Pariah

by W. Michael Gear

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said you were a doctor.”

  “A professor. Planetary conservation ecology, young woman.” He paused, then carefully said, “Dr. Weisbacher. Department head and chair of planetology, Tubingen—”

  “Now that’s going to prove about the most useful thing on Donovan since beef cows.” The woman’s tone was snide, insulting.

  “They imported cattle? Here? What were they thinking?”

  “Free lunch for quetzals?”

  “And what, pray tell, is a quetzal?”

  She seemed stunned. “Doctor . . . ?”

  “Weisbacher. I’m the director for the scientific team; we’re here to document the mismanagement of the human presence on Capella III. That means the different ways in which human beings have adversely affected the biosphere, both botanical and zoological.”

  “Raya has antipsychotic medications, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, well, most people have to be here for a couple of months before they go crazy.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Something tells me that would be a waste of effort. Listen, Doctor . . . ?”

  “Weisbacher.”

  “Dr. Weisbacher, maybe you’d better come along with me before you get yourself in trouble. Wet night like this, in those thin shoes of yours, you’re just as likely to pick up a slug, and Raya’s too busy with Milt to take the time to cut it out.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re—”

  “No, Skull, you don’t. So shut the fuck up and follow me over to the hospital. My job is keeping people safe. I’m getting the feeling that the only way I can do that with you is by sitting you down with Cheng, Iji, and Dya, so they can tell you what the hell Donovan is all about.”

  “You talk to me like that? I’m the department chair at Tubingen Transluna! I hold the—”

  “Fuck this!” She stepped closer, staring up into his face. Now that the light was shining on it, he could see a dusting of freckles on her nose and hard green eyes shining in the light. “Mister, you want to come along peaceably, or do you want me to put you in a fucking headlock and haul your ass?”

  Dortmund struggled for words as he stared into those implacable eyes. “I . . .”

  “Coming? Or do I humiliate the hell out of you as I drag your squealing carcass across town?”

  “This is a nightmare.”

  “No, they live a bit farther to the south.”

  Dortmund lifted his arms, letting them fall. “Go ahead, officer. Lead forth. But so help me, you will rue the day you raised your voice to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m trembling in my boots.”

  Dortmund took a deep breath, shot one last look at the abomination of crops where they grew in Capella III’s now-polluted soil.

  Someone is going to pay for this, I swear.

  32

  What in hell are we? The Three Musketeers? The question rolled around Talina’s head as they traveled through the dim recesses of the forest.

  She was a lot happier with the notion that they were musketeers than the darker possibility that they were wayob. The spirit-possessed Maya witches, or brujas, as her great-aunt supposedly had been.

  That mocking Way potsherd continued to haunt her imagination.

  Given the shallow soils atop the basalt, the trees around Mundo Base were neither as thick nor as tall as they were in the lowlands immediately to the south.

  In the dappled shadows, Talina walked carefully, picking her steps across the roots; her soft boots barely irritated the thick root mat.

  Didn’t matter that Flash was walking beside her; every bit of her quetzal sense was alert. This was still virgin forest. She’d already spotted sidewinders, a skewer, a couple of bems, and she knew for a fact that at least one nightmare lurked in the area.

  Oddly, the way was familiar. Had to be Rocket’s molecules inserting memories, because she was looking at specific trees, outcrops, and patterns of roots. When she did, she experienced splintered memories of different times, of happy thoughts and bad. Saw ghostly and partial images.

  And just up ahead was where a sidewinder had almost got Kylee. Only to have Rocket leap on it at the last second and snap it in two.

  The little girl rode on Flash’s back. A crest lay draped limply across the big quetzal’s neck just ahead of the girl. It had fallen to a single shot from Talina’s pistol.

  “Dimly, dully, I begin to see,” Talina said.

  Flash shot her a sidelong glance from his right eye.

  “I see fine.” Kylee mocked a scout’s action, raising her hand flat to her forehead and peering around. “Thought you had quetzal vision, too.”

