The main building was immense, nearly overwhelming. The elaborately adorned ceiling was so far overhead it was dizzying, and Sil tried to focus on the smaller things going on around her in an attempt to give her mind time to get used to the frantic pace: off to the side of her a little girl smiled and held tightly to her mother’s hand; just ahead a man in a plain, navy-blue suit and dark glasses headed purposefully toward her—
Sil tensed, waiting for a confrontation. It never came; instead, the man passed without comment and went up to the woman and daughter. They exchanged a few words and he flashed a small identification card, then steered them in the direction of a door marked ADMINISTRATION. For the first time Sil noticed more men, similarly dressed, herding a group of girls between the ages of eight and fourteen. Then it hit her and she felt a moment of triumph—these men were looking for her, but they thought she was still a child! She could walk right past them and they’d never be the wiser.
But she couldn’t relax. She sensed someone watching her and turned nonchalantly; a good twenty feet to her left was the boy from the snack bar in Brigham City. He recognized her—or thought he did—and was tracking her with wide, bewildered eyes. Tall and stunning in her new clothes, Sil gave him a confident return smile. As the boy’s mother grasped him by the hand and led him away, she did a smart spin on her heels and blended into the crowd hurrying down the hall to the main exit.
And, with a thousand other people, headed into the streets of Los Angeles.
“May I help you, dear?”
Sil glanced up as she flipped through a rack of dresses. The woman who’d approached her was older but heavily made up, and Sil blinked at her spiked, burgundy-red hair and slick, flowing tunic with clashing swirls of purple and chartreuse. Off guard, she grabbed at the next hanger and offered it to the woman. “This one.”
The clerk read a tag on the neck of the dress, then looked at Sil. “I take it you’re buying this for someone else?” She gave Sil’s tall figure a quick appraisal. “It’s nowhere close to your size.”
Sil turned back to the rack and chose another. She held it up and raised an eyebrow.
The clerk shook her head, slipped Sil’s original pick back into place, and did the same with her second choice. “That won’t do either, I’m afraid. Come over here.” She motioned to a different section, then gave the younger woman another once-over. “You’re more likely to find something under size eight than in sixteen, dearie. Look.” She plucked a hanger from the rack and held it up. “This one’s just like the one you had.”
The pink satin was identical, and Sil had a moment of mystification until the concept of size slipped into place in her mind. She reached for the bridesmaid’s dress and the clerk put it into her hands, then guided her toward a curtained cubicle. “Go in there and try it on,” the woman advised. “This is a consignment shop, so all sales are final. You’ll need to be sure it fits before you leave with it.” When Sil hesitated, the clerk gave her a motherly prod. “Go on now, dearie. Don’t be shy—I’ll make sure no one walks in on you.”
In less then three minutes Sil was back at the counter, arrayed in good-quality pink satin. The dress was an off-the-shoulder style with a bodice that gathered snugly below her breasts and fit her exceptionally well. She’d buckled the conductor’s fanny pack around her waist again, this time with the pouch in front; now she dug into it and pulled out the wad of money stuffed inside. The clerk opened her mouth to speak, but Sil pushed all the bills across the counter and started to leave.
“Wait!”
Sil stopped and turned back. She stood, shoulders rigid, while the woman counted the money.
“You want to be more careful about your money, honey,” the clerk said kindly. “Most ladies don’t . . . ah, wear a bridesmaid’s dress out of the store.” This close, Sil could see that the woman’s eyelashes were unnaturally thick; she’d painted the lids and lashes with two different colors. The woman endured Sil’s inspection patiently. “Are you foreign?” she finally asked.
Sil cocked her head and considered this for a moment. “Yes,” she answered. The clerk handed her back several bills in change and Sil folded them and tucked them into the fanny pack.
“Do you speak much English?” the clerk asked.
“Yes,” Sil said. “I can talk.”
The older woman studied her silently for what seemed to Sil to be a very long time. At last the clerk sighed. “You want to be careful here, okay, dear?”
