Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  “Paul doesn’t confide in me. He’s off investigating something he can’t talk about.”

  “Can’t talk about? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Unknown.”

  “What’s Grazer doing about it?”

  “There’s not much he can do, Matt. He’s got no real authority over the federal personnel in the task force.”

  “What if we turn up a big red arrow pointing right at the FBI? What about then?”

  George frowned. “Dobbs said the same thing. He gave me some stuff to look at, and there are some big names in the bureau that Cass could’ve gotten pretty dirty if he’d published only half the stuff he’s got on them.”

  “Chase it down, George. Somebody’s hands are bloody as hell, and it could be the bureau.”

  “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  “Right now I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the FBI director and L.A.’s chief of police personally paired up to lower Cass feet first into that acid.”

  George looked sympathetically at Matt and raised his eyebrows. “At least you won’t have to go through with that absurdly dangerous undercover assignment. Too bad, really. You look much more distinguished this way. You can help me chase down the FBI leads Dobbs turned up.” He studied Matt’s face. It was as unmoving as a granite cliff. “You’re not going undercover.”

  “My man, I have to track down a certain banger down in the Chay. It might be the bureau, and then again it might be the Nightshade or someone else he ran into down there, like Goober and the slaghunters.”

  “You’re trying to see Danny Mikubeh?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “That’s absurd. Matt, once the news of this gets out, the Chay is going to erupt in flames. There’s no need to take the risk.”

  “George, you know that Edward Lear quote that was left at Micky Cass’s home?”

  “What about it?”

  “You know how we figured it might’ve come from Jessup, the next-door neighbor?”

  “Yes. His professional background is in English literature.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll never guess who else has a background in English lit.”

  George frowned, then raised his eyebrows. “Not Danny Mikubeh.”

  “Yes, Danny Mikubeh. It was right there in Cass’s notes. Mikubeh’s under another name at Pepperdine in his third year of journalism. How about that?”

  “That is interesting.”

  “I’ll say it’s interesting, partner. I can’t wait to get together with him and have a heart to heart to heart to heart about owls, pussycats, and things that go kill in the night.”

  “Still, there’s no need to go right now, Matt. We can wait for things to at least calm down a little.”

  “We don’t have any time. There’s something suffocating out there, partner, and if we don’t get to it fast, what little of it that’s left is going to flat out die. Back when I was young and stupid I used to call it ‘justice.’ ” Matt turned and opened the door of his car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut behind him. “There is no time, George. No time at all.” He started up the car.

  “Matt, I have a very bad feeling about how the city is going to react to the news of Cass’s death. Have you checked in with Landry or Captain Grazer today?”

  “Nope. I haven’t checked in and I haven’t been home. I don’t intend going home. I am officially undercover right now, and you haven’t seen me.”

  “What about your backup?”

  “Screw the backup. The way the task force is dragging its feet on this thing, we’ll see the Cubs take the series before we catch Cass’s killer.”

  “Matt, it was dangerous enough before. Going without backup is suicide.”

  “You’re right about one thing, George. This city is going to come unglued once news of this hits the street. Shit, fire, storm, death, and destruction. In the middle of that all the rules get holes in them. Their rules and our rules. When the rules rip I have to be there.”

  “Why? For what purpose?”

  “To see it. To pick up what falls out.”

  Matt pulled away and drove the car out of the lot.

  As his car pulled into traffic, a young adult human male on the crosswalk raised his fist, shook it and bellowed, “Fuckin’ slag!”

  George watched the car become swallowed by the traffic. “Take care of yourself, partner,” George whispered. “Stay low.”

  C H A P T E R 1 9

  THE NEWS OF Ellison Robb’s execution hit the streets and flamed its way around the globe at the same time as the news that the author of “Slag Like Me” was political satirist, columnist, and best-selling author Micky Cass. The news also came with video of prominent L.A. politicians and police officials placing their profound indifference to Cass’s death on the record in addition to startling full color images of Cass’s acid-ravaged corpse. The combination pulled the plug on an ocean of devastating frustration and rage. Protest demonstrations in the large cities of the United States were mirrored by spectacles in London, Dublin, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, and even Beijing. In Detroit, New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Miami, and L.A., however, the demonstrations immediately turned violent.

