V

by A. C. Crispin

  "Hey." He took her hand. "Okay, you've made your point. But don't write me off that quick, Julie. I've got the best record of anyone here for getting on and off that Mother Ship. Maybe I can do it again. Maybe Martin can help."

  "You hope," Elias said quietly.

  "Yeah. I hope."

  The exchange was set to take place at night, on a cordoned-off bridge on the L.A. freeway. Ham Tyler and Juliet were the only resistance members openly with Donovan. They'd taken the precaution of stationing Elias and Sancho as hidden sharpshooters. When the lights blinked on the squad vehicle in the agreed-upon signal, Ham flashed the lights on the van he was driving, and turned to Mike. "There they are." He hesitated for an awkward moment, then said, "I'm sorry about this, Donovan. Wish there were something I could do."

  "I know." With a wry smile, Mike stuck out his hand. "Take care of things."

  When he turned to Juliet, there were no words. He kissed her, then, turning away, began the long walk across the bridge. In the distance, he could see a small figure approaching. Sean.

  Donovan quickened his stride, his eyes straining to see his son's face against the glare of the spotlights from the squad vehicle. By the time he could make out the boy's features, he was running. "Sean!"

  He grabbed the sturdy young body tightly, picking the boy up.

  "Dad—" Sean lifted his face to Donovan's. "Dad, I—"

  "Hey . . ." Donovan tousled the thick brown hair, so like his own, his throat so tight that for a moment he couldn't summon words. Then he remembered something, and pulled the battered baseball cap out of his pocket. "Here. I kept it for you."

  "Dad—" Sean's eyes were swimming.

  "Well, I gotta get moving. You look good, son. Tell Julie I said you need a haircut." He kissed the boy on the cheek, hugged him once more, then set him down, moving on into the glare of the searchlights.

  Once aboard the Mother Ship, Donovan was subjected to the most intensive and insensitive body search he'd ever undergone. Diana's technicians made Cambodian prison guards seem like paragons of delicacy and tact. Aching, he was finally allowed to dress, then taken to a cell.

  Time ceased to have meaning. Donovan wondered at first why he wasn't tortured immediately, but realized, after several waking and sleeping periods, that Diana had a far greater understanding of human psychology than he'd given her credit for. Leaving him alone in the cell, with the lights burning, without a watch, was a good way to weaken even the strongest will to resist. Without external stimulation, he had too many hours to spend in worrying about what was going to happen to him. Only the increasing roughness on his chin gave him any sense of time passing.

  He had fantasies at times that the ship wasn't even orbiting his planet anymore, that he'd been forgotten and was on his way to Sirius, leaving behind a desert, dying Earth. Intellectually he knew he hadn't been locked up for more than a week or two, at most, but at times it was hard to convince himself of that.

  Finally, one day he was startled by the sound of his door sliding open. A Visitor entered, carrying a tray of food. Donovan sat on his bunk, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. The alien looked at him gravely. "You don't mind the weather in here, do you?"

  Surprised, Donovan found the correct response automatically. "Only at night."

  "Then you must not be a night owl."

  Donovan grinned ecstatically. "Boy, it's nice to have friends! Did the head iguana send you?"

  The Visitor nodded at Donovan's code reference to Martin. "Yes. I'm Oliver. But I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Donovan."

  "What do you mean?"

  "While you've been locked up here, Diana's been working on a new truth serum that she says is foolproof. She's going to try it on you by tomorrow at the latest."

  Donovan swallowed. "Doesn't sound good."

  "Yes. And since your other escape, security aboard the Mother Ship has been tripled. It would take nothing short of a full armed assault to get you out this time. I'm sorry, but we can't afford that risk for just one man."

  "I understand. I've been there myself."

  "We also can't afford to have our people here on the Mother Ship exposed."

  "I understand that too."

  "Do you? Then you'll understand why I was sent to bring you this."

  The Visitor took a small green capsule out of his pocket. "We're not executioners, Mr. Donovan. It's your decision."

  Donovan looked at the tiny piece of gelatin-wrapped death for a long, considering moment. I wanted some warning, he thought. Some time to say good-bye to all of it—all of the places, the things, and most of all, the people. He took a deep breath.

