Alien Nation #4 - The Change

by Barry B. Longyear

  “Who am I to judge?” George asked himself aloud. “I never called my own murder a murder.” He thought about it, and felt ashamed when he realized that he had never called it anything. He had never mentioned it to anyone.

  He had never told Susan about his initiation to the Ahvin Yin and what he had done to be accepted. There were many ways to cast his act in a different, more acceptable, light. Under the authority and the laws of the time and place, however, Stangya had done murder. Unlike most other peoples of the galaxy George knew of, humans played games with the rules of murder, sorting killings by motive, intent, context, and socio-economic standing of the killers and the deceased. On most other worlds, the established rules governed, murder was murder, and George Francisco was a murderer.

  He looked down at his hand, seeing there the tiny scar that had made him brothers with a monster. On Itri Vi, after Stangya had slain the Niyezian pain minister, Maanka Dak had pierced Stangya’s palm with the point of a knife and then cut his own palm. As the pale blood seeped out of the small wounds, Maanka Dak had said, “This blood we have shed together over the body of our slain enemy. Here, in the hated dust of this world, it mixes together and makes us brothers. Lewca ot Ahvin Yin. Welcome to Those Who Resist.”

  George felt annihilating sadness fill his hearts. At one time he had worshipped Maanka Dak. Even when they had been taken away from Itri Vi and relieved of the horror of the Niyez, he had said nothing as the Ahvin Yin continued exacting its retribution. After all, the Ahvin Yin itself was a law of sorts, a seat of authority. Even when Maanka Dak learned the technical skills of the Niyez and helped the Overseers administer the new pain, Stangya had said nothing. It was better to have a spy in the midst of the Overseers, he had thought. From his vantage point, in addition, Maanka could best direct the vikah ta when the outrages of an Overseer exceeded any kind of endurance.

  But what had brought Maanka to the level of bank robber, convict, torturer, and murderer on earth? Was it a taste for excitement? An addiction to death? Andarko’s messenger of vengeance gone insane? Everyone who was sworn to the Ahvin Yin had done so to achieve a little piece of justice; to bring some small evening of the scales. Most wanted peace; a feeling of safety for themselves, their mates, and children. Long before Francisco and Duncan had shot it out with Maanka, Sita, and Sing, Maanka’s purpose had become twisted.

  All the authority the slaves had ever known had been cruel, demeaning, deadly, corrupt, and against life. From that, Maanka had taken the premise that all authority is evil, hence he and his followers should be and would be bound by no authority. It had begun in the desert quarantine camps. While Stangya and a few others listened to Warden Tom Rand talk to them about law and the opportunities in law enforcement, Maanka had led Sita Dak and Sing Fangan through the wire and into the dark world of the fugitive.

  Could it have been that the evil authority that made Maanka’s special genius and special hate so valuable on Itri Vi, and before the crash, had to be re-created to keep Maanka important in his own eyes? Unless he is fighting the powers of evil, perhaps Maanka has no value to himself?

  “Don’t be so understanding,” George muttered to the shadows. “Mark Diaz is dead; Warden Rand, Bill Duncan, and all of those bystanders. The man is trying to kill you and your entire family. Don’t be so understanding.”

  He reached out his hand to check the lock on the window, but before his fingers touched the lock, he lowered his hand and let it hang at his side. He had checked that lock and every other lock in the house a dozen times. There was no way that Maanka Dak could get through.

  Logic said that any brand of security capable of protecting him from Maanka Dak would also make it impossible for Buck to get through. Still, he expected Buck to come through the front door, drop his books on the hall table, and toss his bomber jacket over the back of a chair as he began his inquiries about what was for dinner. George checked his watch and noted that it was just short of eleven.

  Such ordinary things, George thought. Memories are such mundane anchors to such important matters. And memory was one of the things that now either deserted him or buried him, depending on his biological moods. George turned from the window and felt his way through the dark toward the kitchen.

  Dr. Rivers had to be mistaken. It simply could not be riana, although the changing here on Earth was not the death sentence it had been before the crash. That was what George’s reason said. His feelings, however, said that it could not be so. If it were, then it would be the end of everything. He paused before the television set, tempted to turn it on again just for the illusion of company.

  A sound came from the basement. George froze and lifted his head. He held his breath as he strained every muscle to catch every sound. He could pick out the beating of his hearts, the footsteps of the jogging officer, the creaking in the southwest corner of the house as it continued cooling off from the day.

  There was something more. From the direction of the basement. There was the sound of grit beneath a shoe sole as it was ground into a concrete floor. The earlier sound had been one of Emily’s old plastic toys being accidentally kicked. Emily had yet to clean up her toys in the basement. In addition, she probably hadn’t gotten around to putting away the skillet she’d left on the front steps. George promised himself to scold her just as soon as he finished hugging her to pieces. “Always supposing I live that long,” he whispered to himself as he moved his hand toward his revolver.

