Aliens Omnibus 4

by Yvonne Navarro

  “I don’t want to work with a junkie,” Darcy said stiffly. “I don’t think they can be trusted. They’re not stable.”

  “No offense, but when did Damon Eddington ever seem stable to you? Nothing about this project is normal.” Michael shrugged. “Morals have their place, Darcy, but Synsound isn’t a big champion of the majority. Save it for dinner with the folks—”

  “I don’t keep in touch with my family.”

  “That’s not the point,” her coworker said. There was a sharpness to his voice that suggested she was trying even his easygoing temperament. “This is not Sunday church. If you didn’t know that when you took the job here, you must’ve been living in an ecology pod. Hell, most of the revenues in this corporation probably come from addicts who float through each day carrying discplayers. The headphones are probably implanted right into their damned brains. Besides, how can you complain about working with a user after the four of us all had a hand in the death of that Petrillo guy?”

  Darcy finally stopped bringing up the subject, although her suspicions about Eddington were confirmed early one evening when she followed him into Gramercy and watched him slip into an alley off Irving Place just beyond the park. Peering around the corner of the building at the mouth of the alley, she saw him deep in conversation with a motley-looking guy who had a skullcap of hot pink hair, dark glasses, and a ring of oversize pearlescent beads imbedded in the flabby skin around his neck. It didn’t take a PhD to figure it out, and when Damon offered the man a stack of bills and accepted two glass vials in return, things were pretty much settled.

  Like it or not, there could be no more denying that Eddington was a jelly addict. It didn’t show… much… anywhere in his work, though. Whatever the stuff had done to him when he’d first started using, Damon had finally adapted pretty well. He never zoned out at the mixer console or lost control of his thought processes in the sense that he couldn’t make decisions or operate the equipment. After nearly opening her mouth on two separate occasions, Darcy finally decided that silence was the best policy here; musicians were temperamental creatures, prone to solitude and a free creative license. Eddington wouldn’t take kindly to her trying to bring down an iron fist, and Michael was right: who was she to tell him what to do, anyway? Besides, everyone knew once you tasted royal jelly, you were in it until the end. Like it or not. Ultimately she didn’t care what he smoked or took or injected; he could do what he liked to his own body. She just didn’t feel he could be trusted and was loath to turn her back on him.

  Back at the apiary, Eddington began to put in as many hours watching Mozart as Darcy did, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the way he stood at the window and murmured, palms and fingertips pressed hard against the glass as if he could touch Mozart through it, sometimes talking to the alien, more often addressing no one but himself. “I can feel you,” Eddington whispered, “your rage, your hunger. But why can’t I hear your music? Sing for me, so that I can sing for you. Give me more, Mozart, more.” His monotonous words were like a litany, and she was getting pretty tired of hearing them; the sooner Ahiro got back, the better.

  * * *

  Darcy had almost given up and gone home when Ahiro and two of this companions finally arrived with another animal crate. Ahiro led the way, steering the crate while the others pushed it along on a wheeled platform. On his way to the bathroom at the rear of the apiary’s outer chamber, Damon froze at the sight of the covered container, the expression on his face a mixture of anticipation and misgiving. In his usual fashion, Ahiro did not smile or elaborate. “We have a beast for it to fight,” he said simply. He and his men didn’t wait to be told to slide the container into the loading position at the feeder door.

  “What—what is it?” Damon’s eyes were wide and beginning to fill with wild hope.

  “It is extremely fast,” Ahiro said. “With fangs and claws and the ability to defend itself.” Without another word he grasped the heavy green canvas draped over the crate and pulled it away.

  Darcy gasped and her hand went to her throat as a feral growl rumbled out of the exposed cage; cautiously she moved forward with the others for a better view. Inside the rough cage was a sleek and beautiful black panther with glittering golden eyes; at the sight of the people, the animal’s mouth twisted into a snarl filled with sharp white teeth.

  “You must have gotten this from the Bronx Zoo!” Darcy exclaimed. “How on earth did you get it out?”

