by Steve Rzasa
Meeting her.
Great. My teeth ground together. “Remind me to thank you for dragging up old times. Maybe we should go get me a new Bible while we’re at it.”
“No prob.” Isaac donned his sunglasses. “Hang on. I thought you said you had one.”
“I lied. Got rid of my last one years ago.”
“You lied to me?”
“I lie to lots of people, Isaac. You the least often. Makes you special.”
He snorted. “I’d feel better getting a Hallmark card.”
The center was mobbed with people—tourists mostly, and clusters of well-dressed passersby I took for business types. A flock of police drones buzzed overhead, air from their turbofans shaking the leaves on the trees. Black-and-white plastic versions of dragonflies a foot long, that’s what they reminded me of.
Right about then I saw the qwaddos.
Everyone saw them, no doubt. But only a few stared like I did. Give folks a few years of the outlandish on a daily basis and they take it to be normal. For me, though, the sight of four-armed extraterrestrials, each with a head that reminded me of a cross between a horse and a wolf, set my teeth on edge. Caught a glimpse of armored snouts, strangely patterned hair, skin the color of brick, or sand, depending on the species, I guess. I turned to avoid any further scrutiny—or heaven forbid, eye contact.
Saw a lot fewer churches, that’s for sure. The ones I did see had been converted to uses that fit better, considering they must’ve lost all their congregations. One was a coffee shop, the other affordable housing.
My church, not far away, was one of them. Casino.
Meanwhile the qwaddos got their own parking spots for whatever it was they drove and their own bathrooms. There was one of those forest green automated restroom stalls right by the T-stop for Government Center, a gleaming metal arc emblazoned with the familiar silhouettes of men and women. Attached to its side like a silver slug was a pod half the size, with the same weird patterns and undulating surface as the new tower. Its oval hatch was marked with a bright green sign with the white silhouette of a four-armed alien.
That’s what passed for normal, fifteen years in.
Isaac stepped out into the street, fearlessly striding through the temporary gap in onrushing traffic along with a dozen other brisk walkers. No waiting for changing lights or crosswalk signals. That’s the way you gotta do it in Boston. Three qwaddos joined the herd like they did it every day—which they probably did.
The inside of the FBI office was just as drab as usual. Dingy white walls? Check. Dark carpet? Check. Solemn people in suits and ties? Again, check. Isaac led me past security without bothering with the metal detector or the HD scanner so new you could smell the plastic from six feet away. We took the elevator to the uppermost floor where resided a fancy conference room. Never been allowed there before.
No one told me the boss man himself would be waiting inside. He sat at the head of the table like he was Grand Moff Tarkin. Come on, the table was even glossy black just like that scene in the Death Star. Hopefully I wouldn’t choke.
A big shiny FBI emblem covered the wall behind him. Windows to the right gave us a great view of Government Center with its crowds, and the rest of the panorama would have been superb if not for that qwaddo monstrosity.
“Mister Fortel.” Moff Tarkin’s smile was blindingly white. I felt my earlier headache throb back into existence.
“Special Agent in Charge Harold H. Carpenter.”
We shook hands. The FBI sure knew how to pick its bosses—this guy could have been the next governor of Massachusetts with his graying hair slicked back, his tanned complexion, perfectly pressed navy blue suit, and red tie pinned precisely in place. There was an American flag pinned in place on his lapel, God bless. Whatever aftershave he’d doused on his chin was strong enough to kill a large dog. I resisted the urge to retch.
“How’s it going?” I plopped down in the nearest seat.
“It will be going better once you agree to work for us.” Carpenter’s smile went stiff. “Please, have a seat.”
Ah, sarcasm. “You didn’t tell me your boss had a sense of humor, Isaac.”
Isaac scowled. He took a chair opposite mine. “Would you mind, sir?” he asked Carpenter.
“By all means.”
“Shut up, Caz, and behave yourself.”
Carpenter nodded appreciatively. Jerk. He went on my list.
It’s a long list.
