by Peter David
Trust Frannie to keep the problem going. “Hey Buuuccck,” she called. “Cindy wants to bear your child.”
Cindy squealed, her face flushing red, and she slapped Frannie’s shoulder. “I do not!”
Buck shook his head. It was amazing. No wonder they were so quick to turn against Newcomers and subject them to attack or derision. They did exactly the same thing to themselves.
Buck moved to his lab table. As he put his book down, he suddenly became aware of two shadows looming over him. He had a sneaking suspicion who it was. Then a voice rumbled from overhead, “You touch any girl in this school and you’re dead.”
Again, Buck sighed. He felt as if he were doing that a lot lately. Apparently the premier school jock, Bruno Carson, didn’t have enough to occupy what was laughingly referred to as his mind. Now he had to waste time displaying his masculinity by threatening Buck . . . who had never done anything to him.
Buck didn’t even bother to turn to see who was standing next to Bruno. Ultimately, it didn’t matter all that much. The various athletes tended to blend in one with another, as far as Buck was concerned. His common sense told him that he shouldn’t even bother to respond. If he said nothing, if he gave them nothing to feed off, they’d probably just go away.
Then again—with types like these, the point wasn’t always simply to deliver a message. If he did nothing, they might very well start trying to provoke him, just to get a rise out of him. In fact, their track record indicated that that was probably precisely what they would do. Why sit around and wait for that to happen?
“What’s the matter, guys?” said Buck with false joviality. “Afraid they’ll like space meat?”
Suddenly Buck was facing Carson. He hadn’t particularly intended to. But Bruno Carson had grabbed Buck by the shoulder and spun him around with such force that, for a moment, Buck felt slightly dizzy.
Bruno’s temper was as short as his buzz-cut hair. He had the IQ of a tablecloth. This didn’t make him any less dangerous or Buck any less angry.
“Purists are right,” Carson snarled into Buck’s face. The foul smell of cigarettes on his breath that Carson had been sneaking in the men’s room made Buck wince. “Slags oughta be put in camps.”
Buck made a slight popping sound with his lips, and glanced right and left with apparently limitless patience. And then he raised his voice just enough to make sure that it carried throughout the classroom.
“This what they call penis envy?” he asked.
The walls of the room were lined with various specimens embalmed in jars of formaldehyde. Buck became abruptly aware of this because suddenly he was off his feet, at the receiving end of an infuriated shove from Carson, and he was unceremoniously smashed into one of the shelves, sending the specimens crashing to the floor. The powerful smell oozed through the classroom, causing students to gag and also become a bit nauseated by the dead animals splattered all over the floor. Frannie in particular made a loud noise of disgust, and Cindy was shouting at Frannie that this was all her fault even as she started opening windows to air the place out.
Buck didn’t hear any of it. He stepped forward, anger boiling over. His foot came down on a frog with a loud squish, but he didn’t notice it. He was far more intent on Carson’s slablike fist that was winging his way.
He could have dodged it, but instead he chose to remind his tormentors of just how strong Newcomers were. He caught Bruno’s wrist, stopping the punch cold.
Bruno strained for a moment, too intent and, frankly, too stupid to realize that Buck was barely straining against him. Buck twisted, keeping his balance despite the slime lining the bottom of his Reeboks, and tossed Bruno across the room. Carson crashed backwards over a desk as the student seated at it leaped to her feet to avoid him.
He kept going and smashed into the wall. Fortunately enough he wasn’t injured since he’d only hit it with his head. From his undignified position on the ground, he bellowed, “Get him!”
Another two jocks leaped to their feet from the back of the room, converging with the third to bear down towards Buck. Buck stood there, fists cocked, poised on the balls of his feet, and bleakly hoped that he wouldn’t have to kill them to stop them, since that would probably look pretty bad on his school record.
That was when an angry voice called out, “Gentlemen!”
They stopped dead in their tracks.