  “We do what is necessary to please Mr. Eddington and to continue the project,” Ahiro said. He didn’t bother to elaborate as his men used poles to reposition the front of the crate until it was pressed against the sealed entrance to Mozart’s cage. When the end piece was pulled free, he jerked his head toward his two companions and they bowed slightly and slipped out of the apiary.

  “I hope you weren’t seen,” Michael said in a worried voice.

  “Who cares where it came from?” Damon said excitedly. He was giggling like a schoolchild, pacing at the rear of the panther’s cage, his movements making the cat emit a steady warning growl. “Finally we’ve got something that will give Mozart a real fight. This will be wonderful, I know it!” He chuckled, then practically vaulted to his recording console, laughing outright as the panther hissed and swiped a paw between the bars of its cage at the movement. It took less than a half minute for him to rub his hands together gleefully and announce, “I’m ready.”

  Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing as Ahiro tossed the canvas back over the cage so the animal inside wouldn’t claw at him, then leaned forward and pulled the switch that opened the final barrier between it and Mozart’s enclosure. Staying carefully expressionless, Darcy saw Damon smile maniacally as he hit the Record control and his fingers poised expertly over dozens of controls on the recording console. Ahiro’s eyes were narrow and watchful, his merciless gaze riveted on the door to Mozart’s cage as it slid open. Only Michael was frowning, his face pale around his wide eyes, as if he already knew the fate of the exquisite black cat. But… didn’t they all?

  When the door began to open, the caged animal dropped instinctively into a crouch and pulled its lips back to show those fabulous pointed teeth. There was nothing reticent or timorous about this cat, and the instant the gap was large enough, the panther sprang. A savage snarl filled the speakers as Mozart back-stepped in surprise, then twisted away reflexively as he sensed the animal hurtling toward him in midair. When the panther struck the alien, it landed on his back and sank the claws of all four paws deep into Mozart’s outer husk.

  The enraged scream Mozart gave as the panther’s teeth slashed at the back of its plated head sounded like a combination of overloaded boiler steam and maddened elephant.

  The alien whirled crazily as it tried to throw the cat off, tail thrashing in the air until its barbed end scraped the panther’s flank and parted skin and fur.

  The cat’s yowls joined Mozart’s shrieks of pain and it released its hold and leaped sideways before Mozart could grab at it; without hesitating it charged again, this time slashing through the alien’s tough carapace and ripping at the dark, knobby flesh of the life-form’s midsection with gleaming incisors nearly two inches long.

  Outside the cage, Darcy gasped and stepped up to the glass. “The panther’s going to kill him!” She had to shout to be heard over the pounding noise coming through the speaker setup, and Eddington had no inclination to lower the volume. Rather, he seemed to be riding the waves of sound, swaying on the vibrations hammering through the apiary.

  Ahiro answered from somewhere behind her, but she didn’t want to take her gaze from the battle taking place inside the alien’s enclosure to see exactly where he stood. “Not a chance.” She sensed his amusement and decided he was patronizing her; his disdain made her want to slap him. Setting her jaw, she started to turn to scowl at him. “But what if it does?” she demanded. “Then we—”

  “Look,” Ahiro commanded.

  She spun and cringed openly, feeling sudden sympathy fo
r the cat as she registered the sight. Ahiro was right, of course; the panther had the spirit but never, in reality, a genuine chance. Separated by the wall of unbreakable glass, Mozart was a mere four feet away and Darcy had a detailed view of the front grip that Mozart had managed to gain on his adversary. Scratching and biting viciously to the end, the cat was flipped on its back and eviscerated while it was still struggling within the spiked hold of the alien. Its final scream of torment mixed with a sound from Mozart that was very much like a call of triumph.

  * * *

  ‘This is beautiful, exquisite!” He was talking out loud, but it didn’t matter; none of the others could hear him over the screeching of the panther and the shrieks of Mozart. “Listen to it—fierce, orgasmic, consuming.” There is so much I can blend it with, he thought deliriously, Henze, Corigliano, Shostakovich, Honegger, Hovhaness, Nancarrow, all those twentieth-century apostles of rage and soul-grinding sorrow. How easy it would be to close his eyes and listen forever to Mozart as he envisioned the magnificent compositions to come—

  The music stopped.

