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

by Forbes West

  “Is Treena okay?” you ask.

  He nods. “She just wanted some time alone. Not catching those people... She’s very bothered. It was her sister, Sarah. She doesn't want a funeral for Winniefreddie, she’s that screwed up about it.” He hands you a plate of food.

  You nod. “We need to get revenge for her death.”

  You sit on a curb with a pile of plates full of different foods, munching away. Crowds of people pass by as you eat like a maniac, stuffing yourself to the point that you’ll need help to get up. You start with that good and fresh gyro meat and fried calamari that is perfect with a cocktail sauce, and you finish up with baklava that really makes your day. To have real food after days of almost nothing but IV fluids refreshes you.

  “Not a bad place to end up,” you tell Guy.

  A young couple walks by, holding hands. You do the same with Guy after a while.

  A couple of Counters in their neat leather uniforms pass by, chatting and smoking, and you see one Mission Security officer drinking openly.

  That night, as large bonfires burn across the beach that looks out to the red land bridge and the Baths of Urncalles, you sit on warm, white sand as the tide rolls in.

  “Well then...” Guy says.

  “I want to get hammered, bad,” you say.

  Guy pushes some white sand forward with the heel of his shoe. “You mean get drunk, right?” he says, sounding sheepish. “Sarah, you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Alcohol would be nice.” You stand up and brush off your jeans that still have the tag attached.

  “Okay, ‘cause, yep, let’s go,” he says, laughing awkwardly. He yanks the tag off your jeans.

  You and Guy walk to a brick building covered in purple ivy that has one of those green and white Rhodesian flags prominently displayed outside. Ni-Perchta town guards stand ready to pick up feisty drunks. They carry wooden shields and batons, ready to inflict some order if need be.

  A gust of wind blows the pub sign that juts out from the side of the building. It states that this is The Rhodie Bar. A picture of a trooper in green shorts, shirt, and hat with a beer mug in one hand and an M-16 in the other is engraved into the wooden frame.

  “What is this place?”

  Guy shrugs, cracking his knuckles. “The Rhodie Bar. Only real bar in the Cydonia. It’s nothing like the places at Solomon’s Bay, but still...” He opens the circular door with its iron ring handle. Pool tables are in the back, and a stone stairway leads up to the second story. The place is full of wooden booths and has a long stainless steel bar.

  Most prominent are the Rhodesian flags from the colonial era to the time of Independence, draped behind the bar, along with a plaque saying: ALCOHOL IS ILLEGAL WITHOUT A PERSONAL LIQUOR LICENSE—WITCH-LORD LAW in English and Greek. Dark but homey, the place has that rich smell of years of beer being spilled and of eggs—there is a large clear glass jar of deviled eggs sitting in the middle of the bar. This reminds you of another bar you’ve been in.

  The place is rocking out, a jukebox thumping away. No gas lamps in this place; it is all electrical.

  A lone brunette girl smokes a cigarette behind the counter and a Ni-Perchta male with one side of his face heavily scarred wears an apron. They serve drinks alongside a gaggle of human girl waitresses in black slacks and tops. The full house appears to be made up of college kids along with the locals. The Ni-Perchta’s platinum hair is tied up in a ponytail, and he wears a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt.

  “What’s up, Guy?” the brunette says as you and Guy stroll up. You can barely hear her over the music. An odd accent colors her words. This very attractive girl must be missing her right eye, since it is permanently closed and has a punched in, flat look.

  Guy shrugs. “Just doing what I do, Kayla. We need some drinks here.”

  * * *

  “One, two, two.” You miscount as you and Guy down your fifth shot of tequila. Your tongue is starting to go numb so you sip your water. Guy’s doing a little better, although to your double vision both of his faces are wearing sunglasses that are quite askew. Why he is wearing his white-framed Ray Bans now, at night and indoors, you have no idea.

  It is getting late, and you and he have a pile of shot glasses and beer pints lined up on the table. You still have a lot of energy, though your head does not seem to be connecting very well with your body. You chew on a plate of what looks like seaweed, which it is basically, from the Quadling Sea. It’s supposed to keep your system healthy and functioning, and it tastes like pure salt.

