I dressed and walked into the nearby small waiting room where my ex sat. The room had chairs and two sofas that might be comfortable for tall people like me and I wondered how short folks or children found them. Or adults born on Rossa. I guessed the hospital staff person who ordered the furniture came from Earth and was tall. The décor left a lot to be desired. Dark green upholstery on the furniture, light green walls, and speckled yellow vinyl plastic on the floor.
I must have read every damned magazine on a tablet attached to a metal cord while we waited for the results.
The junk people read these days.
Celebrities, sports, household items, cars, trucks, meds for every ailment, etc. What I wanted was news of the explosion. When I found the news button, I watched as reporters spoke in front of the screen. I clicked on the “subtitles” link and selected Amerish. I must have watched several reruns of the explosion. The cameras weren’t close to Gate 4 so the explosion was in the background. Other than the big bang and the debris around the gate, I looked for Leanna and me. Sure enough, we were visible along one wall.
Damn.
This coverage would get to Earth too. I hoped no one recognized me. Being a spy means avoiding your fifteen minutes of fame in front of cameras.
My comm vibrated on my wrist. When I looked at it I saw it was a call from Ron Boscoe, fellow spy and best friend.
He asked, “How did your meeting with your daughter go?”
I showed Leanna my comm and she tagged Ron on hers. They chatted for several minutes. When she finished, she mouthed, “That was Ron. I told him about the explosion and that we’re okay, minus your hearing.”
Five minutes later, a guy from Radiology came in and spoke to Leanna. After he left, she turned to my face and spoke with exaggerated lip motions.
“X-rays showed no metal fragments. We can go.”
I suspected the tech had said a lot more than that. My hearing couldn’t return soon enough.
I appreciated how deaf people must feel when talkers don’t tell them everything. It was like being a kid left out of adult conversation.
Chapter 4
I dropped my ex off in front of the Channel One building where she worked part-time. I stayed in the van while she walked through the glass double doors. The big “1” in a circle marked both doors. My staying existed from an old habit. Never abandon a woman until she was safe inside.
“Home.”
When I climbed the steep stairs inside my apartment on the second floor above a real estate office, I found Tut, my robocat.
To my left I saw my living room, complete with a bar, and on its right was the doorway to my small office that overlooked Abby Lane. My gaze swept in a circle. On my right lay the dining room, kitchen, “guest” restroom, and a small storage room. Behind me on my right lay the guest bedroom, and on its right the main bedroom with its own bathroom. The hallway around the stairs joined the rooms.
Most rooms held prints of art. Mine was a functional home, not a decorative one. But I was a guy, so what could anyone expect?
Come to think of it, much more artwork rested on the walls of Ron’s house. What art I remembered there came from photos of the buildings Tos designed. Tosten Carrel was gaining a reputation in Zor for his curved designs. The two gay men lived together. Were married, as a matter of fact.
Tut’s head tilted to the left, showing me no one had visited my home in my absence. I still played back his recording at fast speed. Other than the changes of light through the windows from passing clouds, nothing moved. Tut, of course, stayed still on his cat bed at the top of the stairs. He’d appear to be sleeping and would move only when someone came up the stairs. Then he would act like a normal cat, stretching and yawning, but always keeping an eye on the human in front of him.
We spies are paranoid about being spied upon. So when I got to my office, I still checked my hidden cameras, figuring someone might have learned how to bypass a robocat’s recordings.
My desk faced me with the back of my chair against the window overlooking Abby Lane. Since the office was a corner room, the wall on my right overlooked the parking lot. I used the white wall facing my desk as a monitor sometimes.
Next I reclined in my chair and checked my computer. One email message dated this morning caught my eye.
“We are as concerned about explosion at airport and mob action against aliens as you are. Maybe we can pool our resources.”
The message was signed by someone named Deeter.
I avoided touching my keyboard lest I alter the message. I tagged my communications expert Zetto Teasely and explained.
I spoke into my com.
“Can’t hear. My ears were damaged in the explosion at the airport. You must speak slowly so my comm can translate. Can you figure out who sent the email from Deeter?”
He already had the codes to see what I saw on the public access part of my computer.
“Give me a few minutes,” he replied.
I got a cup of coffee from my kitchen and waited.
“Whoever he is, he's hid himself well,” replied Zetto on my comm pad. “I can't trace him any closer than the Harper Hotel.”
After thanking Zetto, I wondered about this new message. If it had not included the word “explosion,” I would have deleted it. The Harper Hotel was right across the wide boulevard of Shoreline Drive from the mercon embassy. Which brought forth memories of those two black aliens just before they went out of my line of sight with the mob descending on them.
I figured my spy boss on Earth, Acorn, would not send me new orders until another day had passed while he learned more of the incident at the airport. So I had a little time to investigate this email. Besides, from the pamphlet I picked up off the floor at the airport, it might relate to the bigger problem of the explosion.
I recorded a few notes on my afternoon's experiences, encrypted them, and sent them off to Earth. In another two hours, Acorn would receive it via the fast news couriers. Since the couriers had no humans aboard, they could speed up much faster and made the twenty-five light-year trip to or from Earth in less than two hours via the jump gates. In that way, the residents of Rossa and Earth kept in touch.
