Chapter 3: The Contact

The dawning light was growing over the almost abandoned city of Las Vegas. The travel was long and arduous. Thankfully, the weather was agreeable and cool. The dust barely moved an inch, and the winds remained remarkably calm.

The dark gray sky remained overhead as Greg rode atop his horse. On the man’s back was an AK-74, an old American clone rifle based on the original rifles of its class. A 2011 pistol remained holstered in his saddle while the rancher remained covered in his protective clothing and gear. All remained calm. The trotting hooves of the horse and arduous breathing from the animal’s mask could be heard some distance as Autumn moved across the sandy roads of Washington Avenue.

It was nearing seven in the morning. The hints of early human activity could be seen as Greg neared one of the scavenging outposts on his right. Supposedly, from what he knew, the building used to belong to the Nevada Gaming Control. Its windows had been neatly sealed and rebuilt into a makeshift shelter where relic hunters and scavengers would rest and operate further south of Las Vegas. The hints of makeshift vehicles, from basic battery-operated motorcycles and 4 x 4s, lined the building. A few completely covered men or women were walking around. They all stopped to see the great animal that Greg rode atop as the rancher continued his trek westward. The threat of being attacked by the wayward scavenger or relic hunter was unlikely. Many seemed to recognize Greg the moment they saw the strange animal.

The rancher didn’t have much further to travel. On his left was his intended destination. It also served as a secondary hub for the scavenger outpost. It was none other than the Old Mormon Fort, one of the first buildings ever constructed in Las Vegas.

Greg adjusted the reigns and burrs of his boots, causing Autumn to turn towards the famous landmark. It was a slow trot. The fort was on a similar path of decay. Much of the hardened clay stone showed signs of erosion. The muck rains had caused some of the wood to rot, and the lack of maintenance resulted in one of the towers collapsing on itself. Much of the ancient artifacts had been long plundered and sold off. However, the main museum had been partially saved and kept off-limits to the scavengers.

The man reached the open front gate. For a moment, Greg felt like he was stepping into history. This was likely the first time the fort had seen a man on horseback in hundreds of years. The sand and dust were being kicked around some.

It didn’t take long for Greg to reach the main courtyard. The remains of a discarded wagon and what was left of it could be seen to the man’s right.

However, the rancher could see a lone figure as he turned his head past one of the walls. It was an Itrean, a Yutilian to be exact, perched on one of the walls. This reptilian woman had brownish scales and green patterns to her. Her clothing, which consisted of black leather and short pants, appeared to make her more of a wandering biker. The head feathers were blue and purple and didn’t stand straight up like the typical Yutilian. Her feathers were designed to be weighted down on the left and right sides of her head. She had a pierced gold ring over her snout and nostrils. Her tail had long feathers trimmed to turn it into three prongs. She had an Itrean pistol holstered to her pants. Not far from her was a Yutilian scout hoverbike, most likely her mode of transportation. The green colors had mostly faded into a dark brown.

She seemed busy using a nail file to keep her claws dull. However, it was obvious that her lowered head could still sense the man nearby. Greg disembarked from his horse, landing on the dirt with a soft thud when he started to approach her.

“Identify yourself, human,” the Yutilian remarked with a hint of malice. “Or I slice your neck wide open,”

Said rather fluently. The Itrean did have the typical accent to her, but her knowledge of English seemed rather excellent. There wasn’t even a click in her light raspy voice.

“The name’s Greg,” the rancher came to a halt and greeted her through his muffled mask. “I’m assuming you’re Ben’varyu?”

“Greg, ... you would know it if you knew the password.”

“The crow flies at noon. Although, I don’t see the point of being all cryptic.” The rancher folded his arms.

“Because that’s my name. The word Ben’varyu means ‘crow’ in my language or something similar to it on my home planet.”

“Your knowledge of English is pretty impressive. You’re one of the few Itreans I met that seemed to master it quite well.”

She noted that he didn’t answer her question. “My job requires it,” she explained. “Being a courier often requires talking with you humans. Even your Chinese language is easy to learn.”

“Who sent you?”

The reptilian woman stopped filing her nails and looked at him. “My questions first, Greg. Not to question the fact that you decide to accept things through delivered mail. It keeps me employed. But one has to ask why you rely on such crude beasts of travel?”

“I’m old-fashioned. What’s your true purpose here?”

“Like you. A scout, a scavenger, a mercenary, a courier, survivor, whatever pays me well.”

At least she was honest. He couldn’t tell that she was lying in any way. The rancher did appreciate that she was the type that didn’t hold back. Even her physique was interesting. The man couldn’t deny that he did like her a little bit but kept things held back. Instead, he got down to business.

“I received the letter,” the rancher asked. “What do you have for me?”