  “I like not paying for shrinks,” you say, realizing one word was wrong in that sentence. “Something’s not wrong with that s-something tings, wrong with that sentence.” You try to keep one eyelid open with your fingers. “I like not…using money… for shrinks.” You frown. “Whatever.”

  Guy straightens his sunglasses. “What you go smend-spend your money on, kid? You got nearly a lot in there, honey, from the job, but what if you get more? I know what I would spend on, true shit, I know what I would spend on, not something stupid.” He downs the last of his fourth beer. “Look, this is what I would spend my money on, girl, this is what I spend…are you listening?”

  You feel like passing out but you straighten up.

  “Two birds. One a parrot and one an eagle. That’s first. I’d buy ‘em and release ‘em because there needs to be some kindness in this world, you know. If someone was selling these birds that wouldn’t be right, and releasing them would be an omen. Let me tell you a couple of three things, like Phil Leotardo would say. First would be a Maserati—a kick the shit out of everything else car, few years behind the market, something that if you saw it rolling up you’d go, ‘Ho-ho, look at this guy! He’s a money-making machine. A triple-M mother-shut your mouth man.’ Next would be like some restaurant out in Hollywood that’s only open four hours a day, and celebrities just got to gravitate to it, you know, like magnets, like a hot ass magnet for hot ass people. And B, the original demo tapes to Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska. You know that album he did in his closet back in ‘82 that’s just songs about killing cops? You dig the boss, right, who doesn’t dig the boss? That’s history, my friend, it belongs in a museum,” Guy finishes.

  “I’d get a Hassermati car too. I knew a guy with a Hassermati,” you say. “Like that effer right there.” You see someone who looks like Tyler heading your way.

  “Oh shit,” you say, recognizing who it is. It’s Jaime Van Zandt, your husband once upon a time. Not Tyler. He waves. He looks sun burned and his hair is a lot longer than you remember. He’s grown a patchy beard.

  “Holy wow! I just came in here because of all the history. My god, Sarah? Is that you? I can’t recognize...but I love it,” Jaime says, sitting next to you in the booth. “Can you believe how far south we’ve gone?”

  Guy snarls a little, like a threatened dog. “Who’s you, friend?”

  Jaime puts out a hand. “Uh, Van Zandt. Jaime Van Zandt. I was—well I guess am—Sarah’s hubby here. Legally, not, uh, spiritually. God, I was worried about you with the Mission and all. I read stuff in the Network Morning Star. All those stories about Sargasso. I wandered through the Sargasso a bit before coming down this way,” he plods on, sipping a little from his cranberry juice as he does so. “Sarah, you want to hear something nutty? Just damn screwy, really?”

  You twist your head and yell out, “Hit me with your best shot. Fire away!”

  He looks at Guy, clamming up. “Guy’s cool as shit,” you say.

  “You know Mathias and Petty, those crazy people? They’re attacking people out there, right?” Jaime continues. “I know something about them.” He calls you both in closer. “I know their real identities, or, well, I guess, their fake identities that they use as cover.” Jaime swallows. “You remember those people on the monorail? Boston, and, uh, Love?”

  You think to yourself for a long moment, sobering up.

  “That’s them. That’s them in disguise. I even know where they are all the time. The
y were at the boat quays, but now they are at a place called McRoss Research. I hitched a ride out there once with a couple of Solomon’s House guys and saw that Boston and Love— Mathias and Petty—were living there as caretakers along with some other people who are supposed to work for the university.”

  Jaime smiles for a long time as you and Guy sit there in silence. All the air seems to be sucked out of the room.

  “How do you know all this, Jaime? And why,” you grab Jaime’s collar, “why doesn’t the Network know about this?”

  Guy spreads his hands open. “Yeah, shit man, really...”

