ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har09

Text File | 1991-04-25 | 34KB | 678 lines

Hi all... Here, after many eons albeit, is the Ninth Chapter
of Mike's depressing saga... Enjoy! :-)


               Copyright 1991 by Jim Vassilakos.
                      All Rights Reserved.
           Permission is hereby granted by the copyright
           holder to copy and freely redistribute copies
         of this work, so long as no commericial or barter
       consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies.

               A blah... blah... blah... production


                          Harrison Nine



The cold, black night betrayed the scattered silence of a waiting
tempest. Occasional droplets fell from the heavens, freezing
together as solid pebbles in their descent. The pitter patter of
their bodies striking branches and leaves mixed with the distant
roar of a shallow creek cascading gently over smoothed stones and
the occasional rustle of a bitter, darktime breeze among the tall
wicks of the lodgepole pines. Ambrose crept quietly through the
dense thicket, his eyes darting back and forth as he moved beside
the cabin, the pungent odor of burning wood chips bringing his
body to a crouch and then a slither. From the corner of his
vision he caught the flicker, something ugly in the playful flame
telling him to turn away, but his cabin stood as solid as he had
remembered, and the warmth of its hearth beckoned as the light
hail began to quicken.
   "If I knew that, we wouldn't still be here." Mike rubbed the
brittle outgrowth of stubble on his scalp, the metal prongs still
coming as a surprise. Niki pulled her knees against her chest,
her dark eyes still focused on the axe at the hearth.
   "I don't like this place, Mike."
   "What's so bad about it?"
   She shook her head, somehow unable to clarify her feelings.
   "You're getting too good at that."
   "We don't belong here... and..."
   Mike shrugged off the statement, "Of course we don't belong
here. We don't even belong on this planet."
   He leaned over her lithe form, closing the window as flakes of
hail bounced off its glass pains. She turned her head away as he
paused to put a hand on her shoulder, the wet hush of confusion
and shame forming within her eyes, refusing almost to acknowledge
his presence.
   Mike breathed a heavy sigh, "Niki, we're gonna find Bill."
   "I know," but her eyes looked away. "It's not that."
   "Then what is it?"
   Her eyes fell again upon the axe, its dull metal stinging her
psyche like a mega-watt lamp. Mike stepped to the hearth and
gathered the wooden shaft in his hands, weighing it in his mind
as a weapon. Niki said the pain it generated was a beacon to the
cabin, but for some reason even she could not explain, the pain
only grew. It was as if their arrival sparked its aura, the axe
somehow expecting.
   Ambrose lifted his boot with a frown as pellets of ice pegged
him in the back of the head. It had taken the better part of an
afternoon to carve the door and set it on its frame. "Oh, what
the hell," he mused with a smile, "doors be fixed."
   The wooden portal splintered off its hinges as it fell, the
shock nearly causing Mike to drop the flat of the blade on his
foot. An old man entered the cabin, wild blue eyes bulging from
their sockets as he waived his rifle between Niki and Mike,
deciding who to shoot first. His grizzly beard and shaggy, grey
mane dripped water onto a drab overcoat as droplets of slush fell
onto the backs of his boots, coalescing into a pool at his feet.
Suddenly a smile crossed his face as his eyes began to settle
back in their sockets.
   "You gone take a chop at me sonny, or do I have to blow your
stupi' face off?"
   Mike dropped the axe to the floor as the gnarled figure
trained his rifle between the gatherer's eyes.
   "We mean you no harm," he offered in his best Calannic which
he knew wasn't anything to brag about. The old man seemed to
notice his trouble and switched to the Galanglic verse.
   "You damn right 'bout dat, son. Hell, ya can barely talk
straight. Now slide dat axe over here an have a seat. Psyche...
hey psyche for brains, make me some hot water or I'm gonna blow
yer boyfrien' inna sushi stew."
   Mike let the old man cuff his hands as Niki drew the water and
set the kettle over the fire. Ambrose sat down on the bed placing
the end of his barrel against Mike's forehead.
