by Steve Rzasa
Yes, Mother. “Sure.”
“That will have to do.” Loya took a long swig of his chai tea. He readjusted one of the dog portraits that had gone wonky, apparently when he’d knocked on the table. “We appreciate your willingness to take on the case, Mister Fortel.”
“My willingness includes a promised payment of a million, Agent Loya.” I smiled broadly at him and the alien. Part of me wondered if the qwaddo would see that as a predatory threat. More’s the better if he did. “Is that in good old U.S. dollars?”
“The Consociation will provide reimbursement in the form of platinum mined from your asteroid belts, as part of the standing Exploited Resources Treaty,” the alien said. “Since the United States is one of the signatories to the treaty, they receive a certain percentage—”
“Blah, blah, blah. I remember. The question stands.”
“Yes, the payment will be converted to ‘cash,’ to use your vernacular.”
Wait a sec. Did he just insult me?
“I think you underestimate the seriousness of this theft, Mister Fortel. The—” Nil said something in a rumbling, rambling collection of sounds my ears had no hope of translating—“expect our success. Anything less will leave them wanting retribution. If the Sozh Uqasod is not returned intact, Earth’s status as a protectorate may be in jeopardy. The embarrassment would be crippling to our relations.”
“Oh, bummer. You guys would have to leave then, wouldn’t you?”
“No. There would be a reevaluation of Consociation involvement in Earth’s protection. Subject planets must undergo greater scrutiny when an error such as this occurs. We seek partnership with mature societies only.”
It was a toss-up as to whether the word subject or mature ticked me off more. But there was no way I was going to give any of these space-hopping freaks the chance to put us under their thumbs—if any of the digits on their hands counted as thumbs.
“Let me tell you something, Prime Nil.” I put my best game voice on for this one and meant every word. “I get the job done. You ask the FBI, they know it. We will find this sculpture. No matter how tiny it is. Then I get to blow you a big old kiss when you fly your four-armed butt back up to space.”
“I have no complaints,” the qwaddo said. “Do you have any further requests?”
“Yeah. Don’t touch me, ever.”
He bared his fangs at me again. “You would do well to remember likewise.”
<<<>>>
We made it to the mag-lev station in Thornton in time to catch the four o’clock north. The mag-lev was brand-spanking new, sparkling white and blue, and could pull a 200-mph cruising speed. Denver’s suburb cities make for an interesting blur of colors when you’re racing that fast.
Got us to Cheyenne in thirty-five minutes. I checked my watch. And I saw the “Welcome to Wyoming: Forever West” sign without giving myself whiplash because the train was slowing for its approach to the station.
At least I had enough time to change. The khakis went away and the blue jeans made their appearance. You don’t really get Wyoming until you realize that men from all walks of life—rancher, auctioneer, banker, or librarian—tend to wear jeans a lot. That means even to church, which would get you severely frowned at in some of the churches I attended.
I zipped the fly. A little snugger than I liked but, hey, when in Laramie . . .
I should note that a mag-lev train is very quiet. That makes it all the more awkward when you don’t talk to the guy next to you. Especially when he’s the alien you’re supposed to work with.
Very few people stared openly at us. Not surprising. There’d been aliens roaming our world for fifteen years. They were a curiosity, yeah, but not a reason to freak out. Unless you hated them.
It wasn’t until I got up to go to the restroom that I realized it was because there were three other qwaddos in our car—dressed in clothes that fit looser than Prime Nil’s. They were in the midst of an animated conversation, gesturing with all twelve of their limbs. What they said I hadn’t a clue—it was a lot of grunting guttural sounds. But they looked way happier than my seatmate.
They also didn’t have that mark on their forehead armor.
We swapped trains for a special ride out to Laramie. It was a spur installed to serve the UW campus. Zipped us over in twenty minutes. We didn’t say a thing to each other until we found the rental car waiting for us at the station parking lot. That’s when Prime Nil said, “This does not seem a practical conveyance.”
I just grinned.
