by K. W. Jeter
Chalk one more up for that Ahpossno bastard. The guy was a walking disaster. Sikes had already moved him up several notches on his butt-kicking wish list.
The depressed atmosphere thickened in the squad room; the cart from the kitchen came rolling down the aisle, pushed along by May. She looked as bad off as George.
“Here’s your breakfast . . .” She set plates down in front of George and Sikes.
Sikes’s computer screen had come to life. “Hey, I think I got something here, George . . .”
“Thank you, May.” She had already gone on to the next desks.
“That gaminite stuff—there’s a ceramics factory out in the Mojave that uses it. Some kind of glazing compound . . .” Still gazing at the information on the screen, Sikes grabbed the sandwich from the plate. “The factory’s in a small town called Cantil.” He took a bite, then gagged and spit it out. “What the—” He lifted the top slice of bread. “What is this?”
George glanced over. “That looks like squirrel tail, actually . . .” He examined his own breakfast, then recoiled in disgust. “Scrambled eggs! She’s mixed our orders again.” He held the plate out to Sikes, exchanging it for his own.
“Francisco, did you order this lung?” Grazer had come stomping down the aisle between the desks.
“It’s probably Sergeant Gosling’s.” George pointed to the far side of the squad room. “She always eats lung for breakfast.”
“Jesus . . .” Grazer averted his eyes from the plate in his hand.
Sikes pointed his fork at the captain. “Yeah, so who’s fault is it? May’s fallen apart since Albert called off the wedding. You’re the one who’s gotta do something about this.”
“All right. All right. I’ll think of something.” Grazer turned away. “Hey, Gosling . . .”
George set the squirrel-tail sandwich back down on the plate. A light had come in his eye, the first change in his expression all morning. “Matt, what was the name of that town in the Mojave?”
He answered through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Cantil.”
George shuffled through the papers on his desk. Finally he held up a thin sheet of fax paper. “Now I remember. There was a truck found abandoned yesterday in Little Tencton. It’s registered to a rancher named Raymond Taylor. And he lives in Cantil.” He held the report across his desk to Sikes. “He could be our suspect.”
Sikes stood up, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. It was as good a lead as any, and it would give George something to think about besides his disintegrating marriage. “Let’s hit it.”
They radioed ahead, getting instructions to the Taylor spread. The local sheriff met them there.
“I’ve talked to all the neighbors.” The sheriff walked George and Sikes back to their car. They’d found the ranch house completely deserted. “Nobody’s seen Ray since last week. Fred Nader at the filling station sold him a tank of gas. He remembers ’cause it was the same night we got those northern lights up in the sky.”
Sikes’s own memory was triggered by the mention of the aurora borealis—he’d been hotfooting it to the hospital, with Cathy along in his car. “You saw those out here, too, huh?”
“Oh, yeah; they were brighter’n hell. People over at the Baptist chapel thought it was the end of the world. They started singin’ and prayin’ like you wouldn’t believe.” The sheriff smiled. “I think they were a little disappointed when the sun came up the next morning.”
“I know how they feel.” Sikes leaned back against the car’s fender. “Look, do you know if Taylor knew a person named Kenny Bunkport?”
“That your Newcomer murder victim? I sincerely doubt if Ray ever said hello to a Newcomer in his life.”
“Did he go into L.A. often?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Matt . . .” The bright sun bounced off George’s dark-tinted glasses as he gazed across the dry landscape. “I want to check that out.”
Sikes squinted to make out where George was pointing. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“There.” George wasn’t indicating anything on the ground; there were a few dark specks circling in the sky. “I believe those are called . . . buzzards?” He looked at Sikes for confirmation.
The birds flapped off, large and ungainly, when the men reached the spot. The cross-shaped shadows circled around the dark object left on the ground, then diminished as the buzzards spiraled farther upward in the desert air.
“Okay . . .” Sikes slammed the car door shut. “Let’s go see what the birdies were having for lunch. Might be something you’d like, George.” He and the local sheriff started toward the object, but George held him back with an arm in front of his chest.
“Just a moment . . .” George walked out to the middle of the road. He bent down and examined the sun-warmed asphalt surface. “Tire marks. Sixteen inches wide, and the same tread pattern as Taylor’s truck. The vehicle came to a sudden stop . . .” He pointed to the darkest section of the skid marks. “Then it pulled over to the side of the road.”
“Maybe he saw something.” Sikes tilted his head toward the object on the ground. “Come on, let’s go check this out.”
A last, persistent buzzard flapped away as the three men approached. From the top of a low dune, the outstretched arms of the human figure could be discerned.
“Oh, man . . .” The death stench hit Sikes. In all his years as a cop, he’d never gotten used to it.
Stepping closer, the sheriff looked down at the body’s face. “That’s Taylor, all right.”
The buzzards had done little damage to the corpse. It lay bare, only the skin of one outflung arm broken.