  “No!” Damon leaped to his feet so quickly that his chair fell backward and landed with a crash on the floor that made the rest of the room’s occupants jump. “Where did the music go—it must continue!” His hands twisted into claws and he wanted to dig them into his own face in disappointment. “Damn it—that was too easy!” His fingers closed into a fist as his eyes squeezed shut and his head tilted back. Tears of rage burned small, wet trails down his cheeks and his chest heaved. It wasn’t enough… I need more.”

  “Mr. Eddington,” Ahiro said quietly, “perhaps I can provide you with another animal, something larger?”

  Damon sank to his knees in front of Mozart’s cage; inside, the alien was already beginning the process of stripping the panther’s flesh, feeding a voracious appetite that seemed never to be satisfied. “Another animal?” Damon whispered. “What animal? Look at him, Ahiro. A few minutes ago he was injured, cut in a dozen places by the panther. Now he looks fine and eats the same animal that wounded him.” Damon let his head fall forward in defeat, resting his overheated forehead against the cold glass. Perhaps this was what Synsound and Keene had aimed for all along— to humiliate him, force him to surrender to the company’s idea of “music” and use his fine composition skills for their profit. If so, he’d never felt so close to giving in. “It’s no use—I’ll never succeed in this project. Hell, Ahiro, no animal is vicious enough to keep Mozart busy long enough to give me what I want—what I need.”

  As Vance and Brangwen quietly began the routine of assembling and analyzing the data recorded on their equipment during this last battle, he and Ahiro watched Mozart for a long time. Finally, Ahiro took a pair of tight black gloves from his pockets and tugged them on, then spoke in a voice that was soft and distant, and vaguely ominous.

  “I believe there is one such animal, Mr. Eddington,” he said. “Give me time… to capture it.”

  16

  When Keene looked up from the contract he was reviewing, Ahiro was standing in front of his desk.

  He didn’t know how the ninja had gotten past Marceena and into his office, and he didn’t feel comfortable asking. Something about the Japanese man frightened him, a ruthlessness that Ahiro kept carefully concealed in his day-to-day dealings in Synsound’s business world but that shadowed through nonetheless. Keene doubted if Ahiro had simply walked past Marceena’s desk, and it was a certainty she would never have let him in without at least hitting the intercom buzzer to warn him that someone was on the way; most likely, she’d never seen him enter the waiting room or slip past her.

  “What do you want?” Keene’s voice was sharper than intended, enough so to make him instantly regret the tone, but if the younger man noticed, he didn’t show that either. Not for the first time, Keene noted the scar running across Ahiro’s right eye; perhaps that was what made him look so sinister. He wondered briefly if the ninja had inflicted the wound on himself to purposely change his appearance. He didn’t think it was such a farfetched possibility.

  “Mr. Eddington requires an animal more suited to fighting with his alien,” Ahiro said.

  One thing Keene admired in the man—in any man, actually—was the ability to get right to the point. He capped his pen, placed it carefully on the desktop, and sat back. “We’ve already provided him with a bull and a… panther, wasn’t it?” Ahiro nodded, and Keene drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, trying to think. “What could we possibly come up with now? A lion would outweigh the panther, or maybe a polar bear. I’m told polar bears are the only animals natural to the earth that regard human beings as prey. Getting one, though… that could be a problem. If we go that far, we might as well try an Alaskan brown bear. Now there would be an adversary.”

  “I have a suggestion.”

  “Fine. Let’s hear it.” Now what, Keene wondered. Another trip to the Bronx Zoo? He’d squash that idea right now; the panther’s disappearance had made the zoo triple their security force, especially since the fools were convinced that the cat was still on the loose within the zoo grounds. His idea about a bear was probably the best; if getting a polar or an Alaskan brown bear proved too difficult, grizzlies were easier to obtain. They wouldn’t have to go as far north to do it.

  But when Ahiro spelled out his plan, Keene had to admit it was something he’d never considered.

