by Peter David
No chance.
He drew his knees up to his chin and sat there in the darkness, trying to erase the memory of the boy’s laughter, until the sun rose over the horizon.
“Morning, George.”
George, seated at the kitchen table, idly dunked a tea bag into the steaming mug. The children had not come downstairs yet and, based on their history, probably would not do so until thirty seconds or less before they had to depart. Some mornings he felt that if he blinked, he might miss them altogether.
He glanced over his shoulder at the greeting. Susan, dressed for work, was standing there. She was pulling on the tips of her fingers, which was always a good indication that she felt guilty about something. If George had been of a mind to notice, it might have tipped him off to her mood and altered the nature of the subsequent conversation. But he wasn’t remotely in the mood to be observant, and so he turned back to his tea without giving her another glance as he said stiffly, “How was your evening?”
She crossed the kitchen and started to make breakfast for herself. “Fine. How was yours?”
“Fine.” He paused. “You came in late.”
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Actually, I was awake . . . thinking . . .”
Before he could continue, he heard the expected sound of pounding feet. Buck and Emily tore into the kitchen like twin tornadoes. Buck tossed down a jelly weasel doughnut while Emily yanked open the refrigerator and pulled out the lunch that Buck had prepared for her the night before.
George was extremely proud of the way that Buck had assumed responsibilities around the house: taking care of Vessna, preparing lunches. It was the sort of nurturing characteristics one expected in a Tenctonese male. And if Buck ever slowed down enough for George to tell him so, then he would let him know.
As it was, Buck was shouting, “We’re late! Come on!”
“What’d you pack me for lunch,” she asked.
“What I always pack you,” he said impatiently. “Peat butter and jellyfish sandwich.”
In unison the hustling Francisco children called out, “Bye Mom, bye Dad,” and out they went.
George found it nothing short of amazing. Yesterday Emily had been angry about something that had seemed to have—at least at the time—tremendous importance to her. Yet now, off she was going without any sort of resentment. The length of time that children held grudges was miraculously short.
Unlike their parents.
Time to end this, he realized sadly. Time to do what you decided last night.
“George,” Susan was saying, “I’ve been thinking, too . . .”
“Before you say anything,” George interrupted her, “I’ve decided . . . since it means so much to you—”
“George—”
“Please,” he said firmly, putting up a hand to indicate that he really wanted to say what he had to say. She stopped, prepared to listen to him, but looking very uncomfortable. But he knew that his next words would end that discomfort. “I’ve decided not to father Albert and May’s child.”
“Oh!” She sounded genuinely surprised. And then, more softly, she said “Oh,” in a tone that George could not quite decipher. She lowered her head.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Good.”
Usually when George made a decision, he felt good about it. Wrestling with a problem was always the difficult part; once it was done, then it was done, and there was no point dwelling on it.
Not this time, though.
There had been times in George’s life where he knew that he had made the wrong decision. But always they had seemed for the right reasons. This time he felt as if he’d made the wrong decision for the wrong reason: Namely to satisfy some emotional dynamic in Susan that had just blossomed to life and that he didn’t like at all.
But he was her husband, and her happiness above all was important.
Very tentatively, he touched her temple. Then he went out, leaving behind a triumphant Susan.
Except that if he had seen Susan’s face, he would have noticed that it was not the face of a woman who looked remotely triumphant.
“So what do you think’s going to happen with Mom and Dad?”
Buck shrugged as they approached the junior high school that Emily attended. “I don’t know. They’ll work it out, I guess. They always do.”
At that moment, Emily’s friend Jill came running up to them. Buck really wasn’t particularly wild about her, since she seemed to have this knee-jerk compulsion to flirt with him every time she saw him. He kept waiting for her to outgrow it.
“Emily, Emily, look at my face!” Jill was saying excitedly.
Emily gasped. “You’re wearing lipstick! And eye shadow!”
Jill, obviously feeling very much the grown woman, turned to Buck. “Hi, Buck,” she said with every ounce of female sizzle at her command.
Buck rolled his eyes. He had the feeling that if he suddenly grabbed her and kissed her as hard as he could, she’d probably run screaming in the other direction and that would be the end of it. That would be a way to solve this nonsense, but it would also probably cost Emily her best friend. And besides, they’d probably try to have Buck thrown in jail for good measure. Wasn’t worth it. He’d just have to tolerate it as best he could.
“You look so old!” Emily was gushing.
Jill paused dramatically. “And . . .”
She raised the hem of her skirt to draw her leg to Emily’s notice. Emily squealed, “Nylons!”
“What about you?” said Jill excitedly. “Did you? Huh?”
“Yeah!” said Emily.
She had been wearing a large, bulky sweatshirt. But now she peeled it off, much to Buck’s astonishment. Underneath the sweatshirt, she was wearing a backless, potniki-revealing sweater.
“Oh, God,” said Jill in awe. “That is so mo’bo.”
“You can’t wear that!” said Buck in alarm.
“Who are you?” said Emily disdainfully. “Jesse Helms? Besides, Mom bought it for me.”
