“What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” Sykes snapped, embarrassed and confused over what he’d done.
“A lot of violence for nothing.”
“You think that was violence? You oughta be in the squad room some day when Warner’s passing out commendations and some paper-pusher from upstairs walks off with all the brownie points.”
“Detective Fedorchuk appeared extremely distressed with you.”
“Fedorchuk was born distressed. Don’t sweat it.”
Francisco would have continued save for the fact that something in his partner’s tone suggested that this was not the best time to analyze this particular sociology lesson. The Newcomer squared himself to the windshield, looking thoughtfully as Sykes goosed the slugmobile back toward L.A.
They ate at a different burger stand that night, though the menu was little different from the other. Only the cutesy-pie names had been changed to protect the copyright. Dead meat was still dead meat.
Sykes reminded himself repeatedly that fast-food burgers were actually wholesome meals, if you discounted the fact that most of them were fried. A burger with everything contained protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals, vegetable bulk and fats. It was also tasty when it wasn’t dried out.
The night was mellow and the two detectives sat across from each other as they dined. A young couple smooched nearby, shakes and fries languishing amidst whispers and sly little kisses. The kid looked to be about twenty-three, the girl a year or so younger. He kept trying to slip his hand between her thighs and she kept giggling and trapping his fingers, which was what he had in mind in the first place. It was all so innocent.
Hell, Sykes thought suddenly. You start thinking of a guy of twenty-three as a kid, that’s a sure sign you’re getting old. You start watching kids feeling each other up, that’s a sure sign you’ve been alone too long. Tough to go from being married to waking up by yourself in an empty bed. Shit.
Francisco was demolishing his mole strips with unabashed gusto. This time Sykes knew what to expect and didn’t let the sight bother him. He’d been on the force a lot of years, seen a lot of street scenes as gruesome as the one on the beach this morning, and dead mole shouldn’t make him queasy. Hadn’t he known a guy who used to tell a favorite ’Nam story about surviving in the jungle on rats and snakes? Better to eat a mole than a snake. What did moles eat, anyway?
And what did it matter? He’d eaten shark plenty of times, found it delicious, and sharks were the garbage scows of the sea. Since the Newcomer couldn’t handle saltwater, he found himself wondering if they could eat saltwater fish. Would they want to? He could’ve asked his partner, but found his mind turning back to business.
You accumulate enough seemingly unrelated facts, he mused, and toss ’em all in the pot together, and pretty soon they start matching up out of sheer number.
“So we’ve got three guys dead,” he heard himself saying thoughtfully. “All Newcomers, all killed the same way. Execution style. Unless you want to give credence to the theory that Strader went nuts and decided to take a latenight swim.”
“There are neater ways of committing suicide,” Francisco assured him. “Even an insane Newcomer would retain enough sense to keep clear of the ocean.”
“All murdered, then. What else we got?”
“Not a great deal, I should say.” Francisco ticked off what they knew on his thick fingers. “Warren Hubley was in middle management at a refinery, Joshua Strader was the prosperous operator of a bar and nightclub . . .”
“And Porter ran a piece-of-shit mom-and-pop minimart.” Sykes swallowed chocolate shake. “What the hell’s our connection?”
“I do not know and cannot imagine.” Francisco looked discouraged. “I fear I am not a very good detective.”
Sykes was instantly sympathetic. “The hell you ain’t. We put puzzles together, that’s all. Any such thing as an alien crystal ball?”
“A what?” his partner wondered curiously.
“Guess not. Too bad.” The detective masticated a mouthful of burger. “You know, when you guys first landed here everyone expected extraordinary things from you. Supersecrets of the stars, and all that crap.”
“Unreasonable expectations.” Francisco daintily ticked a loose fragment of mole into the corner of his mouth.
“No shit. Imagine the disappointment when everybody realized you were just a bunch of dumb joes stuck on a one-way barge you didn’t even know how to operate. I hear it’s gonna take decades, maybe centuries for our scientists to even start to figure out how the engine on your ship works.”
“None of us knows,” Francisco explained unnecessarily. Newcomer ignorance of their own science was common knowledge. “We were only passengers. When you get on a plane all you have to know how to do to reach your destination is how to buy a ticket. No one expects you to fuel the plane, check it for damage, and navigate it.”
“Yeah. Still, I suppose that U.N. team tearing the guts out of your strip will get a few money-making patents out of it sooner or later. Hey,” he said brightly, “maybe it’s a good thing you folks weren’t any better than you turned out to be, huh.”
“That is probably the truth,” Francisco said carefully.
X
Except for Winter the pathology lab was deserted. He was seated behind his desk, demolishing cold takeout chicken and avidly scanning a very peculiar magazine when Sykes and Francisco entered without knocking. He hurriedly slid the magazine into an open desk drawer and smiled up at them, his mouth full of cholesterol.
Sykes didn’t waste time. “You guys finished the postmortem on Strader yet?”
Winter mumbled around his chicken. “You mean the Blob’? They’re finishing up now.”