  Most network and cable commentators were rather confused by the whole thing. None of the cities paralyzed by demonstrations or going up in flames, barring Los Angeles, had significant Tenct populations. Most of them, in fact, had no Tenctonese at all. The Rolodex experts hypothesized about violence on television, the alienation of self, the dichotomy of poverty and plenty, making it easier to hire the unemployed, protecting union jobs and pay scales, the dregs of the “me” generation, and the second amendment to the Constitution. No one seemed to be able to grasp the obvious: a great wrong had been committed; an archaic spark of justice had been quenched. It awakened a much neglected sense of what’s right felt by a great number of persons both human and Tenctonese.

  The Tenctonese usually didn’t participate in demonstrations. Former Overseers and slaves alike knew how to keep their places and keep their feelings to themselves. Before they had come to Earth, sense and safety for a Newcomer had always been along the path of compliance. For most of them, nothing had changed with the coming of freedom. There were, of course, exceptions. There were the young Tenct gang bangers down in the Chay. There were the other kinds of criminals, as well; robbers, muggers, second-story artists, serial killers, and a complete spectrum of addicts and dealers. Together they were the evidence that the usual Tenctonese compliance was a survival mechanism, not a genetically mandated program.

  With the death of Micky Cass, the generally expected Newcomer acceptance evaporated in smoke, flames, and gunfire. In offices and supermarkets, on assembly lines and street corners, the usual smug comments, rubberhead jokes, insults, and brush-offs were no longer ignored. Instead they drew retaliation times ten. At the command center, a rebellion of a more subdued nature was taking place. Most of the personnel had been pulled for duty at riot control central, leaving the desks, phones, computers, and piles of documents unattended. A lone Tenctonese investigator sat in a cone of light, frowning at a few scraps of newspaper on the desk in front of him.

  “Iniko, where in blazes have you been?”

  Paul Iniko looked up from his desk and saw the enormous scowl of Captain Grazer looking back at him. “Is there a problem, captain?”

  “A problem?” Grazer stabbed at the air with his finger. “A problem? The G-man wants to know if there’s a problem! Micky Cass is dead; the headlines are a foot tall; Landry and your field office have the chief crawling up my ass; the damned city is coming unglued; we’re looking at a goddamned war down in the Chay; Sikes is off on a one-jerk crusade; I team you up with Francisco and the last time Francisco laid eyes on you goddamned Santa Ana had the goddamned lease on the goddamned Alamo! Would you call that a problem?”

  Iniko looked down at his hands, his expression troubled. “I apologize, captain.”

>   “Apologize?” Grazer sat on the edge of Iniko’s desk and raised his thick dark eyebrows. “Apologize? I’m sorry, captain, and everything’s all right again? Listen to me, buddy. Stillson Landry is smokin’! Your boss, Nate Crook, is putting out a contract on you. Man, you haven’t even checked in with your own field office! What in the hell is going on?”

  “Perhaps, captain, it’s a two-jerk crusade.”

  “This isn’t funny, and you’re not a privileged character. You don’t have any special ass to swing around here, pal. Your own boss is even more pissed off at you than I am. You want to tell me what’s going on before they throw a net over you and drag you off to El Segundo for the stupids cure?”

  The former Overseer leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed to the top of his desk. “Captain, I think I know something about Micky Cass. If what I think is true, it’s something he didn’t intend anyone to know. It might, however, give me a clue to who did this.”

  The captain waited a moment and then said, “Well? What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, captain. I can’t tell anyone without breaking a confidence.”