George knelt down and made a more thorough examination. “That’s odd.” He pointed to the skin along the curve of the ribs. “Look at the axillary bruises. Taylor was hit repeatedly under the arm.”
“So?” The sheriff wiped the sweat from his brow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“He was attacked as if he were a Newcomer.”
“Why?” The sheriff put his wide-brimmed hat back on. “He sure as hell doesn’t look like one of you folk.”
“Maybe . . .” Sikes nodded slowly. “Maybe the person who killed him didn’t know the differences between Newcomers and humans.”
“The murderer finally broke Taylor’s neck.” George pointed to marks farther up the body. “Probably after the blows to the armpit produced no lethal effect. Then he must have used Taylor’s truck to drive to Los Angeles . . . where he killed Bunkport.”
Sikes gazed out over the desert, mulling over the information and partial theories.
“Matt?”
He turned back toward his partner. “I got a suspect for you, George. Ahpossno.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Nobody by that name out here.”
“I don’t like him either, Matt, but—”
Sikes cut him off. “The guy comes out of the desert after six years—you figure it out, and it’s the same day Taylor is murdered. He would’ve needed clothes, transportation. He tries to kill Taylor, but he doesn’t know about humans. Finally he breaks Taylor’s neck.”
George looked back down at the body. “This is so circumstantial, Matt.”
“And he’s a whatchamacallit . . . Udara, a Tenctonese samurai. He knows how to kill with his hands. And where was Bunkport found? At the hospital—the first place Ahpossno turns up!”
“Perhaps . . .” George appeared to be swayed by the rush of arguments.
“I’m getting SID out here.” Sikes turned and marched back to the car.
C H A P T E R 3 1
THE FRONT DOOR stood open. She came down the stairs with the last of the suitcases.
“Come on, Emily . . .” Susan called over her shoulder. “Buck’s got the car all packed.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and saw Ahpossno, standing and watching from the living room.
“I don’t know . . .” She set the suitcase down. “I still don’t know if what I�
�m doing is right. I miss George already.”
Ahpossno nodded. “The important decisions are never easy.”
“Since our freedom . . . since we found each other again, after the ship crashed . . . we’ve never been apart.”
He stepped closer and laid his hands on her shoulders. “George will join you. I know he will come to understand, and then you will be together.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs; they both turned and saw Emily gazing balefully at them.
“Don’t worry,” said Ahpossno. “There will be thousands of Tenctonese children. After a while, you’ll forget all about these humans.”
“I’m not gonna forget about Jill.” Emily’s expression darkened. “She’s my friend.”
Buck came in the front door. “Vessna’s in the car. I got her car seat strapped in.”
“All right.” Susan lifted the suitcase again. “We’d better get going. It’s a long drive.”
Buck took the case from his mother. “We’ll see you there?” He looked over at Ahpossno.
A nod, then Ahpossno touched his knuckles to those of Buck’s free hand.
“Come on, Em.” Buck shepherded his sister out to the waiting car.
Susan followed them, then stopped and looked back at Ahpossno. “This is the right decision, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He stood beside her, close enough that she was able to reach up and touch her knuckles to his temple.
From the house’s front step, Ahpossno watched the car back out of the driveway, then turn in the street. In a few moments, it had reached the stop sign at the corner, and then it was gone.
He stepped back into the house. It was time for him to leave as well. There were further preparations to make. His plans would unfold quickly from this point on, but they still needed careful guidance. The critical period, on which all success or failure hinged, had been entered.
The sight of something on the hallway table stopped him. Something that Susan had forgotten to take with them. A photograph in a decorative silver frame. He picked it up and looked at it. The picture showed the Franciscos, all of them, laughing and smiling toward the camera lens. Even the baby on George’s lap was cooing in contentment, surrounded by her family caught in a moment of happiness.
Seconds ticked by as he gazed at the photo. At last he set it down. He reached into his belt pouch and extracted a smaller object. The Newcomer Registration Card that Cathy had brought to him—he held it between his thumb and forefinger, looking at the words printed on it.
Other words, spoken ones, rose from his memory. What Cathy had told him when she had given him the card. You’re free. No one can ever enslave you again. Words spoken in a darkened room, when she had stood close to him, and then had come inside his arms . . .
Nonsense words. His anger flared inside him, obliterating the sweetness of the remembered moment. Words of vain delusion: slaves were not born to be free. As he was not—his Chekkah vows bound him fast as any chains.
Ahpossno crumpled the registration card in his fist, then hurled it away from himself. The useless scrap of paper flew across the empty room and bounced against the freshly painted wall.
They had gathered again. In response to his summons—and to the vision he had rekindled in them, of the worlds they had ruled, in their masters’ names.
Graff had done a good job of organizing the necessary information. A detailed world map had been spread out on the large table in his dining room.
“Human defenses will be easy to overcome.” With the other Overseers clustered around the table, Graff pointed to the markings he had drawn on the map. “They have only primitive nuclear weapons, and the stockpiles have been much diminished since the easing of their own political tensions. Their chemical agents are largely ineffective against Tenctonese physiology.”
