Fan Fic and More

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER NINETEEN


July 6, 1959, 9:10 a.m.

Roswell




"All right, everybody, stay in line, stay in line," Valenti called to the crowd. "No need to push and shove; you're going to be here awhile. Rudeness won't make the line move any faster."

"They were supposed to start at 9 a.m.!" someone called. "Why aren't we moving?"

"It'll take a while for the line to move all the way back here," Valenti explained patiently for what would probably be the first of hundreds of times that day. "Like I said, you're going to be here a while."

There was a good deal of grumbling at that statement, which was unsurprising given that there were dozens of people lined up outside the UFO center beneath what was already a hot sun, vying for their own little slice of magic. Hollywood had roared into town, or into the UFO Center, specifically, which had graciously offered its premises for the casting of extras for They Are Among Us. From what Valenti had heard, extras made up the lion's share of the cast, the main cast being few in number and pretty much unheard of as in most low budget movies. Good old Morty Steinfeld planned to make good use of both the town of Roswell and its inhabitants, which would save him a lot of money on both sets and talent.

"Sheriff? Can I have a word with you?"

"Pete," Valenti smiled. "How's the diner doing? Have you picked a name yet?"

"Not yet," Pete admitted. "The top two names in the contest were 'Crash Site' and 'Crashdown', and they both sound too kitschy. But I'm here about that Mr. Seinfeld—"

"Steinfeld," Valenti corrected.

"Whatever. He had his people in the diner this morning leaning on me to make it available for shooting; told me I'd have to shut down for two days. Two whole days! I can't afford that; I was looking forward to all the business the movie would bring. I told him that, but he hasn't left me alone. I don't have to let him film in my diner, do I?"

"Of course not," Valenti said. "Mr. Steinfeld is striving for 'authenticity' by filming on location as much as possible, but it's every business owner's personal decision as to whether they wish to work with him and how much they'll accept as payment if they do. The only thing that affects everyone is the one day Mr. Steinfeld's been allowed to close down Main Street."

"A whole day?" Pete said in astonishment.

"He wanted two," Valenti noted. "I told him one. So if you want to let him film there that day, you'll be closed anyway. He has to give a week's notice, so I'll let everyone who'll be affected know just as soon as I find out."

"All right," Pete grumbled. "I suppose if I'm closed anyway, I might as well let him film. Maybe it'll be good exposure."

Valenti leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Between you and me and the fence post, what Mr. Steinfeld really wants is to save money on sets. So if you let him use your diner as a set, be sure you charge him through the nose for it."

Pete's face split into a wide smile. "Good idea. Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem," Valenti said. At least I had one happy customer, he thought as Pete walked away, and that one might be his last judging from the tenor of the sweaty crowd spilling down the sidewalks. Most were locals and smart enough to bring water and hats; the few who hadn't would be sorry in short order. Fortunately filming started on Wednesday, so casting would only take place for two days, leaving little time for word to get out and more tourists to come pouring in. There wouldn't be any place for them to stay anyway; Valenti fully expected every available room in Roswell to be rented within the next forty-eight hours.

"Settle down, settle down," Valenti called to an unruly bunch of kids toward the end of the line. "You've got a long wait ahead of you, and—"

He stopped as a stream of water hit him directly in the eye. Laughter broke out, the loudest coming from the kid who was sporting the squirt gun and who promptly moved on from Valenti to other targets. Within seconds he had a miniature melee on his hands.

"Knock it off!" a gruff voice boomed.

The crowd fell silent. Valenti finished wiping the water out of his eyes to find Sheriff Wilcox giving the shooter the evil eye. George Wilcox was the Chaves County Sheriff, and at the age of 59, he cut an imposing figure in both girth and depth that had the desired effect; as he stared down the opposition, the opposition backed up with an alarm they would never have felt if confronted by a skinny young guy like Valenti.

"What's your name, son?" Wilcox asked the shooter.

"G...Gary, sir," the boy stammered.

"Hand that over."

Gary promptly surrendered his "weapon". "Now, you listen to me," Wilcox said sternly. "There will be no, I said no fooling while you're waiting. Riling up a crowd this size is serious business and will be dealt with seriously; try that again, and you'll find yourself waiting in jail. Waiting for your parents to come pick you up on charges of being a public nuisance, that is, and you can just forget about appearing in any movies. Is that clear?"

Heads bobbed up and down. "It had better be," Wilcox warned. "You apologize to Sheriff Valenti," he added to the shooter, "and maybe he won't haul you down to the station."

Valenti felt his wet face growing warm as all eyes swung toward him. "Sorry," Gary mumbled, abashed.

"Is that how you address your sheriff?" Wilcox demanded. "Speak up, boy! If you're going to pull a stunt like this in front of everybody, then you're darned well going to apologize in front of them too."

"Sorry, sir," Gary repeated, a fraction louder.

"Louder."

"I'm sorry, sir," Gary tried again.

"Sound like you mean it!" Wilcox ordered.

"I'm sorry, sir!" Gary burst out, obviously embarrassed beyond belief to be repeatedly humbled and re-humbled in front of all his friends.

"That's better," Wilcox said approvingly. "Get back in line, and don't give Sheriff Valenti or myself any other reason to so much as look at you today."

"Yes, sir," Gary said quickly, relieved to be released, his friends lining up behind him like good little soldiers. The excitement over, the crowd went back to the business of waiting, and Valenti stood there feeling foolish. Managing the town during the filming of this movie was his first big test since being elected sheriff, and he'd just failed it. Or, rather, had his pencil snatched out of his hand.

"Mornin', Jim," George said cheerfully as though they hadn't just had a run in with pranksters. "You've got yourself a right royal mess here."

"I know that," Valenti said peevishly, "and I had it under control until you barged in. Why didn't you let me handle that?"

"And how, pray tell, would you have handled it?" Wilcox asked. "The way I handled it, or the way you've been handling this crowd so far, pleading for patience and trying to reason with them?"

Valenti opened his mouth, then closed it. That's exactly what he would have done; he would have chastised the kid much more gently than Wilcox and asked for better behavior. And he wouldn't have gotten it. He saw that now.

"I've been watching you," Wilcox continued. "Crowds aren't like individuals; they're like big dumb animals that spook easily. You can reason with an individual, but you can't reason with a crowd. You can plead for patience from an individual, but not from a crowd. Crowds have to be controlled with a heavy hand because crowds are only one step away from a mob, and when mobs rule, people get hurt. It's our job to make certain that doesn't happen. You following me?"

"Yes, sir," Valenti said, feeling just like Gary must have.

"Don't 'sir' me," Wilcox said firmly. "You've been a sheriff for years now, and you're still 'sirring' me. I'm 'George'. Remember that. And the next time you run into lip like that—and believe me, you will—you give them exactly what I just gave them. They've seen it now, so they'll be expecting it. This lot doesn't have much to do, so little Gary's story will be all over the place in minutes."

"So why are you here?" Valenti asked. "Figured I couldn't handle it?"

"I figured you might need some help," Wilcox said gently. "Don't take this personally, Jim. You and I go back a long ways, and I thought maybe you could use a hand. You gave me one back in the day."

Valenti smiled faintly, recalling how several of Roswell's deputies had been assigned to the beleaguered Chaves County Station back in the late forties after the "crash" that wasn't officially a crash. Valenti knew better, and so did George Wilcox. They'd butted heads about that several times before finally coming to an understanding which mostly consisted of Valenti coming to terms with the fact that theory and practice were two different things in law enforcement. Maybe in anything.

"I appreciate the offer, George. Really, I do. But...."

"But you want to do this yourself," Wilcox said. "I get that. But look at this, Jim, look at all these people. And it's only going to get worse. You need more manpower, and I can loan you some deputies to help out. I'll even make some phone calls, pull in more from surrounding counties. And they'd be your deputies while they're here," he clarified. "You're the sheriff in Roswell."

"And at the moment, I have things under control," Valenti insisted. "One kid with a squirt gun doesn't constitute losing control."

"One kid with a squirt gun is all it takes in a crowd like this," Wilcox countered. "You sure I can't send in some troops?"

"I have my own deputies," Valenti replied patiently. "And I'll certainly give you a call if I need more."

"Isn't that one of yours over there?" Wilcox asked, peering around him.

Valenti turned around, and his heart sank. Hanson was standing in the audition line, wearing a grin every bit as goofy as the next persons'. "Yeah, he's mine," he sighed, knowing full well that every deputy off duty was probably here somewhere. "All of my men are under strict instructions that participation in the movie can't conflict with their duty schedules. They can't even trade off with each other because that would be a scheduling nightmare. If—"

Screams erupted from inside the UFO Center. Valenti and Wilcox lurched into a run, charging past the crowd and in through the front doors. Not even an hour had passed, and already he'd been nailed by a squirt gun, embarrassed by a former employer, and now people were screaming. What next? "Nobody move!" he bellowed as he flew into the UFO Center's meeting room. Several tables had been set up, behind which sat several startled people, all of whom looked at him like he'd lost his marbles.

"Sheriff, what on Earth is going on?" Morty Steinfeld demanded.

"Somebody screamed," Valenti said. "Several somebody's."

"Well, of course they did," Steinfeld said impatiently. "I'm auditioning for extras, all of whom will be terrified bystanders or alien abductees and all of whom have to know how to scream. Those may be the first screams you've heard today, but I promise you, they won't be the last. I hope you're not going to come charging in here every single time you hear a scream."

Oh my God.... Valenti's gaze rotated from Steinfeld's, to the confused movie hopefuls, to Wilcox's bemused expression. He'd just gone and made a total fool of himself.

"Come here," Valenti ordered Steinfeld, who, after a moment's hesitation, obeyed. "Do you know how many people are waiting out there? That many people are nothing less than a walking powder keg. The slightest little thing could set them off. They hear screams coming from in here, and they're likely to panic because they'll have no idea what's going on. Did you think of that?"

"Er......no," Steinfeld confessed. "I keep forgetting this isn't Hollywood, where people don't have to have standard industry practices explained to them—"

"No, this is not Hollywood," Valenti interrupted hotly. "This is Roswell. This is my town, and I am responsible for the safety of everyone in this town. So you're are going to drop your condescending attitude and any other precious little pretences you've brought with you and follow my standard practices. You will inform me of any other stunts like this that could rile up a crowd, and you will keep the doors to this auditorium closed to make it easier for me and my men to distinguish between real and fake trouble or I'll have you tossed in a cell until you can come up with a way to shoot on location that doesn't involve disturbing the peace, obstructing justice, and any other charge I can think of. Have I made myself completely clear?"

Steinfeld was now several shades paler. "Absolutely," he said, nodding hastily. "I'm so sorry, Sheriff. Of course you need....I should have....I'm sorry. Close those doors!" he bellowed to his assistants, who hastened to obey despite protests from those further back in the line who were now unable to see inside the auditorium.

"And close the main doors as well," Valenti called. "Work through the group you've got, then take in another group. That'll make the line appear to move faster and help with crowd control."

Wilcox fell in step beside Valenti as Steinfeld and company scurried to obey. "You learn fast," Wilcox said approvingly.

"Always have," Valenti agreed. "Now, about those extra deputies....."




******************************************************



First National Bank of Santa Fe




"Are you sure you're up to this?" Bernard Lewis asked as he removed the key from the ignition. "We could do it some other time."

"No...no, I want to get it over with," Helen Pierce said, one hand resting on her bulging belly. "And I'm so grateful you were willing to come with me, Dr. Lewis. This is all so confusing. I had no idea someone dying was so much work. Funerals and lawyers and wills and notifying everyone and...." She paused, as though she couldn't bear to recite the rest of the list. "I'm just glad you're here," she finished.

"I'm honored to be of service to my good friend's widow," Lewis said. "It's the least I could do for Daniel, Mrs. Pierce."

"Helen," she corrected. "Please, call me Helen."

"Helen, then," Lewis smiled. "This shouldn't take long. As the executor of Daniel's will, you're merely witnessing the inventory of the contents of his safe deposit box, which will then be safely kept for your child. Daniel's lawyer will be here with the list of what should be inside, and as soon as everything is accounted for, we'll be finished."

"With this particular task, at least," Helen said ruefully. "Remind me never to agree to be anyone's executor again. Really, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Hopefully you'll never find yourself in this position again," Lewis said soothingly. "Let me help you out."

Lewis walked around the car to the passenger side and held Helen's hand while she maneuvered her very pregnant form out of the front seat with difficulty. I hate pregnancy, Lewis thought as he all but pulled her out of the car. Obstetrics had been the very worst part of his internship, filled as it was with fat, lumbering women, screaming babies, cooing nurses, frantic husbands, and pushy relatives. At least the women were mercifully silent after they'd been drugged for childbirth, a practice which he understood was coming under fire by those who favored "natural" childbirth, an idea Lewis found baffling. Why would anyone in their right mind wish to be conscious and unmedicated during childbirth? Lewis had often wished he had been the one put of his misery while assisting, and had never looked back the day he'd walked out of the obstetrics ward forever.