  “I do. It’s just that I’m seeing other things. Other times through Rocket’s eyes.”

  To Flash, Talina said, “You’re right, old pal. The experiment isn’t over. I get the bits and pieces. I think it’s a hint of knowing what it’s like to be a quetzal.”

  Taupe and umber, patterned with yellow, green, and pink, effectively asked, “How so?”

  “It’s about the acquisition of memory. For humans, memory starts when we’re born. Some notions and behaviors are determined by our genes, but not physical memories. We might intuitively know that snakes are dangerous and to beware of heights. But we don’t inherit images from our parents’ memories that form in our heads.”

  The eye was still taking her measure when she said, “But for you, tasting, learning, as you call it. You absorb the molecules that contain memory, and then they express themselves inside you. When you ate your elder way back when, you absorbed his memories and experiences, too, didn’t you?”

  Orange ran in waves down the beast’s hide, and faded to forest tones.

  “The first quetzal who infected me did so in order that its mate could eventually find me and kill me. What we call revenge. Is that common among quetzals?”

  Again the orange.

  “You wanted to know what humans were. So much so that you risked Rocket’s life in an attempt to bond him to Kylee. But before that, how many humans had you killed and tasted without results?”

  Three spots of black darkened on Flash’s hide and faded. Then came a pattern of colors and shapes beyond Talina’s recognition.

  “Didn’t get that last part, but you killed and ate three people.” She gave him a wicked smile. “Not to mention Rebecca and Shantaya. Good thing I’m not into vendetta, huh? But getting back to the point, all quetzals are different, right? Like the fact that if anything happens to you, Leaper will kill Kylee because he blames her for Rocket’s death.”

  The patterns of orange flashed again.

  “Killing Kylee? Flawed logic since it wasn’t Kylee’s fault.”

  Talina couldn’t read the patterns and colors that followed.

  “Can’t you just share molecules instead of having to eat each other for a fuller understanding of motivation?”

  A kaleidoscope of colors flickered across the quetzal’s hide. Way too much information there.

  “So, my next question: Are you in contact with other quetzals up north? Maybe with Whitey? The one whose molecules you got when you tasted me?”

  Brown. That meant no.

  “Then every lineage of quetzals has its own agenda? Makes its own decisions?”

  Orange again.

  She stepped around a jutting outcrop of angular basalt, seeing the words ALL THINGS END.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Mark left his armor there,” Kylee said from her high perch. “He thought he was going to die. Almost did. He was fighting with the old nightmare when Rocket and I smelled him.”

  “Smelled?”

  “Like old rotten socks. Anything that noxious had to be a pedophile.”

  “Noxious?
Even knowing your mother and the things she would have insisted that you learn, you still amaze me sometimes.”

  “Just a kid full of hate.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m like the quetzals. I have Rocket inside me. And I don’t. There was him and me. And then there’s just me. Alone. Like the emptiness is swallowing me . . . like with each day there’s less and less of me. So I hate. I think about what I’m going to do to those shits in Port Authority, and what’s left of me doesn’t drain away as fast.”

  “That heals over time, kid.”

  “It’s not like with you and Mitch, or you and Cap. I know how you feel. But take that hurt and emptiness and cube it. Maybe you’ll come close to where I’m at.”

  Trouble was, the kid was right. Not a damn thing Talina could say. She’d felt the edges of Kylee’s grief. Not just for Rocket, but guilt for Rebecca and Shantaya. Like a stygian void that would consume Talina’s soul if she so much as let the least bit of it slip past her defenses.

  Made her wonder how the little girl hung on day by day.

  So, out here, with only Flash for a friend, what the hell did Kylee have to look forward to? Especially when the kid was right; she’d never fit in back in Port Authority.

  The quetzal in Talina’s gut gave off one of its hissing chitters of amusement.

  “Yeah? You’re a piece of shit.”

