Alien Nation #3 - Body and Soul

by Peter David

  “On the spaceship that brought you here,” said Sikes, who then mentally kicked himself. No, moron, on the “Love Boat” during the last big Newcomer pleasure cruise. Of COURSE the spaceship.

  But George, preoccupied by his concerns and not particularly prone to sarcasm anyway, simply nodded. “He performed medical experiments on the slaves . . . terrible things.”

  “Did he . . . on . . . ?”

  Sikes couldn’t even complete the sentence, but George immediately understood. “On me? Or Susan? No. No, if anything as devastating as a crash could be termed ‘lucky,’ then we were lucky. He didn’t get around to us before our forced landing. But if our journey had continued . . . who knows?” He shuddered. “I never saw Chorboke but, like everyone else, I feared him.”

  “You said he was dead.”

  “That’s what we were told. That he died in the crash.”

  He spoke with the air of someone who desperately wanted to hold on to his beliefs about something because to deal with other possibilities was simply too horrible to contemplate.

  They entered the squad room, and Sikes noticed that Zepeda was standing by Sikes’s desk, the phone to her ear. Sikes felt a flash of annoyance; Zepeda had her own desk, for crying out loud, and her own telephone. What’d she need to be on Matt’s phone for? What was she . . . calling a bookie or boyfriend or something?

  Zepeda was jotting something down, and she had a wide grin on her face. Then she spotted Sikes coming across the room, and promptly crumpled up the paper. This led Sikes to believe that it genuinely was illicit betting numbers or some such thing, until Zepeda pressed the Hold button and called across the squad room, “Hey, Sikes! I was taking a message for you. It’s Cathy on line two. She wants to remind you about sex class tonight!”

  This, of course, had every head turning and grins from every idiot in the squad room. Sikes tried to restrain himself from doing two things: charging across the squad room as quickly as possible, and throttling Zepeda when he got to his desk. He didn’t succeed at the first, and barely held back from the second. Instead he squeezed the receiver tightly, imagining it to be Zepeda’s neck.

  “You had to shout that across the place?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

  Zepeda sighed in mock-apologetic manner. “Yeah. I had to. Sorry, Sikes. Character flaw and all that.” Then she grinned. “Have loootttts of fun tonight,” and she walked away.

  As George approached his own desk, Sikes picked up the phone. “Cathy, hi. Look, I was gonna call you. My neck . . . it’s gotten a lot worse. I can’t even move my head.”

  Cathy sounded startled on the other end. “Oh, Matt . . . I’m . . . I don’t know what to say. I thought for sure that it was improving. You’d better have it x-rayed, and a chiropractor might want to put you in a neck brace—”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” said Sikes quickly. “I already called my chiropractor, but the only time that I could get in to see him was tonight.”

  “Oh,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment. “Well . . . well that conflicts with the class tonight. But of course, your health comes first. That comes above everything.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m really disappointed.”

  “I guess . . . well, maybe I could go and take notes. Better still, I could tape record it.”

  “Yeah! That’s a good idea. You do that and we can get together later and listen to it. Just the two of us . . . in private. It’ll be even better than in the class.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Cathy, doubtfully. “But we’ll make do. After all, this is all about adapting to each other’s circumstances, isn’t it.”

  “Exactly. Okay. Gotta go. Bye.”

  He hung up, and then immediately was aware that George was staring at him. In fact, he didn’t even have to look at his partner to know that George was gaping at him in open disbelief. Immediately he started shuffling through a stack of papers, hoping that George would, for once in his life, have the good sense and grace to keep his nose out of Matt’s private life. For that matter it would be nice if someone kept their nose out of his private life, since it seemed as if it was awful public these days.

  “Where’d I put those witness statements,” he muttered.

  “You lied to Cathy.” There was stark incredulity in his voice.

  “No. My neck hurts.” As if to bolster his claim, he rubbed his neck a moment and stuck out his chin.

  But George would not be deterred, although he still displayed lack of mastery over slang as he declared, “It was an in-and-out lie! You don’t even have a chiropractor!”