“We won’t waste any more of your time on pleasantries, Mister Fortel,” he said. “Suffice it to say this job is the most vital ever to come across my desk, a fact I feel we need to impress upon you.”
Carpenter’s gaze slid sideways to Isaac, who stiffened up like he was on trial. Had he vouched for me to this clown? Sorry, man.
“So tell me,” I said. “What’d the qwaddos lose this time? I mean, this isn’t the first theft of their artwork. Every exhibit that’s shown up on Earth has been targeted at one point or another. Though why anyone would want qwaddo art is beyond me. Have you ever seen it?”
“It’s very organic in appearance and makes wonderful use of natural lighting to reflect color,” Carpenter said. “The MFA put on an excellent show in their galleries last spring.”
Only years of practice at concealing my inmost feelings kept me from dropping my jaw on the floor. Okay, mental note. The clown wasn’t completely clueless. “I was gonna say rotting vegetables slathered in mildew, but okay, let’s use your description.”
“This time, though, it is not the Ghiqasu who have been targeted.” Carpenter tapped the table in front of him. The center, a bit off to my left, split open and the two halves slid apart with a soft whirr. Not sure what was hiding in there, I leaned back slightly as a silver and black—bowl? It looked like a bowl—rose from the crevice. Light glowed and pulsed. Ah, that’s what it was. A picture sprang into the air about a foot above the table.
I nodded appreciatively. “Nice hologram projector. The aliens donate that one to the FBI for services rendered?”
“No, as you’re well aware, projectors like these are just entering the market for government use. I have little doubt as licenses are made available, civilian models will follow.”
There was a glowing white symbol on the base, an apple with a bite taken out. It figured.
“The subject of the hologram is our problem.” Carpenter tapped the table top again. He must have a recessed touchpad. My inner tech geek salivated. The image zoomed in on itself.
Well, now. Can’t say I’d ever seen anything quite like it. Writhing reds and golds and pinks intertwined. They reminded me of DNA strands, like at the beginning of all those X-Men movies. A brilliant glow emanated from every corner. Something like crystal shimmered along and between the strands. “What is that, a sculpture? It’s—magnificent. Look at the detail and the symmetry.” I really, really wanted to touch it.
“All the more impressive is its size.” Carpenter’s voice took on its own hushed awe. Man, if that’s what I sounded like, mooning over the thing like some country kid who’s never seen a Rembrandt, I’d lost my edge. Probably due to too many margaritas. “This sculpture was created on the atomic level. What you see is its representation under an electron microscope.”
One of the puzzle pieces in my head clicked into place. “Not qwaddo art, then. You guys are working for the big guns: the Jinn.”
No insult meant. It was the socially acceptable name for them. Hey, what can I say, their language doesn’t translate well into English. Near as I’ve heard, their long, unpronounceable designation means “true people who bring wisdom and light to all beings.”
Gee, no arrogance there.
“Don’t be so surprised, Mister Fortel. The Jinn are the power behind the Panstellar Consociation, as you well know.”
“Not too shabby for microscopic aliens,” Isaac said. “So their sculpture was stolen. How long ago?” I said.
“Between 11 p.m. yesterday and 5 a.m. today, Mountain Standard Time.”
“Haven’t you guys put out feelers on this with your own art theft squad?”
“No. That’s not feasible. Within our building only myself, Special Agent Manzano here, and you are privy to the nature of this crime. The fewer people who know, the better. This is a highly sensitive matter and we cannot risk even one breath of it getting out.” All traces of Carpenter’s smile vanished. “Not considering the way the Jinn value their art.”
“What do you mean?” I gave Isaac a questioning look. His face was a very unhelpful blank. Thanks, pal.
“As in, stealing art from the Jinn is a crime punishable by death,” Isaac said.
Whoa.
“This particular piece of art is 1500 years old,” Carpenter said. The image spun in the air before him, dazzling with its shifting colors. I could see right away why someone would desire to have it, even if you needed a microscope to fully appreciate its beauty. “And it is crafted from the carapaces of several esteemed philosophers and political leaders of their nation.”
