Alien Nation #2 - Dark Horizon

by K. W. Jeter

  Ahpossno repeated the question, carefully enunciating the human words. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine . . .” The reply came much softer now.

  “Is that your car?” Ahpossno pointed to a battered Japanese hatchback at the curb. Through its rear window could be seen more of the white paper sacks.

  “Yes . . .” A whisper.

  Ahpossno turned the human by his shoulder, so he could follow the next direction of the pointing finger. “Drive it as fast as you can into that wall.”

  “All right . . .”

  The Overseers clustered at Ahpossno’s back, peering over his shoulders to watch as the delivery man walked down the driveway and got into the car. The ignition coughed for a moment, then caught. The tires squealed as the car snapped away from the curb.

  A high wall of sand-colored cement blocks screened the exclusive housing development from the noise of the nearby freeway; a few lonely eucalyptus trees decorated the trimmed grass border in front. The delivery man swerved wide to make a ninety-degree turn in the middle of the wide street, then gunned the engine, missing the trees and hitting the wall straight on.

  The noise of the impact washed over Ahpossno and the Overseers standing in the house’s doorway. A split second later, the deeper note of an explosion followed. Flames and roiling black smoke obscured the body inside the crumpled metal.

  Ahpossno turned to the Overseers behind him. “It works.” He dropped the cylinder of holy gas back into his belt pouch.

  “Hey, Sikes . . .” Zepeda stopped by the station’s coffee machine. “Did you catch the news?”

  He shook his head as he poured himself a cup. “If it’s not old ‘Honeymooners’ reruns, I don’t bother watching.” He took a sip of the strong black liquid. “Gotta keep my culture quotient up.”

  “Not the TV news, dip.” Zepeda held up the metro section of the Los Angeles Times. “If I want happy faces, I’ll come down here and talk to you. No, this is the stuff with little words, right? Like you read—remember?”

  “So what’s it say?”

  Zepeda unfolded the newspaper and pointed to one of the smaller headlines. “Our Miss Congeniality, Darlene Bryant—she got her bail appeal denied. The DA managed to convince the judge that she was a ‘substantial flight risk.’ ” She refolded the paper and stuck it under her arm. “Probably found her plane tickets to Kuala Lumpur in her attorney’s briefcase.”

  Sikes nodded, pleased with the news. The doo-doo could just go on getting deeper and deeper for some people, and he’d be satisfied. “What, we can’t extradite from Tibet?”

  “That’s in Malaysia, genius. And you’d have to go get her.”

  He refilled his cup. “So where is she now?”

  “Still at the women’s detention center. I talked to one of the guards—Bryant’s been eating all her meals in her cell, since she got the bejesus kicked out of her in the dining hall. Seems the lockup’s Newcomer contingent had it in for her—can’t imagine why.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.” From the corner of his eye, Sikes saw his partner heading down the corridor. “Thanks for the update.”

  He caught up with George at the doorway of the squad room. “Hey—hey, George.” He caught the other’s arm, pulling him around. “Whoa. Looks like the bear ate you today, buddy.”

  George’s brow was furrowed, troubled thoughts visible behind his eyes. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Come on, come on. Spill.”

  “Oh, it’s just that Ahpossno fellow. He’s been filling Susan’s ear with all this Tenctonese nationalism.” George’s eyes focused on some interior, displeasing sight. “Now she’s bringing home pamphlets on some Newcomer-only community.”

  “Huh.” Sikes mulled over the information. “So, uh, still think he’s the cat’s pajamas?”

  George looked puzzled. “Pajamas? Do you people put pajamas on cats?” He shook his head, now completely baffled. “And what does that have to do with Ahpossno?”

  “Never mind.” Sikes steered him into the squad room.

  Just inside the door, Albert was maneuvering the push broom around the floor. Head down, he glumly watched the mounting pile of cigarette butts and crumpled balls of paper.

  “Albert . . .” George laid a hand on the other Newcomer’s shoulder. “Have you decided on the color of your wedding gown?”

