“Everything. You, the world.”
“What is this? Nerves? Want to trade some jokes?”
“Oh, sure! Here we go again with the jokes. You cracking one-liners about being hurt or dying, as if it’s no big deal, like we’re going on a Sunday school picnic. When you know damn well that this time you may run into something worse than temporary blindness.”
He sighed. “Maggie, I laugh to keep from crying—or from thinking about it a whole lot.”
“Well, I can’t help but think about it. About how I’m going to have to watch you charging down the hill tonight, lasergun blasting, playing hero once again.” She looked down at the floor. “I care about you, Chris, and I might be starting to care too much. Loving like that scares me, because I also cared for a couple of other heroes not so long ago, and they’re dead now.”
Her words caught him hard and sharp in his throat, and he stood looking at her, blinking. Nobody had ever said they cared about him, not since his grandmother had died when he was nine years old—not his mother, who had somehow lost her way on a trip to the grocery store when Chris was three and had never come back, not his father, who had subsequently lost
himself in another way, in bottles of cheap gin, and not the older sister who’d run away at sixteen with a Marine—no one.
Through his brief enlistment in the Navy, to his years involved in covert operations with Ham Tyler, there had been good times and bad, some laughs, a few women, but no one who had really cared.
“How about you?” He had to clear his throat to get past the sudden roughness in his voice. “You march around slinging bombs and rifles to make lizard meat out of those scaly bastards too, and I’ll get to watch you put it on the line again tonight. Don’t think,” he took a deep breath, “that you’ve got any exclusive rights to words like ‘caring’ and iove’.” “Oh, Chris . . .” Turning, she buried her face in his massive chest. “What a screwed-up world this is now.” “Yeah, I remember when the biggest threat to life and limb around here was the freeways.” He held her tightly for several minutes, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
Finally she stirred and moved away, plucked a paper napkin out of the holder on the kitchen table and blew her nose. “I think maybe the worst thing the Visitors took away from us is time, a sense of the future beyond the next day or two. It’s hard to think ahead anymore. It’s hard to let yourself feel.”
He turned her face up to his, his big hand cupping her chin firmly. “Maggie, I’m new at all of this. But I’ve seen some places in the world, even before the lizards came, where all people had to make their lives even remotely worth living was how much they cared for each other. No matter how hard it is, we can’t let them make us forget that we’re human, or then they’ve really won.”
She took a long, shaky breath. “You’re pretty smart, Faber, and don’t let anybody tell you you’re not. So what are we going to do? Just keep telling Visitor jokes and ducking, I guess.”
“And spend as much time as we can making up for any time we don’t have together. ” He grinned. “Like tonight—after this little cleanup campaign.”
“Ever the optimist,” she said, and pulled his head down to kiss him. “You’re on.”
Mike Donovan stared gloomily at the black turtleneck, jeans, and ski mask laid out on his bed. How many times did
this make now that he had put on these or similar clothes in preparation for anti-Visitor action? Forty? Fifty?
Moving like an old, tired ghost, he picked up his jeans, remembering how he used to feel when getting ready to cover a hot news story—excited, eager, practically throwing on his clothes to race out in time to catch a taxi or plane, whatever would get him to the best vantage point quickly. Once his best friend and soundman, Tony Leonetti, had had to hiss at him to zip his fly as they trotted after the latest Nobel Peace Prize winner.
Now he dressed slowly, reluctantly. Tony had been dead for over two years now, killed by the Visitors, and these days his life was always the same—more surveillance, more skulking, more weary raids. Maybe Denise Daltrey was right, maybe it was someone else’s turn to carry on. He was growing convinced that he did deserve a rest from the unending circus of death and destruction. With the Visitors, there were never any winners and losers, only which side lost less in a particular round. And you couldn’t always tell who was on your side these days. . . .
Worst of all, lately there hadn’t been anyone he could talk to, share his frustrations about the resistance with. Julie seemed so far away, almost as though there had never been anything between them. It had been weeks since he’d held her, felt her small body smooth against his own, heard her softly whispered endearments as he loved her.