Standing in the now wide open doorway was the teacher, Mr. Bowen. He surveyed the damage, making no attempt to disguise just how appalled he was by what he was witnessing.
Bruno was on his feet now, pointing to Buck in a desultory fashion. “He hit me.”
Bowen needed no time at all to assess the situation. “I can see very well what’s going on here.”
Upon hearing that, Carson folded his arms and grinned malevolently at Buck, with an unmistakable “You’re gonna get it now, punk” attitude. So he was caught flatfooted when Bowen’s next words were, “Mr. Carson, you clean this mess up.”
Carson whirled to face him. “Me?!” Bruno looked apoplectic, and Buck thought that the jock seemed to have a good shot at spontaneously combusting.
Bowen took a step forward. With thinning hair and unimpressive build, Bowen was a head shorter than Carson. But with the pure fury that was quite clearly rampaging through him, he seemed to tower over the athlete.
“If there are any more incidents of this kind,” said Bowen, “I’m sending you and your friends to Mr. Fischer’s office.” And then, his face darkening even further, he added, “It will also have a very negative effect on your grade in this class. And need I remind you of the grade point average you must maintain in order to participate in football and all your other little testosterone festivals.”
Carson glowered at him, but he seemed to be withdrawing into himself. Bowen pointed to the hallway and said, “There’s a mop in the janitor’s closet.”
After a moment’s consideration in which Carson clearly tried to decide whether getting tossed off the team was worth slugging the teacher, he obviously decided that it was not. He walked out towards the janitor’s closet to get the mop, although he paused long enough to fire off a furious look at Buck.
Buck didn’t notice.
He was busy with a paper towel, wiping frog off his sneaker, and wondering just what in hell he was going to have to do to get accepted around this place.
C H A P T E R 1 5
DAYLIGHT FLOODED THROUGH the single window of the interrogation room—daylight that was broken up by the bars of the window. One little patterned square of light from the earth’s closest star.
How far the giant had come. His view was pretty much what it had been before.
Not that he gave any indication that he was aware of it . . . or aware of anything, for that matter. He sat hunched over in the interrogation room of the police station, apparently oblivious to the world around him. He was heavily shackled, but he seemed weighed down by far more than mere chains.
Standing next to the giant on either side were Sikes and Francisco. Once again George had made a few tentative efforts to communicate with the giant, but, as expected, had made no headway at all. He had lapsed into silent, thoughtful gazing at the sullen creature. Sikes, for his part, was staring at the door. Two uniformed cops were standing there. One was holding a tranquilizer gun, clutching it tightly, and idly flipping the safety on and off.
It was the giant who reacted first. Before the sound of footsteps reached their ears, the giant had already raised his head. His face changed, his expression moving instantly from despair to desperate hope. The shift was so abrupt that the cop with the tranq gun reflexively took a step back and half raised the gun. Sikes made a gesture for the cop to lower the gun and get a closer grip on himself.
Then they heard the footsteps, as Sikes and George had already figured they would. The giant’s internal radar when it came to that baby was already quite evident. At least, though, the giant seemed to have acquired a bit more self-control. He wasn’t howling or gro
aning or in any way acting in a truly alarming fashion. Indeed, his face was a mask of concentration, as if he was doing everything he could to rein himself in. He had, however, gotten to his feet, once again prompting the cop with the tranq gun to raise his weapon, this time thumbing off the safety.
“He’s all right,” said George confidently, addressing the cop but never taking his eyes off the giant. The cop, however, wasn’t especially quick to lower his gun this time. The giant’s height and presence were rather unnerving, despite the fact that he was in chains.
The door opened. In the doorway stood Grazer. He peered in a moment to ascertain for himself that everything was secure, and then he gestured behind him. Franz Kafka entered, carrying the infant. The Newcomer then hesitated, clearly taken aback when he saw the towering being in front of him. To his credit, he reflexively held the baby closer, as if to protect her.
