Alien Nation

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You’ve got to be with somebody you can count on no matter what the ‘rules’ say, count on every second, because one second might mean your life. You’ve got to be able to read each other without talking. You’ve got to know what your buddy’s thinking so you can react without thinking. Understand?”

  Francisco nodded slowly.

  “Okay. See, there’s nothing real complicated about it, so don’t make this out to be bigger than it is. My friend and partner was murdered last night and I’m after the shitbag that did it. As my partner I’m asking you to respect me and help me find him.”

  The Newcomer pondered the human’s words thoughtfully. Sykes tried not to watch his shifting alien expressions. Not that you could tell much of the time what one of them was really thinking anyway. Francisco would be quite within his rights to take everything Sykes had just told him straight to Warner. That would result in new partnerships for both him and Francisco, as well as Sykes’s being assigned to track down some guy for nonpayment of back child support off somewhere safe like the North Valley. He’d taken a calculated risk laying it on the line with the Newcomer. Whether it paid off or not was up to Francisco.

  The Newcomer finally responded, though not as Sykes had hoped.

  “And as my partner, I must ask you to respect me and my desire not to break with procedure. I realize the death of your friend has put you under a great deal of stress. Please keep in mind that as the first Newcomer to achieve the rank of detective in a human police department, much less in one as visible and important as that of the city of Los Angeles, I will be subject to constant scrutiny both by the civil authorities and by my own people. This unending attention will be difficult for me to deal with, as I am by nature more of a private than a public person. I am having troubles enough dealing with external forces without having to worry about violating procedure. The results if I should do something wrong will be much worse for me than for you.”

  Sykes gave him an exasperated stare, abruptly slammed on the brakes, and threw the transmission into park. Francisco banged into the dash, recovered, and quickly took note of the fact that they had halted square in the middle of traffic. Horns began blaring behind them. Drivers leaned from their windows to bombard the slugmobile with inventive invective. Sykes ignored it all.

  “What is wrong?” Francisco muttered.

  Sykes was very calm as he turned to face the much bigger Newcomer. “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to get something straight. I just want to make sure that we’re operating on the same wavelength here. You agree that there’s a good chance these two shootings are somehow related, right?”

  The yelling outside was much louder now. Francisco was obviously unsettled by all the chaos they were causing. His natural, not to mention his professional, instincts told him to get the car out of the way. But Sykes was behind the wheel, not him, and Sykes continued to sit and stare expectantly. His foot went nowhere near the accelerator, his hand nowhere near the shift lever.

  In spite of the confusion and the ringing in his head where he’d struck the dash, Francisco managed to concentrate on the detective’s words.

  “Well—yes. Quite possibly they are, given the similar MO involved and the lack of an apparent interest in serious larceny.”

  “Possibly. Good. Well, would you be willing to consider the theory, George, that possibly examining the evidence from one case could shed some small ray of light on the other? Does that sound unreasonable to you? Does that not violate accepted procedure?”

  “Yes—no, it is not unreasonable. Although I . . .”

  “Great.” The detective settled himself back behind the steering wheel and put a ready hand on the gear shift. “I’m sure glad that’s settled, aren’t you? Isn’t it great that partners can talk things out and solve problems between themselves this way? That’s what it’s all about, George.” He put the car in drive and roared away from the line of furious drivers stacked up behind them.

  “I think we’re really starting to click now, George. See how easy it is when you just talk to one another? Why, there’s no problem too complex for a couple of partners to solve. And everybody goes on and on about how difficult it is for two guys from different social backgrounds to get along with one another. They don’t have the slightest idea what they’re talking about, do they?”

  Unsure what to think, Francisco sat quietly. It took ten minutes before he realized they were headed in the wrong direction.

  “I thought we were supposed to be going downtown to check out the murder site?”

  “What for? You’ve seen the pictures. Forensics has been all over the place. There’s nothing for us to find there. If you want to know more, check your book.”

