Pocket Apocalypse
Page 19
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“I don’t have any photo ID with my real name on it, because that would be a violation of all known security protocols, but I may have something better,” I said. “Do you mind if I get my proof of identity out of my suitcase?”
“You armed?”
“I’m a Price, sir. If I were unarmed, I would be trying to take someone else’s weapons, just for the sake of my own peace of mind. But you have my word that I’m not going for a weapon. Even if I were lying about my identity, which I’m not, I wouldn’t want to risk Shelby getting hurt.”
“I can take care of myself, Alex,” said Shelby. She was still hanging off her father’s arm, and part of me insisted on pointing out that this would throw his aim slightly off, making it easier for me to take his gun away if it came to that.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” I said. “I also know that making a good impression on your parents gets harder if I get you shot in the process.”
“This is what you call making a good impression?” asked Raina. I decided to ignore her. It seemed like the safest course of action.
Shelby’s father frowned, his eyes narrowing further. “The ship of good impressions may have already sailed,” he said. “Keep your movements slow. Ray, if he does anything you don’t like, subdue him.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” said Raina, her attention still on her Gameboy. “If the presumably heavily-armed American does something I don’t like, I will absolutely throw myself on that grenade.”
“Actually, my grandmother’s the one with the grenades,” I said, and unbuckled my belt before twisting—oh, so slowly—to lean over the backseat and rummage through the top level of our luggage. Luckily for me, my carry-on bag had been placed with the zipper facing the front of the car, and it was a relatively easy matter for me to wiggle it open and call, “I require an acolyte,” into the depths of the bag.
A tiny brown head popped out, whiskers quivering and ears pressed forward, like its owner was afraid of missing some piece of essential wisdom that would finally tie the workings of the universe together. “Hail!” piped the mouse.
“That’s definitely a mouse,” said Raina, who had actually looked up from her Gameboy when I started talking to the luggage. “It’s not a reprogrammed Furby. Not even a little bit.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. I held my hand out to the mouse. The tiny creature stepped reverently onto the pad of my thumb, wrapping its tail tight around its legs. I kept my eyes on the mouse. The Aeslin mice love it when we talk directly to them. It makes them feel like they’re communing with their gods, not just serving as a really weird footnote. “Hail,” I said. “Do you mind confirming a few things for me?”
“Thy Will Be Done,” squeaked the mouse, throwing its head back in a burst of religious ecstasy.
“Thank you,” I said. I twisted back around, returning my butt to its original position on the seat, and extended the mouse toward Shelby’s waiting father. “Sir, do you know what this is?”
He blinked. “It looks like an Aeslin mouse,” he said. “But that’s impossible. They’ve been extinct for over a century.”
“Not in my family’s attic they haven’t.” I allowed myself a faint smile. “If you want to confirm my identity, ask the mouse.” Aeslin mice don’t lie. They never forget anything they see or hear, they preserve the history of a colony through religious dogma and ritual recreation, and they don’t lie.
For the first time, Shelby’s father looked vaguely impressed. “That’s a clever one,” he allowed, before turning his attention on the mouse. “Hello.”
“Hail!” squeaked the mouse.
Shelby’s father was a man trying to defend both his home and his daughter from a potentially dangerous visitor, and yet he couldn’t swallow the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man who’d just been told that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all—which wasn’t an unreasonable response to finding out that one of the world’s weirdest, most wonderfully useless sapient species wasn’t extinct. “Mouse, can you confirm the identity of the man who’s holding you?”
“Yes,” said the mouse proudly. It preened its whiskers, looking like it had just passed a quiz of some sort.
I sighed. “You’ll have to be more literal, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry. I’m not well-versed in human to rodent communication techniques.” He focused back on the mouse. “Who is the man holding you?”
“I stand in the palm of the God of Scales and Silence, son of the Thoughtful Priestess and the God of Decisions Made in Necessity,” said the mouse.
“He wants their names,” I said. It seemed almost a pity to shortcut what otherwise promised to be an entertaining bout of Man vs. Mouse, but I needed to pee, and I wanted to get out of the car before somebody lost patience and did something we were all going to regret later. “Please tell him the names.”
“Oh!” squeaked the mouse, sounding surprised. Then, drawing itself up to its full height of almost three inches, it said, “He is Alexander Jonathan Price, son of Evelyn Baker and Kevin Price, son of Alice Healy and Thomas Price—”
“—who wrote the field guide to the cryptids of Australia and New Zealand, which I have with me, so you should be able to compare his handwriting to any local samples,” I said. “I know this is an unorthodox method of confirming identity, but given that ‘please come to Australia with me, there are werewolves everywhere and they’re going to eat my family’ is an unorthodox request, can we call it good?”
There was a long pause, during which I began to fear that I’d overplayed my hand, before Mr. Tanner lowered his gun. My heart rate immediately began dropping back toward normal. It dropped further as he opened the door and gestured for me to get out of the car. “Riley Tanner. Nice to meet you. Shelly’s told us a lot, but that’s no substitute for actually getting to spend time with someone—and as you mentioned, there’s our little werewolf issue to focus on.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” I slid out of the car, raising my hand to my shoulder long enough for the mouse to hop off before offering it to him to shake. His grip was firm enough to make my fingers ache, but I didn’t get the feeling he was trying to crush my hand; he was just a man who was accustomed to shaking hands without thinking about how hard he squeezed. “Shelby hasn’t told me much about her family, apart from the fact that she has sisters and parents.”
