Bite Marks

by Jennifer Rardin

  I nodded. And reached around to scratch my back.

  It itched even more after I’d driven a glorified golf cart through the bewildering maze of roundabouts that makes Canberra almost as famous as its massive termite mounds (er, I mean public buildings) full of politicians. By the time we left the city’s shrubbery-choked streets and hit the hills, I was rubbing my back against the seat like a bear scratching against her favorite tree. And in Australia, that had to be eucalyptus.

  In the distance they joined other species in covering the mountains like lush green hair. Up close, they towered among the rocks, their lower branches practically nonexistent. Which didn’t seem to be a problem for the koalas. Or the parrots. Still, what dominated the landscape was the closely grazed succession of hills. You could play golf on those suckers if you didn’t mind going vertical.

  The Wheezer did.

  “Dammit, Cole, couldn’t you have at least rented something with an engine?” I barked. “If I lifted the hood on this sucker I’ll bet I’d see the skeleton of Tigger, because this car hasn’t had any bounce since Reagan was president.”

  Vayl stared at his mug, decided the contents were finally warm enough, and took a sip. He said, “Perhaps we should move on to a subject that does not make any of us feel the need to kill our sniper.”

  Bergman snorted. “I guess that means you don’t want to discuss your spectacular airport entrance?”

  “Why do you do that?” Cassandra demanded. “The subject was closed. Everybody was ready to let it drop. And then you stirred it up again. You’re like a drama junkie, you know that?”

  Jack stuck his nose in her chin, as if agreeing. Continuing with his I’m-a-Pomeranian fantasy, my dog had chosen, not floorboards, but laps as his preferred method of travel. He lay across all three of them, like a raja who must be kept dirt free in case of spontaneous parades.

  Bergman said, “I’m no—” but he couldn’t see Cassandra over Cole’s mop of hair. His struggle to meet her eyes forced a complete backseat resettlement, not easy when you’re sharing a 140-pound load, but everybody finally found new locations for their butts and elbows. After which he said, “I just like closure, that’s all.”

  She said, “Vayl didn’t strangle Cole back at the airport. The end.”

  But it wasn’t. Vayl sent a dark look over his shoulder. “Believe me, I was exercising phenomenal restraint.”

  Through the rearview mirror I could see Cole’s fingers, which had been scratching Jack’s back, freeze. “Aw, come on, Vayl. How many vamps have slept inside a golf coffin? Your buddies will be so impressed.”

  Noting that Vayl’s knees were nearly at the level of his shoulders, I said, “Not if he can’t stand upright anymore after riding in your rental from Dollhouse Accessories, Inc. Did you forget that we might need to jump out of this vehicle and run at some point? The way this muther rides, we’re all going to have to do twenty minutes of yoga before we can even think of walking again!”

  Astral chose that moment to stand. Since she’d settled on the ledge below the rear window, my view was now completely obscured by stretching kitty, whose accompanying mechanical clicks caught everyone’s attention.

  “She’s just recalibrating,” Bergman explained. “She does it every hour or so to make sure her internal compass is still accurate.”

  “Ow!” Cole grabbed the back of his head. “She kicked me! What are her legs made of, tire irons?”

  When no one replied he met my eyes in the mirror.

  “Okay,” he admitted. “It may be a little tighter in here than I’d anticipated. But think of it as a team-building experience. This way nobody has to fall off a wall and hope the rest of us catch him.”

  Vayl turned in his seat. “I believe Cassandra was right after all. Perhaps we should talk about the assignment before visions of you thudding to the ground inspire me to make a reservation with Adventures R Us.”

  Bergman reached up, adjusted his ball cap, and dropped his hands back to his lap, which was when I knew something was up with it. Would he ever reveal its true purpose to us, or was this some kind of test run we weren’t supposed to acknowledge?

  I tried to pick up any oddities in its design while Cole said, “Pete said he was going to brief us. How’s that going to work?”

  Bergman looked over his shoulder. “Astral? Please play Pete’s briefing.”

