Alien Eyes

by Lynn Hightower

  “It’s all him, this Ridley. And he’s out of action for a while.”

  “I don’t want to know.” David turned his back. “You heard from Haas?”

  “No,” Rose said shortly.

  “Any idea where—”

  “No.”

  The package in his hands was melting. David turned it over and looked at the label. Veal ravioli. He glanced over his shoulder at the calf. She blinked, lowing softly. He took the package back to the freezer.

  David sat in front of the computer. He had taken off his shoes and put his reading glasses on. He scratched his heavy black beard.

  “Code Shalom,” he said.

  The computer came to life. “Good evening, David Silver. Working late again?”

  “Case name, Dahmi,” David said.

  “Searching … no case under that directory.”

  “Key word search, Dahmi, beginning with cases entered today.”

  “Searching … finding Elaki Shockee.”

  “Funny.” David sighed. “Information dump to this system, code Silver XBC.”

  “One percent loaded, five percent …”

  “Quietly, please.”

  David rubbed his eyes. Della and Pete’s report on Dahmi came up on the screen.

  The Elaki Mother-One had been a frugal shopper, according to her purchasing records. Tallied food purchases showed no indication of possible vitamin deficiencies or cravings that would indicate mental unwellness. All luxury items had come from Capo’s, a store specializing in what Elaki called learning aids for children, and what David called toys. Dahmi’s monthly budget was two times David’s annual salary.

  Dahmi came from a well-to-do Elaki family, was well educated, with strong social ties to Edmund University. She was not outgoing—par for the course from what David knew of Elaki mothers. They spent years concentrating their energies on their pouchlings.

  If you wanted an Elaki pal, better choose a male.

  No history of mental aberration.

  Did Elaki go nuts? he wondered. Did they commit pouchling abuse? He would have to ask String in the morning.

  David leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Something heavy landed in his lap. Alex. The cat purred loudly and settled on David’s thighs, hind leg dangling. David shifted the cat’s sixteen plus pounds so his leg wouldn’t fall asleep. The cat twitched an ear and allowed David to stroke his enormous belly.

  Cho invasion. Dahmi had said it at the hospital. And been afraid of Izicho.

  David wasn’t sure who had coined the title cho invasion. It had never been proven that the Izicho, the Elaki police, had anything to do with the brutal murders, where entire Elaki groupings—Mother-Ones and pouchlings, sibs or roommates—were killed in their homes in the dead of the night.

  If Dahmi had been afraid for her children, why hadn’t she come to the police?

  Maybe she didn’t think she could.

  There were rumors that the killings were politically motivated. Rumors they were carried out by Izicho.

  David put the cat out of his lap and brushed the hair from his jeans. He powered the computer down and turned off the light on his desk.

  He was tired, but not sleepy. Just as well, he needed to get back to the office—leaving, once again, before his daughters got up.

  David walked down the shadowed hallway, guided by the bathroom light. It was a small house, a two-bedroom farmhouse on seven trash acres, bought with the money Rose made hiring out as muscle to animal rights activists. The girls were asleep in their room, bedclothes askew, the floor barely visible under books, toys, and wadded up clothes.

  David tiptoed in, trying not to notice the brown apple core and the half-eaten cookie with an ant on it. He shuddered at the green-scummed glass of cloudy juice. He stood for a moment, watching the girls sleep.

  David sat cross-legged under their window, between the bunk beds where Lisa and Kendra slept, and the single bed, for Mattie. The girls breathed softly, evenly, except for Lisa, whose breathing was heavy and deep.

  Allergies, David thought.

  He picked a book at random from the floor.

  “Zeus,” he said softly, holding the book under the night-light so he could see. “The Adventures of a Parrot in the Big Apple.”

  Mattie stirred and sucked her fingers, but did not wake up. David lowered his voice.

  “‘Zeus,’” he said softly, “‘had never gotten over being abandoned, a lone egg, in the nest. Had his mother left him on purpose, or had something happened to her? Whatever the reason, she had never come back …’”

  FIVE

  David was partway down the sidewalk before he remembered to send the car on to the police garage. He opened the driver’s door.

