by Chris Dolley
He couldn't finish the sentence, so many other thoughts pushing in. How did the process work? Illusion? Suggestion? A real physical transformation? And could he alter his form too? All those times he'd tried he was never sure if it worked or not. "You really did that just by thinking?"
"Desperation helped. I knew there was no way to outrun him so I had to come up with a plan to slow him down. Seeing he was a born again God-fearing alien I thought I'd show him an angel. Did I really look that good?"
Louise sparkled against the deep blue sky, a thousand tiny points of lights dancing in recollection of her finest hour.
"You looked amazing but . . . what did you do to him?"
"Told him to wait there for God. I don't know how long it'll hold though. Long enough for us to get our John reconnected and into hiding, I hope. How long do you think it'll take the Colonists to get here? I sent the pictogram as soon as I could."
"Ah," said Nick. "I'm afraid it's not going to be as easy as that."
"Why not? We've got to do it now. The alien could return at any moment. He's bound to find either John or his body unless we get them away quick."
"It's not that. I forgot to tell you in all the excitement. John's gone. I can't find his body anywhere."
Chapter Thirty-Four
"What do you mean 'his body's gone?' How could it?"
She couldn't believe it. To be so close and then . . . how could you lose a comatose body in a bathroom?
"I don't know. I was looking for you at the time . . ."
"And our John? Is he still in the closet?"
"Ah . . . let's check."
He dived into the roof. Louise followed. Could John have reconnected by himself? Some arcane sense that told him his body was close by and drew him towards it?
And wasn't that good news?
Nick dropped into the corridor, raced along the wall and dived through a door.
"In here," he said.
Louise followed. She could barely see a thing. The closet was small and unlit.
"Where is he?" she said.
"At the back by the shelves. 'Switch Frequency,' John. Can you hear me?"
"I hear you, wing leader."
Louise was confused. If John was here, where was his body? And was John here? She couldn't see him. She could hear his voice but that could be coming from anywhere up to eight, ten metres away. He could be in another room.
"Get John into the light. I need to see him."
"Come on, John," said Nick. "Time to follow the wing leader again."
Louise watched from the closet. Was that something moving in the shadows? She drifted back into the corridor. Two clouds of hazy lights hovered above the lush carpet. It was John. But . . . how? How could he be here and his body . . .
Could he have moved his body and then returned to the closet?
"Switching to radio encryption again, John," said Nick. "Same as before—follow me wherever I go but until you hear me say 'switch frequency,' you won't be able to understand a word. Now, Lou, why on Earth would John connect with his body, move it somewhere else, disconnect and run back to the closet?"
She didn't know. But who else could have moved the body? The alien?
"He didn't have time," said Nick. "He was either chasing me or talking to you the whole time."
"Where's the bodyguard?" She'd only just noticed. The corridor was empty. The bodyguard should have been standing guard outside Bruce's room.
"He's not here, is he?" she continued, excited. "Which proves John came this way. The bodyguard wouldn't have left his post unless John left his suite."
"Uh, yes," said Nick. "I think we'd already established that. Unless you think John might have left via a window."
This was not a time for levity. She was angry and flustered. And Nick's cavalier attitude didn't help. He should be panicking too. They'd lost John and any second an enraged alien could burst through the ceiling.
"Calm down, Lou. There's a very simple way the body could have been moved without invoking anything nasty at all."
"How?"
"Think about it. John Bruce has got a major speech to make in—what do you reckon—about an hour or less by now? What's more natural than someone knocking on his bedroom door to see if he's ready?"
"So?"
"Well, what would they do? There's no answer so they open the door. The room's empty so they check the bathrooms and—voila—there he is, comatose on the floor. He's breathing but they can't wake him, so they call an ambulance. Off goes John Bruce on a stretcher and away go the security guards with him."
Relief! What had happened to her grip on reality? Someone goes missing and all she can see are little green body-snatchers dropping out of the sky in waves. Was this a taste of things to come? Normality in a sling until some future date when her brain readjusted?
"Come on, Lou. It's nearly over. All we've got to do is find that ambulance and make the reconnection."
Arnie Fredericks paced the small room. They'd had twenty minutes to rewrite John's speech. Half of that had already gone.
"No, Ricky," he said. "It's still not there. Yes, we mention Suarez but we can't be seen to be making capital. John's got to come off as shocked but statesmanlike. Everyone'll know he's the frontrunner now, we don't have to rub it in."
Ricky Benitez, John's speechwriter, marked the passage and moved on.
"What about China?" he asked. "Should I cut that section? We can hardly blame China for Suarez glassing Zinger."
Arnie pushed his hair back, running his fingers through his short, wiry hair. Could they backtrack on China? After making such an issue of it?
"No," he said. "We stay on message. China's a threat and we need strong leadership."
"But what if Suarez confesses to having McKinley killed? We need to be ready to back-peddle or John's going to be vulnerable to claims he's a warmonger."
