Aliens Omnibus 4

by Yvonne Navarro

  “He’s ready.”

  “Wha—!” Ahiro’s voice startled Damon out of the light doze into which he’d fallen. Despite the delays between battles, Damon had, as usual, found time to catch only a nap or two, and those were right here, head down on the console. There were so many recordings to make, so many glorious noises to mix—he couldn’t risk missing any more than was absolutely necessary… especially now, when he was so close to getting down the perfect mesh of alien sound and human voices backgrounded by a tapestry of finely seasoned classical drama. When he scanned the clock display, Damon realized almost an hour and a half had passed; the syndisc recording in his earphones had long run its course and he was back to the sounds that filled Mozart’s cage: the breathy hiss of alien respiration, the occasional chalk-on-blackboard squeal of his nails across a stained floor pitted with the cracked remains of those who had come to… visit. “How long has he been up?” Damon asked in a cracked voice. He’d had a portable desk divider brought in to separate him from the constant distraction of Mozart’s corral as well as the continual motion of the others; now he saw that Ahiro had moved it back against the wall, giving him a clear view of Mozart behind his sturdy glass wall and the captive, so far oblivious to Mozart’s existence.

  Ahiro glanced at the man in the glass cage. The prisoner was trying to stand up but he was too tall to fully manage it; his efforts made him look like a man doing a really asinine impression of an ape. Instead of pounding insanely on the glass as the others had done, he was inspecting the corners inch by inch, like a tropical fish exploring the boundaries of its watery prison. “Fifty minutes, maybe a little longer. I made Brangwen and Vance leave the main room so he wouldn’t freak out so quickly.”

  Damon nodded; it was a good plan and one they should have employed earlier. The longer their test subjects beat on the walls of their cage, the wearier they were apt to be when they had to face Mozart. One of them had bloodied the knuckles of his hands just trying to break through. “Tell them they can come back in,” Damon instructed. “He looks awake enough to me. Besides, physically he’s the best yet.” Ahiro nodded.

  In under five minutes, the apiary lab was again running normally—Damon was readying his console, Brangwen was monitoring his data output, charts, and computers, and Vance was jotting notes on her computer pad, frantically trying to keep pace with what she perceived to be ongoing monumental events. At that notion, Damon couldn’t help smiling; Darcy Vance seemed to think anything and everything that had to do with Mozart was some kind of commemorative event. Their latest specimen was still surprising them; instead of screaming uselessly at the glass—they always kept the speakers turned off until it was time to give instructions about the Electrostun rifle—he seemed to be trying to carry on a conversation with whoever came close enough to the glass for him to think they could hear. Like the others, he had no idea that no one could hear him and the angle of the cage and door prevented him from seeing the waiting alien.

  Finally, they were ready. Damon had taken extra time on this one, and while he liked to think that every instance in which he’d recorded Mozart had been his best effort, every session taught him something he hadn’t known before—some new way to combine an alien scream with the sound of a shrieking violin, a just-so clash of cymbals. From his position in front of the recording console, he nodded at Ahiro and the others and flipped the switches to ON. As Damon joined them, the remainder of the group gathered around the cage and stared at its occupant; the man inside had given up his efforts at communicating for. the time being and now looked back at them expectantly. After the excitement of the first time, Damon had let Ahiro take the burden of explaining to the subjects just what was demanded of them, but this time Damon decided to do it. He expected a better-than-average battle from this one; perhaps watching the fight would infuse something extra into the mixes he created later on from the sounds.

  As Ahiro toggled on the speaker to the cage, Damon began relaying the matter-of-fact instructions to the man inside. “Your attention, please. You see that there is a metal door behind you. In a few moments, we are going to open it and within reach on the other side is a weapon called an Electrostun rifle. It is charged but not lethal.”

  “Wait—please!”