   "Heh... heh... sushi stew... yum yum..."
   "What do you want from us?"
   "Who told ya iz okay ta speak?!" His eyes grew large and wild,
the blue and white seeming to strain apart like the surf and foam
of the sea on Tizar. "Huh... chip-head! Answer me!"
   Mike felt the nuzzle of the barrel punch against his forehead.
   "We were just staying the night here."
   "Staying the night? You say you were staying the night?" His
eyes seemed to soften their glare as the barrel dropped to Mike's
chest, his tongue taking more care to enunciate the interstellar
words. "Hell... you can stay all da nights you want... or days
fer that matter. I put you outside in my cemetery like I do all
da others and you can stay long as you like." He nodded his head
as if remembering something he'd forgotten, then turned one eye
on the kettle as it began to steam, the other cocked directly at
Mike. "Psyche... what'cha doin'bout my wata!"
   Niki filled the mug and brought it over, a thin steam rising
from the water as she held it before him.
   "No woman... not like dat." He opened his drab coat with one
hand and reached into a pocket, struggling against the fabric
until he finally fished out a small leather pouch. "Just a spoon
now. Madre's finest cinnamon," he explained in a whisper as if
there were other people all around. "Nothin' burns the blood
warmer dan dat, 'cept if its got a tad o' spunk for starters.
Which it has, o' course." He fished again and produced a small
metal flask. "A wee bit mo dan a spoon of dis," his other eye
winking at Mike as she poured. "Ta steady ma aim. Can't be making
a mess in ma own cabin, now." He drank down half and offered the
rest to Mike. "Consider it in lieu of a las cigar."
   "I don't smoke."
   "All da mo reason."
   Mike considered the logic for all of two seconds before
tilting his head back and letting the old man pour the last half
down his throat. The liquid would have carried a healthy flavor
if not for the heat scorching his taste buds and flesh of his
throat. Mike forced the last drop down, finally coughing at the
end as the man laughed and slapped his knee.
   "Not bad... not bad at all. You would've made a fine fool when
I was a younger."
   "It's not to late for that," Niki took the cup back and headed
for the kettle. Mike regarded her comment with as much good humor
as he could muster, a twinkle entering the old man's blue eyes as
he watched her refill the mug.
   "Another, or should we get it over wit?"
   Mike nodded in favor of the former, hoping to extend his life
a few moments longer. The man smiled, understanding the laconic
reply for all it was worth.
   "Ma name's Ambrose."
   "Mike."
   "Nikita." Niki handed him the mug.
   "Well... now dat we know each other's names, les drink."
   The night dragged on for many more mug-fulls of Madre's
cinnamon and spunk, a hazy cloud thrashing down on Mike's senses
as he lost count. The man had Niki drink too, and soon began
drawing the water himself as she collapsed on the floor in a
giggling fit. Mike didn't remember when he became aware of the
gun sitting in the corner. The oiled barrel gleamed in the weak,
shifting light of the fire's dying embers.
   "C'mon foolson. You an' me play a game. You get to da gun
before me, an' you can kill me." His wild blue eyes seemed to
roll clockwise with the thought. "Ha! I die. Go fer it. You can
e'en have da first step. Two steps. Two steps lead." Something
about Ambrose's invitation told Mike to take the chance, as if
the length of his life depended on some see-saw estimation in the
old man's twisted mind. Mike felt his feet stumble across the
slippery floor as he reached the corner, but the gun was no
longer there. The man laughed and aimed the barrel with one arm,
gingerly drinking from his mug with the other. "You lose!"
   Mike felt his heart sink as the lonely wail of clouded
memories began coursing into his mind, their withered bodies
pushing wildly through the cold, steel barrel of Ambrose's rifle.