"No." Fredericks was adamant. "We've got to keep America thinking about security. That's where the Democrats are at their most vulnerable and that's where John's going to win in November. Even if China didn't have McKinley killed, they could have. So, we push that." He threw up his hands. "Who knows, the Chinese might have got to Suarez and brainwashed him or tampered with his water. Where there's doubt, there's votes."
Adrenalin was pouring through Arnie's veins. John was going to win this. The nomination and the Presidency. A month ago it had been a crazy dream. A photogenic hero with a household name and a winning smile. Someone who might poll well enough to entice a McKinley or a Suarez to choose him for running mate, to help them woo the celebrity-obsessed voter.
But now . . . now, John was a player. Someone who had a platform to go with his looks. An unlikely platform—when John had first mentioned China, Arnie had thought he was crazy. But with three murders and an increasingly rattled electorate, John could play the China card all the way to the White House. And the beauty of it was that China would keep responding, overreacting as they always did. The American public would see that as interfering. The White House would try to smooth things over with China, John would accuse them of appeasement and the lines would be drawn. Strong government v appeasement. Only one winner.
As long as John kept on message.
"You okay on this, John?" he said, turning to his candidate seated by the mirror receiving the last ministrations to his hair and make-up. "No second thoughts about playing the fear card?"
John smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "No problem at all."
"You got a cold, John?" said Arnie. "Your voice sounds a bit off."
John nodded, touching his throat with his hand. "Started this morning."
Arnie froze: visions of Suarez and McKinley. "Your throat's not sore, is it? You haven't been coughing?"
John shook his head. "Nothing to worry about."
Arnie stared at his candidate. Five minutes to go to the biggest speech of John's career and . . . Was he ready? Should he postpone? If John went out there and his voice gave out or he started coughing peo
ple would panic—they'd think of Suarez and McKinley. John had to appear strong and resolute. A leader for a time of uncertainty.
There was a knock on the dressing room door.
"Five minutes, Mr. Bruce," said a voice from the corridor.
Arnie looked down at his watch. There wasn't time. Postponing the speech now would only fuel media speculation.
"I'll download the speech into the lectern," said Ricky, getting up. "You okay, Arnie?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Backstage, the minutes ticked down. A nervous Fredericks checked his tie, his watch, stretched his neck. Deep breaths. Had to keep calm. Every now and then his eyes shot towards the curtain. The room was buzzing, and packed. Maybe he should have booked somewhere larger? Or set up an overflow room—maybe an outside screen or a holo-platform? Everyone wanted to hear what John had to say.
Arnie shuffled some more. He couldn't settle. Nerves as taut as guitar strings. Was John okay? He seemed to be walking stiffly. Perhaps he should schedule a medical if he could slip a doctor past the media circus.
The curtains beckoned once more. Another surreptitious glance around the side. All the seats were taken and still people were arriving, lining the walls and clustering by the doors at the back.
This was going to be a day to remember.
"He's not here," said Louise. "How many more hospitals are there in this damn town?"
Three blurs hovered over a brightly-lit ward, people scurried by below; doctors, nurses, orderlies, visitors. But no John Bruce, no press and no security detail.
"Calm down, Lou, we'll find him."
"But when? We can't check every hospital bed in Orlando!"
That was becoming obvious. He'd seen enough hospital rooms to last a lifetime.
"Come on," he said. "We're not thinking straight. Let's find the Metropole. He's supposed to be giving a speech there at twelve thirty. If it's been cancelled, there'll be a sign outside, maybe a note to say where he's being treated."
"And if the speech hasn't been cancelled and he's there?"
"Then, we've got problems."
The house lights dimmed. The sudden darkness sent the crowd into a nervous hush. People and equipment were crammed into the room far beyond any fire regulation limit. They were standing ten-deep around the walls, pushing against the outer seats, infiltrating the central aisle. Only the stage was empty, a thick curtain drawn a few yards from the front.
Arnie Fredericks straightened his tie, fixed his smile and strode out from the wings. This was his moment.
"And now ladies and gentleman," he said, cranking his voice up. "I want you to give a big Orlando welcome to a real American hero, the first man to fly halfway to the stars, John Theodore Bruce!"
A crescendo of noise; applause, whistles and shrieks. Arnie stepped back, leading the applause from the side of the stage, his hands clapping wildly, his face reddening with the effort.
John Bruce walked on from the other side. A single spotlight followed his progress from wings to lectern.
The cheering increased, cameras focussed as John's face was beamed into millions of households worldwide. A well-known face, a photogenic face. But today there was something different. Today, there was a feral quality to his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Five
John began to speak.
"I expect many of you today are asking the same question I am. What's happening to the world? McKinley explodes, Martinez combusts and now Bill Suarez stabs a talk show host. What's happening?"
He milked the moment, disregarding the prepared text. He had something different to say.
"Today, I think it's time the American people were told the truth."
Another pause. He ran his eyes along the wall of network cameras and imagined his face filling their view screens. Well, not his face but it would do. For the moment.