  Through the low-quality speaker on the feeder cage, the captive’s voice sounded hollow and small, warbly, as though he were shouting to them from an underwater well. Damon ignored him; he’d hardened himself some time ago against the pleas coming from the prisoners and this man was no different from the others. Better fed perhaps, but beyond that… “When the door is open, you will find that there is an alien on the other side. Unless you defend yourself, the alien will destroy you immediately. To stay alive, you must exit the cage in which you are now and enter the area beyond it, pick up the weapon, and use it as necessary to get to a series of tunnels on the other side of the enclosure. The alien will be between you and the tunnels.”

  “Wait,” the man said again. Damon looked up in surprise; by now most of the men had resorted to hysteria, but this guy wasn’t giving in. “You don’t know who I am. If it’s money you want, I work for MedTech. They’ll pay any ransom—”

  “In the tunnels are areas that are too small for the alien to climb into,” Damon said, interrupting him again with a confidence he suddenly didn’t feel. “In those subtunnels you will be able to rest and plan your strategy. Estimated time to reach those tunnels is about five minutes, and if you do so without sustaining a mortal wound, we will incapacitate the alien, remove you from the cage, and release you.” It was a lie, of course, and one that continued to infuriate Brangwen, but without motivation—the belief that survival was at least possible—the danger existed that the subject might not bother to fight until instinct forced him to do so. By then, Mozart would be all over him.

  “Listen to me, please! Don’t do this—I’m far more valuable to you alive. I’m the chief oper—”

  “You know, he does look familiar. I think I’ve seen him before,” Vance said suddenly, her words unintentionally drowning out the rest of the man’s sentence.

  Brangwen’s voice was almost at panic level. Perspiration was beginning to slide down the sides of his chunky face. “I told you he doesn’t seem like an addict!”

  Then Ahiro did something he’d never done before, and it was a damned good thing everything was set on automatic at the recording console. Without waiting for the go-ahead from Damon, he stretched past the musician and flicked the switch that opened the door separating the feeder cage from Mozart’s enclosure. The man inside whirled, and whatever he had planned to say to further convince them to free him was lost forever as the hydraulics pulled the steel door aside. As they knew he would be, Mozart was already waiting on the other side, the faintly greenish saliva dripping from cruel, white teeth.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Brangwen whispered. His hand went to his mouth. “We’ve really done it this time.”

  “Mr. Eddington,” Vance began to stammer. “I—I don’t think—”

  As Damon looked over at Vance in surprise, Ahiro’s chilly voice overrode her words. “At this point, all your doubts are irrelevant.”

  Unwittingly emphasizing Ahiro’s words, the man inside the cage shouted in fear and leaped into Mozart’s domain. He feinted to the right and the alien moved with him, like a gangly grasshopper trying to walk on its hind legs. Sliding to a stop, the captive dodged backward, his lighter weight and better-balanced frame carrying the move smoothly as Mozart’s longer limbs tangled and flailed for stability. Barely a double heartbeat had passed and the captive had the Electrostun in hand and was bolting for the tunnels.

  Mozart hissed in frustration, mouth yawning. Angling across the reconstructed area, the alien’s longer stride easily placed him between his prey and the round hatchway that led—or so the prisoner thought—to freedom and eventual release. Running, the bulbous head reaching—

  The blond-haired man spun and gave Mozart a full blast from the stun rifle from less than a foot
away.

  Mozart had never been zapped that close. The charge hit him square in the center of the area just above his teeth and Damon could have sworn he saw the creature’s head glow from it. The scream of agony that came out of Mozart’s mouth made Damon gasp for breath as his fingers slid against the feeder cage’s outer glass. “Listen to that!” he whimpered. “So passionate—so exquisite!” As the rest of the team crowded close to the window in an effort to see the fate of the man inside, Damon wobbled back to the recording console to check the equipment, the alien’s scream still reverberating in his head. By the time he crossed the short distance, Mozart had already screamed twice more and Damon felt like he was teetering on overload from the sheer splendor of the Homeworld beast’s howls.

