“Shit!” Loren snatched his hand back as a large set of flat teeth nearly bit his fingers off.
Saara wanted horses. This was her fault.
“Please take that thing back where you got it from,” he begged her.
Her jaw dropped, “This ‘thing’ was homeless! You don’t know what kind of terrible place he might have come from before the sanctuary took him in!”
“Yes, but he had a sanctuary. Take him back. I don’t do horses.”
She gestured at the lead in Loren’s other hand, “You’re handling that mare just fine,” and then she motioned to the barn around them, “and what would we do with this beautiful building if we got rid of them?”
Loren glared at the bay-coated Tennessee Walker in Saara’s care—a breed he’d been told was a “gentle giant.” It had come with the moniker of “Shiner,” which supposedly referenced moonshiners, but Loren was certain that a different meaning was intended, and that it referenced that creature’s deadly hooves. So far it had tried to kick him three times—and now it had made a move for his fingers.
“Horses are big, dangerous, and unpredictable.”
She laughed, “And what am I?”
“Big, dangerous, and unpredictable,” he agreed, “Okay, you know what? I don’t want to argue about it, but I also don’t want to be the one taking care of these animals.”
At no point could he recall expressing an interest in doing anything other than keeping both of his feet on the ground, but if it wasn’t boats it was planes, and if it wasn’t planes . . . now it was horses. For bipeds without wings or tails, humans were remarkably hardwired to go everywhere they weren’t made to. It was a perfect species for someone like Saara, whose therapod brain was appropriately flighty.
She patted the Walker’s nose, gazing into its eyes affectionately. “You could use a few animals around . . . to remind you who you are.”
He could hardly believe his own ears.
“I’m not an animal,” he said, "Not like that."
“I can see that,” she said, “Then what are you? Did you forget you’re not human?”
She pulled a sky blue card case out of her pocket. It was fake, and instead, with a single click of a button, it released a familiar sterilizing gas into the air.
Rolling his eyes, he checked his watch, and waited the appropriate fifteen minutes.
Saara continued petting the stallion’s nose while she waited. Loren turned away to finish pulling tack off the Paint mare he’d been riding.
The first time he’d asked about the horses, Saara had said it was good for the girls to learn the saddle. He’d pointed out that it was the wrong kind of saddle for what they’d be doing. The second time he’d brought it up, she cited the virtues of hard work. He’d reminded her that they’d be working hard enough without the extra chores. The third time, she’d pointed out the excellent and wholesome cover story they provided.
The truth, he was finally understanding, was because Saara liked the companionship of animals. She was many times his age, and would never adapt as well as he had. She needed these animals around, and to be fair, he was glad she’d gone for horses instead of ratites—ostriches, emu, and rhea—all of which were popular with Ryozae farmers and consumers alike for their flesh and hides. The next most popular livestock were all fowl: geese and turkeys were sought after for eggs and meat. Peafowl and chickens were both loved for the males’ bright, iridescent feathers, and chickens were also kept for meat. Brahmas and Jersey Giants were large enough to satisfy Ryozae appetites, with weights starting around ten pounds. He’d once met a woman who kept flocks of fancy pigeons and stunningly beautiful iridescent Cayuga ducks for their feathers, meat, eggs, and company.
He wished Saara had gone for chickens. Sure, a Brahma could get to be as big as his mother. Even as a human, he couldn’t shake his instinctual trepidation towards such a huge bird that would likely view his real form as a predatory threat, but the eggs were good, and he could count on Saara to kill one for him every now and again.
She was still petting the stallion, as she mused, “Maybe he doesn’t like you because you remind him of a bad owner.”
“Or he’s just a bastard,” Loren said.
“I think you know better.”
“I’ll know better if he never tries to kill me.”
“You’re not being fair,” she said, frowning.
“They tell me around here that life ain’t fair.”
That caused her turn and look at him. “Do you believe that?”
“Of course.”
She frowned again, and turned back to the horse. They waited for a few more minutes, and with a minute-and-a-half left on the clock, without looking at one, she said, “I need you to tell me what you are.”
“A Ryozae, of course,” he said, “I thought I made that clear the last time you asked me.”
She leaned back from the stallion, gazing at the creature with a distinctly bird-like tilt to her head, and then she finally turned to Loren. “But do you ever stop to listen to the way you talk? Your application of human idioms and colloquial speech is so natural, I can’t ever hear the Ryozae. You don’t even move like one of us.”
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? What about you? Did you adopt your human culture, or is it just a costume to you?”
“Of course I have!” she cried, injured, “The people I work with are my family. Of all the questions, you dare ask me that!”
“Honestly, I figured you were just using Joburg as an airport. You always talk about hunting. I can't see you with a gun or a spear, so do you have another one I should know about?”
She crossed her arms, hugging her breasts, uncomfortably, “I take my human form very seriously. You . . . you don’t understand South Africa. I take pride in my human body, and my human lifestyle—how could I not? The region has such a long history, full of such colorful cultures, but also war, and deep division. I have fought alongside my human companions for their lands, their cultures, and their rights. They are not so different from us, sometimes.