  “I don’t have to now.” Albert shook his head. “I called the wedding off.”

  “What?” Sikes stopped the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “How come?”

  “May deserves better than a number four.” He glanced up at Sikes. “An idiot,” he explained.

  “Albert . . .” George called after him, but he was already out the door, pushing the broom down the hallway.

  “Aw, man.” The announcement torpedoed whatever good mood Sikes had had inside himself. One of the few bright spots around the station lately had been Albert, all excited about the coming big day. To make things worse, he looked past the rows of desks and spotted the ex-bride with her sandwich cart. Both he and George saw May wipe a tear from her eye with her sleeve before she finished pouring a cup of juice and headed out of the squad room.

  “It’s Ahpossno’s fault.” Face darkened with anger, George strode toward his desk. “He just had to remind Albert that he’s . . . different.”

  “Yeah, what a charmer.” Hands on hips, Sikes looked across his own stacks of papers and empty coffee cups. “I get to like that guy more every minute.” He glanced to the side and saw Grazer standing in front of Sergeant Dobbs’s desk, going over a file. A spark of anger flared inside him. “It’s your fault, too!” He pointed his finger straight at Grazer’s face.

  “Now what?” Grazer looked both startled and annoyed.

  “Albert called off his wedding.”

  “So?” Grazer shrugged. “Why’s that my fault?”

  “You’re always riding him!” Now that Sikes had let loose, he couldn’t stop the rest from coming out. “Always on his back, nit-picking about one goddamn thing after another! You’re the reason he thinks he’s no good.”

  “Is that right?” The captain carefully laid the file on Dobbs’s desk. “For your information, I don’t ride Albert. I just want him to do his job.”

  “Bull—”

  “You want to see something?” Face set grim, Grazer jabbed his finger into Sikes’s chest. “Get your ass into my office and I’ll show you something. You, too, Francisco. I’ll show you both exactly what I’m talking about.” He turned away and stomped off toward the door.

  Sikes and George exchanged glances with each other, then followed after.

  “You think I got it in for that witless schmuck?” Grazer threw open the door of his office. “I couldn’t care less about the guy. But he keeps screwing up, and screwing up, only this time he’s screwed up bad enough that I’m going to get his spotted ass booted out of here!”

  “So what’s your beef?” Sikes stood in the middle of the office and looked around. The place seemed immaculate to him.

  George fingered the blinds over the windows, as though searching for evidence. “These seem to have not only been dusted—” he leaned closer and sniffed one of the thin aluminum slats “—but washed with a mild detergent solution as well.” He shrugged. “That seems like a very thorough job to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” Grazer still looked sour. “He even took my ashtray out to the kitchen and boiled it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Maybe he figured you wanted to eat off it.” Sikes glanced over at George. “He must be pissed that Albert didn’t actually take the screws out of the desk and rub ’em down with metal polish.”

  “Knock it off. So the guy knows how to use a dustrag—big deal. That’s what he gets paid for.” Grazer pointed to the long utility table at the side of the room. “Take a look at this, smart ass. Now we’re talking vandalism—hell, I might be able to get him hauled up on obstruction-of-justice charges.”

  The two detectives looked ove
r the papers neatly arranged on the table’s surface. An empty file box sat underneath.

  “This is that case you were griping about the other day.” Sikes recognized the material. “The commercial burglary series . . .” The arrangement of the papery puzzled him. “I don’t get it. Why’s everything all spread out like this?”

  “Exactly!” Grazer’s face lit with a malignant triumph. “SID sends me back this flippin’ fruit basket and tells me to figure it out, and before I can even get into it, I come in here this morning and find out that Albert decided to stay late at the station last night. Why?” Grazer swept a full-arm gesture above the table. “So he can play around with official police files. Look at this mess! It’ll take me a week to put it back together.”

  George bent low, studying the papers. “There seems to be some kind of a pattern here . . .”

  “Yeah, right.” Grazer’s disgust became even more apparent. “I’m sure.”

  “Matt, take a look at this.” George crooked a finger toward Sikes. “I’d like to know what you think.”