  “I think he’s going to make it!” Brangwen shouted excitedly.

  “No, he won’t.”

  Damon shuddered and readjusted the speaker balance, then glanced back at the others. Vance was alternating between watching the mini-war within the cage and scowling at Ahiro. “What do you mean, ‘no, he won’t’?” she demanded. “How can you know that?”

  “Because I used the remote control to reset the parameters on the Electrostun rifle,” the Japanese man said matter-of-factly.

  “What!” Damon exclaimed. “Damn it—why? Now the battle will end too soon!” His hands flew over the console as he jerkily tried to keep track of the man being hunted by Mozart.

  Brangwen was as furious as Damon had ever seen him. “Then we’ll have to gas them both,” he shouted. “This time you’ve gone too far!” His face was red and his hands were balled into fists as he turned to race back to the medical control console. Inside the enclosure, Mozart gave another shriek, this time not as loud.

  To everyone’s amazement, Ahiro stepped bodily between Brangwen and the control panel. “Dr. Brangwen, if you try to turn on the gas, I will be forced to do whatever is necessary in order to prevent that.”

  “W-what!”

  “I have my orders.”

  “He’s in the tunnel!” Vance shouted. Her hands were pressed against the glass, her nose almost on its surface as she tried to see. “Now Mozart’s going after him!”

  “Damn you, what orders?” demanded Brangwen. His face was almost purple. “On whose authority? Step aside.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ahiro said. His face was expressionless. “I cannot do that.” Brangwen made a move to go around and Ahiro’s hand landed on his shoulder. He did something with his fingers, the slightest of movements, and Brangwen cried out in pain. “If necessary, I will kill you.”

  Now both Damon and Vance gaped at him. Damon found his voice first. “Ahiro, what the hell are you talking about?”

  The ninja released Brangwen and the older man backed away, rubbing his shoulder fearfully. “I have my orders,” Ahiro repeated. “The man in the alien’s cage has fired…” He tilted his head, mentally calculating. “Four times, I believe. He has one more shot, then his weapon will no longer work.”

  “But why?” Vance asked. “Michael was right, wasn’t he? This man isn’t an addict or a criminal. He’s someone—”

  A fifth scream from Mozart blasted from the speakers, the echoing quality clearly from deep within the small maze of tunnels that ringed his cage. Damon closed his eyes momentarily and lifted his chin, straining to catch every nuance.

  “The poor sap’s defenseless now,” Brangwen said bitterly. “I hope you’re happy, you… assassin. Who was he, huh? Some rival that screwed up one of our executive’s golf games?”

  Ahiro was unperturbed. “It is not my place to ask questions, Mr. Brangwen. I simply do what I am told.”

  “Yeah? Well, go to hell.” Brangwen said with unusual hostility. “Why don’t you do that?”

  “Shut up, Brangwen,” Damon said absently. “I don’t want to miss this and you’re breaking up my concentration.”

  “God forbid,” Brangwen muttered as he stomped over to stand by Vance.

  “He might still make it,” she suggested. “If he gets to our…”

  But a succession of high, tormented screams killed their final hope.

  * * *

  Although he didn’t know it, the final man put in with Mozart had a distinct advantage over his four predecessors. Ahiro had willingly followed Damon’s orders that the original Electrostun be reprogrammed to function again, so not only was the final prisoner armed with a new Electrostun rifle but should he get that far, another waited in the tunnels. Unfortunately, his competence at the survival game was only a notch above the subject who’d chosen to meet death by staying inside the glass cage; clutching the stun rifle, he fired at Mozart twice, nicking him once and missing him entirely the second time. A fatal mistake, but Damon was extremely pleased with the way the quick, blaring scream from Mozart as he was hit mixed with the staccato wails of the dying man.

  And Damon was, finally, finished with his grand composition.

  Except.

  He had no material for a finale.