"I'm sorry I'm so slow," Helen said as they made their way laboriously across the parking lot.

"No trouble at all, my dear, no trouble at all," Lewis lied.

They finally reached the bank and were ushered into a private office, all wood and leather. Pierce's lawyer was there, a suspicious type who seemed to feel that anyone not from De Baca County was automatically suspect. He had not been happy when Helen had told him that Lewis would accompany them to the bank today, but had been helpless to prevent it as Daniel had neglected to bar anyone from this particular event, a fact Lewis found peculiar given Daniel's usual attention to detail. A bank manager appeared, false pleasantries were exchanged all around, and the box produced and opened. Lewis was not surprised to see a long white envelope on the very bottom beneath a small mountain of other paraphernalia.

"Oh, my," Helen said in dismay. "This could take awhile."

"Take your time," Lewis assured her. "I'm in no hurry."

And he wasn't. Lewis found himself surprisingly unexcited as the contents of the box was examined and discussed in excruciating detail. Perhaps it was because he knew that, eventually, they'd have to get to the letter at the bottom. Or perhaps it was because he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted all these years, albeit from an unexpected source.

Lewis had made certain not to let even one full year pass after his forced resignation before approaching the Army about the formation of a task force whose sole mandate would be to hunt aliens. Given the fact that the Army had just lost an alien, he'd expected he'd find at least some level of interest in his proposal. He had been wrong. Consumed by the Korean war and fearful of their duplicity being exposed, he'd found no takers. As the years passed with no sign of the aliens, interest levels had dropped to the point where his calls were returned belatedly or not at all. Everyone assumed the aliens had returned home, and although Lewis did not share that opinion, he was unable to provide a suitable explanation as to why he thought they were still here when no one had seen or heard from them in years. So he had bided his time with varying amounts of patience, knowing that, eventually, the aliens would rear their ugly heads again.

And finally, they had. Daniel's death, not to mention the FBI's quick response and confiscation of the body, had earned Lewis that fateful appointment with his old mentor, General McMullen. Lewis had been absolutely certain there was no way the Army could turn him down now, no way they could ignore the fact that the aliens were still here after nine years, no way they could dismiss the fact that Bernard Lewis knew more about what they were chasing than anyone else in the world. He had fully expected to be granted his task force and reinstated to his former rank, a particularly sore point with him as he felt he'd been spitefully singled out by that patsy, General Ramey. Now Ramey was dead and the aliens were back. The stage was set for the Army to right the wrongs of a decade ago and allow him to pursue the monsters the way they should have been pursued in the first place.

His shock and fury when that hadn't happened had been brief. Being a practical man, Lewis had appropriated certain documents while the alien was captive. Inside the Army, they were priceless; outside they were of dubious worth because the coalition which had hidden the existence of a live alien prisoner from the president had also hidden its paper trail well, meaning the interpretation of those documents could be open to debate without corroborating evidence. Pierce's death had provided that evidence. And so instead of pursuing his original plan to blackmail McMullen into giving him his task force, he'd opted for going straight to J. Edgar Hoover himself, who would welcome even cryptic documentation now that his own agency possessed a body killed by a silver handprint. That gamble had paid off in spades: Lewis now found himself the head of an elite, covert unit created specifically for the purpose of hunting aliens which answered only to the Director himself, and he'd spent the last twenty-four hours feverishly choosing his team and plan of attack. This was the fruition of twelve years of labor and strife, and drunk as he was with the thrill of it, he was very willing to wait just a little while longer to get his hands on the means by which he could hold an alien prisoner long enough to wring from it what he wanted.

"One pocket watch, gold, turn of the century I believe," the bank manager droned on. "Assessed at $550.00."

"It's beautiful!" Helen exclaimed. "I've never even seen that. Don't you think it's beautiful, Dr. Lewis?"

"Exquisite," Lewis agreed. "Daniel's family always had such excellent taste."

Helen beamed. The lawyer frowned as though Lewis had just said something inappropriate. The inventory continued, through piece after piece of the usual worthless, sentimental junk with which the next generation was typically saddled, only to turn around and bequeath it to their own children because it was...well....worthless. Lewis displayed the patience of a saint as the pile grew smaller and smaller until, at last, they came to the letter.

"What's this?" Helen asked, gazing at the plain envelope as the manager handed it over.

Lewis waited calmly while she pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it. He knew exactly what would happen: She would read it once, twice, perhaps three times in complete puzzlement, then announce she did not understand and seek guidance. The letter would be passed around, most likely going to the lawyer first. Lewis had to make certain it came to him, and when it did, he had to make certain he memorized the formula quickly and wrote it down the at the very first private moment he had, which would be a trip to the men's room immediately following this session.

A minute passed, then two. An air of expectancy hung over the room. At length, Helen set the paper down.

"I don't understand."

No, of course you don't, dear, Lewis thought. She held in her hands the power to bring a race of monsters to their knees. Naturally she didn't understand.

"Dr. Lewis....you knew my husband. What do you make of this?"

Excellent! "Let me see," he murmured, suppressing his delight at being given first dibs as he took the paper and prepared to memorize like he hadn't since med school exams.



To Whom It May Concern, Daniel's scrawl began.


Whoever you are, no doubt you're looking for my serum. Sorry to disappoint you—no, actually that's not true, I'm delighted to disappoint you—but it's not here. The serum is mine, perhaps my crowning achievement, although I would certainly like to think I've reached greater heights since then. Regardless, no stifling government that blocked me every step of the way, forcing me to work in secret because of their supposedly lofty morals, will ever get their hands on that formula.

My wife is currently pregnant with my first child, a son. Should I predecease him, my son will inherit the formula for my serum at the age of 30, by which time he will hopefully have sown his wild oats and gained sufficient maturity to know how to use it to his best advantage. The means by which this will occur are untraceable, having not been divulged to anyone or recorded in any legal document. A full accounting of the reason for this subterfuge will accompany the formula when it is delivered to him, along with my notes regarding dosage, strength, and the affect of same on each test subject. Invaluable information, that, and very hard to reproduce without killing the subject, so if I were you, I would remain in my son's good offices. I would also safeguard his welfare carefully, because should he die before the age of 30, the serum will never be delivered and will be lost forever.

I have most likely ruined your day and, hopefully, your career. Nothing personal, you understand; it's just the way the game is played, and no one plays that game better than I do. Remember that as you enjoy the wait.

Sincerely,

Daniel Pierce, M.D.



Stunned, Lewis read the letter once, twice, three times before he had his emotions under sufficient control to speak. "Well....it appears your child is set to inherit something of Daniel's when he turns 30."

"Thirty?" the lawyer echoed. "Let me see that."

"But what's that all about?" Helen asked as the lawyer read the letter.

"I know of nothing your husband intended your son to inherit at the age of 30," the lawyer replied. "He'll inherit the contents of this box at the age of 21, and I can only guess at what he'll make of this."

"Do you know what this is about, Dr. Lewis?" Helen asked.

"I'm afraid I don't," Lewis said through gritted teeth. "Daniel and I did work together frequently, but our work, as you know, is top secret. Apparently he felt someone would try to steal something he had developed and took steps to prevent that."

"Like you, perhaps?" the lawyer said dryly.

"I don't know what you're suggesting, sir," Lewis said coldly.

"Dr. Lewis has been a great help to me," Helen added reproachfully to the lawyer. "And hasn't said one word about 'serums' or anything like that."

"Of course not," the lawyer muttered, obviously unconvinced. "Since Dr. Pierce isn't here to elaborate, I suppose we'll all just have to wait thirty years to find out. Hope I live that long."

The box was closed, and Helen signed off that the contents had been fully inventoried. Lewis drove Helen back to Pierce's house, with her chattering all the way about how grateful she was to have one more executor's duty to check off her list. The air was blue on the drive back to Santa Fe, and by the time he reached his borrowed office, he'd made a decision.

"Jesus," Agent Del Bianco breathed when he'd heard the news. "Now what?"

"When is Pierce's brat due to appear?" Lewis asked.

"September 18th," Del Bianco replied.

"Very well then. I am a surgeon by training, but I shall have to consult with obstetrics experts to brush up on possible complications of childbirth."

"To protect the baby," Del Bianco nodded.

Lewis paused, examining his neatly manicured fingernails. "Yes. Yes, of course."




******************************************************



Mrs. Bruce's rooming house,

Roswell




"I'm so glad Courtney told me about you!" Mrs. Bruce beamed, scooping up the freshly signed lease. "I have two rooms open, and while I can certainly rent them what with all the extra people in town, I feel much better renting to locals."

"We were lucky to find this," Anthony said. "A lot of rooms are gone already."

"Now, you're moving in tomorrow, right?"

"Right," Dee answered. "If that's okay with you."

"That's fine," Mrs. Bruce assured her. "That'll give me time to clean the place up, make sure everything's working, and call the handyman if any repairs are needed. I'll let you know if there's any delay. Here's your copy," she added, handing Dee a copy of the lease. "Did you have any questions?"

"Nope, I think we're all set," Anthony smiled.

Five minutes later they were headed down Mrs. Bruce's front walk, Dee pushing the stroller while Philip toddled along beside them, holding his father's hand. "We are all set, aren't we?" Anthony asked Dee, who was frowning.

"I just don't see how we're going to afford this for the whole summer," Dee sighed. "And yes, I know, I should have thought of that before telling Mama we were leaving."

"Don't forget that I agreed we should leave," Anthony pointed out.

"Okay, so we both should have thought of it," Dee amended.

Anthony hesitated. "Actually, I didn't have to. Your father offered to help."

Dee came to a halt. "Daddy's paying for this?"

"The room? No," Anthony said. "He estimated how much he would have spent feeding the three of us over the summer, and wrote me a check for that amount. So I guess you could say he's paying for the groceries. What?" he continued when Dee gave an exasperated snort. "He offered; I didn't ask."

"That's not the point!" Dee exclaimed. "Mama's whole problem is that she can't see us as an independent family, and come to find out, we're not."

"He's just helping, not covering everything," Anthony said. "He said he would have paid that anyway had we stayed there, so—"

"Oh, yes, Daddy will have a perfectly logical reason that only a crazy person would ignore," Dee interrupted. "But he's still paying. We're still tied to him."

"I don't see your father as a bad person to be 'tied to'," Anthony answered. "He didn't say this, but I think he feels badly that your mother is behaving the way she is, and wants to make it up to us."

"Have you cashed the check yet?"

"No."

"Then give it back."

"What?"

"I said give it back," Dee insisted. "We didn't take their money in college, and we won't start now. I'll get a job."

"By the time we pay for a babysitter, you may as well not have one," Anthony said. "Look, this isn't college. No subsidized housing and willing friends to babysit. We tried living with your parents, it didn't work, so we're trying something else. And if your father wants to help, I'm not too proud to take it."

"Go on," Dee said irritably, taking Philip's hand. "You'll be late for work. We can talk about this later."

Anthony didn't argue, knowing full well when she'd shut down on a subject. Dee and Philip waved goodbye as he climbed into the car and pulled away. That was her father's car, loaned to them for the summer while he got a ride to work with a friend; they wouldn't need it anymore, as Anthony would be able to walk to work now that they lived in town. One more apron string cut....but there always seemed to be one left. I don't want their money, she thought fiercely. But the fact remained that they wouldn't be able to save a dime this summer like they'd planned to, so perhaps they had no choice but to accept her father's offer. At least it was her father doing the offering. He probably hadn't even told her mother.

They reached the end of their street where it connected to Main Street, and Dee immediately scooped up her son and put him in the stroller. Long lines of people snaked down Main, almost as far as Parker's. She'd forgotten about the movie that was being filmed in town, and for a moment she was all excited—there must be dozens of short-term jobs available! Then she deflated when she realized that any job meant childcare, which meant money. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe working and having children really didn't mix, at least not until one was rich enough to afford it.

"C'mon, kiddo," she said to Philip as they neared Parker's. "Let's go tell Courtney she's got new neighbors."

Dee had expected Parker's to be bursting and was very surprised when it wasn't. Streams of people came in and out, but virtually all were ordering coffee in paper cups from a waitress who wasn't going to stop pouring any time soon. Courtney emerged from the kitchen with a plate of breakfast for one of the few seated customers as Dee steadied a chair at the counter so Philip could climb up.

"Hi buddy!" Courtney said, waving to Philip, who waved back enthusiastically. "How did everything go?" she added to Dee.

"You have a new neighbor," Dee announced.

"Great!" Courtney exclaimed. "It'll be so nice to have a friend in my very own building! Coffee?"

"No thanks."

"Ju?" Philip suggested.

"No, no juice either," Dee said sadly. "We can't afford it. How about a glass of water?"

"You can't afford coffee?" Courtney asked quizzically.

"We weren't planning on having to pay rent this summer," Dee explained. "We were going to live with my parents and save some money for next year. But that didn't work out, so we'll have to try and make Anthony's salary cover everything. And I can't get a job because I'd have to pay a babysitter, which would make the job not worth having." She sighed. "I'm glad to be out of there, but it's going to cost us."