  Grazer held out his hands. “So, break a confidence! Feel crappy, see a counselor, eat some weasel jerky, and see me in the morning! This isn’t the world’s biggest problem, Agent Iniko. Spill! Start talking!”

  “This is not the kind of confidence I can break, captain. I suspect what would be lost far outweighs what would be gained. This is why I couldn’t tell George about it.”

  “About it? About what? You haven’t said anything yet!”

  Iniko looked up at Grazer, his face impassive. “I’m not going to, either.”

  “Are you sure you want to work it this way, Paul?” A look of concern came over Grazer’s face. “Buddy, unless you can get back on the team, the bureau is going to yank your tail feathers. Landry burned off my ear not more than an hour ago. If you don’t pick up that phone and square things with him, it’ll be badge and gun time and you with a handful of want ads looking for a slot on Pico bucketing fried chicken.”

  “Everyone has to do what they have to do.”

  Grazer studied the former Overseer for a long time. He lowered his voice and said, “You know Cass’s notes on the FBI?”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  “They point a pretty big finger at a bureau cover-up of an official no-Tenctonese hiring policy.”

  “What are you driving at, captain?”

  “Well? What about it?”

  “It’s possible. As you know, the bureau has covered up things before.”

  “That’s right. I also remember you were part of that cover-up.”

  “For a while.”

  Grazer scratched the back of his neck. “Would getting rid of you be part of a new cover-up?”

  Iniko looked up at the captain and allowed his gaze to settle upon Grazer’s eyes. “Confidentially, captain, I doubt it. If I had to make a guess as to why Stillson Landry and Nate Crook are upset with me, I would venture to say it’s because I haven’t been following orders very well—at all.”

  “His or mine?”

  “No one’s.”

  The captain sighed and rubbed his chin. “Look, Paul, can’t you even give me a hint about what you’ve been doing? Give me a little something I can use to square things with Landry and the chief.”

  “Instead, captain, let me ask you something.”

  Grazer sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Iniko leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk. “Everyone has something that is most important to him. What’s most important to you?”

  “Most important to me?” The captain thought for a moment and repeated, “Most important.” He nodded once and looked down at Iniko. “My daughter. That’s what’s most important to me. Why?”

  “Captain, if the only way you could do your job by the book was to place your daughter’s life in jeopardy, would you do it?”

  “What kind of a question is that? How would it endanger my daughter’s life?”

  “For the sake of argument, captain. If the only way you could do your job by the book was to place your daughter’s life in danger, would you do it?”

  Grazer stood up, grimaced, and placed his hands upon his hips. “Why do I feel just a little sandbagged? You already got from me what’s most important, so you already know the answer to your question.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So what’s most important to you, Paul?”

  “Serenity, captain.”

  Grazer snorted out a laugh and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you’d care to get a little more specific.”

  “If I could do that, Captain Grazer, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  The police captain averted his glance. “Look, Landry told me to get you to call in or to collect your ID and gun. If you aren’t here, I can’t collect anything. Understand?”

  Iniko leaned back in his chair, took his ID case from his pocket, opened it, and glanced at the card that had once symbolized a high degree of acceptance in a world that wanted no aliens and wanted alien Overseers even less. He placed his ID on the desk, took the gun from his belt, and placed it on top of the leather case. “Thank you, captain. It looks as though I have to do what I have to do without these.”

  Grazer picked up Iniko’s gun and ID and looked at them as he said, “Officially, Iniko, you no longer have any authority regarding this investigation. Officially, you’re to stay away from it.” He looked at Iniko and held out his hand. “Off the record, good luck and stay in touch.”

  The former Overseer stood, shook the captain’s hand, and said, “I’ll call in if I learn anything I can tell you.” Iniko released the captain’s hand, closed the file on his desk, and walked from the command center, Captain Grazer still looking down at the former agent’s gun.

  “Cap?” came a voice from the doorway. Grazer turned and looked to see Dobbs and Kirk leaning through the doorway into the room. Sergeant Dobbs was wiggling two fingers in a walking motion, his eyebrows raised.

