Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  Both Danny and Iron Roc climbed on their brakes forcing the officers driving the black-and-whites to swerve around them to avoid a collision. The police cruisers spun out as they lurched up Soto while Iron Roc headed east on Seventh and Danny swung left and went west toward Breed. As Danny’s foot fell on the accelerator, Sikes was pushed back in his seat and the black-and-whites left far behind.

  “Are you an idiot!” screamed Sikes. “You take off like that, and there’s a whole different set of rules they go by! This is a riot situation! They can open up on you now with automatic weapons if they feel like it!”

  Danny shook his head as he swerved the car around a school bus that had been rolled onto its side. “I can’t believe you never did a beat down here, Sikes. You were hanging too loose back there on Olympic to have done your probies in Hollywood. Maybe it was before the Tencts crashed in the desert, but you’ve been down here before. You know the score.”

  “It’s not like that anymore!” Sikes insisted. “We have new rules, better training. Hell, almost half the cops are women and Tencts now!”

  “What are you, Sikes? Some kind of sexist? You never had the shit clubbed out of you by a policewoman? Get with the decade, debah!”

  Up ahead were a row of flashing blue lights. “Ahead, Danny! Slow down!”

  “Shit!” muttered the leader of the Shade. Danny braked, spun the wheel, and reversed direction. He jammed his foot on the accelerator, and the tires smoked and squealed as the car sped back toward Soto. More blue lights came at them from out of the smoke ahead: a police assault vehicle and two cruisers.

  Sikes pulled his gun from his pocket and aimed it at Danny Mikubeh’s head. “Stop this car! Now!”

  “Man, you—”

  “Now!” Sikes repeated, touching the muzzle against Danny’s head. “Slow down and stop! Put this heap in park and turn off the ignition. Open the door, get out of the car slowly, raise your hands, clasp your fingers behind your head, and stand still. When an officer tells you to do something, don’t give him any shit. Just do it. Just do it and no one’ll get hurt.”

  The car slowed to a stop and Danny killed the engine and put the car in park. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at Sikes. “And now the lesson begins.”

  As Danny opened the door and stepped out of the car, Sikes began putting his gun back into his pocket. Before that could happen, however, the door on his side was yanked open, a baton came down on his wrist, and a rough hand grabbed his collar and yanked him from the car.

  “Down! Down! Down, rubberhead! Eat asphalt!”

  As his knees hit the street, Matt looked up at the woman and bellowed, “F’crissakes, you assholes! We’re—”

  He felt a baton strike his back, and he realized that he was rising from the pavement. As long as he was rising, he wasn’t in strict compliance with the police instruction, hence a legitimate target for a baton rally. Matt fell to the asphalt and tried to remain still as batons struck his back and legs and then stopped.

  “I got the piece,” said a voice.

  “Ridin’ armed with Danny Mikubeh, rubberhead? Tch, tch, tch,” said a second voice.

  “I’m on the job, asshole,” said Matt, reaching toward his hip pocket for his ID. Again a baton came down on his wrist, a foot stepped on his head, grinding his face into the surface of the street. A hard blow stuck his left kidney and the tears came to his eyes as, for just an instant, he looked beneath the car to see four cops on the other side bringing their batons down repeatedly on the writhing shape of Danny Mikubeh.

  There was a grotesque ballet that Matt seemed to witness from a place elsewhere. As the Tenct suspect struggled to his feet and tried to defend himself, five officers, one Tenct male, one human male, and three human females, swung their batons with regulation strokes, attempting to beat the suspect into submission.

  One of the officers fell, and all of them turned and drew their weapons as a hail of gunfire came from the shadows. Matt saw his Beretta fall to the pavement as the officer who had been holding it grabbed his face and fell against the car. Matt reached out, took the weapon, and replaced it in his pocket just as a baton was brought down on the back of his head. The universe exploded and went very soft and dark.

