Mike stood, fists clenched at his sides. “I said that’s enough. Maybe you think wholesale slaughter is a great way to solve problems, but—”
“Tell me, Gooder, was she worth it?”
Mike’s face darkened. “You’re gonna be sorry you—” "Stop it,” Julie snapped, stepping between them. “We don’t have time for this playground macho crap. There’s a lot more at stake here, like the lives of all the people along the West Coast. So shut up, Tyler, and Mike, sit down.”
Mike and Ham locked glares for a few moments longer, then reluctantly sat down.
“Why are people’s lives in danger, Julie?” Robin asked.
“The Visitors’ red dust is supposed to kill all the seaweed. That’ll wreck the food chain, killing all the fish, and eventually the stuff might filter through to our drinking water. We don’t know whether it’s also poisonous to human beings, and I’ll bet Diana hasn’t spent a lot of time worrying about that.”
“So we have to find out where the dumping site is going to be, and fast.” Kyle, silent up to this time, raised his head, shifting his position to favor his still-bandaged knee.
“Can we get hold of the resistance network reports of Visitor movements up and down the coastline, maybe analyze the patterns over the past ten days or so?” Mike asked.
“Within the next six hours?” Ham shook his head. “No way.”
Elizabeth, seated next to her mother on the couch, mentally withdrew from the argument as it escalated. It was a simple trick, one she’d taught herself from her days on the Mother Ship when Diana had been tutoring her and trying to fill her with violent, hating notions. There had always been so many arguments in her life. Didn’t people ever get tired of shouting, being angry with one another all the time?
She stole a glance at Robin, who was leaning forward, listening intently to the words being exchanged. Things had been awkward and strained between them since last night, when Elizabeth had realized she was a living symbol of hate for her own mother. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but that didn’t make it any less true.
She could sense the emotional climate among the people present growing heated again and tinged with desperation. She bit her lip as she got a sudden, sharp image of the red dust of her dreams, of these same people clutching their throats, dying as the red wave washed over them, drowning them—
Stifling a gasp, Elizabeth blinked furiously, her gaze seeking something soothing, real. On the wall above Mike’s head, there was a faded picture of an old sailing schooner riding high and proud on the sunlit sea, and she fixed on the image gratefully, enjoying the cool blueness of sea and sky.
She could almost feel the warmth of the sun, the salt-tangy breezes whipping her hair back as she gazed at the ship’s prow, watching it turn leeward; and then California’s coastline came into view. The air was turning pink with twilight, then dark as lights were blinking on around the suddenly modem shoreline.
And she was closer, a tiny ship herself, or a bird skimming low over the night waters toward the waterfront area, where fishing and other commercial boats jostled one another next to piers and low, weather-beaten buildings of various sizes.
She saw two Visitors come out of a warehouse bearing the legend “prentiss & long shipping ltd.” in large, fading white letters along its side. They were carrying what looked like a barrel between them. Then Diana stepped out, following from a safe distance, directing them to move with care as they carried their container down nearby steps to a small powerboat bobbing in the tide. . . .
... and a crack in the barrel opened up, spilling a little red dust onto the wooden stairs and pilings, and the dust swirled, grew into a red cloud that turned larger, darker, and she screamed—
“Elizabeth!” Her mother had grasped her shoulders, and her eyes were wide and frightened. “Honey, are you all right?” Bewildered, she glanced around to see that everyone was silent, staring at her with concerned expressions. “I ... I saw where they are,” she said softly. “Or where they’re going to be.” Feeling small and drained of energy, she described her vision.
“Sounds like Pier Number Nine near Long Beach,” Ham muttered almost to himself. “But maybe she remembers it from passing by.”
