Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars Read Online Free PDF Page A

be some other mortal race we have never seen, or Yei Bechei. I do not think they are skin walkers. From what I have heard about them, they do not need a flying machine to fly. Even if we turned them over to the bilagaana, our land would not have rest from crazy white people, all wanting to see where they landed. In any case, they are all dead. They deserve to be buried, not left for the coyotes to eat, or skin walkers to use their corpses for witchcraft.”
    The four men mounted up and rode back to Mary Yazzie’s hogan, and it went rather well. She was not suspicious they were withholding anything. The men all looked uneasy, but that was normal for Navajos after viewing death. The men ate lunch and drank a couple cups of coffee, observing the right amount of socializing that good manners required. The chairman charged Mary to keep everyone away from the wreck for the sake of the chindi, and to speak of it to no one. She solemnly promised to do so and the chairman was relieved. It was five o’clock by the time had reached the Chapter House. Roanhorse put George’s horse in the corral behind the Chapter House, where George would retrieve it later.
    Captain Fowler addressed the chairman. “I guess this one is all off the books, right?”
    “Yes. I’ll drive down to Gallop area office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs tomorrow in my pickup truck and see if I can negotiate a trade for the ship. The reservation is in need of many things.”
    Chairman Paul Jones left Shiprock before daylight the next morning, arriving in Gallop around sunrise. He’d skipped breakfast, so he stopped at a local diner and had the special of sausage, eggs, hash browns, a biscuit and hot coffee. The tribe’s lawyer offered to come, but Jones wanted as few people knowing about this as possible, so he refused. Besides, he was a very shrewd negotiator, and was not afraid to speak with the BIA chief alone. He was remarkably fit for a man sixty-eight years old. He wore his gray short hair in the style of the modern world, which helped in dealing with outsiders. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was ready for the meeting with the bilagaana BIA chief. Finishing breakfast and a second cup of coffee, he paid his tab and drove over to the bureau’s office. BIA Chief Hal Wallace was going over his budget and estimating projected spending for the next quarter, when his secretary buzzed him.
    “Chief, Chairman Jones is here to see you.”
    “Thank you Betty, send him in.” Chief Wallace rose to meet the older man, and greeted him in customary fashion as one would a business associate.
    “Good morning, Chairman Jones.” Chief Wallace never tried to honor the Navajo leaders by learning their customary greetings or social manners. It was mostly because of the bureau’s attitude that the Navajos were best served by being assimilated into American mainstream culture. He wasn’t malicious in his thinking. He honestly believed Washington’s policy that replacing the Navajo culture with modern American culture was good for them.
    “Good morning, Chief Wallace.”
    The men exchanged courtesies, shared local news, and discussed the weather. Finally the elevator talk exhausted, and Wallace knew it was time to get to the point.
    “Chairman Jones, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
    Jones retrieved an envelope from his shirt and slid it to the younger man. Chief Wallace removed the contents, studying each photo carefully. He looked up at the older man, ran his hand through his thinning hair, carefully considering.
    “Looks like a military prototype. The government will want it back.”
    The Navajo retrieved a second envelope from his shirt and offered it to the agent, who examined each photo. As Wallace studied the photos of the aliens’ bodies, the realization dawned on him that this was something more—much more than he’d anticipated.
    “This is no military prototype. I’m sure the government will want it, though,” the chairman