  Another footstep grinding grit into the floor, then a creak as weight was placed on the bottom step leading to the kitchen. As he pulled his weapon and held it up, George looked at the kitchen door and saw that it was slightly ajar. He had left it that way when he had gone down into the cellar to make certain the outside door and the basement windows were locked.

  An additional squeak, one that George recognized: third step from the bottom. He’d been threatening to screw down those squeaky steps since they’d moved into the house. He’d promised Susan, but it was always one thing or another—

  George shut down his nervous mental chatter and listened. Whoever it was on the stairs was taking them very slowly, two at a time.

  George’s mind raced through the possibilities. Maanka Dak knew that he was armed and that he would be on his guard. Would he be fool enough to come up those steps himself? He was bold enough; crazy enough. George shook his head. He didn’t believe Maanka was stupid enough. But then, George reminded himself, he hadn’t been able to imagine Maanka being either sufficiently bold, stupid, or demented to do half the things he had already done.

  Who would be coming up those steps? Maanka? If so, armed with what? What was Maanka Dak’s ultimate vikah ta fantasy against George? What sick little script had he picked at and polished all of those years he was locked up at China Lake?

  Maanka’s sense of revenge would certainly be served, George thought, if he could get one of those neural controllers into my brain. Perhaps Maanka would have some kind of tranquilizer gun or knockout gas. A concussion grenade. If it was a grenade, maybe he’d have enough time to grab it and toss it back through the basement door before it exploded.

  There was another footstep on the stairs, and George paused as he thought of another possibility. What if, instead of Maanka Dak, the person coming up those stairs was one of Maanka’s unfortunate robots? What if it was the missing probationer, Ruma Kavit, or another officer? One of the men or women who were guarding the house?

  He felt he needed another response, something beside a gun. George looked toward the counter, and in the dim reflected light from the street, he made out the counter drawers. He reached out his hand and pulled open the drawer containing the carving knife. As quietly as he could, he felt among the kitchen utensils until his fingers touched the familiar rough bone handle of the carving knife. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, lifted, and something slid off the blade and into something else, making a clatter in the drawer. He froze in horror.

  On television once George had seen a cartoon wher
e a sneak thief accidentally made a noise, waking up the owner of the house. The cartoon thief then made a “Meow!” sound like a cat. He had the temptation to do the same. In the cartoon, however, the owner of the house did a double take in his sleep as he realized that he didn’t own a cat.

  George realized that his head was full of meaningless sludge and that it was almost impossible for him to concentrate, listen, or even focus his eyes.

  There were no more sounds from the basement stairs. Withdrawing the knife from the drawer, George squatted, turned, held out the knife, and aimed his revolver at the door to the basement.

  He could sense whoever it was on the stairs holding his breath—her breath—its breath. George noted that if the door opened, he would be in full view of the assailant. If he crept across the floor to get behind the door, however, the intruder would probably hear him moving, if the intruder were Tenctonese.

  Where he was, squatting before the kitchen sink beneath the level of the counter, the shadow caused by a light from next door shining through the window provided good concealment, provided he didn’t move. And providing the intruder didn’t carry a light. George felt light-headed as realized he was holding his own breath. As slowly and as quietly as possible he began drawing air into his lungs. As he did so, the images before his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer until everything was a uniform shade of inky black. The door was gone. The kitchen was gone.

  He held the knife in front of his eyes. He could make out nothing.

  Quickly turning his head, he looked toward the window above the kitchen sink. The light from the neighbor’s house was gone.

  He was stone-black blind.

  Riana, he thought. It is riana, after all. Riana and then you die.

  A redness crowded the edges of the black filling his sight. A streak of bright yellow shattered the blackness as his ears heard the basement door fly open and slam against the wall.

  Holding up the revolver, George jumped to his feet and fired as he threw the knife toward the door. A body slammed into his middle and things behind his eyes went all sparkly as the wind was knocked from him. He slammed into the cabinets and hit the floor. He fired again and could hear the picture tube on the television shatter and sprinkle the floor with glass.

  “Dad!” he heard a voice scream into his ear. “Dad, stop shooting! It’s me!”

  “Buck? Buck?”

  “Yes! It’s me, Dad!” Buck’s voice calmed down as he released his father and sat up. “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” George repeated. He took several deep breaths and tried to pull himself up against the cabinets. “All right. That covers a lot of territory, Buck. No. I’m not all right. I almost killed my son, my head’s full of fog, I think I busted a rib, and I can’t see. I fear Muddy Rivers was right about the riana.

  “Muddy what?”

  The flashes before George’s eyes began again, forming quickly into psychedelic patterns and shades. “It’s not important, son. You’re here. That’s what counts. Are you certain you’re all right? I didn’t hit you when I fired or threw the knife?”

  “No problem, Dad. You missed me by millimeters. What about Mom, Emily, and Vessna?”

  “They’re safe, Buck. At least I think they’re safe. I guess they’re at least as safe as anyone can be from Maanka Dak. There’s no way to get in touch with them without endangering them.”

