Alien Nation

by Alan Dean Foster

  Francisco stared helplessly as the backside of the tow truck vanished. Then he sagged against the slugmobile, muttering to himself in his own tongue. A good linguist would have blushed at some of the phrases.

  Sykes lay as he’d fallen the previous night. A distant pounding in his ears finally woke him. As his eyes opened against the intrusive light he became aware that the pounding wasn’t all that far away. It came, in fact, from the other side of his front door.

  “This better be good news or money,” he mumbled. He found his feet, was mildly surprised to discover that they were still attached to his ankles, and stumbled toward the door, yawning and scratching his crotch. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Give it a rest, already!”

  The door opened to reveal his partner standing, or rather swaying, on the other side. His face looked like hell. In his right hand he held the C-4 charge, neatly packaged in a clean handkerchief. This the detective passed to a bemused Sykes.

  “Hold this.” He stumbled in, bumping Sykes out of the way as be made a beeline for the kitchen sink. “I believe that I am feeling extremely horrible. No, correct that. I am certain of it.”

  Sykes watched him bend over the sink and run the cold water, then turned his attention to the handful Francisco had passed to him. Even in his still swozzled state he recognized it for what it was. Examining it respectfully, he turned and walked back to join his partner. Francisco was running cold water over his mottled pate.

  “Where’d you get this.”

  The Newcomer winced. “Please, Matt. Not so loud. Would you have a towel?”

  “A towel. Yeah, sure.” Sykes found a dishrag, tossed it at his partner. “You want bubble bath and shampoo? Well, bubble bath, anyway.”

  Francisco straightened as he mopped his skull. “No, thank you. Under the circumstances the plain water was quite sufficient. As to your question, a man, a human, was wiring that to your car, beneath the dash. I am certain his intention was to connect it to the ignition.”

  “Naw,” said Sykes sarcastically as he turned the C-4 over in his hands, “he was gonna wrap it and put ‘do not open ’til Christmas’ on it.”

  “I didn’t get a good look at him.” Francisco blinked at the window and suddenly panicked. “The sun is up! It’s daytime!”

  Sykes stared at his partner. “I guess that’s why they jumped you to Detective. Unsurpassed powers of observation.”

  The sarcasm was lost on the frantic Francisco. “I must call my wife! Where is the telephone?” He looked around wildly.

  “Where you left it last night,” Sykes told him evenly. “On the wall.” As the Newcomer hurried to the phone, Sykes took note of the position of the hands on the battery-powered wall clock above the stove. “Make it fast. We’re late clocking in.”

  For the first time since they’d started working together, Sykes was the better-looking of the two as they entered the precinct house. While his partner had babbled none too coherently on the phone, Sykes had taken the time to shower and change. Francisco entered still clad in the rumpled suit he’d slept in, his underwear a day old and the taste in his mouth considerably older despite elephantine doses of Sykes’s mouthwash. Apparently the chemicals in human mouthwash didn’t do anything but irrigate the flora in a Newcomer’s mouth. The result was that at close range, Francisco’s breath reeked of sour milk.

  They neared Sykes’s desk. The expression on his partner’s face would have done justice to a retiring mortician. The desk was as well organized as Sykes’s apartment. As he’d explained on more than one occasion to inquiring passersby, this condition was maintained deliberately. It prevented anyone from stealing from him, since absolutely nothing atop the desk was arranged in any kind of order. No potential thief could find what he was looking for. Neither could Sykes, but that never slowed him down.

  “She’s going to divorce me.” Francisco was inconsolable.

  “George,” Sykes said patiently, “she’s not gonna divorce you. You mate for life, remember?”

  His partner refused to he mollified. “She’s very progressive. I’m certain she’s considering it. She watches television all the time, and not just the Newcomer channel. She’s taken up flower arranging in her spare time. If she can pick up a human habit as bizarre as that, why not also divorce?”

  Sykes started to reply, frowned instead. “What’s bizarre about flower arranging?”

  “Flowers are arranged by nature. They do not need to be repositioned according to some obscure aesthetic.”

