Manipulate (Alien Cadets)

by Corrie [kids] Garrett

  He paused. “No offense, Mike."

  Mike grinned. “None taken.”

  “That trouncer saved my life. I want him.” Sam said.

  “They are unpredictable, it is not a wise choice,” Greg argued.

  “With all due respect, they aren’t the only unpredictable ones,” Sam said. He held Greg’s gaze and eventually Greg nodded.

  “You may make the attempt,” he said.

  Downy dared to hope the trouncer would redeem itself and shred Sam’s measly ribcage, but it didn’t. It was a day of disappointments.

  Downy used the uproar to move to an empty room down the hall. He couldn’t stand living in the same room as Sam anymore. Anyway, the trouncer wouldn’t even let Downy in. A hundred times, so many nights, Downy had crouched next to Sam’s bed, tracing the path he could slash an inch from Sam’s jugular, or the arterial vein in his arm, or the pulsing artery in his inner thigh. The humans had so many vulnerabilities. But he hadn’t done it, and now his chance was gone.

  Downy used a claw to slash open the latest communication he’d received from Shara.

  It was straightforward.

  “The plan for Nat has failed. Execute Sam immediately. No more subtlety. He’s more likely to influence the trial now than before. Get rid of him – our boss demands it.”

  Downy crushed the paper in his hand. It was easy for her to say that. He couldn’t just kill Sam. It would be too obvious. His position would be desperate. The Spo would execute him, and there would be no friendly trouncer to save him.

  No, Downy had to do it someway that wouldn’t immediately betray his involvement. The tower vandalism had been well enough, time to cash in on that. He would kill once more, to establish the crazy serial killer persona, and then take Sam out tomorrow, when his trouncer pet wasn’t nearby.

  That night, Downy waited in the cafeteria until most of the students were gone. It took forever. They were all weepy about Jia and Nat, but they also wanted to replay every moment of Sam’s failed execution. They all wanted to talk to Sam, and pet that abominable trouncer that seemed so pleased to receive affection. Downy would enjoy killing that animal. Trouncers were not as easy to kill as human animals, but he could use a ritual machete to chop its limbs off. The blood of the trouncer would clot almost instantly, but without limbs its circulation would slow, until finally its heart would arrest and seizures ensue. Downy would like that.

  He waited until most of the students had finally trickled away. Only Oh Li, a Chinese boy, and a few of the girls were still there.

  Downy went out the front door, and settled in about thirty yards away. He crouched behind some hydrangea bushes and waited for his victim.

  Melanie pushed the front door open, walking into the dark night. She came down the sidewalk toward the dorm, and toward Downy.

  Yes, Melanie would be perfect. Not only did all the cadets dote on her, but General Gustav had formed some kind of disgusting affection for her as well. Gustav had been a fine general, a vicious warrior and effective leader, and even he had been infected by goodwill for the humans. Taking Melanie out would only be doing Gustav a favor. Downy would just leave Melanie’s body by the tower, to link it with the graffiti he’d done. Then tomorrow, when he killed Sam, it would be clear that the crazy psycho had done them all.

  Melanie hummed absently as she came towards him. Hurry up, Downy thought. He wanted to get her safely silenced before another cadet came down the path. When she was only five yards away from his hiding place, she suddenly crouched down to tie a shoelace. Perfect. Her neck was exposed in easy jumping distance.

  Downy tensed, and the cafeteria door opened again. High voices spilled out into the night, and Melanie turned her head to look, her dark hair swinging down over her shoulders. Her two friends were coming now. The moment was lost. Melanie waited for them to catch up and they all headed down the sidewalk together.

  Downy hissed. Melanie would have been just right. Now he would have to settle for Oh Li. That would take a while. Oh Li had kitchen duty tonight. He didn’t have to wash everything, but he had to empty four trashcans, and take out the food remains. Then Oh Li would start the two dishwashers, turn off the lights, and lock up. Actually… Downy pictured the pristine kitchen, the knives and white counters. That would be a great place for killing.

  Downy got out of his crouch and went around to the side door of the cafeteria. It was still unlocked, meaning Oh Li hadn’t taken the garbage to the dumpster yet.

