by Steve Rzasa
No sooner had that truck toppled than Nil came pouncing through the air at my car. I say “pouncing” because it didn’t look like any leisurely leap over a puddle—this was a full-on, arms extended like wings, fierce expression on his face, legs bent to land-on-your-sorry-butt pounce.
“God, make sure he’s got good aim!” was all I could think to yell.
He slammed onto the hood. I winced. Couldn’t wait to see that damage. I braked and veered onto the shoulder. The tires made a hideous squealing. You could smell the burning rubber.
When that Bimmer came to a stop, I swore it sighed.
The Tahoe wasn’t so lucky. It had slammed roof first into some short trees in the gully between the two lanes of the interstate. What were the odds? I don’t think we’d seen a single tree yet on the drive. Anyway, they left such a rut of torn-up grass and dirt that you could’ve dropped a shiny new drainage pipe in it.
Nil leapt down to the dirt and tumbled to a stop. His chest rose deeply and wide, way more than a human’s could. What kind of lung capacity did these guys have? He took a step toward me and went sideways. Thought he was going to topple over, but he stopped, slowed his breathing, and held out all four arms. Looked like the balancing act helped.
He wasn’t kidding about getting dizzy.
I got out of the car. Maybe I should say, I almost collapsed out of the car, my knees were so wobbly. Adrenaline had my heart thumping, sweat drenching my shirt, and my hands shaking. Plus I was cranky.
“What are you, insane? Were you planning to clue me in on your Spider-Man routine? You could’ve got yourself splattered all over the road and DEXA would have had me scrubbing floors at Gitmo with a paper napkin! Look what you did to the Bimmer!”
The hood was rumpled, like an unmade bed. There were two alien-foot-sized dents in the roof.
Nil straightened. He stretched out his arms. A slow smile spread across his face. Yikes. Those teeth hadn’t gotten any less nasty looking. “Your concern has a pleasant aroma.”
The truck was trashed. Both the guys were still seat-belted inside. We had an unobstructed view because the windshield had apparently blown right out when the truck smashed onto its side. The remaining glass was embedded in the trench it had ripped through the dirt.
A semi blared its horn as the truck went barreling by. The wind from its passage washed over us. Same Walmart truck. What were the odds the guy was calling Highway Patrol? “You know, we might want to make this quick before the cops show up.”
Nil didn’t answer. That light in his ear was blinking. Great. I was trying to figure out what to do with a wrecked truck of crazed alien haters and he’s on a conference call. I knelt in front of the windshield. Both guys seemed to be breathing. Captain Moustache, the one with the gun, he was out cold. That gun was long gone. As for the driver— “Hey! You all right?”
The guy nodded. His face was beet red, he was sweating, but he didn’t have any cuts I could see. No blood pooling under him. Always good.
“Okay, so stay put and don’t die. We’re gonna call an ambulance, and we’ll get someone to help.”
He nodded again.
Nil’s shadow fell across us. “The local law enforcement have been advised. They are soon to arrive.”
“Wonderful. I always love it when local cops get mixed up in my work.” I pounded my fist on the hood of the truck. “You ever think about asking me first?”
“These men must be questioned.”
“Yeah, well, cops generally do that.”
“We must ascertain their allegiance.”
Allegiance? “That’s one way to put it.” I snapped my fingers in the driver’s face. “Hey. Hey, buddy!”
The guy blinked. He groaned. I felt kinda sorry for him. As sorry as I could feel for somebody who’d tried to run me off the road and shoot me.
“Who hired you? Who put out a hit on us?” It seemed ludicrous to ask. We hadn’t even been on this case a day and somebody had already tried to bury us. But I’d seen stranger.
“Allow me to assist.” Nil wrenched the door of the truck so far over that the hinges screeched. He used a bent edge of the hood for a toehold, grabbed on to the windshield frame with his right hands, and reached in with his left arm. He had the driver unbuckled and out onto the grass before I could remind him emergency medical advice frowned on moving people who might be seriously injured.
