Maffet’s eyes gleamed. He glanced a last time in the direction of the entrance, more for effect than need. Others would be arriving soon to make use of the range, but they still had the facility all to themselves.
“I could catch hell for this if anybody finds out I did it for you.”
“Nobody’s gonna find anything out, you paranoid old fart. You think Francisco’s gonna tell?”
Maffet leaned over the counter and looked toward the range, where the Newcomer detective was loading his own weapon. “How the hell can you be so sure of him? He’s a Slag.”
Sykes’s expression twisted. “Hey, sure he’s a Slag—but he’s an okay Slag. Got me? As far as you’re concerned he’s a detective.”
Maffet looked up sharply at Sykes. “Don’t tell me you actually like him?”
“I don’t have to tell you nothin’. You’re a civilian now, remember? So what did you find for me?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your ass in an uproar.” Maffet’s sour look vanished when he unlocked a drawer beneath the counter and pulled it out. The bag he withdrew didn’t contain groceries.
Maffet reached into the bag and pulled out the biggest handgun Sykes had ever seen. Plenty of custom jobs in the shops came equipped with longer barrels, but that had nothing to do with power. The bore on Maffet’s baby was immense, capacious enough to hold a shotgun shell. Nor was bore size the gun’s only unique characteristic. The whole weapon; hammer, cylinder, trigger guard, scope, everything down to the screws, was fashioned of solid stainless steel.
There was reverence in Maffet’s eyes as he handed it over. Sykes accepted it gingerly, studying it as he flipped it from one side to the other, finally hefting it in one hand to aim it experimentally. It was heavy, yes, but not unwieldy.
Maffet looked like a proud parent at Christmas. “You said you wanted the biggest thing I could find. Well, there she is. Cost about a grand.”
“You’ll get your money, pops. What is it?”
“Casull .454 Magnum. You’re talking twice the impact energy of .44 Magnum hot loads. Place called Freedom Arms makes these puppies somewhere up in Wyoming. See, it even has a scope.”
Sykes looked back curiously. “What the hell would anybody want a scope on a handgun for?”
Maffet was having a good time. “Hunting.” He nodded toward the huge handgun. “Deer. Maybe bear.”
“Bear, yeah.” Though he wasn’t smiling, Sykes gave every indication of being satisfied with the old man’s choice. He flipped the cylinder open to examine the weapon’s interior. “Only holds five cartridges.”
“Yeah. The shells are too big to fit six in a cylinder. Hell, Matthew, you don’t need but one.”
Sykes fought to hold the pistol at arm’s length, taking casual aim in the direction of the range. “Heavy, but not impossible. I won’t ask about recoil.”
“You won’t have to.” Maffet grinned. “Find out for yourself.” The sound of the grill being opened made him look toward the entrance. “Better get started. This time of night the place can fill up fast once the guys start coming in.”
Sykes nodded. Picking up the gun and a couple of boxes of very expensive shells, he went looking for his partner.
Francisco stood near the far end of the range, looking bizarre in his ear protectors. Unlike most articles of human attire which were cut too small for the average Newcomer, the ear shields were too large. They didn’t fit tightly enough over the flat aural openings in the side of Francisco’s head and he was readjusting them constantly. Duct tape would probably work better, Sykes mused.
The alien was taking careful aim with his regulation .38. His finger barely fit in front of the trigger. Up the range, recent arrivals were beginning to load and fire.
“Let’s see what you got,” Sykes asked him. When Francisco didn’t respond, Sykes rapped him on the arm.
The alien lifted his ear muffs, looked querulous. “Sorry, Matt.”
“I said, let’s see what you got, Cochise. Gimme six in a row, rapid fire.”
“Please bear in mind that I am still not comfortable with the firearms they issue.” This confession made, the detective replaced his ear protectors. Sykes slipped into his own and looked intently at the paper target downrange, which only made his partner more nervous.
Francisco let fly methodically, all six shells. Every one struck the target, but that was the best you could say for his aim. The bullet holes were spread all over the paper in a highly dispersed, sloppy grouping.