The giant’s expression had not changed. Indeed, he seemed to be concentrating more than ever.
And suddenly, too late, George realized why.
Instead of thrashing around, he was devoting his full strength and attention to breaking out of his bonds. And now, perhaps fueled by the appearance of the child, he suddenly emitted a roar as a karate master would shriek when smashing boards barehanded.
The shackles virtually exploded off him, links flying every which way. Luckily for the giant, one length of chain hit the guard who was holding the tranq gun. It knocked the cop back, his finger squeezing spasmodically on the trigger, and the dart shot out the open doorway.
George and Sikes leaped at him, but in the enclosed area they had no room for artful maneuvers. Consequently it was strength against strength, and in that contest they weren’t even real entrants. The giant shoved the detectives out of the way and charged towards Kafka. Kafka was frozen in place, rooted there by the terrifying sight of the giant bearing down on him.
Grazer shouted, “Tranq him! Somebody!” and the other cop was grabbing the fallen weapon.
Kafka did all he could, but at that moment, all he could manage was not to let himself scream in fright. The giant bellowed once more into the Newcomer’s face in inarticulate rage, and then grabbed the baby out of his arms.
For one horrific moment, Grazer saw the next day’s headlines: “Hybrid Baby Murdered While Cops Stand By.” “Tranq him, for God’s sake!”
But there was no clear shot. The giant held the baby tightly cradled in his arms now, and had fallen back behind a desk. The cop with the tranq gun knew that any sudden movement by the giant would cause the baby to catch the dart instead. It could drive right into the child’s skull if the shot were unlucky, and even if it simply struck the infant’s body, the dosage might still very well kill her.
And then George was blocking the shot as well. He was standing in front of the giant, his hands outstretched, and Sikes was next to him.
[“Don’t hurt the child.”] George said as soothingly as he could.
Sikes overlapped him, saying, “Give us the baby.”
They moved closer toward the behemoth, who was backed up as far as he could go. They were concerned about his threatening the baby as an effort to escape; about his maybe hurting the baby but unaware that he was doing so; about his actually getting away, and the whole thing starting over again.
In short, at that moment they were concerned about everything except getting the huge mute to speak.
[“Don’t hurt me . . .”] said the giant. [“I am . . . fine . . .”]
Sikes and George froze. “Was that . . . did that mean anything?” Sikes asked George.
Francisco nodded, but before he could translate, the giant repeated the sentence in halting English. And then he kept saying, “I am fine. I am fine,” like a parrot or a broken record.
“We won’t hurt you,” said Sikes soothingly. He held out his hands. “Just . . . just give us the baby. Okay?”
Sikes knew damned well that the moment the baby was clear, the giant was going to get pumped with enough tranquilizer to send the Green Bay Packers’ offensive line to dreamland. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, Grazer waving the cop with the tranq gun around to one side to try and get a clearer shot.
Sikes wasn’t sure whether the giant had noticed or not. Nevertheless he held the infant more tightly than ever. And then he said something that, even though it was in English, was incomprehensible to Sikes.
“Chorboke is coming,” he intoned. “Chorboke is coming.”
But though it had no meaning to Sikes, George looked as if someone had just hit him upside the head with a red-hot poker. “Who?” he said, with an air of someone who is hoping that he heard incorrectly.
Very carefully, overenunciating every syllable, the giant said, “Chorboke . . . he’s coming.”
Grazer, looking as if he wanted to take command of the situation, stepped past Kafka, who was still paralyzed against the door. But now he looked frightened for a different reason. His look of concern mirrored George’s perfectly, and it was clear that the giant had said something extremely significant. Clear, that was, to everyone except Grazer, whose major anxiety revolved around how all of this would look if it hit the papers.
“Come on, now,” said Grazer firmly. “Give us the baby.”
“Wait!” said George, in a tone so firm and commanding that it was clear that the balance of priorities in the room had suddenly shifted. As far as George was concerned, the focus was entirely on the previously mute giant’s words rather than his actions. Slowly, as if displaying some final hope that he and the giant were discussing two different things, he said, “Chorboke is dead.”