“Dead people. Carved into a sculpture.”
Carpenter nodded.
“That’s a first for me, no doubt.” I got up from the chair and paced to the window. Something about this didn’t sit right with me. The Ghiqasu building loomed over Government Center. People milled about with qwaddos mixed in—just a few handfuls. Never noticed until then that their skin colors came in as many hues as our human skin does. I stared at them and the tower, trying to get some answers. No such luck. “Any idea why I’ve been requested?”
“As I said, we’re trying to steer this out of official channels.” Carpenter spoke each word carefully. “That and, well, once the Ghiqasu Hounders reviewed the list of individuals we recommended for this task, they specifically asked for you.”
My heart dropped. Not in a hey-that-girl’s-got-the-hots-for-me kind of way, but in a great-now-what’d-I-do-wrong kind of way. My temper started its slow burn. Did I mention I get ticked when things aren’t spelled out black and white? Yeah. “What? Me? Why?”
Carpenter started to say something but stopped himself.
Way to clam up, Einstein.
Isaac filled in the silence. “They know you’re a Christian.”
“You blabbed?”
“Yeah. But they asked first.”
“Weird.”
Carpenter cleared his throat. “Our thoughts were similar.”
I said a bad word right there. Not going to repeat it, but I’m working on cleaning that stuff up.
Isaac winced.
“The Ghiqasu value religion. They see it as a true indicator of a thriving civilization.” Carpenter smiled at me. “Perhaps it’s xeno-anthropological interest.”
Oh, great. Qwaddos wanted to study me like a chimp in its natural habitat. “Could be they just want to fill out their resume with another religion they helped ease into extinction.”
“Hey, man, Jesus isn’t going anywhere,” Isaac said. “Just because churches are closing doesn’t mean the faith is dying.”
“Yeah, well, that’s your opinion.”
“We’ve been around this block before, Caz.”
All I could think about was the empty pews in the buildings for sale in the Beantown suburbs. All those people who looked up to the sky fifteen years ago this June and saw they weren’t at the center of God’s universe anymore. They up and split.
Isaac was one of the stalwart exceptions.
“Enough, gentlemen.” Carpenter made a sour face. “You can debate the merits or demerits of the downfall of Western religion some other time. Needless to say, the recovery of this sculpture is an absolute necessity to head off a diplomatic nightmare. The Ghiqasu already have Hounders assigned to the task, and the Jinn leadership have been made aware. They’re displeased.”
Understatement of the century, no doubt. What do you do when the alien overseers are mad at you? Besides pray often. “Lucky for us the Consociation likes our pretty blue planet for its location.”
“We are a second-level protectorate of the Consociation. Hardly an exalted rank.” Carpenter sighed. “Thank goodness they parked the Big Ring here. We’d be the backwater of the galaxy otherwise.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad before.”
“Which part? The wars? They don’t allow those, you’ll recall. Remember what happened to Iran and Israel?”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly. As the United States, we’re in a tenuous position. The Consociation admires the drive America showed with the Apollo program, not to mention the shuttle flights and continuous unmanned exploration during the intervening decades. We went from bicycle salesmen cobbling together an airplane to interplanetary travel in sixty years, and they take our planting the flag on the moon as a first claim. That’s part of the reason they came to us when they started building their base of fleet operations on the dayside of the moon. Thanks to that, we don’t have to go through the UN Committee on Alien Interaction, just as the Chinese and the Russians are exempt. However, that puts more pressure on us to not foul up.”
“What a blessing.” Sarcasm alert! “So what do I get out of this—their undying gratitude?”
“One million dollars.”
He said it so matter-of-fact, it didn’t quite register.
“Mister Fortel?”
I must have gone quiet for a long time. Isaac looked worried. “Uh, yeah. Yes. I’d say you can count me in, boys.”
