by Joe Haldeman
She screamed in pain and a small man swung out of the door to the adjoining room, pointing a double-barreled shotgun. The changeling leaped sideways just as the first hammer went down, and the hot blast just missed its face. It reached for the weapon and the second blast blew off its left arm at the shoulder.
In the reverberating silence, blood pulsing from the ragged stump, the changeling raised the pistol to point between the man’s eyes. “Bang,” it said, and dropped the gun.
Two steps and it vaulted the couch and crashed through the glass balcony door. It hit the balcony railing and tumbled over, falling onto the awning over the hotel entrance.
Russ was a half block away, and had looked up at the sound of the shots. He saw someone slide off the hotel awning and hit the sidewalk hard, and come up running, bleeding from the stump of an arm.
It seemed to have no face, as if it had a stocking over its head. Russ rubbed his eyes.
It ran over the slow traffic, one step on the roof of a southbound car, the next on a northbound, then onto the opposite sidewalk, over the low fence into the harborside park, and while tourists and picnicking families gaped, it ran like an Olympic sprinter and was over the stone breakwater in a flat dive.
By the time anyone got to the breakwater, there was nothing but ripples. A siren threaded through the air.
The changeling sought shelter on the harbor bottom, under the shade of a tanker that was drawing half the depth of the water. It strained to become a fish as quickly as possible, bone into cartilege and denticles and teeth, muscle and guts into the streamlined swift form of a reef shark; bloody clothes left behind as a red herring.
The metamorphosis was just complete when it heard divers splash into the harbor back where it had dived in. It breathed a surge of warm salt water liberally flavored with diesel spill— delicious—and flexed the one huge muscle of itself toward the open sea.
A helicopter commandeered by the police made a search pattern low over the harbor, and with binoculars and sonar found nothing but the usual assortment of fish and discarded debris, from the surface to the bottom. A couple of large sharks, one evidently spooked by the helicopter.
Russ hadn’t recognized the apparition as the woman he loved. Still trying to sort out what he had seen—there was a movie company shooting up in the hills; maybe they were using Aggie Grey’s as a location for an action sequence—he stepped into the lobby of the hotel like a sleepwalker.
All the people at the registration desk were jabbering into phones. Two policemen with pistols drawn ran through the door and thundered up the stairs. While Russ was watching them, a man beside him said, “Russell Sutton?”
It was a short, stocky man who smelled odd. Gunsmoke? “Who are you?”
He held up identification. “Kenneth Swanwick. I’m a CIA investigator.”
Russell shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Rae Archer is a spy. We—”
“Is this part of that movie?”
It was the agent’s turn to be confused. “What movie?”
“The one they’re shooting up by the waterfall.”
He took a deep breath. “This is not a movie.” He held up the ID again. “We used the raffle here as a ruse. We knew Rae Archer was a spy and wanted to catch her unawares.”
“Come on. I know she couldn’t be.” But certain oddnesses began to crystalize.
“We picked her up to interrogate her and she killed one agent, injured another, and escaped by crashing through a glass door.”
“That couldn’t have been her. Maybe somebody who looked like her.”
“That’s exactly it,” Swanwick said, “and we think we can prove it.”
“Wait.” Russell pointed out the door. “That was—”
“We don’t know who that was. Claimed to be her. Looked like Rae Archer. Had her fingerprints.”
“But—”
“But the real Rae Archer is still in California. We talked to her. She claims not to know anything about this, and I think we believe her.”
They were joined by an attractive woman whose tense face was as pale as her ash-blonde hair. She was tightening a bandage around her right hand. “This is Mr. Sutton?”
“Yeah,” Swanwick said. “He’s a little confused.”
“Like we aren’t.” She was the same height as Russell and fixed him with her large gray eyes. The pupils were pinpoints from medication. “My name is Angela Smith.”
“And you’re a spy?”
“An investigator.”
He stared at her weird eyes. “And this is not a movie.”
“I wish to God it was. We could strike the set and start over.” To Swanwick: “You’re going to have to go with the police in a minute. There should be a lawyer by the time you get to the station.” She swiveled back to Russell. “You knew Rae Archer better than anybody else. You were intimate with her.”
He nodded cautiously, and then shook his head. “Look, she couldn’t do this. Not at all.”
“So maybe it wasn’t her,” Swanwick said quickly. “Whoever it was is pretty damned dangerous, and on the loose.”
“We have to talk but can’t go up to the room,” Angela Smith said. “Get in the way of the cops.” She gestured toward the bar with her bandaged hand. “Uncle Sam will buy you a beer.”
One of the few tables in the small bar was unoccupied. The bartender came over and took their order. The window that looked out over the park and the harbor showed a growing crowd of curious people, held back by two policemen in incongruous parade uniforms.
“Just for a minute, try to think of Rae as a spy,” Swanwick said. “Did you ever get the feeling she was pumping you for information?”
That had an annoying alternate interpretation. “Not really,” Russell said with some asperity. “We’re both working on the same thing. We talked about it all the time. So does everyone else on the project.”
