Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  “What?”

  “Man, I don’t know if you’re debah or fehn, but right now you’re beat up, bald, spotted, and sittin’ in the middle of a pile of dead Blues.”

  “Cops? Dead cops?” A strange terror streaked through his chest. Beyond the face of Hooks, in the street were a number of bodies. There were Newcomers. Bangers and bums from the looks of them. And humans in blue riot gear. Two, three of them women. By the wreck of a smashed and burned gray station wagon were two more Tencts. One wearing blue, the other was Danny Mikubeh. “Dead?”

  “Man, when the Blue gets here, they’re gonna waste the slags and put the pieces together mahana. You got me, debah?”

  The second Tenct held up the Beretta in front of his face. “Maybe some of those cops got dead with this? Hey, man?”

  “No. No.”

  “If the Blue gets here before you’re gone, Matty boyo, the next thing you’re going to mira is snoozo grande. You got to move! Now! Wakaru? Xianzai!”

  The mix of street English, Tenct, Spanish, Japanese, and Chinese made Matt’s head reel. He looked down at the blue plastic press ID suspended from his neck by a thin chain. The photo of a young Tenct male was on the front with the name Matt Cross appearing beneath.

  Matt Cross.

  Tenct.

  There was something inside, working its way through the physical pain. A feeling. A sense that he had found the lead role in a horror flick; his worst nightmare coming true while all he could do was witness his own helplessness.

  There was a line facing him: Freddy, Jason, Michael, the Alien, Charlie Manson, and the Thing. He looked at his own team, the L.A. Victims, and saw an endless chorus of scantily clad screaming girls, spilling eyes, intestines, and gallons of blood onto the Astroturf.

  “Man,” said a weirded-out voice, “What in the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “I think I’ve seen too many movies.”

  Godzilla was calling the signals, “Tora, Tora, Tora!” Yamamoto snapped the ball to Genda, and Matt’s team was Larry, Moe, and Curly playing patty cake, patty cake, all fall down.

  There were flame-illuminated figures squirming in the shadows of his mind. The Blues bringing down their batons. Beneath the car, the look in Danny Mikubeh’s eyes as the four officers brought their sticks down on Danny’s struggling form. Danny’s look was calm. It said something, the look did.

  What did it say? I told you so?

  I told you so.

  “Danny. What about Danny?” he heard himself ask as the world kept spinning faster and faster.

  “He’s dead,” stated Hooks, his voice breaking.

  “The others? What about the others? Following us. Iron Roc? Sticker?”

  “They tried to nab Iron Roc and his boys over on Inez. The word is they all died in the pile-up. Burned to death.”

  Maybe the look from Danny hadn’t been an I-told-you-so. Maybe he had just been dead. Then, thought Matt, that was the ultimate I-told-you-so.

  “Forget the honor roll, debah,” interrupted Hooks. “There are way too many blue bodies out here and nowhere near enough slags to blame. Nya ve! We got to become scarce! Come on, Matt Cross. If it hurts too much, just pass the hell out.”

  He felt rough hands beneath his arms, lifting him up, away from the street, away from the blood, away from the flames and smoke. He looked at the reflection in the remains of a storefront window and saw a battered Tenctonese being lifted by two other battered Tencts. As he fought to stay awake, he struggled to remember his name. There was something wrong. Something terribly wrong somewhere. He just couldn’t put his finger on what or where.

  Matt Cross.

  He fell through the floor of hell into the darkness beneath, repeating the name Matt Cross, panic in his heart because he couldn’t remember who he was, where he was, nor even why.

  C H A P T E R 2 3

  GEORGE DECIDED TO try one last time. “Let me put it all together, Paul. You think Micky Cass was a recovering drug addict?”

  Paul Iniko, sitting in the car’s passenger seat, looked over at George Francisco as George turned the car onto Wilshire. “That’s your deduction.”

  “I can’t come up with any other answer to explain your behavior. Why else would you be at that meeting?”

  Paul shrugged and smiled. “It might be because I’m a recovering drug addict myself.”

