by Steve Rzasa
“But you said you can’t sniff our attacker.”
“I believe I mentioned that.”
Have to admit, I was enjoying this blow to his alien superiority. “Gotta be rough.”
He grumbled and bared his teeth. Okay, enough fun at his expense. “Can something interfere with your sense of smell? Something localized like that could foul up one man’s scent?”
“Not that I am aware. I have never experienced this in my years as a hunter.”
“How many years are we talking?”
“Twenty-one and a half of your planet’s revolutions about its sun,” Nil said. “Equivalent to eighteen years of my world’s time.”
Okay, he had a definite edge on me in experience.
“Boys!” The sheriff hollered down to us from a hillside, below the highway’s retaining wall. “You might find this interesting.”
Nil and I scrambled up between the pines, our shoes crunching on needles and cones, following the beams of the deputies’ flashlights. The sheriff had two men up there with him, young tall guys shaved bald like they were fresh from the Academy. Something hulking loomed over them in the shadows. It reminded me of a giant crouching insect. And that’s when I recognized it.
It was a Ghiqasu walker, sitting in parked position, just like the ones we’d seen at the hotel. The canopy was popped open. Green and orange lights pulsed dimly, just enough to illuminate the display thingies. Yeah, had no idea what any of it was. But it all looked sufficiently high tech to engage my sci-fi alert.
I whistled.
“That is a human musical note of approval,” Nil said. “Somewhat different from the pitch used to signal to an attractive female.”
I stared at the walker. Really wanted to climb inside. “Nil, you’ve got to get out among us humans more often.”
He closed his eyes and sniffed around the vehicle. The sheriff and his deputies, I noticed, withdrew their lights and let him do his thing. Okay. So not the first time they’d dealt with a Hounder.
“How does a human drive one of these things? I can’t make heads or tails out of the displays. Probably if you gave me a quick training, yeah, but not enough to get it if I swiped one for a joyride.”
“You cannot do that,” Nil said, eyes still closed. “Ghiqasu walkers are genetically coded so that only our species can operate them. We can disable such security precautions to allow human access.”
“You ever perform such an override?”
“No.”
“Then I bet none of your Engineer buddies would either.” I tapped the sheriff on the shoulder. “Do me a favor and light up that side of the walker.”
He did, and we were all looking at a weird emblem—purple and black triangles, four of them, arranged in a loose circle, varying sizes. “Same as the walkers on our hotel parking lot.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s the Biqasohon Engineering unit working out of Clearmont. Our designation for them is Unit Eight Charlie.” He shone his light at one of his deputies. “Better call this in, too, Chris.”
“All right.” There was humor in the kid’s voice. “This a 10-92?”
“Improperly parked vehicle. Why not? Get ahold of Unit Eight Charlie, see if they want to pick it up or if we need a wrecker.”
“Got it.” The kid jogged back down the hill to the pickup trucks.
I grinned at Nil. “I was right.”
“Do you require applause? I have several hands free.”
Sarcasm much? “What would one of these rides be doing out here?”
“I do not know.” Nil leaned into the walker, but he must have remembered my earlier freakout about preserving evidence because he didn’t touch a thing. He made a strange, soft grunt. Hadn’t heard him do that one. “The human usage block of which I spoke has been overridden. This is a serious violation of this vehicle’s operating system.”
“No kidding. One of your guys did it then.”
“Incorrect. There is—the same odd scent, Foss, as from our attacker. Indeterminate species and gender.”
That figured. Our attacker stole a qwaddo walker, ambushed us with a striker, and fled—where? “Must have taken off on foot.”
The sheriff nodded. He shone his light on the ground. “Took off back toward town. Andy, have the SAR fellas get a dog up here and we can track these.”
“On it, boss.” There went the other deputy.
“You boys are keeping things interesting,” the sheriff said to me.
Oh, yeah. He had no idea.
<<<>>>
As near as we could tell, the person who’d hijacked the walker had taken off running at an insane speed. As in, Olympic sprinter. By the time we got back to the hotel, Rutherford assured us the local cops were on it.
