by R. M. Meluch
“Space it,” said Nicanor. “We may be murderers and thieves, but I am not peddling crap to make money.”
“I’m not peddling anything at all,” said Nox. “Were they trafficking anything useful? Any weapons in there?”
“No weapons,” said Galeo. “Only the ones they were carrying.”
“Screw.” This was not the haul Nox was hoping for. It was not worth the carnage. He wanted weapons. The small-arms lockers on the Xerxes were empty. What arms the Xerxes used to carry had apparently followed the ambassador and his security guards to the Italian embassy.
“Anything anyone want in here?” Galeo asked, ready to close the container.
“Throw it all out,” said Nicanor.
“What about the ship?” Orissus asked.
“Throw it out,” said Nicanor.
“Keep it,” said Nox. “We can use it.”
“For what?” asked Nicanor.
“Bait,” said Nox.
“Just what do you think you’re going to attract with that kind of lure?” said Nicanor.
“Something with better guns.”
Glenn got up and walked out onto the meadow before dawn.
Patrick had gone somewhere. He returned carrying what looked like two giant green acorns, big as cantaloupes.
He passed one to Glenn. “I heard the guys talking about these back at camp. They’re okay to eat. They taste like strange bananas.”
“I don’t like bananas,” said Glenn.
She felt the inside of her giant soft green acorn sloshing.
“And you’re going to hate these,” said Patrick. “But they’re nutritious.”
He took hold of the stem of his acorn and pulled the top off. It tore away easily. He lifted his soft shell in a toast. “Cheers.”
Glenn opened hers.
Stringy liquid lay in the shell like something coagulating. Banana stench wrinkled her nose.
She held her breath and bolted it down. Swallowed through strings and membranes and liquid that was in turns thick and thin. When she came up for air, she tried to keep a stoic expression. Her eyes watered. She wanted to push her mouth out of her face.
Patrick passed the last piece of beef jerky to her as a chaser. They’d been conserving it for as long as they could.
A curious fox came over, sniffing. The nose worked over the acorns, then sniffed Glenn’s lips. The fox hummed.
Patrick translated, “Funny.”
She should know that one by now. But Glenn couldn’t pick out the right note for “funny” any more than a fox could say “boo.”
Glenn looked loathingly at her acorn shell. “Funny, as in this is bad meat?”
“No. Just funny.”
The foxes breakfasted on insectoids, unwary birds, and small creatures that lived in the grass.
One fox, the one called Banshee, caught a scent in the ground and launched into a sudden frenzied digging. Dirt flew like sawdust behind a spinning blade. Whatever it was got snapped up before Glenn could see it. Banshee smacked his mouth open and shut, savoring the aftertaste, and other foxes sniffed the hole for crumbs.
Patrick had figured out why the mammoths shied away from the foxes. “Foxes like to play,” he told Glenn. “Mammoths don’t. I bet feathers are fun.”
“And mammoths don’t think so,” Glenn guessed.
“I bet not.”
Glenn could just picture Brat and Tanner frolicking through curtains of waving mammoth plumage, dodging enormous feet and tusks.
Patrick found a hard spongy green fruit, and tried to teach the foxes the game of fetch.
Foxes only did half of a fetch. They raced each other to apprehend the flying fruit, and the winner destroyed it.
The day turned hot. The fox pack trekked through the forest to a place where the stream broadened and the water fanned out in wide sheets as it dropped over a smooth shale slope.
Foxes jumped, slid, and torpedoed down the waterfall.
Glenn sat on the bank, watching the foxes play. The female sitting next to her stood up and clawed at her own belly. Glenn thought maybe her navel itched. But the tight swirl of fur in her belly wasn’t a navel. It turned out to be an opening. The she-fox widened it, reached in with a paw, and pulled out a fuzzy loaf.
A pouch. She had a marsupial pouch. The female passed the fuzzy loaf to her mate.
Glenn couldn’t tell if the little loaf was a baby or a box lunch, because he tucked it into a pouch of his own while she went ottering down the shale slide.
“Patrick! Patrick!” Glenn pointed between the male and female foxes. “What did they just do?”
