Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  By backing Realskin with the proper liquid implants, it could be made to bleed like a Tenct when cut, providing the cut was not too deep. Human skin could even breathe through it. It was attached by “welding” it to the original skin, a cellular bonding that could be dissolved by applying the proper enzyme.

  The head, of course, had to be made larger, which allowed a tiny transceiver recorder to be implanted beneath the skin. The video feed was provided by two miniaturized cameras, one peering through a button in his jacket or shirt, the other fixed into the jewel of his ring. The cameras were not wired in the usual sense. Instead they transmitted their signals to the recorder through the skin.

  Providing all of the expensive technical gadgetry worked the way it was supposed to, everything that had happened within Cass’s sight and hearing must have been recorded. If all they could do was to recover the recorder intact, some perp’s cakes were on the griddle. Matt turned to the notes on the vo, the school where Tenctonese and humans alike learned to see things for what they are and to accept that it is so.

  The training there had been brutal, in a psychological sense. The brutality was necessary to overcome that thing that marked a human to a Tenct: ego. Matt’s gaze flew over the notes as he read that Tencts and humans both were telepathic to a degree. Only a rare few could actually transmit and receive coherent thoughts, but everyone was sending and everyone was receiving on some level. That’s why if you stare at the back of someone’s neck for a period, the owner of the neck will feel uneasy and turn around to see who is looking at him.

  To a Newcomer, a human “felt” obviously different from a Tenct. It wasn’t a difference between the thinking mechanisms; it was a difference between the thoughts. Most Newcomers, both Overseers and their former charges, were oriented around a “we” identity. Most humans were oriented around an “I” identity. It made for different vibes.

  “The Tenct is trained from birth,” wrote Cass, “to regard himself as part of a greater machine: the Tencts. How do I fit in? How am I affecting the whole? How are the others regarding me? Humans, if trained at all, think in smaller units: sex, color, religion, party, nation, region, city, neighborhood, industry, guild, army, club, gang, family, status, our ‘circle,’ and the smallest unit of all: I, me, my. Each Tenctonese is taught to be an indistinguishable droplet in a smooth-flowing communal stream. When I took my walk on Hollywood Boulevard I went and took the boulder of Micky Cass’s ego, dropped it into the water, and wondered why the Tencts saw ripples.”

  Matt pushed the notes aside, put his feet on his desk, and tore the wrapper off a Milky Way. He paused and studied the candy bar. For the same reason that alcohol had no effect on Tenctonese, neither did sugar. After all, sugar is alcohol’s granular form. A Newcomer who continually stuffed candy bars into his face would stick out like an oompah band at a rock concert. Actually, he’d stick out like a human popping rancid cheese cubes or tossing back a six-pack of Coor’s carbonated sour milk. If Matt was to disguise himself as a Tenct, that would be the end of candy bars for a while. He’d pass on the sour milk, though. He knew Newcomers who abstained and no one appeared to be bothered by them.

  He frowned as something occurred to him. To go undercover as a Newcomer, would he have to eat that crap? Weasel jerky, beaver burgers, squirrel nuggets, Roach Toasties, rotten cheese doodles? Some of the stuff Cathy ate was really gross. Broccoli. Cream of Wheat. Lipton Tea. Moxie. Squash. Mounds. Although there was no appeal in sugar, most Tenctonese loved coconut. Matt Sikes would just as soon suck on a dead rat as eat a Mounds.

  Looking around the squad room, Matt studied the Tenctonese officers, staffers, and the two Tenct suspects who had been brought in on the sweep to find the Soto Street Slag Slasher. All of them—cops, custodians, clerks, and crooks—had enough thinking in common that most of them could recognize an impostor, unless the impostor had plastic surgery and special mental training.

  He turned his head and looked over at Dobbs. Sgt. Dobbs was manning his desk by himself again, his new partner, Jerry Kirk, once more having found an excuse to be elsewhere. Matt knew the purpose of that perpetual “elsewhere.” It said to the fraternity, “Hey, it’s not my fault my partner’s black. I’m changing as soon as I can. The papers are already in.”

