by K. W. Jeter
For a long moment, she gazed at the space where he’d been, as the echoes faded into silence.
She was right there in the squad room with him. But she might as well have been miles away, on the top of some unclimbable mountain. Where he could never reach her, never talk with her, never see her smile back at him . . . never be with her. Even if, in all their long working days to come at the station, a few words did pass between her and him—they wouldn’t mean anything. The gulf would always be there. He could already feel his hearts falling into that big space. They would never hit bottom.
Another thought struck Albert as he guided the push broom around the desks. From the corner of his eye, he could see May serving the sandwiches from the kitchen cart, pouring out the paper cups of juice and mineral water. She looked sad. She had looked sad for days now, since he had broken off their wedding plans. What if she left? What if she stopped working at the station, went somewhere else, and he never saw her again?
It could happen; he knew it. May was so young and pretty; why should she waste her life here at the station, when she could go out and find somebody else who would love her, and be able to take care of her the way she deserved? Not an idiot, like him.
Albert stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly feeling dizzy and sick. The broom’s handle was all that kept him upright. He could see his own life unfolding in front of him, empty and bleak, until he was an old man, still pushing a broom at the police station. With a photo of a young girl taped inside his locker that he would look at every day, the knife it drove through his hearts an old, familiar pain that no one else would ever know of. They wouldn’t even remember her name, or wonder what had ever happened to her . . .
“Attention! Okay, everybody, listen up!”
A big, loud voice sounded in the squad room. Albert managed to pull himself up from the dismal vision inside himself; he looked around and saw Captain Grazer standing in the doorway. At least he didn’t have to worry this time—the captain was shouting at everybody in the whole room. Though, of course, there was always the chance that Grazer had decided to start making public announcements of everything that Albert screwed up on, instead of confronting him with them first.
The room quieted, the detectives and other staff looking toward Grazer.
“I have an announcement to make.” Grazer had something in his hands, a flat, rectangular piece of polished wood with a shiny brass plate on one side. It looked to Albert like the ones Grazer had all over the walls of his office. “This comes straight from downtown, so it’s important, folks. Chief Amburgey has instituted a new achievement citation.” Grazer up held the engraved plaque. “The MVP—Most Valuable Player, uh, I mean Person—award. Deciding the first recipient was a difficult task. But after much deliberation, the choice was inescapable.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces turned toward him. “The 1996 winner of the MVP award is our own Albert Einstein!”
It took a moment to register. Only when he heard everybody clapping, even a few cheers and whoops mixed into the noise, and saw all the faces turning and smiling at him—then the fog of his own brooding lifted.
“Way to go, Al!” Sergeant Dobbs slapped him on the back. “Get on over there and grab that sucker!”
He looked around the room in amazement. “Me . . . ?”
The captain waved him forward. “Come on up here, Albert. It’s your award.”
He dropped the broom handle; it thwacked against the floor, barely audible against the applause still going on. As he walked forward, he could see May at the side of the room, smiling and clapping, stopping only to wipe the proud, happy tear from her eye.
“This shouldn’t surprise anyone here.” Grazer set the plaque in Albert’s hands. “We all know our precinct couldn’t function without you.”
He still felt dizzy, but different now, as though his head had come loose and gone floating up above the clouds. The captain was smiling at him, and everybody still clapping . . .
“Thank you . . .” Albert’s voice barely managed to squeak out of his throat. Then it came louder and stronger as he hugged the wood and brass to his chest. “Thank you very much.”
“All right, all right . . .” Grazer gestured with both hands, fighting to quiet the applause back down. “Come on, everybody; this is still a police station. Let’s get back to work.”
The squad room returned to its usual buzz. Albert saw his abandoned broom lying in the aisle between the desks. Somebody could trip over it; he tucked the plaque under his arm, but was stopped by Grazer.
“Listen, Albert . . .” He spoke in a low voice, so no one else could overhear him. “Sometimes I’m a little . . . impatient. I admit that. But I want you to know—it doesn’t mean anything. That’s just the way I am. Okay?”
He smiled back at the captain. “Okay.”
Grazer headed back to his office. Turning away, Albert saw that Sergeant Dobbs had picked up the broom and leaned it against one of the desks. That was good, because someone else intercepted Albert. He bumped right into May.
“Congratulations, Albert.”
Her smile went right inside him and burst open like Fourth of July fireworks. Strangest of all, he didn’t feel dizzy now; the room and all its clatter and noise had fallen far away, leaving just her.
“Thank you . . .” His hands tightened upon the slick-feeling brass.
She nodded and started to back away from him, going back to the kitchen cart.
“May . . . wait . . .” One of his hands let go of the plaque, reached, and touched her shoulder. “Can I talk to you?”
She didn’t have to say anything at all. Just the smile, the smile and nothing else.
“Hey, you missed it.” Zepeda caught George and Sikes as they hit the squad room. They had come from separate directions in the station building. “Grazer’s finest moment.”
“Huh?” Sikes stared at her, then remembered. “You mean that shtick he was planning for Albert? Grazer actually came through on that?”
