V 10 - Death Tide

by A C Crispin, Deborah A Marshall (UC) (epub)

  He began to laugh, and Margie joined him. “We ... we look like an Ivory Soap commercial gone crazy,” she said between gasps.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With great, absurd dignity, Ham settled the collar of his black leather jacket in place, only to have more foam well out, and even he began to laugh.

  Chapter 10

  Room for Discussion

  A man’s raucous laughter rang out over the hubbub in the Club Creole late that night, and Bernard the botanist raised his head, feeling vaguely resentful. “I’m glad someone is having a good time this evening,” he remarked to the bartender.

  “Yes.” The bartender nodded and poured more of his special drink into Bernard’s glass. “This is a good place to come for a good time.”

  Lifting the glass, the botanist gulped gratefully. The drink was suitably viscous for his swallowing apparatus, and had none of the annoying sweetness of most human alcoholic beverages. Bernard knew he shouldn’t be here; Diana would be furious if she found out he’d slipped out for a quick drink and a chance to rest his eyes from the harsh glare of the warehouse lights, rather than continuing to oversee their own Operation Red Dust. But he’d been so sick of being cooped up inside with the noxious smell of his defoliant that he’d risked going out— just for a little while, he told himself. Just a few minutes . . .

  The manufacturing plant had been set up in record time very early this morning, and his assistants were working feverishly to produce the quantities of defoliant Diana had demanded for tomorrow night. They were far more afraid of Diana’s wrath than his own; he wasn’t needed to keep discipline this late at night—at least for an hour or so.

  “Do you lick your drink?” The blond-haired bartender looked anxious as he wiped his hands on his apron.

  Puzzled, Bernard looked at him. “Usually, I swallow them.”

  The other gestured. “My English is not good. I learned Arabic to come here, and then central personnel screwed my transfer orders. What I wish to know is if you love my drink. ” “Yes, I . . . like it very much.” Bernard smiled slightly. He knew how bad problems with the military hierarchy could get.

  “My name is William, but my friends call me Willie.” The bartender extended his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.” “I’m Bernard,” he said, ironically acknowledging the human custom. This fellow was one of his own kind and seemed a decent sort, someone Bernard felt he could talk to, someone who had experienced his own troubles with high command—someone who could understand and sympathize with how horrible his lot in life was at the moment. “Indeed, your drink has been the best thing in my entire miserable day. I’m working on a special project for Diana, and she is a horrible person to have breathing over your crest.”

  “So I have heard. ” Willie nodded sagely and reached for his blender again. “That she has no respect for opinions other than her own, and she drives others very, very hard.”

  “Exactly right!” Bernard’s own nod was vigorous, making his head feel a little dizzy, but pleasantly so. Somewhere deep down, he knew he was getting drunk, but somehow couldn’t summon the wherewithal to care. “She’s given me less than two days to complete this vital project, when four was my estimated minimum.” He stumbled over the word “minimum” and grinned at Willie.

  The bartender leaned over the bar with his own glass. “It must be a very important project.”

  “Oh, yes, it is.” Feeling suddenly very important himself, Bernard winked slyly at Willie and swallowed more of his drink. “I shouldn’t be talking about it at all. It’s top secret, you see, but—”

  “Excuse me, everyone.” A tall, slender dark-skinned human was striding up to the small stage at the opposite end of the room and clapping his hands for attention. “Excuse me. The Club Creole is closing an hour early tonight in order to accommodate a special party. Five minutes, everybody.” “Oh, no, Elias,” Willie muttered, as though to himself. Amid a chorus of groans and boos, the man on the stage smiled apologetically and raised his hands. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience, and I appreciate your understanding and support. See you all tomorrow, okay? In fact, if you come in tomorrow evening, first drink is on the house.”

  “Just my luck.” With a philosophical shrug, Bernard gulped the rest of his drink and started to rise. “I will be much too busy tomorrow evening to take a drink, free or otherwise.” “Then have it now,” Willie said, and the blender was being upended over Bernard’s glass once more. “On the home—I mean, house. There is time before the others leave.”