For the barest moment, light burst from its void, outlining a
silhouette in crisp streaks of icy brilliance. In the back of his
brain Mike heard the distant explosion. Gardansa said it was an
easy death, more than any psyche deserved. The old man's eyes
sunk backward, the blue like a crisp winter sky, the white a
frosty droplet falling ever faster, slapping eagerly against the
wooden door and then jumping again like a lazy bird, breaking
apart into blood and shattered bone, colliding with its brethren,
falling into puddles, puddles forming rivulets, coursing together
around rocks and mounds in a mad rush for muddy harmony.
   And then only darkness, pitch upon black.
   "You gonna shoot me?"
   Ambrose blinked, "It's getting to be quite a storm out there.
Proly go to sunrise, at least."
   "Yeah."
   Mike heard the rattling of sharp, green, dwearmurgrove leaves
against a soft tapestry of color; blues, grays, and amber
intermixed between gentle shades of purple and violet.
   "You wanna play again?"
   Mike considered what the sun might look like, if morning came.
Maybe, if he won, he would see it and know.
   "Three steps lead... think you can beat me chiphead?"
   "I dunno."
   "C'mon then an' find out."
   Mike waited for Ambrose to replace the rifle in the corner and
walk back to the bed, his tired legs stepping gingerly over the
soggy door. Mike dove forward without warning, scrambling for the
gun as Ambrose climbed over him. They grabbed the gun in unison,
a grin of pleasure coming to Mike's face until he realized he was
holding onto the wrong end. He pulled with all his strength,
trying to twist the weapon from the old man's grip, but Ambrose
grabbed the whiskbroom and in a resourceful moment dusted off
Mike's lingering smile.
   "Haha! You lose 'gain! Ambro too fast fer the chiphead!"
   "I'm not a chiphead."
   "Den why're you jacked up, foolson?!"
   Mike tried to explain, but his words didn't make much sense
even to his own ears. He finally fell backwards over Niki's
sleeping form.
   "Hey... chiphead. What're you doin'. Leave 'er lone."
   Mike pulled her feet onto the bed, and then let them fall as
he reached for her shoulders, her lithe body seeming unreasonably
heavy. Somewhere in the background he heard the old man laughing.
Mike tried to remember the name as he worked her shoulders up and
then moved to her feet as the young Siri's head plopped again to
the floor.
   "What're you doin'?"
   "Gotta put her... on the bed." Mike moved back to her feet.
   "Hey chiphead, don't you got more important things to worry
about?"
   Mike focused his eyes back on the gun. He struggled to pull
Niki by her legs, finally falling on the bed as a blanket slipped
out from under his knees. Ambrose knelt to the floor, gripping
his sides with glee.
   "You could help, y'know."
   "Hee hee... Aw, chiphead... you's real funny."
   Mike tried to see the humor in the situation. He knelt down to
her arms and tried pulling her up, losing his balance halfway
through the procedure and falling back to the floor. Ambrose set
his gun back in the corner and helped Mike back onto his feet.
   "I can't take anymore of this... I'll help but then you gotta
play me again."
   Mike shrugged off the old man's arm, "I'm tired of your
games."
   The task took a good deal of time between the two of them, all
the while Mike feeling the presence of the rifle in the cabin's
far corner. Ambrose sucked in air as he lifted Niki's shoulders
and set them crooked on the torn mattress. By the time he looked
back up, Mike was halfway across the room.
   "Why, you..."
   Mike heard the footsteps giving chase, a feeling of panic
erupting in his mind as he skidded across the wet, wooden floor
falling to his hands and knees. The gun's barrel seemed to beckon
from the corner, taunting Mike as he crawled desperately toward
his target. He finally reached his goal, raising it in his hands
as he turned around to face Ambrose. The weapon felt heavy and
unwieldy, and Mike managed the barrel into the right direction
only after bracing himself into a sitting position against the
corner of the room. Ambrose lay crumpled over the door he had
previously smashed, finally awakening with a sudden fury.
   "You know how long it took you? I was watching!"
   "You were out." Mike rubbed beads of perspiration off his
palms as he searched for the trigger.
   "Ha! I was pretending. You was slow, chiphead."