“We’ve been on a lot of motorcycle rides together,” Kyle said, looking over at her. “But I’ve never taken her around that part of town.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Robin, giving him a look. “She could’ve seen it on TV or in a movie somewhere.” “It’s real, Mr. Tyler,” Elizabeth insisted, annoyed at his brusque, patronizing attitude. “And we’ve got to stop it. It’s a horrible poison—it holds death for thousands of people.” Ham shook his head, his expression doubtful. “I can’t put much stock in this hocus-pocus of yours, honey. It’s all very well for card tricks and parlor games with Ouija boards, but we’re talking a serious operation with a lot at stake. If you’re imagining this whole thing, then—”
“I’m not.” The firmness in her tone surprised everyone. “I believe you, Elizabeth.” Julie smiled.
“Seems to me we don’t have much choice,” Mike said.
“Certainly no better alternative, and Elizabeth’s, uh, track record has been pretty impressive about other things.”
“Do we put it to a vote?” Elias asked, looking around. “I’m with Elizabeth.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Julie said, rising. “How about you, Ham?”
“Sentiment always wins over logic in this group.” Tyler shrugged. “ESP is just the next step, I guess. Okay, let’s mobilize. We meet at ten p.m. in the Safeway parking lot—you all know the one. Standard night gear and masks. Those of you with scaly weapons make sure you get a fresh power pack.”
“Everybody try to get some rest, okay?” Julie said as people got up to leave.
Jacket collar up around her neck and wearing sunglasses, Marjorie Donovan slumped into the park bench in Griffith Park, exhausted. It was nearly eight-thirty in the evening, and shadows were growing very long and blue along the walkway, but she felt better behind the sunglasses, safer somehow, as though she could hide from the realities of her situation—and herself.
Her head ached dully, and her stomach spasmed from lack of food. Frowning, she tried to remember her last meal. Absently, she ran a hand along her grimy cheek, her fingertips tracing the haggard lines she knew were there from conflict and lack of sleep.
She was aware that she had been converted. That was one of Diana’s cruel little touches, to ensure that her victims remained fully alert and aware of what was happening to them. (“Why, it makes you much more believable in your role, my dear,” she had said. “Who would trust a Maijorie Donovan with a glassy look in her eyes, or saliva drooling down her chin?”)
But how infinitely better it would be to be ignorant, or unconscious, when your body started to act in ways independent of your will, your mouth to say things you didn’t feel . . . presenting a perfect, traitorous appearance while you watched, a mere spectator, trapped and helpless within your own body.
Earlier, in one of the public rest rooms at the observatory, Margie had attempted suicide. Her wrist still ached from the small, deep cut she’d managed to inflict on herself, but Diana had anticipated that, too. “Darling, don’t think suicide is the answer—it isn’t,” she had warned. Sure enough, as the initial pain had hit her, Marjorie’s right hand had trembled uncontrollably, causing her to drop the small penknife onto the floor beside the sink, then making attempts to retrieve it impossible.
So here she sat in the cooling evening, hunched into herself, trying not to think about the people in the L.A. resistance whom she had met and come to care for—whom she had also been conditioned to seek out, betray, and thus destroy.
Especially Mike Donovan.
A lump filled her throat, and the nearby street lamp blurred as tears welled up behind her half-closed eyes. She had fallen in love with Mike all over again, and this time they weren’t starry-eyed twenty-year-olds still trying to find themselves,
as well as knowledge, on the UCLA campus. He had changed, grown more thoughtful, understanding, considerate.
She had picked up from Diana and Lydia’s conversations that the conversion process wasn’t totally infallible. And Julie had told her that you could fight it if you had sufficient willpower. Certainly she had managed so far, wandering the L.A. streets and sidewalks throughout this unending day, trying to sort through the confusion of her feelings rather than going straight to Diana with her knowledge of the resistance headquarters and its activities. Maybe if she just sat here long enough, then she could regain herself. . . .
Slouching deeper into the park bench, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket—and her fingers brushed against the Visitor device that she had used to locate and enter the secret room in the Club Creole. A tingling shiver ran up her arm, and she jerked her left hand back as though stung.