The infant looked up at George with those same tranquil eyes. A tranquility that was even more disturbing when it contrasted with the seriousness of what they were discussing.
“No,” said the giant, as if he were sounding the death knell of the Newcomers. “He is coming.”
At that moment, Grazer signaled the cop. With the giant’s attention fixed completely on Francisco, it was now an easy and safe shot. The gun spit out its second dart, and it struck the giant in the back of the shoulder.
The giant cried out in pain and anguish, and the baby’s reaction was immediate. The fear and terror in the giant’s face was mirrored in the baby’s own.
“No!” shouted George, but it was far too late. All that he and Sikes could do was break the giant’s fall because he was tumbling over to the side. Grazer quickly snatched the baby out of the giant’s arms, fending off the possibility of the giant falling atop her and crushing her like an egg.
The baby, however, didn’t seem at all concerned about her own welfare. She squirmed in Grazer’s arms, clearly unnerved by the giant’s collapse. There was no longer any sense of peace in her eyes, but rather pure, undiluted fear.
And Sikes realized, with dull horror, that it was more than just being upset about the giant falling down. It was as if she were sharing in whatever it was the giant was feeling, at any given moment.
“Let’s get him back to the holding cell,” said Sikes wearily. With the aid of George and the other two cops, they managed to shoulder the burden of the giant’s weight. As they started to drag him into the hallway, Sikes muttered, “Y’know, Albert’s so hung up about this guy. He’s not going to be real thrilled when he finds out we had to knock him out.”
But as they left the room, they almost stumbled over a body in the hallway—Albert Einstein, lying there peacefully asleep, a tranq dart in his upper thigh. Apparently the misfired dart had found a target after all.
George and Sikes looked at each other.
“I won’t tell him if you won’t,” said Sikes.
C H A P T E R 1 6
THE GIANT CAME to long before Albert did. And once he did, he was back to his unspeaking, sullen self. By the time Albert recovered consciousness, the giant was back in his holding cell, lying on the floor.
A single tear rolled down his face.
As Sikes stood there and witnessed it, he had the distinct feeling that he
had never seen a more heart-wrenching portrait of misery than he saw right then.
Albert was leaning on his broom a bit more heavily than he ordinarily would, favoring the leg that the dart had penetrated. He shook his head slowly. “They shouldn’t have hurt him.”
It was a typical Albert comment. He had not voiced the slightest complaint about what had happened to him, and his mishap as an innocent bystander. His only concern was for the soul-sick giant. George nodded. “I know, Albert.”
“He should be with the baby,” Albert continued, his gaze never leaving the cell’s occupant. “They need each other.”
Sikes glanced at him. It was a notion that he had already intuited, but Albert said it with such conviction that it made Sikes wonder if Albert had some sort of inside information. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know,” said Albert. “I . . . feel it.”
Sikes nodded understanding. If there was one thing that Newcomer males seemed to be into a lot, it was feelings. Indeed, Sikes found that particular aspect to be the most disconcerting, rather than the spotted heads or two hearts, or even the imbibing of sour milk. He gave Albert a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and then said, “Come on, George.”
He and George went out, leaving Albert and the giant in silent communion.
As they headed towards the squad room, Sikes studied George carefully. He saw that the Newcomer was distracted. Not only that, but he even recognized the look on George’s face as the kind of look he had when he was thinking about something that involved the Tenctonese—usually something unpleasant from their past. Frequently Sikes didn’t have a clue as to what George’s concerns involved, but this time it was fairly self-evident.
“Who’s that guy you were talking about. Chore . . . something.”
“Chorboke,” said George. The simple act of speaking the name seemed an effort, and he could do nothing to keep the revulsion from his voice. When he continued, it was with obvious difficulty. “He was a scientist on the ship.”