  “What’d I do?” Kylee cried.

  “Not you, the quetzal in my gut. He thinks this is funny.” She glanced at Flash. “Why don’t your molecules eat his molecules? You’re a decent kind of guy, even if you did eat a bunch of people.”

  White and iridescent-red patterns ran across Flash’s hide as the old quetzal uttered a clicking of laughter.

  None of which hinted at a solution to the problem: What the hell kind of future did Kylee have to look forward to?

  33

  The song “Shake Me, Suzie” had always brought a smile to Dan’s lips. The band Neutron EERHT had released it back in the late thirties, and it had become a classic. Dan had first heard it when he was on the streets as a teen. Used to listen to it when he was fucking a woman. Something about matching the lyrics and beat to the timing of each thrust. He’d save his orgasm until that last crashing crescendo.

  He’d hired the local band for this evening, knowing it would bring in extra traffic. People bet more when they were in a good mood, and Vixen had brought a real high. Maybe the other ships weren’t as “lost” as people wanted to believe.

  As he sat at his elevated table in the rear, he watched Allison. She was delivering drinks for Vik Schemenski, who was busy pouring behind the bar. God, she was a beauty. He could look at her for the rest of his life.

  Thinking of sex, he allowed himself a crooked smile as he watched Allison undulate her way across the room. She wore form-fitting silver tonight, and Dan flexed his hands, imagining them as they cupped her full, round ass.

  They hadn’t screwed for almost a week. Just too damn busy. But tonight, as things began to wind down, it was time. Take her back to the office, lock the door, and do it on his desk. Maybe before the band quit. He’d tell them to play “Shake Me, Suzie” every other song. He’d never fucked to live music before.

  With the arrival of the shuttle from Vixen, The Jewel was doing a solid night’s business. People crowded around the tables. Shin Wong ran the roulette while Angelina captivated her audience at the craps table. She was wearing a loose, low-cut one-piece belted at her waist. Each time a mark shook the bones and made a toss, she’d bend low, letting the shooter get a glimpse of her endowment.

  For the moment, the shooter was Dube Dushku. Dan supposed that the last thing the guy’s wife, Friga, needed to know was that her husband—good family sort that he was—was drooling and dropping the family’s SDRs so he could ogle Angelina’s tits.

  Dan had worked too hard to win the acceptance, if not the love, of Port Authority’s doting mothers to allow Dube to fuck it all up should word get out that he was desirous of fondling Angelina’s globes.

  How many schools could a man build?

  The “upstanding folk” had to be treated with such delicacy. Wasn’t like the bachelor clay miners and prospectors. If they got randy, all it took was a whack to the head, then dump them in the alley.

  Piss off the “decent” folk, and it could get you killed.

  He made a face. If it weren’t for the shit-sucking intricacies of politics a man’s life would be so much easier.

  Dan pulled a toothpick from his pocket and gestured to Art Maniken. Gave a flick of his fingers and glanced toward Dube.

  Art nodded, stepped over, and asked, “What do you need, boss?”

  “Get his cherry ass back to his house. And if his wife is there, be fucking polite, respectful, and tell her I didn’t want her hubby to misbehave.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “And remember the polite part.”

  “Hey, I was civilized once.”

  “Yeah, in a quetzal’s ass.”

  Art sidled up to Dube and said, “How much of your plunder’s left?”

  Dube blinked, obviously more than a little drunk. “Hey, I’m gonna win any throw now.”

  “Sorry, pal. You just hit the jackpot. C’mon. Boss says you’re headed back to the missus.”

  Dube wasn’t too drunk to know when to cut his losses. Not when it came to Art Maniken.

  At that moment a man in black stepped in the door. Definitely a newcomer. He made way, thoughtfully observing as Art manhandled the protesting Dube out the door and into the evening drizzle.

  Soft meat. Had to be from Vixen, though Dan didn’t remember seeing him earlier. Then he really got a good look at the guy. Their eyes met from across the room.

