But the MinSha hadn’t gone into a business or stopped to meet with anyone. No, she’d opened a tiny little cubical off the promenade. It might have once been a storage room, a maintenance access way, or maybe even just an architectural void. Now it was a shop. Maybe ten feet square, it had an interestingly adjustable seat in the center, with room to move around it from all sides, and dozens of little storage bins along the inside walls. The MinSha was just finishing securing the rolling door to the ceiling. There was no sign advertising what it was, not that he’d be able to read, at least. The MinSha’s language was one of the more difficult to speak and read. However, had there been something, the little computer translator embedded in his brain would have made sense of it.
He watched the alien go about examining and preparing numerous little instruments. There was a single piece of high-tech equipment, a machine which looked a little like a medical nanobot system, but with an unusual Tri-V interface and various lines and linkages. He stayed on the opposite side of the street and tried to act disinterested, despite the fact he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene. After a time, the MinSha finished her preparations. She moved to the doorway, flexed her various arms, and touched a place on her thorax. Every inch of her pale green body came alive. He stood in stunned disbelief. Creatures moved, ships flew, robots pranced, alien languages flashed.
“Holy shit,” the merc said, “she’s a tattoo artist!” The paleness of her chiton now made sense. He’d never seen a MinSha with tattoos—hell, he hadn’t even thought it was possible. How do you embed a tattoo into armor? Apparently, it was possible, as this particular MinSha was a living canvas. The tattoos were incredible; they changed constantly and rarely repeated.
The MinSha held up her arms and moved back and forth to show off her work, gesturing for everyone to come closer. A crowd quickly gathered, and the traffic slowed. In minutes, several dozen aliens had stopped to admire and comment on her work. He moved closer so he could hear.
“Rare and interesting designs from across the galaxy!” she said. “I have more than fifty million images in my database! Creatures such as you have never seen, from places such as you can scarcely imagine! Do not trust a robot for your tattoo; my four hands can give you the gift of a lifetime!”
“What is that?” someone asked.
“Life.”
The crowd murmured. The merc was mesmerized by the presentation. In moments, she had her first customer. A gorilla-like K’kng was talking to the artist, its long prehensile tale swishing through the air behind it. In a minute, the MinSha had adjusted the chair for the K’kng physiology and gotten it seated. That race’s arms were hairless, and the MinSha began to work on one of them.
He’d seen morphogenic tattoo shops before. There were several in Earth’s starports, after all. They were robotic, with intricate machines meticulously engineered for embedding nanobot ink under someone’s skin and adding a processor so the tattoo came alive. Most could be had for 50 to 100 credits on Earth, and they would have one or two present designs that would pose, move, or flash. For 500 to 1,000 credits you could get a number of images and more lifelike movements. He’d once seen a merc on Earth with a scene from an old movie—some military man pointing and yelling. It was very lifelike, and the guy boasted it had set him back 5,000 credits. The work this MinSha did was like comparing a child’s watercolors to Michael Angelo’s Sistine Chapel…and the MinSha didn’t use robots, she did it all with her hands!
He watched as the K’kng got its tattoo. It was a constantly renewing sunset over a building. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was obviously important to the customer. The entire operation took 10 minutes, including the bloodless installation of the controller. The K’kng sat and glared at the crowd the entire time, while the MinSha’s many hands moved with blinding speed and precision.
When it was done, the customer admired the work, showing huge teeth in obvious pleasure. It tried to offer a UAAC, a universal account access card, or yak. The MinSha shook her head.
“Cash.” The K’kng frowned but handed her a single 1,000 credit chit.
“Only a thousand!” he said, amazed. The MinSha cocked her head, and he realized she’d probably heard him. He blended back into the crowd as the K’kng headed on its business, and a badger-like Cochkala stepped up next.
He moved around everyone once in a while, but he didn’t leave; he spent the entire afternoon watching the artist as she worked. By the fifth customer, he finally realized something—the customers weren’t designing their tattoos, or picking their designs. They just sat down, and the MinSha went to work. However, the fifth customer got up to leave—a giant, purple Oogar who had gotten a tattoo of a snake that circled and writhed around its muzzle—and all five had been very happy with their tattoos.
The afternoon went on with customer after customer getting artwork done. They all paid in cash, and all were thrilled with the result. The afternoon grew late, and he found himself watching a humanoid Lumar who was admiring the tattoo he’d just gotten of marching insects that snaked around his torso and circled each of his four arms.
“Are you ready for your turn?” He jumped and spun to see the MinSha standing next to him.
“Um…” he said into the unblinking, multifaceted stare of the alien; the alien looked even more like a praying mantis up close, and it was more than a little disquieting.
“Come,” she beckoned with two arms, pointing at the chair with the other two. Against his will, his feet followed. The MinSha touched the controls on the chair, and he felt himself being gently backed into it. It was a perfect fit. She was close, very close, and he could smell the alien’s slightly sweet odor as her huge multifaceted eyes took him in. “Human?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I have only met a few Humans. I do not frequent your arm of the galaxy.” She continued to examine him for a long moment, and he fidgeted uncomfortably under her insectile gaze.