   "Am not."
   "Are too!"
   "Am not."
   "Are not!"
   "Am too."
   "Hahahahahaha," Ambrose fell to the floor again, his crackly
voice exploding with laughter until he gasped for breath. Mike
tried to figure out why as he placed his finger inside the
trigger guard.
   "You forgettin' the safety?"
   "Oh yeah." Mike found the safety and clicked it off. With a
smile and a rush of adrenalin he aimed the rifle at Ambrose.
   "Go ahead chiphead. Kill me. It's what you wanted to do from
the moment I came in here."
   Mike steadied his aim as Ambrose's image weaved from side to
side.
   "You gutless sushi pie! Hahahah! What are you waiting fer?!
You want me to come over there and pull the trigger fer you?" He
stood and began approaching, his mouth forming into a wide,
toothy grin.
   "Stay away. I don't wanna shoot you."
   "Bull!"
   "We were just looking for a friend. He's lost." Mike felt his
lungs gasp for air as Ambrose approached within two meters, the
toothy grin turning wicked.
   "You from off world, ain't cha?!"
   "Yeah."
   "You're an alien! Ya wanna see my leader?!" Ambrose grabbed
his crotch. "Here he is, chiphead!"
   Mike lowered the barrel until it rested against the crotch of
the old man's pants. His bright, blue eyes seemed to enlarge in
rage as Mike pressed the barrel deeper.
   "I mean it, Ambrose. Either you leave us alone, or your leader
bites the bullet."
   "Pull it you sticking, loser, good fer nothin' chiphead!"
   Mike waited until the insults subsided before he pulled the
trigger, a hollow click being the only result.
   "Hahahahah...." Ambrose yanked the barrel from Mike's hands
and clubbed him over the shoulder. "You fergit to load something,
chiphead?!"
   Mike fell to the ground before the blow registered in his
mind, and even then, what should have been a sharp pain was only
a dull throb. He rubbed his shoulder in mild irritation as
Ambrose made a long show out of loading his gun. When he finally
finished, he made Mike drink two more mugs of "madre's tea."
   "You a good younger, chiphead. Someday, you'll be a good
oldster like me."
   Mike took it as a reprieve.
   "You know how old I am? I'm an octogenarian, and I still kick
yours!" Ambrose laughed at the word, and Mike tried to imagine
him as an octopus back on Tizar, his long tentacles tossing
rifles, tea mugs, and whiskbrooms skyward in an elated dance, the
items tumbling like snowflakes caught in a blizzard, only to
descend with the distant roar of thunder, the blinding light
beyond descending as bolts of fire igniting the earth in inferno.

                          *     *     *

"Rise an' shine, Vilo..."
   Bill awoke to the gentle nudge, grey eyes opening only as the
pain in his ribs startled his senses. A wide shouldered man knelt
beside him, his dark face familiar in the glimmering rays of
morning light which seeped sluggishly through the barrack
entrance. Bill remembered the tackle and subsequent punch to his
side, the splintering feeling he chose to ignore. A white bandage
covered his ribs.
   "Madre tells me you'll be breaking fast at her table. My
name's Rone."
   He extended a thick, gnarled hand, his thumb only a stump.
Bill let himself be yanked up, the man's remaining fingers
surprisingly strong.
   "You hit me with that?"
   Rone nodded with a wry smile, "Madre's rules. You break it,
you gotta fix it. I don't know much 'bout healing ribs though."
   The tired workers cast long, lazy shadows across the wet, open
field, a purple sky fading to blue as the rising sun peeked over
a distant horizon. A scorched patch of earth was the only
reminder of the recent night's tumble, even the stench of black
faded to grey with the early morning rains. The house seemed warm
and homey in comparison, warm cafe brewing over an open fire
while long, thin strips of quagga flesh sputtered on the grill.
In a large pot, a compote mixture of honey syrup and various
fruit stewed over a gas flame. Sheff held a spatula in one hand
and a mug of steaming, yellow liquid in the other, a grim
acknowledgement passing his eyes as Bill entered the kitchen.
