’Neath Quicksilver’s Moon by Jaye Michael
Chapter Three ― New Moon

¿Hasta cuándo, oh simples, amarán la simpleza, Y los burladores se deleitarán en hacer burla, Y los necios aborrecerán el conocimiento?

— Proverbios 1:22

How long, O simpletons, will you love being simple-minded, and you tricksters delight in trickery, and you fools hate the truth?

— Proverbs 1:22

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimneypiece:
He looked again, and found it was
His sister’s husband’s niece.

—Lewis Carroll ”Sylvie and Bruno”

It was nice to relax a bit. William “Bud” Williams, a fifty-two year-old businessman from the Redding urbopolis of Metro West, was stretched out on one of the king-sized beds in his room on the nineteenth floor of the Vegas Suites Hotel, Casino and Resort. He had just kicked his shoes off and stripped off his tie. His belt and zipper were undone, in deference to the huge steak dinner filling his belly, and he was debating whether to take a nap or amble downstairs to watch the floorshow. The vid wall was on and Bud was half listening to one of the all-news stations still rehashing the death of World Senator Jackson, almost a month after the bomb killed him. His eyes were closed, but his potbelly would have prohibited seeing anything but the periphery of the screen anyway, and he could still hear it.

“The death of World Senator Martin Luther Jackson, with his son and Chief of Staff, Claude Jackson, was followed by another letter from the mysterious terrorist group called ‘Burlador.’ This group has again demanded that the World Senate stop ‘plundering the resources of the colony planets,’ to use their words, although responsible planetary authorities have denied having anything to do with the attacks, or any desire for independence. At the insistence of political leaders worldwide, Jehru Sarwalgundi, Director of Operations for the World Peace Militia, has appointed Tom O’Hare to head the largest task force ever created for a non-military operation with the express mandate of capturing the person or persons responsible for these vicious terrorist attacks. With the death of Senator Jackson, this group has now claims responsibility for the horrific murders of three World Senators. Jehru Sarwalgundi, Director of Operations for the World Police Militia, has called upon all other police jurisdictions to assist the taskforce in any way they can. General Sarwalgundi also describes the capture of the Burlador as the Militia’s number one priority. Those Senators able to be reached for comment by this network were unanimous in their support for Mr. Sarwalgundi’s actions although Senator Ortíz added that he had been pushing for such an appointment by Mr. Sarwalgundi for almost six months. Here to tell us a bit about Mr. O’Hare is Jack Zorloft.”

“Thank you, Peter. The selection of Tom O’Hare had been rumored for about two months now and is particularly appropriate. He’s had a remarkable twenty-two year career in law enforcement starting as a beat cop in the Boston urbopolis of Metro East in North America. Five years later, he left Boston to accept the position of Chief Hostage Negotiator for Metro East only to resign two years later to obtain a second doctorate in law enforcement studies and then accept the G. Edgar Hoover Chair of the Department of Law Enforcement Studies at Washington University. Four years later, he was instrumental in the capture of Wallaby Love, the leader of the Australian-based terrorist group of the same name that had been threatening to destroy the British Isles with reclaimed nuclear waste if the World Senate did not reallocate more resources to the Southern Hemisphere. Just two years ago, he was appointed Chief of the ultra secret counter-intelligence wing of the World Senate’s World Peace Militia, Espiar. Mr. O’Hare has promised...”

The vid wall clicked off. Bud dressed and headed off for the floorshow. Before walking out the door, he checked the pulse of the original Bud Williams as he lay wheezing, unconscious, bloated belly up, on the other bed.

