by Thomas Locke
Elenya released a tear. Another. She wiped her face. “I never cry.”
“And I’ve made you do it twice in one day. My heart is wrenched by the sight. And by the beauty. I am filled with a regret as strong as pain.” He was normally not so eloquent. It would be wrong to say Serenese was made for poetic remorse. But it definitely came easier. “If you will let me, I would like to do now what I should have done this morning. I want to commit, Elenya.”
Another tear slipped out and fell, sparkling like a gemstone. “Why didn’t you before?”
“I have any number of reasons. But none of them matter. Or rather, none of them matter enough.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’m under intense pressure to save the Examiner from a punishment he doesn’t deserve. His trial is starting in a couple of days.”
“That is one.”
“I have no experience at love. Failed love, yes. A hopeless and empty home life, years of that. Dillon and I were raised around two people living unhappy lives together. That’s all I knew growing up.”
“We can study.”
“No, Elenya. You will have to teach me.”
She reached one hand out, then retreated. She walked over and seated herself at their little table. Sean hesitated, then joined her. She sat there a moment, looking deep into his gaze. Another tear spilled down her right cheek. Sean feared his heart would break.
Then she set one hand upon the tabletop, palm up. He settled his hand upon hers and found the strength to breathe again. She looked down, and the shift in her gaze released one more tear. “You have small hands.”
“Do I?”
“For such a big man. Yes. And a delicate touch.” She linked her fingers through his. “Your hands are a trace smaller than your brother’s.”
“That’s right. They are.”
She looked up, though it was hard for him to meet her gaze and see the unshed tears gathered along the rims. “There’s a faint hint of gold to your green eyes. Dillon doesn’t have that either. His eyes are a shade darker.”
“No one has noticed that before.”
“Your features are slightly sharper. More carefully defined. His are . . .”
“Stronger.”
“Physically, yes.”
“He is the warrior.”
“The officer,” she corrected. “He will never be the common soldier. Not even among the Praetorians.”
“He’ll love hearing you say that.”
She reached out with her free hand and traced a finger along the edge of his chin. “Your face holds a keener intelligence.” She moved upward. “Your hair does not grow as far down your temples and forehead. You may go bald.”
“I’d hate that.”
“Then we will find a way to stop it.” She continued her inspection. “You have two lines across your forehead, very faint, but they run the breadth of your eyebrows. They are marks of concentration. And worry. Dillon has none.” She touched his lips. “Your smile is slightly canted, pulled to one side just a trace by all you carry.”
She let her hand fall to the table. He reached over and took hold of this one as well. He breathed in and out. She breathed with him. They sat there for a few minutes, an eon of healing quiet.
Then Dillon thumped up the stairs and came into view. He inspected them a moment, then said, “So you’re good.”
Elenya answered quietly, “Yes, Dillon. We are good.”
“Did he apologize?”
“He did, yes.”
“Because if you want him to say something more, just give me the word. I’ll . . .” Dillon stopped as Elenya rose from the table and walked over.
She reached around him and held him tightly. Just for an instant. But long enough for Dillon’s face to change. Sean saw the flicker come and go, swift as Carver’s smile. Dillon looked across the room at him, the anger gone now. Totally vanished.
Sean said, “I guess we better get to work.”
42
Elenya pulled the shopping bags from under Sean’s bed and dressed in another of the outfits from the local mall. Then she took them shopping.
Dillon had never been good at this particular job. With the shaky start to the day, he was ready to give in to some serious complaints. Carey was putting in extra hours at the school and so wasn’t there to offer encouragement.
But Elenya was firm. “Dr. Sandrine’s shift does not begin for another hour. More importantly, you are forbidden from returning to Cyrius, correct?”
“Where?” Dillon asked.
“The train station,” Sean said, “is on Cyrius.”
“Serious, like, grim?”
Sean spelled it out.
But Dillon was on a roll. “So the Examiner’s fate and our own mental futures depend upon a planet called Somber. Stern. Grave.” He shook his head. “This just keeps getting better.”
Elenya went on, “The authorities will be alerted. You need to blend in. I took note of how Cyrian travelers dressed.”
Sean was so content to be there, walking down the street holding her hand, he would have followed her just about anywhere. “So you didn’t speak with Sandrine?”
“I did not say that. I said she was not on duty yet. I spoke with her by the clinic’s phone. Dr. Sandrine will meet with you.” Elenya stopped in front of a store. “This is perfect.”
Dillon was aghast. “No way.”
“Inside, Dillon.” Elenya led them into Brooks Brothers and over to the men’s dress section. In twenty minutes she had them both decked out. Dillon wore navy dress pants with a matching cotton sweater that zipped up to the neck. Sean was a study in grey—gabardine slacks, matching summer-weight turtleneck. Black belt and loafers. He got busy writing another check before Dillon could get a look at the total.
When they returned to the loft, the twins took turns changing in the bathroom. Then they took hold of Elenya’s hands and with her guidance transited straight into the clinic.