  Donovan reached for the capsule. Just as his fingers closed on it, the door slid open again. One of Diana's aides—the one Martin had identified as Jake—stood outside, his gun drawn. Oliver whirled, his elbow accidentally knocking the pill out of Mike's hand, his own hand going to his sidearm. Before he could draw the weapon, Jake fired, and the Fifth Columnist fell.

  Donovan threw himself across the room, his eyes fixed on the skittering capsule. He grabbed it, Jake's boot came down on his hand, making Mike's vision blur with pain. The Visitor stood on his hand, waiting, as Diana entered the cell. "I'm sorry, Mr. Donovan. We can't let you go without a deathbed confession."

  Minutes later, Donovan was strapped into a device that bore a disquieting resemblance to a dentist's chair. Diana smiled at him cheerfully as her lab technician prepared an injection. "I suggest you relax, Mr. Donovan. It won't make any difference whether you're tense or not. This shot will make you feel much more cooperative, and we'll have a nice little chat."

  The door to the interrogation cell slid aside, and Martin entered. "Here are those reports you wanted—" He broke off, looking at Donovan, his face tight with fear.

  "Thank you, Martin. Can you stay for a few minutes to help me? With your knowledge of the Los Angeles area, you can help me pinpoint the geographic locations Mr. Donovan and I are about to discuss." Diana injected Mike's arm.

  "Very well, Diana." Martin stood stiffly, watching Donovan. For long minutes, Mike felt nothing—then he began to experience a slight flush of warmth running up into his face, out along his limbs. He felt very relaxed—like someone just awakening from a good night's sleep. Embarrassed, he realized he was getting an erection.

  Impersonally, Diana checked his physical reactions, then nodded. "That's fine, How do you feel, Mr. Donovan?"

  "Fine," Mike said. What was the point in trying to lie before he had to?

  "Good. Now let's talk about the nature of truth. You believe in truth, don't you Mr. Donovan?"

  "Depends on whose brand I hear."

  She inclined her head graciously. "Clever. But the serum hasn't yet taken full effect. What is your full name?"

  "Michael Sean Donovan."

  "Such a lovely Irish name. Your mother told me about your father, and how he named you." Diana smiled gently. "And how old are you?"

  Thirty-six . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-six . . . Mike's mind screamed, and his mouth struggled to form words. "Thir—thirty—sss—sev'n."

  Diana cocked her head. "How interesting! A lie! Mr. Donovan, I couldn't have chosen a better subject to give my little concoction what you humans call the acid test. I don't know which one of you is more stubborn—you, or Juliet Parrish."

  Mention of Juliet strengthened Mike's failing grip on reality. He had to resist. Had to.

  "And what color is your hair, Mr. Donovan?"

  "Blue." Donovan said it quickly, without thinking.

  "Really?"

  "Brown." Mike flinched as he heard the word come tumbling out.

  She smiled, ruffling his hair, "Yes, a lovely shade of brown. That's much better. Now tell me, Mr. Donovan, about the Fifth Column. Is there one aboard my ship?"

  "Y—yes." Out of the corner of his eye Donovan saw Martin make a small, convulsive movement.

  "I knew that already . . . but there's something I don't know. Who is their leader, Mr. Donovan?"
/>   Sweat trickled down Mike's face as he struggled to keep his lips pressed tightly over the name that wanted to burst out in response to her question. "Nnnnn—"

  "Who is the leader of the Fifth Column, Mr. Donovan?"

  Donovan gasped for breath, and the name escaped. "Martin."

  Martin's sidearm was already in his hand as Diana, stunned, swung to look at him. Diana's technican leaped toward the Fifth Columnist, his gun in his hand, but Martin, ducking behind the interrogation chair, fired first. The Visitor slumped to the floor. Martin loosed another shot at Diana as she fled out the door, then he sprang after her and locked the door panel.

  Hastily unstrapping Donovan, who by this time was regarding the world through a rosy drugged haze, Martin dragged open a nearby ventilation grille, then, lifting the nearly limp human, hauled him over and stuffed him in. He heard Donovan swear, then his slurred words. "No, not the damn ventilation shafts again, Martin . . . I wouldn't be in this whole mess if it weren't for them . . . wanna go home . . ."