  “Tben where are we going?”

  “County morgue.”

  Francisco eased back in his seat, reassured. “Ah. To run a check on Hubley.”

  “To run a check, yeah. But not on Hubley. At least, not at first.”

  The Newcomer’s defenses instantly went back on fun alert. “You are contemplating another violation of procedure, aren’t you?”

  “Who, me?” Sykes looked offended. “I’m just following up on the obvious lines of investigation in our case, like I told you. Relax, enjoy the ride.”

  Francisco tried, but found he could do neither. Sykes whistled merrily as they cruised through the traffic on the Hollywood Freeway. The whistling did nothing to improve his new partner’s mood of unease.

  The morgue didn’t bother Sykes. He’d paid the massive, old, small-windowed structure too many late-night visits, seen too much of its guts as well as those of its transitory inhabitants. Only the echoes occasionally bothered him. Buildings like the county morgue always seemed full of echoes. Your footsteps always had company. Most of the time that didn’t matter, but if you were strolling the hallways late at night you had a tendency to hear extra echoes. There was never anything behind you when you looked, but that didn’t keep the toughest cops from sneaking the occasional peek just to make sure.

  It was obvious from the start that the visit wasn’t troubling to his new partner, and why should it be? Ninety-eight percent of the building’s occupants held no more interest for him than would a standard text on mammalian physiology. He might be curious, but he wouldn’t be queasy.

  Winter was Deputy Medical Examiner, and he owed Sykes a couple of favors. Not that the request the detective put to him was out of the ordinary. It was the timing that made things slightly awkward. But Winter proved obliging enough. As he led the two nocturnal visitors down the corridor he read from the file case he was carrying.

  “What’s with all the interest in this stuff? I didn’t know you were on this one too, Sykes.”

  “Relates to another murder, like I said. Associational,” Sykes informed him casually.

  “Yeah, well, you know I’ve already been all over this material with Fedorchuk and Alterez this morning. Why can’t you just talk to them?”

  “Because Fedorchuk’s a blob and Alterez can’t talk worth shit. What’s it to you? Come on, Winter. You got nothin’ better to do, cushy county night job like this one. You oughta thank us for coming by on a slow day. Keep you from getting bored. You can’t keep reading those bondage mags all day long.”

  The Deputy Examiner eyed him sharply. “Who says I read that stuff?”

  Sykes grinned. “I’m a detective, remember? I get paid to find things out. Hey, don’t look like that. I could care less. But some of the bluenoses on the promotion board might find that kind of easy reading a little funny for a guy in your position.”

  “Some of those old farts would find anything ‘funny,’ ” Winter replied morosely. “You threatening me, Sykes?”

  “With something as petty as that? Gimme some credit, Jack. If I wanted to threaten you, I’d mention the time that stripper who’d OD’d on crack was brought in for autopsy and you . . .”

  “Jesus, keep your goddamn voice down!” Winter was looking around nervously as they pushed through a double swingin
g door.

  The room they entered was filled with metal tables, gurneys, instruments, sterilizers. Some of the platforms were occupied with sheeted lumps. Others gleamed naked beneath the fluorescents like chrome on a new Italian car. Winter continued talking as he led his visitors through the maze of tables.

  “Anyway, according to the sheet, the guy you nailed outside on the night of the holdup . . .”

  “The human.”

  “Yeah, the getaway driver.” Winter checked his file quickly. “He was one Martin Helder. White male, twenty-seven. Let’s see . . .” The Examiner flipped a page. “Wrap sheet shows one armed robbery conviction, a couple for sale of a controlled substance. He also beat a number of raps back East.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Jersey City, Passaic. That was a couple years back. Then he decided to pick up and move to sunny Southern Cal and carry on his preoccupation with bad habits in our backyard. Forfeited a grand and a half bail. Small-timer. Oh yeah, and he was wired on coke when you stopped his clock. If you’re looking for somebody with credentials, our man Heider ain’t your boy.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “Over here.”

