“Funny is taking her pod time now,” Winsome said. “We have our own altimeter.”
Jay smiled and nodded. “We’ll be getting to populated areas soon and you must be careful not to be seen. You know what to do when there is an inspection?”
“Of coursssse: We sssscream and make a huge dissssturbancccce, then run about flailing our appendagessss,” Winsome said. Funny emitted the high frequency chattering noise that Jay instantly identified as laughter.
Jay chuckled in spite of himself. “Excellent strategy,” he said.
“Tap on the window or usssse your horn twicccce and we’ll hide,” Winsome said.
“Thank you,” Robertson said.
“Jusssst don’t sssscrew up,” Winsome said. There was no laughter.
“I’ll try not to.”
Carlos took over driving when the intended route took them north along the Eastern side of the Andes. The plan was to take a little-used pass to the western side, find their way to a small Chilean coastal town (they were all small towns in this region) and report to Wu by SatCom. But when they reached the approach to the Patagonian ski resort city of San Carlos de Bariloche, (now less than 900 meters in altitude) Carlos pulled over. “We need to talk,” he said.
“This looks very upscale,” Robertson said.
“It’s a European favorite. Many loads of drugs come and go here via private plane…which may be an opportunity. I’m worried that the road trip to Chile will be very hard for the Little Ones. Will your principals consider shipping our little charges out as a consignment?”
“You can arrange that? I was told they can all survive inside the pod for several days if necessary.”
“Between your principals’ resources and Diablo’s old contacts, I could arrange to ship them to a safe place…for the right price.”
Jay leaned forward to Carlos from the rear seat. “You know what? I think I’ll float that idea. Let’s get out for a stretch.”
Outside, Jay began looking through the sealed package that had come with the truck. Tucked behind the two sets of passports and credit cards he found the unmarked, dirty envelope. They were single use, auto-erase memory sticks, no larger than a match, but containing codes that would encrypt, good for a typical high security SatCom exchange. “Pass me the phone, Carlos.”
Jay studied the tiny phone, looking for a plug-in. “This little thing is an amazing piece of work.”
“Of course.”
“Sure,” Jay grinned. “Criminals have all the best stuff. Where do the sticks go? I can’t seem to fit ‘em in your phone. Could you?” Jay turned over the tiny instrument in his hands.
Carlos reached over, pressed a tiny stud, slid the fuel cell to the side, exposing a tab. “Pull that all the way out,” he said.
Robertson did as he was told and waited, shifting his weight in the truck cab. Two cars whisked by on the highway. Then he heard, “Son. Are you in trouble?”
“No, Dad. I’m using stick number 77a.”
“Give me a minute. Okay.” Seconds later, Wu found and installed the corresponding stick and the rest of the conversation was encrypted. “Go ahead, Jay.”
“Donald, we’re coming up on San Carlos de Bariloche and our little friends are hurting. Carlos has some old drug contacts and suggests we might work out a shipment of the pod. I need to confirm just how long all four can survive inside that thing…So three days can’t hurt them? Excellent. Do we have a simple destination?”
There was a short pause. More cars swept by and Carlos raised the window to kill the road sounds. “Yes and no,” Wu finally said. “They can live up to four days in that thing, we think…but I’d start worrying on day four. I don’t know what the margin for error would be. But you’re proposing an intercontinental flight with only one refuel stop say, from where you are to Christchurch, New Zealand. Is Carlos nearby?”
“Christchurch, New Zealand, Carlos,” Robertson said. “Can we pull that off? He is nodding without enthusiasm. I think you two should talk.” Jay handed the phone to Carlos.
“Mr. Wu? This is Carlos. The air corridor to and from this resort is full of recreational drugs. Most of the couriers fly out of the nearby airport in small jets empty. They will always take on cargo. You need one jet with intercontinental range. But that is not a showstopper around here. And you don’t want to move the cargo from one plane to another. Not to worry. Almost anything can be had for a price. I’m very sure we could get ‘no-questions-asked’ passage for one pod. How high can I go? Good. Bye then…” Without a pause, Carlos pulled out another stick and dialed a secure number of his own. In the rapid stream of Spanish, Robertson heard, “One hundred fifty thousand,” in English. Jay nodded. Then again in English he heard Carlos say, “We can arrange that within 24 hours. My vendor has a list of account numbers.”