DEXA had gotten my request just right—a 1979 BMW M 635 CSi, dark blue paint, and no tinted windows. The paint was immaculate, the fenders shiny, the blue and white BMW roundel perfect. License plate? Albany County, Wyoming.
“Look, dragging you around isn’t going to help us blend in.” The door was unlocked and the keys—man. Sitting under a manila folder in the backseat. Welcome to Wyoming. “So I figured we pick a car that does draw some attention. The DEXA boys did a great job finding me a local classic. All the better for my cover as a go-between for an art collector.”
Nil sniffed. “I sense ulterior motives.”
“Gee, you’re a smart one. Reason Two: All Bimmers are awesome.”
“Awesome. This means, inspiring awe? It is a primitive vehicle.”
Wow. Never mind.
We got into the car. He folded his arms up in a peculiar fashion to fit in the seat properly.
I checked the folder’s contents—registration, insurance, and a note from Agent Rutherford: “You do not want to know how much this cost. Bring it back in one piece.”
Cute.
“Intelligence is not required for me to determine your obfuscation.”
What a peach he was. “I do a pretty mean obfuscate these days.”
Leaving him to puzzle that bit of English, I gunned the engine.
<<<>>>
The University of Wyoming Art Museum and Centennial Center sat right across the street from the stadium, in case a Pokes game was more your speed than oil paintings. It was a building of tan brick, the same colors as the hills around Laramie. All that stood out was the shining surface of the bizarre copper cone that formed the bulk of the museum. The sun was blazing, though it only felt like it might be in the seventies. The wind blew hard from the west across the UW campus.
Me and Nil stared up at it for a minute. “Feel at home?” I asked. “This place has got to be retro compared to whatever passes for a house on your planet.”
“Is that an insult pertaining to my culture?” he asked, cool as a cucumber.
“Take it whatever way you want.”
My phone buzzed. Oh, it was that DEXA guy, Agent Rutherford. That’s what the contact said, at least. Just “Rutherford.” You know, like Spenser in Spenser for Hire. There’s that Deep Space Nine link again.
[Wher are yu?]
Nice and polite. I thumbed my response: [At museum with Prime Nil.]
[Found no fngrpt ev. Copied flsh. Told lady to leave 4 u.]
Wow. If this was how well he typed, we were in for a long haul. No fingerprints, but what was a “flsh”? “You, uh, ever meet this Rutherford?”
“Agent Rutherford? No, not nose to nose,” Nil said. “He is quite helpful, for having only two hands.”
I typed again. [Suspects?]
[Non so far. Will advs.]
“Will advise. Roger Wilco there, Rutherford.” I jammed the phone back in my pocket.
We were greeted at the door by a woman dressed in a white coat, black shirt, and blue skirt. She had shoulder-length brown hair brushed straight, graying at the temples and swept back from her forehead by a barrette.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” She had her hands clasped behind her back. “Marjorie Brundall, director and curator. I’m glad you were able to make it to Wyoming so quickly.”
“Nice to meet you.” I offered a hand to shake, but apparently she wasn’t into that. Alrighty then. “My name is Caz Fortel, working on loan to DEXA, as you’ve been informed. A
nd this is . . .”
My semi-rigid statue that looked like an alien. No, not what I said, but what I thought as the rest of the words stalled in my mouth. See, Prime Nil stood slightly hunched over, arms akimbo, his eyes closed. That snout of his was sniffing at the air.
“Is there a problem?” Brundall didn’t move to shake any of his hands.
“Uh, problem?” Stupid qwaddo. “No, no problem. Prime Nil here is just—testing the air. It’s what they do.”
“Oh.”
Nil’s eyes snapped open. “The Sozh Uqasod. It was here.”
“Yeah, we already knew that.” I made sure he heard the irritation. ’Cause I was through hiding it in front of the increasingly worried curator.
“No. Right here.” Nil stepped up so close to Brundall he could have been standing on her shoes. Which he almost did. “She knows.”
“I beg your pardon.” Brundall sounded good and offended, but the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes or look at me set off the old Red Alert.