“Passed the baby,” said Patrick. He sat down beside her.
“Males have pouches?”
Patrick nodded. “He’s got working nipples in there. About a week after conception, the infants—Sandy says there’re two of them—they crawl out of Mama’s love canal, and these two little peanuts climb up into her pouch and latch onto a nipple.” He made a peanut sized space between his thumb and forefinger. “Usually only one of them survives. Mama can hand off to Papa when, well, she wants to go swimming.”
“But what makes him lactate?”
“Sandy thinks it’s the smell of the baby. You can tell a male who’s carrying by who’s sniffing his navel.”
“I’ve seen that,” said Glenn. Then, “Wait. They only passed one baby.” Patrick had just told her they conceived in twos. “Did they lose one?”
“They always lose one,” said Patrick. “Pretty early on, when the babies are knee high to a dachshund, one infant bullies the other to death in the pouch.”
Oh. “How awful and sad,” she said, then added, “That’s probably a human take on it.”
“The parents care,” Patrick said, equivocal. “A little anyway. They dig a grave for the loser. These guys can haul dirt like a badger on sprox. It’s a deep grave. The parents curl up the dead infant and place it gently, but there aren’t any grave gifts, no blanket, none of that. In the recordings I’ve seen, they look sad. They hold their ears down, their tails down, their muzzles down. But just as soon as the grave is covered and the rocks are piled on, they get over it.”
“Rocks?” said Glenn. “So the parents do mark the grave?”
“Sandy doesn’t think the stones are grave markers. They’re more to keep any carrion eaters out. The parents don’t show resentment toward the survivor.”
“Patrick? Can you call her Dr. Minyas? Unless you’re talking about a beach, that name makes my teeth itch.” Glenn pulled her splinter gun from behind her back and passed it to Patrick. “Hold the baby,” she said and took a turn sliding down the waterfall.
Nox heard a barefoot pacing through the ship’s night. Not his. It was Pallas this time, haunted by the smuggler ship, which was still docked to the Xerxes, dragging along like a rotting dead limb.
Nox left his sleep compartment and gave Pallas the handheld game. Pallas tried to refuse. “I didn’t throw up on your boots,” Pallas said.
Nox pushed the device at him. “Either sleep or play the coiens game.”
The Xerxes sounded a warning, waking everyone. The soft voice of Bagheera advised of a plot on their stern.
Their shadow was Interpol ship 2186, closing in, its red flashers going full brightness.
Nox called, “Wake up, my brothers. We go to the fight. Bay! Oh, Bay!”
14
GLENN WOKE UP when the leaves walked over her.
The leaves traveled with their shiny green sides up, their ciliate side down. Hundreds of stubby roots acted as caterpillar legs as the leaves moved in herds, foliage on a quest for a tree—or for sun or shade or water. No matter, Glenn and Patrick were sleeping on their highway.
Glenn sat up. The leaves scurried away.
Patrick foraged for breakfast. He stripped red berries off a thorny bush and offered them to Glenn. “These are okay to eat.”
“Are they better than the banana soup?” Glenn asked.
“Dr. Rose makes his wine out of them
,” Patrick said.
The foxes were awake.
A chubby cub was making its first foray from its mother’s pouch. The adults passed around the bowling ball-sized fuzzy bundle and cuddled it in turns.
The baby fox had all the same traits that made warm-blooded infant life on Earth cute—the big heads with oversized foreheads, the pudgy bodies, the big round eyes—round once the baby got used to the light—the chubby cheeks, the little mouth.
From chicks to puppies to human babies, those same features brought out the protective instincts in terrestrial mammals and birds. That specific concept of cuteness didn’t translate to most alien creatures, but the cute factor was in full force here.
“Am I allowed to touch it?” Glenn whispered to Patrick.
“I’m not sure.”
Glenn moved in closer, waiting to see if anyone would pass the baby to her.
And here it came. Mama-san placed the fuzzy bundle into her cradled arms.
It was a heavy little thing. It gave a big yawn with its tiny mouth.
“Puppy breath!” Glenn said, startled. “Patrick! He has puppy breath!”