Courtney set a glass of juice in front of Philip, then grabbed a cup and saucer. "On the house," she said when Dee began to protest. "I have an idea. Want to hear it?"

"Shoot."

"You could work here."

"Here?"

"Yes, here. You said you'd waitressed before."

"I have. But this place is dead right now; Pete doesn't need more help."

"He will," Courtney said. "We just had a....well, I would have called it a 'meeting', but Mr. Parker called it something else."

"A 'huddle'? Pete likes football," Dee chuckled when Courtney nodded. "It's kind of like a meeting of the football team in the middle of the game."

Courtney looked blank for a moment, then continued. "Anyway, Mr. Parker said we'll be needing more help. No one's in here now because everyone's standing in line hoping to be hired, but as soon as people start working their way through the line, they'll be coming in here, and as soon as filming starts, he thinks we'll be even busier. A bunch of the waitresses want to be in the movie, so they're not going to be around as much as they usually are. I'll bet Mr. Parker would love to have an experienced person like you."

"But what about Philip?" Dee asked. "I could get all sorts of different jobs, but I can't bring him with me."

"That's where I come in," Courtney said confidently. "We'll just make certain our shifts don't overlap, and I'll watch him for you while you're here."

"For how much?" Dee asked uncomfortably.

"For free, silly! After everything you've done for me, it's the least I can do."

Free? Dee's head spun as she weighed this new scenario. She'd made good money waitressing in Albuquerque; tips alone frequently outpaced her salary. And she'd have some say over her hours, Philip could stay in their own building with someone she knew, and.....

"I couldn't," Dee said, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be fair to expect you to babysit for nothing."

"You didn't 'expect' it; I offered," Courtney pointed out. "And you're only home for the summer, so it's not like it'll go on forever. You've done so much for me; let me do this for you."

"Okay, if you won't take money, than what will you take?" Dee asked. "There must be something I can do for you in return."

"Did I, or did I not just mention how much you've done for me?" Courtney asked dryly. "And you're still 'doing'. Every time I have a question, I run to you."

"Or Carl," Dee smiled....then paused, something having occurred to her. "I know something I can do for you. I can help you find whoever you're looking for."

Courtney's eyes widened. "What did Carl tell you?"

"He just mentioned you were looking for someone, and that he'd offered to help. I can help too. Who are you looking for?"

"Hey sweetheart, can I get some toast?" a man at the far end of the counter called.

Courtney rushed off to answer, and Dee watched her closely as she trotted back and forth. She's afraid, she realized with a start, noting the stiff posture, the set features, the distracted look in a pair of eyes over which a veil had fallen the moment Dee had raised the subject. Whatever her reason for trying to find this person, it was simultaneously important and frightening.

The toast delivered, Courtney returned to Dee's end of the counter looking troubled instead of all excited like she had only minutes ago. "I'm grateful for the offer," she said carefully, "but this is something I have to do myself. It's not right to involve you in it."

"I'll mind my own business," Dee promised. "I just offered to help you find whoever it is. Once you find him, it's up to you."

"I wish it were that simple," Courtney said wistfully.

"Why can't it be that simple?" Dee asked. "Does this have to do with your telling Carl it was dangerous? Because if it's dangerous, you shouldn't be looking for this person either."

"I have to," Courtney said. "And I can't explain why," she added when Dee opened her mouth. "I just have to."

"All the more reason to accept help when it's offered," Dee said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had only just refused to accept help from her own father. "I've lived here all my life; I know this place backwards and forwards. There must be something I can do."

Dee could tell that Courtney was just about to say, no, no, there's nothing you can do....but she didn't. Instead, she stopped, staring off into space like she'd just remembered something. "Maybe there is something you can do," she said after a moment. "You said you know that man who found the aliens' ship, right?"

"A little," Dee said warily. "What does Mac have to do with this?"

"I need to talk to him," Courtney said intently. "Everyone says he doesn't talk to anyone, but maybe he'll talk to me if you ask him."

"Why do you want to talk to Mac?" Dee asked.

Courtney hesitated again. "Because—" she leaned in and lowered her voice "—I'm looking for an alien."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 20 next Sunday.

Kath - I totally suck with feedback, but know that i've been reading all along!

Kath, I know I suck with feedback, but know that i've been reading all along!

majik: I'm delighted to know you're reading! That's all the feedback I need. Thanks!




CHAPTER TWENTY


July 7, 1959, 10:30 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell





"Courtney told you she was looking for an alien? She actually said that?"

"Out loud and in English," Dee answered. "Hand me that box, will you?"

Malik handed over the box he was holding. "Do you mean to tell me that she's....she's....."

"A UFO nut," Dee sighed, opening the box and pulling out an old set of silverware the Brazel's had donated. "Well....maybe 'nut' is a bit harsh, but you know what I mean."

"So she's just another tourist?" Malik said doubtfully. "But she can't be! She said she came here to do something important, something she wasn't keen on doing but that had to be done. Tourists don't talk like that. Tourists ask about ships and bodies and abductions. They don't talk like they're on a mission, like they have a duty to fulfill."

"Did she ever ask you about aliens?"

"She asked me if I believe in aliens, but everyone asks everyone that around here."

"She asked me about Mac," Dee said, settling the silverware into a shallow drawer in the kitchen area of the room they'd rented from Mrs. Bruce. "Wanted to know if he'd talk to her, and if she could get onto the ranch and see the crash site."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That Mac doesn't talk to anyone, and that the ranch had been bought by the government and was off limits," Dee answered. "I didn't tell her I live right on top of him; I learned a long time ago never to admit to being Mac Brazel's next door neighbor. She dropped the subject, but brought it up again yesterday when she point blank told me she was looking for an alien. Pass me those?"

Malik handed over a set of sauce pans similarly donated by the Brazels and brooded in silence while Dee arranged them in the cupboard. She could hardly blame him; hearing those words come out of Courtney's mouth had been a shock to her too. Courtney had seemed too grounded, too sensible, too smart to be your typical UFO nut. Nevertheless, she'd looked Dee in the eye yesterday when she'd offered to help and announced she was looking for.....an alien.

"Here's more," Anthony called behind her, setting more boxes just inside the door.

"What's in those?" Dee asked.

"Not sure. Mrs. Brazel put a lot of stuff in the truck for this last load. Your dad and I are going back for the crib and the playpen. See you in a bit."

Dee smiled faintly. Mac and Rose had diplomatically stayed out of the drama with her mother until they heard that she was moving out, when they had promptly stepped forward with enough to furnish two apartments, never mind one. In addition to the silverware, they'd sent sheets, bedspreads, pillows, an enormous afghan Mrs. Brazel's grandmother had crocheted, plus the sauce pans. "Now, don't fuss," Mrs. Brazel had said firmly when Dee had tried to protest that this was too much. "When you've been around as long as we have, you accumulate an awful lot of things you don't use. What's the point of all this sitting in some dusty cupboard when you can use it?"

So Dee and Anthony had smiled and said thank you, and no one said anything about what was really going on: The Brazel's were quietly supporting their decision to move. Each box that Anthony and David carried in here on their trips back and forth was like a neon sign announcing that someone else thought they were doing the right thing. That was comforting given that Dee had had second thoughts just this morning when they'd handed over a check for their security deposit and first month's rent. Mr. Parker had been thrilled to have another experienced waitress, and she'd tentatively accepted Courtney's offer to watch Philip during her shifts, but still.....the thought of leaving her son with someone earnestly looking for aliens was unnerving. Courtney seemed like a steady person, but one had to wonder about someone who came to town with that agenda.

Hypocrite, Dee castigated herself as she rifled through the latest pile of offerings from the Brazel's. Aliens were real—no one knew that better than she did. And yet she had always felt more than a little disdainful of the throngs who came to Roswell to find what she knew was real. Maybe it was because of all the ridiculous stories that circulated about aliens. Or maybe it was because of the types she'd met at that UFO convention, people who made money off fake alien "artifacts" and wrote ridiculous books like Atherton's. People who had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, but pretended to anyway. People who didn't realize that being an alien or knowing an alien was all about life and death, not artifacts and silly books.

"It doesn't add up," Malik said behind her.

"What doesn't add up?"

"Courtney isn't here on some frivolous wild goose chase," Malik answered. "You didn't see her face when she told me that she didn't really want to be here, but had to be. And what about that guy she was trying to find? Where does he fit in?"

"Apparently that was a story, something more believable than the truth," Dee said. "A family feud is going to garner a lot more sympathy than a quest for aliens."

"But why?" Malik wondered. "Did she say why she was looking for aliens?"

"No."

"Did you ask?"

"No," Dee chuckled. "I'm almost afraid to. You wouldn't believe the stories I've heard, everything from someone wanting to help aliens take over the planet to having an alien's baby."

"I've heard the same stories, which is why I'm skeptical," Malik said. "Courtney isn't telling any of those stories."

"Yet," Dee reminded him.

"So what did you tell her?"

"You mean did I tell her she'd already found one?" Dee said teasingly. "Of course not. I mumbled something about trying to talk to Mac myself, and just let it drop. What'd you think I'd do—march her in to meet Brivari?"

"That would be a bad idea any day of the week, but especially now," Malik said.

Dee paused beside the stack of dishes she was removing from the box. "I haven't seen either Brivari or Jaddo since Pierce died. Are they okay?"

"Jaddo's been practically living at the base, keeping an eye on the fallout."

"And?" Dee prompted.

"Still nothing. Lots of chest thumping and going through old records, but no actual records were kept of his captivity, of course. He still doesn't think anything's going to come of it."

"Good," Dee said, breathing a private sigh of relief. "What about Brivari?"

"I haven't seen him since his friend's funeral," Malik answered. "He was very upset. Very talkative, though, for him, anyway. I guess anger loosens the tongue....or maybe it was guilt. After all these years of not telling me a thing, I finally found out how Khivar managed to overcome the king and why Brivari blames himself for that."

"You mean how Vilandra let Khivar into the city?"

Malik's eyes widened. "He told you about that? Great. Humans know more about how my world fell than I do."

"Don't be ridiculous," Dee said calmly. "They didn't 'tell' me anything; I was a kid, remember? I just overheard things, things they told my parents or said to each other."

"At least you overheard something," Malik said. "They never say anything in my presence for me to overhear."

"Maybe that'll change," Dee suggested. "With Brivari, anyway. You can understand how he feels about losing a friend, whereas I don't think Jaddo will. So maybe he'll start talking to you now. And maybe Courtney has a really good reason for what she's doing, and maybe Anthony and I won't go broke staying here this summer."

"Anything else on your wish list?" Malik asked dryly.

"Lots," Dee smiled. "But I'll settle for just those few items for the moment."

"Those look like they've seen better days," Malik noted when Dee lifted a stack of remarkably threadbare towels out of the box.

"It's the Great Depression," Dee said. "Everyone who lived through it can't bear to throw anything away. But I don't care what they look like. All I care about is that no one is going to tell me how to hang them or when to wash them."

"So how's your mother taking all of this?" Malik asked.

Dee was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted. "And to be perfectly honest, I don't care."





*****************************************************




Proctor residence




"We've loaded up the crib and the playpen," David called up the stairs. "I need to get the truck back to Mac this afternoon, so we need to go." He paused a moment, waiting for an answer. "Em? Did you hear me?"

Still no answer. David climbed the stairs to find his wife sitting in Dee's old bedroom, staring at her closet.

"Emily? Are you coming?"

"I was just thinking about my mother," Emily said softly, not looking at him.

"What?"

"My mother. Do you remember her?"

"Of course I do," David said, mystified. "Why?"

"She showed up on our doorstep a few days after you left for basic training. Didn't write, didn't call, just showed up with two suitcases and pushed her way in the front door."

David paused in the doorway, unsure as to why this was coming up now, not to mention the details. He vaguely recalled receiving a letter with this information, but that had been such a tumultuous time. He'd volunteered for duty, and the Army had promptly taken him up on his offer, ordering him to report for basic training with only three days notice, leaving behind a young daughter and a wife who just could not understand why he hadn't taken his chances with the draft.

"A month later," Emily continued, "I threw her out."

Now that, I didn't know, David thought, although he wasn't surprised. Emily's mother had been a narrow-minded, domineering woman whose sole goal in life was to correct the "mistakes" of anyone within reach. She had not approved of Emily's choice of husband, nor of the time it took for them to become pregnant with Dee, and further disapproved of their not immediately having another baby. She'd died while David was overseas, the victim of a stroke, and David remembered thinking that the one silver lining in that cloud was that he had been unable to attend the funeral and so did not have to fake grief.

"I remember you saying she was here," David said, "but I never knew when or why she left. I guess I never thought about it."

"She assumed that I wouldn't be able to manage all by myself, so she showed up to 'help' me," Emily went on, her voice heavy with irony. "The first thing she did was empty out this closet. She was determined that Dee would only wear dresses and that she stop running around with the boys and climbing trees. At first, I let her do it. You had just left, and I was so tired, so scared....." Her voice trailed off, and she finally turned to look at him. "I've turned into my mother, haven't I?"