That changed her tone. She put her nail file away and approached her floating hoverbike. The man watched as she opened a small rear compartment and pulled out a small box before putting it down onto her seat. The alien woman pulled out a set of tilons and opened them. Like some ancient delivery driver, she began to scan them.

“Do you have a tablet or one of those augmented things?” she asked him. “Don’t tell me that you’re that old fashioned...”

“No,” the rancher reached into his pocket. “I still have a basic tablet for storing information. Code registry: Freedom, spelled with two e’s.”

“I know how to spell ‘freedom,’ human.” She tapped a few buttons from her projected tilon image. “There ... the data and full details have been sent to you.”

The rancher quickly looked over the information. He showed a hint of surprise for a brief moment, even if the head-covering had masked much of his facial inflections.

“Seriously?” the rancher questioned.

“As serious as the person who hired me to deliver all this to you,” she told him. “He or she is willing to pay you top mard to have it retrieved and delivered ... assuming you would survive, of course. Maybe you could try doing it with that animal of yours, whatever that thing is.”

“She’s a horse...,” the rancher lowered his tablet. “And, no, she wouldn’t survive that long trek.”

“You, humans, really like destroying your homes, don’t you? Well, it’s your problem, not mine.”

“Yeah, nice that you don’t need protective gear.”

“It is quite nice, isn’t it?” She remarked with a brief snarky grin. “Of course, if you aren’t interested in taking up this mission, I may have something to offer you, one opportunist to another.”

Ben’varyu’s hand was touching the box, her scaly clawed fingers neatly tapping the cardboard layer for the rancher to hear.

“What would you offer for me?” the rancher asked.

“You would call it bounty hunting. I have an escaped convict, a Shal’rein, that broke free from one of the ... environmental restoration prisons east of here. My people are looking for her, but she’s been evading them.”

“Of course they would,” the rancher scuffed. “How many times do the Itreans keep losing their own prisoners? Don’t they have trackers on them?”

“Yes, until they learn where it is. This convict chewed her own arm off to lose the tracking chip. Then again, hunting missions like these are not always common ... make good pay for me ... maybe for you ... enough to make a team and share the wealth to capture her alive...” Ben’varyu placed the tilon on the bike. Then, she put her hands on her hips and began to pace a distance around the man, her gaze locked upon his body. “Beats having to do the sex business, yes?”

“How do you know that?”

“You know Tify’jok. You tell me.”

“The one that recommended those jobs to me.”

She smiled at him. “Although, she only mentioned so much about you when I told her that I was assigned to deliver the offer to you. I don’t normally operate in this region. Maybe you might need a mate ... especially since you seem to be so busy.”

“No,” he replied.

“Of course, I might be a little different, being an ivon and all. Unless you like the idea of...”

“No,” he firmly replied. “Neither am I some bounty hunter or gun for hire. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“Hmph,” she walked back to her bike. “Too bad. So,” she decided to change topics. “We return back to our original conversation, human. My employer hired me to deliver this package to you ... assuming you take up the mission prescribed. Do you wish to take this job, yes or no?”

The rancher looked back at his tablet. The job assignment given to him matched the credentials of the letter he received earlier. The mission was a serious undertaking, asking much while being tailor-made for his expertise, yet it would be dangerous. The pay was certainly there, but the rancher knew that the pay for this was only superficial. It was almost as if this potential employer knew Greg, making sure that this job would only go to him.

“What’s in that box?” he asked her.

“Your first payment,” she answered. “That’s all I’m instructed to say.”

The question of whether he was going to do it or not came down to one single question: whether he could even do it. However, as he thought about it more and more, the idea of it became sound. The payment seemed less important than the operation. This was principle, almost as if the employer was challenging him to do it. Sadly, it did not say who the name of the employer was. It was only a meeting place, time allotted, with the artifact properly retrieved intact. The second and final payment would be given upon succeeding in the mission.

“Who hired you to deliver this to me?” he asked her. “I need to know before I can accept.”

“I wouldn’t even if I knew,” she told him. “I don’t question my chain of command when I accept a job offer ... in this case, I’m relaying information passed to me that was passed by another person of another person.”

A courier indeed ... Greg sighed. He was returned to his original inquiry. However, there was nothing else on his docket. The fact was that this was the job that he needed. There were still a few issues before partaking in it, but he reached a decision.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Alright,” she replied. She walked over to the tilon on her bike and picked it up. Her clawed finger waved over a projected box.

“Your signature,” she told him.

The man walked up beside her. He used his finger over the projection to etch his signature. Upon doing so, Ben’varyu did her quick nods.

“And, your first payment,” she remarked. She turned over and handed the small box to him.