  “George, I don’t feel like discussing this.”

  Sikes still wasn’t looking up, but that didn’t stop George. He leaned down on his desk to bring his sight line level with Sikes, even though Matt was now hunched over some papers. “Why did you do it?” Surprisingly, there was nothing accusatory in his tone. He sounded more concerned than anything else, because he knew that it couldn’t have been an easy or casual thing for Matt to have been less than truthful with Cathy.

  Sikes bit his lower lip, and then it all came pouring out in a rush. Everything that he had wanted to say to Cathy but had been unable to because she had spent so much time after the class saying how wonderful it was and how pleased she was with Matt that he was willing to go through all the training and sessions for her.

  “I can’t take it!” he practically exploded. “Okay? I can’t go to that class! All that . . .” His face wrinkled in disgust. “. . . that touchy-feely, disgusting, personal stuff! They made me hold hands and hum!”

  Clearly George wasn’t understanding the problem. To him it was a matter of simple practicality. “But Matt, these are things you need to know.”

  “I don’t care! I can’t handle it!”

  He had gotten louder than he had intended. Again he was the subject of curious and bemused looks throughout the squad room. He lowered his voice and said, “Look, George, can I come over tonight?”

  It was a shift in conversation that George had not expected. “Of course. Why?”

  “I can’t go home,” said Sikes, sounding like a hunted man. “Cathy might see me. And I don’t want to hang out in some bar.”

  George flinched a bit. “Won’t I be aiding and abetting your lie to Cathy?”

  “No, you’re being loyal to your partner, George. Didn’t you ever see The Maltese Falcon, for crying out loud? C’mon, whaddaya say. I’ll bring over a six-pack—a quart of Old Yellow for you—it’ll be fun.”

  “All right,” George sighed. “You can even bring your malted falcon if you wish.”

  At that moment Zepeda called over to them from her computer. “Hey! Guys! Take a look at this!”

  They walked over to her desk, Sikes telling himself that if Zepeda made one more crack about the sex class, the distributor cap on her beloved Porsche was going to vanish rather mysteriously. But no, at this point, Zepeda was all business. She was studying her computer screen, and she said, “I finally got through to the BNA computer. When I try to run a tissue type on your giant, look what happens.”

  Her fingers flew with confidence over the keyboard, and Sikes and Francisco leaned over her shoulder to peer at her keyboard.

  The word Searching was pulsing at the top of the screen. And then the words OPSIL—CLASSIFIED appeared below it. Zepeda tried reentering the information, but every time she did, she kept getting the same message, running into an electronic brick wall.

  “What the hell is Opsil?” asked Sikes.

  Zepeda shook her head. “Beats me.”

  He looked to George, but he was also drawing a blank.

  “Get in touch with the Feds,” said Sikes. “See if you can find out.” He stepped back and said, “I got a feeling this thing might be bigger than we thought. This might be one of those cases where we ain’t gonna like where it leads us. Not like it one bit.”

  C H A P T E R 1 7

  SUSAN FORCED HERSELF to try and bring her mind back to her work.
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  She had already had a bellyful of the stares that she had drawn on her way in to the office. And there had been some fairly tasteless remarks, muttered just low enough so that she hadn’t quite heard them, but loud enough that she knew something was being said. It was extremely frustrating, and more than a little humiliating.

  She refocused herself on what her assistant was saying. Molly, a young, pert Newcomer who was fairly new to the firm, was going over the campaign she had developed, storyboard by storyboard. Susan was so distracted that she found herself shaking her head instinctively before she had the opportunity to understand, on a real level, why she was having problems with Molly’s storyboards. Then she put up a hand and halted Molly before she could continue.

  “Molly, NuGuy is a masculine hygiene deodorant,” she said patiently. “Our emphasis should be on freshness and cleanliness. When it comes to the male body, people don’t really want to be reminded of—”

  (That little snake?)