Sil nodded, her expression absolutely serious. “Yes,” she agreed, “I know. Be careful.”
Sil had been walking for most of the day, and now the rays of the late-afternoon sun topped the mountains and slanted over the peaks and valleys created by the buildings along the boulevard. Her senses were nearly burned out, overloaded with information and images, sounds and half-completed impressions. People were everywhere—too many to count, too many to understand. In the doorway she was passing was a man who made her think of the transient whose body she’d left in the railway car. Though the memory was fuzzy and fading more with each hour, she was certain that this person wore more clothes, layer upon layer—far too much for the warm climate. Instead of the semiprivacy and somewhat questionable safety of a moving boxcar, the man, whose face was deeply lined and grizzled, slept in the open next to a battered grocery cart piled with tattered-looking plastic bags.
As Sil passed him she jerked in surprise as another man, this one in a motorized wheelchair, sped by on the sidewalk. She gawked after him, then almost got pushed off the sidewalk as a door burst open in her path. A man and a woman spilled out, clutching each other and laughing amid the driving beat of heavy-metal music and the scent of liquor. His hands were all over his companion, but she didn’t seem to mind; with Sil only a few feet away, the woman spun the guy to face her and kissed him deeply on the mouth, her tongue darting past his lips. Sil watched, fascinated, as they embraced and leaned against the building, then she stepped around them and kept going.
The hours rolled by. Now it was full dark and Sil was on a different street, a magical place called Hollywood Boulevard. At dusk she had been in a different, quieter area, where the streets were not as brightly lit and there were fewer people. Lush green trees had lined the sidewalks and dotted the yards of well-kept houses, a few dogs had barked angrily at her from fenced-in yards. It had been lovely to look at, the houses covered with bougainvillea with full, ruby blossoms, and pepper trees dotting the lawns, their spicy scent drifting past and mixing with the sweeter smell of the flowers. All in all a pretty but boring neighborhood, with none of the exciting neon lights and hard sexuality that surrounded her now. Erotica was everywhere here—oozing from prostitutes prancing along the streets and calling invitations to passing drivers, painted larger than life on luminous billboards packed into every available advertising space, staring seductively from magazine racks.
In the midst of it all were youths still bordering on childhood. Ranging in age from eleven to their early twenties, the older ones had personalities and expressions far different from the boy she’d nearly spoken to back in Brigham City and the occasional child she’d noticed in the residential section earlier in the day. And there was the youngest yet; at the bus stop in front of her Sil saw a beautiful young woman with long, shapely legs wearing tight, cutoff jeans and deep red high heels. A guy stood next to her in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans nearly as tight as hers. His muscular arms were covered in colorful tattoos and Sil watched, entranced, as the serpentine figures twisted each time he moved. When the bus came, the woman turned enough for Sil to see that she held a sleeping baby wrapped in a soft pink-and-yellow plaid blanket. She bent her head and nuzzled it on the cheek; when the infant waved a chubby hand in response, the guy grinned.
They climbed onto the bus and were gone just as a pregnant woman swept by in the crowd, her three other children following obediently, hands entwined in a connection that led ultimately to their mother. A few paces away another couple went in the opposite directi
on, the stroller the man pushed in front of him holding identical twin boys with wheat-colored hair and innocent brown eyes.
Sil watched it all, drinking it in, trying to learn. Everyone around her seemed to have a place to go and a companion to go there with. It was obvious that those who were alone were shopping—they put on their best clothes and donned makeup and jewelry, then prowled the streets, looking for the right someone to buy or take. It didn’t seem that hard, if you had the right tools.
Two giggling girls spun to a stop in front of Sil, whispering to each other and pointing as they looked in the window of the shop behind her. She followed their lead, wondering what they were laughing about—her? She touched the front of her pink dress, comparing it with the more outlandish outfits of the girls at the window, but they paid her no attention. She watched them from the corner of her eye until they moved away, then moved to where they’d stopped in front of the display window. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the vibrantly colored clothing behind the glass. These things seemed much more suited to the environment, and made the satiny yards of material she wore look childishly flamboyant. Before she went inside, she backed away from the window and looked up at the fancy lettering that composed the name of the store, trying to understand it.
