Stranger, page 3
He screwed up his courage and walked up to the native who was sitting on a log next to a dwelling.
“What’s yer name, stranger?” the hairy-faced creature asked. His digits continually moved, scratching at his body.
“My name is …” Bilik struggled to pitch the words in the squeaky fashion of his questioner. “Bilik Pudjata.”
“Billy whut?”
The creature leaned against the side of his dwelling, which was crudely constructed from vegetation. A wisp of smoke curled from the top of the structure and the smell of roasting meat permeated the air.
“Bilik Pudjata.”
“Billy Pertater? Like spuds?” The native plucked at a mouth opening vaguely visible beneath a luxuriant growth of hair.
“Yes, Bilik Pudjata.”
“My name’s Ed Pratt. Where’re you from, Billy?”
“From far away.” He hesitated as he recalled his stratagem. “It is a small place, called Qu’uda.”
“Cooter? Can’t say I’ve heard of it.” Ed Pratt squinted at him. “What’re you doing in these parts?”
“I need a new part for … I need an iron melting place.”
“Something made of iron, eh? Well, you’d better go into Defiance, then. There’s craftsmen there, there is.”
“Defiance?” Bilik asked. “What is Defiance?”
“Defiance? That’s the city just up the road.” Ed pointed in the direction of the community. “You best go there for anything made of metal.” He paused. “Watch what you say, though. Ol’ Vic’s boys can be downright nasty if you rub them the wrong way. They be a real violent bunch, they be. You get what I mean?”
“Yes,” Bilik said. Rub them? Am I supposed to couple with them? The subtleties of meaning in the language had begun to overwhelm him. His head started to ache from the effort of trying to understand this hairy native. He needed to check with his biocomputer on the meaning of the conversation. “I think I understand.” He also wanted to bathe after this encounter. “Thank you, Edpratt.”
Bilik, or Billy Potato, as he was now known, soon found Edpratt liked to talk and he told him more about their culture.
They called this planet “Earth.” There had been a collapse of their civilization. The Earth people’s lack of community and disorder disturbed him. It reminded him of the primitive times before Qu’uda developed into a civilized society, a time of savagery and chaos when life had little value.
After hearing Edpratt’s tales of violence, he assembled a suit of body-armor used by the defenders and took to wearing it as a regular item of his apparel. He also took up wearing a long cloak and a hat to cover the difference in his appearance from the natives.
In time, he learned Defiance was an old city that had survived the war and was the headquarters of something with the title “The Mid-West Federation” in a place formerly called the state of Ohio. Compared to communities on Qu’uda, it was small, and without saying, very primitive.
After his third visit with Edpratt, he accepted an offer to eat a meal with him. The food was flavorful, but he found it difficult to digest until his stomach made peace with the local bacteria. Eventually, he acquired a taste for roasted meat, which was an exotic item in the Qu’uda cuisine.
He began to eat meat regularly in place of algae derived meals. Soon he found his energy was lagging and he began to lose weight. He knew he had to do something and took the shuttlecraft back up to the Egg-that-Flies and sought out the medical team.
“Look,” the leader of the surgical team said. “The native food is low in these amino acids.” He pointed to the holographic display. The deficiencies glowed blue and large.
“What can you do about that?” Bilik asked.
“We’ll modify your biocomputer to make them for you,” the surgical team leader said. “The native species blood is red because it has too much iron.” The blood of all creatures on Qu’uda was purple-red in color. “So, once we modify your blood to chelate and discharge the excess iron, you can eat the natives’ food.”
Secretly this pleased Bilik, for everything on the ship, including the crew, now seemed, well, bland.
Bilik’s skin also had become dry and scaly. The surgical team discovered the dye used to make him look similar to the natives did not protect him from ultraviolet radiation coming from this planet’s sun.
Once again, the medical team modified him to make him more adaptable to this new world. He also obtained a combat helmet with a broad brim that looked somewhat like the hats worn by the natives for protection from the weather.
It was time for Bilik to return to the surface. Since their arrival, the northern hemisphere had gone from a season of warmth and lush growth to one of ice and snow. It was equivalent in time to more than one full year in the native planet’s time. The rate at which plant life grew during the warm season was far faster than on Qu’uda. This was a rich and fertile planet.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, you.” Al Luciano swaggered through the crowded market, his breath steaming in the cold air. “Yeah, you, Billy-the-Freak. C’mere, gimme your hat and coat.”
A flurry of snow curled off the edge of a nearby red brick building.
Billy looked up from under his wide-brimmed hat. He hiked up his long, loose-fitting gray cloak off the pavement and took a step back. He’d adopted the long coat to hide the difference in the way he walked compared with the natives. In addition, it provided protection against the harsh climate.
“Why should I give you my hat and coat?” He continued to examine a cabbage he’d just picked up at a produce stall and wondered what it tasted like.
“I’m going to a New Year’s Eve costume party an’ I wanna look real strange.” Al nudged his companion, Big Jim Dilworth, who towered over him. “Like you, spud-head. So gimme.” Al was five feet six inches tall, with a face that held a perpetual frown.