Then, resolutely, she closed her fingers over it again and drew it out, turning it over to examine it under the streetlight’s glow. It was rather plain, really—a small gray box with a few pressure points on it marked with red Visitorese characters across its surface—and she didn’t know how it worked, only that it did. What she did know was that it was also a symbol for the bondage of her spirit.
Her mouth tightening, Margie stood and raised her hand over her head to fling the device into the darkness—and then she spotted the Visitor ground vehicle parked on the roadway, perhaps fifty feet in front of her. Two guards were lounging against the side of the vehicle. One of them was smoking a cigarette, and its tiny red light as he gestured seemed to become a lantern beckoning her to safety.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the small groan that erupted from her throat. Backing away a few steps, she sought something, anything that she could focus on besides that small, fatal light. She slammed the device in her hand into the side of her leg, once, twice, but even pain couldn’t keep her from looking at the Visitors nor stop her body from slowly turning, her legs from making the steps toward them.
“Yes?” The smoker glanced up indifferently at her approach.
“I’m Mrs. Marjorie Donovan. The former wife of Mike Donovan, the resistance leader.”
“Is that so?” The other laughed shortly and pushed his cap back on his head. “Well, I’m Kermit the Frog, the beloved Muppet leader. Pleased to meet you. Now, why don’t you—?” “I’m working for Diana on a special top-secret mission,” Maijorie said, holding the device out to them. “I need to be taken to her at once.”
“This is all fun, lady, but—”
“Look, Keith!” The other touched his arm and pointed at the symbols scrawled across it. “It’s genuine. See, there’s Diana’s special priority self-code inscribed right there.”
The one called Keith swallowed, crushed his cigarette under the heel of his boot, then snapped to attention. “Right this way, please, Mrs. Donovan,” he said, helping her into the ground vehicle’s cab.
As the vehicle cut a tight U-turn in the deserted park street and whispered away, Maijorie sat between the two Visitors, her face impassive, except for the single tear which escaped to trickle down her cheek.
Chapter 14
Battle Readiness
That evening in Kyle’s living room, Robin glanced over at Elizabeth and knew her daughter was close to tears.
That is, as close as she could get, since Elizabeth did not have tear ducts. The tight set of her mouth and the large, hurt look in her eyes spoke eloquently enough of her unhappiness, however.
“I want to come, Mother,” she repeated.
“And we appreciate your willingness to help, honey, we really do.” Robin pushed impatiently at a strand of hair that refused to go under her dark blue ski mask. “But we need you here to help . . . when we get back.”
She almost said what she was thinking: “. . .to help Miranda with the wounded.” It wouldn’t be the first time that Kyle’s house had been used as a makeshift hospital for members of the resistance.
“You’re always leaving me behind,” Elizabeth said. “To wait . . . and worry.”
“This isn’t a trip to the beach,” Kyle said shortly, limping slightly as he carried several laserguns and rifles over to the pile of supplies on the couch. “You could be hurt.”
“We’ve discussed all this before. Being alive means you take risks of being hurt sometimes.” Elizabeth turned her wide, intense blue eyes on him. “Or else you’re not truly alive—just a china doll put on a shelf somewhere to be admired but never touched.”
“Wait a minute.” He turned around to gently grasp her by the shoulders. “There’s the difference between ‘risk’ and ‘foolhardiness,’ which maybe we haven’t discussed. Your mother and I know how to use those weapons over there on the couch—you don’t. This will be dangerous any way you slice it; without a gun, well, it’s craziness to even consider it.”
“I . . . have ways of protecting myself.”
Robin frowned. She knew her daughter hated calling attention to her differences. “Honey, you know that you don’t have a lot of control over your abilities yet. And sometimes they don’t work at all. You can’t count on that to keep you safe.”
“Your knee is still hurt,” Elizabeth said, looking up at Kyle again. “That makes it craziness for you to be involved.” “It’s not that bad.” Kyle’s mouth twitched in irritation as he released her and shrugged into his black sweater.
“You don’t understand. Mother, I have to go.”