  He stood next to George, leaning on the edge of the table. “Seems to be some kind of spiral. Look at the way he’s got the initial report sheets laid out.” Matt pointed to them. “The first two going down, then a couple going to the left, then up, then to the right . . .”

  Behind them, Grazer spouted off again. “That’s fascinating, all right. Now we know what the inside of his head looks like.”

  George and Sikes ignored the captain’s outburst. “What’s this?” Matt picked up a sheet of lined, yellow notepaper and held it out for his partner’s inspection. “There’s the same pattern, with the case numbers written down . . . but what are the other numbers, the ones in red?”

  A sudden light appeared in George’s eyes; Sikes could almost see the cartoon light bulb going on over the spotted head. He looked across the table, reached, and picked up another object. Sikes recognized it as a map of the Los Angeles public-transit system. The folds were worn and feathery from use; it was obviously somebody’s personal copy.

  “Look . . .” George unfolded the map and set it down beside the yellow sheet of paper. “Those are bus route numbers.” His fingertip jumped from one spot to another. “The first two incidents happened right on Wilshire, and that’s this route—”

  “And then it intersects with a line running north and south.” The light had dawned on Sikes now. “And the next two hits happened along there!”

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

  George nodded. “And that line intersects with the Beverly Boulevard route, and the next three commercial burglaries happened in sequence in that vicinity.”

  “The buses—jeez.” Sikes slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “That’s why none of us, or anybody over in SID, saw it before. We all drive cars! Albert’s probably the only person in this station who’s got a bus pass in his pocket, because he’s always been afraid to go down to the DMV and take the driver’s license exam.”

  “Okay, that does it.” Grazer’s voice hit a new peak of irritation. “You guys have been hanging out with that mop jockey so long, now you’re as cracked as he is—”

  “So what we need to do right now,” said Sikes, continuing to ignore the captain, “is hit the data bases and do a search for any professional-level locksmiths who have had their driver’s licenses revoked—”

  “Or possibly a retired or elderly individual.” George nodded, deep in thought. “But it would have to be someone with a working familiarity with the bus system. And possibly someone who’s been treated for an obsessive-compulsive behavior disorder.”

  “I’m recommending psychiatric evaluations for both you clowns—”

  “Yeah, that’s cool for starters, but look . . .” Sikes was on a roll. “Look what else Albert figured out. He’s got the next line drawn on here, the next one in the pattern.” His finger tapped the notepaper. “Past where the case numbers end. He’s figured out where the next hits are going to happen.”

  “Why me, God?” Grazer appealed to the office’s ceiling. “Why— Wait a minute.” His voice dropped. “What did you just say?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Sikes turned and looked at the captain. “Listen up, Grazer—Albert’s cracked this damn case.”

  “I concur with that statement.” George laid his fingertip on the map. “If we get a surveillance team into this area here, I believe we have an excellent chance of apprehending the perpetrator of the burglaries under discussion.”

  “You’re kidding me . . .” Grazer looked from one detective to the other. “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll tell you what the joke is.” Sikes poked at the top button on Grazer’s vest. “Yesterday I heard you shouting at Albert, telling him you wanted everything in this office put in proper order. So he did it—including this case that none of us geniuses could ever get a handle on.”

  “You see, Captain Grazer—”

  “Hold on a minute, George; I’m not done.” Another couple of jabs from Sikes had the captain backed up against the desk. “All this time you’ve been carrying on, calling Albert stupid, making him feel like crap. And we’ve been trying to tell you—he’s not stupid. He just thinks differently; that’s all.” Sikes held the sheet of yellow paper in Grazer’s face. “Now you get on the phone and get that surveillance team posted. And then when this sucker gets hauled in, you can go downtown and take the credit for it.” He tossed the paper, and it slid down Grazer’s chest. “But then maybe you’ll think about whose ass should get canned around here.”

  Grazer had gone pale. “I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “That’s a welcome change. Come on, George, let’s get out of here.” Sikes pulled his partner around by the arm. “Right now I need something to drink besides coffee.”