  “Well, thank you, my friend.” This one tasted especially warm and good as it eased down his gullet, and he smiled gratefully at Willie.”

  “I have a good position here. ” Willie put his elbows on the bar, his expression wistful. “And I was grateful to get it. After V-Day, there was no longer need for my services as a cryogenics technician, and I feared I might be shipped home. And I do not need to tell you about the conditions there. But I . . . miss knowing about the goings-on among my own people.”

  Bernard smiled gently at him. Poor little fellow, it would no doubt be a real thrill for him to hear about Operation Red Dust. Just a few hints would probably light up his bleak existence among these dim-witted humans, and give him hope.

  He drew himself up a little crookedly. “I am personally heading the most important project our people have begun since we lost control of this backward waterhole. I am authorized by Diana to generate files using my own name-based access code to our computer network. For the duration of this project, I have even been declared exempt from security checks, in order that my mind not be distracted with worrisome details.”

  Willie looked suitably impressed. “I never heard of that being allowed before. What did you say this project was?” “It’s a plan to use our own—”

  “Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, please.” The black man was shouting and waving his arms again. “And don’t forget to check out our brand-new line of Club Creole sportswear with the famous little logo. The shirts come in a variety of sizes and are only fifteen ninety-five, a real bargain.”

  Willie looked as if he would like to kill the man for a minute, then his face smoothed into a smile again. “My boss. He gets so exited sometimes. Please, go off with your story.” ‘“Operation Red Dust.’” Bernard nodded proudly and placed his empty glass onto the bar with exaggerated care. “That is my own ironic title for an operation using a defoliant that I have developed, which does resemble—”

  “Dee-foal-lee-ant?” Willie’s mouth moved uncertainly over the syllables.

  “It’s a substance to destroy all water-based vegetation in the southern California ocean waters. The humans have been working on more of their own red dust to drive us off Earth, but now we have outsmarted them. I will no doubt receive a personal commendation from the Great Leader himself once this is completed, within the next—”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Bernard broke off to find the black man tapping him on the shoulder, his expression polite but firm. “Time to go. We’re closing now.”

  Waving a hand at Willie, Bernard grinned blearily, fumbled a wad of money onto the bar, and lurched out into the cool night air.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Willie?” Elias Taylor asked, pacing unhappily in front of the bar.

  Behind him, laughter and voices were punctuated by a chorus of pops from champagne corks. After the last customer had walked or staggered out of the Club Creole, the members of the L.A. resistance had emerged from their basement headquarters to celebrate their victory in obtaining hundreds of new power packs.

  The party was already in full swing, and Willie had to shout to be heard over the noise. His English slipped even further in his agitation. “I tried to capture your vision, Elias, but you were not watching at me!”

  Elias stared at him blankly, then his mouth quirked. “You mean, ‘catch my eye.’ Yeah, if I’d known you were pumping that dude for the secrets of the newest Visitor harassment, you could’ve talked to him all night. Well,
we’ll tell Julie as soon as we see her.” He clapped the distressed Visitor on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Willie, we’ll figure out something. Now, I want you to get out from behind that bar and start enjoying yourself. This is a party, remember? I’ll try to find Julie.”

  * * *

  Juliet Parrish sat huddled in a huge rattan chair, her legs curled beneath her. Her abdomen lurched queasily almost continually now, and within the last twenty-four hours she’d also begun to experience sharp little cramps from time to time. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t really in the mood for a party. Julie was determined to put up a good appearance, though— especially in front of Mike Donovan.

  He was sitting across the dining room from her on a low, overstuffed couch, his ex-wife beside him. Margie looked lovely, her hair softly curling over the shoulders of a light blue dress. Julie tugged at her indifferent ponytail and pushed her glasses up on her nose—she hadn’t had the time or energy to put on makeup or do her hair. And after a day in heels and business suit at Science Frontiers, she couldn’t bear to part with her T-shirt and old jeans.