David walked slowly into the room and sat down beside his wife. "Hardly," he said gently. "I wasn't here for that particular confrontation, but I was for all the others. Your mother was....." He paused, trying to find a charitable way to finish that sentence. "Let's just say that any conflict you've had with Dee is only a shadow of what you had with your mother."

"But it is a shadow," Emily insisted. "A shadow of someone I couldn't stand, who I swore I'd never be like. And look at me....I've become what I hate."

"No you haven't," David said. "We all have the capacity to be like your mother, but most of us stop ourselves before we go too far. She never did. And you just have. That isn't becoming what you hate, it's refusing to become what you hate."

"And now I've driven them out, just when they needed a place to stay," Emily said sadly. "When Dee left for college, she was a teenager with a boyfriend; the next time I saw her, she was a wife and mother. I still haven't gotten my head around that."

"I think we all need time to adjust," David said, "and it's best that we do that adjusting in separate households."

"You helped them out, right?" Emily asked.

"Mac and Rose have spent the morning donating to the cause, so between the two of us, we've basically furnished their apartment. And I wrote Anthony a check. Told him it was for the food I would have bought had they stayed here."

"I hope it was a big check," Emily said.

"Doesn't matter. He gave it back to me this morning."

Emily closed her eyes briefly and sighed. "Of course he did. Good Lord, David, what are they going to do? What with law school for Dee and graduate school for Anthony, they can't afford to tap the money Brivari gave us, and Anthony doesn't make enough to—"

"I think that's not our problem," David interrupted gently. "Why don't we let our grown daughter and her husband work out their finances on their own. Just like you and I did when we first got married and your mother predicted we'd be divorced, destitute, or both within a year. And you know how that turned out," he added as Emily smiled faintly. "Dee could handle soldiers and aliens when she was nine. I'm sure she can handle a budget now that she's a month shy of twenty-one."

"You're right," Emily nodded. "You're right. They'll be fine. Absolutely fine," she repeated, as though repetition would produce fact.

"So are you coming with us? We're all loaded up, and Anthony's waiting with Philip."

Emily hesitated a moment before shaking her head. "No. This isn't the right time. The minute she sees me, she'll assume I'm there to....well, you know what she'll assume. Let them move in and get settled, and then I'll visit."

"Okay." David stood up, pausing in the doorway. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"What did you say to her that made them decide to move out? The two of you seemed to have reached a ceasefire, and then all of a sudden, she's leaving. What happened?"

Emily dropped her eyes, looking pained. "She came home in the middle of the day last Friday, all concerned because she thought they'd found Pierce. I thought she'd be glad they'd found him given what he did to Jaddo and that nurse, but no....she was worried. Worried that if the aliens showed themselves, the chase would start again and Philip would be right in its path. Our daughter, Miss Fearless herself, was afraid for her child, just like I was afraid for her. And...." She paused, flushing. "I'm afraid I rubbed her nose in it. Rather severely."

"Are you worried about that?" David asked.

"It hadn't even occurred to me before Dee brought it up," Emily replied. "Cavitt was the one who was pursuing us, and after he died, I haven't worried about it since then. Even if it does start up again, I don't see them coming here, not this time. Why? Have you heard something I haven't?"

"No," David answered. "I think there are too many people in the Army who have too much to lose if what happened in the forties comes to light. And with both Cavitt and Pierce gone and the aliens free.....no. I don't see anything coming of it this time."




******************************************************




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




"We will focus our efforts here," Lewis said, pointing to the map.

Ten pairs of eyes followed his finger. "Roswell?" Agent Del Bianco said. "But the alien killed further north in another county."

"Because that's where Pierce was," Lewis replied. "That's not where the aliens are. The aliens are near Roswell."

"Why do you think that, sir?" Agent Cates asked.

Lewis settled back in his new chair in his new office and looked around with satisfaction. New digs. Ten hand-picked agents to do his bidding. Ten young minds to mold, to dazzle with what he knew. It was absolutely intoxicating. "Because that's where their ship crashed, agent," Lewis replied calmly. "And do you know what happened after their ship crashed?"

Cates frowned. "You.....captured four aliens, two dead, two alive—"

"Before that," Lewis interrupted. "Before anyone knew they were there, two large trucks were stolen in the area. Both trucks were returned empty, their cargo removed, but not stolen. One driver lived; the other was not so lucky."

Lewis paused, his subordinates' rapt expressions making it clear he had their complete attention. "I happen to know that the silver handprint is only one way these creatures kill—the other is what looks like spontaneous human combustion, often mistaken for a lightning strike. The unfortunate trucker's body was found in a dumpster, burnt to a crisp. There was no sign of fire anywhere nearby, no thunderstorms. At the time no one knew what to make of that. The ship was found only days later, and American soldiers met a similar fate, their smoking corpses a testament to the threat we faced. They were difficult to identify even with dental records."

Rapt expressions were replaced by looks of fear and disgust. "That is why I have this job, gentlemen," Lewis continued. "I alone know the history of these monsters. I am the only man alive with intimate knowledge of their habits, their strengths and weaknesses, and the ways by which they may be identified. I will share this knowledge with you, my hand-selected associates, so that together, we may bring them down and save our country....no, our planet....from whatever nefarious purpose brought them here."

Fear and disgust were now exchanged for pride and determination. Lewis beamed at his hand-chosen team, a secret cadre that answered only to him. And he answered only to Director Hoover. He had waited a long time for this moment. A very long time.

"Sir?" Agent Owens ventured. "If I may....what makes you think the aliens have a 'nefarious purpose'?"

"You're a Harvard man, are you not?" Lewis asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then perhaps a Harvard man can tell me why the aliens would need not one, but two trucks over two separate nights?"

"They were moving something," Owens said promptly.

"Exactly," Lewis said. "Their ship was empty when we found it, supposedly because they had delivered their cargo on some other planet. My colleague, Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt, God rest his soul, believed that the aliens had emptied the ship prior to its discovery; the truck thefts prove that. They were moving something, something large enough that it needed to be transported in two loads over two nights, and that something is very likely hidden in the area surrounding the crash site. Whatever it is, you can be certain that the aliens would need to stick close to it, or at least keep an eye on it. Which is why we will begin our search in and around Roswell, all the while keeping our ears to the ground in case they show themselves elsewhere."

"What do you think it is?" Cates asked eagerly. "Weapons? Technology?"

"It could be anything," Lewis said ominously, "but whatever it is, it can't be good news for us. The aliens lied, gentlemen. They said they'd never been here, that their ship crashed by accident, but they knew far too much about us for this to have been their first visit. Ships of similar design had been spotted for years by our military, but no one ever got close enough to see one. They said their ship was a cargo ship with the cargo already delivered, but the dead truck driver gave them away. They brought something here, something they didn't want us to find, something that has remained hidden these past twelve years. I mean to find that something and the ones who brought it here."

"What do you think they're planning, sir?" Del Bianco asked.

"Invasion," Lewis said firmly as the eyes around him widened. "Colonel Cavitt and I were both convinced they were bent on invasion. These monsters can look like anyone, so it would be simple for them to blend in with the rest of us, take over someone's identity, infiltrate our society, our government even. Just think—until the x-ray machine arrives, there is no way to tell if anyone in this very room is an alien."

Lewis watched with satisfaction as heads swiveled left and right and looks of alarm were exchanged. It was necessary to drive home the nature of the threat immediately lest the tendency of some people to think the best of others and offer the benefit of the doubt prevailed. All appeared suitably threatened.....save one.

"Would it really be that easy to infiltrate us, sir?" Agent Owens asked.

Lewis' eyebrows rose. "Meaning?"

"Well....I've been going over the material you gave us, and it seems like it would be really difficult to take someone's identity. I know they can look like anyone, but according to this, they can't duplicate thoughts or memories. So to actually take someone's place for any length of time.....that sounds risky. Seems like they'd be caught pretty quickly."

"They need not rely on replacement as their sole means of infiltration," Lewis explained patiently. "They can simply present themselves as human and infiltrate us that way."

"But....wouldn't they be caught by medical tests?" Owens asked. "You need a blood test to get married, a physical for insurance....I suppose they could infiltrate lower level occupations with no problem, but the military or the government would discover them in short order even without x-rays."

"They can also do a great deal of damage in 'short order'," Lewis replied. "Would you like to be personally responsible for that damage, agent?"

"Of course not, sir," Owens said, taken aback. "I just....well, I'm just having trouble aligning the idea of invasion with what we've seen so far. These people are far more advanced than we are, so what's taking them so long? It's been ten years since the prisoner escaped. I would think they'd be all over us by now."

"Perhaps 'invasion' wasn't the most appropriate term," Lewis said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Perhaps 'colonization' would be more accurate. Invasion implies a large force massively applied; colonization is a move covert, lengthy process. And frankly, there is no way to tell whether or not the aliens are 'all over us' because there is no way to identify them visually. There could very well be whole colonies of these murderous creatures with none of us the wiser." He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Now, some of you will work undercover, while others will scour the nation's databases looking for deaths which match the aliens' MO. I myself will keep to the shadows as I am recognizable, having directly interfaced with the prisoner in the forties."

"It would help if we could see the coroner's reports on all alien-related deaths since the prisoner's escape in 1950," Owens said. "I have Dr. Pierce's, but I can't find the rest of them."

Lewis dropped his eyes. "Pierce is the first alien-related death that we know of since the forties."

Owens blinked. "Do you mean....do you mean this is the first time these things have killed since they escaped?"

"Your point?" Lewis asked coldly.

"Well.....for 'murderous creatures', they don't seem to be doing a whole lot of murdering, sir."

"And just exactly how many murders would it take to impress you, Agent Owens?" Lewis asked softly.

"Sir, I'm not trying to dismiss our dead," Owens said hastily. "I just can't figure out why they haven't killed more. They could have killed everyone in that hospital, but they only killed Pierce."

"Obviously they don't want to call attention to themselves," Del Bianco said. "They know we know how they kill, so leaving a trail of bodies to follow would be a bad idea."

Owens frowned. "True. But that doesn't explain why they killed only Pierce. They used a handprint; they knew we'd know it was them. So why not take more down when the cat was already out of the bag? Same thing when the prisoner escaped. They didn't kill anybody, and they easily could have."

I should have lied about that, Lewis thought sourly, although he already had lied in his brief account of the prisoner's escape: He'd conveniently left out the part about the "incapacitated doctor" being none other than himself. "What difference does it make if the monsters inexplicably spared the hospital staff?" he snapped. "They killed, agent. You do acknowledge that, don't you?"

"Of course, sir."

"Then I suggest you concern yourself more with those who have died, not those who haven't," Lewis advised.

"But it still seems like they target only those who attack them," Owens went on. "And don't we do that, sir? I mean, if the situation were reversed, wouldn't we respond exactly the same way?"

Slam! Lewis' hands hit the table at the same time he rose from his chair. "Get out," he said tersely.

Ten frozen faces looked back at him in shock for a split second before everyone scrambled to their feet. "Not you, you!" Lewis bellowed, pointing at Owens. "You get out!"

Owens went white. "Me, sir?"

"This," Lewis fumed, "is precisely the attitude which the Army allowed to fester. 'Maybe they're not dangerous. Maybe they're just lost. Maybe we can make friends with them.' I don't know about you, gentlemen, but I do not 'make friends' with murderers, any murderers, regardless of the number of victims! I will not have this lily-livered, spineless attitude in my unit. Is that clear?

"Yes, sir, but I was just trying to reason out why—"

"Forget 'reason'!" Lewis snapped. "These creatures know no 'reason'! They are here for only one purpose—to kill us. Harvard did you a disservice, agent, if it taught you to 'reason' whilst surrounded by dead bodies. Those bodies should be 'reason' enough, and the fact that the pile is not larger than it is should be cause for relief, not parlay."

"Yes, sir," Owens said, abashed. "Sorry, sir."

"Apologies will not suffice," Lewis said angrily. "This is why we lost the prisoner, because those in command were not willing to see what was right in front of them. I will not have a similar failure in my own unit. Get out!"

Ashen-faced, Owens complied, the stunned expressions of his colleagues trailing him out of the room. "Are there any other weepy do-gooders who would like to follow him?" Lewis demanded.

No one moved. "Good," Lewis said severely. "Agent Del Bianco has your assignments. Those of you undercover in Roswell will have the advantage of a certain amount of confusion due to the movie being filmed there. Use it. I expect everyone to be intimately familiar with their false backgrounds by this time tomorrow. Dismissed."

Del Bianco hung back as chairs scraped and the rest scurried out of the room. "Sir....about Owens...."

"What about him?" Lewis said irritably.

"Well....I have an assignment for him, but I don't know if I should give it to him."

"Let him sweat for tonight, then see if he's changed his tune tomorrow," Lewis instructed.

"And if he hasn't?" Del Bianco asked. "Will he be reassigned?"

Lewis fixed him with a hard stare. "This is a top secret unit, agent, answerable only to The Director himself. Even the president doesn't know of our existence, and God willing, he never will. One is never 'reassigned' from such a post. The resulting loss of security would be unacceptable."

