by Steve Rzasa
“Why do your leaders complain about Consociation intervention when it is so obviously a boon to your planet?” Nil held the paper steady with his upper hands and flipped pages with the lower right.
I shrugged. Nothing interesting on the drone feed so far. I quit fast forwarding through the prior hours and got to the live feed. Had to turn the screen sideways, what with the late afternoon sun blazing in and setting everything a warm yellow. “Everybody’s written and speculated about alien invasions for years, Prime Nil. Nobody ever figured you guys would just show up and buy us off.”
“Ah. Similar to when you wanted to bribe the museum director.”
“Yeah, except your kind bribed a whole planet.”
Well, hang on. Somebody came out of the house. The small house with the Land Cruiser parked out front.
“Few nations complain about the extra income they receive from asteroid mining. Ore processing employs many humans in orbit—”
“Will you shut up?” I zoomed in the camera. A red pickup truck pulled up, this one an old Chevy with rust showing around all four wheel wells. The guy walked from the house right toward it. He wore blue jeans ripped at the knees, white sneakers, and a dark green T-shirt with the U.S. Army emblem faded on his chest.
The drone nabbed a photo. I enlarged it and swiped it off to one side while the video ran. Sent a copy off to Rutherford. [Think we’ve got our boy.]
Yeah, there it was—the same angry expression, same short hair and rugged face as the military ID Rutherford had dug up. Except he looked more haggard.
But he had the same tattoo on his right arm: crossed swords, number three in black ink, two shooting stars underneath.
“Nil, check this out. Here’s Tyler Fisk.”
He sat down next to me on the bed and squinted at the screen. Looked like he had a headache.
“You okay?” I asked. Fisk was talking with another guy, one who’d gotten out of the pickup. He was a short, stocky guy wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a Denver Broncos ball cap.
“The screen is very bright.”
I knocked the backlight down as far as it could go. “Better?”
“Thank you. The daylight on Earth bothers my eyes, especially in sunnier regions.”
No bright lights? Another weakness to file away. “Ever think about closing the shades?”
“That was my intent until you called me to see this video.”
“Whatever.”
Fisk had a cell phone out. He gestured at it. Whatever he was saying couldn’t be pleasant, ’cause his face just got madder and his mouth opened wide. The other guy held up his hands as if to say, “Whoa, ease up, buddy.”
“Do you have audio?” Nil asked.
“Some, but the range is limited. Hold on.” I dialed in the microphone. No such luck. It was all full of static.
My phone buzzed. Ah, Rutherford.
[Confrm thats Tyler Fisk. Snd audio if you hve it.]
“It’s all static but hey, knock yourself out.”
On the screen Fisk stomped off, right back into the house. The stocky dude stood there for a few more seconds. I couldn’t see his face. Maybe he was deciding whether to continue the argument indoors. Apparently he lost that argument because he sulked his way back to his pickup. The red truck backed out, throwing up a cloud of dust.
“Wonder what all that was about.”
Nil picked at his teeth. “Perhaps Agent Rutherford can tell us if he cleans up the audio record.”
“I hope so.” Come on, drone. I detached the anchor hooks and sent it whirring into the air. The screen image spun crazily as I activated all four cameras. The drone could follow the guy, no problem. But then I’d lose the tree perch and my view of the house. So instead I sent her straight up. “Gotcha.”
“What is it?
“They’re headed into town. C’mon.” I scooped up my phone. “How’re your kind with alcohol?”
“We can, as you humans say, ‘hold our liquor.’ Do you surmise the individual in question seeks a drinking establishment?”
“Bingo. Let’s go check on our ride.”
The car was waiting downstairs, shined up and sans qwaddo feet on the hood. It was past seven by the time I paid up on one of my four credit cards and we got on the road to go find the stocky guy from the drone video.
It was awfully nice of Fisk’s afternoon visitor to drive a red pickup. Talk about easy to follow. He was already well into Buffalo by the time Nil and I got ourselves into the Bimmer.