“Gentlemen,” the speaker could have been the archetypal Irish beat cop. Even his voice had a faint brogue suggesting someone who had spent time growing up on the Emerald Isle. “...and ladies.” He offered a genteel nod towards the two women amongst the twenty-four dark suited people sitting around the conference table. “I think I can summarize the status of our investigations to date by saying ‘we’re in deep trouble. We have not one viable lead on the person or persons responsible for the assassinations of four different World Senators in the last year. The only patterns discernable to date are that the preferred method of assassination is an explosive using sodium chlorate, commonly used by terrorists in the late Twentieth Century, and that the targets seem to be World Senators who oppose the emancipation of the Outer Colonies. Oh, and whoever is doing it seems to be getting better at it. The first explosion killed seven bystanders but the last two have been limited to the Senator and only one or two important aides.”

“It each case, someone has managed to make it past the best security the World Senate could provide, without being caught. The perpetrator never made a blip on the security of any one of the four Senators. It’s as if we’re dealing with a ghost.”

“But sir, we have suspects in custody for each assassination.”

“Who said that?

“Jack Webster.” A nondescript suited man about half way down the conference table raised his hand.

“Well yes, Mr. Webster, but I doubt anyone in this room really believes even one of them is actually an assassin. I suppose it is possible that some splinter group is claiming responsibility for the acts of others but the likelihood that solitary menial employees in the households of the various Senators would use the exact same type of explosive — with the exact same detonation mechanism — in isolation is unlikely, to say the least. Not one has sufficient motive or the knowledge of explosives to assassinate anyone and each claims he or she had been kidnapped and not present at the time the bombs must have been set, despite clear security and surveillance evidence to the contrary. By the way, that should be another piece for our profilers. Whoever is doing this doesn’t kill if he, she or they can help it. All the allegedly kidnapped employees were found, bound and gagged, after anonymous tips to the Peace Militia. Shortly thereafter, each received anonymous and apparently untraceable gifts of relatively large sums of money. The bottom line here is that if this is truly a random series of events involving similar forms of violence by employees without the financial, personal or political motivation for their acts we’re in deeper trouble than you do or I can imagine. I, for one, would much prefer to assume there is some other explanation.”

“Sir, there is the other obvious pattern.”

“Yes Jack. I assume you mean the political aspect.” Jack nodded and Tom O’Hare continued. “Jack is right. This Burlador group is claiming that they will assassinate any World Senator who acts to continue the colonization of the out planets. The Director is already advising each Senator of the risk of public statements on that topic.”

“Gentlemen, and ladies, assuming these assassinations are part of a planned series of terrorist acts as this ‘Burlador’ alleges, we know that it is unlikely that one person could plan and carry out something as elaborate as this. If there is a group, it must be able to be infiltrated. We all know that no secret is safe once more than one person is involved. That’s what I’d like you all to do. Take your squads, get out there and beat the bushes. Very well, gentlemen, unless someone has something else to add, dismissed.”

“Mr. Webster, would you please remain for a moment.”

“Yes, sir.” He leaned back on rear legs of his chair. From the knowing looks, it was clear that the others expected him to get a chewing out for his interruptions.

After everyone had gone and the door closed, Tom stood and walked over to where Jack was sitting. Slumping into the chair next to Jack, he just stared contemplatively at the younger man for several seconds while Jack reciprocated unabashed. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, Mr. Webster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because the rest of them are desk jockeys, I’m the only one here, besides you, who has had any real beat experience.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means I’ve learned that logic is not always the motive for people’s actions and that just because it seems impossible doesn’t mean it is.”

“You’re talking about the claims by that last woman, Jackie Chen I think her name was, that someone came in and changed shape to become her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don’t think it’s just superstitious mumbo jumbo?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Just a gut feeling, sir. Nothing I can pin it on, but it seems a bit too bizarre for an alibi, unless she’s a lot smarter than we think.”

“So you seriously think some creature changed shape, like a werewolf or something, to become her?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Hare rose and started walking away and Jack figured he had just lost another plum assignment.

“Fine. Do it.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Take your squad and investigate that possibility.”

“Yes, SIR!.” Jack jumped up and headed for the door with a huge grin on his face.