[Sherf says tacks wide spaced. Full sprint.]
[Sheriff say where to?]
A pause. I consulted my tablet. Unfortunately, my drone was neither expensive nor awesome enough to have night vision cameras, so all I could see was a bunch of dark nothing with the front porch of the Fisk residence lit up. A handful of interior lights were on, and Fisk’s truck was parked resolutely in front. No movement, no nothing.
The phone buzzed. [Negtive. PD lost trak in mountns. Stay pt.]
“Stay put?” I muttered a list of my favorite bad words, making sure I hit all the classics, and tossed the phone aside. It slapped onto a pillowcase, which I figure was better than me slapping something. Stay put. Like where was I going to go? Besides a bar. And last night out wasn’t the most fun.
Nil stood by the window. He’d been that way for the last half hour since we got back from our scenic and alien ray gun-filled evening in the mountains. His reflection stared at me. Creepy.
“Nil. Snap out of it.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept staring out the windows. I thought about Googling “alien pouting” to see if I got any results. Instead I cleared my throat. Twice.
“Irritating manipulation of your vocal chords will not induce me to converse,” Nil muttered.
“Hah. You just did.”
Nil growled something in Ghiqasu-ese and went back to staring out the window.
“Get over it, Nil. So you couldn’t get a whiff off our attacker. We’re not through with this. There’s other ways we can get the Sozh back.”
“I fail to see from where your optimism originates. We have no scent with which to trace our attacker. Whoever this individual is stole and used a Ghiqasu walker and a pulsed particle weapon. Such crimes carry a heavy penalty under Consociation law.”
“Yeah, U.S. law isn’t lightweight when it comes to those things either.” Checked the tablet. Still nothing at the Fisk house. “As for the optimism—I’ve never messed up a retrieval. Sure am not going to start with this one.”
Nil went back to staring out the window. Green lights in a lopsided diamond pattern went cruising by high over the mountains, heading south. The thrum from the qwaddo ship engines shook the windows. Again. Wonder if anyone ever tried to lodge a complaint with the FAA.
“I’ll bet your record is spotless. How many captures have you botched?”
Nil didn’t answer right away. After a half minute of dead silence he said, “None.”
“Good. See? We’ve got this one.”
I went back to the tablet. Had to check on Facebook. There were more messages for Lancaster Foss—inquiries about my interest in acquiring illegally procured artwork. Stolen stuff. Small ticket items compared to the Sozh. But seriously, who else would be selling microscopic priceless alien artwork?
My link to Fisk was severed. I had to make contact with him, directly. Santoro was the key. But the guy was newly cold and dead. Waiting around for a memorial service and offering my condolences wasn’t an option. Neither was storming into Fisk’s place.
I glanced at my phone. The FBI were on their way. Soon. I had to wrap this up before they showed up all black suits and black vehicles.
Then I remembered: the phone. Santoro’s phone. He called Fisk. Had to have his n
umber programmed in. Sure, Fisk wasn’t listed in the phone book but he obviously had a cell or an unlisted land line. But Santoro’s phone was gone. I checked. The attacker must have swiped it.
I texted Rutherford: [Dig me up Fisk’s phone. Santoro had it in contacts.]
The response was immediate. [Advis not dirretly contact susptc.]
“Advise” must’ve been his way of screaming “Don’t do it, you moron!” [Need number before FBI gets here. Want this to stay quiet? What if Fisk runs?]
Nothing. A minute later, still nothing. I went back to the tablet and posted some comments about how Nil and I were still searching for exotic pieces. Nothing on par with the Sozh. Fisk didn’t have a Facebook profile or page. No fake ones either, according to Rutherford.
My phone buzzed. Rutherford. [Loya aprovd. No is 3075556061]
That was creepy how fast DEXA could do that. Couldn’t help wonder how fast they could find me—if, you know, I wasn’t already regularly communicating with federal government agents. “Yes. Nicely done.” I stored the number in my contacts.