“The scent of the Sozh Uqasod is on you,” Nil said softly. “Explain.”
Well. That’s interesting.
I smiled at Brundall, who by now appeared totally flustered. “I think he’s got a good idea.”
Okay, so, Brundall had a good reason to be flustered. Priceless alien sculpture was stolen on her watch. Understandably, she freaked out.
“I already told the man from DEXA, Agent Rutherford.” Her heels pock-pocked on the floor as she led us into the exhibit halls. “When I checked on the Consociation’s special exhibit this morning, something seemed wrong.”
We followed her down the main hall through the rotunda. Somebody had stuck a silver dollar right smack in the center of the floor. Brundall explained that the summer solstice sun lit it up like a headlight right about noon.
The museum was packed full of stuff that I could have spent several days enjoying. Too bad. I mean, never would have picked Wyoming as the place for Persian miniature paintings from the 1400s and Japanese Ukiyo-e prints from the 1800s. If you wanted to get a feel for French Rococo and Fauvism under the same roof, you’d have some decent choices. This part of the job, sadly, didn’t leave me much time for sightseeing.
The exhibit in question was set up in the South One and South Two Galleries. It looked like both rooms could be well guarded during normal opening hours. The walls were white and all brightly lit. Each one was covered with plasma screen TVs that showed exotic, writhing shapes and glowing, motionless sculptures. Below those rows sat a dozen and a half tables housing . . . microscopes.
Remember those nice big microscopes they let you play with in high school? Imagine those, only way larger, all pearl white and black like a brand-new police car. The column looming over the table reached up several feet. Flashing lights covered a broad instrument panel in front of each one.
No one else said the obvious. My job. “Ah, nice microscopes.”
The curator, bless her heart, didn’t curse me out. She did glare at me hard enough to strip paint off my car. “Yes, Mister Fortel, because the Jinns’ master works are all microscopic.”
Duh. No need for her to get prissy. “You still haven’t explained why you smell of it. I mean, it’s not like you can pick it up.”
“No.” She regained some composure. “But I did try to adjust the magnification on the monitor because as I said, it seemed wrong.”
We stood beneath the monitor set up at the far end of the hall. This was obviously the centerpiece. I mean, it was three times as big as the rest. I stared at the huge image of the same sculpture that had been on the FBI holo back in Boston, only in far greater detail.
“That is when you discovered the Sozh Uqasod had been stolen.” The tension radiated from Nil hot enough to give me a sunburn. I took a step away.
“Yes. The secure slide was gone.” Brundall rubbed under her eyes. She was on the verge of tears. Poor lady. She was probably gonna lose her job over this one. “Something was left in its place.” She pointed to the electron microscope. I leaned over, knowing, of course, next to nothing about electron microscopes. But I did know a few things about computers, like the Dell attached to this one.
There it was. A flash drive, tucked into a USB port at the back, nestled between the mouse and keyboard wires. It was a mini black one, short as an earbud. I dug in my pocket for my pair of blue gloves. “Agent Rutherford says in his report that he found no signs anyone touched the computer, or the microscope, for that matter.”
“Oh. Well. He didn’t say much while he was here. He was constantly texting.” Brundall shook her head. “This is such a travesty. Who would steal such a thing? Its value is unspeakable.”
“Hmm. Yeah, well, money’s a motivator, that’s for sure.” The flash drive popped free—and no, I didn’t tell Windows to eject it first. The image on the monitor went black. I’d have to plug that flash drive into my tablet and—
My phone buzzed again. “Um, excuse me.”
[Prime smell anythg?]
Rutherford. I sighed. “Prime Nil, smell anything interesting? An inquiring agent wants to know.”
Nil was crouched off to one side of the table, eyes closed. “One hundred seventy-three distinct individuals have been near this console,” he said in a low, dreamlike voice. Kinda creepy. “Some more than once. Their scent dwells more heavily. Miss Brundall’s is the strongest among them.”