  Matt nodded to himself. The rule was still there: isolate the newcomers, and the newcomers in question weren’t only Tencts. They were “non-whites” and female officers, as well, even though the “whites” were no longer a majority. He remembered how he had been ostracized for volunteering to partner up with the first Tenctonese detective in the department. He hadn’t paid any attention to that. Pairing up with Francisco had been his best chance to be assigned to hunt down and kill the slag bastards who had slain his old partner, Tugg.

  Sikes frowned as he thought back to when he and Bill Tuggle had been paired up a thousand years ago. Tugg was blue all the way through, but to the fraternity he was “black.” Okay, useful in certain neighborhoods, necessary to keep the equal opportunity pogues in line, but not to be taken into the inner circle, not to be trusted. Those were the days when it was still necessary for a “white” probationer to pound the shit out of an occasional “black” suspect or perp just to prove to his training officer and the frat at large that he was not afraid of “them” and was, therefore, eligible to become a part of the thin blue “us.”

  Matt had been paired with a “black,” and they worked the job together, ate at each other’s homes, went to ball games, treated each other like humans. Hence, Matt Sikes was not trustworthy either.

  The ’92 riots, the Christopher Commission, Willie Williams, and a heavy influx of female, Tenctonese, and other minority recruits notwithstanding, the frat was still running things. You could still hear the pause and shift in conversation in the locker rooms when a “non-frat” officer of any stripe entered. Female, other colored, other named, other religioned, especially Newcomer. It was an issue from the past that had never left. Matt wondered if it ever could.

  Dobbs’s new partner wanted to belong. Not a terrible thing in itself. Belonging always seemed to have an artificially high price, though. Jerry Kirk seemed to think the price was worth it. Matt had belonged with Bill Tuggle. Tugg was dead, his chest blown all over the street. Matt now belonged with George Francisco. George was off shoo-flying with the fed. Matt looked again at Dobbs. He was seated with a uniformed officer and a gang banger.

  There was a wealth of body language going on over at Dobbs’s desk. The gang banger appeared quite relaxed between Dobbs and the uniformed officer. Dobbs was in a serene groove, too. The uniform, on the other hand, looked just a little uncomfortable.

  Us and them, thought Matt. There were color divisions, occupational divisions, and divisions by age, status, and dress over at Dobbs’s desk. At that moment the division by perceived color seemed to be stronger than that by occupation. The uniformed officer, second generation Irish-American, was the odd man out until another uniformed officer arrived. The second uniform, an umpteenth generation Afro-American, slapped the other uniform on the back, and suddenly the bonds dissolved and reformed along occupational lines.

  In the space of half a second it went from two “blacks” against a “white” to three “blues” against a banger; three “goods” against a “bad.” Loyalties, manners, objectives, all changed and none of the officers or their suspect seemed to have noticed. They were all still arguing about why the gang banger was where he had been when he had been there. Matt turned back to the notes.

  “How does one crush an ego?” Cass had written. “Even social, political, and ethnic groups who traditionally place nation, family, or church before self have too much ‘I’ to fit in among the Tencts undetected. A human individual who defers to his family in a family-oriented culture does so for reasons of self-interest. The ‘I’ is still uppermost. The ‘I’: what does it take to submerge it? For some humans, though, it is already submerged—crippled—sufficiently that on a level of feelings the human is indistinguish
able from the Tenctonese. Years ago I had been like that myself. It was the only way I managed to survive.”

  “Your head is smoking.”

  Matt looked up and saw George standing before his side of the desk looking back. “Hi. Where’s the FBI?”

  “He’s checking out Davenport’s alibi. Are you still coming over for dinner this evening?”

  “Sure,” he said as he smacked his lips and patted his belly. “Mmmm mmm! Badger Wellington, parsnip chips, and snail dip.”

  George laughed and pointed at Cass’s notes. “Make up your mind yet?”

  Matt shrugged as his face grew serious. “I’m three quarters of the way there. What’ve you been up to?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, George shook his head as he answered. “I just finished interviewing two very hostile former police officers.”