  Astral yawned and a hologram of my supervisor unfolded on the hood of the Wheezer, startling me so much I pulled my foot off the accelerator. He sat behind his old metal desk, his brown suit nearly hidden behind three teetering piles of files.

  Flicking his hand against a black spot-microphone on his lapel he said, “Is it on?” Unintelligible reply from the cameraman. “Jaz, I know you’re mad at me for cutting your vacation three weeks short.” I snorted. Yeah, bub, so short I didn’t even have time to make arrangements for my dog.

  He ran his hand across his last couple of hairs. Had they turned from blond to white in the past week? I couldn’t tell. Uncanny, though, the way he turned his head as if he knew I was sitting behind the wheel. As I eased into the gas he said, “I wanted to make it up to you. So I returned your father’s investment in your last mission. He said the senators stiffed him.” Which could only mean he’d withheld the information they’d asked him to gather.

  Vayl and I traded glances. He said, “I told you Albert was honorable.”

  Wow. My dad taking the high road? Even if it only pertained to buttoning his lip regarding the inner functionings of our team? And Pete, spending actual money to make us even? Maybe I could count on those two after all.

  Pete picked up a sheaf of papers, banged them against the desk, and set them back down. He said, “As you know, the cult I’ve sent you after believes their god, Ufran, lives on one of the rings of Saturn. And they’re furious that NASA is, to quote their Web page, ‘invading the sanctity of his celestial home by peeping through his curtains.’”

  “Wait,” said Cole. “There are curtains hanging from Saturn’s rings?”

  “It’s a metaphor,” I said.

  Pete, just a recording who didn’t expect commentary from the crowd, had moved on. “—Ufranites had convinced Bob Green, a software engineer for Odeam Security, to carry their larvae into the Canberra Deep Space Complex, at which time they were supposed to wreak havoc on the Complex’s vital systems. But while Green and his team were waiting for their plane yesterday, the larvae hatched prematurely.”

  Big silence as we all imagined that scene. Human carriers were a new phenomenon. Traditionally gnomes deposited their larvae in their castoffs. Those who were born tailless, or whose noses never turned blue, were either made to incubate the larvae, or worse, act as midwives during the “birth.” But they hadn’t yet formed a coalition, or called the cops, so word hadn’t gotten around yet that Bob Green’s experience was typical. Certain death, lying twitching on the concourse carpet while slimy red worms burst through your blood vessels and out of your skin, leaving you bleeding to death like an Ebola victim.

  Bergman cleared his throat. “But we’re still after the Odeam team. Which means what? That they had a backup carrier ready, just in case?”

  Cole said, “They’d have to, because hatchings are notoriously unpredictable. Which you’d know if you didn’t spend all day in the lab.”

  “I don’t… okay, I do spend a lot of time inside. But look at the results!” He jerked a thumb toward Astral, who currently looked like she’d swallowed a high-quality flashlight.

  “Pay attention,” snapped Vayl, slanting his chin toward Pete, who’d paused to take a swig from his coffee cup. Aww. It was one I’d brought back for him from a mission to Nevada. It said killer cuppa joe on the side and had a picture of a cowboy shooting his six-guns at a snarling monster whose head was shaped like a gigantic coffee bean.

  Pete said, “If the Ufranites just wanted to foul up the Complex’s software, they could use the Odeam man himself. But our analysts say that isn’t enough for them. They want t
o sever the connections between the satellite dishes and their computer controllers so absolutely that repair costs will force NASA to divert funds from all of their other projects, causing them to fail too. This would cause billions of dollars of damage that the American people won’t want to pay to repair. In which case, NASA will be forced to close down the complex.”

  “What about the communication stations in California and Madrid?” asked Bergman.

  As if he could read Bergman’s mind, Pete said, “We’ve learned that NASA’s other two complexes have been targeted as well. I’ve sent teams to each site. But yours is particularly important, because somewhere in the area the shaman who plotted this entire fiasco is pulling the strings. The name of his warren is N’Paltick. Find it, figure out how to discredit him, and we believe the Ufranites will abandon this plan for good.”

  “Discredit? Or destroy?” asked Bergman dryly.