  “I think you’re wife’s interested in the artificial kind of flowers.”

  Francisco looked thoughtful. “Oh. I had not considered that. The duplications of the natural world that your people consistently manufacture are a source of confusion as well as wonderment to us. We see nothing wrong with the original world, and no need to reproduce it in plastic. I am convinced it is but a short step from flower arranging to divorce.”

  Sykes had had about enough. “And I’m convinced your brain needs rearranging.”

  The uniformed clerk passing out phone memoranda spotted the ill-matched pair and hustled to intercept Sykes.

  “You guys are looking for somebody named Strader, fight?”

  “Yeah.” Sykes eyed her in surprise. “You know where we might find him?”

  “Not me.” She showed him the relevant record. “Fedorchuk and Alterez just phoned in. They found him. Or apparently what’s left of him, washed up on the beach at Zuma.”

  Francisco reacted sharply, leaned over his partner. “This ‘Zuma beach.’ It is on the ocean and not a lake or river?”

  “That’s right.”

  The Newcomer straightened and looked solemn but did not comment further. Meanwhile Sykes was studying the phone-record printout. “Not a helluva lot of detail.”

  “They’re still out there if you wanna try and catch ’em. From the volume of calls going back and forth I’d say they’ll probably be there awhile.” She glanced surreptitiously at the towering Francisco. Engrossed in reading over Sykes’s shoulder, he missed her stare. “Isn’t every day you find a dead Newcomer in a public park.” She turned and continued her distribution.

  “Well, let’s roll, George.” Sykes headed for the exit. Francisco followed, holding back.

  “To the—to the beach?”

  Sykes looked back over his shoulder. “No, man. To Disneyland, to check out the new rides. Come one, let’s go, dude. Surf’s up!” So was Sykes’s adrenaline as he headed fast for the door.

  Francisco stayed close but behind, so that his partner could not see the look on his face.

  Sykes drove while Francisco monitored the radio. The Newcomer seemed to be spending a lot of time checking and rechecking their position as Sykes drove up the coast, even though Zuma was impossible to miss. When Sykes questioned him about it Francisco replied that he wanted to be certain they didn’t drive too far. Actually, he kept talking with the dispatcher because it helped to keep his mind off their destination.

  Then they turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, leaving the Santa Monica Freeway behind, and Francisco couldn’t ignore the view to their left anymore. He looked the other direction as much as possible, trying to concentrate on the sandy, collapsing cliffs or the traffic that swirled around them. But there was no way he could totally ignore the surging, stinking ocean.

  Only a comparatively thin stir of granulated rock separated the paved roadbed from the hungry sea. A sudden storm could send waves crashing onto the highway, though he knew from the morning weather report that this was unlikely. It wasn’t enough to keep the images out of his mind. And what of the tsunamis he’d read about? Didn’t they strike without warning, without giving people a chance to escape to higher ground? If one hit now they’d be trapped beneath the cliffs.

  Sykes was mulling different possibilities, so he didn’t notice the strain on his partner’s face.

  Eventually the roadbed climbed the first bluffs and Francisco could relax a little as they cruised through Malibu. But then the p
avement dipped again, as if the road had been designed to torment him. Trees appeared on their left, screening the lower beaches from view.

  Finally Sykes pulled off onto an access road that led down to a parking lot and beach.

  “Stop the car,” Francisco told him abruptly.

  Sykes frowned at him. “Why?”

  “Please. I must get out here.”

  “Come on,” Sykes chided him, “you won’t have to get near the water.”

  “This is already too near the water. Stop the car.” The fear in his voice was unmistakable. Sykes might have been driving down to Hell.

  Halfway to the parking lot he abused the brake. The slugmobile rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust. “All right, okay! Keep your pantyhose on. Geez, when in doubt, freak out, for crissake.”

  The Newcomer body odor was sharp in the confines of the car. His hands were trembling and suddenly the huge, powerful form looked fragile. Sykes’s attitude changed.

