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

by J. M. Dillard

  He waited for a full minute. No reply. He pushed the bell again, and this time he held it down. "Charlotte!" He bellowed it at the top of his lungs. "Come down here!" Char had to wait a year before she could purchase this particular town house; the neighbors were very particular about who they allowed in, and there were all sorts of codes and restrictions about

  what color paint you could use and what landscape scheme you used in the tiny patch of front yard. The neighbors were going to love this.

  The upstairs curtains parted. Char cried out, "Go away!"

  He took his finger off the bell and took a step back to try to catch a glimpse of her, but she remained invisible behind the curtain. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he cried, "Not until I talk to you first!" Good. The more of a disturbance he created, the better his chances of getting inside to talk to her.

  "No! For God's sake, keep your voice down!"

  "Not me." He shook his head and upped the volume even more. "No, I think I'll just stand right here and discuss it with you now. That way, the whole neighborhood can listen in!"

  There was a pause, then the sound of a screen being slid up. Charlotte leaned out of the window and rested delicate hands on the ledge. He'd been gloating up to that point, but when he caught sight of her, he drew in his breath. She truly was a beautiful woman, and tonight she wore a low-cut red silk robe that looked like it might slip off her shoulder any second. She tossed her hair back, then in an abrupt change of tactics, called down in a low voice, "Harrison ... do you really love me?" She was half smiling, teasing him, the old Char again.

  He smiled back gratefully. "You know I do, Char."

  "Why?" She rested an elbow on the ledge and propped her chin against her hand, her expression coquettish.

  Shit, a test. Harrison cast about desperately for a

  second, then started talking in the hopes inspiration would come. Too long of a pause now would not be well received. "That's easy . . . because you're smart." That's it—tell her you love her for her mind first. But don't forget anything important. . . "And beautiful. And you've got a great sense of humor." Used to, anyway. "And an even greater pair of legs."

  She seemed pleased, but there was a hint of warning in her tone as she asked the next question. "You love me more than your work?"

  That threw him. Flustered, he stammered, "Char, that—that's not a very fair question."

  "Yes it is!" She withdrew immediately from the window, her voice trembling with hurt and wrath. "And you've already answered it! Now, if you don't leave, I'm calling the police!"

  "Go ahead," he dared her. He was getting weary of this little game. If she wanted it to end like this, then so be it. "Go right ahead. I'll put up a good fight and embarrass the hell out of you in front of your neighbors." Perfect timing; as he said it, the porch light of the next door neighbor came on.

  "You—!" she began, but was far too furious to finish. The window slammed shut. Char would either call the police as promised or come open the door; Harrison was betting on the former.

  "Oh, the hell with it," he said, disgusted, and headed for the Bronco, but before he had taken two steps, the phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, set it on Talk and said into the receiver, "Whoever you are, you've got damn lousy timing."

  "Wanna make a bet?" Norton asked at the othei end of the line. "I've located our bad guys, Doc. You've got to come right away."

  "I'll be right there." He folded the phone shut, ran to the Bronco, and roared off down the street. He'd resolve things with Char later, when there was time.

  By the time Charlotte made it down to the front door, all she could see were the Bronco's taillights receding into the darkness.

  For some reason, this time Deb didn't seem so upset by the idea of her mother leaving again. Maybe, Suzanne decided, it was the fact that they'd spent the afternoon together. Suzanne took her shopping at the Rialto Plaza, a cluster of small shops that opened onto a beautifully landscaped atrium. Deb picked out a jump suit and two miniskirts; Suzanne noted that her daughter's taste in clothing was changing, becoming more adult. Outside in the little park, Debi ate an ice cream cone while her mother watched and listened to the sixth-grader blithely rattle on about her classes, the cute (male) math teacher, and her new friend, Kim Song, who had this gorgeous black hair all the way down to her waist. Suzanne listened with feigned interest, trying her best to enjoy her daughter and the quiet sunny afternoon while there was still time.

  Dear God, whatever happens in the future, please let Deb be all right. So long as Deb's okay, what happens to me isn't important. For an instant Suzanne allowed herself to think what might happen, and became terrified beyond all reason.