“I do?” Jay muttered, looking through the packet. “…I hope to crap I do…”
Chile
The summer season in San Carlos de Bariloche was slow, but the shops were open and a number of young locals and Europeans were scattered along the walks and in the cafes. Many wore or carried backpacks, while others lounged in carefully torn clothes, ostentatiously smoking marijuana cigarettes. At the intersection, the canvas-covered truck rolled up to an older man, grizzled and dirty, sitting on the curb with a sign hand lettered in Spanish, English, and French, “I will work for food.”
Inside the truck, Funny stirred: “Look. That dude is one of us!” There were high-pitched giggles that sounded to the men in the cab like a traveling troupe of crickets with access to an amplifier. Robertson pounded on the window, the agreed signal to “BE QUIET!!”
At that moment, tiny pseudopodia reached out and tickled the man’s arm, then vanished under the canvas. The light changed and the truck moved on.
“I’ve been assaulted by a friggin’ crab!” the derelict man shouted in English.
“Don’t look back,” Carlos said, gunning the engine.
“We need a hotel that allows exotic pets,” Robertson growled.
New Zealand
At about the same time that Torque and the Senior Advisor were plotting the mass execution of the Little Ones in New Zealand, Dr. Harry Tamati, the Little Ones’ guardian on a stipend from Jack Falstaff, took a call from his benefactor shortly after midnight. “Your Little Ones have some long lost cousins, it seems. There are only four of them, I’m told. Their leader was murdered by a drug thug in Argentina. My people have arranged transport to Christchurch. As soon thereafter as they’re able, I’m having them helicoptered direct to you for safekeeping.”
“What can I tell my Little Ones, Jack?”
“Harry, as far as I’m concerned, you can tell them that I’m coming soon with both good news and bad news, and four of their lost cousins…”
A color-saturated butterfly had followed him for the last few minutes. Harry stopped to watch the tiny golden creature flutter over the spare meadow grass. The alpine meadow was in the “Southern Alps,” on South Island, New Zealand, a pleasant stop along an ancient Maori trail that wound though a glacial moraine, past a tiny lake and over the mountains using a pass that reached 4000 meters. Harry glanced up at the snow-encrusted peaks, blazing in the noon sun, and sniffed the brisk, summer air. Now in his seventies, his hiking speed and endurance had faded somewhat. The bandana around his head was soaked with sweat, his dark glasses were fogging, and he was very thirsty. He turned to his strange little charges. “Break?” he asked, leaning against his walking stick. There were five of the little creatures. Whimsically he sometimes called them his “Little Martians.” They loved the term because he let them watch the old movies; for them the sci-fi alien invasion flicks were comedies. These extravagantly colored faux-crustaceans from some remote world obviously were not from Mars.
“Break!” the one called “Captain” said to the other Little Ones. Then he added, “Wimp sssstop,” for Harry’s benefit. The five happy creatures chirped and chattered like insane birds. Harry knew that sound. His charges
laughed a lot. Harry’s original doctorate was in biology; for twenty years he had been a professor at the University of Adelaide, Australia, but now, after coming home to an adjunct position at University of Canterbury, Christchurch, all of this fell into his lap. He was on an indefinite sabbatical, courtesy of Jack Falstaff, and enjoying the greatest “field opportunity” of his career. Dr. Harry Tamati had come to love his new vocation as guardian of the “Little Martians.” He still called them that in default of a pronounceable alternative and because but Harry loved the old sci-fi mythology.
“Wimp stop. Want to take a swim with me in that little pond over there?” Harry’s Little Ones hated water, except in manageable amounts.
“Point taken, Ssshaman Harry,” Captain said, breaking open a bag of ration wafers. Taking a portion for himself, the alien handed the rest out to the other four; they called themselves Fixer, Defender, Finder, and Dreamer, respectively. These were names, Harry reflected, they had adopted, translated, or more likely just made up for his benefit.
