J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection

by J. M. Dillard

  He had figured Suzanne would be different because of her uncle. Matthew Van Buren's death had been widely publicized, like the deaths of Harrison's parents. Yet somehow it wasn't real to her, in spite of the fact that she had been alive during the invasion— although, he admitted to himself, not that long. And not only had she lost an uncle, but her second cousin, Sylvia Van Buren, had witnessed Matthew's death and subsequently suffered a breakdown from which she never recovered. Two relatives lost to the alien invasion . . . and yet the woman went through life trying to pretend the whole thing never happened.

  He'd checked and discovered she hadn't even requisitioned the samples yet. A bad sign: she'd made up her mind not to do it, she was leaving. Or at least wavering.

  Now I know why Clayton gave up .. . it's enough to drive someone insane, trying to convince people to face what could still happen.

  Yet he felt that somewhere underneath all her uptightness there was a real person, someone he could work with. He was thinking, if he could just break through that anal retentive facade ... at which point he had a brilliantly evil inspiration. It was time to find out the stuff of which Suzanne McCullough was made. He grinned to himself as he plotted—then braked the bike as he spotted her.

  A few yards ahead, Suzanne was striding through the parking lot, her back to him. She must have been pretty lost in thought, because she didn't look behind her as the brakes squealed.

  There she goes, 1988 working woman of the year. He glanced down at his watch and almost laughed aloud. Exactly 5:01. Incredible. She'd spent the entire afternoon killing time, not doing the one job she'd been hired to do... but she didn't dare take off one minute early. As physically beautiful as she was, Harrison reflected, she was not a pretty sight, marching like a good little corporate soldier to her car in her sensible gray suit, neatly trimmed shoulder-length brown hair, sensible leather briefcase clutched in one fist, the heels of her sensibly low pumps clicking against the asphalt like a metronome. She would grow old and sour in her little cubicle here, just like Guterman.

  Not if I have anything to do with it. Immediately he was taken aback at himself. What the hell kind of thought was that? As if he cared about what happened to her, as if he had any right. After all, he was engaged to be married. He pushed the thought back and impulsively pedaled up behind her.

  "Still feeling guilty about goofing off on company time?"

  Startled, she jerked her head around, dark hair swinging, but managed to recover. Somehow she didn't seem as defensive now as she'd been just after lunch, but her attitude was still cautious. She slowed her pace. "Well, I've got to admit. . .. It's a little weird."

  He paced her on the bike, balancing, never touching foot to ground even as they slowed. For the first time, he noticed the light freckles that covered her pale skin. Not at all professional-looking .. . which was no doubt why she tried to minimize them with makeup. He smiled at the thought. "I take it you haven't requisitioned those samples yet—"

  That flustered her. She stopped and gestured apologetically with her free hand. "I'm sorry . .. It's just that—well, I kept pretty busy just settling into the office and finding out how things worked-—"

  "Hey," he said gently. "It's perfectly understandable; I wasn't asking for an explanation."

  Back to old cautious. She narrowed her hazel eyes at Mm—nice eyes, Harrison thought, or at least they would be if they weren't so suspicious—and started walking again. "Then why did you mention it?"

  "My, aren't we defensive," Harrison said cheerfully. "I asked because I thought I could save you the hassle of finding the proper requisition forms, filling them out, then trying to figure out who gets them. I can see to it that you get the remains." "Remains?" Her eyes widened just a bit. "I've actually managed to get hold of an undissected alien corpse. Been in someone's freezer in the garage all this time. Believe it or not, it's in pretty good shape. Was a real big hit with the neighborhood kids." He grinned at the thought. "But I thought you'd be interested in seeing one close up. And that way you can get as many different types of tissue samples as you need, including the internal organs."

  She was less than thrilled. "Oh. Thank you."

  "Instead of the usual two-day delay, I can get it for you tomorrow morning."

  "Tomorrow," she repeated flatly. Was it his imagination, or was she looking a bit green? "That would be good. Yes. Thank you."

  He smiled, secretly gloating. "No problem."