  Downy eased into the kitchen. It was empty. Oh Li would be gathering the trashcans in the lobby. Two magnetic strips above the counter held plenty of sharp knives. Almost too sharp. Downy hunted among the utensil drawers for a moment until he found what he wanted. A plain, serrated knife. A bread knife, possibly. He dithered for a moment over an apple corer or a cheese grater, but settled on the corer as the companion for his knife.

  Downy was facing away from the door when Oh Li came through, a heavy black trash bag bouncing against his hip.

  “Downy? What are you doing here?” Oh Li asked. He continued into the room, slinging the trash bag down by the back door.

  “You hungry?” he asked seeing the utensils in Downy's hands.

  The mess was quite as spectacular as Downy had hoped. The disgusting red blood of the humans did have one redeeming quality. It was so much thicker than Spo blood, and it spattered much more impressively. Spo seeped, humans sprayed. It didn’t last long, unfortunately. Downy couldn’t quite get the hang of how fragile humans were. He knew it philosophically, but not yet viscerally. He was getting there, however. Between Oh Li and Jia, he’d improved a lot. Paolo didn’t really count because Downy had only dosed his clothes with a toxic spore. Shooting into the crowd during the July 4th riot had been fun (particularly since he could make Sam feel so guilty about it), but again, not a personal learning experience. Downy’s teachers complained that he was arrogant and unteachable, but here he was, humbly learning from his mistakes.

  Downy wiped some of the blood off his torso and used it to write a message on one of the relatively clean cabinet doors. He started with the yin yang again, a human symbol that amused him. They were such pseudo-intellectuals.

  “Die Spooks.” Downy scratched the first D into the cabinet before remembering that humans didn’t have claws like his. He resisted scratching the rest of the letters, merely painting them. Then he used the serrated knife to rough the edges of his scratch. He also used the knife to scratch a circle around the yin yang. That ought to cover it.

  Now, this killing was supposed to be a crazed human who hated the Spo. Downy pictured the night from the fake killer’s point of view. He would sneak on campus, wanting to kill… wanting to hurt his enemy as much as possible. He wandered into the kitchen – no. That was unlikely. He heard something in the kitchen – no. The walls were too thick. He’d have to see something to attract his attention. Maybe he was lurking in the courtyard when Oh Li took the trash out. That would work. The killer saw Oh Li, and thought or imagined that Oh Li saw him. He followed him back into the kitchen and finished him off.

  Downy went ahead and emptied the trashcans, taking all the bags to the dumpster. Now Oh Li had done his job. The killer stalked him inside and slaughtered him. Then the killer would leave. Downy traced his path, walking down campus towards the highway and the beach. Three times he wiped blood from himself onto the leaves or trunks of nearby foliage. That should create a trail. Then Downy crossed the highway, shuffling into the thick sand. He went out to the black water and scrubbed himself clean in the cold Pacific Ocean. He used the sand to rub off the crusted blood and then thoroughly rinsed off. The salt burned his eyestalks but that would pass.

  Downy felt exhilarated as he finished. He splashed the water as high as he could, sending droplets of black spray into the sky, like the blood of an even greater beast than Oh Li. Sam’s blood would spray like this some day soon. Oh Li’s death would be linked to the tower, even possibly to the jogging girl Downy had killed on their second day on E
arth. Sam’s death, followed by some others, hopefully Melanie and Armen, the condescending twerp, would be blamed on a deranged human killer. A serial killer would be established.

  He went back up the beach and across the freeway. Almost no traffic. He drug his feet through the grass of the front lawn, to remove as much sand as possible. At the cafeteria door he paused. He really wanted to go look at Oh Li one more time, in all his brilliant glory, but that would be a mistake. Keep it simple. That was the way to get away with this.

  Back in the dorm, Downy paused next to Sam’s room. Could he do Sam tonight? Maybe the deranged killer searched for more victims… but no. Downy already created the trail from the cafeteria. Restraint was a mark of intelligence. As Downy walked away, he thought he heard hissing. He cocked his head back, but it was silent again. Oh well. Time for a good night’s sleep and more killing tomorrow.