She bristled. “I saw to this exhibit’s operation personally. It means a great deal to the university and the state of Wyoming—”
“Shhh.” I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t let us stop you, Nil.”
He opened his left eye. “I wasn’t.” Closed it again. “All of these scents traversed the front doors, a handful of them many times. Museum staff.”
How did he know that? He smelled all of that when we first walked in and could compare it? Even the cynical me was beginning to see why these guys were prized trackers.
He inhaled a long, slow breath. His eyes flew open. “Only one smell is laced with fear.”
Bingo. I grinned. “That’s got to be him. Can you follow—”
Nil was already striding through the hall, back out the way we came.
“Come on,” I said to Brundall.
We found him standing in the Loggia, the big room underneath the weird dome. You felt like you were in the middle of, I don’t know, a lumberyard or someplace where they stacked beams.
Nil stared at the ceiling. “He came this way three, no, four times.” Nil raised his arms, each one pointing in a different direction. One of those hands aimed at an empty vestibule with a single door.
“What’s over there?” I asked.
Brundall stared. “A maintenance entrance. But it’s secure and accessible only by RFID transmitter. Most but not all of the staff have this tag on a keychain fob.”
“Are they all accounted for?”
“I don’t know. No one’s told me of one being stolen.”
There was a plate to receive the RFID signal, like she said, but something didn’t look right. I got up close. Hmm. Two of the screws had scratches on them. Made them shiny. I grabbed the edges of the plate and jiggled. Loose.
“He was here,” Nil said.
“He? You guys do gender by smell, do you?”
“Of course. The scent difference especially among humans is quite distinct.”
No arguing that. I used my Swiss Army knife to unscrew the RFID plate. Found just what I thought. “This is one smart boy we’re dealing with. This is not any old plate. See, he installed this receiver so that he could open the door with his own signal but left the plate intact so staff RFID tags would still trigger it. Best of both worlds.”
Brundall looked appalled. “My word. Then the whole time this door could have been accessed by someone other than the staff.”
Duh. I kept that comment to myself. “Open it. Uh, please.”
Brundall swiped her card. The door plate’s single LED flashed green. She led us through a short dark corridor lit w
ith just a pair of fluorescents. There was a janitor’s closet. Nil paused. His nose twitched furiously.
“He was here. At least twice. He did not go in the closet, however,” Nil said.
“I’m digging this whole Hounder thing.” My grin must have been a mile wide.
There was one other door at the end of the hall. It was lit up red by the “Exit” sign overhead. Brundall opened it. The sunny Wyoming afternoon outside nearly blinded me. Put on some mirrored shades.
The same kind of RFID panel allowed exterior access. With some assistance from the Swiss Army, I had that panel opened up like a clam shell. “Yeah. Here we go. Same deal as inside.”
“This is unacceptable.” Brundall wrung her hands. Her fingers were red. “How could someone have been so discreet?”
I pointed up at the glossy black bulge reflecting my handsome mug right back at me from above the door. “You mean how come nobody noticed a dude with a screwdriver hanging out at one of your secure doors? Good question.”
Brundall blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me take you to the security monitors.”
<<<>>>
We were on our way to the security room when my cell phone buzzed. Again. This guy was really starting to irritate me. Is it polite to shut off your phone so the feds can’t get ahold of you? Probably not.
[Poss. video tampering.]
Like I hadn’t thought of that.
Prime Nil must have caught me shaking my head, because he asked, “You disagree?”
“Only with Agent Rutherford. He’s bugging me again.”
“Not—this is not the surveillance apparatus of which you speak, but the colloquialism you use in North America.”
“What?” Maybe now wasn’t the time to ask if he smoked the qwaddo equivalent of dope.
“Bugging. You mean, ‘bothering’ or ‘annoying.’ ”
“You got that right. Hope you enjoyed the slang lesson for the day.”
The security room had a half-dozen flat screen monitors, each one big enough you’d think you’d died and gone to heaven if you hooked it up to your console for some Halo. They were tied to a single keyboard-slash-control panel.