Sykes lowered his ear shields and proceeded to demonstrate the tact and diplomacy for which he was famed throughout the precinct.
“How long you been shooting? That’s pitiful. Didn’t they teach you anything at the Academy? Cripes, the last thing they do is show rookies what a gun is for. What are you gonna do if somebody draws down on you? Wave your scores on the written exam at ’em?” As he spoke he was sliding thumb-sized cartridges into the cylinder of the Casull. The pop and bang of handguns being fired filled the range and he had to shout to make himself heard above the din.
Francisco listened, taking it all silently. Only when Sykes had finished did he speak up unexpectedly. “Why did you do it?”
“Why’d I do what?”
“Agree to work with me. You don’t like me. You don’t like any of us. You have nothing but contempt for my kind. That has been plain to see these past few days. Your attitude is obvious in the way you address me, in the way you refer to other Newcomers, in the way you look at us. You make no secret of it, so do not try to deny it. I am not surprised. Your attitude is the one that still prevails among most humans.
“And yet you make yourself an outcast among your fellow detectives by volunteering to become my partner. I wish you would explain this to me, Matthew Sykes, because I wish to learn as much as possible about human behavior.”
Sykes turned sharply. “All right. I’ll tell you why I’m working with you. Because my partner is dead! Because one of you bastards killed him before disappearing down a rathole in Slagtown, where he’s home safe and dry ’cause in Slagtown nobody sees nothing, nobody says nothing, and a cop like me’s about as welcome as a visit from the Federal Forced Resettlement Bureau.”
Turning away from Francisco, he angrily wrenched a Kelvar-IV bulletproof vest from a nearby wall hanger and slapped it over the hanging target silhouette in front of him. As the Newcomer looked on impassively, Sykes flicked the wall switch and ran the vest-covered target down its transport wire, all the way to the end of the range. The stink of cordite filled the subterranean shooting gallery and it was loud even with muffs on.
Sykes was still talking as he waited for the target to reach the end of its line. “But there’s something the son-of-a-bitch didn’t figure on. He didn’t figure on you, George. That’s why I closed my eyes and stuck up my hand when they asked for a volunteer to babysit you. That’s why I’ve kept my ears shut and taken all the crap at the station while I’ve been working with you. Don’t think I did this because I’m some kind of saint, or because I’m overflowing with the milk of human kindness, or because I felt bad for you. I did it because I need you. You’re the only one who can help me find Tug’s murderer.” The target had stopped swinging.
“You’re going to get me through that wall of silence, George. You’re going to make them talk to me. You’re going to help me find that Slag son-of-a-bitch. Comprendo?”
“Procedure. We spoke about . . .”
“We spoke about a lot of shit, George,” Sykes said, interrupting him. “We also spoke about what it means to be partners. Remember?”
“I remember, Matt, but . . .”
“And if Fedorchuk and the boys in the bullpen don’t like it, screw them,” he continued, “and if the Captain doesn’t like it, screw him, and if the computer doesn’t like it, unscrew it, and if all the Slags down in Slagtown don’t like it, why hell, screw them too!”
Francisco was about to reply but his following words were drowned out by a thunderous, echoing roar as Syke
s raised the Casull in both hands and let rip. It sounded as if someone had set off a small bomb in the range. The target nearly flipped a 360, swinging wildly on its stressed clips as the shell slammed clean through the paper and the state-of-the-art bulletproof vest.
That’s how he learned about the recoil. It slammed him a step backward and brought his arm up sharply. Fighting down the pain, he grimly resumed his position and fired a second time. Another gaping hole appeared in the vest. Fragments of cardboard drifted like snow to the floor of the range, illustrating graphically how the target was being shredded by the impact.
As Sykes kept firing it grew quieter and quieter uprange. The other shooters were leaning out and looking downrange curiously, trying to locate the source of the awesome explosions.
Sykes set the pistol down, saw that his hand was bleeding. It would take awhile to get used to the Casull. He felt only satisfaction as he studied the still swaying, devastated target.