  Vayl and I traded glances. “We are not in the business of creating martyrs,” he said. “If Jasmine and I find an opportunity to reveal this shaman’s true colors to his followers, we will take it.”

  Pete seemed to look at me again. Kinda freaky. Like the Jesus picture in Granny May’s pastor’s home. We’d only gone once, to drop off a loaf of banana bread when his wife had died. Those eyes had followed me everywhere. And they hadn’t been happy with me. Pete, at least, seemed halfway content. “The Oversight Committee has completely backed off, Jaz. Relax. Do your usual excellent job. You have nothing to worry about from here.” He cleared his throat. “And as long as I’m around, you never will.”

  His image blinked out. I blinked a couple of times too. Wow. Did he have any idea how long I’d been hoping to hear those words?

  I felt a smile lift my lips as I rounded another curve. I gave the Wheezer more gas, basking in job-security glow, enjoying the fact that I got to drive on the left side of the road again. You know what would make this moment perfect? If the Clubman was a Maserati. And Vayl and I were alone on his island, rushing toward one of our who-can-get-naked-fastest evenings in his cool, shadowy bedroom, which always smelled like pine and fresh oranges.

  Cole snapped me out of my daydream by asking, “Is there any way to kill the larvae while they’re still in the carrier? You know, some kind of shot or something?”

  I felt the corners of my mouth drop. What kind of friend pulls a chimp move like that and throws poop all over your fantasies? One who sucks almost as bad as your life, said that nasty new voice. I sawed at my shoulder as I said, “Doctors haven’t found a way to dump the larvae from the bloodstream once they’re ingested.”

  “Ugh! You mean the computer guy ate them?” asked Cassandra. She looked down at Jack. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” He nodded, his expression assuring her his tastes definitely ran to gnome slugs.

  Vayl said, “More likely he drank them. The eggs are tiny after all. It is only after they reach the bloodstream that they experience their first metamorphosis.”

  Bergman said, “So there’s no way we could save these guys?” I caught his drift. Anybody who’d made the Odeam team had to be popping the lid off the IQ container. So he kinda connected.

  Vayl took off his sunglasses, his icy blue eyes pinning Bergman in place. “Bob Green was carrying the seeds of a space complex’s destruction. He died because he cared more about buying an in-ground pool than he did about his country. After a day’s delay to regroup, the team is back on track, due to arrive in Wirdilling later this evening. We do not know if Green’s replacement will be carrying the larvae, or if an original team member had already agreed to act as backup. Our sources are only certain that another has taken his place, and NASA is deeply worried that he will succeed where his predecessor failed.”

  Cole spoke up. “Hopefully the bug I planted on Ruvin will clear up the situation for us right away. Maybe we’ll be able to take this guy out tonight and spend the next couple of days exploring the bush.”

  “Why would we want to do that?” asked Bergman.

  Cole blew a bubble, and for a second the scent of cinnamon filled the car. As soon as it popped and he’d licked up the mess he said, “Besides my professional goals, I have a couple of private ones, my man. One of those is to pet a kangaroo before I leave Australia. I understand there’s lots of Eastern Grays around this area. What do you say? Are you in?”

  Bergman looked at him like he’d just made the worst financial investment of his life. “Kangaroos are wild animals. I’ve heard they claw like girl fighters and kick like jackhammers. You’re going to get your skull crushed.”

  Cole held up a finger. “Or I’m going to pet a kangaroo. How cool would that be?”

  Deciding not to waste any more time on the crazy man, Bergman turned back to Vayl. “What happens if we can’t stop the carrier?”

  Vayl pulled in a breath. “America faces catastrophe, and not just the sort Pete mentioned. Because NASA administrators fear if their communications facilities are crippled, their program could be halted just when they have begun to receive signals from deep space.”

  Though I’d heard this before, I still couldn’t quite believe it. Pete had left it up to Vayl whether or not to share this morsel, so the kids in the back were hearing it for the first time. They received the news with varying reactions.

  Cassandra nodded, as if unsurprised by the fact that somebody way the hell out there might want to give us a call.

  Cole slammed his hand against the roof of the car. “I knew it! I’ll bet they have gigantic pear-shaped heads and goggle eyes too!”