She nodded, still impressed. “You would’ve been amazed. I mean, the man came across as nearly human.” She glanced over at George. “I don’t mean—”
“No, no; I understand.” George held his palm up. He smiled gently at her. “Perhaps I would have said that he came across as nearly Tenctonese.”
“Yeah, right.” Sikes headed for his desk. “Soon as this mess is cleared up, we can take ’em both for drinks.” He opened up the manila envelope he carried. “George, I got something here you should take a look at.”
“Actually, Matt, I just got back from the medical examiner’s lab. Lois found something very interesting on our murder victim Taylor. Where his neck was broken, she found traces of Newcomer skin.” He unfolded a sheet of printout paper. “When she ran the tissue type, it came up blank. There was no matching record in the computer.”
Sikes glanced over the sheet. “So whoever killed Taylor never went through quarantine.”
“Just like Ahpossno.”
“Check. Now, what do you make of this?” Sikes dug a plastic evidence bag out of the manila envelope. “SID combed the area where Taylor’s body was found. They came up with this.” He held the bag up so George could see the small, round metal object.
George’s eyes narrowed, loathing and horror appearing on his face. “It’s a symbol of the Chekkah—”
“What’s that?”
An outstretched finger touched the transparent plastic, tracing the engraved design on the metal. “An elite Overseer unit. The most feared of all.” His eyes suddenly widened in alarm.
“George . . . what is it?” Sikes could see the realization breaking inside his partner.
“There were no members of the Chekkah aboard our ship.” George grasped Sikes’s arm. “Ahpossno must have just arrived—here, on this planet. He must have a ship, a smaller one, hidden out in the desert.”
“The northern lights . . . that the sheriff said were so bright out in Cantil.” The same realization hit Sikes. “But it wasn’t that at al
l! It was the same atmospheric disturbance, that ion effect, that happened when the big ship came down six years ago . . .”
George looked away, the vision and memory inside blotting out the squad room and all the station beyond it. “They’re coming to enslave us again.” He turned, striding toward the door.
“Hey . . . wait . . .” Sikes scrambled from behind his desk, trying to catch his partner. “George . . . George!”
But he was already gone.
C H A P T E R 3 2
THE LINE STRETCHED for miles. And they were in the middle of it. Waiting, like all the others, for their new homes. Their new lives.
“Jeez, Mom—you’d think this would be like more sorted out or something.” Emily, in the backseat with the baby, looked out the side window at the cars and vans and RVs stretched out along the narrow desert road. “I mean, after all the stuff they tell people, to make ’em want to come out here.”
The excitement, the novelty, of going to the Newcomer-only community had won out over her initial grumpy, foot-dragging mood, and for that, Susan was grateful. But she could see how weary Emily was from the long drive out of Los Angeles, and now the slow, inching process of actually checking in to the community. At least they had come prepared for the wait, with bottles of water and other drinks, and a cooler tucked behind the driver’s seat, close to Vessna’s bassinet, filled with lung and pancreas tidbits, snacks to keep their strength up. More than they needed, really. Susan had planned on that, too; she’d known there would be others, in the vehicles in front and in back of them, who wouldn’t be so well prepared, who would have just headed to the New City as though they were going for a drive in the park. Sure enough, when the line had been at a dead standstill for what seemed like hours, she and the kids had gotten out to stretch their legs, and she’d seen how parched the poor little things in the beat-up station wagon behind them had looked. Including a baby just a couple of weeks younger than Yessna—Susan had been happy to take the young couple one of the half-gallon bottles of mineral water from the trunk.
They’d been a little embarrassed at first, but with the babies the same age, the two women had had a lot to talk about, and then it had grown from there, a small, impromptu party along the roadside, with people from the other nearby vehicles joining in. Talking about their dreams and hopes, how things would be so much different—once they were all inside, among their own kind at last. It had almost been a shame when the line had started to slowly move again and everyone had to go back to their own vehicles. The realization wasn’t lost on Susan that she’d had more happy conversation, with more new friends, in that brief interval than in all the time she’d wasted trying to fit in with humans. The kids, too—maybe, she hoped, Emily was already starting to forget about her buddy Jill. Children made friends so easily; and now there would be so many others like her . . .
It was for the best. She had to keep telling herself that, and remembering all the reasons, and inventing new ones, about why that was true. It had to be true. She had to believe it. They had come all this way, it was just ahead of them; there was even a big sign that spanned the road, that said NEW CITY—NEWCOMERS ONLY. This was where she had brought her children, so they could grow up safe and unharmed.
If only George had come with them. If he were with her now—then she wouldn’t have any doubts. None at all . . . or if she did, they wouldn’t matter. She could lean her forehead against his, and close her eyes, and everything would be all right . . .
“Almost there.”
Susan opened her eyes, blinking. For a moment she’d thought that it had been George who had spoken. Then she realized that it was their son, Buck, behind the steering wheel. The desert glare flashed off his sunglasses as he stretched his arms out straight, working a muscle cramp from his shoulders. The long drive, and everything else that had happened, must have left her more tired than she’d realized. She’d fallen asleep for a moment.