  “To the newest member of our team,” Mike said, raising his glass as he looked at Margie. The faint pink flush across his nose and cheekbones told Julie he’d already had a couple of drinks before this one. “To Margie Donovan, the heroine of the power pack raid.”

  “Oh, Mike, it wasn’t that big a deal,” she said, blushing but obviously pleased by his praise.

  “Are you kidding? Folks, you should have seen her. ” There was undisguised pride in his expression—and something else more subtle as he put his arm around her. “She was fantastic. She saved my life. Hell, she saved all our lives. It was her idea to hide out in the carwash until we lost them.”

  “I dunno, Gooder. ” Ham Tyler stared down into his Scotch and soda. “The whole thing struck me as being a little too easy somehow. I hope to hell they didn’t manage to plant a bug on us or something.”

  “Easy? Tyler, you get hit in the head by one of ’em? We were damn lucky to get away at all, let alone with only one injury.”

  The main door of the Club Creole unlocked, everyone tensed a moment, then relaxed as Robin and Elizabeth Maxwell came in, followed by Kyle Bates, on crutches.

  “Speak of the devil.” Ham gestured with his glass. “Hey, hotshot, we’re over here. So look who gets the hero’s escort, Gooder.”

  Julie watched as Kyle eased himself into the offered seat, grimacing a little at the attention. She was grateful that her friend and colleague, Dr. Joe Akers, worked at the nearby clinic and could patch up the resistance members as needed, and she was happy with her own work as a researcher. Still, there were times that she regretted not having completed her studies in medicine. “How are you, Kyle?” she asked.

  “Just a wrenched knee, no big deal. Doc Akers said it’ll be good as new in a week or so.”

  Miranda Juarez smiled, then drew her features into a mock frown. “Shouldn’t you be home resting it?”

  “Hey, you couldn’t expect me to miss my own party!” Kyle protested.

  Donovan looked over at him. “Sorry we had to leave you behind, buddy. ”

  “You did the only thing you could.” Shrugging, Kyle accepted a glass of champagne from Robin. “The only thing I’ll expect is a featured heroic role in Lizard Kill, Part II, which I know they’ll make once we get rid of them again— permanently, next time. Here’s to it.”

  As glasses were raised and clinked, Julie saw Robin glancing over at her, frowning slightly. Julie sighed and shook her head a little, knowing the young woman would mentally translate her gesture to read: No, I haven’t started my period yet; no, I’m not feeling any better—worse, as a matter offact— and no, I don’t like what’s going on between Mike and the former Mrs. Donovan.

  At the next table, Robin bit her lip, her expression pensive over her glass of champagne. Poor Julie, she looked awful, and Mike Donovan was acting like a real jerk.

  “Mother.” Elizabeth touched her arm. “What’s wrong with Julie?”

  “I’m not sure,” Robin admitted, looking at her friend again. Julie had always been tiny; now she looked pale and haggard, her eyes surrounded by dark circles, her cheekbones accentuated by the weight she’d lost.

  “There is something . . . wrong about her, inside.” Elizabeth’s blue eyes were cloudy and distant.

  “Do you know what it is?” Robin found herself holding her breath as she leaned toward her daughter.

  “No. Only that it troubles her and is causing her pain.”

  Elizabeth stared down at the tablecloth. “And . . . that there is nothing that we can do to help her.”

  Chris and Maggie strolled in from the back entrance a few minutes later. They looked casual and weren’t holding hands, but Julie immediately picked up on the significance of the glances that passed between them. She smiled a little ruefully. She and Mike used to sneak sideways looks like that when they were together.

  “Hey, Chris.” Ham raised his glass. “How’s it going?”

  “Real good. Congratulations on swiping those lizard Dura-cells.”

  “Went down pretty smooth,” Ham admitted modestly. “Even Gooder here managed to pick up his feet.” Donovan flipped him the finger, and everyone laughed. “So, no dark glasses, Faber. That mean your sight’s back to normal?”

  Chris grinned and looked over at the bar across the room. “Anybody wanna hear me read off all the labels on the third row?”