  Bergman cocked his head sideways in the show-me-proof gesture that had started many of our college debates. He said, “Assuming I believe that last part, which could be all kinds of noise having nothing to do with alien language, I still don’t quite buy the gnomes wanting to destroy NASA. That seems like a lot of work to protect Ufran’s privacy.”

  “Maybe they’ve heard about the alien contact,” said Cole, his eyes still shining at the idea. “Maybe they’re so freaked they’re trying to shut it down before the rest of the world finds out.”

  Cassandra shook her head. “No matter why they’ve put this plan in motion, you have to agree they’re a proactive bunch.”

  I nodded. “Luckily, so are we.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We’d decided to spend the first hour of our wait for the Odeam team stuffing our faces at Wirdilling’s one and only eatery. But as I stood beside Vayl at the end of a row of connected gray-faced shops, contemplating what might be the scariest little pub in the southern hemisphere, I told myself I wasn’t that hungry. Because apparently somewhere nearby lurked a kickass fishing lake that people liked to visit during the warmer seasons. They didn’t always come prepared, so some bright businessman had decided to build a bait shop. And then stick a pub called Crindertab’s on the end of it. At least I hoped it hadn’t developed the other way.

  The bait shop had a closed sign hanging from its faded green door. We weren’t so lucky with Crindertab’s. Its entry, peeling paint so old it probably contained enough lead to line a bunker, had one small window that allowed enough dim light to emerge to convince us the place was inhabited. I looked over my shoulder, longing to join Jack and Astral in the Wheezer, where they regarded each other warily from opposite ends of the interior.

  Vayl opened the door. A tsunami of country music burst out of the opening, reminding me of all the reasons that I hated eating out.

  I spun around. “I’ll have mine to go. Salad. Italian dressing. Lotsa crackers.”

  Vayl’s hand on my arm stopped me, unaccountably made my ribs itch. “I refuse to endure these tortures alone.”

  His nod directed my attention to a setup to the left of the door. Which was when I realized the owner of the voice wailing Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” sat behind a fold-out table, all but the top of her silver bangs hidden behind a bank of karaoke equipment.

  Okay, this is just too weird to miss. But the ash-gray walls covered with framed pictures o
f old stamps (uniformed man and woman in a background of red, Pink Floydesque flowers about to eat each other, pissed-off Victoria holding her scepter in one hand and a Christmas ornament in the other) didn’t increase my appetite as I followed Vayl to a long wooden table in the corner whose top looked like it had been hammered by the boot heels of thousands of drunken cowboys.

  I dodged a little girl who was speeding toward the bathroom. Barefoot. A couple of sets of old folks laughed at her progress, and I thought she’d come to eat with them. Until a plump waitress with black roots glaring out of her bleached-blond hair slammed through the kitchen doors and yelled, “Alice! Gitchyer shoes on! Bloody hell, you’ll have the health inspectors down my throat in a minute!

  “Don’t mind my daughter,” she told me when she caught me gaping. “She doesn’t bite. Much!”

  She grinned and moved on, leaving me to scope out the rest of the clientele. Who were even older than Alice’s ungrandfolks. Ah, but they loved those wail-and-woof songs. Much foot-tapping and head-bobbing after the microphone changed hands and a man’s voice began to sing a George Jones classic. His face hid behind a speaker but his stick-legs, covered by faded jeans and scuffed boots, entertained by pulling a few Elvis moves under the table as he belted, “Son she was hotter than a two dollar pistol, she was the fastest thing around.”

  Vayl had taken his place at the head of the table. I sat to his left and Cole took the empty chair next to mine. He nodded toward the couples’ gams, two-stepping joyously while their upper bodies played hide-and-seek with the electronics. “So, have we just seen the ultimate in performance anxiety?”

  I shook my head. “That may be the most bizarre thing I’ve witnessed all day.”

  “Do you think they’ll let me sing?” asked Cole.

  “No!”

  Before Cole could protest, Bergman dusted the crumbs off his seat and plonked his butt down opposite me. “Somebody’s a collector,” he said, nodding to the stamp prints.