Alien Eyes

by Lynn Hightower

  David wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He belched. The Elaki hissed and turned away.

  The first swell of Elaki newcomers swarmed out of the tunnel. David watched from the corner of his eye. He spotted String’s nephew immediately. He hadn’t expected to see a family resemblance—the Little Nipper wasn’t direct lineage—but he was the image of String. His left eye prong was crumpled and drooping and there were bald patches on his scales. He was small, slight, and hesitant as he rolled into the marketplace.

  He was immediately approached by three teenage boys, who smiled and ducked their heads ingratiatingly, like bashful sharks.

  “Got him,” David said. “Proceeding southwest toward the harness—”

  “Got him, no,” String said. “Ah, here. This one.”

  This one was a surprise. Tall, even for an Elaki, jet-black. Thickset, symmetrical. Handsome devil, David thought. For an Elaki.

  “Spitting image of you, String.” Mel’s voice was loud in David’s ear.

  The Little Nipper looked around carefully. Young, David decided. He held a satchel, and his eye stalks moved back and forth, focusing over David’s head, then looking back.

  “Smart kid,” Mel said in his ear. “Be a good cop when he gets some subtlety.”

  “Here it comes.” The captain this time. David paid attention.

  A thin girl, dark hair cut short and teased into a ruff from forehead to neckline, stood close to String’s nephew. She moved her hands, pointing toward the stall where the Elaki owner had been out watching the crowd. Then she pointed to the stall next door.

  The Elaki slid backward, but stopped, flanked suddenly by two other Elaki who seemed to come from nowhere. They all spoke—David hoped Della was picking it up on the mikes. The Little Nipper followed the girl, an Elaki on either side. Firm and friendly persuasion.

  A young girl, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, hands in her pockets, went into the stall behind them. Fresh-faced and waifish, the girl wore faded blue jeans, and her sweater had a hole in the back.

  Rose, David realized suddenly.

  Mel was singing—“Shall We Gather at the River.” A signal. David stood up so he could see who was watching him. The same Elaki stall owner who’d stared at him before. David scratched his crotch, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, and the Elaki hissed and went back in his stall.

  The dark young nephew disappeared from view. String went to the next stall and bought Elaki cinnamon coffee. David would not have minded a cup. String must be nervous, David decided. He had passed up the tacos.

  A new wave of Elaki burst from the documentation center. The pattern was the same. A young, waifish human, smiling big and talking fast, made the initial approach, followed up by two largish Elaki, flanking the newcomer, guiding them into the stalls. David watched carefully. Not all the Elaki were hit, just the more hesitant, the more prosperous. But almost every stall had its mark.

  Captain Halliday’s voice was a harsh murmur in his ear. Everyone was freaking—trying to keep watch and see what was up with the strong-arm sales technique. The Little Nipper was the only Izicho due in. Maybe this approach wasn’t the one they were looking for.

  David chewed his lip. It could never be easy.

  He stood up and stretched, colliding with a newly arrived Elaki who was holding a ball of popcorn and backing away from a girl who pointed to a stall down the walkway.

  “Please to … oh, my … gabilla. Please to excuse you,” the Elaki said, skittering away.

  David glared at the girl, who made an obscene gesture and took off after the escaping Elaki.

  Another Elaki, a large one, stopped to look at him. David stared back. The Elaki’s belly rippled.

  “Greeting,” he said. He sounded different from the others. Relaxed, but excited. He opened a plastic pail and took out a lump of plastic. He stared at David while he molded the soft material, rippling it with his fins.

  An artist, David decided. He’d heard they were coming in droves. He wondered what artistic temperament would be like, filtered through the Elaki psyche.

  David stumbled away, glancing through a translucent window. The small, ratty Elaki had been herded inside by the teenage girl. He clutched his popcorn ball while the girl left him to the devices of a boy who looked enough like her to be a brother. The boy handed the Elaki a vest, and an ashtray with a bell. The Elaki backed away, rigid beneath his scales, and his eye stalks twitched. A large Elaki moved close enough to touch, edging the newcomer through the narrow aisleway, while a man behind a counter smiled, nodded, and tallied up purchases.