  "Mom?" Deb stopped chattering and licking her ice cream cone and eyed her mother with concern. "Are you okay?"

  Suzanne blinked back tears. "I'm fine, chicken. Just fine."

  Later, when the phone rang after dinner, Deb raced to pick it up, hopeful that it was Kim, the new friend. But she handed the receiver over to her mother. "For you," she said, deflated. "A Norton Somebody-or-other." She lingered to listen to Suzanne's side of the conversation, and when her mother hung up, said, sounding very weary and very adult: "You go pack, Mom. I'll call Mrs. Pennyworth."

  Suzanne hugged her then, and held her for a long time.

  Now, as Suzanne stood, overnight bag clutched in one hand, in front of the door to Norton's oflice, she was once again overwhelmed by fear. The aliens existed, were a part of the here and now, and she and Harrison would have to find them to get the proof Uncle Hank wanted. She drew a deep breath to compose herself and opened the door.

  Norton was at his desk, poring over a U.S. map that covered the entire surface. He didn't look up as she entered.

  Harrison, on the other hand, scowled up at her from the video equipment he was packing into a case. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I called her," Norton murmured distractedly, and marked on the map with a red felt-tip pen.

  "Some welcome." Suzanne set the bag down on the floor next to Norton's desk and put her hands on her hips. "I was under the impression that I was part of this project too."

  Harrison shrugged, still frowning; he was in a foul mood, which confused her. Earlier today he'd been elated at the prospect of locating the aliens.

  Norton spoke, addressing his remark to Harrison, much to her irritation. "The transmission was only a few short bursts, but that's all I needed to nail them." He folded the map so the area marked in red was in the center, and proffered it to Harrison. "Drive like hell and you might make it there in about eleven hours."

  Harrison straightened and went over to take the map from Norton. Suzanne stepped behind him and peered at it over his shoulder. Norton had scribed a neat red circle in the southwestern corner of Alpine County. Far from any big cities, it appeared; probably farm country up there. "Eleven hours is too damn long. Besides, who said anything about driving?" Harrison asked. "I'll charter a helicopter."

  Norton rubbed his eyes. "Easy, my friend. You got any idea how much that's gonna cost? Ephram mentioned today that someone on the board got wind of this and already chewed his ass out for all the time we spent on the Cray."

  "How much does a new world cost?" Harrison waved the map angrily so that the paper crackled. "And where do you go to buy one?"

  "If we're right about this," Suzanne said to Norton,

  "it's all academic anyway. You can tell Jacobi I said that." To Harrison she said, "Let's go."

  He wheeled around to stare at her. For the first time, he seemed to notice the overnight bag in her hand. "Wait a minute, Suzanne—you're not going." His tone indicated that there would be no more discussion on the subject, but she caught the uncertain glance he shot Norton, who shrugged innocently as if to say leave me out of it.

  She remained perfectly calm. Let him have a temper tantrum; that was fine with her, but the outcome would be the same. He was talking foolishness, and they both knew it. She'd been thinking all day about what sh
e'd do when the call came that Norton had located the aliens, and her mind was made up. "Don't waste any more time, Harrison. You know as well as I do that without a witness any evidence you bring back is going to be debunked."

  He tried at first to pretend anger. "Dammit, Suzanne, I'm not going to argue with you about this!"

  "Very convincing, but it won't work." She folded her arms and let it roll off her to let him see that an outburst wasn't going to work.

  Exasperated, he continued. "If the aliens are there, as we believe, then it's too dangerous. We went through this once before, Suzanne, remember? What happened to the single parent who only worked weekdays?"

  "The world has changed since I said that. You need me. General Wilson isn't going to believe such fantastic evidence unless he hears it from someone he trusts—yours truly."

  "I can get proof all by myself." Harrison pointed at the video equipment on the floor. "I don't need an eyewitness. That's what the camera's for."

  "A videotape can be altered very easily. I doubt Uncle Hank will take your word alone that it wasn't— but I know he'll take mine."