  “Follow the grid,” he said. “PD garage.”

  “Acknowledge, David Silver,” the car said politely. “I should inform you that my gas tank is half-empty.”

  “Think of it as half-full.” David slammed the door.

  It had been dark when he left the house. The calf had been tucked into the barn with the llama. The lawn animals had still been stupidly chewing, though the lawn was thoroughly grazed. Tufts of missed grass gave the yard an unkempt look.

  The sun was coming up now, making the sky go pink, with overtones of reddish-brown that meant heavy air pollution. The city air smelled sulfurous and damp. David looked up to the third-floor homicide offices. Lights blazed, the blinds up. He felt a twinge of guilt for going home.

  In his mind he heard Dahmi’s wistful voice. Little baby ones.

  He frowned when he saw the Elaki standing like a sentinel near the back entrance. She was early today—if she’d ever gone home. Her usual place was at the front door, under the overhang and in the shade.

  Why had she moved?

  She was immensely tall, even for an Elaki, and must have been something to see before age had pulled her inward. Her scales were dull, the normally pink inner coloring transparent, the black outer layers faded and streaked with yellow.

  String had warned him not to approach her. No, he did not know why she chose to stand outside police headquarters day after day, but her great age made it an impossible breach of etiquette to ask. If she had something to say, she would say it.

  David chewed his lip. The old Elaki looked ill. Her side pouches hung open and loose—she had borne pouchlings.

  “Are you all right?” David asked softly.

  The Elaki did not seem to hear him. She swayed slightly. Her eye prongs drooped, and she did not look up from the sidewalk.

  David shrugged and went into the building.

  Upstairs, Mel was sitting on the edge of his desk. Two women and a man, all in uniform, slumped in chairs. Their shirts and pants were rumpled, jackets off, hats lying around. They had the up-all-night look. David knew it well.

  Mel looked up. “Rose chew you up pretty bad about the shirt?”

  David rubbed his cheek. He had forgotten to shave. He noticed that String stopped working when he heard Rose’s name. Two years ago Rose had killed a serial murderer who had broken into their home, and she had a reputation among Elaki Izicho.

  “She was very understanding,” David said.

  “Aw, right.” Mel rolled his eyes. “My sister is known for being understanding.”

  David sat behind his desk. He nodded at the uniforms. “What you got?”

  Mel cocked his head sideways. “These guys did the interviews, up and down Dahmi’s street.”

  “Had to move our butts to get there ahead of the press punks,” one of the women said.

  David focused on her name tag. Officer Janet Kellog. She was a solid woman, dark-haired. She looked very tired.

  “You related to Miriam?” David asked.

  “Sister.”

  “You don’t look—”

  “Anything alike,” she finished for him. “I know.”

  “And did you?” David asked. “Get there ahead of the press?”

  She nodded, then grinned. “But only because Janv
ier—” She looked at the older, grey-haired man sitting backward in the chair next to her.

  “What my partner here is referring to was simple misdirection … I mean to say, misunderstanding.”

  “You mean you lied and they believed you,” David said. “This time, anyway.”

  “The captain said get there first,” Kellog said. “We got there first.”

  “They talked to an Elaki Mother-One called Painter,” Mel said.

  “Her Elaki name?” David asked.

  Kellog and Janvier shrugged.

  “But she knew this Packer—what you call her, Dahmi? She knew this Dahmi pretty well, before Dahmi got her eye stalks twisted. Said she was po-friggin’-litical. Went to all the lectures at the School of Diplomacy, over at Edmund. Started up last year when they let that Elaki take over.”

  “Angel Eyes?” David said.

  Janvier nodded. “This Painter said that the Elaki mama knew her. Knew Angel Eyes. Like for a friend.”

  The silence was awkward. Tense.

  “That’s about it,” Janvier said.

  “Good.” Mel waved a hand at the blond-haired officer who dozed, head on his desk. “Wake up your pal there and get some more sleep.”