“Have you had success?” Nil didn’t leave his perch by the window but at least he spoke in full sentences.
“If by success you mean Fisk’s cell phone number, yes.”
“Surely you will not call him this moment.”
I scowled at Nil. “Right after his Army buddy got fried by an alien ray gun? Yeah, I don’t think so. Give me some credit.”
Nil watched me, eyes beady and yellow, and I couldn’t get over how different he was. His motions, his thought process, his abilities—everything about him was off compared to the human norm. Sure, I know, he was an alien. But you can say that all day and not really get it until you’re where I was. “Nil. Go get some rest.”
“That is your advice at this juncture in our investigation?”
“Yeah. Fisk’s going to hear about Santoro soon enough. When he does, we’ll be keeping an eye on him. Or a nose. Whatever. When he does we’ll contact him, tell him Santoro gave us his number. He might want to deal. Maybe the hit on Santoro rattled Fisk. Meanwhile I’m going to get some sleep.”
Nil stared at me some more. If he kept it up I’d have to charge him by the hour. Finally he snorted, a great big huff like a bear or a horse or something and headed for the door. “I will continue to monitor the drone’s signal if you do not mind.”
I rolled my eyes and gestured to the tablet. “Whatever. Wake me up if Fisk does something interesting.”
“Is that the level of your dedication to this task? Indulging your human sloth while others do your work?”
“What’s your major malfunction?” I stood and blocked his path to the door. Which was a bad idea. He did that baring-the-teeth thing, but you know what? I was irate enough I didn’t care. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But everybody’s been so fired up about how we’re not supposed to drop down on Fisk like a ton of bricks, so I’m playing this like I do all my jobs. Slowly. If you want your art back in one piece, we can’t freak our target out. That’s it. Come on, Nil. You’re still stressed that you couldn’t smell our attacker, aren’t you?”
Bingo. He froze up, locked his jaw, and rumbled under his breath so long I was sure he was going to try to tear me apart with all four arms. Let him try.
“Hounders believe that every capture deletes a poor action from your life’s record,” Nil said, “And I have much to remove from mine.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I do not. But it is difficult to remove myself from my society’s expectations. It is the culture that raised me, and it does not sanction my alternative life.”
Wait. I don’t know what he meant by that, but it was a code word for a lot of things here on Earth. And I really didn’t want to get into discussions of gender identity. “You need to spell that out for me.”
“I serve Qas. You know this. For me, that record has already been purged, the entire file. I do not owe payment—I have already given my life in thanks for the gift. Yet part of me still demands that I hunt in atonement for the wrongs I have committed.”
I balled my fists. Good works versus the gift. Very familiar. I couldn’t believe he was using what I believed—past or present tense?—to manipulate me. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming down here, demanding human cooperation to find your bosses’ sacred art, and then copying my religion to get me to do what you want. It’s not going to work.”
“Because you lack faith, Foss?”
“Shut up. You don’t know anything about my faith. Qwaddo.”
That did it. He snarled, a harsh noise that made the hair stand up on my arms. His fingers curled into fists.
“Try it. Hit me.” I relaxed my body, ready to dodge and counterstrike.
“Ignorant human. You think you are the only species that senses Qas.” He growled the words, his snout only a foot from my face. “I do not copy your religion. I am drawn to it. Because I was taught your Savior man-god came back from death for the entire universe, my species included.”
He stormed by me and slammed the door shut so hard the hinges bent.
I stared at it, brain blank.
When I woke up the next morning, I had a headache. Strain does that. So do arguments with self-righteous four-armed aliens.
The antique Bible I’d picked up downtown sat on the edge of the bed, peeking out from under the covers. So I read it last night. Sue me. All my griping about the collapse of Western Christianity in the face of an alien occupation, you’d think I wasn’t going to go anywhere near it. But you know what? That was between me and God. There were things that needed to be worked out. Things between just us.
Probably would have gone better if I hadn’t been surly or obsessed about how my alien partner had announced his budding belief in the same faith I’d balled up and rolled into the corner of my soul.