  He might be a Skull, but this one was anything but soft meat.

  Dan pasted his good-guy smile on his face, inclining his head.

  At that moment, Allison crossed between them, having delivered a round of drinks to the pinochle table.

  The newcomer fixed on her like radar on a missile. The look in the guy’s eyes turned downright predatory. A faint smile bent those thin and bloodless lips as he ran his gaze up Allison’s legs, past the sleek hips and thin waist to the full breasts. Put a whole new meaning to the words “eye fuck.”

  “Oh my,” Dan whispered to himself. “Why do I think you want to put fingerprints all over the merchandise?”

  Dan stepped around the table, and the new guy shifted his gaze back. The smile vanished like mist in the desert.

  “Why, I do declare,” Dan said, and stuck his hand out. “A new face, and what a change from the usual ugly mugs I have to endure. I’m Dan Wirth, at your service. Welcome to The Jewel.”

  “Tamarland Benteen,” the man in black said, his flat gaze seeming to bore right through Dan’s happy mask. “But then I’d imagine if you’re the kind of man you appear to be, you’d have heard of me by now.”

  Dan gave him a knowing smile. “The Supervisor, cunning slit that she is, already warned me. Said that you were more trouble than I could handle. So I asked around. One of my people talked to one of the Vixen people. Said you had a death penalty awaiting you back in Solar System. That tells me, at least in my book, you might just be all right.”

  Dan gestured to his table in the rear. “Light and set. I’ll stand you to a drink.” Over his shoulder he called, “Vik! Two glasses. The good stuff.”

  “They ship the liquor in?” Benteen asked, his alert eyes taking in the room. Something about the way the man seated himself in a fluid motion, the fact that he missed nothing, seemed to monitor everything in his peripheral vision, had Dan’s internal claxon wailing.

  “Donovan is an acquired taste, but not without its rewards. Inga Lock—the woman who runs the tavern—distills, brews, and wines, whatever they call that. The grains and fruits are locally grown. As long
as you like vegetables, life’s good. The local meat sucks compared to a good cut of beef or pork.”

  “And you run this place?”

  “Among other businesses.”

  Allison came striding over from the bar, an amused curl on her full lips. And, damn her, she was playing it for everything, hips swaying, the silver fabric clinging to her loins shimmering with every step. She gave Benteen a radiant smile and lifted a golden eyebrow as she said, “And who might you be?”

  Benteen stood, interest in his eyes like a glistening question. “Tamarland Benteen, lovely lady. Champion of the poor, trampler of tyrants, and humbled by your charm.”

  Dan experienced that slow burn as Benteen took his drink; as he did the man’s fingers stroked the length of the back of Allison’s hand. She seemed to start. And damn if Dan didn’t see that familiar widening of her pupils, that slight blush on her pale flesh. Then came that cunning look, the new one she’d been giving people since she stopped taking the drugs.

  “Thank you, angel of mine,” Dan told her bluffly, but his heart had slowed to a deadly beat. A coldness in his chest. He took the drink she handed him, and added, “Vik’s got the bar. I think you can finally get back to the office and those pesky ledgers. Oh, and don’t forget the cage accounts on your way.”

  That wry curl of the lips was back as Benteen watched her walk in her saucy way back to the cage, grab the accounts, and disappear into the rear.

  “An exquisite creature,” Benteen said softly, then flicked his knowing gaze at Dan. “Here’s to Capella III and new horizons.”

  Dan clicked his glass to Benteen’s. “We call it Donovan. As to the horizons, that depends on the quality of your eyesight. Nearsighted, or far. And it helps to know what’s what so that you don’t mistakenly step in a trap that will get your ass killed.”

  “I try to be nimble on my feet.” Benteen tasted the whiskey. “I’m impressed.”

  “Inga will blush. But now that you’re here, and I understand you’re not about to leave, what are your plans? Anything I can help with?”