  It all began to whirl about, the colors, the floor, the walls, the feel of Buck’s hands holding him up. Just before George went completely unconscious, he reminded himself, upon awakening, to ask Buck how in the hell he had gotten past all of the police officers, Maanka Dak, and the locks, and had gotten into the basement.

  C H A P T E R 1 8

  “I WOULDN’T WORRY about anyone sneaking in through the basement, Dad. I can’t see how anyone could be quiet and make his way through that mess of Emily’s down there.”

  The darknesses in the living room seemed to swim before George’s eyes as he rested on the couch. “How did you get in, Buck? I’m certain I locked everything down there from the inside. I must have checked it half a dozen times.”

  “A secret of my youth, Dad.”

  “What secret? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve had a secret passage into the house ever since the summer we moved in. Remember that time you caught me coming out of that concrete storm drain behind the house?”

  “Yes. You said you’d been trapped in there.”

  “I lied, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Well, Dad, I was caught, wasn’t I? That’s sort of like being trapped . . . isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Buck. What do you think?”

  “I think I lied.”

  “I think you’re right.” George half sat up, felt the room spinning, and eased himself back down on the couch. “How do you get from the drain into the basement?”

  “About two-thirds of the way up there’s a big hole in the concrete pipe. I figure it must’ve crumbled during an old earth tremor. Anyway, when I first found it, I got my flashlight and went back. The storm water going through the pipe carved out quite a little chamber in there between the huge rocks they used for fill. Anyway, it’s right next to the basement. It took a lot of digging and a bit of work with a rock chisel, but I loosened four of the concrete blocks behind the furnace for a door. That way I could go in and out whenever I wanted.”

  George nodded and was about to demand a listing of the times in the past Buck had sneaked out of the house when something more important occurred to him. “Buck, does anyone else know about your secret passage? Any of your friends? Emily?”

  “No. I never told anyone about it. I never told any of my friends.” He was silent for a moment. “Emily might know, though. I never told her, but back then she used to follow me around like a puppy. She might’ve seen me go in or out or stumbled across it and figured it out for herself. Do you think she’d tell any of her friends?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s important.” George tried his eyes again and was treated with a light show in kaleidoscopic patterns of oranges, reds, and golds. He closed his eyes and let his head relax on the couch’s thick armrest. “Buck, I know you were frightened after that nightmare at the university, but why didn’t you call me here at home?”

  “I tried. Every time there was either no answer or I got a wrong number. Some police command center.”

  “That’s right,” George said. “They’ve routed all of the calls through a central board for tracing and screening purposes. I don’t see why they wouldn’t have sent your calls through, though. Some kind of computer foul-up.”

  “Dad, right after I found out about Roger Dillon getting killed by that campus cop, I tried to call Mom at her office. All I got hold of was someone who wouldn’t tell me what was going on and kept pumping me for information about where I was. Then I heard on the news about Mark Diaz and what happened. I tried to call here a dozen times and got nothing.”

  George kept still and listened to the silence as Buck paused to take the fear from his voice. He wasn’t very successful.

  “Dad, I tried to call you and Matt, but no one could track either of you down. Then I remembered your old training officer, the hard-ass you hated so much after you graduated from the academy.”

  “Bill Duncan?”

  “Yes. I tried to get hold of him.”

  George opened his eyes and studied the flaming red and turquoise silhouette of his son. The lights in the living room were off, yet the sight before him was electrified in brilliant colors. It was almost as though he could see heat through a computer-enhanced video setup. George rubbed his eyes and nodded. “That’s when you found out that Bill Duncan was dead too. It must’ve been very frightening.”

  “He’s dead, Dad, and not only that. Another cop killed him. There are bodies littered all over L.A. today, and most of them were dusted out by law enforcement employees. Duncan, Mark Diaz, that campus cop at the university, and that
warden who hosed down all the people at the McBeaver’s on Soto. That’s why I wasn’t real keen about bringing my problem to my friend Mr. Policeman on the corner, if you get my meaning.”

  “I’m hip.”

  “I called the day care center and Emily’s school and found out that Mom had picked up the girls, but both times I ran into someone who was short on answers and long on questions about me and my location. Who was I supposed to trust?”

  “Not that voice on the telephone, that’s for certain. You did very well, Buck, and we are very, very lucky. I’m as proud of you as I can be.”

  George opened his eyes and saw the red silhouette rest its head in its hands.

  “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life, Dad.”

  “Including before the crash?”

  “The Overseers ran some horrors, but we knew who the Overseers were. Damned right I was scared, but what they did on the ship was done by rules we all understood. I don’t know what’s going on here, who’s doing it, why it’s being done, and does anyone know the rules?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  George saw the silhouette turn toward him.

  “Dad, who was that voice on the telephone? Who is Maanka Dak, and what in Celine’s name is happening?”

  George closed his eyes and asked, “Do you remember the Ahvin Yin?”

  “Sure. The resistance. The young children used to worship them. Do you remember the game we used to play after we left planet Itri Vi?”

  “Su nas otas. I remember. It was sort of like the hide-and-seek game children here play. As I recall it, though, su nas otas was more like hide, seek, and destroy.”