  “It’s all right, George, it’s cool. You don’t have to talk about it and I won’t mention it again, okay?” His tone had softened considerably. “Just wait here. I’ll be back in a coupla minutes, soon as I get what we need. Then we’ll get the hell out of here and back inland, okay? I’ll even drive back the long way, through the Valley.”

  The big detective relaxed a little. “Thank you, Matt. I do not mean to make trouble.”

  “I said it was all right.”

  The slugmobile had halted facing the water. Francisco had his head down and his eyes closed. His fingers worked nervously against each other. The poor guy was an emotional basketcase, Sykes decided. He resolved to finish their business here as quickly as possible.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  Francisco nodded. Taking a deep breath, he exited the car. Sykes saw he was standing in the middle of the access road.

  “You stay there like that, you’re liable to get run over.”

  Francisco forced himself to walk in front of the car until he was standing against the railing overlooking the parking lot. He forced himself to open his eyes and look out at the beach, at the ocean, much as an acrophobe forces himself to took out the window of a plane.

  “I’ll be okay, Matt. But I hold you to your promise. Don’t linger.”

  Sykes nodded, put the car back in gear, and drove down to the beach, aiming for the cluster of vehicles parking at the edge of the sand. There was a sheriff’s black-and-white (they were beyond LA. jurisdiction here: this was strictly county), a coroner’s wagon, and an unmarked sedan he recognized as belonging to Fedorchuk.

  One of the coroner’s assistants waved absently at him as he climbed out of the slugmobile and ambled over. He waved back, his eyes on the object lying on the sand surrounded by onlookers. It had the general shape of a person: head, torso, arms, legs, but like your basic Detroit wheels, all the customizing was missing from the chassis. There was nothing but a person-shaped pile of yuck that might easily have been extruded by a passing street-paving machine. Streamers of kelp and seagrass were wrapped like green and brown wire around different parts of the corpse. It looked like it would fall apart in sections if anyone tried to pick it up, which might be why it was still lying untouched on the sand.

  A coroner’s technician was bent over the loathsome flotsam, examining it through a studyscope. Sykes wondered if he was finding anything distinctive in the mass of dark goo. From his vantage point he could see nothing that might be called a distinguishing feature. Fragments of an expensive silk suit clung to parts of the body.

  Fedorchuk acknowledged Sykes’s arrival with a glance and nod. He was unusually quiet. Remembering something, he reached inside his jacket and removed a plastic bag.

  “Found his wallet in his jacket pocket. Joshua Strader, big as life. Well, not as big as life anymore, I guess.”

  The tech straightened, clicked off his scope as he stared disgustedly at the thing buried in the sand. “Jesus, what a mess. It’s gonna be a bear to try to make positive identification.”

  “Give it a try,” Fedorchuk urged him. “If you mess up I’ll see you still get your birthday present.”

  The tech made a face, gazed thoughtfully at the corpse. “It’s tough going in there. Everything keeps melting and crumbling around the probes. But if I had to make a guess I’d say he was shot before being tossed in the drink. At least twice.” He tapped his own chest to show where the alien hearts were located. “Here, and here.”

  Sykes stored and filed the information as he eased over to Alterez. He had no desire to go poking around inside Strader’s corpus himself. Fedorchuk had found the wallet, and that was ID enough.

  “How’re you two doing on Tuggle’s killer?”

  Alterez spoke up importantly. “The store owner’s son is in a street gang, so now we’re thinking maybe it’s gang related.”

  Sykes nodded approvingly. “Yeah, that’s real good. Me, I never woulda thought of that.” He shook his head in amazement. “it just goes to show: sometimes the answer’ll be right in front of your face and you’ll be too blind to see it. You guys must be on the right track, all right. You follow up on that for a coupla months.”

  “We’ll do that. Just make sure you stay out of it. You heard what the Captain said.”

  “Hey.” Sykes raised both hands defensively. “I swear I won’t go near the store again, and if I talk to any gang types in the neighborhood you guys can have my car.”

  “Who’d want it?” Fedorchuk snorted. His eyes went to the access road that led down to the beach and a smile spread across his face. “Speaking of not wanting something, look at your dildo partner. He’s too scared even to come down on the sand.” Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted toward the solitary figure standing alone on the road above.