  The uniforms got up, stretched, woke up their sleepy, disoriented partner. David picked a cap up off his desk and handed it to Mel.

  “Yo. Kellog.”

  The woman turned. Mel tossed her the hat.

  “Next time you leave your hat on my desk, put your phone number in it.”

  She caught the hat, one hand on her hip. “Not a chance, Burnett. My sister already told me all about you.”

  “Good for you, David,” Mel said, watching her go. “Lecture the troops on relations with the press. From the man who called a media blackout on the biggest story since Angel Eyes turned the city drinking water purple.”

  “There’s no proof it was Angel Eyes,” David said.

  “Ain’t going to be, rate they’re moving on it. Word is, she’s too old for that stuff these days anyhow.”

  “Anarchists do not retire.” String had moved silently to the side of the desk. He held a thimble in one extruded finger fin. “Please to watch the thimble disappear.”

  “Where did you get a thimble?” Mel said.

  “Antique flea market. Much human … human—”

  “Junk,” Mel said.

  “Junk. Please observe.”

  Mel rolled his eyes. “String, you ain’t even good at this kind of thing, let alone do we got the time.”

  String held up the thimble. “Now that you see it.” He tossed it into the air. “Now that you do not.”

  The thimble disappeared. A moment later, something thudded on the floor.

  Mel applauded. “Needs some work, Gumby.”

  String sagged.

  The sound of knuckles on glass caught their attention. Halliday waved to them from his office and opened the door a crack. “Conference room. Five minutes. The whole team.”

  David checked his watch. He hoped it wouldn’t take long. He wanted a talk with the Elaki Mother-One who knew Dahmi.

  SIX

  David did not know the three Elaki at the back of the conference room. They were carefully poised on their bottom fringes, bellies rigid.

  “I thought this was s’posed to be a team meeting,” Mel said. “What’s with the bellybrains?”

  David looked at String. The fluidity of the Elaki’s movements went stiff. String glided to the opposite side of the room, stopping behind the podium Mel had swiped from downstairs. Della and Pete, oddly quiet, looked to David. He shrugged.

  Captain Halliday walked into a silent conference room.

  “Good morning,” he said. His tie was unknotted and slid sideways on his wrinkled shirt. He sat down, leaned forward, and laid his palms on the table. “My friends.” He lifted his chin. “The department has been reorganized.”

  No one said a word. The closed set of Halliday’s face, the uncompromising tone of his voice, deceptively mild, stilled their reactions.

  “We will no longer report to Richer. Our chain of command now goes through Commander F. Angelo Ogden.”

  “Shit,” Mel said.

  Halliday gave him a look. “We’re still Homicide Task Force. But we’re adding three new members. I’d like to introduce—”

  “I am Walker,” one of the Elaki said, her voice youthful. She waved a fin at the other two Elaki. “Thinker.”

  One Elaki bowed slightly.

  “And—”

  “Stinker,” Mel said under his breath.

  “Ash.”

  Mel put a foot up on the table. “Now all we need’s Grumpy, Dopey, and Doc.” He looked at the captain. “You saying these belly—” He glanced at String. “Sorry, Gumby. These guys are part of our homicide team?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Says who?”

  “Commander Ogden, Mayor Bianchi, and the Elaki proconsul.”

  “Oh, la,” Mel said.

  “It is, at present, a temporary assignment,” Halliday said carefully. “It was felt—”

  “By whom?” David said.

  “It was felt,” Halliday said, “that in light of the publicity we’re getting over the cho invasions—”

  “These not cho invasions,” String said, voice high and hissy. A patch of scales slid from beneath his fins and landed on the table. “Is idea planted in media by anarchists, who make the advantage of a bad situation. Is nonsense perpetrated by Angel Eyes.”

  The Elaki named Walker made a noise. “Angel Eyes is old and harmless. Guest lecturer at School of Diplomacy. Must prove not cho invasions. Our job.”

  “Our job,” David said.

  “All our jobs,” Halliday said. “We’re one team. One Homicide Task Force, and—”

  “Dream on,” Mel said.