  “The thumpers? Kent and Hong?”

  “Yes.”

  Matt placed his feet on the floor and sat forward. “I thought they were just on suspension.”

  “They were. After the ‘Slag Like Me’ column concerning them appeared, the chief ordered both officers put on suspension. The investigation showed Ellison Robb’s column to have been accurate and the chief pulled both their badges. It should be in the morning papers.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Ouch indeed.” George sighed and nodded. “Kent had eleven years and Hong was three years short of his twenty. They’re both married and both have children.”

  “What about the Robb disappearance? They both have alibis?”

  George pulled out his chair and dropped into it, shrugging slightly as he did so. “They can’t account for every minute of the past three days with witnesses, but neither can I.” George closed his eyes. “Between those two—Hong and Kent—they have seven citations for bravery. They are—were—two very valuable police officers.”

  Matt shook his head. “What they did put them on the other side of the line, buddy. It’s tough. I understand why they did what they did better than you could, in fact. But the line is there for a reason. It’s broken, thin, and faded here and there, but without it you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys. When you can’t see anything but bad guys, this town has a tendency to go up in flames.”

  “In the words of a partner of mine, sometimes this job sucks.”

  “George, I take it you’re not exactly ready to transfer to Internal Affairs.”

  “The job would be a lot easier if the bad guys were bad all the way through all of the time.” George faced Matt. “Call it a hunch or a gut feeling, but I don’t think Davenport, Hong, or Kent had anything to do with Micky Cass’s disappearance.”

  Matt tossed the notes onto his desk and held out his hands. “They have possible opportunity and are soaking wet with motive. Check it out, partner. That gut you’re measuring everything against just might be true blue.”

  George shrugged. “You’re right about one thing, though. They have plenty of motive. Too much motive. You should’ve seen Davenport when we told him something might have happened to Ellison Robb. He did everything but clap his hands, swing from the light fixture, and squeal with glee. Come to think of it, he did squeal with glee. Kent did the same thing. When I told Mike Hong, I thought he was going to give me a hug.”

  “You figure the real perp would be less free with his feelings?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah, unless I was a cop and knew it would throw you off. Anyway, you have to check every corner. The front office is real touchy about looking like it’s covering up for suspect cops. Them you have to prove innocent.” Sikes nodded toward Interrogation Room One. “They brought over Micky Cass’s notes and all his mail a couple hours ago. Grazer’s already got a team sorting the letters.” Matt glanced around the room and lowered his voice as he continued. “There are some leads in there pointing to an FBI connection.”

  “Oh?”

  Matt nodded. “Some kind of link between the bureau and the Ahvin Rivak. You’ve heard of them?”

  “Those Who Would Return,” translated George. “Do you know that most of the membership of the Rivak aren’t even Overseers? It’s hard to believe that there is an organization that devotes its time and money attempting to plunge its membership back into slavery. What connection would it have with the bureau?”

  “I’m not sure it even amounts to anything, George. It was just something Grazer said. The only reason I said something was so you can watch your back.”

  “Watch my back?”

  “Iniko. The FBI man? Former Overseer? Your new partner? You usually aren’t this slow, buddy.”

  George frowned as he rubbed his chin. “The FBI,” he muttered. “Who isn’t a suspect?”

  “I’m not,” answered Matt, “but I’m not so sure about you. You’ve had some rather rough things to say about our possible victim, whoever he or she might be.”

  Francisco reached across the desk and pointed at the papers on Sikes’s desk. “What about this be-the-first-kid-on-your-block-to-be-an-alien-space-freak kit? Are you going to do it?”

  Matt thought a second and nodded. “I’m going to do it.”

  “Have you talked to Cathy about it?”

  “No.” Matt’s eyebrows raised. “Why would I? This is a police matter.”

  “I’d talk to Cathy about it.”

  “George, it doesn’t have anything to do with her. I’ll still be me. It’s just going undercover.”

  “I’d talk to Cathy about it.”