“But don’t let anyone — and I mean anyone — from outside your squad hear about it. One hint that you’re running around on some tomfool theory like that and I’ll disavow you and your squad. You’ll all be back pounding a beat that same day.”

“I understand, sir. What would you like us to tell anyone who asks?”

“Tell them you’re on a special assignment investigating fringe groups. Now get out of here, and stop grinning like the wolf that ate grandma.”

“Yes sir.” At the door, he stopped for a moment. “By the way, sir, did you know that in Spanish the word “burlador” means trickster?”

“So?”

“In a surprising number of different and apparently unrelated mythologies there is a creature known as a trickster whom changes shape and seems to love causing disruptions to the status quo.”

The show was great, a revival of an animal act by two of the old masters, a team called Sigfried and Roy who specialized in seemingly dangerous stunts. The blending of genetically recreated tigers and lions with human actors was extremely well done. It was such a pleasure to just relax and have a good time. No commitments, no playacting, no planning and re-planning, and most importantly, no remembering. Life was good for a few hours.

After the show, the gaming tables beckoned. Uppers and downers were readily available to the big spenders like him, as were the pleasure girls. After losing a modest amount at Blackjack and Roulette and no less than four offers of a good time within just two hours, Bud returned to the hotel room with a slight but pleasant buzz. First, he called for an eight A.M. wake up and then checked the pulse of the man on the bed, which was still quite strong. Stripping off his clothes and laying down on the other bed, four hours later, there was a tall redhead with large breasts and a very pretty face curled up in a tight ball sleeping on the bed instead.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello?” Frog croaking might have sounded more melodious.

“Good morning, this is the front desk. You asked for a wakeup call at eight in the morning. There is complimentary coffee and breakfast pastries on a tray outside your door.”

“Yeah, thanks.” The telephone made it back onto the receiver after two tries and the willowy woman struggled to sit up at the edge of the bed.

A shower helped her wake up and the coffee finished the job.

Fully awake, she once again checked the pulse of the sleeping man on the other bed. Crawling onto his bed so she could look down on him, she pinched his arm hard enough to give him a bruise. He groaned and shifted a bit.

“Bud Williams, listen carefully. Do you hear me?”

A groan.

“You can speak, Bud. Tell me you hear me.”

“I hear you.” The still figure barely croaked out the words.

“Very good, Bud. Now listen carefully and repeat what I say.”

“Listen carefully and repeat what I say.”

“Oh great, even hypnotized he’s a barrel of laughs,” the woman muttered too quietly to be overheard. Louder she continued. “Never mind, Bud. Just listen to what I say, I’ll quiz you later.”

“Quiz me later.” The voice was a bit stronger, albeit still raspy.

“You and I had an absolutely fabulous night. We never even left the room except for the brief time when you went down and gambled a bit. We had sex and more sex, oh, and you were fantastic, such stamina, so gentle yet so forceful.” He said nothing, but his smile kept getting bigger and bigger.

“Your wife must be very proud of you. You were so pleased with me you paid me a thousand creds plus a two hundred cred tip.” The smile faded a bit at the mention of his wife and a bit more at the price quoted.

“Don’t worry. You think I’m more than worth it. You apologized that you didn’t have more that you could give me.” The smile hesitated a bit but then was back. “You’re going to remember this as the best sex you’ve ever had and then go home and practice with your wife until you are both enjoying sex as much as you did last night.” The smile was still there, but there was now a determined jut to his jaw.

“You don’t remember my name and from now on whenever you have the urge to cheat on your wife you’ll go home and have even better sex than last night. Do you remember everything that happened to you last night?”

“Yes.”

“Good. In about five minutes you’re going to wake up with a warm, happy, satisfied glow and go be the best salesman you can be.” With that, she slipped on her shoes and walked out of the room.

Copyright © 1993, 2010, 2011 by Jeffrey M. Mahr

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION:

To my loving wife, Betty. She completes me.