“So I don’t tell you what I want?” he asked finally.
“I already know what you want,” she said. “Please remove your upper torso coverings.” He looked out at the promenade and realized how late it had become. Many of the shops he could see were closed, and no other beings were waiting. In fact, most of the beings still out seemed to just be walking by. With a nervous sigh, he removed his jacket, then the shoulder holster with his sidearm, then the shirt underneath it. “You can place your weapon and clothes on that table,” she said, gesturing.
After he’d done as he was instructed and reclined in the chair, she began running her hands over his skin. It felt a little like hard plastic gloves, though she was surprisingly gentle.
“Your dermis is an amazing canvas for my art,” she said, the translator conveying a tone of wonder. “I have been looking for one such as yourself.”
“You have?” he asked.
“Oh, assuredly.” She reached to the nanite machine and attached a line to each of her four hands—she now held four identical little instruments, not unlike fountain pens.
“Will it hurt?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted. He looked up, so he wouldn’t have to watch. “If we talk, it will help.” The instruments buzzed, and her hands began moving. He felt a slight stinging crawling along his shoulder, almost like a strap placed there too tightly.
“You have traveled a lot?”
“Very much,” she agreed. He felt more stinging now, in other places. It wasn’t exactly painful so much as intensely uncomfortable.
“Tell me where. What have you seen?”
“I’ve seen cities suspended deep in the clouds of gas giants too large to take in. I’ve seen ghost fleets, ships 20,000 years old orbiting a black hole, slowly waiting their time to join the infinite. I’ve watched a star going supernova from only a light hour’s distance, while a world with a billion beings died in the hellfire of that event, only to escape through the system’s stargate moments before it was obliterated as well.”
“That is amazing,�
�� the merc said, looking at her incredibly-complicated mouthparts moving as her native squeaking/clicking speech came out. She nodded. Why did most beings with heads share that simple movement?
“That is but a few of the wonders I’ve seen, but that last vision was the final wonder I witnessed.” Her hands were working around his chest now, two on one side, the other two on his abdomen. “I have traveled to most corners of the galaxy in my trade, never staying anyplace for long. I’ve even seen some of the worlds in the 4th arm.”
“No one goes there,” he admitted.
“It is banned. Many reasons are given. Extensive radiation from waves of supernova. Poor hyperspacial physics. Monsters.”
“Here there be dragons,” the merc said with a laugh. For just a moment, her hands stopped moving. It was a very short pause, but it was there.
“Very interesting turn of phrase,” she said. Then suddenly, her hands stopped moving. “It is finished,” she added.
“Already?” he asked, surprised. Most of his upper body felt a little numb; in places it was like he’d been slapped, and the nerves were still stinging.
“Yes,” she said, “I have but to install the power unit.” She took another implement from the table and turned back to him. “Raise your right arm, please.” He did so and felt a tiny prick. “A local anesthesia,” she explained.
“You said you saw a supernova?” She nodded. “It’s hard to imagine seeing anything greater than that.”
“I’ve seen nothing greater,” she said, “because that was the last thing I ever saw.” He looked at her in surprise. The slightly milky appearance of her chiton, the way her eye facets didn’t seem to reflect light like other MinSha; it all made sense.
“You are blind,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, long ages now.”
“How do you do these incredible tattoos, then?”
“My memory was untouched by the radiation.”
A second later, he felt a tugging and smelled cooking flesh. “I have cauterized the incision. It will be a little painful. The work I’ve done is particularly large, and took a big control unit. It is still small by your reckoning, and it will feel like a tiny stone under your skin. In no time, you will forget it is there. Just touch it to activate your tattoo.” His hand went to it. “Please wait for it to heal. A day should suffice.” He was a little disappointed but didn’t say anything. “You will be pleased. You can redress.”
He stood and put his clothes back on. The promenade was nearly deserted now, and he was many hours late for an appointment. As he dressed, the only evidence of the procedure was that his chest hair was all gone, and there were tiny red spots all over his torso. He touched one. It didn’t hurt. After he was dressed, he removed a 1,000 credit chit and held it out for her to take.
“Thank you, I can’t wait to see it. You have an amazing calling for a member of a merc race.”
“As I was unable to serve as a mercenary, fewer careers were available to me.”
“Your race makes exceptional mercs,” he noted; “why couldn’t you serve?”
“Only females are usually taken.” His head came around in surprise.
“You are male?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“To be honest, no. A lot of people have thought MinSha males might look very different. Earth’s insect species usually have sexual dimorphism.”
“I am aware of that phenomenon,” he said, the translator adding a little laugh. “In our race, the only difference between sexes are temperament. Males are usually not aggressive.”
“Are all males green too, instead of blue?”
“No,” he admitted.
“What is your name?”
“Cheka,” the MinSha replied, gently moving his customer out of the booth and closing the door. “I bid you good life and a strong fortune for what is ahead.” As was his race’s way, he left without another word.