We were at one of the three stoplights around, by a bank, right where the strip of fast food restaurants and chain stores gave way to the residential neighborhoods and Main Street.
An airplane buzzed overhead. Six-engine hexplane, small commuter ride. Probably coming from Cheyenne or Denver. I watched it flit toward the hills where Buffalo’s airport sat north of town and then it just stopped, mid-air, as the engines rotated 90 degrees. It started settling straight down behind the trees. Light turned green and I turned left onto Main Street.
I checked my watch. Half an hour after Fisk’s buddy drove off from the family property. It was already busy downtown, especially for a Thursday night. There were cars lined up and down both sides of the street. Lots of people going into restaurants.
The most cars were bunched in front of the Occidental Hotel. It took up an entire block on the right side of the street, down the grassy hill from the courthouse. This was a hotel that had some real feel to it: old rocking chairs out front, what looked like the original brickwork all across the face, a wagon sitting by the main entrance.
And the red pickup parked a few spaces from the door to the bar.
“Right on.” I put the Bimmer into park and shut off the ignition. “You coming?”
“I cannot see why not.”
I spun the keys on my index finger. Second thoughts? Check. “You see any other of your kind around?”
“No. Nor do I detect their scent. But if this is the man who visited Fisk, this is where I should be.”
“I dunno. Taking you into a bar on 6/16—”
“It would not be my first such experience. You have cast me as a buyer of antiques along with yourself. It is only fitting we should socialize in public.”
Alrighty. “Let’s do this.”
The bar was busy but not packed full. The floor was tile and everything else dark wood. It had décor that was as varied as the clientele—stuffed animal heads, old paintings, and metal advertising signs. A half dozen guys and girls lined the bar itself, perched on stools. The bartender, a blond woman with a pleasant smile, poured a drink for one guy while conversing with another. There was a door to the right of us that led to the Virginian restaurant, where at least five couples dined. To the left were tables and a couch.
The whole place was loud. Three older guys and two women were busy on their guitars and fiddles in the far-right corner, belting a song over the microphone that set your bones vibrating. A quartet of young guys tried their luck at the billiard tables beyond them. It was a mix of professional types in shirts and ties (ladies in skirts, of course) and folks relaxing in blue jeans and T-shirts. There were a few cowboy hats and baseball caps in the mix.
The stocky dude was drinking a beer by himself at the far end of the bar. He was somewhat slimmer than I’d first thought when I viewed him at street level without the aid of a drone camera. He was short, yeah, but had enough muscle mass you knew he kept in better shape than most guys. His face was round and red, with the beginnings of a goatee hanging under his chin. Tough guy look.
Right. “Time to hang out.”
“Hang out? I think that would be more apt on my planet.” Nil’s nostrils flared. The place must have pummeled him with smells.
“You want anything? Wait a sec . . . never mind. I’m ordering you a drink. Go have a seat.”
Not sure how he liked taking orders, but Nil pulled up a chair in one corner. The other bar patrons nearby gave him a curious look but went back to their c
onversations as if he was no more interesting than any other guy who walked in. Good.
“What can I get you?” The bartender placed both hands on the counter.
“Jack Daniels, two of ’em. Neat.”
“Sure thing.”
I glanced down to the end of the bar. The stocky dude slid an empty bottle aside. He accepted a new one from the bartender. There was no sign of Fisk.
The president was on TV. Dude was looking pretty good, white edges to his gray hair, that sly smile, even when he was delivering lousy news. The buildings of downtown New York City were giant mirrors emblazoned with the American flag.
“You believe somebody wanted to blow them up?” The blonde bartender shook her head.
“Yeah, I read it online. He wound up using his boys on the qwaddos instead. On their embassy, I think. You wouldn’t believe how ticked everyone in Boston was that some wacko would blow up a building on American soil, even if it was full of aliens.”