  Mel was singing again.

  “Aw shit.” The captain’s voice. “David, watch your back.”

  David glanced over his shoulder. The shopkeeper who had been watching was back in the street, talking to a uniform. Saigo City PD to the rescue. Time to clear the human undesirables out of the marketplace. The Elaki waved a fin in David’s direction. David wondered if he’d gone a little too far with the crotch routine.

  He ambled into the shop where the small, ratty Elaki held a mounting armload of purchases. David moved around the Elaki and headed toward the back. Surely there was a back door somewhere.

  The man behind the counter frowned. “Beat it, nose talker.”

  “Who you calling nose talker?” David stumbled toward the Elaki, making the teenage boy move away. He looked over his shoulder. There was a door behind the counter—an Elaki door, tall, slender, and slightly ajar. With any luck it would lead to the alley in back.

  He headed toward it, then stopped, glancing back at the small Elaki, backed up against the counter, caught between the teenage boy and the larger Elaki. His fin was still wrapped around the sticky ball of popcorn.

  If ever an Elaki needed rescuing, David thought.

  “Where’s bafroom?” David teetered sideways. “There bafroom in here for people?” He blinked. “Got go, bad.”

  The teenage boy was skinny, but wiry and strong, and the shove he gave David sent him crashing against the counter.

  Good thing I don’t have to go to the bathroom, David thought.

  “Go on,” the kid said. “Outta here. Jesus, you stink.”

  “Take ’em off me,” David said. He launched himself against the boy, knocking him backward into a display of harnesses. David heard glass break. He grimaced. If IAD got wind of this, he’d be in deep. They could dock his pay.

  “That bafroom?” David veered sideways, heading for the metal door.

  The Elaki tourist inched sideways toward the front of the shop.

  Hurry up, David thought.

  One of the large Elaki blocked the little one before he could get away.

  “Hey,” David said. He stepped between the two Elaki, grabbing the big one by the head.

  The man moved from behind the counter and grabbed David’s shoulders, and the teenager punched David hard, in the stomach.

  He shut his eyes and doubled forward, making sure he landed on the Elaki bullies. It was sheer luck that he was able to bring the counterman and the teenager with him. More breakage. And he was feeling sick. He swallowed hard, and wondered if he would throw up on the counterman.

  That would be good to key into a report. Assaulted perp with vomit.

  David scrambled to his feet.

  The boy was coming up just behind him. David kicked him hard, in the ribs, and the kid fell backward. The cop was coming through the door, the Elaki stall owner right behind her, hissing.

  “Shit,” David said. He ran for the door behind the counter, squeezed through. He heard shouts as he pulled the door shut behind him.

  David moaned and took a deep breath. It was dark, hot, and narrow, and he couldn’t see a damn thing. His stomach hurt, and the nano odors didn’t help. It would take him a month to work up a smell this bad in real life.

  “Lights,” he croaked, stumbling forward. Nothing happened. He touched wall on both sides and moved ahead, sweating. The old familiar panic made his chest feel tight.

&nbs
p; His eyes began to adjust and he moved quickly through the senseless and obtuse turns Elaki incorporated into their architecture. A strip of daylight lit the bottom of a door a few feet ahead. He went for it, the tunnellike corridor veering left.

  The door was locked from the inside, held together by wire and bolted with a metal bar. David’s fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the wire made his fingertips sore. The metal bar was heavy, and he let it drop to the floor, wincing when it clanged.

  David stopped and listened. No sound of anyone behind him. Would he follow somebody who smelled like he did into a dark corridor? He eased the back door open and peeped out.

  The cop had her back to him. She was waiting by a different door, the door that would be the logical choice if Elaki architecture made any sense. She spoke in low, insistent tones—calling for backup. There were sweat stains spreading across the back of her uniform shirt, running down the spine.

  David held his breath and moved slowly into the alley. He ducked behind a Dumpster. The ground was hard-packed dirt and the smell of rotting vegetables was strong. So was the smell of raw sewage, baking in the sun. Another overflow of effluence—breaking out in an ever-growing area around Little Saigo.

