by Tonia Brown
“I don’t think I should.”
“I’d rather you did. And don’t worry; it’s not as dangerous as all that.” In a lower voice, Dodger added, “And don’t translate that. Yet.”
Jones met Dodger’s gaze with a curious look. “I won’t.” He said a few things to his tribesmen, which seemed to quell their worry, then fell in behind Dodger.
As they approached the teepee, Dodger did his best to repress his ire at the sight of Ched lazing about in the shade of the big tent.
“I told you to keep an eye on the doc,” Dodger said.
“I wash,” Ched said.
“How can you do that from out here?”
Ched twisted his face into what Dodger guessed was an attempt at a grimace. “A man should only be exshpected to witnessh sho much.”
Dodger shook off the driver’s mysterious words, as well as his nauseating facial expression, and ducked into the tent. There he found a sight equally nauseating—the doc up to his arm in buffalo, quite literally. The doc, not a bit embarrassed by his compromising position, began to explain something about the need for a full gynecological exam. Dodger quickly excused himself from the scene and backed out of the teepee, trying to blink away the disturbing image. Feng chuckled at Dodger’s distress, until the Celestial stepped into the tent and backed out just as quickly.
“I don’t know what was worse,” Feng said with a grimace. “The smile on the doc, or the way the buffalo was giggling.”
“Both,” Dodger said.
“You think that’sh bad,” Ched said. “You shoulda been here a few minutesh ago.”
“What happened a few minutes ago?”
“The doc wash giggling too.”
“Any progress in there?” Jones asked.
“The doc will have to exshplain it,” Ched said. “I don’t undershtand half of what he shaysh normally. Get him shtarted on shomthing like thish, and I’m out.”
“You lose interest, eh?”
“Interesht nothing. I lose conshcioushnessh.”
“What’s all this then?” the doc asked as he poked his head out of the teepee. “A meeting of the minds?”
“We were just explaining to Jones how you can help,” Dodger said.
“Ah yes, that.” The doc glanced to the natives keeping a healthy distance from the teepee. “Mr. Jones. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind stepping inside.”
“Certainly,” Jones said, and followed the doc inside.
“Stay here, Ched,” Dodger said. “Keep an eye on the entrance. No one else gets near it. Understand?”
“Aye, Sharge,” Ched said with a heavy and bored sigh.
Dodger left Ched to it and motioned for Critchlow and Feng to follow him into the tent.
The doc returned to his place beside the buffalo, patting one of the Sisters on her healthy rump. “Ladies, thank you again for your participation in my examination.”
“It was our pleasure,” they said as one.
Critchlow gasped, covering his mouth just as his sound of surprise hit the air. Through his fingers, he whispered, “They really do speak.”
“With some assistance,” the doc explained.
“Professor, this is marvelous,” Jones said. “How is it possible?”
“Ladies, if you don’t mind allowing me the luxury of showing off my knowledge?”
“Of course,” Atropo said. “Be our guest.”
“We won’t interrupt,” Clotho said.
“Much,” Lachesis said.
The three bison giggled again.
“Thank you.” The doc withdrew a collapsible pointer from his jacket, extended it and proceeded to point out the various mechanisms of the device as he gave an abbreviated explanation of its makeup. “The SCWAK Box picks up on the thoughts of the animal, via a special contact mechanism here. The unit sends those impulses to the speaker here, which, as the name suggests, translates it into comprehensible speech patterns. The result is an output that mimics English well enough. It’s crude, but effective.”
“It’s incredible!” Critchlow shouted.
“Thank you, Mr. Critchlow,” the doc said. “I take great pride in my work.”
“Imagine how different things would be if we could talk to all of the animals.”
“Yes, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The SCWAK Box is a temporary substitute for proper communication with our fellow planet dwellers. It doesn’t work for all species, and can only be employed for a few weeks, at best. After that, there is a risk of the animal developing a tumor. Or worse.” Something in the doc’s voice said he had firsthand experience as to what that worse alternative was.
“Still, a few weeks. Imagine.” Critchlow’s eyes sparkled with admiration, as well as ideas.
Dodger immediately regretted bringing the man along.
“As wonderful as this is,” Jones said, “what of the collars?”
The doc touched the bulky collar on Atropos. “As you guessed, each of these metal drums contains dynamite.”
“Then they are rigged to explode?”
“Yes and no,” the buffaloes said.
The doc pointed to the collar. “The explosives, you see, are connected to the clasp and nothing else. If you try to remove the collar as is, the whole thing will explode. Otherwise, it lies as dormant as a sleeping demon after it has eaten half of a horse.”
Critchlow furrowed his brow, but said nothing.
“Can you get around it?” Feng asked.
“Of course I can,” the doc said. “It’s a simple trick. A snip here, a cut there, and the whole thing will be disarmed. Easy as that.”
“Thank the Lord,” Jones said.
“The explosives are still very explosive; that can’t be helped. But they will no longer detonate on removal of the collar. Which I highly recommend, of course. Now, as far as the buffalo themselves are concerned-”
“I thought the collar said they would explode in three sunsets,” Critchlow said over the doc.
