V01 - V

by A. C. Crispin

  A few minutes later the roadblock loomed dead ahead. Sancho grimaced slightly as he took a large onion from the dash and bit into it, chewing vigorously, then forced himself to take another bite.

  He put the truck in gear, and, still chewing, headed for the two cops manning the roadblock. But his eyes kept traveling back to the silent shock trooper standing guard.

  One of the officers approached the cab as Sancho pulled up, waving at the other man. "Check out the back, Randy." The other man nodded, walking to the back of the truck.

  Sancho smiled brightly at the policeman and leaned toward him. "Hello, Officer! How are you?" The man recoiled visibly from Gomez's killer breath.

  "You're headed where?"

  "El Tepeyac, just outside of town. Best food north of Ensenada." Sancho glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing the officer called Randy inspecting the back of the vehicle. The gardener's sensitive ears picked up a fretful whimper from the rear of the truck—he saw Randy tense, knew he'd also heard it. Keep the kid quiet, Maxwell, or we've all had it, Sancho thought fervently.

  "El Tepeyac? Never heard of it," the cop was saying, examining Sancho's driver's license. He turned back to his partner. "So what's the story back there, Randy?"

  The man shook his head, and Sancho closed his eyes momentarily in relief. "No story, Bob. It's okay."

  "All right." Officer Bob stepped back, relieved to be out of range of Sancho's breath, waving the truck through. "Move it out, then, Pedro."

  "Sancho, senor." He put the truck in gear, glancing in the rearview mirror as he did so, found Randy watching him. Sancho smiled, nodding pleasantly. "Thank you, senor."

  Juliet Parrish looked out across the enormous culvert to the ramshackle building that had once contained offices and machinery for part of the L.A. wastewater processing system. Elias took her arm. "Now you be careful, Julie. Kinda steep here."

  Awkwardly Juliet made her way down the slope, bracing herself on her cane. Brad followed them. It had been a week since Ben's death—his funeral had been the day before yesterday. Caleb was now, along with Elias, a confirmed member of their steadily growing underground. Juliet hissed with pain as a rock turned under her foot, jarring her hip. She wasn't sure if the nerve damage there would prove permanent—the burning jolt of electricity from the alien weapon had certainly left a hideous, disfiguring scar on her right hip.

  When she'd unwrapped the bandages this morning, Ruby Engels helping her, Juliet had winced, and tears had filled the older woman's eyes as they surveyed the still-livid weals. Juliet had smiled wanly. "Good thing bikinis were never my style . . ."

  Remembering that scene now, Juliet grimaced. She wasn't thrilled about the prospect of permanent disfigurement, but at the moment, her lack of mobility was more worrisome. How could she lead this group if she couldn't get around? And nobody else appeared willing to assume that responsibility. (If anyone did, she'd gladly renounce it.)

  With a final skid that made her bite her lip, they were down, walking across the massive concrete flooring, looking into the dark mouth of the runoff tunnel. It was a good twenty feet high at this point. Elias indicated it. "The tunnel runs down underneath the city. Connects up to some nifty places. It ain't the Beverly Hills Hotel inside, you dig? Spiders an' rats is probably the nicest critters we're gonna have to persuade to relocate. But there's a lotta space down underneath . . . even an old train station at the end of one of the tunnels. Bums sleep in there, sometimes."

  "We'll need every hand we can get," Juliet said, looking around. "Think they'll help us?"

  "I'll talk to 'em." He looked back at the building. "Course the electricity don't work."

  "I'll take care of that," Brad said.

  Elias looked back at Juliet. "Then it's okay? Course, bein' near the hills like this, we're all gonna have to drive to get here—"

  "It's perfect, Elias," Juliet said warmly. "Completely hidden from overhead surveillance—which is why we've got to relocate from the mountain camp. And I have hopes of converting the tunnel into living quarters, so we won't have to travel—we'll be able to live here full time. We've got a lot to do!"

  "Dynamite." Elias looked relieved. "Now while you get the stuff moved in, I'm gonna counsel with the Angels. This here's part of their turf."

  "The street gang?" Juliet thought rapidly. She didn't know how they'd respond to the idea of a woman as leader, but they'd make good scouts.