  * * *

  In the days that followed the death of the last man, Brangwen avoided unnecessary conversation with Damon and ignored Ahiro altogether. The idea that the elderly man thought he was making an impression on either with his behavior made Damon laugh to himself; did he really think it mattered to Ahiro or him what Brangwen did? Ahiro had his own agenda and Damon didn’t care to know it; Damon’s own goal, his Symphony of Hate, was so close to completion that he could almost wave his arms and see the finest of Synsound’s recording equipment adding the ferocious alien screams to the imaginary rows of orchestra instruments and musicians that would—or should—perform the rest of the composition. That was the only part of the dream that made Damon sad; how very unlikely it was that he—or any of them—would ever see a live performance by an orchestra. The few that still existed were populated mostly by androids; mindless, dull, not a shred of creative DNA in their cells. The mere idea made Damon shudder.

  The finale. What to do for it? As usual, it was late and except for Vance and him, the apiary was deserted. Vance was there, of course, as she was every night; haunting the glassed-in walls of the enclosure, crouching and smiling at the alien, whispering to him in a breathy voice punctuated by gestures that Damon supposed she perceived as being nonthreatening. Personally, all Damon saw was a salivating monster who’d sooner rip Vance apart as continue to listen to her.

  Yet… what if he was wrong about Mozart’s inclinations, and Vance turned out to be even moderately correct in her hypothesis? Anyone with half a brain could see that somehow the alien always recognized her. While no one and nothing had been said about what would become of this project after Damon was through with his composition, already he was finding himself wanting to make more. The Symphony of Hate had been intended as his last work, but the sounds were so superb, so superior to anything contained in his prior mixes, that Damon couldn’t help speculating that Synsound might let him keep the alien for future use. Of course, a lot would depend upon how well his Symphony of Hate masterwork sold in the stores and the clubs, but he would deal with that bridge when the time came. The dreams were there, but right now he still had this finale business to contend with.

  What was missing? Damon pondered the question long and hard, and it was watching Vance’s never-ending efforts to communicate with the alien that made Damon finally pinpoint the elusive, missing component. Thus far, nearly every sound that Mozart had uttered had been connected to pain and unenlightened rage—the creature had no idea what either notion meant, but did both out of undiluted instinct. The missing element was so common, so rudimentary, that it’d been staring Damon in the face the entire time. What Damon needed was a sense of compassion, of intimacy, neither of which the alien could feel.

  Or could he?

  There she is, Damon thought as he stared at Darcy Vance. Wrapped up in her foolish, ostensibly useless research with Mozart, Vance was oblivious to Damon as he flushed a vial of jelly from the pocket of his pants, uncapped it, and drank. Royal jelly, the
essence of the beast itself, and it would tell him what it needed, show him what to do. It always did.

  His tolerance level for the jelly was climbing, and now Damon seldom lost touch with consciousness or reality during his bouts of dreaming while he was awake— daydreaming his parents and teachers used to call it. Not for the first time, Damon wondered how many odd memories were buried in his subconscious, bits and traces of forgotten words and songs that he hadn’t written down and which could have been worked into this grand theme. As he fought to keep a grip on his surroundings, a scrap of memory floated into his head like a crumbling leaf, the faintest strains of a barely remembered rendition of Wagner’s “Liebestod” from Tristan and Isolde.

  Love, and death. Love was a concept unknown to Mozart, as alien to him as most of his biological makeup still was to humans. Did he feel attachment for anything? Anyone? Most bioscientists and bioengineers scoffed at the theory, but some, like Darcy Vance, still speculated. And wasn’t it true that with one person, Mozart was closer to affection—or what passed for that emotion in the mind of a Homeworld creature—than with anyone else?

  The thing that was missing, Damon realized, watching through slitted eyes as Darcy Vance moved around the apiary, was true loss, the pain of something treasured now gone forever. So far his composition was a melody of ignorant rage and instinctive bestiality, but to make the public he so despised truly hear it, he would have to do something to bring to Mozart the kind of anguish the creature had never expected existed.