  “Are you?”

  “N’ak debah.” he answered. “All Tencts are brothers and sisters of the chemistryhood.”

  “Even Overseers?”

  Paul nodded. “Zhabrokah is no respecter of occupational status.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “It’s really none of your business.”

  “Then what about Micky Cass?”

  “I think I’ve already answered that.”

  “You can’t tell me you think Micky Cass was a recovering drug addict because of some damned NA club rule?”

  “You’re an intelligent fellow, George. How many times are you going to pick at this before you figure out I can’t answer you?”

  “I don’t get it. If Cass was in NA, some people in NA must know. I didn’t see anyone in there wearing a mask.”

  “You’re right, George. If Cass was in NA, some people in NA must know.”

  “Well?”

  Paul smiled and faced forward. “Well, what?”

  “For Celine’s sake, Paul! It’s more frustrating talking to you than it is trying to get two coherent thoughts in a row out of Matt!” He held out a hand and shook it in time to his words. “If those people in NA know, you can tell me.”

  “Are you a member, George?”

  “No!”

  “Then I don’t choose to talk about it. If that’s all, you can drop me off here and I’ll get a cab.”

  “Wait. Wait just a second. What do I have to do to become a member of NA? Develop a drug problem?”

  “No, George. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using.”

  “Using? Using what?”

  Paul sighed and said, “Whatever your substance or behavior is, George. Mood-altering substances, which includes old milk.”

  “Very well, I have such a desire. I’m in. Do I take a pledge or sign something?”

  Paul faced George and studied his face. “No pledges, nothing to sign, and nothing to joke about, either.”

  “Can you do that, Paul? Can you refuse me membership?”

  “No. But membership doesn’t entitle you to everything I know.” He placed his left arm up on the backrest. “Look, George, there’s no rule protecting the anonymity of the dead, but there are still those who are alive. I’ve had it itemized for me rather clearly that badges running around the meetings grilling the addicts would cost more lives than any answers would be worth.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “George, if you agree in advance to do this with me and my way, we can compare notes. Otherwise, let me out.”

  Frowning, George began slowing down the car until it barely crawled. He glanced at Paul, returned his gaze to the smoking skyline and pressed down on the accelerator. “Very well. Your way.”

  “Turn around and head for Coldwater Canyon.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re looking for someone with a chemical problem, George, either a user or someone who knows a user. Someone who hates Micky Cass and knows enough about him and NA to use the program to kill him. Also, it’s probably someone he knows.”

  “What about Duke Jessup?” asked George as he turned the car.

  “No. He hasn’t a clue about either recovery or a Twelve-Step program. We’re looking for someone we don’t know. Or, perhaps, we’re looking for someone we don’t know well enough.”

  “What about the FBI? The bureau can find out about anything they want, including NA.”

  Paul rubbed his chin and faced George. “I don’t think so. I’m not an expert in government conspiracies, but I have learned enough about cover-ups to know that the preferred method of eliminating
a person is a quiet disappearance and a fading memory. An acid-ravaged corpse displayed nightly on all networks in prime time triggering off a citywide holocaust strikes me as just a shade too stupid even for government work.”

  George hesitated a moment, then said, “Maybe someone else working with the bureau. It’s not like the bureau hasn’t been associated with disreputable parties before.”

  “The mob? The cartel? Forget it, George. Now you’re talking real professionals. We’re after amateurs.”

  “What about the Ahvin Rivak?”

  “On their own, perhaps. I can’t see anyone in the bureau foolish enough to cooperate with the Ahvin Rivak on something like this. It’s not that they’re too squeamish; they’re just not that stupid. To hook the bureau to it, you have to explain the acid bath and the remains that were left on purpose. Who? Why? Toward what possible end? To see how many incriminating witnesses and pieces of damning evidence that can be left behind?”

  There was a pause, then George’s call signal came across the net. He reached forward, grabbed the mike, and answered the call. There was another interval, then Captain Grazer’s voice came on. “Francisco, you find Iniko yet?”