Qwaddo. What did he know about God? About Christ?
About any of it?
Bleary eyed and chugging down from a glass sloshing water over the edges, I flipped on the local news channel. There was a cold ache in my chest, right below my heart. Same feeling as when Ally left me. It was longing. For her, for the son I’d never met, for things to be the way they were.
Fine. We could hold hands and talk about it later. God knew I had work to get done.
The screen was alive with the morning newscast. I stopped my moping long enough to tune in and what I heard brought the glass to a halt halfway from my mouth.
“. . . Sources confirm that the victim was twenty-seven-year-old Jordan Garrett Santoro of Buffalo. He worked for Fisk Gravel and was a decorated U.S. Army veteran of offworld tours with the Third Space Cavalry. The Johnson County Sheriff ’s Department would not comment on the particulars of the homicide except to say it was due to an altercation with an unknown person or persons at Mosier Gulch late last night. Sources wishing to remain anonymous say an alien weapon was used in the killing, though no indication is given as to who used it or why.” The announcer was a chubby guy with hair slicked flat to his scalp and a tie that ended a few inches short of his belt. “Inquiries to the Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs in Denver have been declined—”
I muted the volume and flung the remote against the floor. The back hatch and a pair of double A batteries went bouncing against the wall.
Okay. I didn’t handle that publicity well.
My phone buzzed. Three guesses who that was.
[Shrf office left u 2 out of report. Contin montr Fisk. Avoid nws pelpel.]
Rutherford must be stressed. His spelling was worse. “Genius advice from you, DEXA,” I muttered. Better get a hold of Nil. By now Fisk, along with the entire state of Wyoming, had to know of Santoro’s death.
I sucked down more water and crammed the phone into my pocket. Paused and went back for the tablet. Still nothing from Fisk’s house. All the vehicles were still there.
Before I could get two steps to the door the phone buzzed.
And kept buzzing. A call, n
ot a text. From . . . ?
Oh. Great. I hit the happy green button.
“Fortel? Special Agent Carpenter.”
“Morning. How’s breakfast?”
“This isn’t time for levity, Fortel. I’m here at Denver. DEXA Agent Loya is with me. We’ve secured transportation to your vicinity.”
Wow, that sounded like fun. “Don’t hurry on my account. Grab some food, relax, get a nap.” For days preferably.
“This situation requires direct oversight, Fortel, and given the level of danger you’re facing, I’d think you’d be more appreciative. Have your notes on the investigation ready for my review. I’ll be in touch when we reach Buffalo.” Carpenter hung up.
I snorted. Notes for review? What’d he think this was, tenth-grade English Literature? Forget this. I stormed out the door, my stomach rumbling, and resolved to get my hands on some donuts and a banana before I bolted for the Bimmer—right after I checked up on a certain surly alien.
I rode the elevator up to Nil’s floor, passing a trio of those Engineer qwaddos. They had that ash-gray-brown skin tone, all three, though it varied in shading. Kind of like having a Russian, a German, and a Swede standing next to each other. This crew was dressed in identical gray-green jumpsuits. They stared warily at me, nostrils sniffing away as I passed. Wondered if they could smell Nil on me.
My brain wouldn’t get rid of all the junk he’d spouted. What was stopping him from reading the Bible? Maybe he already had. Maybe he had to sniff it out. It bugged me way too much. Something nagged at me. Something about a guy named Phillip, and a eunuch, and a chariot. One man needing the truth explained by another.
I pounded on his door. “Nil, let’s go.” He’d probably been up for hours, like the other day. Stuffing his face with a bazillion burgers. I banged again. “Quit pouting and let’s move.”
Strange snorts startled me. The three Biqasohon—I was getting better at this proper terminology thing—were standing by the elevator. No lights on the indicators. They hadn’t pushed a button yet. Instead they muttered in qwaddo language. One of them, taller and thinner than the rest with beady brown eyes and hair the same color speckled black, bared his teeth at me. “You look for nothing, human.”