Nil held the man on tiptoes, using his upper hands. He took a deep breath right in the driver’s face. I’d never seen somebody look so terrified. Was he gonna have a heart attack right there? With Nil’s teeth that close to my face and that growl rumbling at the back of his throat, I might have. “Tell me, human. Name the people who ordered you to kill us. You will give me an answer.”
The guy’s mouth quivered. “N-no one. N-nobody. Frank—h-he saw you guys drive by, w-wanted to s-scare you.”
Nil’s growl intensified in volume. “You reek of lies, human. Tell me the true story and your flesh may yet survive.”
“S-seriously! His gun, man, his idea! H-he just told me to drive.”
Nil’s lower hands seized the guy’s shirt sleeves. He ripped them off. The guy had the lily-white skin of a bad farmer’s tan underneath. And a tattoo. It was a green hand, four fingers pointed down and no thumb, with a jagged slash through it like it’d been broken in half.
I’d seen it before. A lot of places—on bikers in trouble with the law, on guys who’d lost their jobs, on church men carrying protest banners outside a qwaddo spire in who knows what city. You only wore it if you had it out for the qwaddos in a major way.
Nil saw it. And the guy saw his cold reaction to seeing it. His face, the aforementioned red and sweaty one, lost its color.
“So you tell the truth. I smell it. You are no danger to me.” Nil dropped him to the dirt, like a dropping a sack of garbage on the curb. He actually wiped his hands on his garment. But the oddest bit was the care he took with some little white canister. It reminded me of a salt shaker. Nil put that thing right up to his nose and took two quick, deep whiffs, one with each nostril. “I erase your scent.”
The man stared at him, mouth agape.
Sirens whined somewhere far off. This was not going to be fun. The police, as a general rule, didn’t like me messing about in crime scenes. They weren’t gonna like that I’d helped cause one. “Look, Nil, if you’re done with being the bad cop, we need to jet before the police arrive. I don’t do paperwork, got it?”
“In this case you will make an exception. My superiors have instructed DEXA to advise the local law enforcement of the extenuating circumstances.”
In this case I will do what now? “You hang on a sec. This is my case, and you’re along for the ride.”
“Our priority is the recovery of the Sozh Uqasod. Nothing can interfere. My superiors—”
“Your superiors can stay out of our business!” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have snapped. But I wasn’t used to this kind of oversight. FBI back in Boston was smart enough to give me free rein. Plus, everything about Wyoming was only serving to unlock every last memory I’d spent the past decade or so trying to store away.
“Fortel, if we disappear from the scene of this accident, as a human and Ghiqasu traveling together, and law enforcement does nothing to investigate, will that not attract more speculation?”
He was right. Hated that. “Yeah, that’s for sure. And speculation is not the name of the game we want to play. Okay, okay, I get it. Just clear this stuff with me first, will you? I work alone, mostly. Not used to having people constantly check in with their bosses.”
“There is no need for apology.”
Qwaddo. “That wasn’t an apology. And stop calling me Fortel. Call me Foss. As in Lancaster Foss, which is the name I’m using when we’re on the job.”
“You did not tell the curator that.”
“No, because she’d already been in touch with DEXA. Just do it, will you?”
“Very well. Foss.”
The sirens were definitely closer now.
Far off to the east, a qwaddo ship went zipping low across the land. As far up as it was, the antelope still scattered across the hills beneath.
I’d noticed not a soul pulled their car over to help us. Last time I was here, you’d be surprised not to see three cars parked by the scene of a wreck, everyone scrambling to help out.
My guess? Qwaddos get a wide berth.
“These boys were just looking to mess with us, huh? You saw that mark. The one on their arms.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Mankind Ascendant. Fancy name for thugs and terrorists. You’d better use all four of your hands to cover your butt next time we run into them.”
“Fear not. This happens frequently.”
I’ll bet. “Which part? The one where they try to kill you or where you totally wipe the floor with them?”
Nil folded his arms. “Both.”
Okay, so our little interlude with Wyoming HP wasn’t nearly as sweet as I’d have liked. The four troopers—yeah, four of ’em—spent a lot of time glowering at Nil and taking down his statements. They double-checked everything with me.