“Excuse me?” the doctor asked, annoyed by the interruption.
“The collar. I thought it said they would explode tomorrow?”
“No. The collar indicates that they will expire in three sunsets. Not explode. The time frame given by the etching isn’t in reference to the dynamite.”
Critchlow wrinkled his nose and said, “That’s a bit anticlimactic.”
The doc wrinkled his nose in return. “Who are you again?”
“He’s the new agent for the reservation,” Dodger said.
“Ah. And you are also an expert on genetics, I take it?”
“What?” Critchlow asked. “No. Of course not.”
“No? Then what is it you do?”
“I am here to teach the Utes how to farm and such.”
“Farm? Well, that’s all right, then. When we talk about farming, I will ask for your input. Otherwise, I suggest you keep your mouth shut while the scientist is speaking.”
The ladies giggled as one.
Critchlow started at the laughter, then grumbled a few not very Christian things under his breath.
“As I was trying to explain before our resident farmer interrupted,” the doc continued, “the time frame isn’t in reference to the device. It’s a countdown of a different nature. I … well … I hesitate to say this, but …”
“Go ahead, Hieronymus,” Lachesis said over his dithering. “Tell them. It is best they are aware.”
The doc sighed. “I am afraid your buffaloes are of a limited existence, Mr. Jones.”
“What does that mean?” Jones asked.
“They were bred and raised by unnatural manipulation.”
Jones shook his head, not getting the doc’s meaning.
“Their genetics are in flux,” the doc said.
Jones shrugged.
“The countdown represents the remainder of their life span,” the doc said.
“What does that mean?” Jones asked.
“They are going to die tomorrow night,” Dodger said. “With or witho
ut the help of the explosives.”
“You’re joking,” Jones said.
“I would never joke about such things, young man,” the doc said.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Jones asked.
The doc furrowed his brow, looking quite upset. “I’m afraid not.”
“I thought you could stabilize them?” Dodger asked.
“I thought so too, but after examining them, I found it isn’t quite that simple. They aren’t of the same instability as the Pack, Dodger. Their genetics aren’t just blended, they are hyper-accelerated.”
“I see.”
“I don’t,” Critchlow said.
“They are growing at a fantastic rate,” the doc said. “By my guess, they are aging an hour every five seconds. This conversation alone has seen their bodies age by two weeks. The average bison only lives fifteen years or so.”
Dodger did the math in his head. “They’ll only have a week to live?”
“They had a week,” the doc reminded Dodger. “Rex was gracious enough to let us know roughly how far along they were when they arrived. And by his calculations, they will die of old age at sunset tomorrow. Calculations with which, after my own examinations of the trio, I am forced to concur. Now, I might be able to produce a serum that will slow the process, allowing them to live a few extra days, maybe even a week or more. In that time I might be able to concoct a solution that will bring their aging to a normal rate, but …” The doc paused as he glanced to the buffalo for guidance.
“But?” Jones asked.
“But we asked him not to,” Atropos said.
Jones’s face fell into a look of naked desperation. “Why not?”
“Because we are as we were,” Clotho said.
“We were as we will be,” Lachesis said.
“We shall be as we are, always,” Atropos said.
“I think that means they want leave things as they are,” the doc said.
“You can’t do this to us,” Jones said. “We need you. You came to us at our most desperate time, and now you’re just going to abandon us? My people need direction. We need your guidance.”
“You do not need us,” Lachesis said.
“You are strong enough on your own,” Clotho said.
“And we were never here for you, or your people,” Atropos said.
“Then what are you here for?” Jones asked.
The buffalo looked, as one, to Dodger.
Jones clenched his fists as he said, “I understand. Excuse me; I need to report this most sorrowful news to Chief Atchee. Thank you for your time, Professor. Once you have removed the collars, we will make payment arrangements for your services.”
“No payment is required,” the doc said. “It’s my pleasure to help.”
“We would like that envelope,” Dodger said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Yes. The envelope. I will see if I can obtain it for you.” Jones whipped about on his heel and stormed from the tent.
****
back to toc
****
Chapter Ten
What’s What
In which Dodger explains the way of things
Dodger followed the angry native from the tent, watching as Jones stormed across the open space, but then tried to relax as he approached his boss man. The man’s posture did nothing to hide his anger, for the natives set to arguing right away. Dodger felt the presence of others joining him outside of the teepee.
“He sheemed awful upshet,” Ched said.
“The doc just gave him the bad news,” Dodger said.
“I heard. That’sh a shame.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing. We’re on a tight enough schedule as it is. We didn’t have a whole lot of time to stick around.”
“You know the doc offered to shtay ash long ash it took to help.”
“I would’ve been disappointed if he hadn’t.”
“It didn’t matter either way, becaushe they shtill turned him down.”
“I wonder why.”
The doc slipped out of the teepee. “I wondered if you could lend me a hand, Ched?”
“Shure,” Ched said.
“I think I can get the collars off with a simple snip or two, but I need help holding them straight.”
“I’ll do my besht.”
“And still.”