Tiny pewter colored bottles emerged from pouches and disappeared somehow in a tangle of chitinous limbs, where they were sucked empty. Wafers followed, not to return. Harry was familiar with the gross features of the little creatures’ anatomy. And he knew a great deal about their metabolic needs. He had even learned to cook for them, adding the minerals and enzymes they needed here. But in practice they remained so deeply, surpassingly strange, that their most mundane behaviors remained a wonder. Such a wonderful universe, he’d often thought, that has these marvelous creatures in it.
As Harry mused on the strangeness of his charges, and their uncanny grace, Dreamer took leave of the others and stalked the butterfly. The alien was using exaggerated stalking movements, learned, Harry was certain, from the cartoons they watched every week. “Pretty,” Dreamer said. “Like we are…”
“‘Papa Jack’ issss coming, true or not?” The question was from Defender, the largest female of the group; the creature came almost to Harry’s chest at the alien’s full height. All of the “Martians” had quickly learned how to convey human personality. It seemed an innate talent, along with their uncanny ability to sense Harry’s moods. In conversation, two of the pseudopodia, the upper ones with the retractable eyestalks and the tiny pseudo-fingers, would often be held erect, side by side, the eyes making part of a virtual face. A third appendage, its eyestalk retracted, would be held in the virtual mouth position, and its tiny pseudo-fingers would move, puppet style, to mimic moving lips. Defender had developed the craft of conveying human expression, using the “virtual face,” to a high art. Harry could see from her trembling “frown” that Defender was asking for reassurance.
“Yes, Jack Falstaff is coming here. I talked to him very early this morning. The helicopter will land in this very meadow soon. As I told you, we think another pod survived.”
“Good. They are our cousinsssss. Issss it really true that Belief Keeper, Winssssome, and the sisters are coming to live with usss?”
Suddenly all eyes were on Harry. Even Dreamer turned two eyestalks away from the butterfly, his “virtual mouth” formed into an exaggerated, trembling smile. “All I know is that Papa Jack is coming and bringing those who were rescued.” It was an honest answer. Harry was worried and they knew it, but that was his only hard information at the moment. Jack had told him that one of the Little Ones had been killed by an evil man before the rescue. That could wait until more details were available. The mutual trust that had developed over the years between Harry and his Little Ones was based on complete honesty, which was consistent with Jack’s dealings with Harry, if not his lack of candor with Gael and the others in the GFE organization.
“It likessss me,” Dreamer said, holding up a single butterfly adorned limb.
“It jusssst thinksss you are a plant,” Fixer said.
Then the butterfly flitted away. “Oh, oh,” Dreamer said.
Harry looked at his watch, and weighed whether to wait with this restless group for the next hour, or to lead a hike around the meadow and back to keep them occupied.
“Chassse you,” Finder challenged.
“You’ll never catch me,” Dreamer said.
“Betssss!” Fixer interjected.
So at least the entertainment issue is decided, Harry thought, and found a grassy place near the trail to wait it out as his Little Ones scampered off. They were too full of questions when unoccupied and Harry was so tired of coming up with answers. Their cross-examination skills are formidable, he thought. Relentless. They would make good lawyers. Lawyers from space. Hah. Sounds like a 20th century cult movie. Maybe they’ll have movie careers…
Harry dozed…
The helicopter arrived like a remote black moth. It was a few minutes early, plummeting from some impossible height. Over the sounds of the soft wind from the little lake, Harry could hear the metallic buzz, and his Little Ones were immediately on it, gathering around him, chirping and demanding action. He opened his eyes, blinking. “Get up, Sssshaman Harry, Get up…Look! Look!”
Harry got to his feet, stretched out the stiffness and waved his staff in the air. The ‘copter, having been dropped at 58 000 feet by one of GFE’s four air transports, was now descending at a more leisurely pace, almost directly overhead. Harry squinted. It was a speck working on becoming a spot. “Ten minutes, gang,” he said.
