My Pal The Bug #1: For They Know Not...

Know Not…

  My Pal The Bug #1

  Greg M. Hall

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  Copyright 2010 by Greg M. Hall

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  For more information, visit www.gregmhall.com

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  This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form and proper attribution is given the author.

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  Turlock watched Marve clean his piece with a mixture of disgust and amazement.  He knew the Lotians were a fastidious bunch, but this one had to be considered natty among his own people.  When the springy-limbed freelancer pulled a thin aluminum tube from a purpose-sized pocket on his sleeve, and used it to squirt lubricant into the slide of his rifle, Turlock couldn't keep his tongue in check.

  "It's a friggin' Benfield."

  Marve didn't look up from his ministrations, but the tuneless hum he’d been wheezing through his thorax-vents stopped.  "Beg pardon?"

  "Back home, I saw a rebel bury his Benfield in the sand in front of his tent. Compliance inspectors came and searched for weapons, found none, and began to walk back to their truck. He sunk his hand into the sand at his feet, pulled out his rifle, and popped 'em in their backs."

  The Lotian turned his compound eyes toward the buildings of Pendshelem that scrolled by through the train’s window.

  "A weapon is a weapon," he finally replied, "and you don't need to purchase a specific brand to commit despicable acts."

  Turlock pinched his temples with one of his massive, callused hands.  "That's not what I was trying to say.  I meant that a Benfield is legendary for its ability to operate under abusive conditions.  If you're so damn keen on polishing firearms, you should've bought a Stoner.  They'll jam if you sneeze on 'em."

  Marve's digits, which had been guiding swabs, swatches of soft cloth, and various lubricants over every operating part and screw of his weapon, stopped their movement.

  "So, you're recommending a Stoner… because they misfire?  What would the advantages of such a weapon be?"

  "Forget it," said Turlock through clenched teeth.  Damned Guild paired him with the annoying Lotian as a test, that's what they did.  Humans' tendency to fly off at the handle made them highly desirable as quasi-berserk troops to be indiscriminately unleashed on an opponents' populace, but less of an asset for higher paying, discretionary projects.

  The Lotian, therefore, was to do the talking on this job.

  They rode in silence for a while, but the human wasn’t the quiet type. "Where'd you get your hands, or whatever you call 'em, on a Benfield?"

  Marve had resumed his ritualistic weapon polishing, and didn't interrupt it to respond.  "In the tongue of my homeworld we call our digits k'tiklit, but, since we're conversing in your lexicon, ‘hands’ will suffice.  My people typically avoid firearms, but the Guild insisted. I bought this on Steward Maclan’s recommendation."

  He set his cleaning appurtenances in his lap, and looked over at Turlock.  The afternoon suns sprayed an iridescence over his compound eyes.  "Do you suppose, savage, the Guild has assigned you as my partner to test me?  They say my people are too deliberate, that sometimes events have resolved themselves before we take action.  Are all humans... pardon the expression, ‘apeshit crazy’ as I’ve been led to believe?"  

  "I haven't planted my fist into that smug cricket face of yours yet, have I?"

  It took the Lotian a few seconds to translate the answer into colloquialisms he understood, but when he resumed cleaning his weapon without a response, Turlock knew he got the gist of it.

  The Guild's recon information about Brother House dealt strictly with room dimensions, odd angles, placement of surveillance.  It had said nothing about the eye-straining intricacy of its construction, and failed to comment on the staggering amount of labor hours that must have been spent on it.

  Turlock thought his erstwhile partner's reaction on first sighting the place was the buggy equivalent of slack-jawed awe, and he himself had to admit it was a breathtaking sight.  "If the guild sent us here to make a threat," said the human, "there's plenty here to threaten."

  "We're to be the pinnacle of subtlety. We’re not here to overtly threaten, as much as we are to raise a specter."

  "Fine, call it what you want.  My point is: even that tiny strip of wood trim around the door must have taken one of the Brothers a month to carve.  With my knife I could deface it in a quarter-second."