She nuzzled him. The kit latched on with its tiny mouth and tried to nurse from the tip of her nose.
“Police ship secure,” Leo announced over his personal com on board the ship Interpol 2186.
“Villa Grande secure,” Galeo announced from the smuggler ship. “You can open your side of the air lock, Nox. Watch your step. Lots of blood.”
Never mind the blood of the new kills of the police officers, the decomposing stench from the smugglers was enough to make Nox want to stop breathing as he passed through the dock from the Xerxes to board Villa Grande.
Nox forced a cocky face as he stepped over bodies. It was slick stepping. “What of the hunting, hunter bold?”
“As you see,” said Galeo. He spat blood off his lips.
The Interpol officers had been more cautious than the smugglers. But they died just the same.
Nox tapped Galeo on his brawny shoulder with the bottom of his fist. “Let’s see what we reaped.”
The police ship yielded a wealth of equipment: small arms, riot gear, a corvus, a lot of nonlethal ordnance, some body armor that the police should have been wearing when they boarded Villa Grande. The harvest was all the brothers could have hoped for.
“Can we leave now?” Leo asked once all the stolen equipment was on board Bagheera.
They were still lurking at the periphery of the Phoenix star system. Even traveling FTL, it was a dangerous place for them to be.
“And can we cut them loose?” said Galeo. Them. The Xerxes now had two grisly dead ships in tow. “Mind you, I’m going to mutiny if you say no, Nox.”
“Soon.” Nox checked the soles of his shoes. He had cleaned them eight times. “One more thing before we leave. We need to show off our work. We did this. We need people to know we did this. Fear. We need fear.”
Upon Nox’s instruction, the brothers uncoupled the ships, then propelled Villa Grande on a direct vector toward the planet Phoenix.
And waited for Phoenix’s planetary warning system to go off.
Glenn took a seat in the meadow grass and made daisy chains from local flowers. Bright hardy blossoms of yellow and orange grew on flexible stems. She laced in some seed husks that looked like a cross between a seashell and a pistachio half shell, and she decorated the young female whom Glenn called Princess.
Princess was a pretty girl-fox, young, sleek, and shiny. She had big bright black eyes, a dainty muzzle, and sharp white teeth. Glenn wove several necklaces and a crown for her, then French braided more blossoms into the long fur of Princess’ tail. Foxes couldn’t braid, but they could comb braids out deftly enough when the flowers wilted.
Patrick stood over Glenn and Princess, his expression fond. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not,” said Glenn fighting down a smile. Lost that battle.
She was glowing.
“Do you want a daughter?” Patrick asked.
“No,” said Glenn. She tufted up Princess’ topknot. “I just want to borrow this one.”
Princess got up to show off her new look. She moved at a twinkling gait. How strange that the traits of girly flirtation translated across alien species.
At first the boy foxes acted surprised and laughed at her, as adolescent males will. But soon enough they were puffing out their manes, strutting, and flexing their muscles.
Princess twitched her tail at them, then ran and hid behind her mother and father.
Dr. Peter Szaszy’s team returned from their fourteen-day field trip outside of camp. Absorbed in his data, Szaszy strode into camp without even taking off his environmental suit, his gaze locked on his omni. He almost walked into a white vicar tree.
Dr. Aaron Rose watched him advance on the unsuspecting tree and called, “Good trip, Szasz?”
“Very,” Szaszy said. Looked up. Regarded the tree before him with some surprise. Then he waved his omni earnestly in the air. “Where’s Ham? I need him to check out these vocalizations.”
Dr. Rose coughed, confused. “Ham? You mean Patrick Hamilton?”
“Yes, of course Patrick Hamilton,” Szaszy said, nearly a snap, impatient. “Where is he?”
Aaron Rose turned about face and sang out, “Izzy! Oh, Izzy!”
Director Izrael Benet emerged from his tent, annoyed by the summons. “What? Oh.” He saw Dr. Szaszy. “Welcome back, Peter. Successful field trip?”
Aaron Rose told Director Benet, “Szasz wants to know where Patrick Hamilton is.”
Benet’s face fell slack. He stared at Peter Szaszy. Insisted, “He’s with you.”
