Years ago, they were relocators, enforcers of the agreement with the Lambers. At some point they started calling them repatriators, which is the name that stuck, which is what Fin is.

Waiting outside a building, waiting on confirmation, eating something fried, waiting while the treewall behind the structure sways in the wind bringing a tangy scent. Through the treewall, the next boulevard is not visible, but the lights from the houses seem to blink as the trees part, then close, like a gentle dance of tentative lovers.

Fin has a mouth ulcer right at the angle where his left cheek meets the gums, and he tongues it as if that would make it go away. He doesn’t like waiting because he gets sugar cravings.

“I agree,” says Duro, his partner on this escapade. Human. Salvo is overbooked or undergoing maintenance or some shit.

“With what? I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. You should have been.”

“I’m not here to entertain you,” says Fin.

“Talking to me can count as entertaining yourself, brother,” says Duro.

“I don’t need entertainment. I’m on the job.”

“No, you are waiting for a signal confirmation. We can do our jobs when we know for sure the Lamber is in there.”

“The waiting is the job,” says Fin. “And the Lamber is there. I’m waiting for official acknowledgement of knowledge I already have.” To discourage Duro from talking, Fin checks his weapon. Never used, it is only effective against Lambers, and since they are generally peaceful…

Fin has always wondered what happens to aliens when they’re shot. He rises and squirrels into the back of the van where the techs are trying to pick up a signal that suggests Lambers.

“You are making me look bad, children,” he says. “Really bad.”

Cables everywhere, trailing from batteries, competing for end points in the back of receivers and transmitters, cobbled together, bunched in places, snaking free in others, getting underfoot no matter how careful Fin is. There are three techs in the back, listening to arcane outputs. Such is their focus that they don’t acknowledge Fin’s taunt. One of them sweats even though it’s cold from the fans keeping the machines cool. Fuck ’em, wasting his life with their dilly-dallying.

“Call me when it’s done,” he says. He walks all the way through and opens the back doors of the van, steps into the night.

Fin has never been able to explain his talent for finding Lambers. It is an itch in his brain, a surge of blood across his scalp. It doesn’t matter. He finds more than anyone else and sends them all back to wherever the fuck they come from. He’s not much good at anything else. He’s a better-than-average marksman, a passable investigator, and an indifferent scholar. He flirts with weapons manufacture because they fascinate him, particularly old Earth technology.