Francisco was staring past Winter, at the open door leading to the main lab and beyond. “Is Bentner here? I must speak with him.”
“He went home early,” Winter informed him. “His kid was sick, so I told him to take some time off. Slow day anyhow. All the excitement was Strader, and when we finished with that, no new business came in. So I’m not missing him.”
The Newcomer frowned, at which point Winter put down his chicken. “Hang on, though. He left something for you.”
Wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin, he searched the top of his crowded desk until he found what he was looking for. Francisco took the envelope and tore it open, scanned the alien script as Winter watched him closely.
“Does this have something to do with the test he ran that he wouldn’t tell me about? I mean, he doesn’t have to tell me everything he does. Nobody here does. We all do our own work and try to stay out of the other guy’s way, but there isn’t a whole lot of call for privacy when you’re working on somebody’s insides.”
Francisco ignored the technician as he read on, his expression turning stricken as he neared the end. Sykes was watching all the time, finally turned back to Winter.
“What kind of test?”
Winter shrugged. “Looking for some foreign compound in the blood of that alien you dropped the other day.”
“Did he find anything?”
The lab tech shrugged again, nodding toward the message Francisco was perusing so intently. Sykes held off until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Well?”
His partner glanced sharply at him, then folded the paper and placed it in his coat pocket. Seeing that Sykes was still staring at him, he hastened to look elsewhere.
“Answer me, man.”
“It is nothing.” The Newcomer detective turned to depart. “It is useless to remain here where nothing further may be learned.” He headed rapidly up the hall.
“Thanks, Winter,” Sykes said quickly.
“Hey, no problem.” The tech returned to his chicken, frowned at a new thought. “You’ll let me know if Bentner found anything out, won’t you?” But Sykes didn’t hear him.
Francisco was moving fast and Sykes had to hurry to catch him at the elevators. The Newcomer jabbed one of the
buttons with his thumb, made a show of following the indicator arrows as the car descended. Anything to avoid meeting Sykes’s gaze.
His partner came right around in front of him. “Now what’s this ‘nothing’ shit? It wasn’t nothing yesterday when you asked this guy Bentner to run that test and he looked like he was about to shit peach pits, and it’s not nothing now. Don’t lie to me, George, you’re bad at it.”
“All right.” Francisco’s voice was quiet. “There was something.”
Sykes relaxed slightly. “That’s more like it. So tell me what it was. Anything important?”
The Newcomer sounded very far away, as though by whispering he could put space between himself and his partner. “You must leave me alone on this, Matt. It is not something you would understand.”
“Try me. I’m a good listener.”
“No. I cannot explain.”
The elevator stopped at their floor and he entered. Sykes followed, waited while his companion hit the button that would take them down to the parking level.
“You still don’t understand how this works, do you, George? You don’t ask me to leave you alone, I don’t leave you alone. I’m your partner. I don’t work that way. Tug didn’t work that way. I don’t care what kind of alien crapola your buddy Bentner dug out of that thug. If it has anything to do with what we’re working on, I need to know. Whatever it is won’t shake me. I’ve been on the street too long, and believe me, nothing from another world can shake me any worse than some of the stuff I’ve had to deal with downtown or over in Hollywood.”
Francisco did not reply, concentrated instead with singleminded intensity on the colored green light that was illuminating one floor after another. They were nearly at bottom when a frustrated Sykes slammed his palm against the red emergency stop button. Both men stumbled as the car lurched to a halt between floors. Sykes turned angrily on the baffled Francisco.
“No secrets, goddamnit! You don’t hold back from me. Whatever is going on, you’re gonna tell me now!” He reached up and grabbed the Newcomer by the lapels, an action more significant as a gesture than a real threat. His partner could have dislodged him easily.
This time Francisco’s voice was agonized. He refused to meet Sykes’s eyes. “No. I cannot involve you. This is not your concern.”
“The hell it isn’t, when somebody wires up enough C-4 to my car to turn me into pink mist!” His expression narrowed as he shoved his face closer to his partner’s. “That Slag was on something, and no sour milk, either. Am I right? Go on, tell me I’ve got it all wrong.” By now he’d backed the Newcomer up against the back wall of the elevator cab. “Tell me! What is it?”
Francisco sighed deeply. It was an acknowledgment of resignation, and Sykes promptly let loose of his partner’s suit, took a step backward.
“It is called ss’jabroka’. To us it is a potent narcotic.”
Sykes felt vindicated. “About time. See, I ain’t comin’ apart at the seams from the shock. How potent?”
“It is difficult to draw anything like an exact analogy because of the differences in our physiological makeup. We react to ss’jabroka’ much the same as you do to your cocaine, but the manner in which our systems deal with the combination of molecules involved is very different. To all outward appearances the effect may seem similar, but internally our bodies are doing different things.”
“Sounds like strong stuff.”
“it is precisely that. The ‘high’ lasts for several hours, varying according to the tolerance of the individual. But no one is immune to the effects. We would receive small amounts of it as a reward for our labor, for good behavior, for a number of reasons. It was a reward we could have done without, for it was a means for keeping us under control as well as satisfied.”
