by K. W. Jeter
On the outside, the place was done up in faux stonework, the store’s name outlined in très-hip neon. He parked and went inside. The glass doors were tinted dark enough to be almost completely opaque, but the interior turned out to be well enough lit to maneuver in.
He spotted an even bigger walk-in cooler, lining one whole side of the store. That was tempting. Through the heavy swinging door’s window, he spotted some bottles from up in the Northwest, Seattle and Portland. Little breweries that did maybe a thousand or so barrels in a whole year—now, those people knew what was worth drinking. He’d gone steelhead fishing on the Columbia one time, and afterwards had found himself working his way through all twenty taps at a McMenamin’s brew-pub just south of the river. He’d slept it off in the boat, rocked by the slow, wide currents.
The pleasant memory pulled him right up to the cooler’s door, before he remembered the mission that had brought him to this place. Another time, he promised himself as he headed for the other side of the store.
His heart dropped, resolve nearly failing him, as he eyeballed the rows of sour milk sitting on the shelves, reaching over his head. He’d known there was more than one brand of the stuff, but not this many. He also knew there were differences in quality, from the clotgut the Newcomer derelicts swigged in the alleys, to the better stuff that folks like Susan and George drank. And they didn’t always drink the same stuff; George had told him about splashing out on an expensive bottle for special occasions, like their wedding anniversary.
How the hell was he supposed to pick something out of this wall of gone-off dairy products? He was already starting to feel a little woozy; a whiffy smell seeped out of the square cartons and round glass bottles. His stomach hadn’t flipped yet, but it felt as if it were squatting down its haunches inside him, getting ready for a somersault.
“Throwing a party?”
The voice caught him by surprise. He looked to his side and saw a tall Newcomer male, in a well-tailored Italian suit, regarding him with wry amusement.
Sikes shook his head. “Not really. Well, kind of. Just me and . . . one other person.”
The Newcomer’s smile became friendly and knowing. “I take it the young lady is someone whose tastes are other than what you’re used to?”
“Yeah, right. You could say that.” The fellow’s casual manner had put him at ease. “Look, uh . . . you think you could help me out a little here? Let’s face it, I don’t go shopping for this kind of stuff very often. I mean, uh, what’s a nice bottle?” He reached out and picked up a carton labeled WHITE GOLD. “This is supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Well . . .” The Newcomer gave a diplomatic shrug. “It’s certainly very popular. And it is advertised a lot—that’s important for people who aren’t real confident of their own tastes. But don’t misunderstand me; it’s a good, solid sour milk. You wouldn’t be going wrong with it.”
“Oh.” Sikes put it back on the shelf. Above it were other cartons and bottles with prices two or three times what that brand cost. And the labels were just as elegant, if less flashy, without that phony metallic lettering that now looked a little crass to him. “I guess you gotta spend a little cash to get something good, huh?”
The Newcomer shook his head. “Don’t go by price, my man. Whether you spend a little or a lot—doesn’t matter. It’s the taste that counts. Some of these little boutique dairies put out an excellent product.” He pulled a bottle down and put it into Sikes’s hands. “Now, these two guys, they’re really dedicated. Right out of the University of California’s lacticulture program—but it’s not the book learning that matters. It’s the heart and soul, the passion they put into sour milk. That’s what’s important.”
“Good stuff, huh?” Sikes looked at the bottle. The label seemed to have been hand-written, with a low three-digit serial number. The sight of the bottle’s contents, the thick curds, made him flinch. “Tell me something. Is there anybody who like runs this stuff through a blender or something? Maybe smooth it out a little bit?”
“Well . . . yes, there’s a few brands like that.” The Newcomer’s enthusiasm ebbed a bit. “But it’s not really a good idea. It’s similar to wine-making. A good wine is left unfiltered—so you can appreciate its body, as well as its taste.”
“Ah. Okay. Right—I get it.” Sikes hefted the bottle, the liquid inside sloshing thickly. “So this is the one you’d recommend?” He smiled. “For a special evening?”
“Special evening, special lady—go for it.” The Newcomer shrugged, as though he had made a study of old Maurice Chevalier films. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll get to like it.”
“Pardon me?”
“The sour milk. You’d be surprised how many humans develop a taste for it. We’re seeing a lot more crossover buying these days.”
“You’re in the business?”
The Newcomer dug out his wallet and extracted a business card. “Distribution—sour milk and alcohol.” A salesman’s quick smile. “We try to cover all the bases.”
“Huh.” Sikes tucked the card between his thumb and the bottle. “Milk and wine . . . Hey, maybe that’s something you should look into. A new product line, combine the two of them. Something for everybody.”
“It’s already been done. This is the brand my company handles.” The Newcomer pointed to a gallon carton labeled PURPLE HAZE. Two species and both sexes cavorted in bathing suits beneath the slogan ‘Now let’s everybody party!’ in bright, cartoony lettering. “We’re still in test-marketing in this area, but it seems to be moving well enough.”
“Maybe that’s what I ought to try.”
The other man looked dubious. “It’s a, um, youth-market product, let’s say.”
