Brother Termite

by Patricia Anthony

  “Both of you forget Communal Duty,” Tali said as the ship settled at a slight angle.

  The canopy peeled back. Reen lifted his face to the mist. His Brother’s reedy whine and insolent clicks were beginning to tire him, and he was looking forward to the relative peace of talking with the policemen.

  As soon as the door spread open, Thural hopped out, Reen at his heels. A frigid breeze from the nearby C&O Canal pressed the fungal scent of river water into Reen’s face. Traffic was backing up behind the parked ship, and frustrated commuters were leaning on their horns. A gathering of people at a bus stop turned to eye the three Cousins darkly.

  A human with skin the fine texture and rich brown of glove leather approached with circumspection.

  “Morning.” He scanned their chests. When his eyes fell on Reen’s nametag, they widened. “White House Chief Reen. I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

  Rain was condensing like liquid diamonds in the man’s black curls. He flashed his badge. “Detective Rushing, D.C. police. Hear your people are interested in the victim.” Rushing let the sentence dangle, as though hoping Reen might pick up the thread and weave something useful out of it.

  An army of policemen was gathered around the door of the old Vigilant Firehouse.

  “You’ve called out many policemen for the murder of an inconsequential homeless man,” Reen remarked.

  A few yards away a squad car’s radio spat static as monotonously as a teakettle on the boil. The huge detective laughed. “Homeless man? Bernard Martinez wasn’t a homeless man, sir. Or at least he was homeless by religious conviction. Karma seller. That’s what Martinez was.” Rushing took a plastic bag from his pocket; a roll of blue tickets was coiled at the bottom like a snake.

  Reen took the bag.

  “Five-and-dime-store tickets, like the kind you’d buy for a church carnival,” the detective explained. “I recognized the victim, but the tickets were the clincher. We’ve picked up Martinez eight times for airport solicitation.”

  Rushing plucked the bag from Reen’s hand.

  Reen walked to the body, which lay under the plaque dedicated to the dead firehouse dog. The wet pulp of a Wall Street Journal was pulled down from Martinez’s face. The eyes bulged like eggs. Stars of blood marred the whites. The cheeks were chicken-pocked with burst capillaries. The garrote was still embedded in the neck like a vindictive necklace.

  “Saint Bernard,” Rushing said.

  Reen turned inquiringly.

  “That’s what they called the victim. Saint Bernard. Seems he had quite a reputation among the karma sellers.” Rushing’s lips stretched into a semblance of a smile; his eyes were quietly observant. “If I might ask the reason you were looking for him, sir?”

  On M Street the volume of honking intensified. The detective raised his head and called, “Thomas!”

  A uniformed policeman shouted back, “Lieutenant?”

  “Get over there and direct traffic.”

  “Alien ship’s in the way, sir. Maybe–”

  “Just get the traffic moving! So–” Rushing dropped his voice and looked skeptically down at Reen–“we got a helluva mystery here, sir. A religious corpse with all the marks of a professional hit. You’d be doing us a favor if you could–” The detective glanced over Reen’s shoulder.

  Reen turned. A green Plymouth compact sedan was making its way slowly down the sidewalk, herding the sullen people at the bus stop to the edge of the curb. The car halted, and four men in dark suits climbed out.

  “Shit.” Rushing ran a hand through his cap of black hair. “I goddamn don’t believe–”

  “Kapavik, FBI,” one of the approaching quartet said, flipping open his ID. “We’ll take over the investigation from here, officer.” He whirled to a shorter man behind him. “Call the lab to pick up the body.”

  A metallic crash.

  The driver of a cherry red Jaguar, patience lost, had rammed the Cousin ship with his car. As Reen watched, the Jag backed into a Seville behind, then roared forward. Headlights broke with a wind-chime tinkle. The Cousin ship scraped a few feet along the sidewalk.

  “Thomas!” Rushing shouted. “Handcuff that man!” Bending to Reen, the lieutenant said, “Maybe you should move your ship, sir.”

  “They can’t hurt it.”

  A grimace passed over Rushing’s face, as though from a twinge of indigestion. Quickly he turned to Kapavik, who was observing with professional interest how the driver was being dragged from his Jaguar.