“Think about it this way—ow!” Gesturing, she had bumped her bandaged knuckle. “She’s supposed to be an astronomer. Did she seem like one to you?”
“No doubt about that. You’d have to ask Dr. Dagmar to be absolutely sure; she’s our top astronomer. But Rae seems to really know her stuff, a lot more than me. I’m just a marine engineer, but I’ve been into astronomy all my life.”
Swanwick nodded. “Did she show any special interest in defense or military applications of this thing? The artifact?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Defense? I can say no almost without exception, since that’s an angle I’m not interested in. I’d remember if she tried to ‘pump’ me on that.”
A policeman came into the bar, holding a sawed-off double- barreled shotgun in a heavy plastic bag. Swanwick stood up.
“Did you shoot that woman with this?”
“In self-defense. She was—”
“Ya, ya.” He gestured to a big officer behind him, who came around quickly with handcuffs.
“That won’t be necessary,” Swanwick said, but the big man spun him around roughly and snapped them on. “She had a gun,” he said.
“And you had this in your room for the little mice,” the first policeman said. He turned to Russell. “Dr. Sutton, please wait here with your lady. A man will take your statement soon.”
They watched the three of them leave. “He shot her … with that?”
“Hit her, too. Blew off her arm.” There was a moment of dead silence. The people at the other tables were looking at them. She let a breath out in a puff. “Speaking of ‘ladies’?”
He pointed. “Behind the gift counter, down the hall to the left.”
She picked up her purse. “I’ll be right back.”
Unsurprisingly, he never saw her again.
—40—
Faleolo, Samoa, 15 July 2021
Once on the other side of the reef, the changeling stayed in the relatively deep water, plying west slowly toward the airport at Faleolo. There was a plane out the next day, to Honolulu.
It would take hu
man form and come ashore after dark. Hide for awhile and then walk into the airport. Then go about the problem of getting a ticket, without passport or credit cards. It could create counterfeit cash, but even under normal circumstances, it would look suspicious to try to purchase an expensive ticket with cash. Maybe a Samoan could get away with it, but it didn’t know the language well enough to pass among Samoans.
Eighty or ninety years ago, it would have just isolated someone, killed him, and used his identity and ticket. That was repugnant now. Maybe the man who shot Rae’s arm off. The world might be a better place without him.
By the time it got to Faleolo, it had a better plan. Not without risk, but it could always escape into the water again. They’d eventually catch on to that. But it had escaped from a few jails in its time, too.
It went a half mile past Faleolo, to get away from the light. The moon, not yet first quarter, was no problem. The changeling sat in the shallows and changed.
About a pound of its substance became a plastic bag full of circulated fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Another twelve pounds, a light knapsack with a change of dirty clothing and a wallet that had enough Samoan tala for a few cab rides and a night of drinking, with an American Universal ID and a California driver’s license, matching the persona it painfully built. Newt Martin, a common type of denizen in this corner of the world. Young, restless; escaping from something. Money enough for food and drugs and a flop, and maybe a little more. Maybe a lot.
It made a passport that would pass visual inspection. The computer at passport control wouldn’t be fooled.
At about eight thirty it crept ashore, squeezed the water out of its long blond hair, and walked down to the airport. It got into a cab and told the man to take him to the clock.
It was a simple plan of action. Find a young American desperate enough to temporarily “lose” his wallet and passport and ticket out, in exchange for a lot of money. The kid wouldn’t find out until later that there was a little more than that involved.
“The clock” is an early-twentieth-century tower in the center of town, the main landmark. The changeling paid off the cab and walked down Beach Road toward the harbor. It knew there were some seedy-looking bars about halfway to Aggie Grey’s, but it had never been inside one. “Rae Archer” wouldn’t have done that. Newt Martin definitely would.
Bad Billy’s looked promising. Smelled right even from the sidewalk, spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. Loud rap music from twenty years ago. The changeling sidled in through a mass of people standing in the door, for the air, and went to the bar. There were only two other customers there, the rest of the clientele either shooting pool or sitting in clusters of folding chairs around small tables full of drinks, talking loudly in two languages. Its keen hearing picked up a third, a French couple away in a corner, whispering about the scene around them.
One of the English conversations was about the strange goings- on at Aggie’s today. One of the Samoans had a friend in the police, and he said that he said it was an industrial espionage deal that had gone bad.
Right, somebody said—shotguns and old Jackie Chan superspies. It was just a publicity gag for the movie.
Wanting to draw attention, the changeling ordered a double martini. It had to explain what that meant, and wound up with a half-liter glass of cheap gin and ice with a quarter lime floating on top. (Having been a barmaid itself, it knew the smell of cheap gin. This stuff came in big plastic recycled soft-drink bottles from a distillery outside of town.)
The flavor was interesting, reminiscent of the underwater taste of bilge and oil spill.
An aromatic Samoan prostitute came over next to him. “What ya drinkin’?” She was still young but getting puffy.
Put an egg in your shoe and beat it, the changeling thought. Chase yourself, get lost—working up through the decades—bug off, fuck off, haul ass, twist a braid, give air. Instead it said, “Martini. Want one?”
“What I have to do for it?”