  Jaime looks at you both. “Have you seen the people who work as Counters? Or the Ephors? Really? Would you trust ‘em not to tell Mathias and Petty first about me? I saw one walking around with a beer. They take bribes. It’d be like reporting a drug lord in Mexico to the Mexican police. Forget that! I found out by accident, hiking through the Sargasso. I got, frankly, well, lost, and saw them change shape from Mathias and Petty to Boston and Love as they were talking to some people after they...” Jaime looks away. “After they killed them. That’s why I’m so far south here now. They still operate under those personas. I met ‘em one time afterwards.” He looks like he wants to cry, and abruptly changes the subject. “I’ve got some great sketches of all the areas around here.”

  “That’s why we’re here, too. Not the sketches. You know...” you say.

  Jaime sips the last of his cranberry juice. “Sorry, it was screwed up. I’m staying across the street at the Pegasus House if you want to stop by. Got some really great sketches about life in The Oberon.” He walks away, and you watch him go to the bar, pay, and then wave back to you. He looks very upset.

  “Huh,” you say.

  “It’s a god-late hour here, you know. It’s that hour and that time when you gotta go do some shit. Come on, killer.” Guy stands up and immediately trips over his own two feet, almost landing on another table. The other people there laugh. He picks up one of their beers and takes it with him as he makes his way back to the bar and Kayla. You follow him, swaying slightly.

  “What Jaime said, man, oh, man...” Guy drinks the last of the beer. “Kayla, it’s time, it’s time, it’s Vader time, time, time...”

  Kayla bends down to the safe, opens it, and withdraws a shiny metallic card with serrated teeth at its end. It is labeled: Guy’s Home.

  She says something in Perchta and the Ni-Perchta helper grunts back, continuing to wash dishes.

  “Night, Cal. Always love your bar, here,” Guy says, waving to the Ni-Perchta bartender.

  Holding the key in one hand, Kayla walks out from behind the counter and leads you upstairs.

  “Kayla, I like free drinks,” you say, in all seriousness.

  “Anything for Guy Farson,” she mockingly says.

  Guy makes a trigger motion with his fingers. “Uh-huh.”

  She opens up an almost empty room with four stone walls. Inside is a pile of empty cardboard boxes, empty beer bottles, and a Nemo Gate.

  The three of you walk up to the portal. Kayla puts the metallic card into what looks like a dragon’s mouth sticking out of one side of the Gate. It pops into the Gate’s side for a second and then ejects with a thunk. “It’s programmed for your place, Guy.”

  There is a crackling sound and you can feel static electricity building up.

  “Good night, nighting, nighting, nighting...” Kayla says in a singsong voice. Then she bows and sweeps her hands towards the portal.

  “After you, Madam,” Guy says to you.

  Hesitant as always, you step forward and once again have that particular sense of stars exploding and watching a white ring grow and grow. A moment later you are standing on Guy’s very small island, the wind blowing steadily from the beach far ahead of you.

  “Right,” you say, not sure at all what to make of this little turn of events.

  Guy materializes a moment after you and removes the serrated metal key from the end of his Nemo Gate, shutting it off. He chuckles. “And a-what and a-who now? A house inside a bar? I love my house and rare, programmable Nemo Gate.”

  “We can catch and kill Mathias and Petty,” you say, suddenly a little more sober.

  Guy high fives you hard. “Burn ‘em down. Get ‘em back for Saki and her family.” He says evenly, his face showing no expression. He walks away towards his bathroom, leaving you alone outside.

  * * *

  You listen to the waves crash against the island for a long while, not saying a word as you sit on the swinging bench with Guy. You just look up at the stars, reflecting on where you are after so many days. What you have just been through. These thoughts jolt you into the shallow end of sobriety.

  “We’ll get ‘em,” you say. Chill winds blow, cooling you off in the humid night air.

  Guy nods as you swing back and forth. “I was always a fan of this world over the other one. Don’t know why. Even with all the monsters,” he says, as if anticipating your thoughts. “Everybody’s talkin’ about me, I don’t hear a word they’re saying...” Guy sings off-key.

  You take off your shirt and throw it to the side of the platform leading into the sea, feeling drunk and horny and over-heated at the same time. You kick off your shoes, take off your jeans, and dive into the warm sea, backstroking out a little bit.

