Undazzled

by Chance Maree

  Gunner ordered a pitcher. He carried it and his mug to Jacob's table.

  Jacob tried to stand, but fell back into his seat and slurred, “Oops, either I'm hallucinating, or the commander has joined our party.”

  Gunner motioned for everyone to remain seated. He pulled up a chair and filled their glasses. “Your team has put in long hours lately, doctor. From what I read on your report, a celebration is in order.”

  “Yes, we celebrate our monsters here,” Jacob said, pouring himself another mugful. “I, at least, qualify as one ugly screwking monster.”

  Bass-heavy music vibrated the air, which smelled of sour sweat and grass. Gunner leaned towards Jacob. “You know, I look in the mirror and I'm still surprised to see this croc face looking back. But I know the man I am inside has not changed. How my face looks is outside my control, but I alone am responsible for my words and actions. In those, I remain a man.”

  Jacob scowled. “I detest this face. This ugly, scaly, reptile flesh permeates down and rots my bones. What did we do to deserve this? If I'd have known I'd have to live as a hideous...”

  “Boo hoo, Doctor.” Gunner remained cool, but his stomach was boiling. “You've escaped catastrophic devastation. Instead of heat, drought, disease, and unbreathable air, you get to feel wind and sun and the coolness of night, eat fresh fruits and drink fresh, clear water, walk outdoors barefoot, hear birds and insects. You could take a wife and have strong, healthy children, if you like. Yet here you sit, complaining. Let me remind you, you are freer now than you were on Earth. Further, let me remind you of the billions of people who would gladly take your place.”

  “Free?” Jacob scoffed. He turned and looked Gunner in the eyes. “We are your tools, Commander. There's nothing free about that.”

  Gunner rose. A man with an Earth-sized bull head knocked into him.

  “Watch it, asshole.”

  Gunner turned. “Excuse me?”

  The bull pushed aside another man who happened to be standing nearby. “I detest crocs. And all ugly, freaking reptiles.”

  Neal McKinney hurried over and put his hands on the drunken bull. “Let it go, Scot We'll get someone to walk you home.”

  Scot bellowed deep, then hauled back to punch Neal. Before the bull could deliver a blow, Gunner grabbed his arm and held it. Scot was at least 6 inches taller than Gunner, and about 40 pounds heavier. The crowd backed away. Scot tugged his arm out of Gunner’s grip.

  Gunner hissed, “This is your one and only warning, friend. Walk out the door now, and this incident will be forgotten.”

  Scot made a rush at the commander, who helped him lie face down on the floor. Struggling to his feet, the bull grabbed a chair and swung it at Gunner's head. The commander ducked, pivoted, and then directed Scot's momentum toward the door, which happened to be closed and solid enough to withstand the full smash of the bull's nose.

  Scot rose once again, slower this time, touching his bloodied nose with his thumb and index finger. “Son of a bitch. That didn't hurt a bit.” A couple of men helped Scot stagger out the door.

  Gunner finished his beer before leaving. He admonished himself for fighting while angry. Jacob was the one he wanted to thrash. The night breeze cooled his face. Solar glow sticks lit the way back to his tent.

  “Mind if I walk with you?”

  Gunner turned to see Barbara, the corporate spy, managing to match his pace in high-heeled shoes. How does she do that? “What do you need, Agent Percy?”

  “I saw the fray at The Nag's Head. Wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  Gunner almost smiled. “I'm fine. Anything else I can do for you?”

  Barbara tucked her hand in the crook of the commander's arm. “I've been hearing of fights between some of our citizens. Most, as you’ve witnessed, have been between rudiment and reptile types. Canines and reptiles aren't exactly getting along, either.”

  “Nothing like that's going on in the military ranks. Civilians should be able to work those things out among themselves.”

  “They're just skirmishes right now, along with complaints about prejudice in work assignments and housing.”

  “Is the arbitration system working?”

  “So far. However, their caseload has increased 80% in the past two weeks. The violence is new. Enough to cause alarm.”

  “Have they considered building jails?”

  “The newcomers are building time-out rooms.”