“We’ll start with the Tenctonese here in Southern California.” From the other side of the table, Ahpossno reached across, laying a fingertip on the map. “A second ship will begin human deportation simultaneously.”
“It’s a waste.” Avid Fann’s scowling face settled deeper into the folds of fat around his throat. “Why bother with the humans at all? They’re much weaker than the Tenctonese; they’re less physically adaptable.”
“They’re still valuable.” Graff turned to the other Overseer. “They can be used as domestic slaves.”
Ahpossno circled around the table. The group of Overseers stood back as he confronted Fann.
“You’ve argued against this operation from the beginning.” He towered above the other man’s corpulent form. “Why?”
For a moment a worm of intimidation curled behind Fann’s eyes; then it disappeared as he summoned up his obstinacy. “We’re settled here.” His jowly face became more determined. “We have our families—our businesses.” As he lifted his chin, the bones beneath the adipose layers actually became visible. “I, for one, have no desire to climb back aboard a slave ship. Even with a whip in my hand.”
A murmur flashed around the group. Shock at Fann’s admission, and something else Ahpossno could detect in the hushed voices: agreement with what had been said.
“You’re an Overseer.” Any possibility of rebellion had to be quashed immediately. “You have your duty.”
“As far as I’m concerned—” Fann had become intoxicated with his own rashness “—those days are over.”
Before the other man could react, Ahpossno had taken a single step backward. Both fists lashed out, striking Fann above his hearts. The simultaneous blows were powerful enough to lift the obese body from its feet, sending Fann crashing against the wall. His own arms thrashed as the ruptured organs collapsed in upon themselves. In another second, the massive seizure had terminated in death; the remains slid to a soft heap upon the floor.
“None of us can escape our duty.” Ahpossno kept his voice level and controlled as he looked about at the remaining Overseers. “You all have your assignments. Contact the others and proceed.”
There were no words whispered from one to another now. They all watched him in respectful silence.
“I must leave by noon tomorrow to rendezvous with the mother ship. Any delay, and my shuttle’s navigation system will be vulnerable to solar flare activity.” Ahpossno turned back to the table, looking across the map; he laid his hand upon one of the depicted land masses. “In a month’s time, we’ll return in force.”
Behind him, he could hear the Overseers picking up their coats from the overstuffed chairs and sofas, and heading for the door. There was still much to be accomplished. But all things were in motion now. Soon they would be as unstoppable as the slow arcs of the planets.
Somebody was at the front door; the heavy, urgent knock resounded through the apartment. Cathy laid aside the cytology text she’d been curled up with on the sofa, and went to answer.
“Who’s there?” She wasn’t about to just open up to someone pounding like that.
“It’s Matt.” The muffled words carried their own urgency with them. “I need to talk to you . . .”
She unlocked and opened the door. He stood in the hallway, hands on hips, and face set hard.
“Can I come in?”
“Matt . . .” Cathy tried to speak to him as gently as possible. “Nothing’s changed . . .”
He pushed past her into the apartment. “This is police business.”
Closing the door, she followed after him. He did a quick scan of the apartment before turning to face her again. “Do you know where Ahpossno is?”
The question puzzled her. “Isn’t he at the Franciscos’?”
“Not anymore. Do you have plans to meet him?”
The rapid fire of the interrogation set her back. “What’s this about?”
“Just answer the question!”
“He . . . he’s coming here tomorrow morning. I was planning on taking Ahpossno out to Edwards Air Force Base—he wants to see where the space shuttle lands.”
Matt’s cold cop gaze swept across the room again. “Do
you have any of his clothing here?”
“No!” Her self-possession had returned. “And I won’t answer any more questions until you tell me what this is all about!”
“Okay . . .” A note of grim satisfaction sounded in Matt’s voice. “Ahpossno is a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“What?” She couldn’t believe what she had just heard.
“We think he’s killed two people—a human and a Newcomer.”
“How can you?” Cathy’s voice dropped as she glared at him. “How can you sink so low?”
It was his turn to be surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t liked him from the beginning. You’re jealous of him—so now you make him a murder suspect!”
The look of astonishment on Matt’s face was almost believable. “You think I’d do that?”
“I don’t know what you’re capable of . . .” The words spat out of the anger boiling inside her. “You’re only human.”
“Maybe so . . .” Matt grabbed her by the shoulders, bringing his face close to hers. “But you look me in the eye and tell me Ahpossno’s on the square—tell me he’s got nothing to hide. Tell me you don’t have any doubts about him!”
Her hesitation, the moment of silence before she could speak, betrayed her thoughts. But she was still too angry to admit them.
“Get your hands off me!” She pushed Matt away, hard; the burst of strength sent him crashing back against the sofa.
“Matt . . .” Her voice softened. She could see the hurt pride in his eyes. “I’m sorry . . .”
He pushed himself back up. “I’m gonna nail that sonuvabitch.” He stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.