  “I like this, Guy!” you yell, only to barely make out that Guy has passed out on the swing, his sunglasses half off. You tread water for a while, enjoying your swim under the moonlight.

  After you don’t know how much time, you crawl out and walk up to Guy. You kiss him on the mouth as he is passed out, laugh a little to yourself, and then decide to sit down on the bench and go to sleep next to him. But he wakes up and sees you there, soaking wet and in just your bra and panties. He doesn’t say anything but takes his stupid sunglasses off. He kisses you, first on the mouth, then on your neck. His strong hands slowly take down your bra straps, exposing you further to the warm night-time air. You make love for the first time under the stars.

  You awake the next day, hung over, naked in bed together. You realize that you just gave your virginity up to a man you are not married to. Saving yourself for marriage, that last boundary you had set for yourself, was shredded last night. You feel a little empty afterwards for having done so. You betrayed something about your old self and you can never go back to the way things were. Like every other unpleasant thought, you shut this thought far away before your conscience speaks. You do not know if you truly love Guy enough for this to have happened.

  Guy says he has something that is the perfect hangover cure for the both of you. The Baths of Urncalles. Just around the corner, he says, on the red stone land bridge that juts out and over the Quadling Sea, so you make the journey, looking dirty and disheveled, both now wearing white-framed sunglasses and sipping water bottles like crazy.

  A set of double doors reveals a circular stairway of rock leading into the baths. Strange Antediluvian hieroglyphics line the wall, ones that look to the uninitiated eye like nonsensical circles and long lines. The stairway is gloomy with only a few little white orbs for light. An odd booming noise echoes throughout the stairwell. You both walk up, Guy trying to convince you to try out one of those trilobite things. “It’s just like a giant lobster tail. It’s good, honest injun,” he tells you.

  “I already had one as a sandwich. It’s good but it’s weird, man,” you reply.

  You head up floor by floor until you get to a roped-off area that cuts you off from going further. The rope has a red warning sign on it written in English, Greek, and Perchta: Danger, Do Not Enter!

  “This is cool. You’ll like this, believe you me. This will be a good early birthday present for you.”

  When you slowly open a set of double doors on your right, you find yourself in a courtyard area open to both blue skies and what looks like a giant pool of water suspended up in the sky. High red rock walls and ancient Egyptian-style pillars surround the courtyard. In the middle is a huge statue
of a creature sitting in the lotus position. It looks like a smaller copy of the giant statue that is in Solomon’s Bay. Like the giant statue, it has two faces: one angry, one calm. It holds with one hand a lightning bolt and the other hand has seven stone balls forever floating above the palm, representing the permanent moons. A crown of demonic-looking skulls rests on its brow.

  “Welcome to the Baths, Missy Orange. But this isn’t even the best part yet.”

  The deep waters of the pool change color from black to white to red to gold and then to blue. Life-sized statues of the Gug creature you ran into and of Ni-Perchta warriors dot the yard. Each of the large Ni-Perchta warriors has a spear that shoots red and blue laser lights into the atmosphere high above, changing the color of the giant pool of water hanging in the sky from a bright blue to a dusky red, and then back again. The Arc Waters that hang in the sky must be the size of six or seven football fields, and they must be at least two hundred feet up.

  A few rich American kids are laughing and horsing around with each other, sitting on towels near the courtyard pool. Somewhere there is a boom box piping in Radio Oberon. “Not working must be fun,” you say.

  Guy laughs a little. “We can work towards that.”

  You and Guy come upon a massive hallway with statues of two-headed men and of otherwise normal-looking women with fangs for teeth. The ceiling stretches upward, the vaulted roof and tiled floor separated by a hundred feet of air. You feel like you are in one of those documentaries about the Vatican due to the Urncalles’ ancient and positively Greco-Roman look. Farther along is a corridor where purple water travels quickly upward on a slant with nothing supporting its trajectory, just open air.

  A few young men and women in bathing suits and equipped with those ring-shaped life preservers are jumping into the pool and shooting upwards, disappearing into some area beyond in a rush of ever continuing water. A Ni-Perchta man, tall and imposing, guards the entrance to the water arc with a whistle tied around his neck.