Susan looked ahead through the windshield. There was only one car now in front of them. Their new home lay on the other side of the guard shack and the red-striped barrier arm. This close, she could see the coils of razor wire that topped the community’s high fence. The guard leaned into the window of the other car, talking to the people and checking things off on the clipboard he carried.
“I wish Dad were here.” Emily’s small voice came from the backseat.
She turned and saw a single tear trickling down her daughter’s cheek. “I know . . .” Buck was doing his best to conceal his own feelings, but she could tell he was having second thoughts; he slouched down in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on top of the wheel. Susan picked up the cellular phone from its holder between the seats. “Let’s call him. Maybe . . . maybe he’s changed his mind.” She handed the phone to Emily.
“Detective Francisco, please.” Susan and Buck had watched while Emily had punched in the station’s switchboard number. Emily listened for a moment, her face turning downcast. “Oh. Well . . . could you tell him his daughter called? And I’ll call back again.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to her mother. “He wasn’t in.”
A depressed mood settled in the car. Susan slumped in her seat, watching as the vehicle ahead finally rolled past the gate. Buck put the car in gear and drove forward.
The guard came around to Susan’s side. [“Name?”]
“We’re the Franciscos. Susan, Buck—”
He cut her off. [“Tenctonese names, please.”] He kept his pen poised upon the clipboard.
“Oh. Then that’s Oblakah, Finniksa, Dareveen, and Vessna.”
The pen made quick marks upon a sheet of paper. The guard peered inside the car. [“Any cooked foods? Human books? Newspapers?”]
“Let’s see . . . I think there’s just my copy of Popular Mechanics . . .”
[“It’s against the rules.”] The guard’s voice was stern and humorless. [“Give it to me, please.”]
She handed the magazine out through the window. [“You’ll have to give me that car phone, too. They’re not allowed.”]
“Are there phones inside?”
The guard shook his head. [“No contact with the human world.”]
“But I’ll need to talk to my husband!”
[“Please . . . speak Tenctonese.”] He held out his hand. [“Give me the phone.”]
Susan laid her own hand on the slick curve of plastic; she could feel the bumps of the dialing buttons against her palm.
[“The phone. Give it to me.”]
Their only link . . . “No.” Susan shook her head. “I can’t . . . I’m sorry . . . I can’t do this.” She turned, looking around at the children. “I can’t leave your father.”
Buck nodded. “Yeah . . .”
“Let’s go home,” said Emily.
Without another word, Buck put the car into reverse, backing up the few feet to the car behind. That gave him enough room to make a U-turn; the guard had to jump back against the barrier arm. The car’s wheels crunched across the gravel at the side of the road, then got back onto the empty lane’s asphalt. Then they started to pick up speed, rolling past the faces in the long line of the other vehicles.
She stayed at the front of the apartment building. Outside its door . . . waiting.
Cathy turned and saw Ahpossno approaching on foot. He smiled and drew from his jacket pocket the Tenctonese flute she’d heard him play before.
“Listen . . .” He stood next to her, raising the flute to his mouth. But no Tenctonese melody came; instead, the notes of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” sounded strange and disturbing.
“I have to talk to you.” There wasn’t time for music now. Ahpossno lowered the flute.
“The isolator you brought to the hospital—I was on the ship, and I never saw anything that advanced.”
He shrugged. “I told you—it was from the Overseers’ infirmary.”
She studied him, trying to see what was behind his eyes. “And that rash you had on your neck . . .”
“As you said
—from the salt air.”
“Six years you stayed in the desert—and you never encountered a human?”
He made no reply.
“You just landed here on Earth, didn’t you?” She could see the spark behind his eyes grow colder, a point of steel. “Why are you here?”
“That doesn’t matter.” His gaze fastened hard upon hers. “I’m leaving now. And I want you to come with me.”
A shock ran through her as she realized what his words meant. Everything—the accusations, the suspicion—it was all true . . .
“No—”
As Cathy drew back from him, the squeal of a car’s tires sounded at the curb. Both their faces turned toward the car slamming to a halt. Sikes bolted from the driver’s-side door, drawing a gun from inside his jacket.
“Get your hands up!” Sikes leveled the pistol at Ahpossno. “Move away from her!”
Ahpossno did neither; he stepped closer to Cathy, one hand gripping her arm tight.
Still aiming the gun, Sikes brought his police radio up to his face. “This is one-William-one-fifty-two. Requesting backup 846 East Alameda.”
The dispatcher’s voice crackled with static. “Roger, one-William-one-fifty-two.”
He lowered the radio. “Get your hands up now!”
Ahpossno raised a hand, the one with the flute in it. His arm whipped around, and the instrument shot with lethal accuracy toward the human detective. Sikes ducked, the flute cracking against the roof of the car behind him. Before he could fire, Ahpossno had pushed Cathy to one side; he launched himself at Sikes, a flying kick catching him in the side of the face. The gun flew from Sikes’s hand, clattering into the street. Ahpossno pressed his attack as the stunned Sikes fell back against the car.
From the alleyway beside the apartment building, Cathy picked up one of the loose boards used to weigh down the lids of the trash cans. The wood splintered as she smashed the board across Ahpossno’s shoulders. He whirled about, a forearm striking the board out of her hands and slamming her against the brick wall.
