Nighthawks at the Mission: Move Off-World. Make A Killing.

by Forbes West

  Chapter Six:

  The Ritual

  Far away there is what looks like an old-school police cruiser painted yellow, blue and white, its headlights flickering on and off. It seems to be signaling to you and Jaime, who are still on the badly-lit station platform with the idling train. It has a rough double tap rumble to it, like something’s wrong with the muffler. It’s at least thirty years old and definitely not American made. More Europeanish in style. The words Mission Security written in English and Perchta decorate the sides of the vehicle.

  The cruiser pulls up. Two young guys, both in black leather uniforms, pop out. Each one has an ori-baton, a pistol, and a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun attached to his belt. They call out to the Ni-Perchta train workers in Perchta before coming up to you two. The Ni-Perchta are busy off-loading some cases from one of the monorail’s cars.

  “Who are they?” I say. “Cops?”

  Jaime blows out a raspberry. “The Ephors are the only cops to be really scared of, Sarah. No, these are just Counters, uh, Mission Security, who work as, well, security for the Network Missions. They actually operate under the Bill of Rights.”

  The two men shake hands with the Ni-Perchta in the Ni-Perchta way: one hand closed up in a fist touching the chest, the other out and shaking in one smooth pumping motion.

  “They look like college students. Just like us,” you say, watching them.

  Jaime suddenly becomes nervous. “Be careful what you say to them,” he whispers. “You don’t know how they’ll turn it. We love each other very much and are happily married.”

  He kisses you on the cheek, which is now the second time you have kissed since you’ve been officially married.

  The Counter with glasses and long hair speaks to you. “I am Tadeo Marcelino, and this is Robert Fuller.” He puts out his hand to you and then to Jaime.

  Jaime says, “We’re married, me and her, and this is great. This is fun, this is what couples do.” The inspectors shoot you and Jaime a weird look.

  A single eerie horn blasts out over the dark, empty land, like a call from a dead Viking’s tomb. Other horns begin to blow, from all directions. You hear what you assume to be other Ni-Perchta out in the darkness, far off, calling out to each other.

  “This is the night of the comet’s return,” Robert says. “It signals something to them—a chance for change, incredible change. You see the moons up there—those are the Seven Sisters of Night. And with the comet here, it’s the return of the Eighth Sister—the one that’ll fight with the other sisters before passing on. The Eighth Sister is important—she determines the future of all. The Ni-Perchta know the exact hour when this comet will return every century. Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. I knew that,” you say.

  The Counters gesture to their cruiser. “Let’s take you over. There’s a local nomadic tribe. They like to know those who work and live at Mission Friendship. They are not like the city Ni-Perchta who hate our guts but smile to our faces.”

  “They’re called covens, Sarah,” Jaime pipes in.

  Robert Fuller nods. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Jaime looks very happy to hear that.

  Tadeo continues. “A lot of your future neighbors are there, too. The Coven of Upper Sargasso has welcomed you all. All are welcome.”

  “All are welcome, all welcome. Go into the light. There is peace and serenity in the light...” you say in a high and creepy falsetto voice, making Jaime and the inspectors look at you. “Never saw Poltergeist? Huh. I’m sorry I’m still a little high…”

  “Highly exhausted,” Jaime interrupts. He takes our luggage and puts it into the back of the cruiser.

  * * *

  You come up to an open grass area with a single tree in the middle. Two Ni-Perchta males are spraying something on this tree using an old garden hose connected to a small tank. A few other Ni-Perchta set it on fire; its entire form is now blazing and crackling under the dark sky. The smoke and the smell of the burning wood reminds you of Halloweens past when you used to have bonfires at Bolsa Chica beach.

  The Ni-Perchta sit around on what look like giant carpets, watching the tree engorged in flame. You and Jaime and the Counters jump out of the cruiser. The Counters and, oddly, even Jaime, call out to the Ni-Perchta in Perchta.