"Then....what if....." Del Bianco's voice trailed off as though unwilling to complete the sentence.

"If Agent Owens has not come to his senses by tomorrow morning, it will be necessary to deal with him," Lewis said.

Del Bianco's eyes widened. " 'Deal with him', sir?"

"Yes, deal with him. Do you need further clarification, agent?"

"No, sir," Del Bianco said faintly.

"Can I count on you, agent?"

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco said promptly. "Absolutely."

"Good. Dismissed."

Lewis closed his eyes and sighed, pondering the cruel twist of fate that had great men such as himself and Sheridan Cavitt constantly pitting themselves against pacifists who sought peace from those who wanted none. Pacifists had nearly derailed the assault on Hitler, and it didn't take a Harvard history professor to divine the likely result if the allies had refused to enter that fray. Honestly, some people just never learned. But still, some weeding out was bound to be necessary. He hadn't thought it would occur so quickly, but perhaps it was best that it had; occurring later could be disastrous. He may only be afforded one chance to capture an alien, so the last thing he wanted was to have one of his own men suffer a sudden attack of conscience at exactly the wrong time.

And the second last thing he wanted was to have no means of holding his prize. Twenty minutes after dismissing his agents, Lewis was en route to De Baca county and a lunch date with the corpulent Helen Pierce. When the aliens were finally captured, he fully intended to have the means to hold them despite Daniel's valiant attempts to prevent that. Any alien that fell within his grasp could be given no quarter, and neither could any human who stood in his way. And if that spelled trouble for the technically innocent, that could not be helped. Hard times always brought hard decisions. The few must be sacrificed for the many, and the strongest governments were headed by those who understood that.



******************************************************



2:30 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell




"So I'll only be gone for an hour or so," Dee said, packing up a snack for Philip as he toddled around, inspecting his new home right across the hall from Courtney. "Anthony could only get the morning off, or else he'd be here. Sorry for the short notice; are you sure it's all right?"

"No problem at all," Courtney said, still in her uniform and having only just arrived from her shift at the diner. "I told you I'd watch him, and I meant that. But why is it only an hour? That doesn't sound like a shift."

"I guess Mr. Parker wants to show me the ropes before I start tomorrow, but honestly, one diner is pretty much the same as another," Dee answered. "I did tell him that I'd have to coordinate my shifts with yours, and he said that was fine."

"He'll take anything he can get because half of the waitresses who tried out got jobs in the movie as 'extras'," Courtney said, freeing her feet from her work shoes. "Mr. Parker is really glad to have you."

"What happened to the other half?"

"They said they didn't scream loud enough," Courtney chuckled. "Honestly, was that what it was like back in '47? Were people really running through the streets screaming?"

Dee gave her an appraising look before answering. "No. When the Army first changed its story, a lot of people called the sheriff or went down to the station, but that was over pretty quickly. After that we went through several years of people thinking they saw aliens, but it never amounted to people screaming in the streets. That one's pure Hollywood."

I hope she doesn't think I'm crazy, Courtney thought as Dee went back to getting Philip's things ready for her first stint as babysitter. Telling Dee that she was looking for an alien had been a huge risk, but she had to do something; a second message from her father on the odd device he'd sent with her had convinced her of that. Nicholas was growing impatient with the fact that Mark was never available to talk, and since Mark would never be available to talk, she needed to work fast. It was now a race to see whether she could find the Warders before Nicholas discovered his operative was dead.

And the obstacles to that task had never seemed larger. The Warders had finally shown themselves, close enough to focus Nicholas' attention on Roswell, but far enough away to do her no good in finding them. Checking newspapers and mining local gossip for strange deaths or "miracles" had not been helpful. Humans were very chatty, with most willing to talk about just about anything, including any little tidbit she'd found while scouring the papers for useful information. But she'd gotten precisely nowhere; nothing unusual was happening in Roswell save for the typical "I saw an alien!" claim that even she could tell was fake. She had reached a dead end, and time was running out.

Which left her with the two friends she had made so far who knew some faint glimmers of her situation and had offered to help: Carl and Dee. It was so tempting to just pour out her story and her frustrations to people who were smart, capable, and apparently fearless, but she just couldn't afford to. Twice now she'd almost identified herself to Carl as an alien just to see his reaction, planning to laugh it all off as a joke if he reacted badly, but she'd stopped herself at the last minute. She would have taken him up on his offer to help her find the "man" she was looking for in a heartbeat if doing so wouldn't put him in the incredible danger she knew it would. The risk involved in finding the Warders was hers alone, and she wouldn't be able to live with herself if someone else was harmed in their pursuit.

The answer to this dilemma had come to her only moments after Dee had offered to help yesterday. While waiting on a customer who said he was here to look for aliens, she'd had a sudden flash of inspiration: Why couldn't she be here looking for aliens? Lots of people came to Roswell looking for aliens, so that would not be considered unusual. She would not have to identify herself as an alien or put others in harm's way, and by tapping into the alien network that permeated Roswell, she might be able to sift through the nonsense and come up with some genuinely useful information. And what better place to start than with someone who grew up here, who had witnessed the aftermath of the crash and actually knew the man who found the ship?

The only problem with this brilliant strategy was the effect it had had on Dee, whose blank look when Courtney announced she was looking for aliens swiftly changed to one of disapproval. Dee apparently didn't think highly of those who came to Roswell for that purpose, and one look at the typical tourist made it easy to see why. But she had to do something; Nicholas and her father wouldn't accept her excuses for Mark's absence forever. Briefly worried that Dee would end their friendship, she'd been delighted to come home today to find Dee all moved in and treating her no differently than she always had. It would have been a huge disappointment to have one of her only friends move in across the hall only to find that they didn't want to be friends anymore because they thought she was crazy.

"I bet you're glad to be away from your mother," Courtney said. "How was she this morning? Did she try to boss you around while you were unpacking?"

"She didn't show up. Anthony said that Daddy told him she'd decided not to visit right away, but he didn't say why."

"Maybe she finally got the message."

"Maybe," Dee said doubtfully, "but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Don't write her off too quickly—you only get one mother," Courtney advised, recalling how her own mother had bravely swallowed her sorrow while seeing her husband and only daughter off on a mission from which they all knew they might never return. Despite all the arguments they'd had while Courtney was growing up, the hardest thing she'd ever done was walk away knowing she would likely never see her mother again.

"We'll see," Dee said vaguely. "Now, I'm assuming you'll watch Philip here just because all his stuff his here. I'll put his snack in the fridge, and this is the same crib he slept in at my parents' house."

"Pots!" Philip said enthusiastically, pointing at the door. "Pots!"

"You can play with our pots," Dee told Philip, opening one of her lower cupboards which had been helpfully stocked with unbreakable pots ripe for banging.

But Philip had other ideas. "Pots!" he bellowed, reaching up on tiptoe to open the door and pointing across the hall at Courtney's room. "Pots!"

"Wow...he's already figured out I live right across the hall," Courtney said, impressed. "Takes after his mama. Don't worry about it," she added when further attempts to distract Philip from his favorite pots failed. "It doesn't matter. He can play in my room until he gets tired."

"Are you sure?" Dee asked. "I don't want him tearing up your place."

"There's not much to tear up," Courtney said cheerfully. "C'mon, Mr. Evans. Off we go."

Philip happily accepted Courtney's hand as she walked him across the hall to her own room, her work shoes in her other hand. He had half the pots in her cupboard on the floor before she'd even had a chance to set her shoes down. "You don't waste any time, do you?" she smiled.

"Spoon?" Philip suggested helpfully.

"Right here," Courtney said, pulling Philip's favorite drumstick, a wooden spoon, out of a drawer and handing it over. God, she missed children. One of the many difficulties of this mission was that most operatives were either her age or older, usually older. Which had left her only human children to interact with, but Nicholas frowned on that, fearful those children would discover something they shouldn't.

"Hi," a voice said behind her.

Dee was standing in the doorway with Carl. "Our faucet was acting up, so I told Carl he could come fix it while you were watching Philip. So....I guess he'll be over there while you're in and out."

Courtney smiled faintly. She was babysitting Philip, and Carl was obviously meant to babysit her. "He looks happy," Carl commented as Philip banged away enthusiastically with the spoon.

"He usually is when he's making noise," Dee said. "Are you sure you're okay with him being over here?"

"Sure I'm sure," Courtney said. "I'll take him back over for his snack and his nap. And Carl can come with us, of course."

Courtney watched Carl and Dee exchange glances. "All right then, I'm off," Dee said. "I'll be.....Philip, get out of Courtney's closet. You can't play in there."

The banging had stopped. A prickle of unease crept up Courtney's spine when she saw Philip's diapered rear end sticking out of the closet as he bent over right where the loose floor board hid the trithium generator. She'd gotten it out again just this morning; had she not replaced the board firmly enough? Surely a toddler didn't have the necessary dexterity to......

"What have you got there?" Dee asked, bending over her son.

Courtney tried to walk unhurriedly toward the closet. Maybe he was just holding a shoe, or a bug, or a loose nail. But her heart sank when she saw the black device in Philip's chubby little hand. Don't panic, she ordered herself severely. Dee wouldn't know what it was. She'd just make up some excuse and slip it away with none the wiser. But even as she ran down a possible list of excuses, Philip started fingering the buttons. No! Courtney thought frantically, terrified he'd press the communication button and cause a hologram to appear in midair. But Philip skipped over the communication button and pressed another.

The effect was fantastic. A beam of light shot from the center of the device and bounced off the ceiling, then the walls, bathing the room in a strange glow. "What is that?" Dee asked in wonder.

Good question, Courtney thought, all ready with a handy lie. But her words died in her throat as her eyes fell on Carl and the purpose of that strange light became all too clear. His entire body was surrounded by a faint, red aura....and that could only mean one thing.

"Go!" Courtney cried, grabbing Philip and shoving him into Dee's arms as she pushed them toward the door. "Get away from here! I'll hold him off! Run!"




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 21 next Sunday.

it's so awesome Kath, how could I not be reading

^ Aw, thanks, Majik!




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


July 7, 1959, 2:45 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney had spent a good deal of time over the last few weeks wondering how anyone would approach the Warders if and when she found them. If finding them in the first place was a monumental task, approaching them was even more so, especially if one wanted to emerge from that encounter in one piece. The first and most important step was to make certain they had the right one. The Argilians who had not supported Khivar's quest for the throne were in favor of Rath taking the crown and had offered to help him achieve that. Several dead emissaries later, one of them had finally made it past Rath's famously severe Warder to actually make this proposal, only to find that Rath's loyalty to Zan would never allow him to accept. It had been a bitter blow that had diminished their ranks and demoralized those who remained.

Zan's being toppled was a disaster that nonetheless presented a fresh opportunity—in light of what had happened, perhaps Rath would be more receptive to their concerns. Rath himself would not be available for several years now, making it necessary to court that famously severe Warder instead. And it must be his Warder that was approached first because it was highly unlikely that the king's Warder would let any emissary live were they to identify themselves as belonging to a faction that once favored removing his Ward from power. While there was certainly no way to be certain of how Jaddo would react, Brivari's reaction was bound to be worse.

So....if her first task was to find people who did not wish to be found, her second was to identify them as well. That task would be even more difficult than the first, and both necessarily took precedence over and were crucial to the third, which was for a more seasoned member of the resistance to make their pitch without being killed. Small wonder, then, that she had spent many a sleepless night pondering how to accomplish this. She was the rebel leader's daughter and a soldier in her own right, but possessed of no special powers, no shapeshifting, nothing at all but an ardent wish to restore peace to a world which had lost it. Curiously, that small, simple flame had been enough to keep her here, making multiple mental lists of how she might pull off the impossible.

But every single one of those lists went flying out of her head when little Philip Evans pressed that heretofore unpressed button on the device her father had given her, bathing her room in what must be infrared light. Covari could see in the infrared spectrum, and all emitted an infrared signature which made them visible to other Covari. No other race on her world possessed such visual acuity, so this evened the score; the bright red aura that surrounded Carl made him glow like a beacon. Of all the ways she had imagined this happening, this had never made even one of those lists.

"Go!" she cried, snatching the generator from Philip's hands and turning off the light as she scooped him up in her arms and pushed him into Dee's. "Get away from here! I'll hold him off! Run!"

Dee stared at her in utter confusion. "Get out of here!" Courtney insisted when she didn't move. "It's not safe!"

"What on earth is going on?" Dee said in astonishment.

"No time—just go!" Courtney urged.

"I'm not going anywhere until I find out what's going on," Dee said in exasperation. "What was that thing, anyway?" she added, staring at the device Philip had been holding. "What did it do?"

Dee obviously wouldn't budge, and Courtney knew her well enough to know she wasn't likely to change her mind any time soon. Which left her with only one option: Supplication. Bracing herself, she turned to face the Covari.

"Don't hurt them," she begged, planting herself squarely in front of Dee and Philip. "They have nothing to do with this. It's me you want. Let them go."

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Dee exclaimed behind her. "Why would he hurt us? Carl, do you have any idea what she's talking about?"