But even more than a sexual impulse, right at this moment he wanted to hear her cheerful, calm voice, to give and receive some reassurance that everything would be okay between them—there probably wouldn’t be time later. Pulling on his sweater, he leaned over the bed to pick up the phone, punching up her number.
A busy signal pulsed maddeningly against his ear.
Angrily, Mike slammed the receiver back in its cradle again. She was probably talking to Nathan Bates again—Mr. Slick himself, the richest and most powerful man in L.A. Donovan knew her boss had started making a habit of calling Julie at home, even late into the evening—she was, after all, very important to the “Science” part of Science Frontiers. Mike only hoped that science was the extent of Bates’s interest—but he knew, from the times he’d watched Bates with Julie, that it wasn’t. . . .
The hell with it, he thought, reaching for his gun.
* * *
Julie frowned into the phone as though she could will the busy signal away. “Damn,” she muttered, going into the kitchen for a Coke. When she returned, she redialed, brightening a bit when it rang, but after seven rings, she had to admit he wasn’t there and hung up slowly.
Maybe Majorie Donovan had been calling her ex-husband to say she’d thought it over, was going to turn herself in and get help to conquer the effects of her conversion, but only if he would agree to another try at marriage again, because that was the only thing worth living for, to her.
Biting her lip, Julie turned away from the phone and went slowly back to her closet to rummage for the old black sweat shirt she’d stuffed somewhere way in back. Her imagination was much too active for her own good tonight—along with her stomach. Her spasms were in rare form this evening, beating a soundless rhythm in her belly, almost like an inner metronome. She was glad that she had finally made an appointment at the clinic to see Doc Akers. For better or worse, she should know by tomorrow afternoon what was wrong with her.
Julie allowed herself a rueful smile at the optimism implied in her calm anticipation of a visit to the doctor tomorrow, following tonight’s operation. But sometimes hope was all she had to go on, especially when the evidence tended to favor the opposite viewpoint.
Such as, how much hope did she still have for her relationship with Michael Donovan?
The question nagged at her as she shrugged into her sweat shirt and pinned her blond hair back into a bun.
Willie cast a longing glance at the blender behind the Club Creole’s bar, but made no move toward it. Nervous excitement made his crest twitch beneath his wig, and he wished he could tear it off to scratch his head directly. Instead, he rubbed the spot as best he could and watched as Ham came in through the kitchen doors with an armful of weapons.
“Okay, kids, choose your favorite toys,” he said, dumping the laserguns, Uzis, and ammunition onto the bar.
“Hey, watch it! That’s real inlaid oak you’re gouging dents in!” Elias scowled as he jammed a ski cap onto his head. He was already in a bad mood, Willie knew, from having to shut down the club early this morning under the guise of “electrical problems”—or so said the small sign hung on the door next to the one that said CLOSED.
Willie pushed at the sleeve of the dark-colored sweater Elias had lent him—it was too long in the arms. Once aga
in, he was being included in a special resistance mission (Elias had said they needed everyone they could spare), and, he had to admit, once again he was scared.
Not of dying. To die—that was not such a terrible thing. Assuming a good and worthwhile life—and Willie had done his best, especially under the circumstances here on Earth—his life-essence would be pulled back to the Place of Beginnings on his home world. There it would lie to bask in the blue-white warmth of Sirius while absorbing all the wisdom of the sands in the state of preta-na-ma—peace—forever. . . .
No, death was not the worst thing. Rather, it was the fear that he might fail in his responsibility for the lives of others, that he might live to know that people who were important to him had died because of his mistakes.
“Here, Willie, I will help you.” Miranda was suddenly at his side, rolling up his sleeves with quick, efficient motions. “There . . . now you are a fine-looking member of the resistance.”
She would be leaving after them to join Elizabeth at Kyle’s house. Although she was good with an Uzi or M-16, her skills as a nurse might prove even more useful later on, she had said. Willie managed only a weak smile at her before Elias and Ham began picking up their weapons and commando jackets. “Come on, Willie, let’s go,” Ham said. “You can kiss the lady when you get back.”