  Winter paused by a table supporting a covered body. The concealed mass was by far the largest in the room. He unceremoniously yanked the sheet aside to reveal the pale, hairless body of a Newcomer. Sykes recognized the corpse instantly: Raincoat. His sheer bulk was impressive. But not as impressive, he reminded himself, as the one in the overcoat who’d gotten away.

  Francisco studied the cadaver with professional detachment. “Have you identified this one?”

  Winter shrugged. “So far he’s a John Doe. Or a Sam Slag, if you prefer.” Francisco smiled politely, his expression noncommital. Winter read on. “No ID on him, and—well, you know. No fingerprints. So it could be tough. Your buddies went through the mug book this morning but couldn’t make a facial match.”

  Successful adaptation, Sykes mused. Hardly here long enough to learn the language and already the Newcomers had their very own mug book.

  “I’ll bet they looked real hard,” he sniffed sourly. “But that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Fedorchuk couldn’t find his ass with both hands in his back pockets.”

  While he and Winter chatted amiably, Francisco studied the alien body. That suited Sykes fine. The Newcomer detective wouldn’t inhibit the discussion with the Deputy Examiner.

  Winter finally broke off the small talk long enough to indicate the alien corpse. “You took this guy out too, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky for you, you got him in both of his—well, what we loosely refer to as ‘hearts.’ ” Winter shook his head in amazement. “They look a lot less like us on the inside, you know. Basically humanoid, though sometimes I wish I could specialize. It’s fascinating stuff. I try to keep up, what with L.A. being home to most of them. Some of the stuff that’s out in the literature would blow your mind, Sykes. They have a kind of group shyness about their internal workings, so it’s tough to find things out, but we’re learning. The double heart setup isn’t the half of it, and they aren’t really hearts as we understand them. They move the blood, all right, but they’re not the same size or shape, and instead of chambering they’ve got the damndest most complicated ventricular setup you ever . . .”

  Sykes was bored by the first sentence. “You think I was lucky? Lucky my ass. I had to empty my damn gun into him. I thought he was down for the count after my first shot and started to check him out. If I hadn’t watched my step it’d be me you’d be lecturing George about.”

  “That’s the way these people are.” Winter was studying the body, still obviously intrigued by what he didn’t know. “They’re so damn big and dense that if you don’t hit both pumps or the brain you just piss them off. Maybe one of these days we’ll have a Newcomer on the staff to help us with explanations, but right now we don’t know what half the goop inside them is even for.”

  “Me, I don’t want to know. Mind if I see that?” Sykes reached hopefully for the report.

  The Examiner hesitated, his gaze taking in the unlocked door. They were still alone in the morgue. “Okay, but just here. No copies.”

  Sykes smiled thinly. “Yeah, right. Just here.”

  Francisco was making a detailed examination of the body, starting with the feet and working his way up. As he reached the right hand he absently turned it over to check the palm—and frowned. Something on the skin made him lean closer. He studied the dead flesh the way a counterfeiter would examine a batch of freshly printed fifty-dollar bills.

  Letting the hand fall back, he reached up and carefully peeled back the dead alien’s upper lip. What he saw made him frown anew, but neither the busily reading Sykes nor the indifferent Winter glanced in his direction. Finally he removed his fingers from the breathless mouth and straightened.

  Three lab assistants had entered a few moments earlier and were busy at their respective tasks. One bulked much larger than his companions. A glance showed that Sykes was going to be occupied for a while yet. Making his way across the floor between tables empty and full, he introduced himself to the alien lab assistant. They began conversing softly in their own tongue. The other pair of lab workers ignored them.

  Eventually Sykes returned the folder. “Thanks, Winter. Do you a favor sometime.”

  “You know what they say. Silence is golden.”

  “Not where I work it ain’t. You got anything else?”