  It certainly looks like they are happy to see you, and they offer you a place on their rough carpets. Meat and a sort of red milk are offered but you and the two Counters gently refuse. Jaime refuses as well after a moment. One Ni- Perchta brings out a small wooden baton, and with that strange little power of telekinesis that only orichalcum can give, pulls a group of branches off the burning tree and sets them into a circle of rocks to make their own separated bonfire for cooking skewers of meat that hang limply from rusty bayonets.

  From over the horizon you see lit torches and hear the stamping of feet and the creaking of wagon wheels over the grasslands. More Ni-Perchta gather towards the burning tree, coming from all angles.

  Jaime rubs his hands together, excited. “Must be somethin’ special!”

  The Ni-Perchta approach in pairs and groups, some with fully decorated wagons adorned in garish colors like the old Gypsies back on Earth. Others arrive in small, rotted out pickup trucks and cars twenty or thirty years old being towed by hairy cows that have six devil-black horns on the sides of their heads. These are the Afer animals. A few dump trucks, covered in beads and wind chimes, pull up as well, loud and jangling.

  One regal-looking Ni-Perchta drives up in a rusted Ford Mustang with no doors and chains on its tires, being pulled by nothing but Detroit horsepower coming out of a bad engine. This older Ni-Perchta wears a sort of black headdress; three straight, black Afer horns poke out of each side.

  The Ni-Perchta call out to each other, laughing or singing their funeral dirge songs.

  The women are beautiful, their platinum hair waist-length around angular faces, their eyes glowing red in the dark. They wear almost see-through blouses and tunics that are every color of the rainbow.

  Some of the males and their children set up large drums. With heavy smooth sticks the Ni-Perchta start to pound the drums in unison, creating a steady, thundering beat. Whistles and flutes begin playing; there’s a distinctly Asian sound to them. Poles are raised that have wind chimes on top of them. The drums continue to beat in rhythm, slow, steady. The two humans with you, the Network boys, stand to the side, observing. Some humans come out of the dark. They have come by wagon or crappy 70s-era cars, and are about your same age or a little bit older.

  The drums beat a little more quickly, then a little more quickly. The Ni-Perchta dance in a large circle, spinning slowly around in their own individual circles. They chant now, something you would hear at the entrance to Hell, you suppose. They stop.

  “Oh Lord,” Jaime says, pointing to the sky. A comet, white and glowing, streaks across the sky, as large as one of the moons. It blots out some of the stars as it passes.

  One of the Ni-Perchta speaks a few sentences. You assume that he is the chief by his headdress and the way the other Ni-Perchta pay attention to him.

  The drums beat again, slowly this time. The chief sends over a little Ni-Perchta girl, a cute one, perhaps in her very early teens, who has something wrapped in a cloth.

  She gives you a collapsed expandable baton, one like all the others that humans carry around. It’s brand new, shiny. It has empty slots to put in orichalcum stones; only one slot has a blue-white orichalcum stone fitted into it. In tiny letters you can read Telekinesis above it.

  “A goddamn weapon. Sweet,” you say. “I refuse.”

  Jaime looks at you funny. “Refuse? You are a Force-Fire. Like me. It’s sort of interesting. They want to make sure you are okay. They are so happy you’ll be working at Mission Friendship.”

  You nod and then look around like you’ve just woken up from a deep sleep. “What’s a Force-Fire?”

  “A resurrection of a local hero. Sort of like the concept the Tibetan Bud
dhists have about tulkus. You are a great soul, they say, but you just don’t know it yet. Apparently, me too. We escaped from those dungeons—they all know this.” Jaime looks confused, but excited at the same time.

  “Wow. Great,” you respond, disinterested.

  “Of course you can refuse it. But that’s, that’s...”

  “Do I have to thank them? Thank you guys. Thanks.” The large crowd of aliens stare at you with red reflecting eyes. One Ni-Perchta sharpens a sword in the background. You think you see Guy Farson somewhere in the background too, but you aren’t really sure. A shadow of that good-looking man disappears into the darkness. You feel a little scared now as you are surrounded on all sides by the Ni-Perchta.