   "Tea, Vilo?" He motioned to the counter. A tall pot stood
beside several half-filled bottles, their labels faded and
wrinkled. Bill tried to decipher some of the writing, but met
with little success, finally reconciling himself to pouring a mug
and handing the container to Rone.
   Several of the men had already seated themselves at the round,
wooden table, a large seat at the far end remaining empty as if
awaiting some important dignitary. With an almost disciplined
uniformity, Bill felt his conspicuous presence carefully ignored.
Familiar eyes seemed to avert from their sockets, dry mouths
casually striking conversation in a foreign tongue, the dull
resonance of their words falling deftly, like snowflakes upon a
sodden crater.
   The black dodecahedron occupied the table's center, a gaudy
ornament seeming more a warning than a trophy. Bill felt his
attention involuntarily drawn by the smooth exterior, the shallow
etching of a bird trying to fly as stormy, grey eyes flickered
with amusement.
   "Then you know."
   The brittle rasp of her voice snapped his concentration, its
harsh tone like a sharp sliver of ice cutting the cords of his
throat. Crystal blue eyes betrayed a curious mixture of amusement
and disgust as a fine, silver-white mane shifted with the turn of
her head.
   "Vilo, I believe you've met Sule."
   Bill stared at the offered hand, sharpened nails perfectly
transparent save for their thin, black outline. Madre seated
herself at the far chair, seeming to enjoy the moment.
   "Now show our guest a tad of courtesy. You'll have to forgive
him Sule; he's forgotten his gatherer manners."
   Bill looked up, startled at the comment.
   "Yes, Vilo... Sule's told us a considerable deal about you and
your friends. Not that any of it particularly matters at this
point anyhow."
   "Unless you make it," Bill felt a twinge of regret at his
words, as though they closed a doorway he'd rather remained open.
   "We've tried son, now have a seat before the fast breaks
without you."
   Bill chose a place at the table as Sule stood beside the
window watching the distant tree line.
   "Will you not eat with us, Sule?"
   "I'd rather not."
   "Suit yourself." Madre dished out a portion of the compote and
sent the rest around the table.
   "I think you'll like this Vilo. Do they serve Calannic dishes
back on Tizar?"
   "What else did she tell you?"
   "That you're name is William... Willian Walker. I like a boy
with W's in his name, but William is just so... I don't know. It
sounds so stiff."
   "My friends called me Bill."
   "Now Bill is better, but Vilo takes the icing on the cake as
far as I'm concerned. You don't mind it, do you? You mustn't,
after all. It's the name you wore in the door. I'd much rather
consider it a transliteration than a flat out lie."
   Bill decided he preferred food to conversation, downing his
bowl and filling a second before looking back across the table.
His ears had filtered out the clutter of their alien language,
separate discussions merging together as one and then suddenly
falling away. Madre seemed to share Sule's fascination with the
treeline, letting her eyes wander to the window as she ate.
   "I haven't told you any lies... yet."
   She glanced back toward him, his words scarcely noticed.
   Except by Sule, "What make's you so sure you're going to get
another opportunity?"
   Bill turned toward the window. Her eyes seemed to flicker with
a quiet sort of laughter, almost mocking in their intensity.
   "He's not for sale, Sule."
   "I'll throw in an extra million drin."
   Madre set her spoon down to the table, wiping her lips with a
cloth as if considering the offer.
   "He's one of my own now; well, since last night, actually. You
missed quite an initiation. The point being that he's recognized
and can't be sold like some... some hunk of cermic." She motioned
toward the table ornament.
   Sule regarded the statement with a mixture of confusion and
resentment, finally turning back toward the window with a sudden
movement in the treeline.
   "I'm sure we can settle the matter at a more convenient hour.
It seems that your men have returned."