“I originally chose Australian and South African genetics back in training because I chose to align myself with the oldest living bloodlines on Earth. I think they are magnificent people, and anyone whose family has been around that long ought to be proud of it. Besides: I did not want to live bound to the modern societies so culturally divorced from the Earth that gave them life, as though they believe they’ve advanced beyond any need for its care. I enjoy working with indigenous people, as remotely as I can manage. I prefer the simplicity and the quiet open air. I left Australia because the company needed my linguistic talents in Southern Africa, but I do not regret the move.
"I do also enjoy the hunting. Antelope is really amazing, and there is so much endless space to run and so many more animals to run as. I made a successful bid for a cheetah body. It is light on its feet, sees in the dark, and fast enough to cover more territory. I’m old enough, however, that I know I will always be Nasu Aemarri at heart. I will never lose my identity. I worry that at your age, it may be too easy to lose yourself in your Terran lifestyle.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Terran dinosaurs were classically divided into two categories. Saurischia, or “lizard-hipped,” included Therapoda—Coelurosaurs, Carnosaurs, and the like. The famous carnivores were all saurisichian. But the Segnosaurs (or rather, Therizinosaurs, as they’d come to be called) were herbivores, and the famous long-necked Sauropodomorpha were also considered members of Saurisichia.
The other class was Ornithischia, or “bird-hipped,” included armor-plated Thyreophora and the Cerapoda clades: the frill-necked, thick-headed Marginocephalia, and the Ornithopoda—the “duckbills” and every other herbivore, including the small, scurrying beasts such as Heterodontosauridae.
In the Ryozae world, they classed themselves culturally: The Aemarri were carnivores and the Eumonau were herbivores. The stalkers and the foragers.
Loren’s parents were precursors to Dinosauria—Dinosauriformes. They were considered Aemarri, but as with many Ancients, there were times when they barely considered themselves to be Ryozaem. They were the last of their kind . . . and he wished he had never shared that with Saara.
He rolled his eyes, and caught himself as she stared down the human gesture.
“I’m not a fucking baby," he said, "Don’t give me that shit. I could change back to my old lifestyle tomorrow and be just fine. Just because I don’t have the luxury of just switching bodies whenever I like doesn’t mean I can’t. I’m an Aemarrim. An Immortal—Raal-Osa—at that.”
The term he used best translated as “high-blooded.” Those who bore a rare, enhanced variant of the symbiote they called Kaadour-kaima. The Sacred-Self Within.
“Exactly,” she argued, “There aren’t many Raal-Osa left, so you should take time to preserve your parent’s ways. I don’t want to see you lose yourself on this planet.”
“Give me a break. Why do you think I hunt roaches and lizards? I’m no more human than you are, and I never intend to be. It would be an insult to my bloodline, and it would break my parents’ hearts. The only difference between me and you feather-brains is that I prefer to think before I act.”
“You rarely do it before you speak,” she noted drily.
She was right about his speech and mannerisms, but there was nothing he could do about it. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know how to explain that to her, and trying made his head hurt. “Look . . . you don’t understand what switching back and forth from this body does to me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m tired as hell, so would you leave it alone? I just want my family to live. That’s what really matters, isn’t it?”
She looked away in reluctant agreement, but otherwise didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. They’d had an unspoken agreement since they first met that they both knew what it was they were working for. Neither of them was under any obligation to explain themselves to the other. Their private lives were just that, and they had no interest in digging up each others’ ghosts. Such dark memories could cause them to forget themselves, and potentially jeopardize everything they held so dear. When they did feel secure enough to talk of their “real” lives, it was mostly shallow banter.
Whenever the ghosts came back, they had a counseling department they could lean on for support.
~We’re here.~
The “glow” of Toby’s telepathic speech cut through their thoughts, startling them both.
Moments later, they heard a car in the drive, and Loren sighed, “I should go downstairs. I’ve got stacks of files that those kids need to see. You want to take Odessa out with the horses? Show everyone around the property, or something?”
She smirked, resuming her human mannerisms, “I’m not doing anything. It’s your ‘family estate.’ I’m just the visiting friend. This is part of the job, so you’ll have to wait until their families leave. Have you thought of a cover story for that nasty kitchen pantry of yours?”
He grinned, “You mean the canned crickets? They’re for fishing, of course.”
“So you keep the supplies in the kitchen?”
He shrugged, “Yeah, it’s a little odd, I guess.”
At least he wasn’t stocking frozen rats or lizards . . . though it was sounding like a good idea, the more he thought it over.
She shook her head, “And I don’t know anything about being human? Don’t show them the kitchen until you put some food in it—for the Terrans. Just in case, I did stock some cans of tuna and SPAM.”
He grimaced, even as he almost laughed, “Meat-flavored salt-hash. Yeah, no one will question fifty cans of that. Wait—did you put it in front of my stuff?”
She headed out of the barn, across an immense sheltered stone patio that led to the back door of the house, smiling pleasantly.
“Dammit Saara! I do have to eat!”
“Eat the SPAM and tuna!” she called back, “It’s not like you can’t or don’t enjoy it.”