  “No, but we’re sure glad you can,” Mike said. “Congratulations on your recovery. It looks like maybe you got more than your sight back during your little vacation. ” Smiling, Donovan glanced at Julie, who hastily dropped her gaze.

  “What I’m really lookin’ for is champagne for the lady an’ me,” Chris said, expertly scooping up two glasses and a bottle from the table.

  The lurching in Julie’s stomach suddenly intensified, bringing with it a rush of nausea. She slipped out of her chair and hastened toward the kitchen—she wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way downstairs to the ladies’ room. But the spasm subsided as she pushed open the swinging doors. Standing on tiptoe, she was able to reach into the cabinet where Elias kept the first-aid supplies for the club’s employees, and pulled out the bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

  It was almost empty—Willie had been using the stuff in his nightly drink specials for the Visitors. Still, there was enough for one final swallow, and she upended the bottle, grimacing at the taste, then leaned against one of the huge refrigerators.

  Her reflection was blurred and distorted in the shiny metal surface, but Julie could mentally sketch in the bruised-looking smudges under her eyes, her pallor. I thought pregnancy was supposed to give you a healthy glow, she mused bitterly. I look like hell.

  She pressed her hands to her abdomen as a cramp awakened, making her catch her breath. Am I getting my period? she wondered. If she was pregnant, spasms like these, she knew from her medical training, could be an ominous symptom. And there was no doubt that she’d been heavily exposed to the original red dust in the weeks before V-Day. . . .

  She’d seen the pictures taken after the Visitors had left that showed the frightening side of the toxin the humans had unleashed—mutations, gross birth defects. What might it have done to her? And there was the new Catalina variant. She’d been working with it, testing it daily. Who knew what effect it might have on a developing human fetus? Could she be carrying the beginnings of a monster inside her?

  Julie swallowed, scrubbing fiercely at her eyes with her knuckles. She would not cry, especially not with Mike out there in the next room, sitting cozily next to Margie. She remembered seeing a picture Donovan had shown her of Margie holding a month-old Sean. If she had to have a baby at this, of all times, please, God, let it be normal, let it be cute and healthy like Sean, with its father’s thick dark hair.

  The scrape of a footstep sounded close by, on the other side of the refrigerator. Julie whirled around to see Margie stepping back from the massive door lea
ding to the club’s cold storage area and the hidden entrance to resistance headquarters.

  “Excuse me,” Margie said. Weaving a little, she hiccupped, then she giggled. “Champagne goes straight to my head; it always did. You can ask Mike. Uh, anyway, I was trying to find the ladies’, and I got completely turned around. This is the kitchen, isn’t it?”

  “You can use the employees’ bathroom over there,” Julie said, pointing to the small door in the side wall.

  “Thanks.” Steadying herself along the counters, Margie made her way to it.

  Julie waited for her, her mind in almost as much turmoil as her stomach. The rest rooms were on the other side of the club and downstairs. Heading into the kitchen was a pretty radical mistake for someone to make, even if she was a little tipsy.

  Could it be that Margie was looking for something— something like their secret headquarters? And had she found it?

  Robin had seen Julie get up and walk quickly to the kitchen, her expression queasy. For a moment, it looked as though Mike might get up and follow her, but then Margie leaned over and said something to him, and he laughed.

  With sudden resolve, Robin stood. Her friend Julie was hurting, and it was time Michael Donovan was reminded that there was more to life than having a good time. God knows, she had had to learn that lesson.

  “Where are you going?” Elizabeth asked, looking up at her.

  “I’m going to talk to Mike. It’s okay, honey. You wait here. ”

  Her daughter looked solemn. “Be careful, Mother.”

  “Well . . . sure. We’re just going outside the door. Be right back. ” Bending down, she gave Elizabeth a quick kiss on the forehead and marched over to the next table.

  Mike Donovan found himself wishing the world weren’t so complicated. Champagne in sufficient quantities tended to soften the edges of reality, turn them gentle and water-colored, but underneath, he was still a little uncomfortable about the way Margie was pressing against him and the fact that she felt good next to him.