Alien Nation #2 - Dark Horizon

by K. W. Jeter

  “Congratulations, Albert!” George hugged Albert, then stepped back. He touched May’s temple with his knuckles. “He’ll make you a wonderful husband. And . . .” George smiled. “He’s a handsome devil—a real dreamboat—a hot tamale.” He chucked the embarrassed Albert across the jaw. From the corner of his eye, George could see Sikes gazing up the ceiling, shaking his head.

  “Albert—where the hell have you been?” Grazer came striding up to the desks. “My ashtray hasn’t been emptied in a week.”

  “Glad to see you back on track, Graze.” Sikes stage-whispered to George: “I knew that good mood wasn’t going to last.”

  Grazer ignored him. He tapped Albert’s forehead with his finger. “What goes on up there? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “I’ll get right to it.” Albert scurried off, pulling May along behind him. He called back over his shoulder to Grazer. “There’s toilet paper in the bathroom, Captain—and I wrote your name on it so no one will take it!” The pair vanished out the squad-room door.

  “That’s a coincidence.” Sikes looked over his cup at Grazer. “I always write your name on the toilet paper, too.”

  “I didn’t know you could write, Sikes.” Grazer handed George a file. “You’ve got a homicide to work on.”

  George waited until Grazer had left before he cracked open the file. “ ‘Newcomer victim was found in his car . . .’ ” His voice dropped as he read a few words ahead. He glanced up at Sikes. “At the hospital where Susan and I were treated.”

  One of Sikes’s eyebrows lifted. “Let’s go take a look.” He dropped his empty cup into the wastebasket with the others.

  The same subject came up while they were driving over to the hospital.

  “You’re obsessing on Ahpossno.” George had gotten out and shut the passenger-side door. “I really don’t think it’s healthy, Matt.”

  “I’m not obsessing.” Sikes followed him across the hospital parking lot. “I just want to know what he’s doing with that gizmo he had—you know, that little jobbie he brought the helicopter down with? That thing could be dangerous. For all you know, he could be hanging out at LAX right now with it, bringing down jumbo jets for kicks. He shouldn’t be walking around with something like that.”

  George sighed wearily. “Matt, I’m sure if you just got to know Ahpossno, you’d like him.” He stopped and grabbed Sikes’s arm. “Come over tonight—have dinner with us.”

  “Thanks.” Sikes pulled his arm away. “But no, thanks.”

  The crime scene was on the side street beyond the far edge of the parking lot. A canary yellow, late-model Chevy was cordoned off by police tape nearly the same color. Bored-looking uniformed cops kept a few rubberneckers at bay as George and Sikes ducked under the tape.

  “Hey, Lois . . .” Sikes called to Medical Examiner Allen as she leaned inside the car, examining the body. “You know, you oughta try hanging out with live men sometime—the conversation’s better.”

  “Not if you’re any indication.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw George. “Glad to see you up and about.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded toward the car. “What do we have here?”

  “Whew.” Sikes’s nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff. “Time of death must’ve been a couple of days ago.”

  “Good guess.” Allen stood up and leaned against the side of the car. She looked over the pages of her notepad. “Newcomer male—name Kenny Bunkport—”

  “Har har.”

  “Thirty-five years old.” Allen flipped the pad closed. “Killed by a single axillary blow.”

  George looked over at his partner. “That means to the armpit.”

  “I know what axillary is.” Sikes pointed to the corpse. “What was the weapon? A can of Right Guard?” He laughed at his own joke, but no one else did.

  “Somebody’s fist,” said Allen. “There were knuckle indentations in the bruise above the ribs. And the ribs were cracked—whoever did it was pretty strong.”

  “Uh, George, I know it hurts you guys—like getting whacked in the nuts—but fatal?” Sikes looked skeptical.

  George nodded. “The Tenctonese axilla is comparable to the temple of the human cranium. Theoretically a blow could be lethal—although it would take uncommon precision.”

  “Oh, yeah? Huh.” Sikes made a show of mulling over the information. “Something like a trained warrior could do, maybe. Like one of those what’s-it guys . . . Udara. That’s the word, isn’t it?”