FREDERICK’S OF HOLLYWOOD.
13
“Looks like she had a party,” Stephen said as the team filed into the sleeping compartment. There was barely enough room between the two seats for all of them to stand and their feet were engulfed in the litter piled on the floor. A miniature television on one of the seats was tilted on its side and murmuring some lame afternoon soap opera; Dr. Fitch reached over and thumbed the on-off button. The strange and nearly intolerable smell that had permeated the compartment and seeped into the rest of the train car was a cross between rotting eggs and scorched sugar—to say nothing of the slowly bloating contents of the lavatory.
Press edged around the rest of them and poked his head into the bathroom. “Some party.” The others peered around the door, then recoiled at the sight of the woman crumpled on the floor, clad only in a bra and panties.
“Something . . . bad happened in here,” Dan whispered. His skin had taken on an unnatural grayish color.
“No shit,” Press muttered as Fitch bent and inspected the corpse.
“Crushed her larynx.” The doctor stood, then saw what the others were staring at.
“What is that?” Dan asked. He’d backed out of the bathroom to get away from the body, but he could still see the area at the top of the bathroom.
Arden inspected the mass of shredded fibers fastened to the wall and ceiling. “I think it’s a chrysalis—a cocoon.”
“So what are we looking for now?” Press asked sardonically. “A giant moth?”
Laura fingered one of the dried strands speculatively. “Well, whatever it is, she’ll be fully grown now.”
“What makes you so sure?” Fitch asked. “We’re not exactly dealing with known factors here.”
“No,” Laura agreed, “but the purpose of a cocoon—usually—is to provide an environment which protects a young larva while it metamorphosizes into an adult. Then the adult’s main purpose is to procreate.”
“We’re not talking about a vermiform creature, Dr. Baker,” Fitch said dryly.
“Vermiform?” Dan looked at them questioningly.
“Wormlike,” Laura explained. “And while that’s often the case, there are a few creatures that don’t resemble worms that undergo a pupa phase. For instance—”
Press broke in. “I hate to interrupt your scientific discussion, doctors, but maybe being fully grown is how she got by our people. We were looking for a child, remember?”
Laura started to say something else, then put a hand over her mouth and nose. “Ugh, this smell is awful. I can’t stand it in here anymore.”
“I’m with you, Dr. Baker.” Fitch and Arden stepped away from the door as Press offered his arm to Laura and she leaned on it gratefully. “Let’s all get out of this death box and get some fresh air.”
“Okay,” Xavier Fitch said when they were outside and had rejoined the waiting aides and the MPs who had cordoned off the area. The warm morning air, filled with the smell of diesel fuel and exhaust, wasn’t as fresh as Press had suggested, but it was a damn sight better than the stench of the soiled sleeper compartment on the train. “Any more ideas about the cocoon?”
Laura took a deep breath, her expression easing. “I think she’s used the chrysalis stage to jump-start through puberty. Not only has she probably developed into a fully formed adult, we have no idea what she looks like anymore.”
Stephen held up a bag loaded with items he’d gathered from the train compartment. A drink container with a straw through the top, an empty package of french fries, and a pudding container were only some of the trash visible through the clear plastic. “This is amazing,” he said. “It takes us years to do it, but she’s learned to read in only a few hours.”
“Physical acceleration, maybe,” Laura said. “But what makes you think she can read? There’s no proof that her learning capabilities developed at the same rate.”
“Yes, there is,” the professor insisted. “Look at what the contents of the bag say—insert straw, pull tab, tear back. Nothing in here is ripped or chewed. She read and followed the instructions.”
“But how would she have learned?” Press demanded. “Nobody’s been teaching her the alphabet.”
“Not here,” Dan cut in. “But I’ll bet they gave it a good try back at the compound.”