  “The Bureau doesn’t have jurisdiction, Kapavik.”

  The FBI man’s eyes were a pale wintry blue. “I believe we do.”

  Tali caught Reen’s sleeve with a claw and pulled him away from the humans. “A karma seller, Reen-ja,” he said with breathless alarm. “I begin to suspect terrible things. Was Jonis not aware karma selling is illegal? What could Jonis have been thinking, Cousin Brother? And what other illegalities could he have been involved in?”

  More officers had run to Thomas’s aid. The owner of the Jaguar was struggling; it was taking three men to subdue him. Reen’s eyes met Thural’s, and he saw remorse there. “Did you know this?”

  Thural wrung his hands. “Cousin Reen-ja, I would never–”

  “Did you know!”

  Faced with the First Brother’s wrath, Thural groaned. “Yes. Forgive me, but President Womack is anguished. Jonis felt pity for him and bought him things: karma and liquor and pizza. He arranged meetings with mediums. Cousin Reen-ja, believe me. Jonis was foolish but kindhearted. It was an innocent–”

  A glint of grape purple at the edge of Reen’s vision. The Vespa was speeding down the sidewalk. Reen sucked in a startled breath and took a quick step backward, stumbling over the bare concrete, over his own mortality.

  He tried to shout for help. Only a croak emerged. So stupid. Why hadn’t he mentioned the boy to Hopkins? To Marian? They could have stopped it. They could have ...

  At the corner of his vision Reen could see Rushing and the FBI men. They were too far away to stop what had become inevitable, too absorbed in their argument to notice what was happening.

  The boy parked and hurried to the trio of Cousins, his stride purposeful, his gaze intent. He was reading nametags.

  Less than ten feet away now–point-blank range. The boy took the backpack from his shoulder, unzipped it, shoved his hand inside. Across the black plastic, cheerful yellow letters: GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL. Reen’s world compressed until the boy filled it, horizon to horizon. The youthful pink-cheeked innocence, the rain-soaked hair, the brown eyes swollen from lack of sleep.

  Closer. Close enough so that a weary and unsteady hand wouldn’t miss the shot. Close enough to shove the muzzle against Reen’s chest as he pulled the trigger. This near doom, a human would have fled. Reen froze. His pulse slowed. His vision blurred.

  Through the hum in his ears, a voice, softer and more musical than fate’s voice had a right to be: “White House Chief Reen? This is from the Senate Appropriations Committee.”

  The Senate. Had Reen been wiser, had Womack taught him better, he might have sensed the direction from which danger would come.

  “Sir?” The boy again. “Sir? You’re required to take this. With all due respect, sir, it’s not within your right to ignore a subpoena.”

  Reen’s vision slowly cleared. The boy’s hand was outstretched toward his chest. There was a piece of paper in it.

  With trembling fingers Reen took the subpoena and stuffed it into his pocket. The boy nodded and trudged to his scooter. Numb, Reen watched him drive off into the rain.

  “A subpoena?” Tali’s voice dripped contempt. “First Jonis embarrasses the Community, and now you, First Brother. Do you see what your laxity has done? It is your function to lead, and lead with morality. Not–”

  Rushing’s voice rose in a shout. He was livid. “You a
re obstructing a homicide investigation.”

  Kapavik shook his head. “This isn’t one of your holdups or drug shootings. This homicide is directly related to a kidnapping, and that makes it a federal matter.”

  Reen’s attention wandered, his disoriented mind still trying to grasp that he was alive.

  Then he saw the mob.

  They had emerged from their cars to gather on the slick cobblestones. Some were holding folded umbrellas like clubs.

  Temper lost, Rushing drove a forefinger into Kapavik’s chest. “It doesn’t matter if twenty aliens were kidnapped, the stiff is mine.”

  The crowd was ominously silent. Their eyes were on the three Cousins. The policemen, sensing the crowd’s mood, left the irate motorist lying against his Jag’s hood and retreated west, toward Potomac Street.

  Reen thought it prudent to point out the glowering mob to Rushing. He was opening his mouth to speak when Kapavik snapped, “How the hell did you hear the kidnap victim was an alien?”