  “Time-out rooms? That's what we get bringing in a shipload of suits.”

  Barbara stopped, still holding Gunner's arm, which caused him to come to an abrupt halt. She smelled good. Her eyes and a slight upturn to her snout looked amazing.

  “You should be grateful we have those business suits.” Barbara's eyes flashed. “Look around, Gunner. What don't you see here?”

  “You're going to have to give me more of a hint.”

  “Of the major causes of conflict, which is missing on Ostara?” Barbara searched Gunner's face. He fumbled for an answer, but wasn’t fast enough to stop her from talking. “Think John Lennon. The song? Imagine...?”

  “You've lost me.”

  “What divides us, Commander?”

  “A lot of things, Agent Percy.”

  Barbara looked upward. She appeared exasperated, which Gunner expected, but she seemed exhilarated, which he felt might mean she was being deceptive. “What do you want from me, Barbara?”

  “Not here.” She turned and tugged the commander toward his tent. Feigning confusion, he followed. On his mind was a quote from Sun Tzu, Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.

  The commander looked upward before following Barbara into his tent. The sky was too dark to see drones. If I follow her in, we will be the subject of gossip tomorrow.

  “Let them talk,” Barbara called from inside the tent.

  Can she read my mind? “Your reputation will be ruined.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I meant your reputation as a lesbian.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  Barbara sat at the fold-up table in the corner of the tent. She accepted Gunner's offered drink, took a sip, and smiled approvingly. “I knew you'd have the good stuff.”

  “So what's this about?”

  “Commander, you would not complain about the new arrivals if you knew all the effort it took to get them here.” Barbara set down her glass. Stalling.

  Gunner prompted her to continue. He watched Barbara's throat as she swallowed. The soft skin covering her woman's body converged under reptile scales at a well-defined border.

  Barbara smiled. “I know I can trust you to keep what I’m about to say just between the two of us.” She crossed her legs, long and slender under a silky dress. “You may not be aware of this, but I'm aligned with a somewhat powerful coterie. Our members are high ranking and multinational. Given this opportunity—to start three civilizations from scratch—we decided to conduct an intelligent approach to the migration. While everyone was fighting over their personal priorities, we collected data from a number of resources, including psychological questionnaires. So, instead of grouping people by nationality, we've managed to populate the planets using more rational criteria.”

  Gunner laughed. “So Ostara inherited wearers of Brooks Brothers and Ralph Lauren?”

  His words obviously made Barbara angry, but she recovered her composure fairly quickly. “People who do not align themselves with any religious creed or ideology are assigned to Ostara. Here, we have the makings of a peaceful world. Ostara will be home for a civilization of people without archaic beliefs.”

  The idea was intriguing, so Gunner paced. “And the other planets?”

  “They didn’t fare as well—in my opinion, anyway. Atlas will be largely populated with those holding aggressive and materialistic ambitions. We sent evangelicals to Gaia.”

  “Those both sound like formulas for warfare.”

  “Perhaps. The citizens of Gaia are settling their cities b
ased on religious affiliation. It makes sense—they enjoy living in communities of like-minds, so now they'll have it. In the beginning, everyone will be occupied with settling in, satisfying their basic needs. They won't have time for wars.”

  “Maybe. Atlas sounds like a warrior colony. They'll be itching for conflict.”

  “Trouble is brewing on Atlas already. Better they go at one another than ruin the lives of peaceful people.”

  “A need for strife and competition exists in everyone, Barbara. For a warrior, fighting enriches life, and there's nothing more glorious than proving one’s mettle. In any case, your plan was doomed from the start.”

  Barbara stood strong as iron in front of Gunner. She tilted her head upward to look him in the eye and tapped him on the chest with a fiery red fingernail. “They desperately wanted you for Commander on Atlas. You would have been a king there. But after reviewing your files, I pulled in favors and convinced them Ostara would be a better fit.”

  “Why? I'm a warrior, not a metal suit.”

  “Yes. But Ostara is my home now, and in order to protect ourselves from two potentially aggressive neighbors, we need a strong, wise, yet fundamentally peaceful and balanced warrior.”