  “—what’s down there,” she finished, ignoring her internal interruption. She tapped the storyboard, which depicted a Newcomer male cheerfully spraying himself in the area of the crotch, wearing nothing but a smile, while a female lay in a bed in the background, wrapped in a blanket and clearly nothing else. “This is just too graphic.”

  Then she leaned forward and, despite herself, started staring closely at the male’s lower regions. “What is this you’ve drawn in here? Hanging from around the male’s . . . genitalia.” She found, oddly, she didn’t want to touch it to indicate, so she waved her finger over it. “It looks like . . . some sort of . . .” She looked questioningly at Molly “. . . of bell?”

  “You’ve never seen those?” said Molly, cheerfully. “Susan, where have you been? They’re all the rage. When the male hums, it sends out a series of chimes that harmonizes and causes heightened excitement.”

  “And . . . they hang from there?”

  “That’s right. They’re called Hum Dingers. Would you like me to pick one up for you? I know this place—”

  “No,” said Susan, trying to sound casual. “I guess I’m just a little old-fashioned.” Then she added ruefully, more to herself than Molly, “George would say too old-fashioned.”

  Before Molly could ask what she meant, Susan’s human supervisor, Art Delgado, walked in. Susan quickly pulled the tissue overlay down on the storyboards so Delgado wouldn’t catch sight of them.

  “Susan . . .” said Delgado.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand your husband’s involved with this hybrid baby case.” He stood in front of her, his arms folded.

  “Yes.”

  “When he locates the parents,” said Delgado, “would you let me know?”

  Susan did nothing to hide her surprise and puzzlement. By way of explanation, Delgado continued, “Jenson Baby Foods is looking for a mascot for their new unispecies line. They want to buy commercial rights to the baby’s image.”

  “Well, as long as George wouldn’t get in any trouble,” Susan said after a moment.

  Delgado smiled and said, “See what you can do.” Then he turned and walked out.

  Susan sat there thoughtfully as Molly started to gather up her storyboards. Molly was shaking her head in amazement. “Why would they want to use that baby? It gives me the creeps.”

  That confused Susan. For a moment she thought they might not be talking about the same infant. “I’ve seen pictures. She’s beautiful.”

  Molly nodded, allowing for that, but said, “It’s not the physical look. It’s the . . . well, it’s the idea.” She shuddered. “Making love to a human.”

  Susan was utterly taken aback. Molly, who always came across as thoughtful and considerate and sensitive . . . making a throwaway comment like that one. It bordered on racist. Hell, it crossed the border. It was racist.

  “I . . . well, actually I know some people who are . . . involved that way,” Susan said cautiously.

  “Ecch,” said Molly. “You mean voluntarily?” When Susan nodded, Molly just shook her head. “Some people. What are you going to do? They feel the need to experiment, regardless of whether it’s a good idea or even in good taste. I mean, come on, Susan. The humans don’t have any shortage of each other. We only have us . . . and there’s not that many of us. We don’t need to get ourselves thinned out.”

  “You realize,” Susan pointed out, “that you’re arguing for racial purity. That’s the argument that the Purists always use to try and explain why we should be shepherded off into camps; you know, the necessity of keeping a species genetically pure. You really want to share a philosophy that some would use to exterminate our race?”

  Molly just laughed. “Susan, you’re a wonderful boss and a great person, but sometimes, you just don’t get it.”

  “I guess not.”

  As Molly walked out the door of Susan’s office, Jessica swept in. With people flying in and out of her office this much, Susan was starting to feel as if she lived in the center of a railroad terminal.

  Jessica, naturally, spent no time getting down to details. With a flip of her red scarf, she said, “How’d it go with George? Did the dress work?”

  Sorrowfully, Susan shook her head. “He still intends to sleep with May.”

  This served only to irritate Jessica, just as Susan had expected it would. She was about to tell Jessica to forget about it—that, if George was going to do this thing, then she was not going to humiliate herself by trying to browbeat him into changing his mind. But before she could get a word out, Jessica was already rolling.

  “Oh, he does, does he?” she said heatedly. “Well, two can play that game. We’ll give George a dose of his own medicine.”