  A man in the crowd cocked his arm and let fly with a coffee mug, his pitching style even more beautiful and fluid than Marian Cole’s. The mug whizzed through the air, a blur of white. It sped past Reen and, with a meaty thud, knocked Tali off his feet.

  “Tali!” Reen cried. He dropped to his knees beside him. “Brother!”

  Tali’s cheek lay against the sidewalk, his eyes dull and sightless. Reen put his hand to his Brother’s back, then jerked away as he touched sticky blood and the ravenous suck of Communal Mind.

  Rushing inserted his bulk between the trio of Cousins and the mob.

  “Alien down!” Kapavik screamed to his men. “There’s an alien down!”

  Somewhere from the circle of FBI and police a gun boomed.

  “Cousin Reen-ja!” Thural cried in a piping, hysterical voice. “Is he dead?”

  “No. Not yet.” Frantically Reen tried to drag his Brother toward the ship with his claw. Tali’s head lolled; his flaccid arms hung; the body rolled out of Reen’s grasp and tumbled heavily to the pavement.

  Over the screams of the crowd and the shouts of the policemen, Reen heard the stuttering rattle of a machine gun. One of the FBI agents was firing warning shots with his Uzi. Poofs of dust ran along the wall of the Riggs Bank.

  “Help me, Thural! Please! Won’t you help me carry him?” Hooking his claw under the seam at Tali’s upper arm, Reen jerked the body to its knees. Thural mastered his stunned confusion enough to grab the Cousin Conscience by the belt. Staggering under the dead weight, they dragged him to the ship.

  The door parted as they approached. Thural let go of Tali and threw himself into the pilot’s seat. Reen eased Tali’s slumped form into his lap.

  It was as though he were falling into a pillowy well. Reen dimly felt the ship jerk sideways, heard a metallic clunk as it slammed the red Jaguar into the grille of the Cadillac behind. He struggled to think. If he didn’t fight the Communal Mind, he would end up as useless as a Loving Helper. “Up! Go up!”

  Thural pulled on the ball. The ship wrenched itself into the air.

  And silently, helplessly, Reen dropped. He fell toward a colorless place where nothing was important: the Vespa, the riot, the coming war. Then Reen’s weakening grip loosened even the cherished: Womack, Marian, Angela.

  With a moan Reen sat up. The ship was hovering above the Victorian mass of Georgetown Park, quivering as much as Thural himself. “The Potomac,” Reen said.

  Thural slewed the craft over the elevated Whitehurst Freeway until it was seesawing above the river.

  Again Reen tumbled down, down, this time into a darkness where Tali’s secret thoughts lurked, an unexpected and unexplored den of monsters. Startled, he pushed away his Brother’s frightening thoughts. “Andrews. Get us to Andrews,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, Cousin.” Thural lifted the craft high enough to miss the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.

  Tali’s hand twitched. Thural glanced over in surprised relief. “I think he is coming out of it, Reen-ja.”

  Tali heaved himself upright in Reen’s lap, drunkenly fumbling at the wound on his shoulder. Caught in the undertow of oblivion, Reen held his Brother tight so the childhood comfort of Cousin flesh against flesh would call him back.

  “Cousin Conscience,” Thural said. “Tali. Listen to me. You must stir yourself. The little death nibbles at you.”

  A few nonsense syllables dropped from Tali’s mouth. Then he said in a muddy voice, “They hurt me.”

  “Yes. Do you remember now?”

  Tali’s eyes were suddenly clear, the gaze piercing. He twisted out of Reen’s grip and the bonds of Communal Mind dropped away so suddenly that the onrush of freedom made Reen gasp.

  “I remember. Get your hands off me, Cousin Brother. We are not children anymore.”

  He shoved past Reen with such force that he bumped Thural, sending the ship into a brief, alarming dive toward the Capitol. Tali did not notice. Breathing hard, he dropped into the rear seat. “They hurt me.”

  Reen remembered when they were children–when thoughts were innocent and life was less constrained. Centuries before, he and Tali had touched. Then, when they were grown, touching became taboo. As much as the Communal Mind repulsed Reen, he’d once mourned its loss, and Tali had mourned with him.

  Now his Brother sat, arms rigidly at his sides, disgust in his face.