  “You’re not gonna get wet standing down here, moron!”

  Sykes growled a response. “I’d like to see how you’d react standing next to a sea of hydrochloric acid, Fedorchuk. See how much surfin’ you’d want to do.”

  Alterez had his Polaroid out and was shooting a full-length of the body. As soon as the picture emerged from the camera’s mouth, Sykes grabbed it and headed back toward his car. Instead of arguing or commenting, Alterez turned away and covered his mouth with his free hand. Fedorchuk flipped the retreating detective the bird, watched with a smile on his face as the other detective rounded his car.

  It was hard to miss. Someone had used a yellow liquid chalk marker to paint a big star on the door. Beneath it were the still damp letters “E.T.P.D.” Sykes spun. Fedorchuk and the others were standing close together, looking everywhere but in his direction. Occasionally a suggestion of muffled laughter escaped from the group.

  “Cute,” he muttered. “Real cute.” Ignoring the paint job, he got in and backed up fast, climbing the access road recklessly.

  Francisco was waiting for him. “Find out anything?”

  “It was Strader, all right.” Sykes slid out of the slugmobile, popped the trunk, and hunted around until he found an old rag and a half-full bottle of solvent. Francisco was close behind as he made his way back to the driver’s side of the car.

  “Dead, I would assume.”

  “Worse than dead. Dissolved would be more like it.”

  Francisco’s gaze rose to the placid sea glistening beneath them. “A most unpleasant way for one of us to die.”

  “Sure makes a mess.” Splashing solvent on the slugmobile’s flank, Sykes started scrubbing with the rag. Fortunately, the yellow marker was still damp.

  Seeing what he was doing, Francisco read the letters and frowned. “E.T.P.D. What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. A bad joke. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “Oh.” Francisco straightened and peered down toward the parking lot. “Detective Fedorchuk and Alterez are approaching.”

  “Swell.” Sykes leaned harder into his work.

  Fedorchuk slowed his car and leaned out to yell at the Newcomer. “Well, if it isn’t Detective Francisco
. How come you didn’t join the party down there? You forget your hip waders, big guy?”

  Sykes glanced up from his job. “Lay off, asshole.”

  Fedorchuk grinned down at him. “I may be an asshole, but at least I’m a real detective, not some outer space shit thing who got rank because he looks good in somebody’s PR brochure.”

  His expression neutral, Sykes put the rag carefully aside and sauntered over to Fedorchuk’s side of the car. “Yeah? You mean you’re a real honest-to-God detective?”

  Reaching in, he grabbed the back of Fedorchuk’s head and slammed it into the steering wheel. It bounced nicely, but he was sorry he’d done it because he hurt his hand again. He turned away, wincing and holding his wrist.

  “Damn! Should’ve used the other one.” He shook the reinjured member while reaching into the car. Before a startled Alterez could react, Sykes yanked out the keys.

  Turning, he used his good hand to hurl the keys over the side of the bluff below the access road. They landed somewhere in the dense ground cover.

  “Detect these!”

  Holding his bloody nose, Fedorchuk recovered just in time to see the keys go sailing out in a high arc to vanish somewhere far below. Francisco had just climbed into the slugmobile when the keys were launched. He observed the rest of the inexplicable episode in silence, wondering what strange manifestation of human behavior it signified.

  Fedorchuk was leaning out his window, trying to open the door, and hold his nose together while simultaneously hurling epithets at Sykes. Alterez had to hang on to his partner to keep him in the car.

  “You son-of-a-bitch, Sykes! You’re dead meat, you understand? You hear me, Sykes? I don’t give a shit what the Captain says. The next time I catch you alone you’re mine!”

  “I always knew you had the hots for me, Chuckie.” Sykes slid behind the wheel of the slugmobile and slammed the door, flinched as his aching hand locked on the wheel. Clutching it gingerly, he threw the car in gear and rooster-tailed dirt as he roared up the road toward the highway. Francisco turned for a last look in the direction of the still hysterical Fedorchuk before eyeing his partner curiously.