  At least she wouldn’t find him by his smell.

  David waited until he was a hundred yards away before he picked his pace up to a slow jog. The alley was empty, except for the palpable activity of insects and rodents going about their business, just out of sight.

  “Silver, report in. Silver?”

  “Moving through the alley,” David said in a harsh whisper. He was out of breath. “Where’s the Nipper?”

  “Hasn’t come out of the shop,” Halliday said. “But we got scams out the wazoo here.”

  David nodded to himself, watching for movement. His foot slipped out from under him, and he fell on one knee.

  “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dog shit,” David said. He wiped his shoe sideways in the dirt.

  Somebody was laughing in his ear. “You okay, Silver?”

  David heard a door creak, and voices.

  He turned off the earpiece, and crouched beside a stack of nano boxes. Be nice if there was time to make one shape around him.

  The door opened. David ducked lower.

  He heard a bark and a snarl and the hairs stirred on the back of his neck. He moved his head up no more than a quarter inch. Just enough.

  Biachi, another Elaki he couldn’t see, and a dog. Not just any dog. This was a new hybrid, with the look of a small, lean lion. It was black and rigid with tension, and saliva gathered along the hard, slender jawline. The dog stayed within inches of Biachi, and David knew the Elaki could feel the dog’s warm, humid breath.

  David’s legs felt weak. The dog could find him in a second.

  The dog stayed focused on Biachi, looking as if it were held by an invisible leash. Someone was talking. Another Elaki, just out of sight. The voice was soothing, speaking in the Home-tongue that Elaki never used in front of humans. David tried to pick up phrases, but there was nothing his mind could latch on to except the reassuring roughness in the tone of voice.

  Biachi was extraordinarily still.

  He’d been hurt, David realized. The Elaki’s tender midsection had been ripped open, and was leaking thick, yellow fluid. The edges of the wound were raggedly torn, and the inner tissue was swelling and turning grey. Biachi tilted sideways, and David could see the tip of the fin the other Elaki put out to steady him.

  “Guard down,” the Elaki said suddenly.

  The dog backed up a step and pretended to sit, haunches two inches off the ground. The dog’s head moved sideways, watching. David ducked backward.

  He moved slowly and carefully, holding his breath. His hands were cold, but sweaty, and he took his gun from the holster tucked inside the armpit of the loose green sweater. He rested his fingertips on the butt of the gun, pressing so the sweat would not make them slip off. As soon as the light glowed green, he leaned forward, poking his head around the corner.

  Biachi was disappearing around a jog in the alley, the Elaki leading him just out of sight. The dog followed them, then stopped, and headed back toward David.

  “Fuck,” David said softly.

  The dog tensed, sniffed, then trotted behind the Dumpster.

  David heard a creak. The door from the shop moved slowly open. David could see the dog’s hindquarters. The animal tensed, but stayed silent, hackles rising. He and the dog watched the door open slowly.

  David saw a slender arm, well muscled beneath the ragged sweater, then a woman with dark curly hair. Rose. Sweat streamed down David’s temples. He gripped the gun and took aim. Rose slipped into the alley.

  David’s hands were shaking. He heard the dog’s toenails scrabble in the dirt, then it leaped, a black streak. The dog came fast, knocking Rose sideways into the side of the building just as David got off a shot.

  He missed. David rose from his crouch, gun up.

  Pain was unexpected and intense—like being hit from behind by a truck. David opened his mouth but made no sound. His muscles spasmed, his nerves overloaded. He hit the ground hard, helpless to break the fall. His last impression was blurred, but he saw a uniform and black leather, just before the savage kick landed in his side. He was too far gone to notice when it connected.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Conversation laced with static. Police radio. The sounds were familiar, comforting. David ached—his back sore, his head pounding. Something smelled awful. He realized with a sense of outraged humiliation that the smell came from him.

  Nano odor. Undercover drunk.