Billy put the cabbage down. “You cannot have my hat and coat.” He pulled the coat tighter. “I need them to keep warm.”
“Hey, spud-head. Are you stupid or what? When I tell you to give me something, you give. Get it?” A touch of red blossomed in Al’s face.
The shoppers became quiet, craning their heads to watch.
Al approached Billy with hard, exaggerated movements. He glanced at his companion, Big Jim, who was a large human. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you stupid freak.” He swung a roundhouse blow.
Billy recoiled. He’d already learned he was much quicker than the natives, and stronger too.
Al missed. He glanced at Big Jim as if to make sure he was there. “Jim, grab him.” His voice went up an octave. “I’m gonna teach this wise-ass a real lesson.”
Big Jim lurched forward, hands reaching.
Billy hopped to one side and lashed out with his foot, striking Big Jim on the ankle. It made a sharp, thudding sound.
The big man skittered sideways and landed hard on the wet street. He wrapped his hands around his ankle and began to whimper.
“Why, you little shit …” Al reached for Billy.
Billy caught Al’s arm and twisted it. It cracked.
Al flopped to the ground like a wet burlap sack, right arm at an awkward angle, and began to howl like a baby.
Billy hurried away onto a side street.
The following Thursday, market day in Defiance, found Main Street wet, littered, and noisy with an eager bustle as though on parole from winter’s icy prison. Snow piled alongside the red brick buildings had grown dingy and crystalline, aged by a warm south wind. Drizzle drifted down from a sullen, lead-colored sky. Puddles of muddy water filled the potholes in the street.
Billy’s boots squished as he walked from stall to stall. He was fascinated by the variety of food, which changed with the seasons. However, he was disappointed by the quality of the clothing and tools. As he crossed the street to see more stalls, he heard a voice boom out over the market’s noise.
“Yo, Billy-the-Freak. Hold it right there, don’t move.” Oaky Littlewood, captain of Old Vic’s guards, had a voice that boomed like a mallet on sheet steel.
The three men with him pointed their flintlock rifles at Billy. Shoppers backed away with a wave of nudges and whispers. For a moment the only sound was the flapping canvas of the stalls’ awnings.
“Billy-the-Freak,” Oaky said in a loud voice. “You’re under arrest for assaulting Mr. Al Luciano and Mr. Jim Dilworth.”
Billy searched for the meaning of assault. “I did not assault them. They attack me. You must arrest them.”
“Say what?” Oaky’s eyebrows rose. “Are you for real?”
“They attack me. I did not assault them.”
Oaky raised his hand. “This guy is really weird.”
The guards’ guns came up. The crowd flowed back like a wave retreating from the beach, making hissing sounds like that of surly surf.
Billy stood alone in the center of the street.
“Go on, you little freak, run.” Oaky made a gesture like that of a cat touching a mouse. “Run, save me the trouble.”
Billy nodded, for he was sure Oaky had just told him he was free to go. He started to cross the street.
A guard sighted his rifle and fired at point-blank range.
Billy felt a flash of surprise as a hammer blow struck him in the chest. He staggered and fell. For a moment, his world disappeared in a wave of pain. He opened his eyes—smoke was everywhere. It was difficult to breathe. He could see Oaky’s men laughing and pointing at him.
“Damn, I hope I didn’t ruin the cloak Al wants.” The guard who had fired the gun nudged one of his fellow guards.
“Look at the poor little guy, he’s bleeding to death.” Individual voices in the crowd had a crystal-clear quality, though faint and distant. “They gunned him down in cold blood.”
Billy’s anger boiled up, ugly and hot. He sat upright.
Silence fell.
Billy pointed his hand at the closest guard and activated his personal defense system.
The biocomputer drew upon the emergency energy cells. The lasers in the holographic projectors alongside his head discharged four times, each with a loud cracking noise like that of a gunshot. One by one, the guards toppled to the ground. Each had a small round hole in the center of their foreheads. His anger left him as fast as it came.
Animals, nothing but savage animals, he thought.
Billy struggled to his feet.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Billy lifted his hand off his chest. Dark blood dripped from his fingers. He struggled to his feet but could only stand hunched over. He looked up at the crowd, but none met his eyes.
He staggered away, leaving a trail of dark drops on the wet road.
Billy wasn’t sure how he reached the Bird-that-Soars. It was an hour’s walk east from Defiance and hidden deep within a swampy area. Once on board, he peeled away his clothes. Pain came in waves as he pulled the armor cloth off his chest and out of the shallow wound. The cloth had retained a flattened lead slug, which he removed.
His biocomputer started pain deadeners and growth stimulants. Numbness slowly spread. Thoughts of his early years on Qu’uda floated through his mind. Life had been easier and more comfortable. These thoughts, too, faded away as a narcotic-fueled sleep descended.
Billy woke the next day, needing water and to relieve himself. His chest still throbbed with pain. He had been unconscious for almost a day. Sleep again came quickly, and the following day, he woke hungry. He knew that meant his body was on the mend. As he recovered, he had time to think and make plans. It is time, he realized. I’ve got to take control and organize these mammals.
Chapter Eight
Billy returned to Defiance several weeks later.