“You armed?”
“I’m a Price, sir. If I were unarmed, I would be trying to take someone else’s weapons, just for the sake of my own peace of mind. But you have my word that I’m not going for a weapon. Even if I were lying about my identity, which I’m not, I wouldn’t want to risk Shelby getting hurt.”
“I can take care of myself, Alex,” said Shelby. She was still hanging off her father’s arm, and part of me insisted on pointing out that this would throw his aim slightly off, making it easier for me to take his gun away if it came to that.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” I said. “I also know that making a good impression on your parents gets harder if I get you shot in the process.”
“This is what you call making a good impression?” asked Raina. I decided to ignore her. It seemed like the safest course of action.
Shelby’s father frowned, his eyes narrowing further. “The ship of good impressions may have already sailed,” he said. “Keep your movements slow. Ray, if he does anything you don’t like, subdue him.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” said Raina, her attention still on her Gameboy. “If the presumably heavily-armed American does something I don’t like, I will absolutely throw myself on that grenade.”
“Actually, my grandmother’s the one with the grenades,” I said, and unbuckled my belt before twisting—oh, so slowly—to lean over the backseat and rummage through the top level of our luggage. Luckily for me, my carry-on bag had been placed with the zipper facing the front of the car, and it was a relatively easy matter for me to wiggle it open and call, “I require an acolyte,” into the depths of the bag.
A tiny brown head popped out, whiskers quivering and ears pressed forward, like its owner was afraid of missing some piece of essential wisdom that would finally tie the workings of the universe together. “Hail!” piped the mouse.
“That’s definitely a mouse,” said Raina, who had actually looked up from her Gameboy when I started talking to the luggage. “It’s not a reprogrammed Furby. Not even a little bit.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. I held my hand out to the mouse. The tiny creature stepped reverently onto the pad of my thumb, wrapping its tail tight around its legs. I kept my eyes on the mouse. The Aeslin mice love it when we talk directly to them. It makes them feel like they’re communing with their gods, not just serving as a really weird footnote. “Hail,” I said. “Do you mind confirming a few things for me?”
“Thy Will Be Done,” squeaked the mouse, throwing its head back in a burst of religious ecstasy.
“Thank you,” I said. I twisted back around, returning my butt to its original position on the seat, and extended the mouse toward Shelby’s waiting father. “Sir, do you know what this is?”
He blinked. “It looks like an Aeslin mouse,” he said. “But that’s impossible. They’ve been extinct for over a century.”
“Not in my family’s attic they haven’t.” I allowed myself a faint smile. “If you want to confirm my identity, ask the mouse.” Aeslin mice don’t lie. They never forget anything they see or hear, they preserve the history of a colony through religious dogma and ritual recreation, and they don’t lie.
For the first time, Shelby’s father looked vaguely impressed. “That’s a clever one,” he allowed, before turning his attention on the mouse. “Hello.”
“Hail!” squeaked the mouse.
Shelby’s father was a man trying to defend both his home and his daughter from a potentially dangerous visitor, and yet he couldn’t swallow the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man who’d just been told that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all—which wasn’t an unreasonable response to finding out that one of the world’s weirdest, most wonderfully useless sapient species wasn’t extinct. “Mouse, can you confirm the identity of the man who’s holding you?”
“Yes,” said the mouse proudly. It preened its whiskers, looking like it had just passed a quiz of some sort.
I sighed. “You’ll have to be more literal, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry. I’m not well-versed in human to rodent communication techniques.” He focused back on the mouse. “Who is the man holding you?”
“I stand in the palm of the God of Scales and Silence, son of the Thoughtful Priestess and the God of Decisions Made in Necessity,” said the mouse.
“He wants their names,” I said. It seemed almost a pity to shortcut what otherwise promised to be an entertaining bout of Man vs. Mouse, but I needed to pee, and I wanted to get out of the car before somebody lost patience and did something we were all going to regret later. “Please tell him the names.”
“Oh!” squeaked the mouse, sounding surprised. Then, drawing itself up to its full height of almost three inches, it said, “He is Alexander Jonathan Price, son of Evelyn Baker and Kevin Price, son of Alice Healy and Thomas Price—”
“—who wrote the field guide to the cryptids of Australia and New Zealand, which I have with me, so you should be able to compare his handwriting to any local samples,” I said. “I know this is an unorthodox method of confirming identity, but given that ‘please come to Australia with me, there are werewolves everywhere and they’re going to eat my family’ is an unorthodox request, can we call it good?”
There was a long pause, during which I began to fear that I’d overplayed my hand, before Mr. Tanner lowered his gun. My heart rate immediately began dropping back toward normal. It dropped further as he opened the door and gestured for me to get out of the car. “Riley Tanner. Nice to meet you. Shelly’s told us a lot, but that’s no substitute for actually getting to spend time with someone—and as you mentioned, there’s our little werewolf issue to focus on.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” I slid out of the car, raising my hand to my shoulder long enough for the mouse to hop off before offering it to him to shake. His grip was firm enough to make my fingers ache, but I didn’t get the feeling he was trying to crush my hand; he was just a man who was accustomed to shaking hands without thinking about how hard he squeezed. “Shelby hasn’t told me much about her family, apart from the fact that she has sisters and parents.”