  George shot his partner a glance, but kept his silence.

  “So who found the body?” Sikes leaned down and peered in at it.

  Allen pointed a thumb toward a human standing near the hospital entrance. “Security guard.”

  “Let’s go see what he has to say.” Sikes nodded to Allen. “Thanks.”

  George tried again as they walked toward the hospital. “Matt, won’t you reconsider my dinner invitation?”

  Sikes shook his head. “No way.”

  “Cathy’s coming.”

  “Oh.” Sikes thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Okay, okay—I’ll be there.”

  George clapped a hand on his partner’s back and smiled at him. He didn’t get one in return.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this!” Susan stepped back, brush in hand, admiring the transformed living room wall. She had a dab of bright orange-red, the color of a sunburst, on her cheek. “From the first day we moved into this house . . .”

  Beside her, her son, Buck, dipped his paintbrush into another of the opened cans assembled on the drop cloth. He stood up and brought a wide stroke of parrot green down the wall.

  “Off-white, eggshell, beige . . .” Susan shook her head. “I hate those human colors.”

  “Noncolors, Mom.” Buck was enjoying himself. Or at least making an effort to; he’d been in something of a black mood when he’d come back to the house. “Beige isn’t what you’d call a real color.”

  She turned around, raising her hand to display the multihued effect, still shiny-wet. “What do you think?”

  Ahpossno nodded, her contagious enthusiasm drawing up his smile. “Beautiful.”

  He had been looking straight into her eyes when he spoke, and for a moment she wondered if he had been referring to the wall . . . or to her. She pushed that flattering thought away.

  Buck raised his brush above his head like a sword. “Let’s do the outside like a Celinite temple—all the colors of the spectrum!”

  The front door slammed. Susan turned and saw Emily come in, thick in schoolyard gossip with her human friend Jill.

  “Greg passed the note to Tim and I saw what it said—”

  Jill looked scornful. “You sit three rows away!”

  “So? I’m a Nuke! I saw it—Greg’s gonna ask you to Linda’s party! He thinks you’re infinitely bonita!”

  “He does not!” Jill playfully hit Emily on the arm.

  Emily had dropped out of the conversation. She examined her paint-spattered brother and the wall. “That looks entirely stupid.”

  “What did you do to your spots?” Susan had thought, when her daughter had first come in, that the neon blue and yellow all over Emily’s head was an afterimage from the bright colors she’d been painting. Now she saw that they were really there.

  “I told you,” whispered Jill. “Hi, Mrs. Francisco.”

  Emily glared sidelong at the other girl. “Nothing.”

  “It’s that Day-Glo Spot Sheen stuff.” Buck wiped his brush on a rag. “She saw it on TV and went out to the mall and bought some.” He smirked at his sister. “Talk about entirely stupid.”

  “You are too young to wear makeup.”

  “But I’m a woman now. That’s what you told me at the hospital. I’m entitled to wear makeup.”

  Susan pointed to the stairs. “Go up and take it off right now.”

  “Moth-urr . . .”

  “Right now. And don’t argue.”

  With a huge sigh, Emily turned to her friend Jill. “I can�
��t wait till I’m old enough to get my own apartment.”

  The two girls headed upstairs. Susan looked apologetically at Ahpossno. “I can’t wait, either.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Puberty . . .” She suddenly remembered something. “Oh, Buck—you better give Vessna her bath. It’s getting late.”

  “Let me,” said Ahpossno. He stepped toward the bassinet on the sofa. He leaned down to lift up the infant, but she started howling as soon as his hands touched her.

  Buck came over to Ahpossno’s side. “She must still be scared. There’s just been too much going on lately.” He reached into the bassinet and picked up his baby sister. She quieted down to a soft whimpering. “I’ll take her.” Clicking soothingly to her, he carried her upstairs as the front door swung open.

  “Susan, look who’s joining us for dinner.” George stepped in, with Sikes right behind him. His face dropped in astonishment when he saw the barrage of colors on the living room wall.

  She waved cheerily past her husband. “Hello, Matt!”

  “Uh . . .” Baffled, George studied the wall. “Susan . . . what are you doing?”