“REAL FOOD!” he yelled, just before he heard a car door open.
* * *
This particular house was the last time Loren would accept anything so large or grandiose from his employers. Anything larger than a fallowed farm-turned-airstrip, hangar, pasture, barn, two-story home, and covered flagstone “patio” (it was nearly as big across as the house) . . . even that was too much, without the tiki bar, basement rec room, and underground cavern—for their guests, of course. That’s what this was really about: they didn’t need all this for Toby. They just needed Bernard. No, they needed this for their two, sometimes three expected guests, and they needed the airstrip for everyone else. They did not need this much lawn—by God, he was going to have trees planted over every inch before he left. More woodlands for him to hunt the things he liked to eat!
All of that he could live with, however, if not for the upper-middle-class banter that was expected of this role. Drestan had offered (via his wife) to put in a pond, and Loren had to struggle to remain polite, as he turned them down; maybe a couple of fountains, but no ponds. Oh, yes, he “enjoyed fishing,” but he could fly out to visit friends who had perfectly nice lakes and ponds for fishing in. No: he didn’t need anyone to come spray pesticides; and yes, he would consider going fishing with their family (as much as it pained him to accept the offer).
The horses were useful for traveling out to the hangar, but he was almost completely sure that an ATV would have done just fine—or hell, a golf cart. What kind of rich man with this much land didn’t own at least one golf cart? Automobiles were possibly the one human invention he might actually agree with.
For that, Rhonna promised that they knew people who would be happy to sell him one—people who would love to show him a few great golf courses. He had to grit his teeth on that one, as he politely turned down the offer to go golfing with her husband in Hilton Head—the height of Terran pretentiousness, in his private opinion, and he was terrible at it.
By the time everyone left, with the promise that Loren and Saara would be happy to take Bernard and Jez home, he was done being human for the day. No more talk of parties, contractors, golf courses, horses, fishing, or other human foolishness. He’d been playing the game of pretention for many years, but it didn’t make it any easier. If anything, the fake lifestyle was starting to wear on his patience.
The minute all of this came out of his mouth, it came out in his own language for Saara’s benefit, and he’d had to backtrack and explain himself to the humans.
“Well,” Mireia said, “If you don’t like doing anything of those things—which, by the way, is all part of a lifestyle some humans would literally kill to have—then what do you like to do?”
He sighed wistfully, “I like sitting on the porch of my safehouse in Virginia, many miles from any and all bodies of water, listening to the bugs and the birds while the sun sets and the moon rises. I enjoy a good book every once in a while, but my ideal pastime is usually very simple. Sometimes I like gardening, so I might put some flowers in a window box. Hiking’s okay, too. Simple, Mireia. None of this . . . fake stuff. And no more goddamn cruise ships. No more river tours, either, or boa constrictors. No lakes, no ponds, no streams, beaches—no.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, “We’ll make sure you stay dry.”
“On the coast,” he said drily, “.”
The phone rang, and he grabbed it, expectant. “Sanchez Residence, Loren speaking.”
He didn’t like what he heard.
“An hour or two for what?” he asked, “Can’t they fly?”
He listened, and felt his stomach sink. Saara grimaced, muttering, “Well, that’s fantastic.”
“Okay,” Loren sighed, “Thanks for letting us know. Yeah, see you then.”
He hung up the phone.
“I thought they were supposed to be here!” Saara protested, “What the hell are they still doing in Canada?!”
“Well if you heard that part, you heard the rest of it,” Loren told her, then he addressed the rest of the room, “There was an incident that the rest of our team had to take care of. Our North American headquarters is in Toronto, so they’re having to fly all the way down the coast instead of coming over from Charleston.”
“What kind of incident?” Mireia asked.
Saara said, “Our direct supervisor, Daniel, is in the hospital.”
“Saara!” Loren exclaimed, “Don’t just say things like that!”
She looked confused, “Was I supposed to say anything different?”
“I guess not,” he grumbled, “But you could be a little more sensitive about it,” he turned and addressed the others in the room, “Daniel was aiding an investigation in Mallorca off the coast of Spain, and it sounds like it ended badly. He and the other person running it were flown to our European HQ in Berlin last night. The rest of our team flew his wife to Toronto, because she’s from a high-profile family and everyone wants to make sure she’s okay. They’re just now leaving.”
Mireia asked, “And there’s no chance we could end up like Daniel?”
“No,” Loren said, “Because I’m gonna call Main, and I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen. Other Ryozaem—like Daniel’s wife Samra and possibly the other agent he was working with—are born fighters. Others are trained for combat later on, but that’s neither me, Saara, nor any of you. I don’t want to die.”
“You almost did,” Saara pointed out.
“I’m not dying for this, goddammit!” he shouted at her, unable to withhold his panic any longer, “I don’t know what they think I am, but if they wanna play cat-and-mouse with this guy, they can get somebody else! I’m here to run an auxiliary investigation. Data collection! That’s my job! That’s always been my job!” He lowered his voice with a frustrated sigh, “We’ve got time. Let’s show them the map.”