Sword of Minerva (The Guild Wars Book 10) by Mark Wandrey (great books for teens TXT) 📕

Inside the room, Sato unlocked the module, making sure the door was facing up so they didn’t flood the hotel room. The door slid aside, and Nemo’s bud half crawled out on top of the container, flashing brightly.

“I was wondering if something was wrong,” it said. “It’s been more than a day!”

“We’ve been traveling slowly,” Sato explained. One of the bud’s eyes regarded him. “We’re in a hotel in Mexico.”

“Mexico, a country south of the United States, in the Earth Republic, and long considered an economically underperforming democracy in North America.”

“Correct,” Rick said. “We’re undercover here; don’t want anyone poking around while we figure out our next step.”

“I understand,” it said. “I’d like some fresh food. Are there any small crustacea or saltwater plants?”

“I guess we need to go shopping,” Sato said. “I can use some food, too.”

“Maybe I should go,” Rick suggested.

“I think an Æsir will draw more attention than a Japanese guy in rural Mexico,” Sato said. Rick stared at him. “I’ll be fine. I saw a little market just down the road.”

Rick nodded slowly. “What’s the range on our pinplants?”

“Five kilometers, give or take interference.” Sato gestured at their surroundings. “Here, not much worse. I’ll yell if I run into trouble,” Sato said. Rick looked dubious. “You need rest. I designed your systems, and I know you’ll reach the end of your endurance and then just crash. What if you crash when we’re in trouble?”

“When aren’t we in trouble?”

Sato gave a little laugh. “Not often. Get some rest; I’ll be back soon.”

Rick eventually relented, sitting in a threadbare recliner, his armor’s glowing blue eyes dimmed to nothing. Of course, he could still be wide awake and just staring at Sato. There was no way to make sure. So Sato just shrugged, took the shoulder bag with their small currency, and went out the door.

They’d landed on Earth when it was early fall in the southern hemisphere. They’d crossed the equator and were heading steadily north, but it was still hot. His patchless Winged Hussars uniform, minus the life support systems, was uncomfortably hot. He decided the first thing on the agenda was more appropriate clothing.

The heat of the morning grew increasingly oppressive as he walked to the nearest intersection. Like many towns in Mexico, even small ones, Tuxtla Gutiérrez had a bus service. As luck would have it, a bus was just pulling up to a stop. Sato glanced in its direction of travel, deciding it was headed toward the center of town, and boarded when it stopped.

“How much?” he asked the bored looking driver, his translator speaking in Spanish.

“Fifty pesos,” the man said, giving Sato a curious look.

Sato found the coins and dropped them into the indicated machine, which chimed merrily. The driver grunted, and Sato sat in the empty first row. A moment later, the door clanked closed and the old diesel bus ground forward.

Satisfied with himself, he forgot to look at the passing businesses for several kilometers. Which was when he realized he couldn’t read them without first running everything through his pinplants. He was beginning to think he’d screwed up when he spotted a sign which translated to “Bargain Store.”

“Better than nothing,” he said, and pressed the strip along his window to signal a stop. The driver grunted, and the bus pulled to the sidewalk, the door opening. “Thanks,” Sato said as the driver stared at him exiting. The door closed again, and the bus pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke.

Sato didn’t waste time; he immediately went into the shop. As he’d hoped, it was filled with racks of clothing. He walked down, noting size tags and different styles. He had no illusions he could pass as an average man. Instead, he went for modestly successful businessman. Not a suit, but simple nice slacks, shirt, and a light vest he’d seen many wearing. He’d rather wear as little as possible. However, again, he was a Japanese guy in Tuxtla Gutiérrez so he took it down another notch in apparent wealth, adding a floppy hat.

Examining himself in the mirror, he nodded and walked to the front. On his way, he grabbed a backpack and stuffed his uniform in it, then went back and added several extra pairs of underwear, socks, and some cowboy-style boots.

The shop held a bare handful of customers, and a single matronly woman sat behind the old-fashioned mechanical cash register. She was reading a magazine that had handsome men posing on the cover with scantily clad women. “Hello,” he said.

She put the magazine down and looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, and she took in his details more carefully. “Who are you hiding from?”

“W-what?” he stammered.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Come with me.” She got to her feet with the weariness of age, glancing back when he didn’t follow. “Come along, fugitive.” What could he do except follow?

“You need older clothes,” she said, glancing at him again and running a hand along a rack of pants before pulling out a pair. “It’s good you picked business clothes; your stature is wrong for a worker. Chinese?”

“Japanese,” he answered automatically.

She nodded. “My grandson is a mercenary. I don’t know if he’s alive. Are you fighting the aliens?”

“I can’t say,” he said.

“Fair enough.” She took more pieces of clothing, and when she finished, handed them to him. “Put these on.”

Confused, he did as she said, going into the changing room again to emerge a short time later. She examined the results and nodded, handing him the hat he’d originally chosen. “Better,” she said.

He looked at himself in a full-length mirror and nodded. He could pass for a local, with the hat pulled down. “Nice,” he said. She merely nodded. “How much, ma’am?”

“Four hundred pesos.”

He took out a 100-credit chit and put it in