  He heard a woman laugh, the deeper tones of a man talking. He tried to touch a tender spot on his ribs, but couldn’t. David took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He was handcuffed—facedown in a squad car.

  The cruiser had its lights on, flashing stripes of blue light on the torn, nubby upholstery. David squinted and groaned. His head hurt and he felt a swell of nausea.

  “Sweetie’s waking up.”

  The woman’s voice. He remembered the uniform who had stalked him through the Elaki market. She had stunned him, using a setting just short of lethal.

  “Sweetie, you puke in my squad car, and I’m going to use that prod on your privates.”

  David rolled sideways.

  She was a big girl, blond and heavyset, features broad but not unattractive. She stood with her legs apart, belt heavy with equipment, and he noticed that her eyes were small. Not overly bright.

  One of the bad ones. David had seen them before—women cops who had to prove how tough they were, escalating situations that could and should be defused. They made for bad cops.

  He thought of Rose, suddenly. Hitting the wall sideways under the weight of the dog. He’d had a clear shot and missed. His hands had been shaking.

  “Get the cuffs off.” His voice was groggy, but hard. The sun had gone down, gone down a lot. What was he still doing in the back of the squad car?

  “Not too likely, buddy.”

  The cop had a partner—a big guy, barrel-chested and going to fat. Here were a couple of cops who spent their breaks at the doughnut shop. The partner had gnarled red hair, kinky, a pale, pudgy complexion showing a five o’clock shadow, brown eyes under a thick, heavy brow. “Not till you explain this.” He held David’s gun upside down in a baggie. “This here’s a cop’s gun, slimeball.”

  It explained the brute force, anyway. He’d had the gun out, ready to fire.

  “It’s a cop gun because I’m a cop, dickhead.”

  The blow came from the blonde—he hadn’t been watching her. David brought his knees up and gritted his teeth. He knew better. There were cops like this in every department in every city and pushing them was brainless. A simple maxim that every cop and lawyer knew, that prisoners had whatever rights the arresting officers gave them.

  “David Silver,” he said through clenched teeth. “Detective David Silver, Homicide Task Force. You assh
oles have screwed up an undercover operation get the cuffs off now.”

  The blonde lowered her flashlight and looked sideways at her partner.

  “Bullshitting,” the guy said lamely. The gun sagged in his hand.

  “I don’t think so,” the blonde said.

  “What do we do?”

  David had a frisson, wondering if they would do something really stupid. But they wouldn’t. Not with the car witnessing, the streetlights recording. He was being paranoid.

  “We take off the cuffs,” the blonde said.

  David sighed.

  He rolled back on his belly, so she could get her thumbprint on the release. It was close in the back of the squad car. Hot. Her knee pressed against his leg, her hands working under his wrists. He had the impression she was holding her breath.

  The cuffs clicked open.

  The cop scrambled out of the car, but not before he noted her name tag. Gaskin. Officer Gaskin. And beside her on the sidewalk, with the expression of a dog who has made yet another mess on the carpet, was Officer Bertelli.

  Two fine specimens, David thought.

  They stood close together, Gaskin with her arms folded. Neither of them, David realized, was going to apologize.

  “You guys are so far off procedure I’m not even going to list the infractions.”

  “S’ not our fault,” Bertelli said. “Can’t say you’re not convincing. You stink like hell.”

  Gaskin tilted her head sideways. “I think we can make a case.”

  “If I file a grievance, that’ll mean hours of computer work.” David gave them a small smile. Bertelli smiled back. “Then there’s all that bullshit with IAD—” David waved a hand. He shrugged. “So what I’m going to do is wait a week.”

  Bertelli froze. Gaskin folded her arms.

  “Then I’m going to make a call. That’s all it’ll take, you know. One call.”

  What struck him particularly was how unhappy they looked. Not just because they were in trouble now, and knew it, though that was there too. They were like children, undisciplined and allowed to run wild, and unsure why they didn’t enjoy it more.

  “There was a woman,” David said. “And a dog.” He took another breath and clenched his fist. If he passed out there was no telling what these two would do. He rubbed the back of his neck. “In the alley, around the corner from where you attacked—”