  "Sure. They hate the Visitors as much as we do—they've never taken kindly to bein' leaned on."

  "You really think you can talk them into helping us?"

  Elias shifted rapidly into his jive act. "You kiddin', mama? You is talkin' to de Henry Kissinger of East L.A. I'll catch you-all later."

  He strutted off, then turned back as Juliet spoke. "Elias . . ."

  As he looked, she smiled, nodding wordless thanks. He flashed her a "V" sign, and left, whistling "We Are Family."

  Daniel Bernstein unlocked his front door, then heard the telephone ringing. He sprinted across the room and caught it on the fifth ring. "Hello?" As he spoke, he reached for a glass from the bar to his right, pouring a stiff shot of Scotch. "Yes, this is his son, Daniel. No, my dad hasn't been here. They what? Took him? When? But they probably just wanted to give him a ride home . . . They said 'arrested'?" He hesitated for a second, then hung up without saying good-bye.

  Punching buttons with quick stabs, he made another call. "Hello . . . may I speak with Mrs. Bernstein, please?" He hesitated. "She what? Lunch? But that was four hours ago! What time did she go to lunch? No, she's not at home! I'm at home, alone . . ." The reality hit him then, and he hung up the phone, looking around at the silent television set, the locked doors . . .

  Maybe it was time for Grandpa's walk, that must be it . . . He wandered from room to room, sipping uneasily at the Scotch. Two hours later, he realized, drunkenly, that they weren't coming back.

  Sancho Gomez smiled tentatively at the same two police officers as he pulled up before the roadblock on his way back into the city. Neither smiled back. The officer called Bob and a Visitor guard walked to the rear of the truck, jerked the tailgate open. "That report from Mrs. Dupres was right—he was smuggling someone in here—but it's empty now," he called. "You sure missed it this time, Randy!"

  The policeman next to Sancho raised his gun sadly. "Get out of the truck . . . slowly."

  Sancho looked around to see four shock troopers with stun rifles centered on him. Shrugging, he got out of the pickup.

  Mike Donovan and Josh Brooks paused across the street from Vitello's. The Italian restaurant's sign illuminated a van parked in front of it. "Right on time," Donovan said, taking Josh's arm. They crossed the street, scrambled into the van. Tony and Fran Leonetti nodded, then the vehicle began to move. Tony threaded through the dark streets for several minutes before stopping.

  "We ought to be safe here . . . at least for a couple of minutes," he said. "How you doin', Mike?"

  Donovan quickly introduced his companion and recounted the main events of the past weeks since his foray into the Visitor ship, concluding with what he'd found in the deserted town of San Pedro. Tony and Fran both shook their heads, looking sympathetically over at Josh. "Josh needs to stay with Fran for a while," Donovan said. "Are you still at home?"

  "Not much," she answered. "Most of the time I'm helping out with the underground." She turned to Josh. "You like spaghetti?"

  The boy nodded. "Sure."

  She smiled back at him. "My name's not Leonetti for nothing. We'll get along fine."

  "Where's this underground camp?" Donovan asked.

  "Several around the city, Mike," Tony said. "One is in the mountains, a decent drive away, but recently they've found another location . . . an abandoned wastewater plant on the verge of the foothills."

  Donovan grinned. "The mountains? Like in El Salvador?"

  Tony chuckled. "Yeah. I also hear that there's another place downtown somewhere, but I don't know which building."

  "We ought to
find out," Donovan mused. "But the first thing I want to do is see what this unlocks." He held up the alien key. "They must have some Achilles heel . . . some chink—"

  Tony wagged a warning finger. "Watch it there, pal . . ."

  Mike laughed. "Some flaw in their armor. Something we can use against them. And we need to find out where they're taking the people who've disappeared."

  "Okay, you've convinced me." Tony restarted the van. "So let's get going."

  "You guys be careful, okay?" Fran said, looking from one to the other. Her hand came out to clasp Tony's as he drove. "I couldn't do without either of you."

  "Where are you going, Mr. Donovan?" Josh wanted to know.

  Mike jerked his thumb straight up. Josh's eyes widened, then clouded with worry. As the van threaded its way through the streets, the boy leaned back against the seat, looking out the window, up at the enormous ship hovering over the city.