  Marve turned his head and spread his mandibles wide.  "Would you truly—"

  "Easy there, hoss.  I need to prove how level-headed we humans can be.  I guess what I’m trying to say was that we walk in, all bumps and angles, metal bristling out of us... that alone is a, uh, specter, as you put it.  Hell, if I trip on my own feet and bump into a wall, who knows how much defiling I’d do?"

  "Ah, I understand.  Perhaps there is a certain subtlety inherent in your oafishness."

  "Just hit the damn intercom."

  Even the call button, a disc of red in a well-oiled, intricately carved wooden cabinet, sported a Rosetta pattern.  After pressing it, the Lotian stroked his clicketytick—or whatever it was that they touched things with—across it.

  The chime from inside summoned a saffron-robed Pendshelemite teen. After the briefest of exchanges, he led them through a courtyard of several colors of sand raked in geometric patterns, and into a building that contained a single wood-paneled room. Turlock's eyes quickly gave up the attempt to register the detail of the carvings, and rendered the whole thing into a brown-gray fuzz.

  An old man wearing a purple sash over his robe entered a split second after the teen left. He dropped a small tool, which looked to Turlock to be a walnut-hook, into a fold of his garment.  Under the robe, the Brother’s physiognomy was closer to his own than Marve's, but his internal ears, ashen-gray skin, and completely black eyes were pure... what was that race again? Something -nar; either Temmnar or Kemmnar.

  Turlock had been warned about the race, but the caution had been provided after a half-dozen particularly potent drinks, and he couldn't remember what to look out for.  Come to think of it, he couldn't even remember who'd issued the warning.

  "You've come armed", he said, in a tone that was neither accusatory nor angry.

  Turlock bit back a smartass quip while Marve performed a gesture of greeting that looked ill-suited for his insectile build.  "We've been employed by the Traders' Guild to—"

  "—to intimidate us out of our dwelling, no doubt."

  Turlock tilted his head and smashed his lips together.  Maybe the Temmnar or Kemmnar, or whatever race the old man was, were renowned for reading minds. Probably not; he’d have remembered something like that, tanked or no. Most likely it was just a blunt manner.  Getting right to the point without dancing around it. Such directness would certainly be feared by human politicians.

  It wasn't possible to fluster a Lotian, but Marve still took an extra beat to answer.  "As described to me, our visit was to merely be a discussion, to make you aware of the degree of the Guild's interest in the property."

  The old man's voidspace eyes and flat features betrayed no emotion as he said:  "Any Guildsman could have come, unarmed, for such a discussion.  Mr... Marve, is it?  As pointless as it would be to enlighten a pair who have the appearance of armed thugs, I feel compelled to explain why our monastery is not for sale."

  Though he couldn't see the matte eyeballs move, Turlock was certain their host was looking back and forth at the two of them, scouring their features for reaction.  Or maybe that race of his could look at two people at once.  

  Dammit, whoever it wa
s that said whatever it was about whatever this guy was should have said it earlier in the evening.

  "Brother House is built in a special place. The Ley lines of this planet cross in a number of different locations, but this particular spot is the nexus of more lines than any other.  You gentlemen do understand what a Ley line is, correct?"

  "A most interesting wording to the question, sir, since it implies a belief on our part that matches yours."

  Turlock had to smile.  It probably was a better idea to let Bug-eyes talk.

  "Certainly.  You understand, then, our belief of what Ley lines are?"

  "Not your particular version, but the most commonly held definition is that they are an alignment of planetary, or extradimensional, forces that bind a world or its chakras together.  In a way, a combination of cords binding a package and a cable that conducts electricity to power its contents."

   From the purple-sashed man came a smile so unnatural to his face that Turlock could only assume he wore it for his visitors' benefit.

  "Enough of that meshes with their true meaning to allow the discussion to continue.  When our Order first settled here in Pendshelem, the intent was to set up an ancillary office.  But, as construction progressed, we began to feel things.  We began to comprehend."

  "Comprehend what?"  Turlock had asked the question, and though Marve turned to look at his partner, the Lotian didn’t appear upset by the breach of protocol.

  "Oh, it talks," said the old man,