The Tau Ceti Transmutation (Amazon)

by Alex P. Berg

A little, yes.

  No snark. That was a surprise.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  The cab took a corner, shot forward a few hundred meters, and slid to a halt as it hit a patch of race dome traffic.

  “Here’s fine,” I told Paige. “I’ll walk the rest.”

  The cab door popped open, and I stepped into a flood of optical and sonic oppression. The gaudy monstrosity of the race dome loomed farther down the street—an overstuffed, pink hemispherical pimple jutting from the earth, waiting to be popped. Gigantic holoprojectors streamed vids into the air above the dome, showing highlights from the latest match as speakers blared commentary and advertisements at any passersby who might still remain oblivious to the monument’s presence.

  “—and He Who Walks in the Shadow of Death zooms into the lead, followed closely by Thundering Herd. They’re heading into the fire spiral, and it looks like The Wings of Albion is making a move. It’s tucking in its wings for a burst—”

  Unlike most pedestrians, who stood rooted in place gaping at the spectacle, I walked as I watched, but watch I did, filtering the action through my peripheral vision. The Querts—which resembled oversized hummingbirds who’d had their feathers removed and replaced with scaly, scintillating skin—flapped their wings furiously, ramming into one another from the sides and back as they tilted and shifted, following a course outlined by neon green rings and projected into the sky of the race dome by swivel-mounted holoprojectors. The course changed each match, and the projectors only displayed the three closest upcoming checkpoints in front of the leader, which made for wild flying from the Querts when the projectors threw in a tight loop-the-loop or helical spiral. To make sure spectators didn’t lose interest, the course designers threw all sorts of additional obstacles at the Querts, from spinning propellers to flaming hoops to active high-voltage capacitor plates that crackled with power and fired streams of electricity at unpredictable intervals. The ordeal was entirely unsafe, but the Querts were a few neurons short of sentience, so as long as the event staff organizers kept the trainers’ fingers greased, everyone stayed happy.

  “—and it’s neck and neck. Wings of Albion and Thundering Herd. Thundering Herd and Wings of Albion. They’re heading into the Globe of Death. One revolution. Now two. Wings of Albion takes a slight lead and—oh! He’s taken a pulse from a Tesla coil right to the thorax. Wings of Albion is down, but he looks to be ok. Yes, he’s moving his wings. Thundering Herd surges into first, but Fool Me Twice is close behind—”

  As I walked, I kept my head forward, acting nonchalant—or as much as I could while skirting increasingly dense pockets of chatting race fanatics and compulsive gamblers.

  “How are we doing, Paige?” I asked. “Carl get a line on the tailers?”

  Barely, she replied. He turned the corner behind us as the crossover pulled away. Looks like a pack of four Diraxi exited the vehicle. One of them is wearing a pair of sashes, like your friend at the Veesnu chapel.

  “Is it the same guy?” I asked.

  Not sure, said Paige.

  I snorted. “And here I thought you were a master at distinguishing between the hard-bodied buggers.”

  I am, said Paige with a tinge of annoyance. But I’d need a closer inspection to be able to tell. Carl, despite his exceptional vision, hasn’t been able to get a clear look at them.

  “But they’re following me?” I asked.

  Yes, said Paige. They’re headed right for you.

  “And Carl’s tracking them?”

  What do you think?

  “Just making sure. No need to get snappy.”

  I headed across the street, skirting around a pair of cabs moving at a crawl through the race crowds, before stepping into the race dome interior. The arena’s foyer spread out before me, bending to my left and right as it followed the curvature of the dome. Lifts and escalators for ushering people to the upper levels dotted the far end, slicing their way between food kiosks and margarita stands, while closer to the doors robo-vendors hawked commemorative sleeveless tees, beer steins, and Quert plushies. Images and vids of the highest ranked champions flashed in the rafters with their win-loss records listed below them, each color coded, with the reigning champion, Wing Gnat, shown in an obnoxious race dome pink. Crowd noise and blaring music surrounded me like a thick fog.