“For you to wear on your sarnat day!” said Buck. “That’s not for a long time yet. Now you’re too young!”
“I am not!” said Emily, angrily stomping her foot. “And if you tell Mom and Dad, I’ll kill you!”
She grabbed Jill by the hand. “Come on!” she said, and they dashed towards the school building. As they ran, a teenage Newcomer boy happened past. He took one look at the potniki on Emily’s back and made a loud seductive clicking noise, which was the Tenctonese equivalent of a wolf whistle.
Buck put an unfriendly hand on the teen’s shoulder and said simply, “That’s my sister.”
The boy looked from Buck to Emily and back again. “She’s ugly,” he said.
“Thank you,” replied Buck.
The teenager moved off, but Buck watched Emily take off with increasing trepidation.
This little maneuver of hers did not bode well at all.
C H A P T E R 2 1
SIKES, BLEARY-EYED AND not particularly well-rested, bumped into George as he was entering the precinct headquarters. “Oh . . . morning, George.”
George studied him. “Are you quite all right, Matt?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Just not my best night, that’s all. You?”
“Oh, quite well, thank you.” He paused. “I thought you would be interested to know that I have decided that the key to the long-term health of my relationship with Susan—in this instance—is summed up in that Earth saying about Rome.”
“You mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do?”
George nodded. “Yes. I’ve decided not to father Albert and May’s child.”
Sikes stared at him, amazed.
“What’s the matter, Matt?”
“Well, it’s just that . . . Jeez, George, I can’t ever remember you taking my advice over Newcomer . . . I dunno . . . policy.”
“I’m a
daptable. That’s how we manage to survive, after all, isn’t it. We’re so adaptable.” George was only partly successful in keeping the sadness out of his voice as he turned and walked into the station. Matt followed just behind him.
As they entered, Matt said, “Y’know, George, just so you don’t get the wrong idea, I think your heart . . . hearts . . . were in the right place on this. And I got this feeling that, if you and yours hadn’t come to Earth and gotten influenced by humans, then Susan would’ve probably felt different about the whole thing.”
“Ifs and ands are pointless, Matt. If we hadn’t come here, I’d never have become a police officer and met you. And you have been . . . very important to me, Matt. Earth has had its positives and negatives, and it’s true enough in life that you have to take the good and the bad together. Trying to separate one from the other is a waste of energy. You accept the entire package or you don’t.”
Slowly, Matt said, “There’s a lot in what you say there, George. About a lot of things.”
Francisco looked at him curiously, but Sikes didn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation in that direction. Instead he said, “What are you going to tell Albert?”
“The truth,” said George. “Susan’s against it, and I have to respect her feelings.”
As they entered the squad room, George looked around for Albert, but didn’t see him. He did, however, spot May by her sandwich cart. Unfortunately, she saw him as well, and waved happily.
George managed a weak wave back. Fortunately, May then became involved in selling a sandwich, and George and Sikes were able to move toward their desks without George having to talk to May and, in all likelihood, give her the bad news.
On the way they stopped by Zepeda’s desk. “Beatrice, have you seen Albert?”
She chucked a thumb in the direction of the holding cells. “He’s with the big guy.”
George nodded, figuring that he should have known that. As he headed off in that direction, Sikes asked, “Any luck on that Opsil thing?”
She shook her head. “Still working.”
This puzzled Sikes. Zepeda was the best when it came to this kind of thing. If it was taking her this long, then it must be buried pretty deep in somebody’s system.
He turned to ask George for his opinion, but the Newcomer had already gone on ahead. Matt tossed off a salute to Zepeda and hurried off after George, but then was interrupted when the phone on his desk rang. In a way, he decided, maybe that was better. George and Albert would probably benefit from privacy when George had to give him the bad news.
“Sikes,” he said, picking up the phone.
“Matt, this is Cathy . . .”
For a moment the picture of her as a human, with that thick auburn hair, flared across his memory. Then he extinguished the flare. “Yeah, Cathy.”
“Matt, something’s happened that I thought you’d want to know.”
“Got a feeling it’s not good.”
George stopped several feet away from Albert, who was standing and staring at the imprisoned giant as if he were in a trance. The giant was as listless as he had ever been.
George cleared his throat. He couldn’t put this off any longer. “Albert . . .”
“They shouldn’t move him,” said Albert, not taking his eyes off the giant.
“What?”
“He’s supposed to go to county jail today. But he’s sick.” He pointed. “Look.”
Indeed, Albert seemed to have a point. Upon closer inspection, the giant had gone beyond listlessness. His face was ashen, and when George listened carefully, he could hear a raspiness in the giant’s breathing. Even his eyes were starting to glaze over.
“He does look ill,” agreed George. “I’ll speak to Captain Grazer.” Then he steeled himself once again. “Albert, I need to talk to you.”
“He can’t live without the baby.”
This was becoming somewhat frustrating. Every time George managed to get up the nerve to broach the subject, Albert made it clear that he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Trying not to sound frustrated, George said, “How do you know these things?”