They all glanced at Fitch and he nodded. “Of course we did. One of the primary objectives of this project was to communicate with the creature we created, but she never tried to speak or gave any indication that she understood what we said.”
“She didn’t have any reason to,” Dan said. “Now she’s on her own. What she didn’t pick up at the compound she probably got from television. Infomercials, for instance—a lot of those are closed captioned. All she had to do was watch.”
Press turned to Phillip McRamsey. “Amtrak has verified that the woman was a conductor?” The aide nodded. “Get her credit cards and identification into your computer right away. There’s no sign of a purse or a conductor’s pack on the train, so we have to assume Sil took them, although she probably won’t use them for a while.”
“Why not?” Stephen asked. “My guess is she’ll want to dump the conductor’s clothes and get something that will help her blend in with the rest of the city.”
“True enough,” Press agreed. “But Amtrak’s human resources department also mentioned that everybody got paid first thing this morning and a Thillens Check Cashing Service truck was waiting for the train employees at the forty-five-minute stopover the train made in Ely, Nevada. Because of their mobility, most of these men and women cash their checks for up-front money, then deposit the bulk of it when they get back to wherever it is they call home. There was probably a nice wad of cash in the conductor’s pack.”
Phillip scribbled notes on his clipboard. “I’ll see to the plastic and identification.”
“This woman is vicious,” Dan said. “She’s killing people but doesn’t have any sense of remorse.”
“Great. She’ll fit right into L.A.” Press’s tone was caustic.
“So this is it.” Fitch folded his arms stiffly. “Los Angeles—where the battle will be fought and won.”
“Battle?” Stephen looked slightly frightened. “I don’t think you understand, Dr. Fitch. This city is perfect for Sil. It’s the metropolis of the future, with a huge and totally mobile population. Anything goes and everyone’s a stranger. Whatever she does, no one will notice—everything is acceptable, nothing is taboo.” His cheeks were pale. “What’s to stop her?”
Press’s face was rigid. “We are.”
The Biltmore Hotel was spacious and opulent, more than a little surprising to most of the members of the team. Built in 1923, the hotel’s lobby had twenty-foot ceilings that boas
ted elaborately carved moldings and patterns, as well as sections with huge, backlit skylights inset with milk-colored textured glass. Constructed in an age in love with the Italian Renaissance, the brass-and-glass entryway was flanked by huge, pale pillars and carefully tended shrubs in oversized pots.
It was an astonishing place. The span of ten minutes that it took to get everyone’s luggage unloaded from the two government-gray sedans that had carted them here wasn’t nearly enough to gawk at the main floor. All too soon Robert Minjha joined the group waiting by the bellboy’s cart onto which their baggage had been stacked. As he passed out room keys, Dr. Fitch addressed the team.
“Our laboratory, Visitor Base One, is being temporarily established at an empty virus research lab at the University of California. Most of the equipment has already been moved, and the rest is being transferred as we speak. The entire setup should be operational by eight o’clock this morning. That gives you just enough time to get your luggage to your rooms. Everyone is to be out front in fifteen minutes.”
“Really.” Stephen Arden looked draggy and still half-asleep, as if he needed another three cups of coffee. “And what exactly are we going to do once we get to this laboratory?”
“Process the evidence, of course,” Fitch said impassively. “Everything we collected from the train.”
“Of course,” Press said dryly. “The evidence—chocolate-pudding containers and frozen french-fry wrappers. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I have a suggestion,” Laura Baker said. “Why don’t we try growing the creature with a full strand of its own DNA, rather than halving it with human DNA. If we make up a version without mutating it with our characteristics, we would be better equipped to investigate its vulnerabilities.”
“I—I don’t know if we should.” Fitch looked taken aback. “If we consider ourselves mutations, or at least regard the human DNA which we combined with the alien DNA to have mutated it . . . we’ve got a lot to consider. Mutations are generally weak, defective. Most don’t survive—”
Species Page 7