  I headed right to a flashing, overlong series of displays showing up-to-the-second betting lines for the Quert contestants in each of the next five heats. Gamblers milled around the screens, some staring intently at the ever-changing numbers, others standing glassy-eyed as they interacted with their Brains, no doubt calculating their own betting odds based off the contestants’ previous successes.

  I glanced over my shoulder, back toward the dome’s main entrance. A Dirax head towered over the mostly human race fans, a splash of color from its sash peeking over its shoulders. The alien walked toward me at a measured pace.

  “Where are the rest of them?” I asked.

  According to Carl, they spread out, said Paige. It’s just your friend from the chapel after you now. Carl’s monitoring him.

  I sidled up next to a pair of ventilator-clad Meertori and pretended to study the displays. Within a few moments, I heard a familiar voice booming within my head.

  Human. We have things to discuss.

  I turned to one of the Meertori and pointed to the displays. “So, pal, what do you think about Lime and Scale? Does he have what it takes? Is that a good line?”

  I couldn’t see the Meertor’s reaction from behind his respirator, but from the way he recoiled I’m sure he thought I was either a thief or a member of the Pylon Alpha gaming commission.

  Human. Did you not process my request?

  I turned to the Dirax, who stood a bare arm’s length behind me. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

  My missives are directed to your receptor only. You are the only human who can process my communications.

  “Say…do I know you?” I asked. “Are you that guy from the chapel?”

  Is this an attempt at jocularity? Are my distinctive sashes not enough of an identifying feature?

  “You’re right. Sorry. It’s just that my brain is a little fuzzy. I passed out and woke up in an alley with a blinding headache. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  We have matters to discuss. Matters regarding a client of yours. Valerie Meeks.

  I blinked. How did the priest know about her? I’d never mentioned her, unless I did so while in my apple and rain-induced trance. Surely its knowledge of the connection between us hinted at the brainwashing and mind-reading capabilities I’d suspected the Diraxi had developed.

  Or, it connected the dots between you and Carl, said Paige. Even if it didn’t make the cognitive leap between your appearances at his chapel, surely it spotted your partner exiting our cab earlier.

  Paige had a point. I crossed my arms as I stared at the priest. “Alright. Fine. Let’s talk.”

  Not here, came the Dirax’s voice. Somewhere more private.

  I glanced around me. Every gambler’s eyes were trained on the displays or were defocused as they watched vids or analyzed statistics via their own Brains. Arena music blasted through speakers, mingling with the ambient crowd noise to form a steady roar.

  “We’re good here,” I said. “I don’t think anyone’s listening. Besides, you said I was the only one who could process your signals.”

  I stated you were the only human who could do such a thing. Also, your voice carries, and you appear to have an impulsive nature.

  I raised an eyebrow, more at the first part than the last. People had told me I brayed like a donkey.

  Apparently, the Dirax was only somewhat familiar with human facial emotions. It took my eyebrow contortions as a signal of disbelief. If you wish to know the truth about your friend, you will have to place trust in me. Follow, if you please.

  The priest turned tail and headed off through the crowd.

  Might as well do
as it says, said Paige. Carl’s close by. He’s got your feed.

  I’m doing better than that, came Carl’s voice in my head. I’ve got you in my line of sight. Just don’t hop into any unmarked vehicles or huff any weird chemicals.

  Curiosity and the urging of my robotic peers won out over discretion. I followed my tall, Veesnu-preaching compatriot as it sought out rivulets in the crowd through which we could walk. It headed to our left, past the escalators and beer kiosks and robo-vendors into the arena’s eastern concourse where the crowds thinned.

  An alarm sounded overhead, accompanied by the rapid, auctioneer-like voice of one of the announcers. “Five minutes until the next race, ladies and gentlemen, five minutes. Bets are accepted via Brain right up until start time. Please take your seats.”

  We continued to walk as the remaining race fans filtered towards their chairs.

  I glanced back and spotted Carl a few hundred paces behind me, dodging a pack of lingering race fans. “You mind telling me where we’re going?”

  A place that will insulate us from prying antennae, ideally one encircled by numerous layers of alternating metals, hydrocarbons, and composite ceramics high in aqueous content.