  She had some paint left on her brush; she slapped another stroke on the wall. “I’m making this a Tenctonese home. It was Ahpossno’s idea.”

  “A regular Renaissance-type guy.” Sikes studied the effect. “Doctor, Ninja, and interior decorator.”

  Ahpossno glanced at Sikes for a moment, then to George and Susan. “Excuse me . . .” He disappeared into the family room.

  “What brought all this on?” George still looked puzzled.

  Susan set the brush down on one of the paint cans. “What we’ve been through made me reevaluate my life. It’s time for some changes, George—in my home . . . my job . . .”

  The last word brought him up quick. “What?”

  “My job. I resigned it today. Ahpossno was right about advertising. It is useless. Just because humans—”

  “Wait a minute.” George spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t I have anything to say about all this?”

  “That’s another thing.” She decided to let it all out now. “We’ve fallen into this habit of you making the decisions. And you know that traditional Tenctonese society was matriarchal. Women made the important decisions.”

  George glanced over at Sikes. “Susan . . .”

  “Ahpossno told me that in Tundash villages, men did nothing but bear children and gather roots.”

  “How ’bout that Ahpossno?” Sikes couldn’t keep from smiling. “Just a walking encyclopedia.”

  From the family room came the soft strains of a Tenctonese flute. Not a recording, but live.

  “And a musician.” Sikes shook his head. “It just doesn’t stop, does it?”

  George made a visible effort to control his anger. “Susan . . . we’ve made plans based on two incomes. The UV room, the Winnebago, the gym equipment for the kids . . .”

  “We don’t need things, George. We need identity. Our identity.”

  The doorbell rang. “Allow me,” said Sikes.

  “Cathy . . .” He stepped back, holding the door open for her. “What a coincidence!”

  “Hello, Matt.” She stepped right past him. “Susan, George—is Ahpossno here?”

  Susan pointed to the family room. “That’s him playing.”

  Without another word, Cathy hurried into the other room.

  “You know, you were right.” Sikes leaned an arm on George’s shoulder. “She did seem real happy to see me.”

  The lights were all off, and the curtains over the large picture window drawn. She stood in the darkness for a moment, listening to the music. A slow melody, full of sadness and longing. Cathy didn’t know if she had ever heard it before—perhaps when she’d been a child—but she felt her breath and heartbeats brought into synch with the soft unfolding of the notes.

  At last her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She could make out the room’s fixtures, the Franciscos’ battered second-best furniture, the sofa mauled by the kids’ roughhousing. In the corner was the stand with George’s computer and printer set up on it. The screen made a black mirror, reflecting Ahpossno’s shadowed profile.

  The playing of the flute stopped, and she realized that he had turned to look at her.

  “That was beautiful.” Cathy stepped closer to where he sat near the computer stand. “I enjoyed that . . .”

  [“Thank you.”] He set the flute down on the stand. “How’s it going?”

  The well-rehearsed use of the idiom made her smile. He had obviously been practicing his English. “It’s ‘going’ fine.”

  “I must also thank you for these.” Ahpossno pointed to a stack of books, the ones she had given him. “They’ve been very useful.”

  “Almost forgot—I have something for you.” She stood in front of him as she dug through her purse. She took out a small laminated rectangle and handed it to him. “Your NRC.”

  He examined the object with a puzzled expression, turning it from side to side.

  “It’s your Newcomer Registration Card,” she explained. “You now have all the rights of a citizen. You’re free—no one can ever enslave you again.”

  He studied the words on the card. His name was on it, spelled out in the characters of the human language. He stood up and tucked the card into his belt pouch.

  “Thank you.” Ahpossno stood close to Cathy. “You are so kind . . .”

  She felt herself held by his gaze, even before his hands grasped her arms.

  “And . . . so beautiful . . .”

  She made no protest as he leaned forward and touched his temple to hers. Humming softly, he brushed his lips along the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she pressed her body against his.