  “You and your secret friends have likely created a disaster.”

  “What would you have us do? The current mix of humans has been disastrous. We can't simply reproduce Earth and expect a different outcome. So the deck has been reshuffled in hope that at least one of the planets will survive. My money is on Ostara.”

  Barbara unbuttoned the top two buttons of Gunner's uniform. He allowed her touch, not consciously, but due to surprise and a temporary fog, his reflexes apparently stalled. She stepped back and, watching him closely, slipped out of her dress.

  “If you weren't a lesbian, I'd take this as an invitation.”

  “Once a woman loses her looks, she finds strength in rebelling against labels. I’m learning to listen to my body. If I find a person brings about a certain tingle, I’ll check to see if the feeling is mutual.” She removed her black bra and panties. “You know me to be a lesbian, but what is your body telling you?”

  Gunner undressed, revealing the attraction was mutual. He pulled the bedding off the narrow cot and onto the ground. Barbara tossed the pillow onto the blanket heap, but gave no other signal. Kissing with snouts seemed awkward, and Gunner decided against placing his crocodile teeth anywhere near her breasts, so—grateful for human hands—he stroked her. With his touch, he tried to communicate, you are special to me—your body is my temple. Barbara slapped his hands away.

  The sight of her heavy breasts, flared hips, smooth skin, and, yes, the flick of her long tongue flooded Gunner with desire. He put his hand on Barbara's shoulder and pushed slowly until she knelt. He was about to lay her on her back, when, at the last moment, she turned and rose on her hands and knees. The sight of her round buttocks and the smell—the smell of her drove him into a frenzy. An animal urgency took control; bone and muscle drove his lust. Gunner was possessed by hunger—hunger for Barbara's body, a mindless drive for procreation. Forgoing romance, Gunner grasped her waist with blind, selfless possession—only then did she submit to him.

  CHAPTER 21

  Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson

  Inverse-Earth. That’s how Pots described the view from a grassy crest overlooking Galileo. All her life, she’d seen only strips of greenery squeezed between hi-rises and highways. Foliage was to be found only in sparse, tame, and well-tended parks, or in boxed urbanite attempts to grow food. On Ostara, vegetation occupied the land and the buildings and water plants and energy storage sites of Galileo were but thin slivers of cultured growth. Galileo, however, was spreading. We will infest the land, Pots thought. Humanity was no longer bound to one land—or, one planet. It had spread to Atlas and Gaia, too. We will infest the stars. Unless the People in the Canyon decided to stop them.

  Sadness welled, filling her throat, so Pots clenched her jaw and counter-thought: Things will be different this time! We’ve learned from our mistakes. For the sake of future generations, those who would look someday upon this scene and see a metropolis, wisdom and experience must be passed on. The foundation of their new civilization must include respect for the land, and a peace existence with its natives. Present events would set the course, and Pots figured she had a role to play.

  She turned the WeeVil down the crest and cornered a rocky wash when suddenly she found her way blocked by a military vehicle. Pots braked, and then waited as two armed, canine-faced guards approached. They didn't look aggressive, but they didn’t look friendly either. Pots’s stomach churned.

  “Why is the city under guard?”

  A broad-shouldered canine with erect ears, pointed nose, and gray fur striped with black glanced knowingly at his more foxlike female companion.

  “Good afternoon, Pilot Pots,” the fox replied. “You didn't answer when we hailed your com, so we decided to investigate.”

  Pots tugged on her ear. “Chikoshu! I'm in Tau Ceti, in the middle of a stinking prairie, and you find it necessary to monitor my com! What are you—Gyuufun drones? Where in this universe can a person go to get away from Brother Big Nose?”

  “Somewhere not in the commander's vehicle, perhaps?”

  “Fuzakeruna.” Pots snorted. “You'd have tracked me even if I were riding a donkey.”

  The male guard spoke privately into his com. He turned towards Pots, still holding his hand to his ear. “We'll escort you to headquarters, ma'am.”

  “Don't bother. I have to make a quick stop, then I'll return the commander's precious car.”

  The guard held his hand over his com again. “We’re heading to Galileo ourselves, so it’ll be no trouble at all.”

