For Us Humans

by Steve Rzasa

  I glanced up at Santoro. He fidgeted under the glare of the guy sitting near him, a guy wearing a camouflaged baseball cap and a blond beard. Didn’t seem they were bosom buddies.

  “Not looking like Fisk built the robot,” I said.

  Nil nodded. “But he was there. He stole the Sozh Uqasod.”

  “No kidding. This other guy might be the brains.” The glass pressed to my lips muffled my words. “This would be a whole better deal if you could just swipe the sculpture right back from Fisk’s body without having to play this game.”

  “The risk to the Sozh Uqasod is too great. Any automated attempt to remove it from him could result in its self-destruction. Only the Jinn and the Rycole have the ability to extract it without damage.”

  “Great. That’s great.” Self-destructing alien artifact, stuck in the body of an ex-soldier with questionable taste in comrades. “Remind me to ask again why I took this job.”

  “I believe you’re being well compensated.”

  “You’d better believe it.” That and, hey, I won’t lie—I love the challenge.

  Santoro got up from his bar stool so fast the legs squeaked. Blond Beard grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back down into the seat. Santoro’s gaze darted my way. I nodded a greeting, raised my glass.

  His eyes were wide. He was scared and probably not of me.

  Could be Nil freaked him out.

  “He is afraid of something,” Nil said.

  Duh. “You think? Of the two of us sitting here, it probably ain’t me.”

  Nil snorted.

  Heh. “You want another?”

  “Two, please.”

  Geez.

  I grabbed three more whiskeys from the bartender. Two guys nearest us gave me curious looks as I left the counter, drinks balanced in tight bundle between my fingers. They were rough-looking boys, blue jeans and T-shirts.

  “Don’t suppose you all would mind us toasting to our good friend the qwaddo.” Blond Beard, his hand still clamped to Santoro’s shoulder, had a voice that was overly loud and sharp like a knife. It froze me as I set the drinks down on the table in front of Nil.

  Oh, boy. Nil’s expression tightened. His eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. The armor on his snout shifted and made a soft scraping sound as the segments pushed together. Like teeth grinding.

  “To the qwaddos!” Blond Beard raised his bottle of beer. “’Cause we aren’t gonna find anyone else better to come foul up Earth and America! Thanks for dumping our work and our troops right down the toilet!”

  I shot a look at Santoro. He kept his gaze off this bearded jerk.

  “You’d better knock that off, Reuben. You know the owner’s agreeable to serving everyone, even aliens.” The bartender leaned against the bar. There was an iPhone in her shirt pocket; you could see the screen glowing.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I’m a paying customer, just like the qwaddo over here.” Reuben staggered off his stool. Okay, that’s a good thing. He’s staggering, and I’m not. His buddies followed. That’s bad. “How about it, qwaddo? You wanna raise your glass on 6/16? Celebrate putting your boots all over this planet?”

  Nil stood, slowly. Ever see the Discovery Channel when a cobra raises itself up to confront a mongoose or some other nasty threat? Yeah. “I would drink with you for the cooperation of our races.”

  “Cooperation? Like we’re not all your slaves.” Reuben snorted. “I tell you what—”

  “All right, come on, man, ease off.” I patted him on the shoulder. He looked at my hand like it was contaminated. I removed it and grinned. “No harm, no foul, okay? Let me buy you and your pals another round.”

  “I’m not drinking with you, qwaddo-lover. Worse than the real thing.” He spit on my shirt.

  His buddies laughed. So did some of the others in the bar. Santoro didn’t laugh.

  “Look. We’re just here to see the local sights, check out the fine art you folks produce. There’s nothing wrong with spending our money on something like that, right? Cash is cash.” I offered him one of the glasses of whiskey originally meant for Nil. “Relax.”

  Reuben accepted the glass. He took a swig. I exhaled. Good deal.

  He threw the drink aside. The glass shattered, loud and harsh, and sprayed whiskey all over some of the people sitting near us. The music from the back of the bar trailed off and died. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Ally peering around the corner. Her friends sat at their table, unmoving. Ally was up, looking like she was ready to intervene.

  Stay put, Ally. Please.

  One of the women at the table that got sprayed by whiskey got to her feet. “What are you doing? You ruined my dress!”