As I checked for any further emails, I read a new one.
“Let's talk. Harper Hotel, room 43. I have information you may not have.”
Once again there appeared the signature of Deeter.
I doubted that was his real name. Maybe he’d recognized me standing next to the wall. The message had all the features of a trap.
Before I responded, I sent another message to Acorn to update him on this new development.
Next, I needed to find out how long I’d be unable to hear. I searched on the Net and learned the name “acoustic trauma.” Left untreated, it might take two weeks for me to fully recover. Fortunately, we Bingers healed faster than normal so my hearing might return in a couple days.
Then I checked the news. The explosion at the Zor-Franken Airport captured most of the attention.
“Computer, use voice recognition. Display as subtext on the bottom of the screen.”
The Humans Only organization denied responsibility for the explosion. Why would they when they were giving a talk close by and could get hurt themselves? That made sense.
But I wondered about that. They were on the other side of the security area when it happened. Far enough away to avoid injury.
And no one claimed responsibility for inciting the mob that attacked the mercons. From the photos as they were carried to ambulances on gurneys, the two aliens were dressed in white bandages that showed only a little of their dark skin. Poor guys must have taken quite a beating. Then I noticed there were five mercons in the hospital at the embassy. I saw only two being attacked, so why five? Then I read that three aliens working a small food shop in the airport took a beating too.
Since I had not paid much attention so far to the HO group I did more research. Besides, what else could I do with my time while I waited for my hearing to re
turn?
HO opposed robots on Rossa. The face of Guy Coocher, head of HO, appeared on almost all the news reports. He was also elected to the House of Parliament from a rural district west of Zor. A short guy, he obviously didn't work out much. I deduced that from his large belly and double chin. He claimed he didn't trust doctors because they always tried to get him to exercise, lose weight, and have surgeries.
One quote of his showed up several times. “I'd rather be the way I am than have some frickin' doctor make me a damned hybrid.”
It didn't take me long to form the opinion that most of HO presented a platform for hate groups. Hatred against robots. Hatred against hybrids, the people who had mechanical or computer-driven implants. Hatred against gays. Hatred against the medical profession. Hatred against Bingers. Hatred against the alien mercons and napes. You name it and they probably hated it. Except their own kind, of course.
The problems came when many folks in York believed the same things. Folks may have immigrated from Earth but that didn’t mean they’d left behind their fears, prejudices, and biases. Oh no. That’s what they considered part of their humanity.
I shook my head.
When will they learn?
Several articles mentioned explosions at medical facilities that provided robotic body parts and at the Nape Museum. Some even mentioned explosions at the University of Zor where classes taught tolerance of different species, including hybrid humans. In each case, the Humans Only organization denied responsibility. But the fingers did point.
The information on acoustic trauma suggested lots of sleep. When I found myself yawning, I went to my bedroom, pulled the covers back, and lay down.
I dreamt of running from an angry crowd of people waving guns and knives while carrying hate signs. Every time I looked at myself, I saw fingers pointing at my eyes. Just the fingers. No person attached. Naturally, I walked into a bog where my feet moved sluggishly and the crowd gained on me.
I woke from the little nap more exhausted than when I went into it. My body odor reeked of sweat, so I took a shower and put on fresh clothes.
Gotta do something else besides study HO and these damned mysterious messages from Deeter.
So I went to my living room and opened my comm to read a book about Daniel Snyder, spy-detective for the US Navy in New York City. Unfortunately, the novel focused on a terrorist group and my mind kept wandering back to HO. This group needed more watching.
I made coffee and out of habit, set a timer. Then I remembered I couldn’t hear it so I checked it visually several times. During my first cup, I felt vibrations through the floor as someone came up the stairs.
I pulled my Snap out of its holster, crouched behind the dining table, and aimed the gun at the top of the stairs where a head might appear.
The first thing to come into view was a handgun. Then a head.
#
It was Ron Boscoe in a white long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and dark blue shoes. In both ears, he wore gold stud earrings.
Much relieved, I eased my gun up and stood. When he saw me, he pointed his Snap upwards.
After replacing my Snap in its holster, I saw his lips move so I shook my head and used my left hand to point to my ear on that side of my head.
He frowned and said something else as he put his gun in its holster. Since I couldn’t hear him, I hunched my shoulders, turned my palms outward, and raised my eyebrows.
I strode past him to my bar and fixed us two tall drinks. I reclined in one easy chair and he in the other. While we sipped, I used the voice recognition on my comm to display our messages.
“I came over to check on you,” he said.
Ron said he had not heard anything from me all day. Ever since my unfortunate experience of being kidnapped, he got anxious whenever I didn’t communicate.
It turns out his new husband, Tos, had moved in with him. They had met on a spy op four years in Campbell on the island continent of Braco south of the equator. Apparently vid and audio conversations didn’t do it. Or maybe it just increased their affection for each other.