“Billy, you’re alive? It’s a miracle.” Everywhere he went, people expressed surprise.
By now, he knew he was faster and stronger than the natives. His personal defense system could out-shoot them, too. When a man threatened him with a gun, Billy killed him without hesitation. Soon, he could walk anywhere in Defiance. It was as though all the men with guns had disappeared.
Billy walked down Clinton Street, the main street of Defiance, between the red brick buildings and glass-fronted shops. It was time to visit the man who ran the Mid-West Federation and get him started on making the propulsion tubes.
He knew the leader’s name was Old Vic, and he used the largest building in Defiance as his nest or home. He planned to ask Old Vic to help him with his project to make parts for the ship. He approached the ornate, red brick building the natives called the Court House.
It was time.
“You little shit.” Old Vic Caputo, leader of the Mid-West Federation, stepped out of the Court House’s front door. He held a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun.
Billy turned at the sound of his voice.
People scrambled off the sidewalk.
“Kill my men, will you?” Old Vic raised his gun.
Billy felt time slow down. He jerked his head up and fired his lasers.
Old Vic stumbled, one hand clutching his shoulder. The gun wavered in his other hand. Shaking, he raised the gun and fired.
The muzzle blast took Billy’s hat off.
Billy steadied his aim and fired his lasers.
One of Old Vic’s eyes became a small black hole and the second laser discharge made a hole in the center of his forehead. The gun fell from Old Vic’s hand. He pitched face-first onto the street, twitched once, and became still.
Billy put his hat back on and carefully adjusted it. He glanced around to see if anyone else would challenge him.
The street remained silent. Pale faces peeked around corners of buildings, from doorways and every window. Now he knew he could use their fear to control them.
Billy beckoned to two men cowering in the entrance of the Court House. “You,” he said. “Come here. Take that.” He pointed to Old Vic’s body. “Get rid of it.”
The men hesitated, glancing around.
Billy raised his hand and pointed. “Did you not hear me?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” They hurried over to Old Vic’s body and picked it up off the road. They headed south on Clinton Street, the corpse hanging limply between them.
Billy watched until they were out of sight. So much for getting Old Vic’s help, he thought. However, his organization still exists.
He picked up Old Vic’s gun and walked into the gloomy old courthouse he’d learned was the Mid-West Federation’s headquarters. Within, white, staring faces retreated before him. Billy cornered a man who forced a weak smile. “Take me to Old Vic’s room.”
“Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir.”
The man led Billy to a neatly dressed man who sat behind a polished desk in the large office. “This is it,” he said and scurried away.
Billy pointed his hand at the man behind the desk. “You will serve me. If you don’t, I will kill you.” He’d found these creatures responded better when afraid.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. Whatever you want.”
“I want a function-responsibility diagram,” Billy said.
“A what?” The man’s mouth opened, and his eyebrows knitted. “What is it you want?” He stared. “Sir,” he said.
“I want to know who does what and who reports to whom.”
“Oh, you mean an organization chart.” The man scrambled to the same side of the desk where Billy stood. “Please.” He pushed a chair forward. “Sit here. I’ll give you a picture of old—” He hesitated. “I mean the Mid-West Federation. I’m Olny Hornyak, executive administrator. I’m only too happy to help you.”
“Is there a power generator nearby?”
“A power generator? Ah, what kind of power?”
“For electron flow generation.”
“Ah, electron? Generation? Er, electricity? Well, that sounds like pre-Collapse technology. Ah, you need to talk to one of the old codgers,” Hornyak said. “Do you mind if I ask why you need electricity? We really have had no need of it for such a long time. It’s really quite passé.”
“Which old codgers?”
“Ah, let me think. Ah, well, Kevin O’Neil, yes, he should know. Would you like me to get him for you?”
“Now.”
“Ah, now?” Hornyak swallowed. “Yes, of course. Excuse me a moment.” He hurried to the door. “Greenwood,” he yelled into the hallway. “Get your ass in gear and bring Kevin O’Neil here. Take two guards and no arguments. Immediately.”
A small, mouse-like man appeared. “You mean the old dude?”
“I’m not telling you twice, Greenwood, move it.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Hornyak, I’m on it.”
“Mr., ah, Potato. Is that how you prefer to be addressed?”
“Call me Billy.”
“Ah, yes, Billy.” He paused. “I’ll have Kevin O’Neil here as soon as is possible. What else can I do for you?”
“Which was Old Vic’s room?”
“Ah, you mean his executive suite?”
“Yes.”
“Step this way. I’m sure you’ll find it is quite suitable to your needs. If you want it changed in any way, please let me know, and I’ll take care of it. That’s what I do, take care of things.” The smile on Hornyak’s face widened. “And I’ll bring you the organization chart.”
A stocky, balding man dressed in patched clothes shuffled into the office, hat in hand, which he held close to his chest. A fringe of gray hair framed a heavily lined face. “I’m Kevin O’Neil,” he said.
“Is there a power generator nearby?” Billy stared across the wide, empty desk. He’d removed all the pictures from the wall and drawn the curtains to reduce the bright sunlight. He still found the executive suite to be much larger than what he needed. At least it was warm.