  ***

  Shara jerked her car door open and slammed it behind her. Her disgust with Downy was now professional as well as personal. She strode down the sidewalk toward the Spo headquarters. Downy was a jerk, as the humans would say, and incompetent as well. His only job had been to get rid of Sam, and what had he done? He killed a random girl on the beach, slaughtered some cute little sheep, and botched his chance to take Sam out.

  She’d given him direct orders: kill Sam immediately. And what had he done? Killed some other cadet. He was insane. Shara would have to take her own steps to get rid of Sam.

  When Shara and Akemi had been friends (only for a day, but Shara felt they had a real connection), Akemi told her about meeting Sam's sister at the hospital. Her name was Claudia, and Akemi thought she was still in Los Angeles. Akemi even knew that Claudia had a contact at Spo headquarters, a security guy named Chris.

  Claudia was Shara’s next goal. If she could get to know Claudia, she could gain access to Sam. It would be difficult to kill him at the alien academy. She needed to lure him away from there, perhaps with a visit to his sister. Then she could kill him.

  Chapter 20

  Sam had a room of his own now. And a pet. Nebbie curled up on Downy’s old mattress, sighing, “Neb, neb.” Sam tossed him some strips of beef jerky and Nebbie gnawed them contentedly.

  Yesterday Sam had been unsuccessfully executed, now he was having breakfast with his pet and trying to get a grip on himself. Nearly being executed had changed the way Sam thought about his role. Or it was starting to. He needed space and time to figure out what he was doing. He also needed to find Nat.

  A knock on his door made Nebbie jump up. He hissed at the door.

  “Who is it?” Sam asked.

  “Greg.”

  “Come in. Nebbie, lay down.” Nebbie hissed once more as Greg opened the door, but folded up his long clawed legs and resumed chewing his jerky. Nebbie learned commands quickly. He only needed a few demonstrations before he understood what Sam wanted.

  Sam stood as Greg entered.

  “Do you remember hearing about the Chicago protestors?” Greg asked.

  “Sort of. Wasn’t Lucio telling me his family lived there?”

  Half of Chicago had flooded when the Great Lakes swelled their banks after the Hadron explosion. The city was a constant scene of turmoil.

  “A group of protestors has taken hostages,” Greg said.

  “Hostages? Who?” Sam asked.

  “They’ve taken two Spo enforcers, and Lucio’s family,” Greg said.

  “What? Why? Lucio’s just a cadet. We don’t decide anything.”

  “You’ve become a hero since your interview, and they want you to come. They say they will only negotiate with Sam.”

  Sam paused. His TV interview had caused waves all over the world in the last 48 hours. Mostly the response was good. The protests in many parts of the world had calmed down. They seemed to be willing to await developments, since the trial deadline was so soon. On the other hand, hate for the Spo had skyrocketed. Mostly the protestors limited themselves to throwing rotten fruit at the Spo, but eight had been physically attacked. These incidents weren’t huge, but the fact that they’d happened in six different countries indicated a dangerous mood of planetary disgust. And of course, the Spo had retaliated by killing their attackers.

  Surprisingly, after Sam’s execution attempt, Gustav and Greg had come to him and explained the situation. They wanted his thoughts.

  Sam’s first impulse was to shrug. What did they expect? Everyone hated them.

  But, then, he did have some ideas…and they had asked. And this was more or less his fault.

  Sam urged them to get all the Spo to lay low for the next week. Yes, the hate crimes were a problem, but the kind of stress humanity was under needed no fuse to set it off.

  If the Spo had to go out, they should go in groups with a show of force to discourage attack. Letting the Spo walk around on their own was like throwing hundreds of lit fuses into a black powder room. It was only a matter of time until the place exploded.

  Apparently Sam’s execution and survival had gone public as well, and that was another cause of public outrage. Although people resented the cadets, most people had turned to his side when he spoke on TV. When they learned that the Spo tried to kill him – he was a hero. And humanity hadn’t had any heroes in a long time.

  Amazingly, Greg and Gustav listened to him. They put all Spo on high alert. They were to travel in groups, only by helicopter, and avoid contact with protesters.

  “So…hostages in Chicago…” Sam mused. “How soon can I get there?”