I nodded and said a lot of “Yessir”s and whatever else they wanted to hear. Meanwhile our two less-than-harmless homeboys got their butts loaded into ambulances. They didn’t go tearing off down the highway, so I assume nobody was too badly beat up.
The trooper in charge handed me back my ID. The fake ID that pegged me as Lancaster Foss. He glared at the Tahoe as if he were even more ticked off than Nil and I. “You fellas just try to stay out of trouble. These Mankinders, they’re not the sharpest tools in the shed, but they’re a pain regardless.”
“That’s it?” Way too easy. I pocketed the ID. This wreck was pretty messy and if I were a cop, I’d be all over it.
“Yeah, that’s all we need for now.” He glanced at Nil and back at me. “The qwaddos get special circumstances, you follow? We’ll forward our report on to the DEXA field office in Cheyenne, and they’ll kick it up to Denver. Which, considering these boys both have current addresses out of Fort Collins, works out well. Probably won’t be any charges against the drivers unless the qwaddos push it. Definitely not against the qwaddo. So don’t nose into it too much.”
Sounds like advice I could live by. “No problem, sir. And again, sorry about the mess.”
Eat your heart out, Han Solo.
The trooper peered over the rims of his sunglasses at the wrecked Tahoe. A tow truck had it winched and was tipping it slowly back onto its wheels. It creaked and moaned. One of the doors—the first one Nil had bashed in the glass of—hung off like a leaf ready to fall. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
My cell phone buzzed. Ah, Rutherford. Here’s hoping he had good news.
[Pik up reg to Martin Nellis, 29, Laramie. Reportd stolen June 15.]
Rats. Not so good.
“Does Agent Rutherford have anything further on our thief?” Nil breathed over my shoulder.
I hated that. “Other than that the truck was stolen? Nope.”
“It does not matter who owns the vehicle. If we are close enough I can track our suspect.”
“How close is close enough?”
“Within a few kilometers, if the winds carry the scent favorably.”
“Oh. Well, that’s something.” Putting it mildly. “Once we get out of here—”
Buzz. Another message.
[Truck spotted i25, northbd, entering Caspr.]
What? With hours ahead of us, the guy was dawdling around Casper? He didn’t strike me as the criminal mastermind that had tiny robots helping him steal microscopic alien art.
Another text. I grinned. This time, it was the Colorado plate number for the truck. “Buckle up, Nil—looks like we caught a break.”
<<<>>>
A few hours and one really rumbling stomach later, we drove off the interstate into Casper. Rutherford didn’t have much more for us. The satellite moved out of range and it was all eyes on the ground now.
[Qwaddos going to help us out with eyes in the sky?] I texted Rutherford.
[Negative.]
Perfect. [Can’t you authorize a Predator drone overfly?]
[2 much attention. Brass wont authorz.]
Perfect. “What’s the big deal? They use those drones for border patrol and SAR all day long. Even the local cops have mini versions. We can’t task one lousy—”
“We will not need the drone. Do not rely on artificial intelligence where the natural senses will suffice,” Nil said.
“Fine, we’ll do it your way, Yoda. But you’d better keep on it.”
“I breathed our adversary when we drove into this city. He is here or was recently. But I suggest we nourish ourselves.”
That had to be the smartest thing he’d said since we met.
I managed to find us a decent restaurant that A) served big hamburgers and B) had a Wi-Fi signal stronger than my attention span. So while Nil practically dripped saliva on the tabletop when the waitress brought him four—yes, that’s two plus two—half-pounders, I tapped away at my tablet.
“Sir, your grilled shrimp.”
“Huh? Oh, thanks.” I slid the tablet aside. Thing cost me five hundred bucks. No way was I getting cocktail sauce on it. Sure, I could use my phone, but the screen’s too small.
“Careful, the plate is very hot.”
Not to mention those shrimp were packed four to a stick on nasty-sharp wooden skewers. They’d poke your eye out if you got too close. “Thanks.”
Nil swallowed his obscene mouthful of burger before commenting on my dinner choice. “I cannot understand how you humans can eat those slimy creatures.”