  “Can’t believe we did that.” You reflect on what happened not even a full day before. The Counters look at you curiously, exchanging glances.

  “Thank you,” you say to the Ni-Perchta girl who is still standing next to you. The Network Counters and Jaime nearly trip over each other trying to get the translation out.

  “Why did they just give it to me?” you ask.

  Robert speaks to you in a whisper. “The chief says that it will help protect you as your past life comes into your present life.”

  “You should give a speech,” Tadeo says.

  “A speech for what? I don’t know why. This is some silly stuff, guys. I just got through some shitty twenty-four hours and you’re springing this…this craziness on me.” You cough and then nod to the entire crowd of Ni-Perchta. You decide quickly that perhaps you should say something. A long moment passes. You speak loudly and clearly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor. That's not my business. I don’t want to rule anyone or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone—if possible—Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness—not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And The Oberon is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life here can be free and beautiful.”

  The crowd looks confused, and the Ni-Perchta say nothing as one of the Counters translates for you.

  “It’s from The Great Dictator. I had to memorize it for drama class. You’re welcome,” you whisper to Jaime. He looks confused.

  “Humphrey Bogart was in it?”

  “Never mind.”

  The crowd cheers for an unknown reason after the Counter finishes, and you realize you are definitely still high from the Valis wheel. The speech sticks in your mind. You haven't thought about that movie in a long time, nor have you thought about that Charlie Chaplin speech. The speech means a lot to you actually, though you don’t share that information with anyone.

  The other humans come out of the crowd and walk over to you. The first you meet are the Cartwrights, a young couple from England who apparently run a lumber mill or something. The man, Wellington, “Call me Wellington,” he says, after you call him “Devo” for no reason, is Mission Friendship’s head doctor. His wife, Temperance, cuts up and sells the trees around the Funeral Breaks to local Ni-Perchta tribes. You ask if the Ni-Perchta are too stupid to figure out how to use a saw blade and she laughs nervously and tells you no and that what you just said is a bit racist.

  You also meet the Page sisters: two girls, one skinny with horn-rimmed glasses named Treena and the other chubby with bouncy blonde hair called Winniefreddie. They run the bar inside Mission Friendship, the Benbow Inn.

  “Fantastic!” you say. “Now can one of you bounce on back to the Benbow and get me a drink?”

  “So sorry,” Jaime apologies. “Time to go, Sarah.”

  In the back of the cruiser on the way to Mission Friendship, as Jaime is still beaming at his surroundings, you take a look at the baton the Ni-Perchta gave you. Though their concept of who you are is quite ridiculous, you find them giving you the baton to be a very nice gesture.

  Chapter Seven:

  Mission Friendship

  The Ni-Perchta go back to their caravan homes and their trucks and cars to relax and perhaps sleep the night away. Though the smaller bonfire has petered out, the tree still burns, fully engulfed yet strangely not falling apart.

  You see it behind you as you drive towards Mission Friendship, passing over the wooden bridge across the river. Someone has left strange white graffiti on parts of the bridge’s wall.

  A wanted sign is pasted onto one of the pillars of the bridge. It says: WANTED— CHARLES MATHIAS, LEADER OF MATHIAS-PETTY GANG. A hand-drawn and faded picture of a man with curly red hair has been copied onto the poster. Convicted Murderer. 25 Million Dii-Yaa Reward, Alive or Dead, from Ephors of Kadath and Bureau of Off- World Affairs. A dragon-like symbol is stamped at the bottom of the poster.

  You mean to ask Jaime about it but Mission Friendship is ahead of you. As you get closer, the Mission looks like it is half out of the movie Kundun or Seven Years in Tibet and half like it belongs in Vegas or Dubai. The glitzy ugliness of the apartment tower arbitrarily grafted onto the old stone dzong is jarring to you.

  You are mildly excited about what you’re about to get into, curious more than anything else. A monument sign states that, yes, this is indeed Mission Friendship. The Counters park the cruiser outside the massive wooden doors of the old part of the Mission; the doors are ajar. Behind them is a set of glass doors, leading to the interior.