  Daniel Bernstein sat at the head of the dining-room table, a bottle in front of him. The burgundy was two-thirds gone. The remains of a TV dinner littered the kitchen, but out of force of habit, Daniel had cleared the table. Now he sat, pouring another glass of wine, trying not to let his gaze shift from one empty chair to another. A knock on the hall door made him look up hopefully, but his face fell when he saw Brian. Daniel looked down at his glass, not asking the Visitor Friends' leader to sit down.

  Brian sighed. "Daniel, I apologize. I know you must be very disappointed with me. I promised your parents amnesty, but . . . my superiors overruled me and ordered your family taken in for questioning. But they'll be back home soon, I promise."

  Daniel looked up. "They will?"

  "You have my word." Brian's tone was very reassuring.

  "Did you manage to capture the scientist I told you about?"

  "No . . . I'm afraid by the time we got here, they'd disappeared. We'll get them, though, don't worry. Who are they, anyway?"

  "Just a scientist and his family . . ." Daniel took a sip of wine. "You sure my folks will be all right? How about my grandfather? He's kind of old . . ."

  Brian looked uncomfortable for a second, then his smooth tones resumed. "He isn't well, Daniel."

  "But he was fine this morning!"

  "Well, you know how old people are. Excitement isn't good for them. But our doctors are taking care of him . . . They're very, very good. They hope to get him feeling better right away. How about you? Are you feeling better now?"

  "I guess so . . ." Daniel mumbled, his eyes on the table.

  Brian dropped into a seat beside him, and put a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Well, I've some other news that ought to help. You're getting a promotion."

  Daniel looked up. "Huh?"

  "To my second-in-command."

  "What?!" A light began to dance in Daniel's dark eyes.

  "Congratulations!" The Visitor reached over and grabbed Daniel's hand, shaking it vigorously, then patted him on the back.

  "Well. I . . ." Daniel stammered, grinning.

  "That's not all. When I informed Diana of your loyalty, she gave me this for you." Brian took out a lucite case, handed it to Daniel. He opened it to see a man's gold ring, set with a large diamond.

  "Brian! Wow!" He tried it on. It fit perfectly.

  "Glad you like it. And, again, I'm proud to have you in my unit." He held out his hand, and this time Daniel took it enthusiastically, pumping it up and down, smiling gratefully at his friend.

  Chapter 14

  Dark waves sloshed, grabbing at Mike Donovan's sneakers as he and Tony Leonetti crept along the base of the Richland refinery seawall. To their left, a high stone wall butted up from the rocks, with a narrow service ladder leading upward from a ledge midway up. Donovan paused, his stun rifle slung over his shoulder, looking up. "We're gonna have to get up there," he whispered, his mouth nearly touching his friend's ear. "Can you boost me?"

  Leonetti grimaced. Donovan was nearly six inches taller and forty pounds heavier than Tony was—but his reach and strength were also greater. Tony nodded. "Yeah—but be quick about it!"

  Donovan nodded, handing Tony his gun. Leonetti slung it over his shoulder, cupped his hands, then braced his back. "One. Two. Three . . . Allez-oop!" As Tony hoisted, every muscle protesting, Donovan sprang upward. Finally his groping fingers caught on the ledge, and grunting, he drew himself up, his feet scraping softly as he found a toehold on the wall.

  Once up, he rested for a long second, then cautiously climbed a few rungs up the ladder. He scuttled down more quickly than he'd gone up. "Sentry posted," he hissed down into the darkness where his partner waited. "They're not taking any chances on any more unauthorized joyrides like I took . . . Toss the gun up."

  A moment later his groping fingers caught the sling of the alien weapon, then he leaned over, extending one hand. "Jump high, Tony!" With the other hand he gripped the ladder behind him. A grunt of exertion—then a muffled curse and a splash. "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "You're gonna have to jump higher than that, pal."

  "Damn you, Mike!" But this time Tony's grasp met his. Donovan braced himself, pulling slowly, and in a minute Leonetti was crouched beside him.

  The Asian fingered the alien gun. "You know how to use this thing?"

  "It's pretty easy. This thing controls the intensity—how strong a jolt it shoots . . . the higher the notch, the stronger the intensity. You prime it here, and this is the firing button."