“The answer is no, Elizabeth.” Robin found it hard to put maternal firmness in her voice when speaking to this young woman who looked her own age, but Elizabeth was her daughter, in need of her best guidance. Remembering how her mother used to address her and her sisters, she made her tone and expression as severe as possible. “Period. End of discussion.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, her expression tragic. Without another word, she turned and fled toward her bedroom.
“Eighteen going on eight.” Robin sighed and sat down in the easy chair. “Honestly, I do the best I can, but I don’t understand her sometimes.”
Kyle smiled and laid a sympathetic arm on her shoulder, a gesture which sent a warm, tingly feeling though her. “You sound like every parent who ever walked this earth. It’s easy to forget how special she is—and in some ways, very different. She’s only eighteen months old, after all.”
“You’re right.” Reluctantly, she drew away from him. “I’d better talk to her before we go.”
Elizabeth was lying on her bed, her gaze fixed on a trigonometry book.
“I’m glad one of us will pass her GED,” Robin said, attempting a smile as she sat down on the bed.
“It is the only thing I guess I’m good for.” Her daughter continued working on a problem and wouldn’t look at her. “Elizabeth, you know that’s not so.” Robin reached out to
brush her hair back, but Elizabeth jerked out of her reach. “It’s just that you’re so special to us—to me. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Because I am the Starchild? The bridge linking Visitors and humans, the hope for peace between the two species?” The cold resignation in her voice made Robin wince.
“Because you’re all I’ve got left.” Robin swallowed against the pain of still-raw memories. “My mother and father were killed by the Visitors, my sisters had to be sent away. ...”
“Yes, and every time you look at me, I’m a constant reminder of what my father did to you—and what you did to him.”
There was no reply to that, nor to the alien remoteness that had settled into Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’ll . . . see you later,” Robin said, feeling very tired as she rose and moved toward the door.
“Mother—be careful.” Elizabeth’s voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Dammit!” Maggie Blodgett jerked her hand away as hot coffee sloshed over her shaking fingers. The mug slipped from her grasp and smashed onto the linoleum, sending clay fragments and brown puddles everywhere.
Druid began yapp
ing and dancing around her feet. “Shut up, you,” she muttered, pushing him away as she bent to pick up the pieces and search for a sponge in the lower cabinet.
“You destroying my kitchen, woman?” Chris Faber called from the bedroom.
She scowled in his general direction. Damn him anyway! He sounded positively cheerful about this whole operation—more like a kid looking forward to a trip to Disneyland or Knott’s Berry Farm than somebody facing what could well be the end of the line for him and/or the others he cared about.
Hell, she thought, dragging out paper towels to mop furiously at the mess after giving up on finding a sponge. The end of the line—buying the farm—the Big One. We can’t even name death directly, let alone face it without a lot of cute euphemisms to cover how scared shitless we are by its prospect.
“Mag, did we do a load of underwear? I can’t find any clean shorts.”
She bit her lip, hoping the sharp little pain would drive back the tears suddenly threatening behind her eyelashes. “For God’s sake, Chris, you’re not helpless. Look in your bureau drawer.”
“Ain’t none in there.”
“Then it’s all in the laundry hamper.”
“No clean drawers?” Big, naked, and glistening from his shower, Chris appeared in the doorway, his face a study in put-on tragedy. “Hon, a man can’t die or go to the hospital in dirty underwear! My grandma, God rest her soul, used to tell me—” “Faber, screw you and your grandma!” Maggie’s pent-up feelings of anger and frustration wouldn’t be ignored any longer; they boiled up in her like a geyser, and she felt as though she were drowning as she viciously shoved the coffee-stained paper towels into the trash can.
Chris felt as though he’d been slapped in the face, scarcely feeling the cool night air on his wet skin as he stood there, staring at the tall woman with the honey-gold hair as she rushed around like a madwoman, cleaning furiously, scrubbing everything within reach. “Maggie, what’s wrong?” he finally managed.
V 10 - Death Tide Page 20