VI
Few humans ventured beyond the outskirts of Slagtown at all save for government workers, and even the police preferred to avoid this end of the alien ghetto. Only the X-Bar seemed at home, a brightly hued carrion feeder set down among dark storefronts and boarded-up apartment buildings.
The menial laborers lounging in front of the bar looked like rejects from the Raiders’ offensive line, big and battered. They glared with undisguised antagonism at the two detectives as they emerged from the slugmobile. Sykes took in the sullen expressions and threatening gazes phlegmatically.
“Okay,” he told his partner. “I do this all the time, so just stay back and watch me. Watch and learn, watch and learn.”
“Whatever you say, Matt.” Francisco obediently followed Sykes into the bar.
Sykes expected bad lighting. That much was evident from outside. But he wasn’t prepared for the near total absence of illumination. A few indigo-colored ultraviolet lamps made the place resemble the nightmare end of an old fun house. Shirt and socks glowed eerie blue. Sykes knew the ultraviolet wasn’t for effect. The Newcomers could see farther into that region of the spectrum than any human.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. Gradually he picked out the long straightaway of the bar and the massive humanoid shapes hunched over the plastic wood counter. The floor was spotted with chairs and tables, islands adrift in an ocean of ultraviolet.
“I can’t see dick in here.” Francisco didn’t comment.
Booths lined the far wall. They were mostly empty. He tried to take a headcount, thought maybe twenty inhabitants shuffled silently through the purple haze. All of them had been chattering animatedly in their own language when the detectives had entered, making the place sound like the snake house at the zoo. As the presence of the intruders was noted, the conversation died.
He sauntered toward the bar, to all outward appearances utterly unconcerned about his safety and ignorant of the hostility that was rising like steam all around him. His walk was casual, unhurried. He might’ve just dropped in for a drink and a chat, like the rest of them. Except that he wasn’t thirsty, and he wasn’t like the rest of them.
Easy enough to grab their undivided attention. He addressed the general silence. “Which one of you Slags is Porter?”
A voice rose from an unseen source near the far end of the bar. “Who wants to know?” The English was crude, the alien accent heavy.
Sykes squinted into the darkness, without result. He needed to be an owl in this place. Instead he felt like a mole, blind and groping his way. He mumbled softly to his partner.
“I can’t make ’em out. Who said that?”
Francisco replied in a low whisper as he gestured with his right hand. “At the end of the bar.”
Nodding, Sykes headed in that direction. “My name’s Sykes. Detective Sergeant Sykes. I’m with the L.A. . . .”
An alien voice interrupted, rich with disbelief. “Ss’ai k’ss?”
The individual roared with laughter. It spread like a wave through the bar as the information was passed from table to booth. Too late, Sykes remembered what his name translated into in the alien tongue. His face was burning, but it was probably too dark even for the damn Slags to note the change. Most likely none of them would recognize the significance of heightened skin color among a human anyway.
He was having plenty of trouble focusing on the distant speaker, so it wasn’t surprising he missed the size-16 work boot that emerged from one of the booths to trip him. He stumbled but didn’t go down, spinning to confront the offender. But the booth was suddenly filled only with lavender-tinged shadows. Laughter taunted him, accompanied by soft alien admonitions.
A new voice reached him, leavened with amusement. “Careful, ss’loka’. You might hurt yourself.”
More laughter, but this time Sykes spotted the speaker. He stared hard, then calmed himself as he resumed his march to the end of the bar. True to his word, Francisco kept his mouth shut, trailing silently behind.
The Newcomer Sykes found himself confronting was as big as any he’d seen. He wore greasy, stained coveralls. Beneath the hapless overdose of cologne he stank to high heaven. If possible, his boots were larger than the one which had just tripped the detective.
But Sykes abruptly found himself much more interested in the smaller Newcomer seated on the last stool. He was dressed and coiffured in postpunk style. Unlike his oversized neighbor, he was making obvious efforts to render himself inconspicuous. Sykes smiled tightly to himself. The Newcomers made lousy poker players. Their emotions always showed in their posture and expressions.