  C H A P T E R 2 1

  THE SMELL OF burnt rubber lingered in the air even in West Hollywood where only a few cars had been overturned and set ablaze. Sporadic gunfire signaled a few nervous shop owners and residents blowing neighbors and pedestrians out of their socks or mistakenly wounding or executing partners, employees, spouses, offspring, or house pets. One reformed NRA member, after being fired upon three times by nervous neighbors, went down to Melrose and torched a sporting goods store that was making a killing doing a cash-and-carry trade and to hell with the waiting period. Still, there were a few havens within the firestorm, even if their starting times had been delayed. Late that night there were words being read:

  “. . . There are no strings attached to NA. We are not affiliated with any other organizations, we have no leaders, no initiation fees or dues, no pledges to sign, no promises to make to anyone. We are not connected with any political, religious, or law enforcement groups, and are under no surveillance at any time. Anyone may join us regardless of age, race, sexual identity, species, creed, religion or lack of religion . . .”

  As he listened to the opening reading, Paul Iniko stood leaning with his back against the white-painted brick wall at the rear of the church basement, his eyes looking at the human and Tenct men, women, and children at the meeting. On an assortment of chairs and on the floor they were sitting, four and five deep in a huge circle. Many of the faces he knew. Some of them, however, were at the Narcotics Anonymous meeting for the first time, afraid they wouldn’t be accepted, afraid they would be accepted.

  Paul’s thoughts were still on the fire outside and the things he had read in the “Slag Like Me” column. The hints—the magic words—had been in Micky Cass’s writings. At least he thought they had been there. How much was design? How much was coincidence? How much was just plain wishful thinking? Had he thrown his career away over a guess, a misunderstanding?

  Operating a slaver hadn’t been a complicated matter. Neither Overseers nor slaves had been trained in subtlety or double meanings. Puns came hard to the Tenctonese. Yet there had been time enough among humans to see the things that had been hidden before by lack of experience and understanding. There were now Tenctonese who laughed or groaned at puns, who could see hidden meanings.

  Paul was certain he was right. He raised his eyebrows as the next recovering addict in the room read “How It Works,” including the twelfth of the Twelve Steps, the step containing the clause that might have been used to lure Micky Cass to his death: “. . . we tried to carry this message to addicts . . .”

  Paul was certain, but too often his past certitude had been the signal that he was dead wrong about something. Luis had pointed that out to him more than once.

  Paul scanned the circle of faces once more, looking for that familiar countenance. Luis Arévalo, retired California Highway Patrol cop and recovering addict, was not in the room, and repeated examinations of the occupants would not conjure him. Another opportunity to develop some patience. What a difficult thing for some to learn: patience. That familiar pang of guilt skittered across Paul’s guts. He hadn’t been completely honest with Luis in the past. That honesty might be the price to get the information he needed from his friend.

  Paul’s hand fell upon the empty holster on his belt. There had been something so very special to have been accepted in the FBI. Even when he had been paraded around as the bureau’s token Newcomer. Even when the bureau had attempted to use him in its illegal cover-up of the MDQ affair. Even so, the bureau had been his cause to make Earth his home, his thread to make a meaning for himself. To every particle of that which he seemed to know, he needed to be in the FBI. And now what? Now that he was out, what would he do? Look for that slot wearing a peppermint-striped paper hat bucketing squirrel nuggets at B
ucky McBeaver’s?

  Two faces came in from the church’s kitchen carrying cups of coffee. Paul checked them out but neither of them was Luis Arévalo. He looked again at the circle. The small meeting room was crowded with over sixty recovering addicts from the surrounding West Hollywood community. Iniko knew this particular meeting well. Its usual weekly discussion gatherings were considerably smaller, perhaps two dozen on a normal night. This was a special night, however. Elaine, Annie O., and Bad John were celebrating anniversaries. Sometimes Luis skipped the Tuesday meeting, but he never missed a sponsee’s anniversary night, and Luis was Bad John’s sponsor. He had to be here.

  Paul checked his watch, wondering if the riots were continuing to cool down. It was a little after ten. Paul let his arm hang at his side as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other and leaned back against the wall.