"I might," the Covari said softly.

"I know what you are," Courtney went on, trying to keep her voice steady. "Leave them out of this. Go!" she called behind her. "Quickly. Before it changes its mind."

"Incredible," the Covari murmured, gazing at her with interest. "And right in front of me all the time. We've been unopposed for so long, I've grown lax."

But Dee had had enough. "What is going on?" she demanded, coming out from behind Courtney and standing in full view of "Carl", her vulnerable baby in her arms. "Now you both sound like you're nuts. Somebody better start talking."

"Dee, just go," Courtney pleaded.

"No," Dee said stubbornly. "Not until I find out what's happening."

"I won't have you hurt because of me!" Courtney exclaimed.

"What makes you think I'm going to be hurt?" Dee asked impatiently.

"Go!" Courtney shouted.

"Why?" Dee shouted back.

"It's an alien!" Courtney thundered.

Silence. One could have heard a pin drop, it was so quiet. Even Philip was quiet, his head swinging from one tense face to another. Courtney's eyes were locked on the Covari, ready to lunge in front of it if it moved so much as an inch, while Dee's swung back and forth in utter disbelief. Now she really thinks I'm crazy, Courtney thought sadly. "Carl" would deny everything, of course. There was no way for her to prove it was Covari, no way to explain the infrared signature that had given it away. It would say Courtney was nuts, and Dee would believe it, if she hadn't already reached that conclusion herself.

Dee's eyes swung back to Courtney. "I know."

Courtney blinked. "What?"

"You're right; Carl's an alien," Dee said calmly.

Courtney's heart lurched. She knows? How could she know? How could.....unless......

Suddenly Courtney stumbled backwards, putting as much distance between herself and the others as possible. She hadn't looked at Dee under the infrared. Was she Covari too? Was that why Carl and Dee were such good friends? Was this the disguise the Warders had chosen, one male, one female? And how could it be a coincidence that both had befriended her only hours after her arrival in town? They knew who I was, she thought in horror. They've known all along.

"Courtney, stop it," Dee ordered, walking closer. "Carl isn't going to hurt you—"

"Stay back," Courtney ordered harshly. "Don't come near me!"

"Who?" Dee asked, bewildered. "Me?"

"Stay where you are!" Courtney shouted, fumbling with the device, trying to remember which button her father had told her to use in just this kind of emergency.




******************************************************




"What in the name of God are you doing?" Dee snapped, her patience with this nonsense all but gone. "What, you've decided I'm a threat now?"

"You're one too!" Courtney exclaimed in a shaky voice. "You both are!"

Dee's jaw dropped. My God, she is nuts, she thought as Courtney tried to back away from both her and Carl, holding up a hand as though either were likely to attack her. And to think that she had almost left her son with this woman, someone who had seemed perfectly stable but obviously wasn't. Dee hadn't gotten a good look at the odd light Philip had found in the closet, and the strange glow it produced had lasted for mere seconds, but apparently that had been enough for Courtney, who had promptly branded Carl an alien even though he hadn't done a thing to give himself away. The fact that she was accidentally right meant nothing. Dee was very familiar with these types; they were all over the area, had been since childhood. A substantial percentage of those who came to Roswell "looking for aliens" found them, or thought they had, simply because they wanted to, often branding this or that person an alien based on some bogus criteria or other. Aliens had overbites. Aliens didn't like loud music, or preferred opera, or were the authors of that rebellious rock and roll. Aliens ate only certain kinds of foods, were awake at certain hours, or suffered from astigmatism. The number of nonsense identifiers seemed to be endless, and it appeared one could now add "funny little lights" to the list.

Even worse, there was no talking people out of these ridiculous preconceptions, which is why Dee had not been surprised when Carl had telepathically advised her to agree with Courtney. Fighting with these people never got one anywhere; it was best to go along with them, at least until you could either get yourself and your loved ones far away or find them a nice rubber room. Unfortunately, agreement hadn't worked this time; Dee's announcement that Carl was indeed an alien had inexplicably made Courtney decide that she was an alien, a leap of logic which Dee simply couldn't fathom.

"All right, I've had just about enough of this," Dee said firmly. "You obviously need some help, so—"

*Stop,* Malik ordered.

*Stop what?* Dee demanded. *She's crazy!*

*I'm not so sure about that,* Malik answered. *Just let me handle this, okay?*

Now what is he talking about? Dee thought in exasperation. However stable Courtney had been, she clearly wasn't now, and it certainly didn't take a trained psychiatrist to see that.

"Listen to me," Malik said to Courtney, who was watching him the way one watches a wild animal that wants to eat you. "Dee is not what you think she is. Push the same button Philip pushed, and you'll see. Go ahead," he urged when she stared at him suspiciously. "I'll stay right where I am, and so will Dee."

Like hell I will, Dee thought darkly. She wanted her little boy out of here, and fast. But her intention to stalk out was trumped by her curiosity when Courtney opened her hand to reveal a black, oddly shaped something-or-other with weird markings on it. A moment later the room was bathed in that weird glow again, an odd, faintly reddish cast. "Pitty!" Philip exclaimed, using his version of the word "pretty" as he pointed a chubby finger at Carl. Dee looked at Carl and saw that he was indeed "pretty"—much prettier, in fact, than anyone else. A bright red line surrounded his entire body, as though someone had chosen to crayon around him with a fire engine red crayon. No such glow surrounded herself, Philip, or Courtney, who was staring at Dee in amazement.

"You see?" Malik said gently. "No infrared signature."

"Infrared?" Dee echoed. "Is that what this light is?"

"It renders infrared visible," Malik explained. "My people can see in the infrared spectrum, but yours can't. And neither can hers," he added, gazing fixedly at Courtney.

Hers? Dee was still putting all this information together when Courtney found her voice again. "Are you Brivari or Jaddo?" she asked Malik.

"Neither," Malik answered.

Now it was Dee's turn to back away in alarm, clutching her son protectively to her chest. "Who are you?" she demanded.




******************************************************




Courtney clicked the device off as a glimmer of hope stirred within her; small, to be sure, but bright enough that she ignored Dee's question, her eyes fixed on "Carl". Neither. It was Covari, but not a Warder. That made it one of the other four. The dust of two had been found in Copper Summit; no one knew for certain what had happened to the other two, although it was assumed they had been killed by the Warders. Whichever this was, it had been working for Khivar last they knew; now it could be working for anyone or no one, and Dee was obviously one of their human allies. The odds that she wasn't about to die right here, right now were a bit better than they had been a minute ago, but only a bit.

"Which one are you?" Courtney asked. "Amar? Orlon? Marana? Malik?"

"Never mind him, who are you?" Dee exclaimed.

"She's right," the Covari observed. "You're the one who needs to identify."

Courtney swallowed hard, looking back and forth from the Covari's calm face to Dee's angry one. If it was working for the Warders, it might kill her; if it was working for Khivar and found out she was a rebel, she would fare no better, probably worse. "What is that thing?" Dee asked "Carl", buying her a few precious minutes to think.

"In its last incarnation, it emitted a dampening field that blocked the Warders' enhanced abilities," the Covari replied. "It also tended to knock out human electrical devices for hundreds of yards, which was something of a dead giveaway. It seems to have acquired some new talents. What else does it do now?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Courtney admitted, her back still pressed against the wall. "I didn't know it could do that until Philip hit the button."

"Hi!" Philip announced at the mention of his name, sounding incongruently cheerful in the midst of all the tension.

"Hi, sweetheart," Courtney whispered. "I'm not going to hurt him," she added as Dee drew back even further. "I'm not here to hurt anybody. I'm here with a message."

"Let me guess," the Covari said. "The message is for this mysterious man who's dangerous and hard to find, otherwise known as a Royal Warder. That's your 'important task', isn't it?"

Dee's eyes widened when Courtney nodded reluctantly. "So she's...."

"An alien," the Covari nodded. "An Argilian, to be precise."

"And what's an....'Argilian'?" Dee asked suspiciously.

"One of the three races on my planet," the Covari explained. "Besides my race, there are Antarians, which are the king's race, and Argilians, the race of his usurper."

"And Argilians look human?" Dee said doubtfully.

"No; they look very much like me in my native form," the Covari answered. "She's wearing a husk. Think of it as a human shell. Argilians are very sensitive to atmospheric pressure and composition; Earth's would be fatal for them. Amar and I helped develop the seal which keeps the husk patent."

"Wow," Dee breathed, looking Courtney up and down. "They did a really good job. I never would have known."

"Neither would I," the Covari said. "And neither would the Warders. Which is the point, of course."

"Would you stop talking about me like I'm not even here?" Courtney said irritably. "I may be a different race, but I'm a person."

"A person who's told us precisely nothing," the Covari pointed out. "If I were you, I'd start talking. What's your name?"

"I know yours," Courtney said. "You were working on the husks' seal, and you're not Amar, so you must be Malik."

"Congratulations," Malik said. "Now, who are you? Your real name."

"I'm not authorized to give my real name."

"How convenient," Malik said dryly.

Dee's eyes narrowed. "If she wants a Warder, then let's get her one."

"Good idea," Malik agreed.

"No, wait!" Courtney said desperately as two pairs of eyes bored into hers. "Not yet! They'll kill me!"

"Give me one good reason why they shouldn't kill an Argilian spy right under their noses," Malik said softly.

When she didn't answer, Malik stepped closer; Courtney tried to back away, but she was already pressed so firmly against the wall that she could feel the light switch against her back. "You tried to save Dee when you thought I was a Warder. That's not the mark of the typical spy, and the main reason I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I need more than that, a lot more than that. Give me a reason not to turn you over immediately."

It's working for the Warders, Courtney thought, one crucial question answered. She wasn't authorized to speak to anyone, not Covari, not their human allies, but she was going to have to in order to survive, and very carefully, too, lest she give away too much. "On one condition," she said in a brittle voice. "Back away."

"I have a condition of my own," Malik said, nodding toward the device in her hand. "Put that thing down."

Reluctantly, Courtney set the device on the floor and gave it a push; it landed in the center of the room, well out of anyone's immediate reach. The three of them proceeded to stare at each other in an odd sort of triangle, Malik near the bed, Courtney pressed against the wall several yards away, and Dee hovering near the door with her toddler in her arms who was watching the crazy adults in his life with interest. "My name is unimportant; you wouldn't recognize it," she began. "I'm here on behalf of the Argilian resistance, the ones who offered their support to Rath instead of Khivar."

"Rath?" Malik repeated in surprise. "Does Jaddo know about this?"

"Of course he does," Courtney said coldly. "Back home, he killed the first six operatives we sent."

"And the seventh?"

"Made it through. Rath turned us down. He said he'd never go against the king."

"No, he wouldn't have," Malik murmured. "Go on."

"And then Khivar staged his coup," Courtney continued. "The Royal Warders escaped with the their Wards' bodies, created hybrids, and presumably transferred the mark, meaning Khivar could never legitimately take the throne. We had infiltrated Khivar's regime to the highest level. When the decision was made to send a force to scour Earth for the hybrids, some of our number were chosen as operatives."

"How many of you are there?" Malik asked.

"Over two hundred," Courtney said as Dee's eyes widened. "Only a small number are resistance, but some are very close to the leader."

"You mean Athenor?" Malik asked. "Otherwise known as 'Nicholas'?"

Courtney stared at him. "How did you know that?"

"Amar intercepted a transmission from Athenor where he said he'd go by the name 'Nicholas'," Malik answered. "He also said he'd personally ordered the deaths of the royal family, and it was clear that he was angling for the throne."

"That's the transmission that almost got him killed when a copy of it was sent to Khivar," Courtney said. "We certainly wouldn't have mourned Athenor's death; he's a horrible influence on Khivar. Did you send it?"

Malik shook his head. "Amar booby-trapped a communicator as a present for Orlon. It sent that transmission and killed Orlon and Marana."

"The bioscientist is dead?"

"Don't feel bad for her," Malik said bitterly. "She tried to kill me. Amar took the bullet instead." It rose from the bed and walked to the window. "You said something the other day, something about you having learned that the person you were looking for was here. What did you mean by that?"

"The Warders killed one of the men who held Jaddo captive," Courtney answered. "We know it was them; they left a silver handprint. My—" She stopped, having been about to say "my father". "Nicholas contacted me. He had details, images....everything."

"So he has a military or police contact," Malik said thoughtfully. "Not unexpected, I guess, for Khivar's second."

"What's a 'second'?" Dee asked.

"Second-in-command, first officer, vice president, all of the above," Malik replied. "The one who takes over when the first falls. Rath was Zan's second; unfortunately, they fell together. What exactly were your orders?"

"To find and identify the Warders so the resistance could approach them," Courtney answered. "I wasn't supposed to approach them myself."

"Wait," Dee slowly. "Courtney.....did you kill the man who was living here? Is Valenti right?"

"Of course I didn't kill him," Courtney protested. "He was an operative; I was supposed to stay with him. He was dead when I got here."

Dee and Malik exchanged startled glances. "Do you mean.....do you mean that Sheriff Valenti has a dead alien in his morgue?" Dee asked.