  He sighed in silent frustration. "This isn't the time to be cute, Suzanne." He lowered the map and looked at her, his tone passionately serious. "Good Lord, what would happen to Debi if you were killed? Do you think I could ever allow that to happen to her?"

  "Amen," Norton said softly.

  She was slightly taken aback and at the same time touched by his honest concern. She could see he was just as frightened at the thought of going as she was; maybe the bad mood was his way of covering it. As much as she hated the idea of going, she answered, "If we spend much more time arguing, it will happen to a lot more children than Debi. It makes more sense for me to go with you; and if two go, chances are increased that at least one of us will make it back. Besides, I don't know about you, but I certainly don't plan on doing anything foolish."

  He started to speak, but she kept talking. "What's so dangerous? The aliens don't have their weapons anymore, and the camera has a telephoto lens, right? We'll film from a safe distance."

  "With them, there is no safe distance." Harrison's voice was very soft.

  "Bottom line: I go or you don't get in to see Wilson again."

  Harrison regarded her stonily; Norton shook his head. "I think you're being jammed, Doc."

  "I know I am," Harrison replied without taking his eyes off her.

  "I can always charter my own helicopter." She took the map from Harrison's hand; he was startled enough to let her take it at first, then tried to grab it back.

  "Too late." She smiled at him. "I've memorized the location. Now, shall we save the department some money and charter only one helicopter?"

  "Dr. McCullough," Harrison said heavily, emphasizing each word, "if you get yourself killed, I will never forgive you."

  While the process of freeing the others continued, Xashron crept up into the dark forest. The process of movement in the weakened host body was still tiring, though the symptoms of radiation sickness had eased due to the ministrations of Rashon, the skilled medic who now inhabited the human physician's body.

  While the vegetation in the forest was familiar to his host's eyes, Xashron found it amazing, awe-inspiring. The variety of plant life was the one thing about Earth which impressed him—especially the huge growths called trees, living wood and greenery so tall, they stretched into the sky. In the darkness Xashron thought them intimidating. Back home such a living creation would fetch an entire ruling-class family's wealth. Xashron laid a gray, decaying hand on the round trunk and ran it along the rough surface, wincing at the surprise of splinters in his palm. Incredible texture, color, and the smell. . . Xashron gingerly brought his nose to the bark. Astringent, almost medicinal and yet oddly, gloriously fragrant.

  He rested against the tree and watched the religious tableau in the valley below him. By the light of three flickering bonfires, those already freed from the hideous metal containers were forming pyramids with their bodies, drawing energy up from the ground to aid them in the struggle ahead, while a handful of soldiers worked to release more of those imprisoned.

  The sight of his soldiers emerging into the fire glow from their thirty-five-year sleep filled Xashron with grimly determined pride. They were not dead, the soldiers of Mor-Tax, not defeated after all this time. They would still emerge victorious.

  There came the heavy, awkward sound of human footfall, of movement through the underbrush, but Xashron was unafraid. At the sight of Xana in her host body, he drew closer.

  "Xashron." Even her human voice, with its curious pitch and timbre, was pleasant to him. His host eyes appreciated her human form as having once been comely. It still had not degenerated as rapidly as the others. "I came to speak with you alone because I know the time is near. Soon, all your soldiers will be set free."

  "There is time yet," he answered, wishing only for both of them to be free from these cumbersome bodies, so he could see her once again as she truly was.

  In the darkness of the forest, he reached out and did a socially unthinkable thing: he touched her arm. Beneath the fabric, her skin felt warm. She did not pull the arm away as he expected, which gave him great hope: for she was ruling class, and for a soldier such as himself to touch uninvited was to risk severe punishment. And for the act Xashron now contemplated, the penalty was death.

  "Things are different here," he told her. "The laws that bound us on Mor-Tax no longer have meaning for us. Who can touch us? Home is almost forty Terran years distant. Here, we can make our own laws." He drew his hand up her arm. The sensation was strangely thrilling.

  She focused intently on his eyes and said carefully, "I agree. When will you strike against the Advocacy?"

  "When all my soldiers are free. . . and Xeera and Konar have communicated my intent to them. Certainly before daylight comes again."