  “You’ve seen it all. Oh, wait.” Winter fumbled with the folder’s back pocket. “Since you’re so interested, here’s an extra head shot if you want one.” He passed an 8 X 10 Polaroid of the dead Newcomer’s face to the grateful detective.

  “Sure you won’t miss this?”

  “No problem with photos. It’s the synopses and analyses the boss gets touchy about passing around.” He nodded in the direction of the corpse. “We’re just about to start cutting in. You’re welcome to stick around and watch if you want. I guarantee you’ll learn a lot. Every time we open one of these guys up there’s a new surprise.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Sykes had what he’d come for. Sliding the photo into his own folder he scanned the morgue in search of his partner, found him deep in conversation with the Newcomer lab worker.

  “Take it easy, Sykes.” Winter offered a final smile.

  “Easy as I can.” But he wasn’t paying attention to the Deputy Examiner anymore.

  His first impulse was to go gather up his Newcomer, and get moving, but he hesitated. If he strained his hearing he could make out snatches and bits of alien conversation. The lab assistant appeared by turns to be animated, sullen, and unsettled as he responded to Francisco’s questioning. Then he was nodding as if agreeing with something the detective had said—or like someone who’d just agreed to do something for someone else.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Sykes walked over and stared straight into his partner’s face.

  “What’s this, what’s going on?” At his intrusion the lab worker melted silently back among the work benches.

  Francisco replied as blandly as usual. “Going on? Why, nothing.”

  Sykes’s brows crinkled. “Nothing?”

  The Newcomer’s gaze rose to the table across the room that held Raincoat. “We have examined the two bodies and obtained what information we could. Shouldn’t we now examine their personal effects? They could be revealing.” He headed for the door.

  Sykes glared at the retreating back for a long moment, then followed, his thoughts churning.

  Ortiz was pretty enough. Sykes had no serious interest in her, though. She was too young for him, and busy working her way through college. Smart women made him uneasy. Not that he felt intellectually inadequate in their presence, whether he was or not, but Edie had done the college bit. Anything associated with his ex-wife’s likes and dislikes made him uneasy.

  She glanced up from her homework and recognized him. “Sykes, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Been a
while. You not working homicide much these days?”

  “Naw. Just got back from six months in the Bahamas. What do you think?” He smiled to indicate his sarcasm wasn’t serious.

  She rose and went behind the property counter. “What do you need?”

  “A tall blonde, a Tesstarossa, six figures in the bank, and a new face.”

  She grinned playfully. “No got. What else?”

  He sighed elaborately. “Effects of two stiffs named Hubley and John Doe. The latter’s an alien, gunshot, brought in in a black vinyl raincoat. I doubt you’ve got more than one of those.”

  She shook her head. “Only the one is right. Wait here.”

  A few minutes later she was back with the requested materials. Young, yeah, but efficient. College, he thought, and dismissed the thought irritably. Everybody had different abilities, and his weren’t measurable by quarter-end tests and weekly quizzes.

  The pair of regulation-issue storage packets she unceremoniously dumped on the counter were both filled. Sykes went through the effects of the dead alien while Francisco studied Hubley’s. Ortiz watched for a while, then returned to her homework. She’d seen it all a hundred times before.

  Francisco paused with a small foil packet, held it up to the light before confessing his confusion to his partner, “What is this?”

  Sykes looked over. “A rubber.” When Francisco failed to react he added, “You know. A condom. Coney Island whitefish?” The Newcomer detective still looked dubious. “Men—human males, put them on their, uh, penises to protect against having babies.”

  It was clear that his new buddy was having a tough time with something that was clear as crystal to Sykes. He glanced back at Ortiz.

  “You need this?” he asked her, indicating the packet.

  She looked up from her books. “Nope. Anything you guys don’t use gets shoved back in storage.”

  Sykes nodded, turned to Francisco with his hand outstretched. The alien obediently passed over the foil packet. Ripping it open, Sykes unrolled the contents and dangled the condom before the Newcomer’s curious gaze.