  Matt’s eyebrows came down. “She doesn’t consult with me about every new research project her lab’s assigned.”

  “I’d talk to Cathy about it.”

  “Okay.” Matt shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll talk to Cathy about it.”

  “Well, I see we have achieved peace in our time,” said Dobbs as he ambled over to the pair. The two uniformed officers were leading the gang banger toward the stairs. Dobbs cocked his head toward the three and added, “It doesn’t look like either Jimmy Do or the Black Rain is going anywhere. I guess we can count on the Soto Street Slag Slasher getting another one tonight.”

  Matt saw Francisco’s eyebrows drop slightly into a frown. “What is it, George? Did you think of something?”

  Francisco looked up at Dobbs and nodded. “Yes. I did. You know that case out of Newton Street Division?”

  “The Snatch?”

  George nodded. “Yes. That’s the one.” He faced Matt, his eyes black with anger. “Some sicko over at Newton Street has been kidnapping, sexually molesting, and killing homeless women.”

  “I looked into it,” said Dobbs, “and I don’t think there’s any connection. The Snatch only goes after blacks. There’s a population of Newcomers in the same area, so if he wanted to cut ’em up, he could do it on Newton. Why do you think there’s a connection?”

  George slowly shook his head. “I don’t think there’s any connection at all.”

  Dobbs held out his hands. “Then, I don’t get it, George. Why’d you bring it up?”

  Matt could see that George was surface super-calm, which was the warning sign for a major eruption in the making. “Dobbs, you know how your group dubbed the knife artist on Soto who kills Tencts the Soto Street Slag Slasher?”

  Dobbs lowered his hands, frowned, and shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”

  George folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I was just wondering why they called the perp on Newton the Snatch instead of something more catchy, such as the Newton Street Nigger Nicker.”

  Matt saw Dobbs’s jaw drop at the same time as he felt his own hit his chest.

  Dobbs, his face locked between confusion and rage, held up his hand toward Matt. “Look, Francisco, you’ve been here long enough to know what a fighting word is. And what a fighting word that fighting word is.”

  George shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “I see my suggestion has not been enthusiastically received. Well, it doesn’t have the same alliterative quality that Soto Stre
et Slag Slasher or Newton Nigger Nicker, but I’d be perfectly willing to settle for Jigaboo Jumper or Coon Croaker—”

  Dobbs took a step forward, his fists raised, and George stood to face him. “It’s not the same thing!” Dobbs growled through clenched teeth.

  “It is the same thing!” George growled back. “And I’ve been here long enough for you to know that!”

  The two detectives glared at each other for a moment, then Dobbs pivoted and stormed back to his desk as George turned and headed toward the stairs. Matt looked at the notes on his desk, confused because he felt as if he wanted to cry very old tears.

  Matt Sikes was going to do it—go undercover as a Tenct. He knew that. He had just realized, though, that he had no clue as to what he was getting into. Whatever it was, he suspected it was much bigger, more vicious, and a hundred times more senseless than anything he had ever experienced before.

  ELLISON ROBB

  Slag Like Me

  A Policeman’s Lot

  She isn’t the villain, so let’s just call her Suzie. It was at the newly remodeled and dedicated Bradley Elementary School on Seventh Street in L.A. I was passing by, and Suzie was curled up inside the fence, crying. She was wearing a bright yellow cotton dress that was covered with grass stains and pale pink blots I recognized as Tenct blood. She had a bloody nose and a bad scrape on her elbow. In Tenctonese I asked her, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  She turned her head, looked up at me, and shook her head. She didn’t understand Tenctonese. (Ah, the old ways pass so quickly.) I repeated my questions in English. She answered, and the answer was predictable. She was one of sixteen Tenctonese children in the school, and the only Tenctonese in her class. Three of her schoolmates, in a step toward racial purity and to urge her to help improve the grade point curve (Suzie is a 4.0 student), beat her up during recess and left her there. Again. They do this to her on an average of three times per week. Since they are the products of their homes, peers, and upbringings rather than villains, let’s call her classmates Biff, Rosco, and Lola.