Picking up his lasergun, Willie stuck it in his belt the way he had seen a TV star do it, and followed the others out to the waiting car.
From the front porch of Kyle’s house, Elizabeth heard the engine of the Yamaha rev up several times, then saw the motorcycle roar out of the garage and down the driveway. Robin, perched on the seat behind Kyle, lifted her hand in a quick wave, then they were out of sight, the cool evening fading into silence again.
Slowly, Elizabeth walked down the steps, the toe of her sneaker kicking irritably at a dried leaf. Fear, deep and disquieting, lurked within her and was growing. When she had retreated to her room to study, as her mother and Kyle completed their preparations for tonight’s operation, she found she hadn’t been able to concentrate. The diagrams and equations of her trigonometry book had kept fading before her eyes, turning into a dull-red, dusty curtain of death. . . .
Reluctantly, she reached up to close the garage door, and her glance caught a small gleam way in one comer. The outside light was reflecting off the handlebars of Kyle’s old Kawasaki.
She walked slowly toward it, her heartbeat quickening. The sleek black motorcycle was clean and well oiled since Kyle had worked on it last week. This was the bike he had used to teach her to ride, and she could almost feel the powerful little engine vibrating under her arms and legs again, the wind tearing at her hair and face as she rode, daring the night to catch her.
She looked down at the bike, and the knowledge, the certainty that tonight she had to be with her mother and the others she loved grew until it pushed all lesser realities aside.
She needed the ignition key. But Kyle kept all his keys in a big metal clip fastened to his belt.
Straddling the saddle, she stared down at the ignition slot, focusing her mind, her energies, imagining a. tiny hand made of electricity that could reach in, just so—
The lock turned, she pressed the starter button, and the motorcycle coughed and then rumbled into life. Releasing the kickstand, she put the Kawasaki in gear, eased the throttle open, and went speeding out into the darkness.
Chapter 15
Night Moves
Shifting the lasergun at his side to a more comfortable position, Mike Donovan crouched behind the rusted trash barrel. He glanced back to count the dark shapes of Ham, Robin, Chris, Julie, Elias, Willie, Maggie, and Kyle as they skulked, one by one, along the wall of the waterfront warehouse to come up silently behind him.
From this vantage point, he could see the sprawling piers, derricks, and buildings that curved along this section of the waterfront not too far from Los Angeles harbor. The three-quarters moon was high and bright over the Pacific, casting its pale gleam down on the outlines of ships and cranes.
As the sea-fresh air caught in his nostrils and tugged at his ski cap, Donovan thought briefly about San Pedro less than a mile behind him, about the nice little house he, Margie, and Sean used to share. . . .
With an effort, he dragged his gaze and thoughts back to the present. Over at the next pier, fierce incandescent lights pushed back the darkness, revealing a virtual lizard hive of activity. He leaned forward as far as he dared, past the concealing barrel, to adjust the small pair of binoculars he was carrying.
Uniformed Visitors, forty or fifty at least, moved purposefully around the warehouse near the end of the pier, where light spilled out in a harsh rectangle from the open door onto the weather-beaten boards. In groups of two, many of them were carefully carrying what looked like old-fashioned wooden barrels between them out of the building to a conveyor belt next to it. In a neat and well-spaced row, the barrels moved slowly along to more Visitors waiting near the end of the belt, which actually protruded well out over the water. There, the barrels were gingerly lifted off and set down.
Periodically, someone at the end nearest the water would blow a whistle, the belt would stop, and the barrels accumulated at the end of the pier would be carried down some steps and out of sight—probably to a lower dock and one or more waiting boats, Mike reflected.
“Let me take a look, Gooder,” Ham said, reaching for the binoculars. After a couple of seconds, he grunted in surprise. “Huh. Chris, how’s your night vision?”
“Better’n ever.”
“Then take a look at this, will ya?”