  * * *

  Five minutes later he sent Ahiro on his way and instructed Marceena to get Yoriku on the VidPhone. They hadn’t spoken about Eddington and his project since the plans had been made for the initial abduction of the egg, but Keene hadn’t been lax in his reporting duties; he had kept his superior up-to-date with twice-weekly memos transmitted with the originals of the mountainous reports from the two bioengineers working on the project. Keene didn’t know what Yoriku planned to do with all that information, but he had no doubt the man had some future strategy already mapped out. Yoriku wasn’t the only one trying to fine-tune this situation; the idea of choosing Ken Petrillo as their cultist had been conceived and implemented solely by Keene. Every time Keene thought of the jelly vial, in particular, he felt it indicated the caliber of the people with whom he had to deal. It was foolish enough that the composer so readily accepted the “coincidental” appearance of his long-lost partner, but how could Damon Eddington honestly believe that Ahiro wouldn’t see and report Eddington’s snatching up of the jelly vial that had fallen out of Petrillo’s pocket? Ahiro saw everything and carried it all back to Keene—after, no doubt, he told it all to Yoriku.

  As for himself, Keene had a serious problem with accepting that the cultist had still possessed an unopened vial. For heaven’s sake, the man was a junkie; while going too long without a fix might drive a jelly addict insane, one of the most chemically interesting things about royal jelly was that its victims could take all they wanted—no one had ever died of an overdose. Since when in the history of drug-induced mankind did an addict ever exercise self-control? It was utterly ridiculous to think Ken would carry the stuff around and wait to drink it. Despite Ahiro’s claim that Ken had pocketed his ration, what Ken had received at The Church of the Queen Mother before the Japanese man had caught his attention should have gone down his throat before he’d left the building.

  So many questions… and now this latest, newest phase of the operation, as proposed by Ahiro. Far more risky, it would require advance approval from Yoriku—someone on whom Keene could fall back, if necessary. There was a definite risk factor here, and if heads ended up rolling because the bunch of them were caught, Keene wasn’t about to go down alone.

  When the light on the VidPhone flashed that the connection had come through, Keene swiftly brought up a handheld recorder—one of those horrible little electronic devices that Damon Eddington detested so much—and slid it in place to the left of the speaker on the VidPhone, where it couldn’t be seen by the caller. A flick of his finger before he opened the line and the cassette started turning. “Keene h
ere,” he said in as bland a voice as possible.

  “What do you want?” Yoriku’s face filled the screen, distorted by the usual static on the communication lines.

  “It’s about Damon Eddington, sir,” Keene said. Something about Yoriku seemed… different. There was a downward twist to his mouth that Keene didn’t like, a hint of something nasty in his eyes. Was it directed at him? Or had it always been there? Keene was beginning to wish he hadn’t called, despite the need to cover his back. He could’ve given approval to Ahiro’s suggestion on his own, depending on how brave he was feeling. Too late now, though.

  “So?”

  Keene blinked. He didn’t recall Yoriku ever slipping from his ultra-polite Japanese businessman demeanor, even when he was dispensing the most unpleasant news— like sending a vice president to play travel coordinator. “So, uh—” He fought the unaccustomed stutter and won, started over in as smooth a voice as possible. “Damon Eddington needs to obtain a more suitable animal to fight the alien and make his recordings. Ahiro was just here and he suggested—”

  “You’re wasting my time,“ Yoriku grated. “I’ve already talked to Ahiro about this.”

  Keene literally saw the man reach forward and hit the Disconnect button on the VidPhone. A millisecond later he found himself staring with his mouth open at a blank screen; nothing looked back at him but his own stupid, dull green reflection.

  “Shit,” he said crassly as he reached over and stopped the useless recorder. His ears filled with the buzzing of the dial tone and he punched the Disconnect button on his end, then sat there with his finger on it, his mind still trying to work around his surprise at Yoriku’s uncharacteristic bad manners. Beyond that were other issues—like his superior’s claim that the matter had already been discussed with Ahiro, and thus presumably approved by Yoriku. That had been what he meant… hadn’t it? If so, Ahiro must be clearing everything Keene told him to do with Yoriku before proceeding; therefore Keene’s question was a repeat, something Yoriku despised as a prime waste of time—which in turn would rationalize his rudeness on the VidPhone. But if they were miscommunicating, Keene stood to take the full blame for the hunting expedition in which the brutally efficient Ahiro was probably already immersed.