"Last week, I told you of China's involvement in McKinley's murder. Today, I discovered I was only half right. Two hours ago, Bill Suarez told me the truth."
A collective gasp. Then a hush. He had them exactly where he wanted them. Intrigued and panting for more.
"I was appalled, as I know you'll be."
He looked down, shaking his head, trying to look shocked and saddened. Emotion had never been his strong point but he'd observed others. And realised its power. People preferred a story that was difficult to tell. It lent credence. A story reluctantly told and dragged from an unwilling confidant gained a provenance that no glib lie could ever match.
He shook his head again and looked directly at the camera feeds.
"Bill told me that for years senior politicians and the military have conspired to keep the truth from the American people. They know exactly what happened to McKinley and Suzi Martinez. But instead of telling the truth they lie and hide behind their veil of secrecy. Why?"
He let his head track from left to right, asking the question to each member of the room.
"Because your leaders—our leaders—think we're too stupid to handle the truth. They think we're children who'll panic. Well I know different. We're not children and we can handle the truth."
He took a deep breath. This was the moment. He'd laid the groundwork. Now came the fun.
"I've flown into space. I worked for NASA. I know that the human race is not alone. I've seen the long-range pictures of alien spacecraft. But," he paused, giving his words time to settle. "Until today, I didn't realise they were here."
That got the reaction he'd been looking for. A real buzz. Surprise, excitement and the cold, sweaty palm of fear.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps he should moisten them a bit, have his lower lip quiver. Look, America, I'm telling you the truth, see how it hurts.
He suppressed a smile.
"That's right," he said. "They've been here for years infiltrating our society. They slip inside our heads and take over our bodies. At first there were only a few of them—scientists and explorers—and they were careful which bodies they took over. But now, they are many and they don't care. McKinley and Martinez died because their bodies weren't suitable hosts. They couldn't take the strain so they exploded and burned. Suarez was stronger. But they had other plans for him. They knew he'd talked. So they took him over, forced him to kill then left him to pick up the pieces."
He was flying now, driving the story towards its climax.
"China's gone. Their entire leadership's been replaced. Europe too. Now they're coming here and it's not just the leaders they're after."
Another look direct into camera. The next sentence had to hit every sitting room in America.
"They're coming for you," he said, stabbing a finger at the camera. "Look at the person next to you, your neighbour, your colleagues at work, your friends at school. How well do you really know them? Have they changed recently? Maybe just a little? Something you couldn't put your finger on at the time. Like forgetting something they should have known or behaving out of character. Maybe they changed their hair. That's what they do. Climb into people's heads when no one's looking. They're all around us even now. Waiting for the chance to slip inside our brains and take us over."
A girl near the front of the audience screamed, someone else jumped up. Others at the back began to move towards the exits.
Time to close.
He jerked his head up and to the left as though he'd suddenly seen something, widened his eyes in shock and parted his lips.
Then stabbed a finger at the ceiling. "There's one!" he cried, following its mythical flight with his arm, conducting its path towards the audience.
"Run!" he screamed, shouting at a woman in the audience. "It's almost on top of you."
A phalanx of the audience rose in panic, shouting and batting their arms at invisible monsters. John switched to the other side of the auditorium, picking on a man hurrying along a line of seats.
"He's one of them!" John shouted. "The man in the red tie. Don't let him get away. He's going for help."
Hands grabbed the man. A fight broke out.
"And he's another!" John pointed randomly at the audience then ducked, avoiding a swarm of mythical aliens. "There's more of them. Run for your lives!"
Pandemonium. No one remained seated. The exits were blocked by flailing masses, fights broke out, people were being trampled. Even the cameras were being abandoned.
Time for the final message.
He turned to the one remaining manned camera.
"There is hope," he said. "There's one person who can resist them. They framed him for murder. Had him locked away in a mental institution. But we can free him. We have to free him now. He's our only hope. Free Peter Pendennis!"
This was fun. Following Lulu and that idiot boyfriend of hers had opened up a new world to him. They'd shown him how to fly, how to jump inside people's heads. But they'd been so wrapped up in their own pathetic little mission they'd never once looked behind to see if anyone was following. Now he'd show them. He'd show everybody. Look at them run, look at them scream.
One person wasn't running or screaming. He was walking purposefully between the upturned chairs and abandoned possessions of the front row. Hadn't he heard? Didn't he understand English? He looked Chinese.
Peter pointed at him.
"He's one of them!" he shouted. "Look at him. He's Chinese."
No one tackled the man. Everyone was too busy trying to get out of the building.
The man drew level with the lectern, his face impassive. He raised an arm. Was that a gun? He was pointing it at Peter, from less than ten yards away.
Peter laughed, nervously. There was a flash, an explosion, pain. He was flung, spinning backwards, dumped on his backside. His right shoulder afire.
He lay there, confused. He'd been shot. He reached for his wound with his left hand. It came away stained red—a fiery, liquid red that glistened in the auditorium lights. He'd been shot in the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his assassin walking away. Why had the man shot only once? Didn't he want to make sure?