  “But—we’re on duty—”

  “So for the next hour we won’t be. Come on.”

  They left the captain behind them as he picked up the sheet of paper and gazed wonderingly at it.

  C H A P T E R 2 9

  WHEN THEY GOT back to the squad room, George found a manila envelope centered on the top of his desk. The word URGENT, in Zepeda’s handwriting, had been scrawled across it.

  “Interesting . . .” George studied the single sheet of paper from the envelope. “We got SID’s analysis of the fibers found under Kenny Bunkport’s fingernails.” He read farther along the page. “Apparently it’s a very common wool/polyester blend . . .”

  Sikes grunted. “That’s a lotta help.”

  “. . . but it contains traces of a particular quartz silicate.” He handed the paper to Sikes.

  “Gaminite.” Sikes looked the paper over. “Never heard of it.” He sat down at his desk and fired up his computer terminal. “Let’s see if we can track down any sources for it.” He one-fingered the keyboard, tapping out a set of commands.

  “I thought you needed to go for a drink.”

  “Ah, I was just ringing Grazer’s chimes. Like they need to be rung, right?” A single line appeared on the screen, PLEASE WAIT—PROCESSING REQUEST. “Funny—that’s what she said last night . . .”

  “Who?” George looked puzzled.

  “Just a joke, pal. They don’t get much older and creakier.” He stroked the side of the terminal’s monitor. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s have it; I don’t got all day . . .”

  “Did she say that, too?”

  Sikes glanced over his shoulder and saw the slight smile on his partner’s face. “Very good.” He nodded. “You’re learning.” He turned back to the screen.

  The youth had a warrior’s natural grace, and a quick path between his brain and the weapons of his hands and feet. He could move, and calculate his next attack or feint while moving. To merely react to one’s opponent was not enough; one had to lead the encounter, bring the other to the inevitable defeat, like setting a fatal meal before a guest. Such was the training of a Chekkah.

  “Relax your shoulders . . .” Ahpos
sno demonstrated with his own body, bringing his center of gravity lower to his flexed knees. Beside him, George’s son, Buck, watched and imitated him. “You must feel the power coming from your center . . .” He regarded the youth’s efforts with a critical eye. “That is better . . . better . . .”

  In the bright sunshine flooding the Franciscos’ backyard, Ahpossno had displayed the ancient martial arts. A mere taste of them for Buck, a show of what was possible with the hardness and precision of one’s own being. Buck had asked for the instruction, his head filled with glory tales of the mythical Udara. Ahpossno had detected a certain belligerent cockiness in Buck’s attitude, the typical hormonal behavior of the adolescent male, compounded by a lithe, athletic build and smattering of knowledge in a few earthly fighting skills. He had had to humble the youth, taking his best full-on attack and hurling him to the ground in one swift combination, faster than Buck’s untutored synapses could track. From above, with the youth’s arm trapped in an unbreakable hold, he’d delivered a vertical thrust-kick to the exposed armpit, stopping an exact millimeter from the fatal impact with the axillary nerve center. Buck’s eyes had widened when his brain had caught up the quick burst of action; he’d realized that the only thing interposed between himself and death was Ahpossno’s perfect restraint. That had been the moment when Buck, in true sincerity, had asked to learn from him.

  “Now extend . . . quickly! From your gut . . .” Ahpossno reached over and pressed his hand against Buck’s abdomen, channeling a surge of his own power into the kindled flame he could feel near the youth’s spine. “Now!” Buck’s fist shot out, his arm a bolt of energy. Ahpossno stepped back, to allow the youth to follow through with the sweeping roundhouse kick that completed the pattern.

  “That was good.” He knew that against a Chekkah novice, one who had penetrated only the first-level initiation, Buck would have been already defeated. The simple move would have been evaded, a feint would have opened wider his defensive center, followed by a blow that he would never have even seen. If he were lucky and his opponent merciful, he would have regained consciousness outside the training ring, spitting up his own blood.