From the smile on his face, I knew my buddy was now a much happier camper.
I swear Ron is as romantic as I am.
He may be gay but I trust him with my life. Had on several occasions, as a matter of fact. And vice versa.
“Need any food?” Ron asked by slowly mouthing the words.
I shook my head. “Stocked up two days ago.”
“Anything else? I can go with you to talk with clerks if it would help.”
“Can’t think of anything,” I replied.
I filled him in on what I experienced at the airport, but the parts about Leanna and Alena were highlights only, since I was not there when the two women chatted. Couldn’t hear them if I were.
“You worry about your daughter, don’t you?” he said via my comm.
I had to nod at that one.
In a period of awkward silence, he mouthed, “Let’s watch the news.”
We sipped our drinks and watched reruns on the explosion at the airport. Living through the experience again helped me see how bland the reporting was. The most interesting commentary focused on who did it. All fingers pointed to either the Humans Only organization or to RUFF, the Rossan United Freedom Fighters. Since HO had presented a rally at the same airport, and could have been injured in the blast, suspicion focused on RUFF.
Craig Horton, head of that organization asserted, “RUFF had nothing to do with this! We don't believe in terrorism.”
I studied Horton’s face.
Had RUFF changed from a passive posture to a more aggressive one?
A few of the folks on the news interviews wondered if the Bingers were behind the explosions.
One gal said, “By eliminating robots that might be used as soldiers against an invasion, the damned Bingers were weakening the planetary defenses of Rossa.”
Of course, no one bothered to mention that the only aliens we knew about already lived on our planet—the mercons and the napes on Braco.
I shook my head. People react too easily with emotion without thinking it through.
My greatest concern was potential bigotry against Bingers. Having inherited half of my father’s DNA, altered to include genes from the alien mercons, had marked me as a threat to those with much less education or tolerant thinking.
You'd think by now I'd get used to this. But having blood and a human finger on the front of my shirt brought the danger home. I could be next.
Maybe I should avoid crowds for a while.
According to the interviews on the news, most folks in the city were frightened of more explosions. Many immigrants had come here from places on Earth where bombs terrorized them. They thought coming to Rossa would be different.
I sighed at that one. People may change their address but they always bring their old customs and habits of thinking with them.
Terrorism works by instilling fear of the bully. If we give in to that fear, the bullies win.
Chapter 5
When I watched the telly on the third day after the explosion, I noticed everyone mumbled. Some of my hearing must have returned. The low frequencies came through but not the high ones.
Ron knocked on my door. He may have knocked on his earlier visit, but I couldn’t have heard it.
The monitor showed he wore a blue sports jacket with the Zor Screechies logo, jeans, and a low-slung blue cap. He had on a yellow shirt with wide lapels, the current rage in men’s fashions. The sports logo of the local baseball team showed the face view of a single screechie with its mouth open in a run from home to first base.
On Rossa, screechies were an indigenous species that looked like Earth's prehistoric velociraptors. Mean little animals, they stood two feet tall and were famous for the screeches they let out when a group of them attacked. I had been on a screechie hunt and will always remember the terror of facing a herd of them as they let out their screech and rushed toward my group of four hunters.
Ron
climbed the stairs and mumbled something.
I waved him into my office. He closed the door and I scanned the room for bugs with my comm. For spies, it’s always a good idea to scan every room you enter, even if you’ve checked it before.
Then I took the desk chair and Ron reclined in the guest one. After making sure the blinds were closed so no one could see the wall opposite my desk, I displayed Acorn’s message on the wall.
“HO on Earth has become a terrorist group. They are behind explosions in public places, even in developed countries. Watch HO there closely. They could become a problem. If that happens, deal with it. My sources tell me HO on your world is planning a surprise that will upset anti-HO voters. Find out if you can. You decide what to do with the mysterious messages.”
I turned my eyes upon Ron, who nodded his head and pursed his lips.
He queried, “What were the mysterious messages?”
I could not make out what he said and it was important to get it right. So I turned to my comm to see what he had said.
Then I displayed both messages from Deeter on my monitor and let Ron read them.
This deserved more thought. I settled back in my black leather office chair, placed my elbows on the arm rests, and pressed my fingers together under my nose.
My boss would see the same news broadcasts so he might ask for more information. Maybe it was time to infiltrate that organization.
But who could I ask?
Andy Warden kept busy with his hardware business. His Mourtan Security was at the top of his industry. Some say it came from his genius. He needed to be left alone as much as possible. Besides, he was too well known to become an undercover agent. All one had to do was check his name or photo against his website.
Vincent Stone worked as my software guru and would have a hard time passing. Besides, he was a hundred percent Binger. Leanna was his wife and my ex. She couldn’t pretend to believe the HO line. Ron was half-Binger and gay and either could become a problem, so he wouldn’t do.
Which left Zetto, my communications expert. Zetto lived alone and only wanted into my spy ring for the thrill of it. Being a hundred percent human, his DNA would allow him to pass HO inspection.
Humans Only: A Jake Dani Novel (Jake Dani/Mike Shapeck Book 2) Page 3
