The Best of Lucius Shepard by Lucius Shepard Read Free Book Online Page A

Moody—who was Dantzler’s buddy—said
the drugs had addled DT’s brains, that he was crazy and gone to hell.
     
    “He
collects trophies,” Moody had said. “And not just ears like they done in ‘Nam.”
     
    When
Dantzler had finally gotten a glimpse of the trophies, he had been appalled.
They were kept in a tin box in DT’s pack and were nearly unrecognizable; they
looked like withered brown orchids. But despite his revulsion, despite the fact
that he was afraid of DT, he admired the man’s capacity for survival and had
taken to heart his advice to rely on the drugs.
     
    On
the way back down the slope they discovered a live casualty, an Indian kid
about Dantzler’s age, nineteen or twenty. Black hair, adobe skin, and
heavy-lidded brown eyes. Dantzler, whose father was an anthropologist and had
done fieldwork in Salvador, figured him for a Santa Ana tribesman; before
leaving the States, Dantzler had pored over his father’s notes, hoping this
would give him an edge, and had learned to identify the various regional types.
The kid had a minor leg wound and was wearing fatigue pants and a faded COKE
ADDS LIFE T-shirt. This T-shirt irritated DT no end.
     
    “What
the hell you know ‘bout Coke?” he asked the kid as they headed for the chopper
that was to carry them deeper into Morazán Province. “You think it’s funny or
somethin?” He whacked the kid in the back with his rifle butt, and when they
reached the chopper, he slung him inside and had him sit by the door. He sat
beside him, tapped out a joint from a pack of Kools, and asked, “Where’s
Infante?”
     
    “Dead,”
said the medic.
     
    “Shit!”
DT licked the joint so it would burn evenly. “Goddamn beaner ain’t no use ‘cept
somebody else know Spanish.”
     
    “I
know a little,” Dantzler volunteered.
     
    Staring
at Dantzler, DT’s eyes went empty and unfocused. “Naw,” he said. “You don’t
know no Spanish.”
     
    Dantzler
ducked his head to avoid DT’s stare and said nothing; he thought he understood
what DT meant, but he ducked away from the understanding as well. The chopper
bore them aloft, and DT lit the joint. He let the smoke out his nostrils and
passed the joint to the kid, who accepted gratefully.
     
    “Qué
sabor!” he said, exhaling a billow; he smiled and nodded,
wanting to be friends.
     
    Dantzler
turned his gaze to the open door. They were flying low between the hills, and
looking as the deep bays of shadow in their folds acted to drain away the
residue of the drugs, leaving him weary and frazzled. Sunlight poured in,
dazzling the oil-smeared floor.
     
    “Hey,
Dantzler!” DT had to shout over the noise of the rotors. “Ask him whass his
name!”
     
    The
kid’s eyelids were drooping from the joint, but on hearing Spanish he perked
up; he shook his head, though, refusing its answer. Dantzler smiled and told
him not to be afraid.
     
    “Ricardo
Quu,” said the kid.
     
    “Kool!”
said DT with false heartiness. “Thass my brand!”
     
    He
offered his pack to the kid.
     
    “Gracias, no.” The kid waved the joint and grinned.
     
    “Dude’s
named for a goddamn cigarette,” said DT disparagingly, as if this were the
height of insanity.
     
    Dantzler
asked the kid if there were more soldiers nearby, and once again received no
reply; but, apparently sensing in Dantzler a kindred soul, the kid leaned
forward and spoke rapidly, saying that his village was Santander Jimenez, that
his father was—he hesitated—a man of power. He asked where they were taking
him. Dantzler returned a stony glare. He found it easy to reject the kid, and
he realized later this was because he had already given up on him.
     
    Latching
his hands behind his head, DT began to sing—a wordless melody. His voice was
discordant, barely audible above the rotors; but the tune had a familiar ring
and Dantzler soon placed it. The theme from Star Trek. It brought back
memories of watching TV with his sister, laughing at the