  Something moved in the room, a shadow without substance. She saw it just under the veil of her lashes. As she tilted her head forward, into the curve of Ahpossno’s neck, she opened her eyes only a fraction, just enough to see the unlit computer screen on the stand behind him. Reflected in it was a thin, vertical band of light, spilling in from the other room. A silhouetted figure stood there, hand upon the doorknob. She could just discern Matt’s face, a dark mirror image. And the even darker expression upon it.

  And she knew she didn’t care. The thin wedge of light vanished as the door was silently pulled shut. All thought fled from her as she let herself fall into the sensation of Ahpossno’s touch upon her spine.

  C H A P T E R 2 6

  DONNIE AND Z and a couple of the other guys had found a rummy down on Alvarado who was willing to go into one of the liquor stores and buy them a couple of six-packs. For a price, namely one of the beers to keep for himself. With his dirty blond hair flopping across one side of his face, Donnie had made it clear to the bum that if he tried slipping away with the money the group had scraped together, or using all of it to buy a cheap fifth, they’d take him apart and leave the pieces for the street sweepers. Noah had stood right behind the old man, crowding him to make sure he got the message.

  “I still don’t trust him,” said Donnie. The old alcoholic they usually employed for this errand had disappeared, either into the drunk tank or the emergency room with a hemorrhaging liver. The same level of trust hadn’t been established with this new one. “Let’s go on in.”

  They hung out by the store’s magazine rack, picking out the biker and skin titles and cramming them back into the slots so the covers were wrinkled and torn. The slag behind the register glared at the half dozen human teenagers in jeans and green nylon jackets.

  “What’re you lookin’ at, sponge-head?” Z grinned evilly at the cashier. “Got a problem?”

  “Maybe he needs his eyes refocused.” Donnie tossed a copy of Hustler back into the rack. “Maybe he’d like us to do that little job for him.”

  The cashier tried to come on hard. “If you fellows aren’t going to buy anything, why don’t you get on out of here?”

  “ ‘Get out of here’?” Donnie feigned comic amazement. “Pardon me, creep, but it happens t
o be our planet. It belongs to us. We oughta boot your spotted ass into outer space, where it belongs.”

  Noah saw his chance. “Keep this guy going,” he whispered to Z and the others. The stupid slag’s attention was all focused on the group, and whatever brainpower he had left after that was taken by the old rummy finally coming up to the counter with the two six-packs. Noah slipped away and headed toward the beverage coolers in the back of the store.

  He could still hear the tempers ratcheting up at the front.

  “You punks get out of here! Now! Or I’m calling the police—”

  “Yeah, and by the time they get here, we’re gonna be using that cantaloupe head of yours for a football . . .” That was Donnie’s voice, dripping with genuine loathing for this slag and every other. A couple of the other guys might be already holding him back, keeping him from just swarming over the counter and putting his fist in the cashier’s face. “You ready for that? Huh, slag?”

  On the bottom shelf of the glass-doored cooler were some nice unopened cartons of the good stuff, Heinekens and Dos Equis. Noah lifted one and tucked it under his arm. He could see over the top of the closest aisle, past the forlorn cans of soup and cereal boxes. The stupid cashier was all pissed off at the human teenagers laughing at him; he hadn’t spotted what was going down elsewhere in the store. Noah ducked his head and scooted silently toward the exit.

  He didn’t hear the other slag coming up behind him, only knew when a baseball bat between his shoulder blades sent him sprawling across the floor. The sonuvabitch must have been hiding out in back, watching and keeping quiet the whole time, like the sneaky shits all of their kind were. Noah rolled over onto his shoulder and saw the one that had hit him, a bigger and uglier version of the slag behind the register. This one tossed away the bat, grinning as his hands reached down for Noah.

  He could hear shouting voices somewhere far away. His adrenaline-loaded blood surged into his head, propelled by fear and anger. These bastards were too goddamn strong; they could mess you up if you let them come at you one on one. It wasn’t fair, and they knew it and loved it.

  The slag’s hands grabbed the front of Noah’s jacket, starting to lift him up. He still had hold of the case of beer; with one heave, he swung it around and slammed it into the side of the slag’s ribs. His spine jarred against the floor as the big hands flopped loose. The dazed-looking slag staggered backward a few steps, then fell hard on his ass.