  “Uh…what?” I said.

  A room surrounded by concrete and steel. Here. Given the exodus of individuals to the central arena, this should suffice. The Dirax held out a pincer arm in emphasis, pointing to a door emblazoned with a cartoonish image of a standing humanoid.

  “You want us to talk in a bathroom?”

  The Dirax said nothing, choosing instead to clack its pincers. I still didn’t understand the full breadth of that piece of body language. What did it mean in this instance? Annoyance?

  Impatience might be more accurate, said Paige. But close enough.

  I shrugged and waltzed in, the doors zipping open as I approached them. The room forked, a row of a couple dozen stalls and urinals on the left, washbasins and specialty stalls for the more common alien species on the right. I took the left hand side, in case I felt the need to relieve myself after conversing with the sash-clad priest.

  “Alright, we’re here,” I said, turning. “So now can we—awk!”

  I meant to say talk, but the pincer flying toward my face changed the situation.

  21

  I ducked and weaved to the side as the priest’s left pincer whistled toward my face, my kick boxer training taking over in the blink of an adrenaline-fueled eye. Sensing the miss, the Dirax cocked its arm for a wicked backhand. I tucked my arms in close to my body, my hands balled into fists and pulled close to my face for protection, and hopped to the side, causing the pincer slap to miss by a good quarter meter. I landed on my left foot, planted on the tile floor, and spun, sending a flying kick into the Dirax’s narrow midsection.

  My blow connected with a crack as my shin made contact with its exoskeleton, sending the priest stumbling toward the urinals. Pain shot through my leg, but I ignored it. The bone wasn’t broken—I knew as soon as I returned the leg to the ground and shifted my stance—so I stored the pain, using it as fuel for my fire. I’d entered full on ass-kicking mode, and my opponent’s status as a member of the clergy wasn’t about to stop me from unloading on him with every ounce of whoop-ass my two feet could muster.

  The Dirax turned and came at me again, lashing out with a double pincer arm overhand elbow chop. I ducked and shifted to the side, knocking its legs out from under it with a short kick jab. It landed flat on its back, cracking the floor underneath where its carapace made contact with the tile. With alarming speed, it flipped over and crouched low, its pincer arms resting near the floor and its back legs tucked up underneath. I backed up and crouched low in return.

  The Dirax paused, its eyes trained on me, and I assessed the situation. My opponent had two advantages: its reach and its hard-shelled coating. The reach I could easily counter. The Dirax wasn’t particularly quick, and with my low center of gravity, I could easily kick its legs out from under it again and again. The exoskeleton was more of a problem. My shin throbbed from where it had contacted the creature’s abdomen, and I wasn’t sure how much punishment the alien preacher could absorb before feeling any ill effects.

  The priest came at me, scurrying low before rising up, single pincer held high to snap me. I was ready. I delivered a flying heel kick to its face, sending it tumbling into one of the stalls. It fell and crashed into the toilet, sending bits of porcelain into the air as water sprayed from a busted hose.

  The fractured chunks of toilet bowl clattered on the tile as they fell, but something else clattered, too—feet. The Dirax’s buddies rounded the corners, two from the front of the bathroom near the exit and one from the back. They must’ve been laying in waiting in the alternative physiology stalls, knowing their sash-clad pal would jump me. How long had I been fighting the tall guy, anyway? And where the hell was Carl?

  Paige started to tell me he was almost there, but I tuned her out as the remaining Diraxi converged on me. The pair by the door approached, pincers held open before them, ready for action, while the guy at the back waited for the priest in the stall to get up.

  During my halcyon fighting days, inaction had always foretold defeat, so I acted. I feinted toward the lovely couple near the door, causing them to pause. The lone wolf in the rear saw the back of my shirt and lunged for me, hoping to catch me unawares—exactly as I’d hoped.

  I spun, jumped, and delivered a flying knee to its exposed skull, putting my full body weight behind it. The alien crashed into the urinals, its head the meat in an unexpected knee and porcelain sandwich.