Shifting his ever-present gum in his mouth, the heavyset man took the binoculars, and then his own eyes widened in surprise behind the eyepieces. “That shit must be touchier’n nitro.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Ham nodded.
“How can you tell?” Mike whispered.
Chris looked as though he had been asked to explain table manners to a five-year-old. “Look at the way they’re handling it, gentle as baby lizard eggs. And wooden barrels, to reduce the possibility of sparks.”
“Uh-oh.” Ham adjusted the eyepiece as everyone looked over at the next pier again.
One of the barrels, placed too close to the next one, rolled into it, sending it wobbling perilously close to the edge of the conveyor belts. The Visitor who was loading them dashed over to it, saving it just in time from teetering over the edge.
“That was a close one,” Mike said, letting his breath out.
“Hey, lookit there, Gooder. Ms. Primo Leather-ass herself. ”
A slight, dark-haired woman strode out, flanked by two officers—Mike didn’t need the binoculars to recognize Diana’s imperious movements as she gestured angrily. One of the Visitors with her pulled out a lasergun, and the hapless loader screamed, then crumpled to the dock. Turning, she marched back into the building; a moment later, the body was efficiently tossed over the edge of the pier into the Pacific, then the conveyor started up again with someone else in charge.
“One down, forty-nine to go,” Ham muttered, showing his teeth in what passed for his smile. “This may be easier than I thought. If one of us gets close enough to get off a clear shot at one of those barrels, it might be enough to send the whole works up like the Fourth of July. Wouldn’t even need your own well-made explosives, partner.”
Chris shrugged philosophically. “They can be recycled.” “Wait a minute,” Mike said. “We don’t know how much of that stuff’s in there, or even how volatile it is. We could take out the whole harbor, including us.”
“That’s the chance we’ll have to take,” Julie said grimly. “Whatever happens, we’ve got to stop them from contaminating the ocean with that stuff.”
Mike nodded. “But first we go check out the warehouse. Then we rendezvous and decide the best way to blow it up.” “Okay,” Ham said, rising. “Time we split up. Gooder, you, me, Robin, Maggie, and Willie will try and get a look inside from the right side of the building. Chris, you take th
e others around to the left. Unless you’re jumped, no shooting. We’ll meet back in ten minutes.”
As Ham moved down to repeat the marching orders to the rest, Mike saw Robin smiling at Kyle and squeezing his hand, Willie and Elias giving one another “five,” Chris leaning over to give Maggie a quick but firm kiss. He glanced over at Julie and winked; she smiled wanly in return.
“Good luck,” Ham said.
“Or to paraphrase my old Navy CPO,” Chris said, checking his rifle, “let’s go out, kick ass, and make luggage.”
As they made their way to the next pier, dodging between mooring posts, parked vehicles, and the shadows, Mike glanced over between the piers to his right. Down here, he could see the flotilla of small boats—powerboats, sailboats, even a catamaran—bobbing quietly in the black waters close to the concrete pylons, waiting. From snatches of conversation and laughter drifting over from one of the closest vessels, he surmised that they were all waiting to receive the barrels for transport and dumping in deeper waters—for a lot of money.
Mike’s mouth thinned. Some people would do anything for money, but from this perspective, it was doubtful any of them had seen much of the little byplay on the pier, and Diana wouldn’t be inclined to tell them that their cargo was dangerous.
The warehouse was a long, gray wooden building stretching almost the entire length of the pier. Careful of the ropes,
lumber, and other objects scattered along the wharf, they moved silently to the back of the building, the apparent site of the red dust’s manufacture.
Lights glowed through the dirty windows, but this end was obviously deserted. Chris gave a quick thumbs-up and disappeared around the left corner, followed by his team. Mike inched forward, flattening himself against the rough boards, his eyes straining in the darkness for any movement.
They were halfway around the right side of the warehouse when Mike spotted the darker-gray outlines of a slightly recessed door. He reached for it—and was knocked backward as it burst open and ten Visitor shock troopers spilled out.
V 10 - Death Tide Page 21