   Madre and Sule waited at the porch as the scout team trudged
through the thick, shallow mud. An old man took the forward
position, leading the others along the gate's outer edge, through
the barbed aisle, and into the inner circlet. The rest of the
team broke off from him as he approached the house itself, moving
toward the barracks as he waived them away. He finally pulled the
hood away from his taunt, weathered face as he ascended the porch
steps, letting it settle against the grey shoulders of his coat.
His blue eyes seemed to sparkle with a weary brand of playfulness
as he focused on the Madre, the drab browns and grays of the
landspace serving a subtle contrast.
   "Sule, this is Ambrose. Ambrose, Sule."
   "You the imp."
   "That's correct."
   "Ha! You been makin' bed too, Madre?"
   "And what's that supposed to mean?"
   "Heh... you should have to ask... Hey! Be that my food I'm
smellin'?"
   He stepped toward the door, halting only as she grabbed his
shoulder.
   "Long time, Madre. I understand."
   "Wipe your soles, Ambrose," she scolded.
   He shot her a toothy grin as he kicked the mud off his boots.
   "Not a way to welcome yer old man...."
   "I keep my hospitality for those who earn it."
   His thin, grey lips curled blue against the cold, a lethargic
snarl escaping his throat as he pointed a long, bony finger in
her general direction.
   "What in heck's you think I've been doin' woman? Polishin' my
one-eye?!"
   "In your case, I wouldn't be surprised."
   Their voices slipped into the domestic tongue as they mutually
spat a clamor of open insults, Sheff's eyes widening and his sewn
lip stretching into an unabashed grin.
   Rone stifled a chuckle as he leaned toward Bill, "Man and wife
will be man and wife."
   "Serious?"
   "No more so than any other marital ritual. She's mad at him
cause he went and left her all alone. He's mad at her cause she
threw him out the door... and then some."
   "How often this happens?"
   "Oh... once every other season... maybe give two or three.
Except for this mornin', before you woke, it was near to a full
cycle since I'd seen the man. You think this is bad, you should
be here when they break up."
   Rone turned his head toward the door as the trio ushered
themselves inside, Sule skirting along their fringes like an
eccentric comet revolving about a closely paired binary. She
maintained a blank expression, as though waiting for the
commotion to subside. When it didn't, she merely stood there, her
impatience become increasingly apparent.
   "Does ignoring 'em make 'em go away?"
   Bill winced as several of the others laughed at his question,
their amusement catching the old man's attention. His bulbarous
blue eyes bulged out like two rotten lemons wildly seeking the
perpetrator of the query.
   "Who be the negrali younger?"
   Bill felt numerous pairs of eyes fix on his general location.
   "Hmmm... you be a popular boy, Billy."
   "You know my name?"
   "I just got done blowing holes in yer friends!" He laughed
wildly at the memory, yanking his grey coat open with one hand
and pulling a short stocked automatic out with the other. "Boom
boom! Sushi stew! Hah!"
   "Ambrose... how could you?"
   "Woman, I did it! That's how! Now where's a bowl? Killing
makes me hungry."
   Bill felt his legs kick over Rone's chair as he dove toward
the old man, his arms outstretched, fighting desperately to be
relieved of their sockets. The barrel smacked him against the
side of the skull as he fell, Rone tackling him from behind and
ramming a now familiar, mutilated fist into his already broken
ribs. The sensation of pain was more numbing than he recalled,
suffocating as it fell. He gasped for air, but his lungs felt
clogged and heavy, and he choked out the salty taste which swept
through his windpipe.
   The old man spat something in the guttural tongue, the force
of his words relieving the pressure on Bill's back. The sharp jab
of cold steel replaced the smothering pain, and a safety pin
clicked amidst the clutter of alien voices, quietly hushing the
static.
   "No Ambrose. Not in my house."
   "Your house? Woman, you got quagga eggs fer brains!"
   "Amb..."
   "My offer stands." Sule's harsh voice cut through the
impending squabble, shattering the old man's attention.
   "We'll be seein' to you later, ya scrawgy imp!"
   "Eleven million drin. Interested?"
   "What?!?"