  According to the messages George Francisco had left for him, Matt Sikes had gone down to Chayville to follow up on a multitude of leads. The write-up in Cass’s “The Color Pink” column had named a few names. There were the heavy hints in the column pointing toward “Goober” and his buddies, as well. The Chay was up in flames, but Sikes had gone anyway. No backup at all. Nada. Sikes had much of the same brand of courage as Micky Cass, even if he was not quite as flamboyant. Paul’s first impression was that it was foolish courage. Childish. Tenct survival had always been along with the flow. There was the order of things, and survival demanded one’s obedience to the order, even when it was clearly in error. He frowned as he amended his thought.

  It was not so much obedience to the order; it was the apparent obedience to the order. So many times the slaves had bent every effort to appear in conformance with authority while exercising little violations: stealing a little extra food, stealing a little extra time, failing to see someone else who was breaking a rule. Even the watchers would go around a rule and cover it up with an obscure reference or a cryptic entry on a computer report when the rules made progress on an investigation impossible. Sometimes there were even more serious violations. Slaves had occasionally killed Overseers. Watchers had sometimes ignored it because the victims themselves were murderers by a different standard of justice—the justice of the hearts.

  Taking risks and going against authority were heady matters. It had been frightening enough for Paul to cause him to trust Luis Arévalo enough to tell the human that he, Paul Iniko, was addicted to zhabbies, also called zabs by humans, the synthetic street version of the substance used by the Overseers as part of the slave control system on the ship.

  It seemed like yesterday. On the ship, long before the crash, a few of the Overseers decided to bend one of the rules. Their eyes blinded to the sole purpose of the drug, they experimented with it on themselves because it felt good. They would be careful. They weren’t like the slaves. They were too smart to become addicted. Long before they became exposed to the concept of partying, the Overseers partied. The drug did what it was designed to do, and more slaves were created.

  The combination of the crash, the destruction of the zhabrokah, and a new career in the FBI had temporarily kept Paul clean. But then zabs hit the street. Paul had run into the imitation zhabrokah at a friend’s house at a time when he was feeling in need of a lift. He touched the blue liquid to his tongue and trembled as his slave chains were hammered back into place. It had been a brief, hideous plummet through shame, despair, and suicidal depression. The nightmare ended only when a former bust of his, a human named Federico G., brought him to his first NA meeting the year before. It was strange how the powers of the universe worked. Paul had gone to question Federico regarding his possible involvement in a crack lab, and he had stayed behind to learn. The former dealer had saved his life.

  The reading of the Traditions finished with the reminder that anonymity was the foundation of the program; that without it, the millions recovering now through Twelve-Step programs would die. Paul knew beyond a doubt that he never would have entered the program without his membership in NA being kept from his superiors.

  A huge human, swarthy and black-bearded, stood and began talking. It was Bad John. He related the chronology of his addiction from when he was sipping wine as a Methodist minister in Brookline down to when he was dealing crack off the back of a motorcycle in Boston’s Combat Zone to earn enough to feed the dragon. Between using, dealing, and stealing, Bad John was trapped in the squirrel cage chasing after his high and trying to outrun his monsters: the law, his creditors, and withdrawal.

  Bad John talked about going to L.A. on a geographical cure, getting arrested for assault, and attending his first Narcotics Anonymous meeting in jail. He talked of how getting straight had been a rebirth for him, a chance at a new life. Iniko felt himself nodding as he glanced to his right.

  Holding up a piece of the wall next to Paul was a slender young human male of about twenty. His hands were in his jacket pockets and his legs were crossed at the Reeboks in a studied pose of indifference. Although his face remained as still as cast iron, the fear in the young man’s dark brown eyes betrayed him. Bad John finished his story and left the podium as the recovering addicts applauded. Iniko held out his hand to the young man. “Hi. I’m Paul.”

  In response the young man glowered for an instant, then looked flustered as he tried to pull his hand free from his pocket.

  “Yeah, man. Hi. I’m Spence.”