  "Did it come with extra batteries?"

  Donovan chuckled. "I figure they're rechargeable. If I just could figure how to hook it into an outlet, I'd have it made."

  Tony's hushed whisper held amusement. "Clever guys, these Japanese. Think of everything . . ."

  "Look out!" Donovan ducked as a searchlight beam swung out over the water.

  "Shit! That was close!"

  "Irregular cycle," Donovan hissed, looking up at the tower built near the refinery. "Or else it's hand-operated."

  "How are we gonna get by him?" Tony jerked his head at the sentry. From this angle they could barely see the top of his helmet every so often as he paced his beat.

  "How about the direct approach?"

  "You mean like that time in Cambodia?"

  "Yeah."

  "And I get to be the pigeon again, I suppose." Tony sounded disgusted.

  Donovan hefted the gun. "I'm the one with the firepower."

  "Okay." Tony sighed. "You're also the one that'll have to explain it to my widow."

  He scuttled up the ladder, rubber soles making almost no sound, then swung over the wall. Donovan swarmed up behind him. As he got to the top, he saw the back of the sentry ahead of him, rifle pointed at Tony, who stood, hands over his head, talking rapidly. "Uh, hi. My name's Tony, you see, and, uh, my shrimp boat had a flat on the way from Korea, and I've been walkin' across this water for so long that—" Donovan swung the butt of his rifle, hard, and the sentry went down and lay still.

  Tony scooped up the Visitor's weapon. "Took you forever, Donovan. You're losing the old touch."

  "C'mon."

  A few minutes later, within the refinery grounds, they heard a cry from the seawall and knew that the sentry had been discovered.

  "We should have heaved him over the wall," Donovan said, annoyed that he hadn't thought of it at the time. "Would have bought us a few more minutes while they looked for him." He squirmed between two huge pipes, ducking to avoid a third in the maze that surrounded them as they worked their way toward the parking lot.

  "Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," Tony grunted, dropping to hands and knees to follow him, "but somehow I'd hate to think we've sunk to the level of cold-blooded murder. Even if they are a bunch of lizards under those pretty faces."

  Several minutes of squirming through the piping brought them within sight of a Visitor shuttle, cargo bay doors open. But this time there were no workers connecting hoses to transport chemicals. The tanks inside were gone, and before the doors, hands atop their heads, stood people.r />
  Donovan and Leonetti crouched, watching, as the Visitor shock troopers roughly pushed and shoved the prisoners into the shuttle. Men. Women. Little children, some of whom sobbed brokenly, others who stood glassy-eyed with shock. One little girl clutched a ragged teddy bear. There were bruises on her face. There was a mother with an infant. A young woman swollen and awkward with the last stages of pregnancy. A boy Sean's age wearing a baseball cap . . .

  "Jesus, Mike!" Tony turned horrified dark eyes to his friend. "What the hell is going on?"

  Donovan shook his head. "I don't know. But we've got to find out." He looked around, forcing himself to study the people they were taking. They seemed a cross section. He noticed one man, wearing a battered cowboy hat and work shirt, with dark eyes and Hispanic features. Blood oozed from a cut over his eye, but he stood defiantly, unbowed.

  "Okay, Tony. Same drill." Donovan readied himself as the cargo bay doors began to close, and the pilots stepped inside.

  "Right. This time, I ain't gonna trip . . ."

  They gathered themselves, moving forward—but suddenly, a burst of alien gunfire surrounded them. Looking up, they saw shock troopers on the catwalks above them, shooting. Donovan fired back, but another burst nearly caught both of them. They ducked back, away from the shuttle, realizing they were caught in crossfire. Donovan took aim at the power cables overhead running to the spotlights in the parking lot. "The cables, Tony! Shoot the cables!"

  "I can't make the damn thing work!" Donovan reached over to Tony's weapon. A burst of blue electricity filled the air with the smell of ozone barely two feet from his head. Mike flipped a switch. "The safety! Now try!"

  Tony raised his weapon, aimed, and a burst of blue fire ruptured one of the cables. The lights flickered, and several went out. A swinging cable fell, showering a golden spray of sparks, to strike one of the shock troopers. The creature gave the peculiar ululating cry Donovan had heard earlier as it died.