  The Counters had to unlock the glass doors of the building and then turn on the lights. In the lobby, a pair of desks face you head on. There are a couple of glass-walled offices off to one side. Each desk has stacks of brochures and a computer on top, along with a printer. The electronics all have a funny-looking, metallic cage over it. One of the Counters grabs a clipboard and a yellow packet full of keys from one of the desks and leads you to the elevators.

  The lobby is as big as a soccer field and has within its stone walls three all-American shops: a McDonald’s, a Subway, which makes your skin crawl a little, and a Starbucks. Though the lobby looks like it had once been the inner courtyard or hall for the great palace, it is now a glorified food court. A smaller shop with closed doors, off to the far right corner, away from fast food row, has a wooden sign stenciled with the words Benbow Inn. The smell of French fries is both comforting and overwhelming. A large marketplace, closed off and behind steel bars, seems to be your local grocery store. It takes up most of the lobby.

  Hanging on one wall is an incredible painting—it’s of a wizard, you think, perhaps a representation of the Witch-Lord himself. The figure is covered in shadow, holding a gnarled staff. A white light shines on this figure but it only highlights his outline and never his features. A small plaque with an inscription written in English, Japanese, and Perchta confirms your belief: The Hidden Witch-Lord of The Oberon.

  Radio Oberon is playing through hidden speakers; it’s an old fifties doo-wop song.

  The men from Mission Security take you to a row of elevators. You find yourself lowered, not brought up a floor; you are in some dingy basement-like area. The light here is pale and barely lights up anything. The MS men take you to your front door, which opens to reveal a fairly large two-bedroom place. Bland furniture and appliances fill up the space, and there is no television, just a large, old-style radio, an antique rescue from the forties. There are no windows, which depresses you further. The walls are blank. A welcome basket sits on one white counter next to the sink, and you find the refrigerator fully stocked with bland goodies.

  The Counters check through the place quickly. Robert makes notes on how the place looks. This is your moving in inspection, you realize dimly. Jaime is doing all the talking.

  He finally calls you over to sign off on the last few bits of paperwork, and when you do so, he hugs you for a second. “New home for you…us. Kind of cool, huh?”

  It’s all a bit too much for you and your stomach heaves for a quick and painful moment. Jaime mentions to the Counters that you’ve been feeling a little sick lately, which
explains “the silliness you do.”

  Near the back of the apartment, you spot a single white door that is ajar, revealing a bleak-looking toilet, and make your way to the back in order to use it. Perhaps it’s every emotion you’ve had since arriving hitting you at once, or perhaps it’s your foolishness in doing drugs catching up to you, but now you feel sick to your stomach. You make it into the restroom, close the door behind you and stare into the mirror for a long moment, seeing a slightly disheveled, tired looking young woman with brunette hair. You turn on the cold tap, running your hands through it and then splashing it onto your face for a good minute, feeling the water run over your hands, your face. The basin is filled with cool water now and you become fixated on it, staring at it, skimming your hand over its surface.

  Blackness. No sound. No feeling.

  There are strange tones, something not of this world; sounds that only the dead can hear, you fear.

  You stand up in a stupor, shaking your head, and stumble out of the bathroom, swinging the door wide open. You feel drugged.

  And then you see Dwelka Storma, same armor, same mask covering the bottom half of his face, the half-crown. The Ephor warrior stands there, sword drawn. You hear the strange tones again and feel as if you are falling. The vision of Dwelka Storma fades and disappears, to be replaced by your sister—a woman you haven’t seen for a very long time. You see Star in the Mountain for a brief second.

  The vision disappears. The two Counters are helping to your feet, and Jaime gets a cup of water for you.

  “We can go to sleep in a little bit. You okay, Sweetie McSweetums?”

  You shake your head, thinking that you just imagined what he had said. Tyler would say that. Not him.

  Chapter Eight:

  The Flash Storm

  (When the Levee Breaks)