  "Some will refuse to harm the Advocacy. Some will turn against you."

  "I expect that," Xashron answered confidently. "But most will feel as I do. They have suffered much at the Advocacy's hands."

  "And what of me?"

  He moved closer until their host bodies touched. "Have you no faith in the promise I gave you, Xana?"

  "I believe you will not harm me." Her fever-bright eyes were hard, defiant. "But will the military respect the voice of only one member of the Advocacy?"

  "It will. . . if you accept two members of the military to complete the triad. The soldiers will understand it is a necessary emergency action. But you must agree to convince the Council."

  She was silent for a moment. "I accept—provided you are one of the members of the triad."

  "Agreed." He pressed her to him. Her body was warm, an unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation. "Let us leave these bodies for a time, Xana. Let me see you again as you really are."

  She laid her hands on his shoulders and whispered, "But you are a soldier, and I a ruler. If we are found together—and with the added scandal that no carrier is present—we will be killed. Even your own followers would not accept— "

  "These are new bodies, Xana, and a new world. "He began the slow, painstaking process of exiting the host without destroying it. When he was free, he let the body fall away. The relief, the surge of strength, was intoxicating. He looked up, pleased to see that Xana had done likewise. As her human form fell away to reveal what lay beneath, Xashron gasped at her dark, shimmering beauty.

  The host body twitched as it lay on the ground. "Still alive," Xana explained, following his concerned gaze. "And very spirited. A nuisance, sometimes, but at least she is strong and the body will last longer than if it were dead."

  "Xana," he sighed. He pulled her to him, and she did not resist.

  Urick woke to find herself in hell.

  Total disorientation . . . total agony. Raging fever, chills that locked her muscles in spasm, nausea so intense that she lay on her back retching, though nothing came. She opened her eyes to peer up at a bright full moon shining down through the b
ranches of tall pines. In her delirium she could remember nothing of the past few days, nor understand where she was or how she had come to be there. In the periphery of her vision she saw something—someone lying next to her in a shaft of moonlight. It took a great effort to turn her head toward it.

  Finney. She tried to say his name, wanted to ask what had happened to Chambers and the others, but managed to emit only a weak croak. Finney's dull eyes bulged, and there were huge sores covering the gray, waxy skin of his face. As she watched, a fly lit on a sore on his cheek, then walked across the bridge of his nose, down and up again onto the open, staring eye, pausing on the blue-gray iris to clean itself. Finney blinked once, and flinched.

  Urick looked away and wept soundlessly, without tears. She was dying in this strange, remote forest. Bits of memories floated back to her . . . Jericho Valley, setting up the transmitter . . . the thrill of fear when they noticed Mossoud was gone, then heard the gunfire. Their message was never broadcast. . .

  Though to Lena the cause no longer mattered. There was only pain and suffering—punishment for killing the corporals, her fevered brain told her. All she wished for now was death, an end to misery. She groped weakly at her side, searching for her weapon, but the Uzi was gone. She probably wouldn't have been strong enough to aim and fire it at herself anyway.

  Something dark and shapeless stepped into her line of vision, blotting out tree limbs and blue sky. Strange alien forms, the last things she remembered seeing at

  Jericho Valley. As one of them reached out for her, Urick opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came except a low moan. At the same time, she hoped—prayed—it would kill her.

  She was not to be so fortunate.

  NINETEEN

  Jimmy Smith, age seventeen, squinted at the small patch of forest illuminated by his and Jake's flashlights. The trees seemed to hover over the two like dark, watchful living things; occasionally, something rustled in the branches to add to the illusion, causing Jake's old hound dog, Emmy Lou, to run ahead and circle with her nose to the ground and her crooked tail wagging. Jimmy wasn't really scared, but there was something creepy about the woods at night. Maybe it was all those times as a Boy Scout (not so long ago) when he'd camped with the troop in the woods, everybody trying to see who could tell the scariest story. There was one Donny Ramirez used to tell about the windigo—the evil spirit that turned humans into hungry cannibals who wept blood instead of tears—that still gave Jimmy the shudders. He sure wasn't gonna start thinking about that one now.