Carpenter beamed that shiny, toothpaste commercial smile. “Excellent. This is fantastic. We’ll get you on your way to Denver immediately. Special Agent Manzano here will escort you to Logan Airport. We’ve secured a seat on the next Skywhale flight. You’ll leave by 1100 hours.”
“That’s not a lot of time to pack.”
“Make it quick then.” Carpenter stood. So did Isaac and I. We exchanged happy handshakes. “This is great news, gentlemen. The folks at the University of Wyoming will be relieved to have someone of your caliber on the case, Mister Fortel.”
That brought all the dancing dollar signs in my head to a crashing halt. “UW? What’s at UW? That’s in Wyoming.”
“Very astute,” Carpenter said. “Their art museum is the location of the exhibit. Even with top security precautions it seems the thief was undeterred. It’s not a problem, is it, Mister Fortel?”
“No. No, sir.” Sir? Since when did I “sir” anybody?
“Good.” He practically skipped out of the room.
Isaac clapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, man, you okay?”
“Wyoming, Isaac.”
“Yep.”
I sighed. “Sure, I’m okay. I enjoy having old wounds reopened with a rusty spoon.”
“Kind of ironic.”
“What?”
“The Ghiqasu want you because you’re a Christian.”
“I wouldn’t call it irony. More like misplaced hope. Come on, what did they want, a preacher or an investigator? You can bet, oh, a million dollars on which one they’re gonna get.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s their problem, man, but yours.” Isaac slipped his sunglasses back on.
I glared at him, but he just grinned and ushered me from the room. He was such a pain in the butt when he was right.
Besides, I still had two questions rattling around in my head.
One: Why did the qwaddos want a Christian on the job?
Two: Did I count as one?
So I got to be Lancaster Foss again. Shaved off the whiskers, dyed the hair darker, and slipped in the blue contacts. It was a ritual I did a couple of times a year. Like meeting an old friend. Granted, the guy was kind of a jerk. Or maybe I was the one who was the jerk. Whichever.
Neither of us wanted to take Isaac’s advice or figure out why an alien wanted to hang out with a Christian.
“What do you think?” I asked the mirror. Ah, he was no help. Better get packed.
<<<>>>
The flight took about four hours, which wasn’t too bad when you consider I didn’t have to go through any kind of sec
urity. No waiting in line like I was getting ready for a ride at Disneyworld. Worst ride ever. Boring Airport Terminal Land.
Yeah, but this time they ushered me right by the line. They being Isaac. So much for not drawing attention. At least the FBI was smart enough not to send through any more goons. I tried not to be too obnoxious as we bypassed the people filing through the HD scanners. Probably should have explained. Those HD scanners were new tech security thingies based on qwaddo designs. Remember tricorders? Forget hiding anything. They could even tell where you used to have a tattoo.
Facial recognition made security’s job a whole lot easier too, incorporated as it was into the HD scanner. I smiled. Good thing I didn’t have to bother. FBI would bypass the ID process.
Isaac told me he was jealous. Not because I was on my way to Colorado—“Have fun in the sticks, Cletus” was his parting shot—but because my ride was a Skywhale. Huge airplane, all smooth curves and humped back with long, slender wings. Three decks tall and four engines. It took off with all four cantilevered, pushing us skyward with way less runway required than the standard commercial liner.
It was still that four-hour ride out West. Good thing I had some sci-fi from this small publisher out of Colorado Springs for entertainment. Space opera was a great read, but it lost some of its luster when the Consociation barreled down on us. Fewer titles were available. I guess there wasn’t much demand for sci-fi when there were aliens waltzing about the U.S.
Denver International Airport was just like I remembered it: pointed and white-capped like the mountain range on the outside. Of course, there’d been some additions. The qwaddos had plunked down a tower, a copy of their HQ in Boston, and the cluster of five round buildings, each the size of a football stadium, about a half-mile from the airport tarmac. They clung to the base of the tower like soap bubbles in the sink, even shined like them too. Someone had also slapped on a huge hotel, all glass, a butterfly shape that got squashed atop a light rail line.