   "For him and the black hunk of cermic... center table."
   Bill felt Rone lift him off the floor as Ambrose gathered the
dodecahedron into his free hand.
   "Heh. Birdy."
   "A robin to be more precise."
   "I knew dat!" Ambrose leveled the barrel toward her stomach.
   "Do we have a deal?"
   "Sure... eleven em-drin fer Ambro... a robin and a dead
younger for the ugly thing."
   "Live younger..."
   "No deal."
   Bill felt Rone cuff his wrists, holding them back and up so he
couldn't jerk free. Sule's stare betrayed nothing other than
apathy, both for the gun and the man who wielded it.
   "Name your price."
   Ambrose smiled his greedy grin, setting the butt of his barrel
against Bill's ear.
   "Is only one more body for ma cemetery, which is overfull
already so I won't be askin' too much. Fifty em-drin, you want
him alive."
   "You must be out of your mind."
   His eyes bulged outward, blues and whites confirming her
observation.
   "Don't make me any madder dan I already am. I will blow his
fool head off."
   Her face remained unchanged, but her eyes seemed to glitter
over with laughter. "Then fifty it is."
   "What? You accept?" Settling blue eyes stared at her in
disbelief.
   "As if I had another choice." She gathered the dodecahedron
from the old man's free hand and gently nudged his other aside as
she gripped Bill's cuffed wrists and wrenched them upward as far
as they'd reach without dislocating his shoulders.
   "I'll transfer the money into your wife's account."
   "Before you go."
   "Colonel Arman will be arriving shortly. If you don't trust
me, then trust him."
   "I trust him all right... just as far as I can kick his
blubbery, snot-nosed..."
   "Ambrose!"

                          *     *     *

The salt water used to sting her eyes, something about the sea
repelling her even as she used to spend the night along the
water's edge. As then, she sat beside him, smoothing the wavy
curls of hair as he slept. Their journey to Calanna had been
without incident. The Galactican was welcome, or so he'd thought.
But something in her eyes told him otherwise, though she'd follow
him all the way to her execution. Both knowledge and the sea were
like that with her, something that could hurt you but was too big
to change. "Playing with fate is a fool's work." It was as if she
had foreseen her own, but resigned herself without telling
anyone. Not even him.
   The bullet pierced the trees lower limb, scattering leaves and
berries across the grassy bed below. Mike and Niki awoke with a
startle, rolling away from the sturdy trunk as Ambrose giggled
with delight, his soggy boots kicking leaves and dirt into their
faces.
   "Ha! You youngers sure is funny."
   He leaned against the trunk, peering up between the leaves at
the crisp, blue sky. In his free arm he carried a large brown
blanket. On his belt, the wood handled axe hung with a small
spark lighter. A thin metal disk nestled against his shin,
strapped there by a tight elastic cord.
   "Rise an' shine, sushi-stains... ol' uncle Ambro bring happy
tidings fer a happy morn."
   Mike crawled to his knees, shaking away the fading memories of
his dream.
   "Surprised to be alive?"
   Mike looked at Niki and then back at Ambrose and finally
nodded, "a little."
   "So you should be. I normally kill chipheads just fer bein'
chipheads. Nothin' personal about it. But then, you being so
recently shaved and all, I figured you must be real cute with a
full head o' hair. You are, aren't you?"
   Mike looked back at Niki. She shot him a worried smile,
something she'd saved up for a rainy day he figured. Sunshine
spilled over the dew laden grass, the nearby sound of rushing
water distracting his senses. He tried to remember when he'd seen
Calanna so beautiful.
   "Hey, you still in lala-land?"
   "Where are we?" Mike stood up and glanced over several rocks
beside the stream. The gravchute lay against the nearest boulder.
   "Well, considerin' everything dere is to consider, I'd say
we're at a tea drinkers crash-haven. Not that it matters much.
All I know is dat your fandangle o'er dere seemed to suggest it
was a nice enough place to stop last night. Me? I don' care much
either way."