  “Shut up!” Reuben shoved her down.

  That brought Santoro up off his seat. His voice was mellow and strong. “Reuben. You’d better go home now.”

  “What about it, Jordan? Everybody knows the qwaddos got their arms on you a long time ago. Brainwashed you into fighting their wars on some alien rock. For what?”

  Santoro’s jaw clenched. “For my country.”

  Reuben howled with laughter. So did his buddies. “Your country’s in the qwaddos’ pocket as much as anybody else’s! Big governments are all the same. They all sold us out after Six-Sixteen. We should have gone down fighting.”

  “Is that your intent?” Nil’s arms flexed. All four of them.

  “Guys, whatever you have in mind, let me go on record as saying it’s a bad idea,” I said.

  Ally was suddenly right near us. “Boys, we don’t need to have a mess in here, do we?” She smiled.

  I really didn’t want her getting hit. I shifted my stance subtly, so she was half behind me.

  Reuben stared at me, eyes cold and hard like rocks. He shoved me with both hands, hard enough I went back a step. Right into Ally. In the midst of the beer and sweat, the smell of her perfume was heavenly. Distracting. “We don’t want any qwaddos or their boyfriends in here. Or some whore who thinks she’s gonna protect ’em.”

  Insulting Ally. Nice. Meant I had to break some of his bones. Santoro didn’t move. But he didn’t sit down either. Hmm.

  I downed the rest of the whiskey. Pretty sure I was gonna need it. “You boys are ruining my evening. Why don’t you run on home so we don’t have to call your wives to come pick you up?”

  The bartender had her cell phone in hand but hadn’t used it.

  Reuben poked me in the chest again. He must have decided he didn’t need that hand anymore. “Yeah? You’re gonna make us, qwaddo-lover?”

  I grinned. “Whatever you ladies say.”

  He swung at me. Idiot. Dodged it easily enough and grabbed his fist. He screamed. Probably because I slammed his wrist down on the edge of the bar. It crunched, like a boot stepping on gravel. Who knows how many bones in there broke?

  I patted him on the head, like a kid with his puppy. “Good boy. Now go home and sleep it off.”

  Reuben growled and lunged at me. His two friends were right behind.

  Shoot. A little help, Nil!

  I let myself fall back against the couch as Reuben staggered through the empty space where I’d been. His shins hit the table. It skidded against the wall, spilling the last of the whiskey. He turned enough so that only his right shoulder slammed into the wall and not the thick head perched right above. I stood up, grabbed his left shoulder, turned him completely around, and gave him a forearm shiver to his diaphragm. Next he got his nose introduced to my fist.

  It was a dirty, cheating kind of way to fight. My favorite.

  The other two guys went for Nil. The first one swung at him and hit him square in the chest. Nil took the blow with a step backwards but used his lower right arm to grab the guy’s wrist. He pulled him in close and butted him in the head with the armored part of his snout. It sounded like somebody dropped a watermelon on the floor—a dull, empty thwack.

  At the same time, he used his left arms to grab onto the third guy, who was decidedly slower. Nil slung him right over the couch into a cluster o
f women who screamed at the top of their lungs. It didn’t keep him down for long, though. That guy got right back to his feet, this time with a long hunting knife in hand.

  Obviously I missed that.

  I’d figured out how I could distract him long enough for Nil to deliver a KO to this bonehead when someone suddenly smashed Knife Boy up against the wall. One of the framed paintings crashed to the floor. Beautiful Western sunset, with a cowboy on horseback gazing off over snow-covered hills. Yessir, I was gonna pay for that one.

  Santoro held Knife Boy against the wood paneling, with one arm bent behind him. The blade clattered to the floor. Santoro pressed his elbow against the back of the guy’s neck. “You done now, Clarence?”

  “Murmph!” You couldn’t hear the poor sap with the wall stuffed in his face. Santoro eased off some. “Yeah! Lemme go, Jordan.”

  “Okay. But not with your knife. It’s mine now. You want it back, you gotta come see me and Tyler at the Fisk’s gravel pit when all the boys are around.”

  “Okay!” Clarence grimaced. “Leggo!”