That attack wasn’t that long after 6/16, after Nantucket got vaporized. Some terrorist nut had a grand scheme that was meant to drag the U.S. into jihad, but when the qwaddos showed up, he tweaked it for their benefit. Apparently aliens were a greater devil to go after than the big bad Americans. So he had a posse of suicide bombers stroll in the front door of the qwaddo embassy at Massport and light their fuses. Killed a hundred aliens. Beantown held its collective breath that the qwaddos wouldn’t do a repeat performance of Nantucket on the whole Eastern seaboard.
I listened to the president ramble about God bless America and all that jazz but tuned the rest out. My memories were stuck more on the newscasts from back then, after the bombing when the qwaddos hunted down and tore apart the nest of terrorists inside of six months. No one ever explained how they found him so fast.
Having seen Nil’s sniffer in action, I got a pretty good idea how.
“Here you go.” The bartender set the drinks in front of me. The glasses were cool to the touch and man, did the Jack go down smooth.
I grinned. At her. Here’s hoping Nil knew whiskey. “Thanks. Keep the change.”
I overpaid. By a lot. Never hurts.
Nil sniffed his drink as soon as I handed it to him. His expression was unreadable, which meant it was a new one. “Potent.”
“Sure is.” I sipped some more. “But that means good.”
“Ah. Well.” He took a drink. It was a lot bigger drink than I would have. In fact, he emptied half the glass. His eyes lit up. “Very passable.”
“Glad you like it. Let’s make this look good.” I raised my voice a notch, not enough to be heard over all the rest of the chatter, but enough that the people near us could make out the words. “To a successful partnership in antiques collecting.”
To his credit, Nil matched my toast perfectly. Our glasses clinked. I tossed back more of the Jack. He must have had the opportunity to socialize like this before.
“Caz?”
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Ally walked over to the table. With her friends. I loved the way she walked. Okay, so that was the Jack talking. Mostly. But come on! She was wearing tight blue jeans and a classy red top. Hair fixed but no makeup. She was never much for a lot of that. Just some light blue eye shadow you’d miss if you weren’t looking.
I was looking.
“Hey, Ally. Talk about a small town.” I smiled. A nice one, not a leer. Give me some credit.
“Yeah, right about that.” She half smiled. Progress. Not a frown. “This is Jana and Kristine.”
One was a short blonde, the other a taller redhead. One hot, one kinda lukewarm. “Ladies.” I lifted my glass in salute.
The blonde played with her hair and smiled back. The redhead gave me about as much attention as a kid does to socks on sale when he’s got the toy aisle right next door.
“Who’s your friend?” Ally asked.
“Oh. Uh, this is Nil. He’s a collector of Earth antiques and art. Here to see what he can see of the great American West.” Yes, I lied to Ally. Like I haven’t done it before.
“That’s interesting.” She gave me one of those I-don’t-quite-believe-you-but-let’s-not-fight-in-front-of-others looks. Ally held out her hand. “Ally Bannister.”
Nil did his whole hands-spread-wide greeting thing. “It is pleasant to acquaint myself with your scent, Miss Bannister.”
Miss? Good eye, Nil. I’d totally missed that she didn’t have a ring.
Her friends giggled. “We’ll go get a table,” the blonde said.
She waved good-bye to me.
I winked.
“Thanks, uh, Mr. Nil.” Ally gave me a look. It was a familiar look. You need to tell me what this is all about. I was touched. Meant she still cared.
Something silver sparkled about her neck. A tiny angel dangled from a slender chain. She still wore it? Sixteen years ago, she about cried when I gave it to her.
My drink stopped halfway to my mouth.
Our eyes met. Ally glanced down. She tucked the angel inside her blouse faster than I’d seen a pickpocket operate.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“That’s okay.” She smiled again. “See ya.”
“Later, Ally.”
I watched her leave. My favorite activity, you know. Good thing, too, because the stocky dude looked in our general direction at the same time. We made eye contact. He nodded. I did likewise.
Nil made a grumbling noise. His version of clearing his throat, I guess. “Would my departure increase your chances of a successful pairing?”
I dribbled whiskey down my chin. Graceful it was not. “What do you mean, pairing?”