   A cool morning breeze gathered Niki to her feet, her usually
carefree eyes still sharp and bitter despite the drug's
aftertaste.
   "My stuff."
   "Gone." Ambrose announced the word as a matter of fact, as
though any more thoughts or emotions on the topic would be
wasted. "All I have fer you is right here." He set down the
blanket, knife, spark lighter, and rifle. "Oh yeah, an' dis. Heh,
almost fergited." He handed her a small slip of paper.
   She read it momentarily and glanced back up.
   "I don't get it."
   "What's there not to get?"
   "This is a check, made payable to Mike for fifty million
drin."
   "Dat's true as my big blue eyes which nobody fails to notice,
Mister Harrison."
   Mike looked up, realization slowly dawning.
   "How'd you know my name?"
   "I read the papers too, y'know. No sense learnin' Galanglic
unless yer gonna. I liked dat piece on Telmar. Very nicely done,
and correct to boot. Civil war and all dat. Makes me almost glad
to be here instead. I would o' recognized you right off da bat
too, if it wasn't fer yer clever disguise."
   Mike felt the thick stubble on his head, the metal jacks
protruding from their dense growth.
   "Makes you look like a genuine chiphead. I was goin' to blow
yer head off, but when you said yer first name, something just
clicked in dat old skull o' mine. Not dat I was absolutely sure,
y'know. But it did fit, you losin' a friend and all. I understand
dat's fairly common."
   Mike felt his skin grow cold as he pocketed the check.
   "The only thang I didn't understand which I'm only beginnin'
to is why yer e'en here. Madre said it was cause the imps nabbed
one o' yer friends. I figed dat couldn't be the whole story.
Seeing how if it was, you'd be chasin' after all sorts of people
everywhere."
   "Right now I'm lookin' for another friend."
   "Huh? Oh, silly me. Talkin' too much and fergitin' why I'm
e'en here." He reached to his shin, unstrapping a metal disk. "Go
ahead, open it."
   Mike opened the catch and peered at the dark surface beneath.
Several rings were inscribed within the crystal display, and an
shiny green dot blinked steadily at the outer circlet, hovering
off the display as the rings closed inward, pulling it backward
with their retreat.
   "It's a tracer. That dot is yer friend."
   Mike looked up, unsure as to whether he could believe the old
man.
   "I know this comes as somethin' sudden, but there was no way
we could just let him go. That would be aidin' a criminal.
Arman's too familiar with our operation. He knows people don't
just escape. It was either give him away once the paperwork got
done or sell him off to the imps."
   "Imperials?!"
   "They'd have gotten him sooner or later. But time is money, if
you know what I mean."
   Mike nodded, "And people are profits."
   Ambrose snorted at the remark. "All depends who's buying."
   "At the rate this blip is moving, we're gonna need
transportation."
   "Dat's what the money's fer. I've gotta friend, Cole, say
'bout twenty-five an' some odd kilometers downstream. Say Ambrose
send ya an' dat yer a payin' customer an' dat ya wanna go
straight to Xin. Ya go to Aelflan an' yer a dead man, hear me? By
da time yer in city limits, yer have yer friend back in focus.
An' with any luck, da imps'll keep dere songbirds in one choir,
if ya follow me at all."
   Mike picked up the gun, checking the magazine for bullets.
   "Cole's gonna have more o' dat too."
   "I'm not sure how we can thank you."
   "Ha! Don't git mushy now. Blow away a few imps'll be thanks
enough fer me. But now dat you mention it, dere is one thing..."
   "Anything."
   "Well, I hope it ain't too much, but ya think ya could mention
me in da story?"
   Mike grinned at the request as he nodded his acquiescence and
tried to imagine what Chuck would think.


           _   /|
           \`o_O'
             ( )
              U
          Aachk!
              Phft!


 ______________________________________________________________
 I  Jim Vassilakos                       I       Weenie       I
 I  University of California, Riverside  I    -    GM    -    I
 I  [e-mail]                 I     extraneous     I
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