Courtney nodded numbly. "Oh, God," Dee said, beginning to pace back and forth. "These husks, or shells, or whatever you call them....would they hold up to an autopsy?"

"Maybe they didn't do an autopsy," Malik suggested when Courtney shook her head. "It sounds like the cause of death was pretty obvious."

"It's not that simple," Courtney said heavily. "The husk won't decay the way a human body would, at least not right away."

"Think he noticed?" Malik asked Dee.

"Oh, he noticed," Dee said in an anguished tone. "Count on it."




******************************************************



Roswell Sheriff's station




"Hanson!" Valenti bellowed over the din. "Where's my report?"

"Over here, sir," a voice answered. "I just finished."

Left, Valenti thought, following the voice through the sweaty crowd that filled the station this frightfully hot Tuesday, day two of what he was certain would be the longest summer of his life. Only two days into the Hollywood invasion, filming hadn't even started yet, and already he had a splitting headache.

"What've you got?" Valenti asked as he pushed past a knot of people vying for space in front of one of the box fans. "Wait—where's Hanson?"

"Having another go at being an extra, sir. Something about them needing more men to scream."

"And you are......?"

"Crist, sir," answered the unfamiliar deputy, fishing in his pocket and producing a name tag. "Sorry, I forgot to put this on. I was sent down to help out."

"Jesus, I don't even know half my staff," Valenti muttered.

"Sir?"

"Never mind. What've we got so far?"

"Six petty thefts, four of those being pickpockets, one assault, more of a shoving match, really, two drunk and disorderly's—"

"Wait—two D & D's?" Valenti broke in. "It's the middle of the afternoon!"

"Yes, sir."

"Great," Valenti sighed. "Just great. Do you suppose we could convince Parker's not to serve alcohol until dinner time?"

"Doubtful, sir."

"Try anyway," Valenti ordered as Crist scribbled. "Tell him it would be a public service. What else?"

"That's it, sir....so far," Crist amended. "As you can see, we haven't worked through everyone yet. It's a bit of a mess. Why don't you start with Mrs. Murtle over there. I'm told she was here this morning, and no one would take her complaint, so now she's back. Wants to see you personally."

"What's the problem?"

"You'd better let her explain, sir," Crist said wearily.

Valenti threaded his way through the crowd to where Mrs. Murtle was sitting on one of the benches in the waiting room. Martha Murtle was ninety if she was a day, but you'd never know it. When she spied Valenti, she sprang to her feet on arthritic legs powered by self-righteous indignation, something Martha Murtle was never short of.

"It's a scandal!" she announced before Valenti could even say hello. "Sheriff, these boys of yours, these children, won't even listen to me!"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Murtle," Valenti said in his best public servant voice. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I screamed twice as loud as anyone, but that awful Mr. Steinfeld only wants young boobies for his movie," Mrs. Murtle complained. "Like that one," she added disdainfully as a well-endowed woman in her twenties walked—or rather, pushed—past. "I'll have him know that mine used to be just as big. Just because they sag is no reason to—"

"Mrs. Murtle," Valenti interrupted as Crist stifled a laugh, "could you get to the point, please?"

"I was dismissed!" Mrs. Murtle exclaimed. "I tell you, it's shameful! What, does Mr. Steinfeld think only young people were here when the aliens landed?"

"Am I to understand that you're complaining because you weren't hired?" Valenti asked as Crist nodded behind her.

"I certainly am!" she huffed. "You have to do something about this, sheriff. It's not fair that my generation will not be represented in Roswell's moment of glory."

"Mrs. Murtle, my deputies wouldn't take a complaint because we have no control over who Mr. Steinfeld decides to hire for his film," Valenti said, swallowing a less than charitable remark about how "glorious" he felt this movie would be for Roswell. "He has to—"

"But I screamed louder!" Mrs. Murtle protested. "He said he wanted loud screams, and then he goes and hires some ninety-pound weakling who can barely squeak! It's deception, clear and simple!"

"—follow the law with regard to minors working on his film, but other than that, he can choose anyone he wants for any reason," Valenti continued, praying for patience. "I'm afraid we can't help you."

"But I was louder!" Mrs. Murtle insisted. "I'll prove it!"

The scream that Martha Murtle flung across the station had an electric effect on its inhabitants. Most people hit the floor, their own screams joining Martha's as heads swiveled wildly to find the source of the terror. "Martha, stop it!" Valenti ordered as deputies struggled to restore order, "or I'll have you arrested for causing public mayhem!"

But Martha ignored him, being possessed of an impressive set of lungs that seemed to make her scream go on forever. Valenti was just about to clap a hand over her mouth when a sharp voice from behind had the same effect.

"Martha Murtle, stop that at once!"

Mercifully, she did. "Let me guess," Mrs. Murtle said sourly. "Another young booby who's jealous of my pipes?"

Valenti suppressed a smile at the look on Mrs. Murtle's face when she found Andrea Valenti standing behind her with Jimmy by her side. "Oh," Martha said, coloring rapidly. "Mrs. Valenti. I didn't see you there."

"You mean you didn't hear me, I imagine," Andi said frostily, "because no one could hear anything with all your caterwauling. And I'd thank you to watch your language in front of my son. Unless you'd like to drop by later and explain to him exactly what a 'booby' is?"

"Well....no," Martha allowed, although Jimmy's expression made it clear he'd very much like to know the answer to that question. "But what am I to do in the face of such injustice? I tell you, I screamed twice as loud as anyone else! And I could use the money, too. My social security checks aren't nearly large enough—"

"I'll tell you what to do," Andi said firmly. "Go back to the auditions and scream just like you did now. When you run out of breath, take another and keep screaming. Mr. Steinfeld will hire you in self defense, if nothing else. You'll be making everyone else look bad."

Mrs. Murtle's face brightened. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I'll do! Oh, I can't wait to see his face!" she chortled as she made her way toward the door, the crowd parting eagerly to let her pass. "I'll scream so loud, he'll piss his pants! He'll need earplugs! He'll—"

The rest of Mrs. Murtle's victory speech disappeared out the door with her as everyone in the station breathed a sigh of relief. "I gather you've had an interesting day?" Andi said dryly.

"And it's nowhere near over," Valenti sighed, throwing an arm each around his wife and son. "You're both a sight for sore eyes. But what brings you down here?"

"We came to help, Dad!" Jimmy said enthusiastically.

"Help?" Valenti repeated blankly.

"Don't look so shocked," Andi said calmly. "Jimmy can file, I can type, and both of us can fetch coffee, restock supplies, and myriad other things that your staff usually does, freeing them to do actual police work."

"Oh....thanks, honey, but you don't have to do that," Valenti said. "I've got some temporary deputies and more on the way—"

"And it won't be enough, and we both know that," Andi said firmly. "We have the time, and you have the need. After seeing what you went through yesterday, we've decided this will be a family affair for the duration of that need."

"Andi, we've got some real weirdos down here," Valenti said, lowering his voice. "I don't think it's good for Jimmy to see that, never mind you."

" 'Me'?" Andi said archly as Valenti instantly regretted having said that. "What, now I'm some fragile flower of a woman who wilts at the slightest sign of trouble? Since when? And as for Jimmy, this will be good for him. He's hardly tiny any more, and he may follow in your footsteps one day. He should see how his father handles things."

"Please, Dad?" Jimmy added, looking eagerly around the bustling station. "This is so exciting!"

One person's trouble is another's excitement, Valenti thought. "We can try it," he said reluctantly. "But if it doesn't work out—"

"Excuse me, sir?" Crist said. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a Doctor Blake on the phone. Says it's urgent. He's on line one."

"You run along," Andi said briskly. "We'll make ourselves useful. Afternoon, gentlemen!" she called as she shepherded Jimmy through the swinging gate into the heart of the station. "What can we do to help?"

Careful—they might tell you, Valenti thought as several deputies smiled appreciatively at the sight of his lovely wife. He threaded his way back through the crowd to his office, which was blessedly empty, and picked up the phone.

"Jim, you have to come down to my office right away," Raymond Blake announced. "It's about Mark Green."

Green. With all the fun and games, he'd forgotten all about his exploding murder victim. "What about him?" Valenti asked.

"Not over the phone. You need to come down."

"Not now," Valenti said shortly. "I'm up to my scuppers in movie madness. Green will have to wait."

"This isn't something that can wait," Ray insisted.

"Why not? It's waited almost three weeks now. What could be so all fired important that it can't wait a little longer?"

"You can't afford to wait so much as a minute longer for this," Ray declared.

"All right, then, since it will take at least five minutes for me to get to your office, tell me now."

"Not over the phone," Ray repeated. "I've run every test I know of and a few I've invented, but you'll have a hard time believing it. I know I did."

"Try me."

"Jim—"

"Look, either give me a reason to walk away during one of the busiest times in my career, or wait until I can get to it," Valenti said impatiently.

"All right, how's this?" Ray demanded. "Mark Green wasn't human!"




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Next week is (an incredibly early) Easter, so I'll post Chapter 22 on Sunday, March 30th.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


July 7, 1959, 3:15 p.m.

Doctor Raymond Blake's office, Roswell



"Afternoon, Sheriff," Maureen called cheerfully. "What's it like downtown? I'd love to go see for myself, but Doc says he can't spare me. It's so exciting! Imagine having Hollywood right here in Roswell!"

Imagine that, Valenti thought darkly, being less than impressed with Hollywood so far. "They don't start shooting until tomorrow, so you haven't missed anything yet. Where is everybody?" he asked, looking around the empty waiting room.

"Same place I'd like to be—downtown. I think we have all of a dozen check-ups scheduled for the next month. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit here doing nothing while everyone else is having all the fun?" Maureen plopped her chin in her hand, looking thoroughly disgruntled. "He's waiting for you in the surgery. Whatever he's doing has him all worked up."

Tell me about it, Valenti thought, mentally noting that Ray hadn't shared his supposedly momentous news with Maureen; surely an announcement that they'd had a non-human body in their office would have qualified as "exciting" in her eyes. Assuming she didn't just burst out laughing, of course, something Valenti had seriously considered. He'd seen plenty of alien fever before, but he'd never expected it to infect a stable man like Raymond Blake.

"All right, Ray, what've you got?" Valenti asked, startling the doctor away from his microscope.

"Jesus, you scared me," Ray muttered. "Shut the door. We can't afford to let this get out."

Valenti obediently closed the surgery door, making certain his eyes were finished rolling by the time he turned around. "Come here," Ray ordered, pointing to the microscope. "Look at that."

"Why? You know I'm not a doctor—"

"Just look," Ray repeated.

Valenti sighed, set his hat on the counter, and bent his eye to the eyepiece. "So are you going to tell me what I'm looking at, or do I have to go to medical school to find out?"

"That's a human skin cell, one of many taken from the remains of Mark Green," Ray said. "Now look at this."

Slides were swapped. "And this is....what?" Valenti asked.

"I have no idea," Ray said bluntly. "That cell isn't even vaguely familiar to me. Simply put, it's not human. Neither are the rest of these."

Valenti looked up; Ray was gesturing toward one of two groups of slides which occupied a sizeable space on the counter, towering stacks all meticulously labeled. "These are the results of three weeks work," he continued. "When I first started testing Green's remains, I couldn't believe my eyes. So I kept testing and testing, and when I kept finding the same thing, I decided I must have made a mistake. I took the remains to a hospital in Albuquerque where a friend of mine works; he gave me access to a lab and complete privacy. What I found there only confirmed what I'd found here: Mark Green was not human, or not entirely, anyway."

"Look—"

"Let me finish," Ray interrupted. "These," he continued, indicating one set of slides, "all contain non-human cells, or at least cells I've never seen before and that exist in no database. And these," he went on, indicating the second set of slides, "contain human skin cells. Only skin cells. No blood cells, bone cells, muscle cells, brain cells—nothing. Only skin cells. In other words, the only thing human about Mark Green was his skin. Now, I know what you're going to say," Ray went on, cutting Valenti off again. "You think I'm crackers. You think I've joined the alien bandwagon. But you've known me for years, Jim; you know I'd never make a claim like this without a damned good reason. So before you have me committed—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Valenti broke in. "I just...." He paused, pondering how much to say. But they were alone, and Ray had certainly gone out on a limb, so it seemed safe to join him. "I had some....experiences back in the forties. And the way this guy died....it just isn't the way aliens die."

Ray blinked. "It isn't?"

"No. And what does happen happens within minutes of their death; Green was dead for hours, and only blew up when you started poking around."

"I guess you did have 'experiences'," Ray said, wide-eyed. "But I'm telling you, these cells aren't human. And what about the way the body 'blew up'? Aren't you the least bit curious as to how it just self-destructed?"

"I'd imagine it was rigged to do that," Valenti replied.

"But how?" Ray persisted. "Blow up any other body, and we'd have had a right royal mess all over this room! We should have been mopping up five or six quarts of blood and picking bits of bone and brain off the blinds. Sorry," he added as Valenti grimaced. "My point is, why just dried out skin flakes? It doesn't make any sense."