“Fish ain’t your thing back on—” Easy. Almost said “qwaddo-world.” “Your home planet? At least you have manners enough to use a napkin.”
“A habit I acquired on Earth. In most social functions on Ceghezhu, it is considered insulting to let anything not of your body touch your face.”
I chomped down a couple of shrimp and washed them down with root beer. What’dya expect, Budweiser? Hello, designated driver. “So how do you . . .”
Nil’s tongue lapped up any crumbs of bun and meat on his lips, chin, and nose. It was dark red, almost brown, and had to be twice as long as a human’s tongue.
“That’s just nasty, man.”
“So say you.” He glanced sideways. Yeah, we were definitely getting some stares. And not just from the parents of the four kids seated across the aisle from us. Two qwaddos sat hunched over their dinner around one side of the bar. Their skin was paler than his—two different shades of a sort of mustardy yellow. They eyed me and Nil with what I’d assume was the alien version of caution—that is, they both gave a slight sniff of the air while looking in our direction. Back at ya, buddy.
“Pay them no mind. Observers.” Nil took another bite.
I pulled the Facebook page back up on my tablet. Looked good so far. Got a couple of comments—nobody I recognized yet. Oh, wait, there was one. A buddy of good old Janos. Hmm. “What, you don’t like those guys? So much for alien brotherhood.”
“Observers are from Oveqas, a nation on our smallest eastern continent. They are as ignorant and provincial as one can find on our planet.”
Ouch. “I’ll take that as a ‘No, I don’t like them.’ ”
“You may interpret it however you wish. Do not require my contact with them,” Nil said.
“Touchy.” Nil sat there, chewing his food and stewing over the presence of those Observer guys. Other dining patrons gave us odd looks. I don’t blame them. Nil looked as if he’d rather take a bite out of the table—or maybe the Observers. “Look, I, uh, appreciate you not going all gung-ho in this little manhunt or whatever. Usually I’ve got a few weeks or even months to smoke out a thief, okay, so I get the whole idea of keeping our investigation as quiet as possible. It makes me edgy when the timeline accelerates.”
“Yes, haste is always a poor idea. If prey is pursued recklessly, prey may bolt. That is when the hunter goes hungry.�
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“Nice to know we agree.” It would’ve been less unsettling if he hadn’t bitten his burger in half right after he’d said it.
“Can I get you—um, you guys anything else?” Our waitress put on her best smile. She was cute, a short blonde with nice eyes. But she was a little nervous. She kept looking at Nil like he was gonna, I don’t know, abduct her or something.
“Nah, we’re good, thanks. Unless you need another burger, Prime Nil.”
He stopped chewing. “I’m familiar with your version of sarcasm, human.”
I chuckled. “Guess that means we’re okay. Thanks.”
The waitress left in a hurry. When she came by again, it was with four more qwaddos in tow. Skin the color of ash mixed with dark brown, kind of like tree bark. These guys were boisterous, to say the least. You could hear, if not understand, everything they said in Qwaddo-ese. Or Ghiqasu. Or . . . “What’s with those guys?”
“They are of the Biqasoc nation, likely technical advisors at your fusion facilities. The Biqasohon are far more practical and serious of mind than those Observers. They must be if they are to oversee the secrets of fusion power.”
Right. Fusion One was qwaddo-built, after all. Wonder if we could see it from the interstate?
Nil barked something at them. And I do mean barked. They responded in kind until my ears rang.
“So they get on all right with you? I mean, with your variety of alien?”
“Certainly.”
Something troubling occurred to me. “You guys and your sniffers—we won’t have a problem with that, right? I mean, they can’t smell what you do for a living most of the time, can they?”
“They can, if sufficiently trained, but most of my species are unable. My race is Golquavar. Some are Hounders by tradition. Many are not. Our race has the most variety in our profession, including legitimate art collectors.” Nil tugged at the corner of his collar. Below the neckline was a flat slate-gray patch bordered with tiny wiggling tendrils stuck into his skin. I caught a whiff of something—pungent. Nasty. “The sanqattar is standard issue for investigations of this nature. It disguises my scent enough to lend to the ruse that I am an art collector.”