  “Yes, Captain. He’s with me right now.”

  “Where’s Dobbs?”

  “He’s following us,” said Paul.

  George paused for a beat and said into the mike, “He’s following us.”

  “I’m following them, Cap,” came Dobbs’s voice over the net, “and if I drive much faster to keep up, I’ll have to give myself a ticket.”

  George looked at his speed and raised his eyebrows. He had been doing almost eighty-five. He slowed down to fifty and spoke into the mike. “What is it, captain?”

  “Understand something, all of you: we’ve got men on this already, so don’t go ballistic on me. It’s Matt Sikes. There were a couple of shootings in the Chay tonight. Shootings, hell. They were battles. On Seventh west of Soto nine officers were either killed or wounded along with five civilians dead. They found Danny Mikubeh’s body. Sikes wasn’t one of the casualties we found, but he’d been there. We found his ID on the street. Like I said, we got a team working on it, so don’t freak. I just wanted to keep you posted. Francisco, where are you headed now?”

  Francisco felt paralyzed as his hearts jumped at the news. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he fought the desire to turn about and drive into the ruins of the Chay. “Sometimes doing nothing is the hardest thing to do,” said Paul.

  “Say again, Francisco? George? Where are you headed?” asked Grazer.

  “Toward Coldwater Canyon,” answered George, glancing at Paul. “We were chasing down a lead.”

  “Okay. Keep chasing and don’t let that civilian in your car get into any trouble.”

  George glanced at Paul. “I’ll take care of him, cap. Keep us posted on the effort to find Matt.”

  “Will do. Do you still need Dobbs?”

  “No,” answered George. “We . . . I can handle the lead.”

  “Okay, cut Dobbs loose. I want him in on tracking down Sikes.”

  “Got it,” Dobbs’s voice crackled. “Stay low, George.”

  George signed off and hung up the mike. As he stared at the darkness of the night, he glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Dobbs’s car do a U-turn and streak east.

  There was a sight there and it made George sick. There was a rosy sky in the east, and it was too early for sunrise. “Paul, with all the death and destruction happening right now, I almost feel silly trying to hunt down one lone murderer. It’s like trying to stop and arrest someone for speeding in the middle of the Indianapolis Five Hundred.”

  “Even Micky Cass knew the answer to that, George. He said, ‘You do the right thing. Even if it doesn’t change a damned thing. Even if the only point in doing the right thing is to have done the right thing, you do it—’ ”

  “ ‘—so you can say to the souls in Hell, “I did the right thing. What’s your excuse?” ’ You read that note he scribbled on the outside of the gang banger file.”

  “Yes.”

  They rode in silence for a moment, then George asked, “Was Micky Cass a hero or an asshole?”

  Paul sat silently for a beat, and then said, “Yes.”

  C H A P T E R 2 4

  “VIOT ATI, DEBAR.”

  Matt felt something shove between his fingers. A piece of paper. It felt as though his back and head had been crushed; the pain of his headache was beyond description. He could feel he was sitting. Nausea hovered closely, and he loathed the idea of puking in his own lap.

  Opening his eyes slightly, Matt frowned at the mush of images: a row of faces, some bleeding, others frowning or in pain.

  Humans.

  Tencts.

  Bright lights.

  Figures passing quickly.

  Others standing, sitting, waiting. Some on the floor, others in wheelchairs. With great care Matt turned his head and noted that he was seated in a chair, the edges of the wooden armrests cutting into his arms. He added together what he could and realized in was in a hospital emergency waiting room.

  A Tenctonese female wearing jeans and an embroidered buff cotton poncho turned and walked toward him. In her hands she had a sheaf of papers all cherry red. There was a death pink strip of cloth tied about her head, and for some reason Matt couldn’t identify, she reminded him of his mother. Perhaps it was the look of cold, bitter anger in her eyes.

  Mother?

  Mom?