“I just do,” Albert said with a shrug.
There was a long pause, and then Albert said, “Is something wrong, George?”
This was it. He was going to have to face Albert’s disappointment, and try to cushion it as best he could. “Albert . . .”
“Hey, George!”
This interruption from a new source was almost enough to make George punch the wall. Matt had come in, bustling with urgency, and before George could ask him to come back in a few minutes, Sikes said, “Cathy just called. The baby’s real sick. They’ve taken her to the hospital.”
Stunned, George said, “Let’s go.”
But as he was about to, Albert said to him, “George, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh. Right. Albert. Uhm . . .” He looked into the young janitor’s eyes and then said, “I want you to keep an eye on the giant for us. Do exactly what you have been doing. Monitor him constantly. You’re now an . . . unofficial part of the investigative team. Can you do that for me, Albert?”
Albert nodded, looking very serious. “You can count on me, George. You too, Sergeant Sikes.”
“Thanks, Albert. I knew we could. C’mon, George.”
They headed out, and as they did so, Sikes said in a low sarcastic voice, “That’s the way to handle these things, George. Honest and direct.”
“Buzz on, Matt.”
“Off, George. Buzz off.”
“That, too.”
When Sikes had been very little, his mother had taken him to a local production of Peter Pan. The thing that he remembered most distinctly about it was the part where Tinkerbell—represented, as she so often was, by a small spotlight—was dying. She was depicted by a light that became smaller and smaller in diameter and then began to flicker. And you just knew that when the light was gone altogether, so too was Tinkerbell’s life.
Now, standing next to the infant’s bed in the hospital’s pediatric ward, Sikes was experiencing the same feeling.
The child, who had seemed to radiate light before, now looked as if some technician somewhere were rendering her dimmer and dimmer. A liquid crystal monitor above gave her life readings, but Sikes did not even pretend to understand it. All he knew was that he wanted to burst into applause in some desperate attempt to keep the infant going.
Of course, that would not have helped in the slightest. But as Cathy finished examining the child (for the third time within the last half hour) and turned to face the police officers, Sikes got the distinct feeling that clapping would have been as useful as anything else medical science was going to be able to provide.
“She’s failing,” said Cathy, trying to sound as businesslike as she could. It was clear to Sikes that all her attempts at professional distancing were not particularly successful. It was as if Cathy were living and dying with each labored breath the infant took. “Respiratory and cardiac rates are up. Blood pressure is down. Bi-tozeg function is almost nonexistent.”
Although he suspected he already knew the answer, George still said, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Cathy a bit desperately. “Her physiologic status is an unknown. She’s very difficult to evaluate.” She pointed to the monitor as if George or Matt could make any sense of it. “Look at her arterial oxygen saturation. It’s normal for a Newcomer, but it would be fatal to a human.”
George and Sikes looked at each other. “The giant is sick, too,” George told Cathy while watching Matt. Matt simply nodded in agreement. “Albert thinks they need one another.”
“Albert’s no doctor,” said Cathy more sharply than she would have liked. She stopped and composed herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose in a manner that indicated she hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately. “Then again, I am. And I certainly don’t have any scientific explanation, much less an unscientific answer. Maybe he’s right.”
&
nbsp; At that moment, a nurse walked in and asked, “Excuse me, are you gentlemen Detectives Sikes or Francisco.”
“I’m Sikes or Francisco,” said Matt.
“You have a call,” she said, chucking a finger at her desk.
“I’ll take it,” George volunteered, and immediately headed out to the desk.
Matt and Cathy stood there, shuffling their feet a moment in discomfort. “What are you going to do for her?” he asked finally.
“Try to fashion some sort of life support,” said Cathy. “We’ll do the best we can. But it doesn’t look good.”
“Maybe we should try bringing them together . . .”
Cathy shook her head. “I have strict orders against it.”
“But if you could explain the situation . . .”
“We don’t have a situation, Matt,” she said patiently. “We have Albert’s hunch. That’s it. If I can uncover a medical reason, that will be a different story.”
“I see.”
The silence fell between them again. Sikes desperately tried to come up with something he could say that would bridge the gap between them. “Cathy—” he started.
George came back in, not giving Matt a chance to proceed, which wasn’t that cataclysmic, since Matt really hadn’t a clue as to what to say anyway. “That was Zepeda,” said George. “She traced Opsil. It was a classified government operation run through the Bureau of Newcomer Affairs. There’s a man at the federal building we can talk to.”
“Let’s do it,” said Matt. “Cathy, it might be that the baby’s only hope is finding a medical reason to bring her and the giant together. Otherwise . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Really . . . there was nothing he could say.
C H A P T E R 2 2
FAR FROM THE concerns of hospitals, giants, and police officers, Emily Francisco and her friend Jill were sprawled on the grass in a park, doing their homework. Jill, blowing bubbles with her gum, had been staring at the same paragraph in her American history text for the last fifteen minutes. Finally, she rolled over onto her back, her arms spread wide.