“Not the greatest, huh?”
“Well . . . if you had a good bottle of wine, would you pour it into a half gallon of sour milk? But . . .” The Newcomer brightened. “The wine portion of our product is made with over sixty percent real grapes. A lot of our competitors can’t say the same.”
Sikes attempted being impressed. “I’ll try to remember that.” He started to turn away. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. And, uh . . .” The Newcomer smiled and winked. “Good luck.”
Even the cashier gave Sikes a significant look as he paid for the bottle of sour milk. He carried it out to his car, nestled in the crook of his arm.
She found the note, a square of paper folded and wedged into the crack of her apartment’s front door. With her key in hand, she pulled the note out and read it. The words weren’t in English, but in Tenctonese characters that weren’t so much sloppy as overdeliberate, something that a school-kid might have labored over.
All except the signature. Sikes, in his usual handwriting. She smiled as she reread the note, then tucked it into her pocket along with her key. She turned away from the door and headed for the stairs at the end of the hallway.
The building’s rooftop was lit by the sweep of stars above, and pools of flickering candlelight. Cathy emerged from the stairwell, hearing Tenctonese flute music. A familiar-looking boom box was tucked beneath one of the wooden boxes used as tables, its glowing lights measuring the slow, sweet melody.
“Matt?” She ventured out to the center of the roof. Beyond its edges, the lights of the city stretched away, the street traffic reduced to a murmur.
He stepped out from behind the tall stack of the building’s main air vent. A surprise—she had never seen him dressed like that before. Sikes had on a flowing Tenctonese shirt, its mix of colors brighter than anything in his ordinary human-male wardrobe.
Sikes nodded to her. “Jovan.”
The Tenctonese greeting amused her. “Jovan,” she replied.
At one of the small tables, Sikes poured sour milk into two stemmed glasses.
“I liked your note . . .”
A shrug. “Well . . . I’ve been practicing my Tenctonese.”
She stepped closer to him. “Actually, what you wrote was that you wanted me to join you ‘
inside a pot of milk.’ But I got the idea.”
“Good.” He handed her one of the glasses. “Cheers.”
It suddenly registered on her that the other glass, the one he held, was filled the same. “Aren’t you having wine?” She glanced over to the table, looking for the other, darker bottle that should have been there.
Sikes clinked his glass against hers. “Never touch the stuff.”
She looked at the sour milk inside the glass, then back up to his face. “What are you doing?”
He feigned innocence. “Hmm?”
“The shirt . . . the music . . .” Cathy held the glass higher. “This.”
For a long moment, he looked straight into her eyes. Then he found his voice. “I want us to be together. No matter what it takes.” Silence again as he reached out and touched her arm. “I love you.”
The soft words tore right through her. “Oh, Matt . . .”
“Please, Cathy. Give us a chance.”
She couldn’t answer him, or even meet his gaze any longer.
“If you don’t say yes—” his lighter, teasing voice had returned as he held up the stemmed glass “—I really will drink this.”
“Matt . . .”
“I mean it. I’ll drink it.”
“Don’t . . .” Cathy shook her head. “You’ll get sick.”
“Are you going to say yes?”
He was joking; she knew it. But then she heard the sound of him drinking. She looked up at him and gasped.
“Delicious . . .” He had barely managed to suppress his own gag reflex. Lowering the glass, he wiped the white mustache from his lip.
“Matt, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But after everything . . .” She gazed past him, to the city’s lights moving through the dark. “It’s just too fast.”
“Is that it? Really?” He wasn’t joking any longer. “Or is it Ahpossno?”
She looked down at the rooftop, unable to answer him.
“I . . . I’ve got a long day tomorrow.” She set down her own glass on the nearest table. “I have to get to bed.” She turned and walked toward the stairwell, knowing that he was watching her, wrapped in his own painful silence.
C H A P T E R 2 8
THEY HAD DONE well for themselves. Ahpossno looked around the house’s spacious living room, the furnishings of a quality obviously much higher than the Franciscos’. Thicker carpeting, plush beneath his feet, and tastefully subdued lighting. A collection of the useless objects that the humans called ‘art,’ an incomprehensible abstract several meters wide on one wall, a contorted bronze on a waist-high marble pillar. A sweep of windows that looked out over the Los Angeles basin and the brown inversion layer settling above it . . .
He gazed out at the pollution-obscured landscape. These men had served themselves well, as might have been expected. The derelict Overseer he had encountered when he had first entered the city, that one had been an aberration. But the other Overseers, the ones he had managed to track down and locate—they obviously had the cutting edge, the drive and lack of sentimentality, to make their way in this new world. In many respects, they would fit right in, perhaps better than the general population of Tenctonese. In a ruthless environment, they had the necessary skills. And more than that—whatever their outward appearances, their hearts were closer to being human.
Ahpossno turned his thoughts and judgments over in his mind. For these Overseers to have done well for themselves, to have gained control of so much power and wealth, that would come in handy for his unfolding plans.
But there were difficulties attached to the situation as well. The single great problem, from which all others had flowed. These men had served themselves well, but not their masters. They had abandoned their calling, their duty. They had let the slaves taste freedom.