  “First meeting?”

  Spence gave a nervous grin as they shook hands. “I must have a neon sign on my head. I just got out of rehab yesterday. My aftercare counselor told me to come here.”

  Iniko gave the young man’s hand another shake. “Welcome to the club. This is a good group and we need you.”

  The young human grinned widely. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Paul was it?”

  “Yes.”

  Spence’s voice became a whisper as the next speaker took the podium. “I thought drugs was supposed to be a black problem. Aren’t there an awful lot of white dudes in here? Asians? Tencts? Women? Look at all the kids. Thirteen, fifteen years old. That one kid looks like he can’t be more’n ten.”

  “He’s eight,” answered Paul. “It’s a very democratic disease.” As Paul turned his head he noticed a familiar face making its way from the door at the rear of the room toward the kitchen where the group kept its coffee urn. Luis had shown after all.

  Paul squeezed Spence’s shoulder and whispered, “I have to see somebody. Keep coming back.”

  Spence grinned and Paul waved good-bye as he began threading his way through the addicts toward the kitchen. As he did so he received waves, pats on his back, a handshake here and there. He knew most of the faces there, which was a piece of the guilt he carried. He knew them, but almost no one knew him, except through a rather convoluted indirection. That was one of the things he needed to change.

  When he reached the kitchen, he entered the white-painted room and closed the door, reducing the sounds of the meeting to a dull mumble. In front of the coffee urn was Luis Arévalo, a toffee-colored paunchy man in his late fifties wearing tan slacks and a red windbreaker. His upper lip was crowded with a massive salt-and-pepper mustache.

  “Luis?”

  The man at the coffee urn looked up. “Damn, is that you, Paul?” His face broke into a huge grin as he put down his coffee cup. “Paul, man, where in the hell have you been for the past month?” He met Iniko in the center of the room and gave him a bear hug. “You go out to do some more research?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It was just business that took me out of town.” There it was again: the automatic half truth.

  Luis held Iniko out at arm’s length. “Why didn’t you call me? I was worried about you. Hell, I even missed you.”

  Iniko shrugged and looked down, not quite able to look Luis in the eyes. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You mind if we talk here for a couple of minutes?”

  “No. Let’s go over by the sinks away from the door.” On his way past the coffee urn, Luis picked up his cup. “You
set?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  When they were at the end of the kitchen the farthest from the door, Luis leaned against the edge of a sink and sipped at his coffee. “Okay. I’ve got nothing but time and ears. Let me have it.”

  Paul shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned his back against the counter adjoining the sink. “I’m at something of a loss, Luis. It’s not that I don’t know where to begin; I don’t even know if I should begin.”

  “It’s up to you, man, but it’s like they say, you’re only as sick as your secrets.”

  Iniko lost control of a giggle. “If you only knew how sick that makes me.” When the giggle had finished running its course, he looked up and asked, “I need to know something about anonymity, Luis.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Whatever I say right here, whatever I tell you, is confidential?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. What you hear here, who you see here, stays here. Or as a group in Philly says, ‘You speaka my name, I breaka you face.’ ”

  “What if there was something that I’d done where I had broken the law? If I told you about it, is that confidential?”

  Luis took another sip of his coffee, swallowed, and nodded. “You’ve heard people share at meetings, man. A lot of that stuff could get them into big trouble if it was carried outside. Our business is recovery. Squaring yourself with the law is your business. That’s why the cops in the program leave their tin outside the meeting.”

  “I have to be certain.”

  Luis held out his hands. “All I can do is give you my word that whatever you tell me goes no further.” He placed his coffee cup on the counter and folded his arms. “Paul, without anonymity the Twelve-Step programs like AA, OA, and Narcotics Anonymous would collapse overnight. To recover we have to get our issues out so they can be dealt with. To do that we have to be able to count on not finding our stories in the headlines or on a police blotter the next morning. If you’ve broken the law, that’s between you, your conscience, and the law. Between you and me we have to have trust. Now, what is it?”