  “Are you all right, Cousin?” Thural asked solicitously.

  Tali curled his claw underneath the bar of his nameplate and savagely tore it off. The bit of plastic flew past Thural’s head and pinged off the canopy. “They do not bother to learn our names.”

  Reen stared at the rectangle of black plastic lying on the control panel. The hook of the nameplate was bent at a furious angle.

  Thural told him, “They don’t see as we see, Cousin. We all look alike to them.”

  The ship swept over the congestion on Suitland Parkway.

  “I will never wear the nameplate again. Not ever.”

  Reen turned to study his Brother. Tali was glaring down at the traffic below as though he wished he were an alien from an old science fiction movie and the scene they were playing with the humans was from War of the Worlds. He stared down at the pedestrians and the cars like Godzilla, wanting to crush them all.

  Reen’s heart skipped a beat. “As you wish, Cousin Brother.”

  WHEN they arrived at Andrews, Tali, still wobbly from his brush with the little death, climbed down from the ship. On the tarmac he pulled his sleeve free from Thural’ s steadying claw and marched into the Cousin Place, leaving Thural and Reen standing alone.

  Thural said, “It must be a small wound. Tali will be all right, Cousin First Brother.”

  But would he? Remembering the ugliness he had sensed in his Brother’s mind, Reen wondered if the wound was deeper than Thural knew. “Yes, I am sure he will,” he told him. “I would like you to take me to the White House now.”

  As they lifted off again, Reen noticed that some of Tali’s blood had splattered on his tunic. He brushed at the stiffening stain, knocking off a few brown flakes.

  In a low, diffident voice Thural said, “Cousin Tali is too full of anger, Reen-ja.”

  “It is wrong to criticize the Conscience,” Reen said curtly, hoping Thural would change the subject.

  “Yes. Still, the humans have done nothing to us, and Tali has too much anger.”

  They banked over the Tidal Basin and passed the Washington Monument. Reen took his Brother’s broken nameplate from the control panel and closed his fist over it.

  Troops had been called out to the White House. The men by the tanks looked up as the craft passed over their heads. On landing, Reen jumped from the ship without exchanging another word with Thural. As he walked to the West Wing, he slipped Tali’s broken nameplate into his pocket.

  Hopkins was wai
ting for him in the colonnade. “Reen? That you?” The man bent over to read the tag on Reen’s chest.

  “It’s me.”

  The director’s beefy face sagged in relief. “Thank God. My guys phoned me to say an alien was down, but they weren’t sure which of you it was.”

  “Tali.” Reen strode past the director and down the hall toward the main building.

  “Tali? Oh, Jesus Christ. Not Tali. Hey, where are you going?”

  “To see the President.”

  “Oh, that won’t do you any good.” Hopkins panted as he kept up with Reen’s quick pace. “I went up a minute ago to talk to him, and the man was drooling. He was drooling all down his shirt. Must be a bad day or something. Say, I’m sorry about Tali. My guys did all they could, considering that–”

  “Tali is recovering.”

  Hopkins put one hand to his chest. “God. The stress, you wouldn’t believe. I thought I had my right nut in the wringer.”

  Near the kitchen was new graffiti.

  AT GROVER’S MILL.

  BRING CHICKEN POX.

  “War of the Worlds,” Reen whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m not fond of fiction, but I felt I should study all fictionalized aliens. Whoever wrote the graffiti has heard about the radio play War of the Worlds. That should give you a clue about who is doing this.”

  “Oh.” Hopkins squinted at the message. “Grover’s Mill. Now I get it. But everyone and his dog’s heard about that. Won’t do us much good.”

  From the other end of the carpeted hall Marian Cole called Reen’s name.

  “Bitch,” Hopkins muttered.

  She approached at a saunter. “And good afternoon to you, too, Billy. Reen, I know you’re going up to visit the President, but I need to talk to you now.”

  Out of the corner of his mouth Hopkins told Reen, “Watch yourself with her. I don’t know what she’s got on you, but–”

  “Now, please,” Marian said, and led Reen down the wide red-carpeted hall to the Map Room. A fire had been banked in the hearth, and a plate of food had been set out.