he’d remember to pay for pump, but I was busy at that juice box so I saw him almost drive off.”

  He pointed out the window. Three streamlined sedans were lined up at the round-topped boxes marked with yellow lightning coming off blue cylinders. Yeah, they all looked like the fusor types to me. I preferred old cars that still ran on gasoline, though they were getting harder to find back East. Easier if they were classics, like the Bimmer.

  “Do I owe you money for him?” I dug out my wallet again. Here’s hoping this kid didn’t realize I never said my pal’s name.

  “Nah, he apologized and paid up. Then he split. Fast, man.”

  “Moron probably thought he was late. Never could tell time.” Good. “Say, thanks for all your help.”

  “See ya.” He jerked his head toward the window. “That, uh, qwaddo with you?”

  What? Aw, man. Outside, Nil leaned on the Bimmer’s hood. Three guys surrounded him. Tough lookin’ boys too. “Yeah, he’s an art collector. Big money and a whole new planet to spend it on. He’s looking for some goods from good ol’ Earth to take back home.”

  “Coolness.”

  Something like that. “He’s all right.”

  “Hey, man, see you around.”

  “Yeah. Take it easy.”

  <<<>>>

  Turned out the tough guys were interested in the Bimmer. Nil could have been an old man with a cigar or a naked woman, and I doubt he would have gotten their attention. They were more concerned about the dents in the hood.

  Nil managed to stay silent. Once those guys left, we got back in the car. Immediately texted Rutherford. Gave him the particulars on the tattoo. [You might want security footage.]

  [Hold location. Will get GPS coords.] Huh. That was pretty error-free. [Confwer w Nill on profress.]

  “Man. Big fingers on little keys.” I tucked the phone away. “Rutherford’s going to get us what he can from the security cameras here.”

  “Good. Your technology is limited but will suffice.”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome. This would be a whole lot easier if your kind would just swoop on in and nab the guy before he does anything stupid with the sculpture.”

  “If we were to ‘swoop,’ we would scare him, and he could destroy the Sozh Uqasod, even accidentally. And that would precipitate an interstellar incident.”

  “Peachy.”

  My phone buzzed.

  [Suspect is a SSGT Tyler Fisk, 27, Buffalo, Wy. Served with Army 3rd Spayc Cav. Dischrged Four years ago.]

  There was a picture attached. The man was gaunt, like Phineas the Clerk said. His hair was blonde and cut short. He looked angry. Wide hazel eyes and the sharp line of his jaw only reinforced that image.

  Third Space Cavalry? Well, now. Top armored troops from the U.S. of A. sent off Earth to fight in Consociation wars. Sounded like a tough customer. “Rutherford’s fast. IDed our man.”

  Nil squinted at my phone. “Where is this Buffalo?”

  I punched up Google Earth on my tablet. “A hundred miles-ish north. Right in the middle of fusion territory.”

  “Then I suggest you proceed.”

  “Great advice.”

  <<<>>>

  Our drive north was quiet, only the Bimmer’s engine growling under the hood. I got a good look at the stars. There had to be hundreds more than I could see from the balcony of my apartment. Impressive, but I was looking for one thing in particular.

  Bingo. A cluster of nine shining lights, turning very slowly as it moved across the sky. Too slow and too many lights to be an airplane. It was the Big Ring, the portal the Consociation had set up between Earth and the moon. Every so often a smaller cluster of lights approached it, moving like a swarm of insects. There’d be a brief flash, like sunlight off your rearview mirror, and the swarm was gone.

  Alien ships coming and going. With our scenic ball of blue as the redneck truck stop of the galaxy.

  Don’t know why I couldn’t stop looking at it. My blood pressure spiked every time.

  Finally I couldn’t take the silence anymore. “So what’s the deal with those Observers?”

  Nil shifted in his seat. For all his alienness, it wasn’t hard to spot someone who didn’t want to talk about something. I smirked. No prob. I got people to spill all the time.

  “I mean, they aren’t your fan club. Is it some Hounder versus Observer thing? You make fun of them too much?”

  “No. It is more complex.”

  “Complex? Hate to tell you, chief, but they majorly dislike you. It ain’t that complex.”

  “It is a matter of belief.” Ick. I had to ask, didn’t I? “This symbol—” He touched the yellow circle on his forehead. “It is worn by the followers
of Qas.”

  “And that is . . . what? Hold up, Loya said something about wisdom.”

  “Qas is wisdom, and life. His is the beacon in the darkness of the galaxy.”

  I grimaced. “So, He’s your version of God. What’s He got, four arms like you?”

  “He is a being of energy and formless. But we are all of his image.”

  “Sounds fantastic.” My hands were so tight on the steering wheel I could have turned it to diamond. Way to give a guy an axe to grind, qwaddo. “Why’d they call you ‘death-smeller’?”

  “It is their term for those like me,” Nil said. “Those who have hope.”

  “You hope in death.”

  “The death of one, specifically.” Nil made a low rumbling sound. “You and I are not all that dissimilar, Foss. You believe, and your kind have trouble. As do all followers of Qas.”

  He was lucky I didn’t lose control of the Bimmer and flip us into a ditch. “You gotta be kidding me. You don’t know a thing about what I believe.”

  Nil made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort. Kinda gross, actually. “Of course I know. Elsewise the Hounders would not have requested you. I would not have agreed to this assignment without a Christian.”

  “Why on Earth not?”

  “On Earth.” He looked out the window again. “This is a valid question.”

  I wanted to dig the rest out of him, but something about his attitude kept me off balance. Just the fact that he was a qwaddo, I guess. Any case, we crested a rise and the horizon to the east lit up like the Boston skyline. The farther north we drove, the more it sprawled over the landscape. “That’s Fusion One?”

  “It is. Most impressive.” Nil sounded wistful. “There is nothing quite as beautiful as an artfully executed fusion facility.”

  I guess you could consider it artistically done, if you liked qwaddo architecture. It was about ten times as large as that old decommissioned Johnston coal plant we’d passed down by Douglas, only it was a bizarre collection of domes, spires, and gantries. They all clung to each other and the land like they’d grown out of some garden. I thought about what Isaac had said about the Boston tower. Okay, so maybe it had grown.

  The greens, blues, and silvers of the plant—I just realized the play on words right there—glowed like neon under the blasting white lights. Reminded me of a twisted strand of Christmas lights on the floor left there because Dad couldn’t figure out how to untangle it after he’d plugged it in to make sure there were no burned-out bulbs.