The merc went to the bar and met his very annoyed contact. Credits were exchanged, and data obtained. Afterward, he returned to the little hotel room he’d rented just off the hub. His friend was waiting for him.
“Hello, Jim,
“Hi, Splunk, finally decided to come back?” She nodded and helped herself to another roasted lizard. An entire plastic container full of them sat on the table, and Jim wondered where she’d gotten them. Probably best not to know.
“We leave soon,
“Yes, tomorrow. I got the data I needed.” He sighed and sat down. He’d been trying to get home for weeks, but ever since the encounter with the Altar, he’d been chasing information. He’d also gone and found himself an honest-to-God prophet in the holy church of ink. “What kind of spiritual shit was that,” he wondered aloud. Splunk munched on her dinner without comment.
He went about doing random things, but the slight pain from the incision point and the numbness of his skin finally tried his patience to the point he couldn’t take it any longer. Jim pulled off his coat, shirt, and holster before snatching up his ditty bag. He fished around inside until he found what he was looking for—an emergency nanite medical treatment. He set it for mild-surface wound and sprayed the spot under his arm where Cheka had implanted the power unit. A second of burning agony, and it was healed. Jim tossed the unit back into the bag, crossed to the bureau and mirror by the toilet, and pressed the spot.
For a moment, nothing happened, and he thought he’d been screwed. Then from around the bulk of his chest, something came walking. It only took a second to recognize a perfectly-rendered, 100-foot tall Raknar mecha. He sucked in his breath with a hiss.
“Raknar, kaboom,
“Holy shit,” he said. “That simply isn’t possible.”
The next morning, he raced down to the promenade with Splunk riding on one shoulder and his backpack over the other. He searched until he found where Cheka’s little stall had been, but he found it empty and with no equipment. A rare woods dealer was just opening up next door. The owner, a little anteater-like Avaka, saw Jim standing outside the abandoned stall and spoke up.
“I own this group of stalls,” it said, “I can rent you that space for 50 credits a day!”
“I’m not looking to rent,” Jim said. The owner shrugged and turned its bright red eyes back to arranging its merchandise. “Can you tell me where the last renter went?” The Avaka regarded him a moment. “Cheka, the metamorphic tattoo artist.”
“I could,” it said and pretended to ignore him. Jim took out a 100-credit chip and sat it on the table.
“The MinSha, yes,” the owner said, scooping up the chit and making it disappear. “She paid per day.”
“He,” Jim corrected. The Avaka looked at him. “Cheka is a male.”
“Whatever. The MinSha wasn’t here this morning, and all her…his stuff was gone. I can only assume he left last night.” It looked at Jim expectantly, maybe hoping more credits were to be had, but Jim had gotten what he wanted. He walked back the way he came, glancing one last time at the empty stall.
“Let’s go home, Splunk,” he said, heading for the docking bay. It was a long trip back to Earth.
# # # # #
ANGELS AND ALIENS by Jon R. Osborne
“Brace!”
The pilot’s cry preceded a gut-wrenching lurch and a loud bang, the vertical takeoff and landing flyer jerking as though it had been struck by a hammer. The flight crew’s desperate chatter as they tried to right the stricken craft was drowned out by shrieking metal as the hatch next to Jim Hawkins peeled away. The wind howled into the compartment, sucking out the smoke that had start
ed to seep up from the floor.
The craft twisted drunkenly as the over-stressed airframe moaned in protest, the craft vibrating violently. Jim looked down and could see the arboreal canopy of Tervezet III below. He felt, rather than heard, the bolts holding his seat pop loose as the decking below him bent. His fall through the hatch was arrested with a jerk as his seat caught on something, then he was plunging toward the ground.
As he spun through the air, Jim caught a glimpse of the wounded VTOL trailing smoke. Armored shapes spilled from the craft, but Jim couldn’t keep them in view long enough to tell if they had bailed out or been disgorged from the flyer as he had been.
A shadow fell over him, and his seat stopped spinning. He heard someone shouting behind him, but couldn’t make it out over the roaring wind. The tree canopy loomed below, growing closer with frightening alacrity. It had been maybe ten seconds since he had been thrown from the craft, he guessed he had about as many seconds left to pray.
A jolt reverberated through his seat and he was crushed down into the meager cushion. Something behind him was roaring louder than the wind. Twisting his head, Jim could see one of the recon troopers had seized the frame of his seat. The scout was firing the jump-pack on the back of his armored powered exoskeleton, or APEX, suit, leaning back to try to balance Jim’s weight with that of the recon armor.
Tree branches whipped at Jim as they punched through the canopy; he and his rescuer descended faster than a controlled landing but slower than a plummet. There was another jerk as the jump jets flared, the fall slowing to a manageable pace. A few meters above ground, there was a metallic pop as the seat’s frame finally succumbed to the stress it wasn’t designed to handle, and Jim tumbled ass first to the ground.
New Mexico, 4 Weeks Prior
The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8) Page 30