  I darted to the other side of the bathroom, but the priest’s friends were quicker than I’d expected. One matched me step for step, pausing at the other end of the sinks, ready for my feints. I crouched, and the cavalry arrived.

  Carl burst in through the door and headed straight for the Dirax in front of me, aided, no doubt, by my streaming Brain feed of the events of the past half minute. The Dirax turned at the puff of the door, its pincers raised, but Carl was too quick, and his compunctions about not causing harm only extended to humans. My partner slammed a rigid finger jab into an indentation three-quarters of the way up the Dirax’s sternum—the Diraxi equivalent of the solar plexus.

  The big insect stumbled and, for lack of a better word, shrieked. It wasn’t a vocalization, of course, but I heard the undirected, electromagnetic scream pulse around my head. I dropped to the floor, the soundless yell filling my mind momentarily until Paige blocked the Brain signal. Meanwhile, I heard another thump and crash coming from the other side of the bathroom, most likely as Carl dropped another of the armor-clad aliens of the cloth.

  As I stumbled to my feet—the Dirax’s subvocal scream had brought my headache back with a vengeance—Carl darted around the corner and grabbed my arm.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  I didn’t argue, but apparently the Diraxi had the same idea we did. Before my shoes could get any traction on the floor, the guy Carl had karate chopped in the breastbone surged out of the stall and headed for the exit. Scurrying and clattering footsteps followed from the other side of the bathroom as the contingent of Veesnu warriors fled the scene of the crime.

  The chaplain with the sashes exited last. As the door closed behind it, I heard its voice in my head. Consider this a warning, human. Disassociate yourself from the Meeks woman. Willfully forget your visit to us.

  Carl’s fingers dug into my arm from the force of his grip, but they relaxed as the last of the Diraxi left. His face softened as he studied me. “How’s your leg?”

  “Hurts a bit,” I said. “It’ll be bruised tomorrow, but I’ve been through worse.”

  “And your knee?”

  “Miraculously fine,” I said. “Apparently it’s harder than a Diraxi head.”

  Water hissed as it sprayed through broken pipes on the other side of the bathroom, the sound mingling with the soft rush of spillover swirling into the floor drains. Carl shook his head.

  “
Don’t say it,” I said.

  “I wasn’t going to,” he said. “But you have to admit, coming into an enclosed space like this wasn’t the wisest of choices.”

  “How was I supposed to know the Zen-like Veesnu priest was going to come at me, carapace puffed and claws out? I thought he wanted to talk.”

  I’ll take partial responsibility for this one, said Paige. I encouraged Rich to follow the guy. I didn’t think he’d attack him either.

  Carl and I both startled as a latch clicked in one of the stalls behind us. A Meertor emerged, shaking, the clasps from his respirator rattling in their sockets. He eyed us with a look most people reserved for psychopaths and committers of war crimes. “What in the sulfurous rains of Venus…?”

  I glanced at Carl. “Um…we should go.”

  22

  I sunk into my office chair, leaned back, and propped my feet up on my desk. As I did so, a soft, slow moan slithered out of my lips.

  “Better?” asked Carl, as he plopped into one of the chairs opposite me.

  “You bet.” We’d stopped by the house on the way back from the tube station, picking up painkillers, Buzzkills, and a few beers. The combined effects of the three had eliminated my aches and pains, both from my shin and the inside of my head, and released some of the residual tension from my muscles.

  Normally, alcohol would’ve made me drowsy, but I was still wired from my bout with the Diraxi. Instead, the beers had awakened me—or at least a part of me. My midsection growled.

  I snapped my fingers. “You know what would hit the spot right about now? A deep-dish pepperoni, mushroom, and feta from DeMarco’s.”

  “Pizza?” said Carl. “Now?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Paige—make it so.”

  My digital lady companion sent in the order.

  Carl shook his head. “I don’t know how you can be so nonchalant right now.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” I said. “I took on a quartet of armor-clad, two-meter-plus-tall Diraxi and came out on top. Apparently Rich ‘Funny Feet’ Weed’s still got it.” I waggled a foot in emphasis.