  Pots wasn’t too worried. Neither guard seemed interested in checking the WeeVil’s back compartment. Up to that point, Pots's cargo had kept silent, but then—a cough.

  “See you later,” Pots yelled. She gunned the accelerator and swerved around the guards and their vehicle. The canines scrambled, choking in her dust. They aren't likely to shoot us, Pots hoped. She fought the urge to look back.

  Twenty long minutes stood between Pots and Galileo. Twenty teeth clenching minutes. Plenty of time for the soldiers to alert the commander. Pots didn’t much care whether Gunner would be furious or merely angry. Then again, she really shouldn’t antagonize him too much until she was safely aboard Alpha Horizon.

  Pots knew her plan was risky, but she was committed to its success. After slowing the vehicle and confirming her cargo was uninjured, Pots opened her com and sent an urgent message to the only people she was on relatively friendly terms with—Josh, Victor, and Spade.

  “Help! Round up everyone you can and come to the Main Street Community Center. I need a crowd there in ten minutes.”

  Victor and Josh both replied, “Yes ma'am!”

  Alpha Horizon had departed four days ago. Pots found herself scratching again. She was desperate to pilot the worm-mole. Adding to her discomfort, Pots was torn between caring for Tyr, and having to consider exposing him as collateral damage. Gunner was the real criminal—he was the one harboring a genetically engineered biological weapon which been condemned and banned by the international community. Like everyone else, Pots had read rabid media reports detailing the secret super soldier project. Public outrage was so venomous that the project's leader, Dr. Stevenson, committed suicide after the court’s verdict included destruction of his life’s work. Photos of the boys had not been published. As gruesome as it was, the argument against using humans as bio-weapons had been so overwhelming that the public consented to an indirect form of extermination.

  Pots felt a pressure deep in her chest and acid churned in her stomach, both by-products of a moral confliction. Tyr doesn't seem dangerous. But science, she knew, trumped intuition and sentimentalism. Tyr's designer had been wisely and legally chastised, and the commander had committed treason by bringing a doomsday weapon to Ostara.

  ⁂

 
Moments after Pots rolled into the community square, a hundred people converged around the WeeVil. Curious faces of every type watched the pilot as she jumped from the seat and circled around to vehicle’s rear door.

  Pots yelled, “Thank you, everyone, for coming on such short notice. As many of you know, we are not alone on this planet.” Pots dropped the ramp and opened the back panels. “I’d like you to meet our neighbors.”

  The passengers emerged, one by one. Pots had described her people to them as best she could, but the natives still gasped. To their credit, the native women recovered quickly. Each heaved a deep breath, flashed a shy smile, and waved. In contrast, the natives' faces were wonderfully human—mature women all, with crow's feet and gray speckled hair. Pots found them beautiful.

  Gunner appeared, as Pots had expected. He stepped forward to shake each woman's hand. The smile he wore looked uncomfortable, but he maintained it until the final native had been greeted. To Pots, he mumbled, “Whose idea was it to send us a WeeVil of crones?”

  Pots plastered on a smile of her own. “Tarq said these gentle women know nothing of war. They were told to teach us about their people. Tarq said we need not fear the eyes and ears of such women.”

  People standing nearby all turned their attention to Gunner. They appeared to be waiting for some sort of signal from the commander. Gunner glanced at several faces in the crowd, apparently gauging their confusion. In a booming voice, he announced, “I’m thrilled to welcome these esteemed and lovely women.” Lowering his voice so only Pots could hear, he added, “When is Tyr coming home?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Gunner sighed. “It’s funny when you think about it. Here I am, on a faraway planet, and my son steals his old man’s car.”

  Pots was about to blurt out that Tyr wasn’t his son, when she noticed that one by one, the people from Earth were approaching the Ostarian women, extending to them necklaces of flowers and other small trinkets as sweet symbols of welcome and homage. Each canine, feline, rudiment, avian, and reptile then turned away, overcome with tremors, tears, and sobs. Pots frowned—she hadn't anticipated the grief that human faces could cause a sea of beasts.