He turned from the window and regarded the five individuals sitting on the dark leather sofas. Two of them were faces he had seen on the monitor of George’s computer. Including the one to whom the house belonged, with the name Otto Graff, which the humans had given him. The computer’s rap sheet had listed a single conviction for stock fraud; apparently Graff had learned since then how to make money without running afoul of the law, or at least not being detected. As the group’s host, he had taken center position around the low chrome-and-glass coffee table.
Graff and the others had removed their jackets and rolled up the right sleeves of their shirts. They proudly displayed their Overseer tattoos, reveling in the freedom to do so openly. The sight of Ahpossno’s tattoo, the glory of the Chekkah, brilliant reds and blues flecked with gold metal, had produced sudden intakes of breath among them.
They listened respectfully; as a Chekkah, he was their superior, to command them as he saw fit.
“We picked up the signal from the ship’s beacon one earth year ago.” Ahpossno walked back toward the group, putting aside for the moment his own analysis of the men. “That gave us your location. I’ve been sent to determine the viability of recovering the slaves and acquiring the humans.”
Graff nodded, mulling over the information. “Where is your mother ship?”
“It now maintains an irregular orbit at the edge of the solar system. Concealment technology has been employed to eliminate any possibility of its premature detection.”
Another of the Overseers, a grossly overweight individual named Avid Fann, scowled. His thick fingers knotted together over his stomach.
“This notion is completely unrealistic.” Fann’s chin was lost in the thick folds of his neck. “Transporting and maintaining two different species? The logistical requirements would be enormous.” His eyes narrowed to bright, intelligent sparks. “Besides, it’s been six years—the slaves would have to be reconditioned and retrained. And, as I trust you’ve become aware, they are hardly blank slates now. Their new attitudes have become deeply ingrained; their resistance would be considerable.” Fann shook his head. “The benefits of such an enterprise would be outweighed by the expenses involved. It’s a bad idea.”
The obstructionist attitude provoked annoyance in Ahpossno, compounding the disgust he felt at Fann’s physical appearance. The man had gone weak and soft, letting himself become addicted to this world’s pleasures. And of course, that was the reason behind Fann’s objections; Ahpossno could sense the other’s reluctance to abandon the easeful life he had established here and exchange it for the harder, more demanding satisfactions of the Overseer’s whip.
“The decision is mine to make,” said Ahpossno coolly.
Graff jumped in, seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Chekkah. “It might not be too difficult. Due to the bacteria scare, many Tenctonese are moving to segregated communities. They’ll be much easier to round up that way.” He looked around at the others. “We should do what we can to encourage this resettlement process.”
“Yes . . .” Ahpossno nodded approvingly. “These techniques the humans have developed for creating and manipulating wants—these ‘advertisements’—much could be done with them.”
“Oh, sure.” The scornful look on Fann’s face grew even sourer. “Come on—even if you could get all the Tenctonese in one spot like that, you’d still have the humans to contend with. And I can guarantee you they won’t give up without a fight.” A smug note filtered into his voice. “There’ll be casualties.”
“I have considered these things. Perhaps the casualties can be reduced, if not eliminated, by the strategic use of . . . leeah mikken. The holy gas.” Ahpossno reached into his belt pouch and produced a small cylinder, the dull gray metal rounded at each end. The Overseers peered at the shape in astonished recognition. “Does it work on humans?”
Graff shrugged. “We don’t know. There was a rumor that a canister survived the crash, that a human was exposed—and that he was affected. But we’ve never been able to verify it.”
A low bell tone sounded through the living room, from the chimes beside the front door. All the Overseers but Graff stiffened, expressions of concern and suspici
on on their faces.
“Don’t worry . . .” Graff showed the smile of the genial host to the group. “I ordered some refreshments to be delivered. I had a hunch this was going to be a long meeting.”
Graff rose and walked to the door. Ahpossno could see, at the end of the long corridor, a human delivery man revealed on the house’s front step.
“Mr. Graff?” The man held two large white sacks in his arms. “Got your order here.” He handed the bags to Graff and checked the slip he took from his shirt pocket. “Let’s see . . . four orders of pancreas, three spleen, five snouts, a quart of slugs, and one bag of jellied tendons.”
“I ordered two quarts of slugs.” Graff looked up from the sack he’d opened up.
“Damn. They always screw up.” The delivery man stuck the slip back into his pocket. “Can I use your phone? I’ll call the office, and they—”
“Never mind.” Juggling the sacks in the crook of one arm, Graff held a pair of twenties out to the human. “Here.”
“Just a minute.” Ahpossno approached, stepping beside Graff. He nodded to the delivery man. “How’s it going?”
The kid looked slightly puzzled. “Fine.”
“Have you ever seen one of these?” Ahpossno held the cylinder of holy gas up toward the delivery man; mild curiosity showed on his face. Before he could say anything, Ahpossno’s thumb pressed the nozzle release. The spray hit the delivery man straight across his nose and mouth. He jerked back, eyes blinking, then glazing as the muscles of his shoulders and spine relaxed.