  Grazer nodded and said, “George is in position out front. Give him the signal and tell him to be careful.”

  “Right.”

  “And, Dobbs, Kirk.”

  “Yeah?” they both answered.

  “You two be careful. I’m not really sure who our friends are in this. Watch your back.”

  “Will do, cap.”

  As the pair left, Grazer returned his gaze to Iniko’s ID and gun. “You watch your back, too, you stiff-necked bastard.”

  ELLISON ROBB

  Slag Like Me

  The Color Pink

  “Pink” in Tenctonese is tjai (pronounced and spelled “chay” in the Tenct barrio). Pink is the Tenctonese color of death. This isn’t the pastel pink of a rose or tomato soup made with milk. Tenct death is hot pink; ski-slope pink; the neon stuff that makes Day-Glo look subdued. You can find the color on most of the Tenct gang jackets anywhere within Chayville, the area east of the Golden State Freeway to Lorena bounded roughly north and south by Brooklyn and Whittier. In this one and one-third square mile area there are fifteen main gangs, eight of them Tenct.

  This is the armpit of what Goober calls Slagtown. It probably wouldn’t be very smart to take a drive down there to check out the fashion statements, however. If you’re Tenctonese, you may be mistaken for a cop, a member of a rival Tenct gang, or someone from out of the neighborhood with significant potential as a victim. If you are not Tenctonese, it would be radical chumphood to show your face in the Chay. Too many Tencts in the area have been maimed and shot dead in drive-by slaghunts by Afro, Hispanic, Anglo, and Asian gang members, and by Goober and his buddies on their regular Saturday night exercise of their right to be alcoholic handgun owners. Between the Tencts and the drive-by shooters, they racked up more than three hundred reported murders in the Chay last year. That’s better than half the city total.

  Danny Mikubeh, hivek of the Nightshade, had
been told about my column, “Slag Like Me.” He read the pieces and then extended an invitation to me to come down to the Chay and run awhile with the Shade if I wanted a real look at how the fehn treats Tencts. Fehn means “hair,” and that’s what humans are called in the Chay. Hair, fur, fuzz, lint, they’re all names for humans. To designate ethnic groups among humans, those in the Chay use the usual abuses.

  Personally, I believe Danny wanted me to return to Shade turf in order to punish me in some manner. My maiming or death as a human in Chayville would make a traditional Nightshade statement, of course, but Danny Mikubeh is less complicated than that. When officers Hong and Kent dumped me at his feet on Eagle Street the week before, my disguise had fooled him. The leader of the Chay’s biggest gang does not easily forgive such breaches of etiquette.

  Still, I accepted, walked in all alone, and stood up to Danny like a person who had a right to be there. There was a piece of Danny that admired my demeanor, and before that wore off, the disguise took over. After an hour together, Danny was talking about debah and “us,” referring to Tencts, and “them” and the fehn, referring to humans.

  He talked about his youth on the slave ship, the terror of the crash, the hopes and dreams of his family as they looked out upon the vistas of earth and the staggering prospect of freedom. And then there was the welcome.

  “Yes, we’re so teddibly opposed to slavery, and we’re so teddibly pleased you’re free, and now go like a good rubberhead and be free someplace else.” And then, “Mira, we know what it’s like, man, to be oppressed, you know? And, bueno, you free now. So go do your libertad anyplace but here, comprende?” And “Ah so. Hajimemashite dozo yoroshiku. Happy you no longer slave. Not so happy you here. Sayonara.”

  Danny, when he “talks fehn” and does “the welcome,” is hilarious. His face becomes plastic and his body liquid as he takes on outrageous accents and becomes the grotesque ethnic stereotypes in which the backs of multicolored hands have caused him to believe. It was easy to imagine him doing stand-up comedy in some really insensitive club. Danny Mikubeh is a natural performer, but I don’t think you’ll ever get a chance to catch his act. He’ll never live that long.