  Santoro backed away. Clarence held his arm like it would fall onto the floor. Santoro scooped up the blade and tucked it into his belt. “Get lost, Clarence.”

  “All right.”

  The bartender had her iPhone up to her ear. “Do you want me to call the police, Jordan?”

  A little late, but I was glad she hadn’t. I also hoped Ally hadn’t already beat her to the punch. She was busy tapping away at her phone. Our eyes met. Couldn’t tell you whether she was relieved the fight was over or disgusted at the spectacle.

  “No, it’s okay. I think they’re done,” Santoro said.

  Reuben vomited all over the floor at my feet. Blood dripped from his nose.

  “Oh yeah, they’re done,” I said.

  Clarence dragged the second guy, the one Nil clocked with his head, to a half-standing lurch. They made for a pitiful duo. Santoro yanked Reuben up. I felt kinda bad when the guy ralphed again. But only a little. Santoro shoved him out the door.

  The remaining bar patrons erupted in cheers and whoops.

  Drinks were passed all around. A few happy and very intoxicated men even shoved a fresh whiskey into my hand. One of the women kissed Santoro on the cheek. The bartender got a scrawny teen with a mop of brown hair and a second mop, the kind that came with a yellow rolling bucket.

  It all settled back into a comfortable rhythm of banter once the band started up again. Nobody called the cops. Nobody went to check on Reuben and his pals.

  I slumped into a seat. Getting into a fight was not my idea of a fun evening. It was only grimly satisfying to get those guys straightened out. Plus, my hand hurt.

  Nil, on the other hand, was very chipper. “Most invigorating. I thought perhaps this assignment would not allow a chance for my training to be exercised.”

  “Yeah, well, no problem there.”

  Nil nodded. “Thank you for your defense of my honor.”

  “Forget it.” Really. I hated those kind of guys, always had, but now I’d be known in this town as the guy who defended a qwaddo. Which would be good for Lancaster Foss, I fully realized.

  Made my guts churn.

  “Hey.” Santoro stood by our table. “You fellas might want to stick to your hotel or wherever you’re staying on 6/16.”

  “Yeah. I thought about that.” I got up and offered a hand. “Lancaster Foss.”

  “Jordan Santoro, Mr. Foss.” We shook.

  “Call me Caz. Thanks for the assist.”

  “Sure. I got no problem with Ghiqasu. Served with some—well, it doesn’t matter where.” He gave Nil a once over. “Join me for a beer?”

  “Sure, thanks.” The bartender passed me a Fat Tire. Not bad stuff.

  We sat together at the bar. A cell phone rang. Santoro answered it. I was close enough to see a familiar name on its screen. Tyler Fisk.

  “Hey. Did you change your mind?” Santoro said into the phone. He swigged his beer.

  Whatever Fisk said on the other end must have ticked Santoro off because his face hardened. “C’mon. This is the best chance we’re gonna get. And you don’t even wanna—”

  Fisk yelled something through the phone I couldn’t hear, just the buzz of static. Santoro’s tone downshifted into conciliatory. “Okay, all right, I’ll handle it. We’ll wait it out. It’s a dumb move but whatever.”

  He ended the call. I made like I was admiring the bartender rather than watching Santoro’s every action—while, actually, I did both.

  “So what are you doing in Buffalo, Caz?” he asked. “Art and antiques, man. Nil’s a collector, like I said.”

  “Not the first one we’ve seen here.”

  “I’ll bet. You know, you didn’t have to stick up for us like that, but I appreciate it all the same.” I sipped more beer.

  Santoro was quiet for a while. The music was slower, more melancholy, and served to fill the silence. “Sometimes I think I got more in common with your buddy Nil there than most other people. They don’t get it. Only me and a few of the boys ’round here who served offplanet. There’s a lot that comes back with you when you go through the Big Ring.”

  The portal in and out of our solar system. Controlled by the Jinn. I nodded like I had a clue what he meant.

  “You know, my dad served in ’Nam. He saw war, told me about it, warned me. I thought I was ready.” He shook his head. “The things we did, the things done to us. You’d never sleep again. But you’ve never seen a man ripped open like a piñata by ocktture pincers. You’ve never seen a PPG burn through a guy’s face. You’ve never had a Phan Kra warrior barrel down on you with blades that could cut an oak in half while you’re trying to recharge your laser.”