“Mating.”
“Hey, man, lay off. She’s a friend.”
“She is not. You have already told me as much.”
“Yeah, well . . .” No use trying to lie to Nil again. His memory was too good. Besides, with that sniffer of his he had a way of cutting through what my mom used to call the baloney. I returned my attention to the stocky dude.
He had a tattoo on his left arm. Saw only a glimpse of it before he turned aside to talk to another burly guy at the bar.
“Nil. Did you see that?”
“You must endeavor to be specific. My visual range is limited.”
So was my patience. “Our guy has a mark on his arm. Same Army tattoo as Fisk, I think. The stars, swords, the whole works. I’m pretty sure. I need Rutherford to confirm.”
“What is your plan?”
“Cell phone and text message.” I plunked my glass down on a table. “Be right back.”
“Foss.” Nil leaned closer. I paused by the table. He lowered his tone. “Bring his scent. Brush against him. The smells in here mingle greatly.”
“Tricky for you, is it?”
“Only because of the strength of human stink.” Jerk. But I was willing to give teamwork a go.
The restrooms were in the back past the band, according to the black and white figurines on the sign overhead. There was also a third sign that showed a four-armed white figure on a black background, with an arrow pointing left. Guess the hotel owner valued qwaddo customers. I walked toward the back. One glance with the old peripheral vision confirmed I was on the right track. I altered my course accordingly.
My elbow brushed the stocky dude’s back. I didn’t stop. He kept on talking to whoever the other guy was. Didn’t look at me either. That much was apparent with one glance at the big mirrors behind the bar. Good deal.
There was no one in the bathroom. I got out my cell phone, waited a minute or so, and left. Stocky dude and his friend were still deep in their discussion, but it was way less friendly. The guy had the nerve to poke stocky dude in the chest a couple of times, which earned him a glare. The music from the band was at full steam now, so much so that my footsteps were drowned out. I kept eye contact with Nil the whole time.
Right as I walked by the bar, I raised my phone up as if to take a call. But only the camera was active. I took a picture at the same time I launched i
nto an imaginary conversation with Laci. “What? Can’t hear you! Too loud in here!”
By then I was back to the seat. Nil gave me a curious look. “Why did you use your telephone in the restroom?”
“Gross. For your information, that was surveillance.” My phone got a pretty good image of the guy’s tattoo. Fuzzy, but it could be cleaned up. More importantly, so could the image of the guy’s face above the tattoo. I attached it to a text and sent it off to Rutherford. [Run this guy ASAP. Seen with Fisk. Watching both of them.]
His response came back way faster than I expected. And it came with an attached JPEG.
[Will chk. Meanwhile here is Fisks record. Note highlights. Srved 2 tors offworld. Particlars redacted.]
Boy, were they ever. Fisk’s military service record was striped with more black than a zebra. What was still readable was the fact that he excelled at recon and night combat.
My phone vibrated again. [SGT Jordan Santoro. Maintaned autonom scouts fr Fisk’s platoon. Skilled at repair in fld. Discharged a yr ago with Fisk.]
Well, now. That was definitely our stocky guy. He’d gained some weight since his military ID picture was last updated, but it was the same rounded, red face. “That’s the one. Jordan Santoro.”
“I will remember.” Nil swallowed the rest of the whiskey. I sure hoped it didn’t affect him as strongly as it did me. “Same army unit as Fisk.”
“Indeed. Let me gain his scent.”
Well, I didn’t want a bunch of people watching Nil sniff my elbow. I scooted my chair as close as I felt comfortable—which was to say, not very.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “I know this smell.”
“What? From where?” It took my whole concentration to not turn around and snap the words at Nil. Had to play it calm, cool, collected.
“He carries the scent of the robot from the museum.”
“The one that self-destructed when I unhooked it from the security camera?”
“Yes, the very same. The plastics and metals and other materials, combined with traces of his odor, are unmistakable. This man handled the insides of that robot.”
So this was our robot builder.