Uneasily, on a rising note, almost a question, Szaszy said, “No.”
“And Glenn Hull. Glenn Hamilton,” Benet said. “She’s not with you?”
Szasz shook his head. “No.”
“They were supposed to go on trek with you, Peter.”
Dr. Szaszy drew his shoulders back, head high. “Well. They didn’t show up when we were ready to embark. I don’t tolerate disrespect for my time.”
“You left without them,” Benet translated.
Szaszy answered, defiant, “I certainly did.”
Sandy Minyas paled behind her freckles. Breathed into her hands, “Oh, hell, they’re lost.”
Director Benet demanded of whoever in shouting distance might have the answer, “Where do the Hamiltons’ homers say they are!”
Other expedition members were gathering. Sandy Minyas was fastest to check her omni. “Not getting a signal. Are they even carrying? Do we know? Do we know?”
No one knew.
Benet thundered at everyone. “They’ve been unaccounted for for two bloody weeks! Find them! Find them!” Then he singled out Szaszy. “You. You find them. This is your task.”
“What if they’re dead,” Sandy Minyas breathed into her hands.
Benet heard that. “What if they’re—!” He raked a big hand through his thick mane. “Merrimack’s coming here. If they’re dead—Somebody just shoot me if they’re dead!”
“We don’t have guns, Izzy,” said Dr. Rose.
Benet stalked back to his tent, speaking in tongues.
Junior ecologist Elton Langer asked Dr. Szaszy, “So what impact will it have on the environment if they decompose outside the perimeter?”
Phoenix’s horizon guard intercepted a runaway ship on collision course with the planet. Several news craft shadowed the chase ship and got some ghoulish images from the Villa Grande’s interior. It made for a sensational story.
Following up on that incident, investigative reporters uncovered the fact that Villa Grande’s last known contact had been Interpol ship 2186. Villa Grande had been boarded by the police.
Thinking they were on the trail of a police atrocity, reporters raced each other to uncover the truth about Interpol 2186, only to discover that 2186 was missing.
Now they had either a police cover-up or another victim of the same unknown horror. Inte
rest in the story expanded.
The League of Earth Nations’ bureau on Phoenix sent out a broadcast asking anyone with information on Interpol 2186 to contact them. They posted a special resonant harmonic to receive leads. There was a reward.
“What do you want to do?” Galeo asked Nox. “Tell them ‘I did it. I did it?’”
“Basically,” said Nox.
“I wouldn’t trust the harmonic,” said Nicanor. “The League may not be able to trace a res pulse, but we know Rome can. If Rome decides to help the League with this, and we send a message on that harmonic, they will know where we are.”
“They will know for that instant,” Nox agreed. “But we are slightly mobile.”
The Xerxes was fast as death.
“Anyway, Rome won’t get involved. They would have to acknowledge that we exist.”
Pallas was still wary. “Why is this message coming from the League and not from Interpol?”
“Because of the reward,” said Nox. “Interpol can’t deal.”
“I’d be afraid to touch the reward,” said Leo.
“I’m not touching it,” said Nox. “I just want to make them give it.”
The LEN was no doubt receiving a barrage of hoaxes and reward-hungry false leads on their specified harmonic. The brothers needed to send a message that would immediately penetrate the fog.
Nox’s message was a one-second long visual image of the Interpol officers’ dog tags, along with the printed designation of a different harmonic on which to send a reply.
Soon they had a LEN representative on their given harmonic, quietly pleading, “Whoever you are, don’t hurt them. Just give us our people back. In the name of mercy.”
Nox returned another one-second visual. A printed message, in English: That will not be possible. We are not merciful, and your people are dead.
The LEN representative seemed prepared for that answer. He choked through that news and revised his plea. “We want to ransom the bodies. Those were good people.”
The brothers exchanged glances, then shrugs.
Nox demanded double the offered reward. He sent a last visual message, printed: Load the shipment into a courier missile and launch it on the vector printed below at the precise time printed below. Any improvisation, any failure, any tail, and we will send you pictures of the drawn and quartered bodies of your men so you know how they will be spending eternity when we kick them FTL, where they will never be found.