  “The next person who interrupts me is out on his ass.”

  “Please to explain an ass,” Walker asked.

  “Give her a mirror.”

  “Let me show you something, folks.” Halliday looked at Pete. “You got the tape?”

  Pete nodded.

  “Run it.”

  Pete slid a tape into a slot beneath the television. “Play.”

  Halliday waved a hand. “This was taped at three this morning. It will hit the air at noon, and six o’clock tonight.”

  The screen filled with static.

  “Nice job,” Mel said.

  The static blipped away, showing the WKBC news set, and the avid face of Enid West. Beside her desk, curled forward, was an Elaki.

  “Angel,” one of the Elaki said softly.

  David frowned. He had never seen an Elaki sit before. Was it crouched behind the desk? Having it on eye level with Enid West made the Elaki seem more personable. Friendly.

  So this was Angel Eyes.

  She had emigrated to Earth two years ago, amid a flurry of bureaucratic disapproval and mainstream support—Elaki, as well as human. Like all Elaki, the breathing slits on her belly formed a happy face pattern. But scars—torture scars from the bad old days of Izicho repression—made the almond shape of beautiful, long-lashed eyes. Angel Eyes.

  A figure of mystery, legend, and wild speculation, she embraced Earth, human philosophy, and freedom, and had a history of trouble with the Izicho, and what she called community repression.

  “Today we have with us a renowned Elaki lecturer and freedom fighter, founder of the political organization called the Guardians. Angel Eyes.” Enid West’s voice was raspy and grating. She turned from the camera and faced the Elaki. “Yesterday a prank shut down the Houston Stock Exchange. Rumors are the perpetrators were your followers. True?”

  The Elaki waved a fin. “I am no longer the active political.” Her voice was deep and strong. “I am very old Elaki, and such doings are beyond my capabilities. And, to be frank, my interests. But I will say I do admire the—”

  “Pranksters?”

  “Freedom fighters,” Angel Eyes said. “Soldiers. For their me
thods are peaceful, but the intent, I think, is serious. And certainly the—”

  “Terrorists,” String muttered.

  “… consequences for them may be most severe.”

  Enid West raised an eyebrow. “And what are the consequences?”

  “I hesitate—” Angel Eyes fluttered a fin. “I am not what you would call a source of … objectivity? Yes. Objectivity. I have memories, so many memories, of bad times, and bad days.”

  “Are you talking around the subject of cho invasions?” Enid West said. “Do you think these invasions, these death hits, are a form of political retaliation?”

  Angel Eyes faced the camera. “Is not proven such incidents are form of cho. The killing of Elaki students and host families, chemaki groupings, Mother-One and pouchlings. This is beyond any cho. This is the work of those who fear and hate.”

  “Do you think the Izicho have anything to do with these invasions?”

  “Indeed, I do not know. That, of course, is the problem. And if Izicho investigate Izicho, if police investigate police, who will ever know?”

  “Who indeed?” The camera closed on Enid West. “The Izicho, who are, in effect, Elaki secret police, would or could not send a representative to us today, on the grounds that information on their organization compromises agents in the field. We do, however, have Commander Angelo Ogden of the Saigo City PD here to give his opinion of the ongoing problem of these death invasions. Commander Ogden?”

  “Yes, Enid.”

  David chewed his bottom lip. There was a bad taste in his mouth.

  The man loved the camera, that much was clear. And, David had to admit, Angelo had a certain presence—accumulated, David thought sourly, from years of taking public credit for other people’s work. Ogden was upper management at its best—one of those wily old survivors who worked the beginning of projects, when there was money and excitement, and rode out on a wave of promotion before reality hit, somehow managing to land on the tag end of another successful project, just in time to sop up the praise and kudos that rained on everyone except those who did the work.

  David looked at Ogden’s thick head of silver-white hair, the expensive suit.

  “Have a heart attack,” Mel muttered. “Massive.”

  Enid West was leaning forward. “First, Commander, do you think the invasions are politically motivated?”