  “You are their hero,” Greg said. “They’ve idealized what you can do for them.”

  “I know that,” Sam said. “When I can’t or won’t help them, they’ll turn on me. Maybe not in Chicago, but somewhere.”

  “It’s dangerous to be a hero,” Greg said. “Humans are genetically incapable of loyalty to an icon.”

  Sam frowned. “I’m not certain I agree with you. Not anymore.” Sam meant about loyalty, but it was true in general too. He didn’t trust the Spo anymore. “However, I don’t need to be a hero forever. We just need to get past humanity’s trial.”

  Greg shook his head. “You don’t understand how this works.”

  Sam slashed his hand in the air. “And you do?” he demanded. “I need to go to Chicago.”

  ***

  The protestors in Chicago were chain smokers. After a few hours in their company, Sam felt sure he’d lost a year of his life to smoke inhalation. They weren’t the jovial smoke-and-drink-beer types, either. They smoked with the grim satisfaction of people planning to spend their last years on a ventilator.

  Sam was locked in with them in an auto body shop in south Chicago. Two classic BMWs rested side by side in the main bay, and Sam wondered idly if whoever owned them was freaking out about them right now.

  The rolling doors were all down and the light was murky where Sam sat, trying to be relaxed in a ratty folding chair. Three of the small car bays had been turned into cells, of sorts. Two of them held Spo, and the last one held the family of his friend Lucio. He was of Italian origin, and he had a large family. When Sam asked to see them the protestors let him peek through the wall of tires they’d constructed. He’d seen a number of little kids with thick, curly hair, clumped around a pale couple who looked scared.

  Sam sat in the main work area now, a cavernous space, drafty and dark. It was evening, and the sky was growing dark, too, where he could see it through the cracks around the door.

  The guy who’d planned this bit of protest/terrorism, Roland, paced the room slowly. He had been hyped up on adrenaline for hours and Sam figured his adrenal gland must be depleted. Despite his anger and fear, Roland’s body was slowing. Sam felt the same way. The other protestors were grouped in the lobby, watching the TV coverage of their event.

  Sam rubbed his eyes and then his prickly, shaved head. That drew Roland’s eyes to him.

  “You’re tired?” he asked.

  “Yeah, a bit. Been a long week for me,” Sam said. During their private fligh
t to Chicago, Greg had broken the news of Oh Li’s death. Sam had barely wrapped his mind around it when he had to shove it all aside to deal with this guy. Tired was an understatement.

  Sam had been talking to Roland for hours and hours and he could read his face now. A part of Roland wanted to believe that Sam had thumbed his nose at the Spo, that he was a potential answer to Earth’s problems. The paranoid part of him was convinced the Spo wouldn’t allow something like that to happen, so he also suspected that the Spo arranged Sam’s “disobedience” on TV to make him a hero to the world, while Sam remained their puppet.

  Roland stood in front of a slit in the garage door, half of his face pulsing with orange light from the emergency vehicles outside. When he stepped into the light, his shadow stretched across the concrete floor.

  “There has to be payment,” Roland said.

  “I’m only a cadet,” Sam said. They’d been over this. “But I can make certain concessions.”

  “What is the bloodguilt for a broken humanity?” Roland said. “What is the payment for a crushed people?”

  Roland liked to talk in a grandiose way. Sam guessed he was highly educated, or at least well read, though his crew looked pretty rough.

  “You expect the Spo to pay you for everything they’ve done? It’s not you they’ve wronged the most,” Sam said. They hadn’t wronged Sam the most either, though more so than Roland. It was Paolo’s family; it was the volcano survivors in Malaysia. It was Jonathan and Jia and Oh Li. He refused to list Nat.

  “Do you know the concept of a wergild?” Roland asked. He rubbed a hand slowly, caressingly along the curved hood of one of the BMWs. “It’s an old Germanic term, it means payment. If somebody killed your clansman or stole your cattle, they owed restitution. Blood money. And the murderer paid, or they died. I’m part of the clan, get it? They wronged us, and they owe me.

  “What do they owe you?” Sam said.

  Roland ignored him. “What I can’t figure out is, which clan are you part of? Tell me about yourself, Sam.”