  The Visitor dragged the human down the shaft until he reached one of the larger crawlways and could stand erect. By this time Mike was giggling. "You're rocked, Donovan," Martin said, pulling the human's arm across his shoulders.

  Mike stumbled along the metal crawlway with him. "Wha' you mean, rocked? There's no music in here."

  "Stoned," Martin snapped, "I meant stoned. Dammit, Donovan, can't you pick up your feet just a little?"

  Donovan peered owlishly at his feet. "But they're so heavy."

  Martin sighed, and without further argument picked up the human, slinging him across his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He hurried, making the best speed he could toward the lower tunnels. A rasping buzz sounded behind him. Quickly he turned, looking for the source. It came again—still behind him.

  Suddenly the truth dawned, and Martin, not knowing whether to laugh or curse, hurried on down the walkway, accompanied by Donovan's peaceful snores.

  "Julie!" Harmy's cry came from the corridor of the new headquarters. Juliet, who had been in her new laboratory studying the liver biopsy they'd taken from the body of a Visitor killed during a bombing raid, stiffened.

  "I'm coming! What is it?"

  When she reached the hallway, she saw Robin staring aghast at a green gelatinous-looking fluid puddling around her feet, as Harmony supported the girl. "Her water's broken, Julie! She's in labor!"

  Julie reached over to put an arm around Robin's shoulders even as the girl gasped and doubled up in agony. "Find Cal, Robert, and Willie, quick!" Julie ordered. "I'll get her into the small lab with the examination table."

  After Julie's initial examination confirmed that Robin was dilated about two centimeters, there was little more to be done except wait. Robert stayed by his daughter's side, coaching her in the Lamaze breathing techniques. Julie lay down for several hours, though she couldn't sleep. She had a hunch it was going to be a long night.

  It was. Robin's amniotic fluid had broken just before lunchtime. By midnight, her dilation had not markedly increased and the fetus wasn't dropping. Julie examined her and ordered a half-dose of Demerol, hoping the drug would allow Robin a chance to rest between contractions.

  At 4:00 A.M., she did another internal examination, discovering the girl's cervical dilation was still at two centimeters. Robin was exhausted; her eyes purple-shadowed and staring, her forehead beaded with sweat. She kept losing track of her breathing patterns, and was beginning to tense and "go under" with the force of the contractions, instead of panting and staying "on top" of them.

  When Juliet's six o'clock examination showed no further progress, she looked up at Cal in anguish. Robin was locked into a private hell of moaning, stabbing pain, and Julie doubted the girl could even hear them, but she motioned him into the other corner of the room just in case. "It's been sixteen hours, Cal, and no significant progress. The fetus isn't dropping—hasn't even budged. I'm afraid we'll have to go for a caesarean."

  He nodded. "Yeah. You ever observe one?"

  "I scrubbed for one, once. Doctor Bradley even let me do some assisting. If only Fred were here!"

  "I'll tell Harmy to prep her while we scrub."

  "Okay."

  Thirty minutes later Julie stood beside her patient, her tired eyes intent on Robin's yellowish-orange painted and draped abdomen, the scalpel in hand. "Ready?" she asked Cal and Harmy, who stood by, ready to assist. "Is the incubator ready?"

  "Ready, Julie," Harmy said.

  Juliet swallowed, reaching forward. At the last second she realized that she was holding the scalpel in her left hand; quickly she switched it to her right. "I'm going to do a bikini cut," she told Cal, as her hand hovered over the girl's freshly-shaved pubic area. "The time I helped Doctor Bradley in the charity ward, that's what he did."

  "Sounds good." Cal nodded reassuringly, his own eyes anxious above his mask. Julie's hand pressed the scalpel into the skin lightly, then, as a line of blood welled up, she had to force herself not to jerk back. Biting her lip, she narrowed her world to the six inches of the incision site, and made a quick, firm cut, watching the layers of flesh and muscle draw back. "Sponge, and give me some suction. I have to find the uterine wall."

  Yes, there it was. Dipping her left hand into the incision, Julie measured its depth, then she was cutting the uterus, at the bottom of the organ. She could see the problem now. Robin was a bit narrow—not side to side, but front to back. The bulge that must be the infant's head was tilted back. "Here's part of the problem," Julie said. "We've got a posterior presentation."