  “What medicine?”

  Jessica spread her arms wide as if she were on stage, about to burst into song. “Tonight, we’re gonna paint the town!”

  “What color?” asked Susan, hopelessly befuddled.

  Jessica laughed and slapped Susan lightly on the shoulder. “A ‘girls’ night out,’ Susan.”

  Susan could not see how that would possibly solve anything. “What will that do?”

  She waved an authoritative finger in response. “Let him imagine what you’re up to. Let him squirm and worry. Believe me, baby, this always works with my Frank. And besides,” and her infectious grin spread wider, “. . . it’ll be fun.”

  C H A P T E R 1 8

  WHEN GEORGE AND Matt got out of their respective cars in front of George’s house, the Newcomer walked over to his partner and said, “Now, Matt . . . Susan is having a, um . . . a difficult few days, so if—”

  Sikes had popped the trunk of his car and was pulling out a grocery bag. “She still mad at you because of the whole thing with Albert?”

  “She is not mad at me,” George said. “She’s just having a rough time recently, so if she’s a bit . . . short-tempered, don’t be surprised. That’s all.”

  “Fine. I’m warned,” said Matt, and he slammed the trunk shut. As they approached the front door, Sikes thought he heard something coming from the second story of the house. A slow, steady pounding. George was so preoccupied with his and Susan’s situation that he really didn’t notice it, at least, not until they got inside.

  Buck was seated at the dining room table. With one hand he was feeding Vessna, and with the other he was making some preliminary notes for an essay he was going to write. He looked up as the two detectives entered. “Hi, Dad. Sergeant Sikes.”

  “Hiya,” said Sikes agreeably.

  But now the pounding was impossible to ignore, and actually pretty difficult to take as well. It was just a steady, continuous, unrelenting thumping. Sikes felt that he was trapped in an Edgar Allan Poe story.

  George looked up the stairs, wincing against the pounding. “What is that awful racket?”

  “Emily bought a kana drum,” said Buck. He was sliding the thin tail of some animal into Yessna’s mouth. Sikes didn’t want to know what it was from. Vessna gobbled it hungrily as Buck reached into
a small dish for more. “I think she’s mad that you won’t let her wear that backless dress.”

  Being aware that the trick to being a good parent was to be reasonable at all times, George walked to the bottom of the stairs and called, “Emily, we have company. That’s enough.”

  He smiled at Sikes, then, to show how relaxed he was as a father. His smile started to crack a bit, though, as the kana drum not only did not abate, but in fact grew louder. He rapped on the banister a couple of times in an apparently idle fashion. But he was, in fact, endeavoring to control himself and only partly succeeding.

  “Did you hear me?” he shouted, desperately trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Her response was to pound on it even louder, making her anger and—worse—her disrespect completely evident.

  “Emily!” he shouted again, but it’s virtually impossible to keep one’s temper in check while one’s voice is raised, and George finally blew up. He bellowed, “If you don’t stop this instant, there’ll be no eucalyptus chips for a month!”

  The drumming stopped.

  George turned, trying not to let his embarrassment show. But he wasn’t hiding it particularly well. Sikes forestalled it immediately by putting up a hand and saying, “Don’t sweat it, George. I’ve been there, remember,” in reference to his own grown daughter.

  George nodded gratefully and then clapped his hands briskly. “So . . . let’s make ourselves comfortable.”

  “I’m with you,” said Sikes. He proceeded to pull beer and sour milk out of the shopping bag.

  Buck glanced over from the table. “Hey, can I have a glass of milk?” he asked, hopefully.

  George laughed and said, “No. Don’t be ridiculous.” Then, not wanting the teen to feel left out, he offered, “You can have a beer if you like.”

  Buck snorted disdainfully. “I’m too old for beer.”

  George heard footsteps coming down the stairs and braced himself. At first he thought it might be Emily, and he anticipated more rudeness. But then the slow, measured tread caught his attention, and he realized it was going to be Susan.