“I shaid I would do my besht.”
“I don’t want your best. I want you to do it right.”
“Sir?” Dodger asked.
“Yes?” the doc asked.
“I hate to bother you about this, but why are the buffalo so against help?”
The doc glanced to the natives, still arguing in the distance, then lowered his voice as he said, “I didn’t want Jones to know this, but the accelerated growth of their cells has left them in a constant state of excruciating pain. Pain is all they know. All they understand. To be quite frank, they are looking forward to dying.”
“I know the feeling,” Dodger said.
“Yes. It’s most unfortunate. Poor things. I can’t wait to get my hands on that maniac. I would like nothing more than to snap his little furry neck.”
Dodger doubted the doc would do such a thing, but the sentiment was agreeable.
“Looksh like the powwow ish over,” Ched said.
The group of leaders pushed Jones to one side and made their way to the main teepee.
“Get back in the tent, Doc,” Dodger said. “Let me handle them.”
“Nonsense,” the doc said. “I am every bit as much a part of this as you are.”
Dodger didn’t get much of a chance to argue about it before the chieftain and his entourage were within earshot. And bowshot. Even before they made it to the teepee, the chief was shouting in a gruff voice.
“He wantsh to know if the cowsh can really talk,” Ched said.
“Tell him yes, with some help,” the doc said. “And they aren’t cows, Chester. They are buffalo.”
Ched translated the information, to which the chief and his men all smiled and nodded. The leader said a few more excited words.
“He wantsh to hear them himshelf,” Ched said. The chief continued to talk as Ched explained, “He doeshn’t believe Jones’sh account. He doubtsh the Shishtersh are here for the White Crow. He alsho shaysh no offensh meant by that. I don’t know if he meansh by the name or the other thing.”
Dodger looked beyond the chieftain, to Jones, who remained at the edge of the distant crowd, all but sneering in return. The native was clearly upset by the news, just as his fellow tribesmen were bound to be once they heard it from the source. There was little that could be done about that, though. Might as well let the drama unfold naturally.
“If it makes the chief feel any better,” Dodger said, “I don’t think the Sisters are here for me either. But he and his men are welcome to hear it from the buffaloes’ mouths.”
“They should keep in mind,” the doc added, “that the devices have yet to be deactivated. There is still a danger that Rex is bluffing about everything, and the collars could explode without warning.”
Ched explained the situation.
The chief nodded, said a few words of thanks, then pushed past Dodger into the tent.
“You should go translate for them,” Dodger said, and gave Ched a little shove inside.
“I’ll join them, shall I?” the doc asked. He ducked into the tent without waiting for a response, passing Critchlow on his way out.
“That was just amazing,” Critchlow said, still glassy eyed with wonder. “I can’t believe those beautiful animals can actually speak.”
“Yeah,” Dodger said. “And no one else will believe you either.”
Critchlow lost the awe and stared at Dodger for almost a full five seconds in silence, before asking, “What are you trying to imply?”
“That you’re going to keep your trap shut about this, because if you think about it for more than a few seconds, the whole thing sounds pretty implausible. Not to mention silly.”
“I can’t just … I have a job … I have to … it’s just that …” Critchlow’s excuses faded to a murmur as he rubbed at the back of his neck and kept his eyes downcast, thinking about it for a moment. When he raised his face to Dodger again, he bore a sheepish grin. “You’re right, you know? I can’t tell anyone about it. Who would believe me? I suppose you and your crew will just deny it if asked.”
“You can count on that.”
“But why? Why hold back something so wonderful? Something like this could change the world.”
“I reckon the doc has his reasons, and I’ve learned not to question them. Whatever they are.”
“That kind of blind loyalty can be dangerous.”
“Nothing blind about it. If anything, I’ve seen too much. I know exactly what your bosses would do with a thing like that in there. The same thing applies to the ICE machine.”
All at once, Critchlow became the picture of innocence, as if he didn’t work for the same bastards Dodger spent the last half of a decade avoiding. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Dodger wasn’t fooled by the act. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”
“I am sure you’re mistaken.”
“Fine, you want me to spell it out? I’ll spell it out.” Dodger lowered his voice to a gravelly growl and moved in closer to Critchlow. “If the U.S. government gets their hands on the ICE machine, they will weaponize it. They will take a perfectly innocent thing and turn it into something dangerous and unstable. They will turn it against its own purpose, just like they do everyone else. Do you understand now? Or do I need to spell it with my fists too?”
Critchlow, to his credit, didn’t back away or even flinch the entire time Dodger snarled in the man’s face. He did, however, whisper a single word once Dodger was finished. “Everything.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said everyone, but I think you meant everything.”
“I meant exactly what I said.”
Critchlow eyed Dodger a moment as those words sank into his brain until they reached just the right place. The man went a touch white as he swallowed hard. “You are he, aren’t you? You’re Agent Dodger.”
“I’m sure I don’t know who you mean,” Dodger said, delighting in echoing the man’s words.
“I’ve heard stories about you,” Critchlow whispered. “So many things. So many terrible, terrible things.” He began to tremble ever so slightly.
