by M. A. George
CHAPTER 11
I went home and crashed, grateful the next day was Saturday. I was completely dead to the world until somewhere around eleven o’clock that morning. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages—unloading on Sabela always made me rest easier. Once I’d pulled myself together enough to be presentable, I gave Sabela a call. She and Dominick came over with lunch (or in my case, breakfast).
Dominick was just as puzzled as we had been, and unfortunately all three of us felt completely blank as to a unifying explanation for everything. Even if we were to assume that Onontian space travel had become the norm, what were the odds that an Onontian man would be here in Albuquerque? Either New Mexico really did harbor an unusually high concentration of aliens, or something was way too coincidental.
We came to the decision that we would have to gain access to Eric’s records from the medical school. At least there was a chance they would contain some useful information about his background or place of residence.
Granted, if someone checked my records, very little of it would actually be truthful. My last name, for starters, is merely the latest in a series of aliases my family has assumed. From my most recent trip through college until now, I have been Palta Mason. We haven’t actually publicly used our true name—Capal—since arriving on Earth. My father just didn’t think it wise—not because humans would have recognized it—rather because for some time, he feared that his ship may have been followed from Onontí by enemy forces. He had no real grounds for this concern…My father just isn’t one to take any chances. Apparently, he was a high-ranking official on his home planet, and many of the wrong people would recognize his name.
I’m fairly certain he no longer fears such a threat, having been out of contact with Onontí for over a century. Our rotation of names has been more of a necessity for practical living on Earth. It would be difficult to explain a lifespan well beyond one hundred years, particularly with our remarkably youthful appearance.
Beyond the initial plan to access Eric’s records, we really made very little progress for the weekend—partly because Sabela was optimistic that Eric would decide to return to work and seek me out. I believe my reaction to that theory involved the possibility of primates flying out of my backside. Somehow she managed to persuade Dominick to buy into this ridiculous nonsense too, so I backed off and agreed to wait until Monday to see if Eric turned up. Even on the impossible chance that he did, I didn’t know if I would be capable of having a coherent conversation with him.
Come Monday morning, I tried to prepare myself for a workday as routine as any other. I did make sure to arrive early enough to once again swing by the microbiology lab. The mess had been effectively managed, and it appeared everyone was back to their usual activities. Everyone but Eric, who was once again conspicuously absent. I decided to have patience and give it until the afternoon. But yet again, his station in the lab seemed untouched. I put in a call to Sabela that it was time to get going on plan B.
Dominick demonstrated impressive skill in hacking into the medical school records system. By the time I arrived home that evening, he had printed off the contents of Eric’s entire file. “According to this,” Dominick summarized, “he’s originally from California. He got his undergraduate degree in biology from UCLA, then stayed there for grad school. He did a microbiology internship at Stanford before applying here, apparently at the recommendation of a UNM alumnus he met during his internship. He lists his parents as deceased. His current address is an apartment not far from the medical center. I’m thinking I’ll drive by and check it out tomorrow…He wouldn’t recognize me if I knocked on the door and pretended to have the wrong apartment. I’m pretty sure I would recognize him from your description, though.”
I thanked Dominick for his willingness to undertake criminal and potentially dangerous activities for the sake of the rest of us, and I took the papers home with me to inspect more carefully. I showered quickly and then sat on the bed, perusing the pages spread out in front of me. The application responses were very eloquently written, and for a moment I could hear Eric’s voice speaking the words. But in general I had the impression this was very similar to my own medical school application—a smattering of partially genuine statements amid a sea of carefully constructed fabrications. I had little doubt that his address was equally bogus. My skepticism was supported by the endless unanswered ringing when I tried the listed phone number. Don’t ask me what I would have done if he had actually picked up the line.
Just as expected, Dominick called the following day to report that the apartment in question was completely abandoned. When there had been no answer at the door, Dominick went to the main office to check. He claimed he was looking up an old friend with that address. The former resident was a man by some other name. Dominick slyly fished out a physical description from the manager, and it clearly did not match Eric.
An attempt to tap into records from UCLA and Stanford revealed equally useless information. So, our trail was dead before we’d even started. I tried to resign myself to the reality that Eric Moran—whatever his real name might be—had disappeared forever.