  "Harrison!" A woman's voice floated over from the far end of the parking lot. "Over here!"

  He craned his neck and saw Charlotte waving madly as she stood by the open door of the little Mercedes. What the hell was she doing here? He must have forgotten something .. . another one of those social functions she so adored. It was one of the few things that really irritated him about her; he loved her because she was bright and witty and had a great sense of humor, and she took very few things seriously, except these damn parties.

  She was also rich, but he did his best to forgive her that.

  He nodded at Suzanne. "Excuse me, I'm being paged by my fiancee. Have a pleasant evening."

  He pedaled the bike over to Charlotte. Yup, a party all right; Charlotte was dressed in a slinky but somehow tasteful cocktail dress of deep emerald green, to bring out the color of her eyes. Her expertly permed blond hair was done up. He liked it down and flowing, but he had learned through experience that in situations like this one, honesty was not necessarily the shrewdest policy. "Char—you look fantastic." He eyed her appreciatively and bent forward on the bike to give her a light kiss.

  "Thanks." But her forehead wrinkled as she stared past him at Suzanne. "Who was that?"

  He got off the bike. "New microbiologist," he said easily, and gave her a big one-armed hug, the other hand on the handlebars. "Suzanne McCullough."

  She hugged back, but he could tell by the tension in her body that she was staring over his shoulder at Suzanne. He smiled to himself. Charlotte was rich, beautiful, and intelligent, yet for all her seeming self-assurance, she could sometimes be ridiculously insecure. Not that she would ever admit to something as mundane as jealousy.

  "I thought all microbiologists were nearsighted and balding." Her sharp chin dug into his shoulder as she spoke.

  He broke the embrace and held her at arm's length to admire her. "Common misconception. Sounds like you've been talking to Norton."

  "Not me." She put her hands on her hips and adopted a teasingly nagging tone. "We're late, Harrison. For the third time in a row."

  He feigned ignorance. "For what?"

  "Bleaker-Williams Industries? The Founders' Ball?"

  He slapped his forehead in exaggerated repentance. "God, how could I ever have forgotten?"

  "Freud says people don't forget. They simply 88

  choose not to remember." She was half smiling when she said it, but he could tell by the spark in her green eyes that underneath her lightness she was honestly angry at him.

  He tried to jolly her out of it. "I thought you were an interior designer, not a psychoanalyst."

  "Same thing." She suddenly became all business. "I brought your clothes. Throw your bike on the rack. You can change in the car."

  Good old Charlotte. Some women would have waited at home and missed the party entirely, then exploded when the offender arrived home. Not Char. She knew exactly what she wanted, and always found the most efficient way of achieving it... no weeping, no moaning. Just doing it. No trying to manipulate him and then getting furious when it didn't work— Char just told him the way it was going to be.

  He pretended to cringe meekly. "Whatever you say, Sigmund."

  Xashron worked with Xeera and Konar to load the trailer rig with flats of the rusty barrels—all words he had accessed from the host brain, along with others like forklift, which Konar's host had known how to operate. The task kept them occupied until daylight began to fade, but not so occupied that Xashron did not manage to speak to one of them.

  "Will the Advocacy be an
y more successful this time than the last?" he asked Xeera as she handed him a barrel to load onto the flat. Her dark-haired human host was male, tall, and strong as Xashron's, and dressed in the same black clothing he and Konar wore.

  89

  Neither Xashron nor his host brain could read the expression on the alien face to know Xeera's thoughts, and she did not answer immediately. She had served under him, and he knew her to be slow-thinking but intelligent, and most times able to come to the right conclusion.

  "I know what you think, Commander," she said at last, "that the upper class make poor military strategists. That is often true." She paused. "But will the Council be willing to support our mission if we harm the Advocacy?"

  "The Council need not know we harmed them. They could simply be .. . casualties of war."

  Xeera looked away. On Mor-Tax, harming a member of the ruling class meant immediate execution . . . but Xeera was wise enough to realize they were no longer on their home planet. "I would like to have Konar's opinion for a consensus."