“You’re not what I need.”
She haunched up on the stool, short skirt casually revealing no underwear.
“I know some guys…”
“Not that.” The changeling got the barmaid’s attention; pointed a finger at its drink and then at the space in front of the girl. “You know where the drug action is?”
“Oh, man.” She looked around. “Cops everywhere tonight. That thing at Aggie’s.”
The barmaid brought the drink and the changeling made a show of riffling through the thick wad of bills to find a twenty. “I’ve been out of town. You see it?”
“No, man, it was noon. I hadn’t got up yet.” She stared at the wallet until the mark put it away. “I could bring you anything you want. You shouldn’t be on the street, man, cops’re pickin’ up any palagi they don’t know.” White man.
“Hold it here a minute.” The changeling went back to the men’s room, a single noisome stall, and sat in the dim light, changing slightly. It went back to the bar with the same features, but dark skin and black hair.
“Now that’s somethin’.” She rubbed its cheek with her fingertip and looked at it. “How long it last?”
“A day or two. So what happened at Aggie Grey’s, do you think?”
“Say it looked like a stuntman thing. Some gunshots and then this guy crashes through a window, bounces off the whatcha-callit over the door—”
“Awning?”
“Yeah. Then runs like a bat outa hell across the street and the park and jumps in the harbor. Looks like he got his arm blown off, blood everywhere, but it don’t slow him down, like special effects.”
“The movie people say anything about it?”
“They say it’s not them, but you know, bullshit.”
“Yeah. Drink up and let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Dope. Dealers.” The changeling drank off half the martini in one gulp. The girl tried, and went into a coughing fit. The barmaid brought some water and gave the changeling a sharp look.
“Maybe that’s enough,” it said when the girl quieted down and was breathing more or less normally. “Don’t know what they make this stuff out of, anyhow.”
She sighed and nodded and slid off the stool unsteadily.
“There’s a party. I take you there, you meet some guys, you take care of me?”
“What does that mean?”
“Like a hundred bucks?”
“We’ll see.” It took her shoulder and aimed her toward the door. “If I score, sure.”
They walked along Beach Road a couple of blocks and then down an unmarked gravel alley. She stopped at a Toyota that had more rust than paint, and jerked the driver’s-side door open with a shriek. “Here we go.”
“You okay to drive?” The door on the changeling’s side didn’t open. She leaned across and pushed hard twice.
“Yeah, yeah. Get in.” It smelled of mildew and marijuana.
On the third try the engine, older than the driver, sputtered to life, and they jerked on down the lane. She drove with a drunk’s elaborate caution, weaving.
“You don’t want me to drive?” It couldn’t die, but it didn’t want to attract attention from police by not doing so.
“Nah, this is fun.” She found her way to the winding uphill road that the changeling recognized as the one leading up to the Stevenson mansion. Traffic was light, fortunately. The girl didn’t say anything. She was concentrating on staying near the center of the road.
They passed Vailima and came into a woodsy area with no homes near the road. “Look for a orange plastic ribbon on your side,” she said, slowing to a walk. “Tied to a tree. ’Round a tree trunk.”
“There it is,” the changeling said, and then realized human eyes wouldn’t see it yet.
“Where? I don’t see.” She peered over the steering wheel and the right wheels crunched into gravel. She overcorrected well into the oncoming lane, forcing a Vespa off the road. The rider yelled something in Samoan but rode on.
“T
rust me. It’s up there.” After another couple of hundred yards the headlights caught the pale orange ribbon, sun-bleached emergency tape. She pulled into a dirt road just beyond it.
“You got some eyes.” They could just see the road ahead, and the changeling held on. They splashed into potholes so deep the springs bottomed out with a clunk and the driver hit her head on the roof, laughing.
They came to a Western-style house, an incongruous rambler, a little light coming from behind drawn blinds, lots of cars parked in the circular gravel driveway. There were clapped-out hulks like the girl was driving, but also new cars, two taxis, and a shiny limousine.
Too many people, the changeling thought. Be careful.
They picked their way up a board walkway set on the muddy ground. Pine smell of construction; latex paint. The house was new. Business must be good.
She leaned on the doorbell and the front door opened a crack. A tall black man looked down at her. “Mo’o. You found some money somewhere?”
She jerked her thumb in the changeling’s direction. “He’s got plenty.”
The black man looked into its eyes for a long moment. “Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t. I don’t know anybody local. The slit said she’d take me where I could find some dealers.”
“You buyin’ or sellin’?”
“Right now I’m buying.”
“Let me see some color.” A flashlight snapped on. The changeling opened his wallet, fanning bills. The man murmured, then flashed the light in the changeling’s face.
“We’ll take a chance.” He opened the door partway. “You know if you’re a cop, your family dies, in front of you. And then you?”
The changeling shrugged. “Not a cop; no family.” He passed through but the man stopped the girl.
“I got money,” she protested. “He’s got money for me.”
“A hundred bucks,” the changeling said, and took two fifties out of his wallet, and passed them back to her.
The black man let the money pass but still blocked the girl. “Go home, Mo’o. I don’t need any more trouble from your matai.”