Upon receiving it, the man could hear a few things rattling around inside it. He felt tempted to open it, but it was made of the same bare cardboard. Once it was open, it would be difficult to contain its contents. Instead, he walked over to his horse and secured it into one of the saddlebags.

“Well, then...” the Yutilian said. “I’ll go ahead and...”

There was a beeping sound from Ben’varyu’s tilon. It grabbed the alien woman’s attention as she picked up her device to review the notice given to her. Greg was prepared to climb up onto his saddle when he also heard the beeping in the distance.

“Hmmm ... before you go, Greg,” the woman said, waving her scaly hand at him. “I just received an update. It appears that there’s a new offer from another employer.”

“I’m already partaking in this job,” he told her.

“Yes, but this job would be linked with the job you’ve already accepted.”

“And it’s from another employer?”

“Yes, two jobs in one action. I’m sending the data to your tablet.”

The rancher looked back at his device as he quickly read the information. It was an unusual offer, one that would be simpler but important, nonetheless. This one had the UHN seal marked on the contract. A name was also given to the person who created it. The payment wasn’t that grandiose when compared to the initial mission, but the man couldn’t deny that he would get even more money than expected. It was the perfect two-for-one, not including the potential to find DNA samples to boot.

“Do you accept this contract?” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “It’s not far from my intended destination, anyway. I even have the contact information from this individual in case I need to contact her.”

Ben’varyu walked over to the man. She held up the tilon for him to also sign. There was no hesitation in the rancher’s actions. With a few swipes from his gloved fingers, the deed was signed.

“Any other last-minute surprises?” he asked her as he climbed up onto his horse and sat down on the saddle.

“No,” she replied, closing her tilon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to head off. You know,” she leaned her head to the side, looking up at him. “If you happen to be heading Northeast from this city ruins, there’s a hoverbike tournament, the Itrea’Habvin Click Wik, that you might be able to see. I’ve already sent the coordinates to you. I plan on stopping there for a couple of days before my departure East. Maybe you’ll eventually change your mind ... come and be a part of my team.”

“If it’s a checkpoint along the way, I’ll think about it.”

“Heh,” she made a short wisp of a laugh before she quickly darted to her bike. With a simple leap, she jumped high and landed on her seat.

“Good Luck, Greg.”

“ ... Thank you,” he replied to her.

With that, she pulled her hand back and rotated one of the handles, revving her engine. The light hum echoed and grew loud enough to almost spook Autumn. Ben’varyu sped off as the bike picked up speed. It didn’t take long before the rancher and his horse were left alone.

“Come, Autumn,” he told her. He shifted and turned his horse around. He knew the next place he needed to stop by.

“Hmmm ... it’s a rough one, Greg,” a man said through the intercom with a cough and a hack.

It had been a couple of hours of travel. By now, the sun was trying its best to shine and illuminate the landscape despite the gray haze that blocked it out. From the east outer boundary of Las Vegas resided a mostly sealed building, most likely a former vehicle repair shop that had been converted into a home. With the structure at the city’s edge, a strong hint of orange dirt and sand could be seen as it tried to creep its way to the abandoned street. Many of the ruined buildings of Vegas could be seen from the distant other side, leading into the heart of the former great city. The repair shop served as a makeshift checkpoint where a straight journey north and northwest would lead to the dome city. Even now, the hint of the habitable dome could be seen through the light haze of dust.

Atop his horse, the rancher stood next to a sealed makeshift window, most likely a former customer service station where customers could discuss their vehicle issues with the workers of the ancient past. The original speakers still worked, and a man resided in it.

Greg’s friend was a scrawny bearded man with a mixed tan complexion. He was most likely a former Mexican-born citizen who resided inside the repair shop. Despite his middle age, his body showed heavy signs of wear and tear. He was mostly bald, and his dark mustache was almost nonexistent. His left eye seemed to be artificial, possibly a makeshift augment. Even his arms would lightly shake as the man pressed his weight against the customer service counter. His home seemed questionable if it could properly protect him against the horrid wastes of Earth. The rancher felt the hint of a small gust of wind steading his horse in the process.

“I’m going to need your help on this, Videl,” Greg said to his friend.

“This job,” Videl questioned with a hint of a Spanish accent. “I know you’ve been working on the vehicle for a long time, getting the parts to make it work.”

“And your fuel...”

Videl shifted his stance as he looked up at the covered rancher. “Can I see the package that was handed to you?”

The rancher opened the saddlebag and pulled out the cardboard box. Videl’s eyes narrowed. His friend lifted his hand and tapped a button near his left eye. A small scanning beam could be briefly seen as Videl was scanning the contents of the package.

“Parts?” Videl questioned. “I see a few hoses, filter processing chips, and other things that I can’t recognize from this range.”