  "No wonder she had all that back labor," Cal said. "Poor kid."

  "All right, I've got it open. Here—" Julie reached for the bulge, and suddenly her hands were full of a slithery-red infant, still surrounded by the translucent amniotic sac. Juliet lifted it out. "It's a girl! Suction her mouth!" Harmy did so, and the infant began to squeak, then emitted thin, indignant cries.

  "Is she okay?" Robert said, from where he was monitoring his daughter's vital signs.

  "Appears to be," Julie said, watching as Harmy carefully wiped the baby's little face and body. Fortunately she was holding the infant over the incubator as she did so, for suddenly the baby opened her perfect little pink mouth, and a long reptilian tongue lashed forth!

  Harmy nearly dropped the child, and Willie, who had been standing by, observing quietly, leaped forward to take the baby from her shaking hands. Julie cast a despairing look at Cal, imagining Robin's reaction when she awoke and saw her daughter.

  The girl's abdomen heaved beneath Juliet's fingers!

  "Wait a minute, we've got something else in here!"

  "Twins?" Cal leaned forward.

  "No wonder there was so much fetal movement." Julie reached deeper, upward, and her fingers encountered another head-bulge. When the figure began to emerge from the uterus, Julie gasped. "Oh, God! What the hell is it?"

  The creature was small, greenish in color, and clearly of reptilian derivation. Its limbs bore small claws, its head was crested—as Julie's shaking hands tightened on it, it opened two blue-green, very human eyes and stared at her silently.

  "Oh, Jesus. I—" Juliet bit her lip, averting her eyes. "How could this be?"

  Hesitantly, she handed the creature to Willie, who was the only one willing to touch it. Cal stood staring at it, his eyes shocked. "This is impossible, Julie!"

  "We have a patient, Cal," Julie said, trying to control her nausea. "Robin needs us. We'll talk about this later."

  "All right, Julie." He turned back to assist her.

  "Sutures ready?"

  "Ready. Here."

  They continued to work, neither looking toward the two tiny creatures. Willie and Harmy cared for. Robert Maxwell stood by his daughter's head, clasping her unconscious hand, silent tears shining on his face in the merciless glare of the overhead lights.

  "Mike—another patrol! Get back!"

  Donovan made a face as he stepped, not for the first time in the past ten days, into hip-deep bla
ck sludge. His feet skidded on the slick metal bottom, and, had it not been for Martin's hasty grab, he'd have gone down. Reaching the other side of the drainage trench, they crawled up onto the narrow service ledge and crouched, hands and faces hidden, as the shock troopers approached. The sludge was an invaluable but nauseating camouflage—in the darkness of the deepest hold on the Mother Ship, the troopers passed them by. They listened to the dying echoes of their footsteps on the deckplates.

  Shivering from the wet cold, Donovan followed Martin along the ledge, watching his friend narrowly. Martin didn't shiver—he wasn't built for it—but Donovan had discovered that the prolonged cold made him sluggish and disoriented.

  When they reached relative safety beneath the cavernous overhang of a huge pump, both collapsed. Donovan closed his eyes; the momentary energy of fear drained from his body like blood. In another day, two at the most, he wouldn't have the strength to scurry and hide.

  "Good thing you heard them, Martin, I was so busy listening for drips of water that I missed 'em completely."

  "I didn't hear them, Mike," Martin said. "I sensed the vibration of their feet."

  "Well, however you did it, it saved us." Donovan leaned back, listening—then he heard it. "Martin! Water dripping! This way!"

  The two crawled among the maze of scummy piping, searching for the elusive sound. When they reached it, Mike gestured Martin to go first. "You deserve first turn for saving us." Donovan didn't watch as Martin lapped at the water dripping from a moisture-laden beam; the sight of Martin's tongue still unnerved him. He heard a quick scuttling of tiny feet, and, knowing what was coming, turned to see Martin lash out with that incredible inhuman swiftness to catch the rat. The creature squeaked and struggled in the Visitor's hold. Donovan looked at it with pity.

  Martin smiled sympathetically. "It makes you ill to watch. I will walk away to eat."