Actually, they transited into the doctor’s private office. Elenya touched a door tab, stepped out into the clinic proper, and swiftly returned. “Dr. Sandrine is with a patient.”
The office was the same stark white as the clinic, even the desk. Sean pulled the desk chair around and said, “I’ve been thinking. What if I got this all wrong? What if we do this and nothing happens?”
“And Carver and the Counselor find out,” Dillon finished. “We’re toast, is what.”
Sean was tempted to urge Elenya to take off. Leave them. Figure out another way to . . .
Dillon must have seen the worry in his gaze, because he shot out, “Sean. Drop it. Now.”
Elenya was clearly as in tune as Dillon. She reached out her hand. Not to Sean. To Dillon. She said, “I’ve always wanted a brother.”
They sat there in silence for a while, letting the quiet white clinic work on healing them all. Finally Dillon said, “So. You’ve been thinking.”
“Right. What we need is the next big thing. Something that will take their mind off, you know . . .”
“The mind-wipe business,” Dillon said, dropping Elenya’s hand. “Or jail. Whatever.”
“So we talk to Sandrine. We send Dillon out hunting. Elenya goes walkabout. And in between, we work on . . .” Sean stopped because he realized the doctor was standing in the portal, listening in.
She greeted them with, “Talk to Sandrine about what?”
43
The doctor was every inch a professional, whether taking the branch out of the side of a transiter or seated in her office. “Why do you want to discuss the aliens with me?”
Sean leaned against the rear wall, leaving his partners in crime in the chairs that separated him from the lady behind the desk. “We think we might have been attacked by them. Twice.”
“And you survived.”
“Yes.”
“You and your brother. Raw recruits.”
Sean sensed she was not nearly as skeptical as she appeared. “When we first showed up, you suspected aliens we
re behind the assault.”
“What makes you say such a thing?”
“When I told you what had happened, you flashed fear. I don’t think very much scares you.”
“What—” She stopped when a chime sounded. Sandrine touched a wall panel, which became a screen showing a woman and young child in the clinic’s front room. “Wait here.”
When she was gone, Sean asked Dillon, “You want to go check things out?”
“Sure thing.”
Sean turned to Elenya. “Can I have your chair, please?”
She rose and took Sean’s position by the wall. “What are you doing?”
“Dillon is going to go have a look around the station.”
Light dawned. “While he is still here?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes went completely round. “This is the realm of senior Watchers.”
“We know.” Sean fashioned the invisible belt, then gripped his brother’s hand. “Ready?”
In reply, Dillon shut his eyes, released a long breath, and went still. Five minutes passed. Ten. Then he breathed deep, opened his eyes, and sat staring at nothing.
“You saw something?”
“Not a single solitary thing.” His words emerged very slowly. Like his mouth found it difficult to shape the words. “But, I don’t know . . .”
“You sensed a wrongness.”
“Nothing that strong. Like a taste of something bad. But old, you know?”
“Like they’ve been here and now they’re gone.”
Elenya said, “We have to tell someone!”
“They don’t believe Dillon can do this. They won’t believe anything he claims to have found.” Sean released his brother’s hand. “You need something?”
Dillon rose to his feet. Stretched. Yawned. Sat back down. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Just give me a minute.”
Sandrine chose that moment to return. She took her time crossing the office, avoiding all their eyes in the process. When she was seated behind the desk, she continued where she had left off. “Why are you asking me? What makes you think I have anything to say about aliens?”
“You told me you wanted to make a career in interplanetary medicine.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. I doubt you are drawn by the idea of treating transiters with colds.”
“Even if that were so, it is in the future. Now . . .” She gestured at the room. “You see the medicine I practice.”
Sandrine continued to avoid answering him directly. But she was also speaking Serenese. And the language continued to work its subtle effect, releasing far more than her words. With each comment, Sean grew increasingly certain that not only did Sandrine know, but she was also fascinated. And worried. The odd mixture formed a cauldron that bubbled softly in his gut. As though all his own concerns were slowly coming to a boil.
He asked, “Will you tell us what you know?”
She fiddled with an apparatus Sean assumed was used to record her clinical notes. She inspected a fingernail. Finally she said, “It has been a hundred and forty-one Serenese years since the last attack.”
Elenya calculated swiftly. “Ninety-six Earth years.”
“There is a very precise cycle. Or rather, there was. Up to that point, the attacks occurred every forty-seven Serenese years. But the last attack was their least successful. Their defeat came within days of their first appearance. For the third time in a row. Then the aliens skipped a cycle altogether. The first time in forty centuries they did not attack some planet where humans live. When the aliens did not appear on schedule, some suggested that they have learned their lesson and will not try again. Now there has been another missed cycle. And people have become very lax.”
Dillon’s eyes seemed to spark with the same odd mixture as Sean was feeling. “You’re saying it’s time for another attack?”
“No. The next attack cycle is not due for another Serenese year.”