But Harry was wrong. It was not the large ‘copter Harry expected, but a tiny model, not nearly big enough to carry the aliens, a flight crew and Jack Falstaff. And it was falling faster than he had surmised, almost like a stone. Then the little blue helicopter braked at 500 meters and touched down so near the lake that Harry could see the ripples on the surface. He squinted at the ‘copter, looking for the GFE logo. Reassured, he began to walk through the grass, followed by his aliens.
Jack Falstaff’s lanky form stepped out followed by that of the pilot.
“Papa Jack didn’t bring them!” Captain said. “What does thissss mean?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell us,” Harry said. The Little Ones bolted ahead, making delicate thudding noises on the ground as they closed the distance.
Fixer was the first to reach Falstaff. “My God, Fix, you’ve grown,” Jack said as he lifted the alien in the air, grunting.
“Sssshaman Harry’sss cooking hassss improved,” Fixer said.
Jack looked at Dr. Harry Tamati’s lumbering approach and winked broadly.
“Fixer is off her diet,” Defender said. Their chirping laughter followed. “Ssstill, Sssshaman Harry issss a better cook now,” the Little One conceded.
“I told you he could cook,” Jack said, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand. “Harry, how are things going?”
“Very well, Jack, as always. They always go well with these characters. But they do watch too many cartoons.”
“Your fault,” Captain chided.
“Captain lovessss Road Runner,” Dreamer said.
“I’ll bet you all do,” Jack chuckled. Chirping followed.
“But we’re dying to hear the news,” Harry said.
Just then, the pilot approached carrying two duffel bags. Jack took one and motioned to the trail, as if to say, “The news can wait.” They walked over the grass in silence for a moment; then Falstaff stopped. He looked at the mountains, then back at the Little Ones. “Gather around, please,” he said as his pilot walked ahead on the trail. “I have some bad news…” The wind died. There was silence except for the distant pinging of metal from the ‘copter as it cooled, and the buzz of insects in the grass. Jack decided to get it over simply and quickly.
“I’m sorry to report that Belief Keeper is dead…” The Little Ones were silent for two beats; then a horrible keening erupted. “But…but…” Jack said, repeating himself until the keening died, “Winsome and the rest have been saved and they are coming here to live.”
There was another thoughtful silence. “When? When?” The Little Ones all spoke at once.
“They are on the way…a matter of
hours at most.”
The compound radiated out from a rounded two-story structure partly niched into a hillside, framed by small conifers. Harry’s Little Ones enjoyed the seven-room upper tier, a full bank of windows and UV transparent skylights. An exercise area that resembled a playground for precocious gymnasts took up half of the immediate grounds. Horses were stabled nearby, and an aluminum shed housed several all terrain vehicles. Cobbled paths intersected at the playground, linking all the buildings and the trail.
After getting settled in his room, Jack suggested a walk, inviting only Harry and Captain. They climbed steps carved into the granite cliff behind the main building, then took a switchback trail that led them well above the tree line. In a few minutes they were completely alone, and Jack was out of breath.
“Far enough,” he gasped.
“What happened?’ Captain asked.
“Give me a second.” Harry passed some water but Falstaff signaled “Not yet.” After a few breaths, “Harry has told you about Torque?
“Yessss. We also know that Torque issss one of your people and that he issss obedient to the Otherssss.”
“Well, Torque and the Others almost found your cousins first.”
“Where were they, exactly?” Harry asked.
“I’m getting to that. A recovered secret data pack dating back to the original crash contained a National Security Agency encrypted reconstruction of various flight paths of the Little Ones’ escape pods. One pod was tracked to Argentina.”
“The Othersss would attack them assss ssssoon assss they found out,” Captain said. “How did they esssscape?”
“This is a big world, and Argentina is a very large area. I imagine it was searched and they assumed, as we might, that your friends would be dead.”
“Sssuch a pleasssure to be wrong,” Captain said. “How did they get away? What happened?”
Captain was obviously agitated and impatient. What part of ‘What happened?’ did you misssss, Papa Jack? he thought.
By now Harry was used to the Little Ones’ impatience with human language. Harry gave Jack a knowing look, as if to say, “Enough already – out with it!”
The Stranded Ones Page 21