  He frowned as he continued staring at the woman. Matt couldn’t remember his mother. His frown grew deeper. Neither could he remember himself. The pain from his head and body thundered into every particle of his awareness. He closed his eyes against it.

  Trauma.

  Bop on the head amnesia. He’d heard about that before.

  How?

  A doctor?

  Nurse?

  Watch a lot of television?

  Matt. He knew his name was Matt.

  No.

  Someone had told him his name was Matt. Someone very tough-looking, very scared. Bleeding. Tenctonese.

  Breaker?

  Breaker and Hooks.

  What had happened to them? They were the only persons in the world that Matt knew; that is if his name really was Matt.

  He opened his eyes and saw that his chin was resting upon his chest. “Must’ve passed out,” he muttered to himself. He looked down and saw the blue plastic press pass hanging from his neck. Vaguely he remembered the two young Tencts, gang bangers, members of Nightshade, picking him out of the carnage on Seventh Street. They must have taken him to a hospital.

  What hospital?

  In what city?

  What had happened on Seventh Street? Why did everything smell as though it were on fire?

  “Are you a reporter?”

  It had been a voice. A close voice. He knew it had been directed at him because of the piece of blue plastic hung about his neck. He looked up and watched as the room spun about the Tenct woman in the poncho. She was looking down at him, at his press pass, actually.

  “I’m pretty confused,” he croaked at last. “My. head.”

  “You’re looking mighty lumpy, debah. Matt, is it? Matt Cross?”

  Matt Cross. He knew that’s what it said on the piece of blue plastic. His heart, however, didn’t know the name.

  Heart?

  Hearts? Something was wrong. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t find a clear track upon which to run the investigation. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.

  “Your name is Matt Cross, right?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Matt Cross.”

  “I don’t get it. Did you change it?”

  “Get what? Change what?”

  “I don’t get the joke. What’s the joke in the name Matt Cross?”

  “Joke?”

  “You know, like Claude Balls and I.P. Daily.”

  Claude Balls. Some issues were simply too complex to unravel upon demand. What was the joke in Ma
tt Cross? Was it true, someone had once asked, that if the Tencts had crashed into ancient Rome, they would’ve been named things like Chromus Domus or Dickus Maximus?

  Jokes.

  “There isn’t any joke,” he answered. “Can’t think of a joke, anyway. That’s just my name—Matt Cross.”

  “You’d think they’d name you Woody Cross, Chris Cross, or H. Cross Buns, at least. Maybe Matt Finish or Matt Ress.”

  “I’m just deprived. What’s your name?”

  “Li Sinritu.”

  “Lighten up, Li Sinritu.” He frowned as he said, “That’s a Tenctonese name.”

  “Very good. You’re throbbing on all lobes, you are.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. The immigration officials named me Rosy Scenario. Did you read the flier?”

  “Flier?” There was something wrong with asking questions; answering questions with questions. Matt felt terribly afraid, but he couldn’t remember why.

  “The flier in your hands.” The woman pointed at the sheet of red paper. He squinted and read the headline:

  SANJA AHVIN RIVAK!

  SALAS, TANARAH, NAS MIRIDAH!

  “I can’t make it out.”

  Li Sinritu pointed at the words. “ ‘Join those who would return. Peace, safety, and dignity.’ ”

  Matt looked up at the woman, wincing at the pain in his neck. “Are you one of these nuts? One of these idiots who wants to go back into slavery?”

  “I’m a member of the Ahvin Rivak.”

  He waved at an empty chair facing him. “Sit down, Li. Please. Hurts too much looking up at you.” As she sat down he held out the piece of paper, the fog in his head clearing not at all. “You’re the bunch that wants to contact the Stallahraj, the creators of the Tencts, right?”

  “We’re urging the development of the technology.”

  “Even though it means going back to being slaves? Maybe making humans slaves, too. I don’t understand that.”

  Li Sinritu studied Matt for a moment then stated flatly, “You’re not Tenctonese.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a human made up like that other Times reporter; that Ellison Robb—Micky Cass, the one who was murdered.”