  But their task did not permit them enough time to question Konar, and then twilight came. Xana appeared alone, just as Konar had forklifted the last flat onto the truck, and Xashron pulled the rear door of the vehicle closed and fastened it.

  "Go see the others," she said to Xeera and Konar, "and wait with them for instructions from home."

  They bowed and left, but not without glancing at each other. Did Xana suspect their dissatisfaction?

  She walked around to the secluded side of the truck and gestured at Xashron to follow. He did so uneasily.

  Xana leaned wearily against the truck and gazed up at the graying sky. Certainly the host bodies were hideous to look at: thick-limbed, clumsy, most of them a revolting pale color. Some of them were decaying, but Xana's host did not seem to be degenerating as quickly as the others.

  Xashron remembered, in spite of his hatred for her office, that in her natural form Xana was an exceptionally lovely female. Somehow it was reflected even in the host body, in her almost graceful movements, the timbre of her voice, her choice of words. Perhaps, he thought, after a time it might be possible to learn to appreciate the human form. His host brain recorded this female's face and body as attractive, though Xashron remained perplexed as to why. Of course, any attraction he felt for Xana was firmly controlled, since it would remain unrequited: she was a member of the ruling class, he was military, and the penalty for interclass coupling was death.

  "We will hear from home soon," Xana remarked, still looking up at the sky. "You blame the Advocacy for the deaths of your soldiers, do you not?" She fixed her gaze on him, studying his reaction.

  "Of course," he said. There was no point in denying something she already knew, and it was no crime simply to assign blame.

  "If there is fault, it rests on the entire government, not only us three. We were not among those who voted for this early mission. We wanted further environmental tests."

  "You misrepresent the truth, Advocate. You wanted further tests, but Oshar and Horek favored an early departure; the consensus rendered by your Advocacy was in favor of the latter. Perhaps you have forgotten that I was there, in the Council Chamber."

  Xana sighed. "What must I do, Xashron, to prevent our Advocacy from being killed by your soldiers?"

  He stared at her for a moment, impressed by her shrewd mind, her direct speech. A pity she had not been born a soldier. He reached out with a hand—how awkward, these fingers!—to make a gesture. Three fingers folded down, thumb and index finger forming a V. "I swear solemnly, Xana—whatever may happen to the other members of the Advocacy, you will not be harmed."

  She mimicked his gesture and touched the tips of her index finger and thumb to his, thus forming a triangle. Their pact was sealed. "I understand." She smiled. "But we mustn't stay, or the others will talk."

  The sky was deepening to black as they walked around the truck and back across the yard to where the others stood, fascinated by the video display terminal. Horek sat before it and smiled as the flashing lights reflected off his pale, dull face.

  "Home," he said with reverent longing; even Xashron felt the skin of his human body prickle at the word. Home. How long had it been since he last stood on Mor-Tax? And with deep sorrow he knew he would never again return. Next to him Xana trembled.

  Horek spoke again. "The Council has heard us; they agree that it is our exposure to radiation which protects us from the microbes that almost destroyed us... and which guarantees our mission success. To keep from becoming ill again, we must regularly expose ourselves to measured doses of radiation."

  He looked up at all of them. "If we do so, we are sure of success . . . and Earth will be ours once again."

  SIX

  The high-rise lobby, artfully decorated in rich hues of burgundy and peach, echoed with restrained laughter and the clink of crystal champagne flutes. Charlotte sat on the low couch next to a man—Fred, Harrison thought the name was, but he found the conversation too boring to follow it very closely. He slipped a finger between his neck and the uncomfortably tight, stiff collar and tried in vain to loosen it a bit.

  Fred said something witty and Char laughed, a silky, throaty sound. She was really in her element tonight: bright, witty, as sparkling as the diamonds and emeralds on her throat and ears. Harrison, uncomfortable in his new tuxedo, stood off to the side and smiled vaguely.

  She turned to Harrison. "Did I mention Fred worked for Bleaker-Williams?"

  "No," Harrison said with a total lack of enthusi

  asm. He already knew where this conversation was going.