Elenya said, “The governments are very complacent. They think the worst is over.”
Sean said to the doctor, “You’re not so optimistic.”
“We know so little about them. We have no idea where their home planet is, or even if one exists. We don’t know why the cycle has continued now for almost four thousand years. We don’t know why some assaults are much less focused than others. The last three, for example, have been very minor events. Except for one thing. The one trait that linked them together.”
Sean listened with an intensity that seemed to bind him to the doctor. Grant him the ability to track what she was not saying. “Their attack was focused on transiters.”
Sandrine snapped around. Stared at him. Gaped, really. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
Dillon said, “Sean does that. Jumps ahead of where you want him to be.”
Elenya offered, “Sean is an adept.”
“No,” Sean protested. “You can’t—”
Elenya mimicked his brother. “Sean. Stop. Now.”
He sighed.
Sandrine clearly approved of this exchange. “The authorities have done their utmost to classify everything about these assaults as confidential. But I have seen medical records. I used them as part of my final thesis. Outside of the invasions themselves, there has never been an actual alien sighting. We do not even know if they exist in what we would class as a physical form. They take over people. And yes, in the last three attacks, they targeted transiters.”
Elenya said, “Which explains why everything about these attacks has remained classified. Already there are many planets that resent the transiters and seek to limit their reach.”
“Including Cyrius,” Sandrine confirmed. “A hundred and fifty years ago we were given an official warning and put on planetary watch. It lasted almost twenty years. Our leaders were humiliated. Some of the warring groups banded together and demanded a global referendum, seeking to withdraw from the league. They were defeated. But resentment still lingers.”
“And here we show up,” Dillon said.
“Flying across the station floor, knocking down over a dozen people, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. People are still upset you weren’t thrown in jail.”
“There’s something else the aliens use in their attacks, isn’t there,” Sean said, recalling the women involved in the Charger attack. “They make fake humans.”
“Human-like drones,” Sandrine confirmed. She rose from her chair. The area behind her desk did not offer much room for pacing, but she did her best. “Incredibly real. Sometimes one or two. Other times hundreds.”
Sean asked, “Do you know how?”
“Here is where we move into the realm of speculation, but it is where I want to focus my future work. What we think is this.” Three paces, her face almost planted on the side wall, swing about, three paces more. Arms linked across her middle. Holding herself tightly as she moved. “They steal a fragment of hair, skin, saliva, something that contains an entire genetic strand. They replicate. And it is from whatever intelligence they gain in the initial takeovers that governs who they replicate. They go after faces and people that the entire world wants to follow. Leaders, stars of entertainment, teachers of note. These are duplicated over and over and over. Armies wearing the planet’s most beloved faces.”
Dillon asked, “How many planets have been lost?”
“Seven. They attack, and where they win, they destroy everything. Nothing survives. Not a plant, an animal, a fish, a human. All gone.”
Sean recalled, “The Counselor said something about our Earth possibly being safe from them.”
“Again, we have nothing to go on but their past methods,” Sandrine replied. “No outpost world has ever come under attack. Why, we have no idea.”
“Do these aliens have another name?”
“They have a hundred names. A thousand. Every world that knows of them has named them. And they all come down to one concept. They are the enemy. Sometimes the assault i
s small. A probe, they are called. We’ve had three such probes in a row. All defeated within days. The relatively new class of Praetorian Guards known as Watchers has managed to identify the enemy, even when they transit to different worlds in the bodies of those they have taken over. Then they—”
The wall monitor chimed again. Sandrine keyed the controls, inspected the newcomers, and said, “I must see to this.”
When she was gone, Sean said, “Dillon, go take another look around. Then let’s see if we can do what she said.”
“You want to try and replicate a human?” Elenya looked from one brother to the next. “Why?”
“Because,” Dillon said, “our job is to rock their boat.”
“This I do not understand,” Elenya said. “Not at all.”
“We’ve got to find some way to make them accept our version of events,” Sean said. “And that means proving the impossible is real.”
44
They spent the rest of the day patrolling the station and trying to put Sandrine’s theory into action. And failed miserably on both accounts.
Sean anchored Dillon while he went on regular patrols. He waited while Elenya did her hourly walkabouts. The bodiless hunting rendered Dillon increasingly exhausted. Even so, Sean envied them both for the liberty to escape the doctor’s office, at least partly. Especially after his hours of effort got him nowhere.
He tried to form a shield around a strand of hair, fill it with energy, draw it out. Did it holding Elenya’s hand. Used other components. Tried with innate objects long associated with one person or another. Tried to link his own internal force with Dillon’s. Then again with Sandrine. Nada. Over and over and over. A totally futile day.
Dillon napped for a while. Elenya returned from one foray carrying the Cyrian form of vegetarian wraps. The taste was odd but good. Elenya and Dillon played a hand game from her childhood. She went out for another walkabout. Dillon hunted. Sean did nothing whatsoever constructive.