“We? You’re telling me you’ve taken it?”
“We all did, in our previous existences.” Despite the obvious pain the confession cost him Francisco confronted his partner as squarely as he had the question.
Sykes was shaking his head dubiously. “That doesn’t make sense. Where did the stiff get the stuff? Was there some of it on the ship, maybe tucked away somewhere to provide future ‘rewards’ for the right sort of performance by selected individuals?”
“No.” Francisco shook his head. “I am sure not. It was a clean ship. I can remember when the checks were run. It was a necessary part of the departure and flight procedure. That is why I am so concerned. If our dead holdup man had it in his system, and the test Bentner ran appears conclusive, then someone must now be producing the drug here. Even if it had come from the ship its effects would long since have faded, unless it was held in the medical section where the proper long-term storage facilities were available. And I know that was impossible. That was the most heavily guarded and frequently inspected part of the ship.
“Besides, no one was conscious during the journey. Ship’s records can prove that. But that is not what has me so puzzled and worried. None of my people knows how to make the drug. It was always given to us in its finished state. The process of manufacture was carefully guarded by the Masters, for obvious reasons.”
The enormity of what his partner was telling him was still sinking into Sykes’s overloaded brain.
“Jesus, this is major. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why’d you hold out on me? Did you really think I couldn’t handle it? Hell’s bells, George, I’ve been dealing with narcotics my whole career. It’s nothing new to me.”
“I know that, Matt. I realized from the start that you would have no difficulty in comprehending the problem. That is not why I kept silent for so long.”
“So then tell me, why?”
“Because your people are ignorant of this part of our past. In the main they see us as not very bright innocents, big and strong but otherwise comparatively harmless, and willing to adopt and hew to your own moral codes even when that code is not applied fairly to us. I have watched your popular media and learned much from it. Can you imagine the headlines if this news becomes known? ‘Alien Dope Fiends Run Amok,’ or something like that. You see, I know how your society reacts to such things, and it is usually not with understanding.
“If this were to become common knowledge it would threaten our entire existence here. At the very least there would be new restrictions just when we are beginning to integrate effectively. At worst it would mean a return to the quarantine camps and a lifetime of surveillance by your medical specialists. It must be kept a secret or we are lost. Our future here will come to a dead end, and presently things are going much too well for me to allow that to happen. Tell me that you understand, Matt. I need to hear you say it.”
As he listened to his partner Sykes had calmed down completely. When Francisco had finished, the senior detective spoke calmly but with great force, looking him straight in the eye.
“George, I’ve got just one thing to say to you. Don’t you ever lie to me again. No matter what. Ever.”
“I must trust you, Matthew.” Francisco was staring at the ceiling of the cab. “I suppose I would have had to tell you sooner or later. Now that it is out I feel better for having explained. I wanted to choose the right time, but you are an impossible man to say no to. Believe me, Matt. I cannot stop this without you. And stop it we must before it can spread and before the news becomes public. Understand me clearly: no one else can know of this but you and me. It must not go beyond this place.”
Sykes nodded curtly, then hit the emergency stop a second time. They descended the rest of the way to the parking level in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
It was dark outside as they made their way back to the slugmobile. Sykes reached for the handle and winced as the fingers of his injured hand sought to grip the metal. The son-of-a-bitch still hurt like hell. He’d just have to manage. A thought struck him as Francisco opened the door on the other side.
He didn’t have to manage.
“George?” The Newcomer peered over the top of the car at him. “How about you drive?”
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Francisco didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His expression said it all for him as he reacted to the small but welcome vote of confidence. The two detectives switched places.
Sykes always liked to relax by listening to dispatch when he was concentrating on another case. It soothed him to know that someone else was responsible for checking out reports of homicides and burglaries, rapes and break-ins, vice busts and vandalism.
But listening didn’t help tonight. What had been a fairly straightforward case made important by Tug’s death had exploded into something infinitely more complex. If Francisco was to be believed, his people’s whole future stood at risk. The responsibility was one Sykes hadn’t asked for, didn’t want, and would have put aside if possible. Couldn’t do that now. Thanks to his dedication to his old partner’s memory and his damnable curiosity, he was involved up to his neck.
George continued to insist that the ss’jabroka, or whatever the hell it was, had no effect on human beings. How the hell could he be sure? He’d covered up everything he’d known about the stuff ever since he’d suspected its presence because mere knowledge of it was so dangerous. Suppose he was covering up something else as well? Suppose he’d decided to give his partner the minimum amount of information concerning the situation so they could proceed? What if the stuff did have some kind of dangerous effect on humans? That would be reason enough to keep things secret. If that was the case, then widespread knowledge of the drug’s existence and origin would be far more damaging to the Newcomer cause than anything that merely affected them.
He glanced sideways. Francisco was driving silently, professionally, a clean-cut graduate of Academy driving school, both hands firmly on the wheel and eyes concentrating on the traffic. He would’ve taken pursuit class too, Sykes knew. Was he telling his good buddy Matt Sykes everything he knew, or was he still holding back? No way to tell.
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