Greg looked at the package before putting it back into the saddlebag and closing it.

“It’s the last of the list of parts needed for the truck,” Greg explained in realization. “My employer wishes to secure the vehicle.”

“Our amigo,” Videl questioned. “Wants you to travel halfway across North America, retrieve a 58 Plymouth Fury, and bring it back here?”

“Yes.”

“Why not just send a transport ship to there and pick it up?”

“I believe that my employer wants it to be this way. Otherwise, he would have done as you suggested. Besides, we still don’t know if the vehicle is still there or hasn’t been taken already from past scavengers.”

“Hmmm ... But there’s more to it than just that. Your employer knows you better than you think. Wants you to make this trip.”

“Including others that hired me to make the trip...”

Videl sighed. “But, I can tell that you seemed troubled about it.”

Greg looked around. “I admit, I have a few ... issues. I’ve been wanting to travel across the United States for a long time. Find things about our past.”

“The United States, the thirteen colonies. You still hold on to that dream, amigo.”

“It’s who we are.”

Videl looked down. “I admit, before I moved here, there were still a few from Mexico City ... those that wanted to call themselves Mexicanos more than anything else.”

“It’s in our blood, Videl. We’ve lost our way. The Itreans will scoop up our homes, and we’ll disappear like the Californios of the past. We need to stand up and fight.”

“I agree, but we are few.”

There was a pause as Autumn shook her head a little bit. The rancher patted her neck to help calm her down.

“That vehicle of yours,” Videl questioned him. “You plan on taking Autumn with you?”

“Of course,” Greg replied. “She might not be able to make the trek herself, but she’s a fine horse. I specifically set up a compartment for her in the truck.”

“It’s going to be a tight fit for her. You might have an entire base of operations set in that truck of yours, but if you plan on bringing a car back, Autumn won’t have any room.”

Greg sighed. “You might be right.”

“What I’m most concerned about is the trip itself. Do you have any idea where to look for this car?”

“I don’t. The employer doesn’t completely know either, except that there might be one located far north of here. I haven’t had a chance to look at a database yet.”

“Hmmm...,” Videl tapped his hand on the counter before holding his finger up. “Un minuto por favor...”

The man stepped away from his counter and walked further into his repair shop. Autumn once again shook her head, almost as if she were getting restless.

“We’ll be heading back after this, girl,” the rancher told his horse.

Videl came back to the counter with a tablet in hand. He turned it on.

“Ok,” Videl explained as he began keying in searches. “I have a vehicle database library. The problem is that it’s over a hundred and fifty years old.”

“Makes sense,” Greg remarked. “We don’t really produce cars anymore. Anything we get is what we find and rebuild here or second-rate crap shipped over from Mars.”

“Don’t forget what the Itreans will start to bring in, too.”

“Ugh...”

Videl put his hand to his faded chin as he scrolled the digital library of his tablet. “Hmmm ... a 58 Plymouth Fury,” he said. “Anything more specific?”

“What do you mean?”

“What century was the vehicle made?”

“1958.”

“Ah, ah, Si.” Videl continued to key in and update the searches. A picture of a car appeared. “Let’s see ... a Plymouth Fury. Ah, muy bonita! Those early-made cars are something else. I can understand why your employer wants it so badly. Usually, relic collectors want to buy some of these old cars to keep them preserved for their collections. Let’s hope that it isn’t some Itrean trying to hire you to strip something our ancestors made.”

“Me too,” Greg replied. “Although, something tells me that no Itrean would go to these sort of lengths in hiring me to venture thousands of kilometers just to get a single car.”

“Yet, Itreans delivered the message for you to do it, Si?”

“True.”

“Hmmm...,” Videl used his finger to scroll through the data. “This database was made by a vehicle enthusiast. He spent most of his life cataloging and piecing together as many libraries as possible before passing away in the early 23rd century. I’ve narrowed it down to 58 Plymouth Furys that this man observed during his ventures in North America. According to his information, there is one that he found. He claimed that it was used in a movie of some sort but was saved by the same movie enthusiasts. It was later sent to a car museum in a place called Illinois.”

“It’s a state northeast of here.”

“But, it was moved again in 2091 during the great ‘Historic Vehicle Preservation Program.’ It and many vehicles used in movies, shows, or other important people were relocated to a bunker near Lewistown, Montana.”

“That doesn’t sound far from the other job.”

“The second employer? What does that one involve?”

“Comes from a UHN officer of all odd places. She wants me to find a man and reestablish contact with him.”

“A search and rescue job?” Videl smiled.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I don’t see any harm in doing it if my main objective is not far from it. What do you know of the bunker?”

“It’s called Bunker-66. I’m sending all the data to your tablet, including its coordinates and passcode to unlock its main door.”