  "Mechanical engineer," Fred volunteered eagerly. Pleasant enough guy, but his only distinguishing feature were eyes set disturbingly close together. Harrison found he couldn't look at them for very long before his own eyes started to cross. "All very hush-hush . . ." Fred was saying. "We've been lucky enough to get some lucrative defense contracts. Long hours, but I can't complain about the money." He peered through thick glasses at Harrison. "I understand you're an astrophysicist."

  "That's right."

  "Well"—Fred leaned forward with a confidential air—"let me just say that this . . . project we're working on could certainly use someone like you."

  "DOD, huh?"

  "If you mean Department of Defense—well, I can't name names . . ."

  Harrison caught Charlotte's dismayed look but said what he wanted to anyway. "No, thanks." He kept his tone pleasantly conversational. "I guess I'm just one of those weirdos who thinks space should be peacefully explored instead of exploited as just another arena of war and politics and crass commercialization."

  Fred's round little face flushed red. "W-well," he stammered, "I suppose there's room for all kinds of opinions."

  "You mustn't pay any attention to him," Charlotte soothed, shooting Harrison a dirty look. She was about to say more but was stopped by an Oriental

  waiter in a white jacket who proffered flutes of champagne on a silver tray.

  Harrison took two and handed one to Charlotte and one to Fred, then turned and took the tray from the waiter and set it down on the coffee table.

  "Sir?" The waiter, a young, earnest-looking man, seemed confused.

  "Harrison Blackwood." He held out his hand to the waiter, who blushed and shyly took his hand.

  "Tuan Martin." He smiled sheepishly. "People usually aren't so friendly to me, Mr. Blackwood."

  "That's Dr. B—" Charlotte began, but Harrison interrupted her.

  "Just Harrison." He held up an admonishing finger. "How's it going tonight, Tuan?"

  "Not so bad. If there's anything I can do for you—"

  "As a matter of fact, Tuan . . ." He lowered his voice. "Tell you what. I'll take that tray around for you, and you see if the kitchen has a Bud Light."

  Tuan shook his head. "I can't let you take the tray. I'd get into too much trouble. But I can sure find that beer for you."

  "Take your time," Harrison said. "We don't want you to get into trouble. Get it w
hen you're finished unloading that tray."

  "Thanks, Harrison." Tuan flashed a bright smile before picking up the tray and moving on to the next group.

  Fred cleared his throat. "So . . . Charlotte. How is your big sister?"

  "Fred used to date my sister Mimi." Charlotte tilted 95

  her face up at him. "I never forgave her for breaking up with him and marrying that orthodontist."

  "Um," Harrison said. "Tell you what, why don't I get the two of you something from the buffet?"

  "Gee, thanks, Blackwood." Fred cheered visibly.

  Call me Harrison, he almost said from habit, but in Fred's case he made an exception. My friends call me Harrison, but you can call me Doctor Blackwood. . . "No problem, Fred."

  Harrison wandered over to the huge buffet on the other side of the expansive lobby. Impressive spread. Char was mad for seafood, so he started heaping her plate: smoked salmon with capers, onions, and dill sauce; iced shrimp; oysters bien-something-or-other. He found the vegetables and stuck a carrot stick into his mouth.

  An attractive silver-haired woman, straight and strong-looking, came up next to him, searching for a plate. Next to her stood an older man Harrison presumed was her husband. Harrison removed the carrot stick from his mouth and found a plate—real china, of course, and very pretty; Char would have been tempted to turn it over to read the name but wouldn't risk doing so in public—and handed it to her with a smile. "I hope the gentleman doesn't mind my saying so, but you're certainly looking very lovely this evening."

  She put a jeweled hand to her chest and gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Why, thank you. I don't believe we've met." She took the dish from him and extended her other hand. He switched the carrot to his left hand and shook hers with his right. "Marge

  Bleaker ... and this is my husband, Howard." She nudged Howard, a portly, red-faced man who was squinting through black-rimmed glasses at a platter of oysters on the half-shell. "Howie, come meet this nice young man."