  I shivered. Around us, people laughed and chatted, the women flirted with the men. Nobody paid Santoro any mind.

  “Hey. Just glad you came back from it all and got your head screwed on right.”

  Santoro gave me a funny smirk. “You’re not bad, Caz.”

  “Neither are you. Maybe I’ll see you around while we’re here.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Santoro plunked some ones and a fiver down on the bar. He waved good-bye to the bartender and stopped on his way out the door to shake hands with a few of the less rowdy guys.

  “You’ve been busy since BU,” Ally said.

  “What?” I knocked over Santoro’s empty beer bottle.

  Fortunately I caught it.

  She leaned against the bar. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. That meant she was angling for more info. “BU? Boston University? Our alma mater?”

  “Right. Yeah, I’ve been busy, you know, with work.”

  “And with breaking large men’s hands?”

  “Uh, not so much. I try to avoid that.”

  “Maybe, ah, we can catch up for coffee or something tomorrow, Caz. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Maybe.” Nice and nonchalant. In my mind’s eye, I’d just leapt up and whooped. Not cool. “But I don’t drink coffee.”

  “You can have tea.”

  “Usually do.”

  “You still don’t drink coffee?” She shook her head. “Not even Starbucks?”

  “Nah. You had me hooked for a while, though.”

  She smiled. A full-on smile that time. Sweet. “I’ll text you tomorrow morning then?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She went back to her table.

  The bartender wiped down the counter in front of me and scooped up Santoro’s bottle. “Would you like another?”

  The Fat Tire was already empty. How about that? “Amaretto sour for me.”

  “And your friend?”

  I glanced back at Nil. He chatted quite amiably with Ally’s two friends, who seemed to have forgotten Ally was waiting for them at their table.

  “Uh, no, I think he’s had enough.”

  The next morning was terrible.

  I sat in this old building called Deerfield with a mug of tea in one hand, my tablet in th
e other, and a monster headache in between.

  Ever seen Star Trek VI? When they drank too much Romulan ale at the dinner party with the Klingons and Kirk asks about a neutron radiation surge? Yeah. That bad.

  At least the sun wasn’t blasting in those huge windows. I slouched at a corner table, sunglasses on, and did my best impression of a bored tourist. It wasn’t difficult. The tablet’s feed from the drone camera didn’t give me much to go on from Fisk’s place. The recording showed the guys quitting work for the previous day, people arriving this morning, same old same old. But Fisk’s truck sat right there. That Land Cruiser didn’t budge.

  Just my luck. I had to negotiate a sale with a recluse.

  Ally texted me that morning. It was awesome. Except she said to meet at 7:15 a.m.

  Ah, yes. She was working at summer school, and I was working my own hours. That means we meet at her time. Sounded really familiar. Like we never left BU. So I blew steam off my boiling hot mug of tea. Had to think.

  Why did Fisk get wrapped up in this? How did he think he was gonna fence a stolen, rare, and highly-sacred alien sculpture? My brain churned. Everything I’d learned was one mashed-up mess. I rubbed at my forehead. Maybe Fisk had some offworld connection from his Army days.

  But he’d have to have some connection to the Jinn, wouldn’t he? Nil, know-it-all that he was, said they were the only ones who could retrieve the sculpture, using those Rycole medical guys.

  My fingers drummed faster on the table. There again. Fisk had that injector, but he could have received it from somebody. Maybe Santoro acquired the know-how. He was a techie.

  Still couldn’t believe the feds and the qwaddos had botched security. Maybe nobody thought anyone would be insane enough to steal something that important. Maybe no level of security would have stopped Fisk. I tapped my tablet and brought up a picture of the Sozh Uqasod. It was hypnotic. Twists and turns that seemed alive, brilliant colors. No, I wouldn’t lock it up in a safe either.

  Whatever. Those guys fouled up. And like usual, they came crying to me to clean up the mess. No problem.

  The sides of my head pressed in tighter than the walls of the Death Star’s trash compactor. I didn’t have any panicky robots around to reverse the walls. I didn’t even have aspirin.