Sykes kept staring without speaking. Sure enough, the Newcomer couldn’t keep himself from turning to catch a glimpse of the two cops staring back at him. His expression underwent a drastic shift when he spotted Francisco, but the alien detective was looking elsewhere at the time and missed it.
Sykes’s attention kept shifting between the two Newcomers. Just because the punk wore a guilty air didn’t mean he was the one they were looking for. Frankly, the big guy seated next to him appeared a much more likely candidate for serious antisocial behavior,
“You Porter?” Sykes said to the broad back.
The Newcomer ignored him, sipping at his mug. It was half full of sour milk. Sykes didn’t waste time, grabbed the guy by the shoulder and spun him round. Given the alien’s bulk it wasn’t an easy move, but he managed it. Practice compensated somewhat for his lesser mass.
The Newcomer flicked the detective’s fingers from his shoulder. He slid off the stool and stood up. Kept standing up, locking eyes with Sykes. Meanwhile the punker who’d been seated nearby was edging off his seat.
Francisco grabbed him before he’d made it to the end of the bar, speaking for the first time since they’d entered. “No, Matthew. I believe this is the one you want.” As he spun the younger alien around, the detective got his first good look at him. It confirmed his initial suspicions.
Sykes favored the big alien with a final warning look, then gratefully stepped past the giant to rejoin his partner. He turned his frustration on the punk.
“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Porter, would it?”
“Uh, Matt, if I may . . .”
Sykes snapped at his colleague. “Back off, George.”
“But I . . .”
“I’ll handle it. Just do as you’re told.” Francisco reluctantly let go of the punk’s shirt and stepped back.
The youth wasn’t nearly as big as the millworker Sykes had just confronted, but he was still plenty impressive. Sykes made a show of his frustration.
“Geez, are these questions too tough for you? I know some of you guys are slow, but it’s not like the music’s drowning me out, right?” He sighed melodramatically. “Let’s try it one more time.” He framed the words with his lips. “Is . . . your . . . name . . . Porter?’’
The punker replied in a monotone. “Ss’kya’ta.”
Sykes made a face, glanced at Francisco. “What’s that?”
“Screw you,” his partner inf
ormed him without batting an eye.
“Screw me? That can’t be right,” he said amiably.
Having warmed to his subject, Porter became positively voluble. “Ss’kya’ta ss’loka. Sss’troyka ss’lato ’na’!”
Sykes’s voice dropped dangerously. “What’s all that mean?”
Francisco sounded nonplussed. “You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me.”
“Matt, really, I’d rather not bother with . . .”
“Tell me, damnit.”
The detective swallowed, said rapidly and without pause, “Your mother mates out of season.”
Sykes relaxed, smiling appreciatively. “That’s very colorful. However, it doesn’t mean zip to a human. We mate all the time, see?”
“I know. That’s precisely the point.”
“He can make all the points he wants about my love life. But see, now I’ve got a problem. I don’t seem to be getting much cooperation from you, Porter. So I guess we’re gonna have to take this little session down to my office, ya know? Everybody down there mates out of season, in case you’re interested, and when they haven’t mated for a while they get mean and nasty and impolite. Does that translate into anything worthwhile, George?”
“It makes a point.”
“I’m glad something does,”
He could tell Porter was getting ready to run. Sykes wasn’t utterly ignorant of Newcomer characteristics. He dug in his pocket for a plastic tube. Not the Casull, but a flashlight with a high-intensity krypton bulb. As Porter tensed to break, he flipped on the light. The Newcomer let out a cry and turned away in obvious distress. So did every alien within range of the white light. Even Francisco, half expecting Sykes to do something, was taken by surprise and had to flinch.
Being able to see better in the dark, Sykes reflected grimly, also came with disadvantages.
By the time Porter knew what had hit him, Sykes had the alien pinned up against the bar and was working with his cuffs. But it was hard to manipulate flashlight and handcuffs simultaneously. As the light waved around, Porter got a hand free and grabbed the end of the tube. Massive fingers convulsed and the plastic splintered, smashing down into the fragile bulb. Blood trickled from the punker’s hand, but the light was out.
Alien Nation Page 9