"Well, whoever did this obviously has technology we're not familiar with—"

"Not to mention cells we're not familiar with," Ray said pointedly.

"—but that doesn't mean a thing," Valenti went on. "Ancient Egyptians were experts at embalming their dead, but we still don't understand their methods. Are you going to tell me aliens did all that embalming just because we can't replicate it?"

"How did we wind up on the subject of Egyptian embalming?" Ray said irritably. "I'm a man of medicine, and I can't explain what I see under this microscope. That's all I care about."

"And I'm just pointing out that your not being able to explain it doesn't automatically make it alien," Valenti said patiently. "And no, I don't think you're crazy for thinking what you do. I have every reason to believe aliens are real. This just doesn't feel like the same thing I saw in the forties, and personally, I think everyone in this town is a little too quick to blame anything they can't explain on aliens."

"But not me," Ray insisted. "I don't do that. The only reason I used the 'A' word is because I've never seen cells like these before."

"I believe you," Valenti assured him. "Maybe the Russians or the Germans have some new kind of medical technology we don't know about. I've heard some weird stories about what Hitler's goons were working on before the war ended, and many of those goons wound up on this side of the Atlantic or in Moscow."

"Personally, I think people today are a little too quick to blame anything they can't explain on the Nazi's or the communists," Ray said dryly. "So what do you want me to do with all this?"

"Sit on it," Valenti said. "Yes, I know that's what you asked me to do three weeks ago, and yes, I know I objected. Let me make the rounds again before we turn this over to the military."

"And now it's my turn to object," Ray said. "Do you think sitting on it is wise? Not that I'm in a big hurry to go on the record with this. I can just imagine what people will say if it gets out that I identified an alien."

"They might starting calling you 'Doctor Martian'," Valenti chuckled, dropping his smile when Ray glared at him. "Kidding. Just kidding. Don't worry; the military won't want this getting out. If anything, they'll threaten you to make you keep your mouth shut."

"Great," Ray muttered. "Anything else you'd like to say to make me feel better?"

"My point is that they won't think you're crazy," Valenti said. "And neither do I, for that matter. But I still don't think this is related to aliens because it doesn't match what I saw the last time."

"Maybe these are different aliens," Ray said. "Ever think of that?"

Valenti hesitated. "Just sit tight. Let's not jump to any wild conclusions, or give away the store too soon. Sit on it, let me dig some more, and we'll see what's what."

Ray gave him a withering look. "Is that the law enforcement equivalent of 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning'?"

"Something like that," Valenti smiled, donning his hat. "Thanks for calling. I'll be in touch."

Passing the dejected Maureen on the way out, Valenti climbed back into his cruiser, pulling away from the curb automatically, his mind elsewhere. He'd never once considered the possibility that Mark Green was an alien; Green's body had exploded, not politely collapsed into a pile of dirt convenient for vacuuming. And then there was the fact that Green was dead at all; the aliens Valenti was familiar with would have made short work of any thief. The weird cells Ray was so upset about were certainly intriguing, but the presence of human cells ruled out aliens—why would aliens have any human cells at all?

Valenti hit the brake, narrowly missing a stop sign. Pay attention, he ordered himself severely. No one needed to see the sheriff running a stop sign because he was preoccupied. Besides, all this fretting was likely for nothing. It was well known that the Soviets were up to some pretty creepy stuff, and that's probably what this was......or he hoped so, at least. The last thing he needed in a town full of pseudo aliens was the real thing. That was one chapter in his life he was in no hurry to revisit, and he was willing to bet the same could be said of all those who'd been caught in the alien crossfire.




******************************************************



New York City




Steven paused outside the door to the apartment, listening. Muffled sounds answered his question; Marie was home. This would be the first time they'd actually laid eyes on each other since Pierce had died, and he still wasn't quite sure he was ready. The relief he'd felt when he'd learned she was okay had turned to anger that she'd lied to him and run off by herself. And what about her? Was she going to be angry that he'd had her intercepted? Angry that Pierce's baby mill had been shut down instead of being exposed to the harsh light of day like she'd wanted? He had no idea what to expect from her and every reason to fear his own temper, causing him to dither outside his own apartment for several minutes, reluctant to go inside.

It was something of a miracle that he and Marie hadn't encountered each other yet. After meeting with Thompson last Friday in Roswell, he'd been so tired that he'd taken Thompson's advice to get out of town and find a motel. The mad rush from the coast to the southwest had taken its toll, and he'd spent the next two days driving back, stopping for the night in various towns, calling Marie's office to make certain she'd made it back all right. She had, but he hadn't asked to talk to her. It was all still too raw, and much too emotional a conversation to have over the phone.

But by the time he'd reached New York yesterday morning, he'd revised that opinion. Perhaps the telephone would have been the perfect place to start what was very likely to be an uncomfortable confrontation. He'd returned his friend's car and walked back to their apartment with trepidation only to find that Marie wasn't there. Simultaneously guilty and relieved, he'd washed up and headed to work, leaving her a note saying he was back, nothing more. He'd come home yesterday evening to find a note from Marie saying that she was working that night—nothing more. Feeling like a fool, he'd called the hospital to check, wondering if she was just avoiding him, but she had indeed been on duty. She hadn't returned by the time he'd left for work this morning, and he'd left her another note, saying he hoped to see her tonight. This would be the first time they'd spoken in six days.

I've been here before, Spade thought, recalling how he'd stood at the base of the Proctors' stairs, afraid to go up to their guest room and see her right after Brivari had healed Pierce's successful attempt to impregnate her. He hadn't known what to say then, and he didn't know what to say now, but this time was different. Last time he'd been worried sick about something someone had done to her; this time he'd been simultaneously worried sick and furious about something she'd done to herself. Back then he'd just ploughed through and rode the wave wherever it took him; perhaps that was the best strategy now too. He certainly couldn't just stand here in the hallway all day, afraid to go into his own apartment.

Marie was in the kitchen, wearing a bathrobe and slippers as she stirred a pot of something or other. She looked up briefly, furtively, when she saw him, then back at the stove.

"Hi."

"Hi," Steven said, feeling the awkwardness slide between them like a curtain.

"Macaroni and cheese," she said, gesturing toward the pot, still not looking at him. "Your favorite."

"Smells good," Steven said.

"You're home early. How was your day?"

"Fine," Steven answered. "Yours?"

"Better than fine. I got the attending's position in neurology that I wanted."

Steven's eyes widened. "You did? That's wonderful! But....I thought they weren't announcing those until later this summer."

"Dr. Fenton pushed it through," Marie said, pulling a couple of plates out the cupboard.

"He must have been impressed with you," Steven said.

Marie's eyes flicked up again, then back down. "Right. Too bad what impressed him wasn't me."

"Don't be too sure about that," Steven said. "I'd call sneaking three quarters of the way across the country all by yourself in pursuit of a homicidal maniac pretty impressive. Either that, or stupid."

Marie stiffened, but Steven didn't retreat. The sheer panic he'd felt on that long drive across the country had come racing back at the sight of her, and that statement contained only a fraction of the anger he felt.

"I wasn't 'all by myself'," she protested. "I was surrounded by a dozen other doctors."

"None of whom knew what could really be going on," Steven countered. "You promised me you'd tell me if you ever found Pierce—"

"No, I didn't," she objected. "I never actually 'promised' you any such thing."

"Semantics," Steven snapped. "You didn't say you wouldn't either. Do you have any idea how scared I was? That was an exceptionally stupid thing to do!"

"Look who's talking!" she exclaimed. "You called Thompson at the base, something you know we're not supposed to do, and he told Malik it wasn't even safe to bring me back to Roswell!"

"That's because John left a silver handprint behind," Steven retorted. "That's what started the whole alien machine up again, not anything I did."

"And not anything I did either," she insisted. "I'm not an idiot, Steven; I went in disguise, and my disguise worked. Pierce didn't recognize me, and he wouldn't have either."

"You have no way of knowing that," Steven argued.

"And you have no way of knowing he would have," she shot back.

"But I know this," Steven said severely. "You did an incredibly foolish thing just for a principle, for wanting to out Pierce instead of just stopping him. Was it worth it? Did you get what you wanted, Yvonne?" He stopped, reining himself in with difficulty when she flinched. "I'm sorry," he said, only half meaning it. "I shouldn't have called you that."

They stood there in silence for a moment, neither looking at the other, the pan of macaroni and cheese forgotten on the stove. "To answer your question," she said in a brittle voice, "yes, I got what I wanted. Sort of. The hospital cleaned up all the specific evidence of what they were doing just like I knew they would, but they couldn't clean up the fact that dozens of young women have died there over the last nine years, something the state was investigating. I don't know what strings he pulled, but somehow Dr. Fenton obtained access to all those records. I've spent the last two days going over them. You should have...." She stopped, struggling to control her emotions. "You should have seen them," she whispered. "They were all in their twenties....trapped there.... helpless. And dead. Every single one. He never managed to keep the mother alive, never mind grow a viable fetus. That's what would have happened to me if I hadn't had someone to help me. It was a miracle I survived. They didn't. Not one of them."

Steven said nothing, not trusting what he'd say if he spoke. He already knew it was a miracle she'd survived. She didn't remember anything that had happened between the time she'd collapsed on the base and when she'd woken up at the Proctors' house years ago, but he did. Every single minute, every detail, every second of mind-numbing fear. The same fear he'd felt on the trek west, afraid it would happen all over again if someone didn't reach her in time.

"Anyway...no one can prove what Pierce was trying to do," she continued, "but everyone at that meeting is telling the story, non-disclosure agreements notwithstanding, and it's definitely getting around. Fenton wants the place shut down, and he'll probably get his wish."

"That's good news, right?" Steven said.

"Sure," she said dully. "And then the people who helped Pierce, who knew exactly what he was doing and were complicit, will go elsewhere and take their attitudes with them. Like a virus; that's how viruses reproduce. They move into a cell, exhaust its resources, then spread in all directions to other cells. I can't help but think that's all we really accomplished."

"Isn't that what Brivari told you would happen?"

She sighed, closing her eyes briefly. "Yes. He was right, damn him. And so were you."

"About what?"

"About me hiding behind my new name. About...." She paused. "About my trying to believe it happened to that 'other' person named Yvonne. It was the perfect coping mechanism....until I saw Pierce again."

"As 'coping mechanisms' go, that was pretty harmless," Steven said gently. "I'll call you anything you want if that's what works for you. Just promise me—really promise this time—that you won't go running off after homicidal maniacs all by yourself again."

She smiled faintly. "That's easy. With Pierce dead, there's a shortage of homicidal maniacs to chase after."

"Marie—"

"I promise," she said quickly. "And it's Yvonne. At least in private. It's not fair, you know. You got to keep your name."

He wrapped his arms around her then, and they swayed in the kitchen for a very long time, her head nestled on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I—."

"Shhh," Steven said, stroking her hair. "It's over now."

"Is it? Maybe it'll never be over, Steven. Maybe all of us from back then are marked for life."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Steven murmured. "But that's not what's important now. What's important now is that this particular part of hell has been shut down. For the time being, at least, it's over."




******************************************************



Roswell




"Remind me again why you had to come with me?" Dee asked irritably.

"I couldn't stay with it," Courtney said miserably, trailing behind her. "I just couldn't."

"But why not?" Dee asked in exasperation. "If you really are who you say you are, you should be thrilled that you found someone else from your world who isn't a Warder."

"You don't understand," Courtney insisted. "It's Covari. Remind me again why you left Philip alone with it?"

Dee sighed heavily as they walked toward Parker's, still confused. When the hour had dragged late enough that she either needed to keep her appointment at Parker's or cancel, she'd intended to take Philip with her, not wanting him anywhere near Courtney and assuming she and Malik would have lots to talk about. She had assumed wrong; Courtney had refused to be left alone with Malik, and in the end, Dee had found herself in the bizarre situation of leaving Philip with Malik and taking Courtney with her. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why Courtney was so terrified of Malik, and Courtney, for her part, couldn't believe Dee was willing to leave her son with him.

"I've known 'Carl' for over a decade now," Dee said. "I have no problem trusting him with Philip. And if you know as much as you think you do, then why would you think you'd be safer away from him? He knows what you are, he can change his face, and you can't—he can find you anywhere, and you wouldn't know until it was too late."

"Don't remind me," Courtney muttered.

"He won't tell them," Dee persisted. "He's going to want more information before he decides what to do."

"How do you know that?" Courtney protested. "It could be off telling them right now, and I might not have much longer to live. You don't know them the way I do!"

Dee glanced sideways; Courtney looked absolutely miserable, her head hanging down, hair hiding her face, arms crossed in front of her as she trudged along like she was walking to her execution. It was true that she really didn't know how other Antarians viewed shapeshifters because she'd never dealt with anyone other than shapeshifters. "I don't know how you see them," she admitted, "but I know for a fact that none of them are stupid enough to kill you without listening first. And what's up with calling him 'it'? He was 'he' before; why isn't he 'he' now?"

"I hate to tell you this, but it's not really a 'he'," Courtney replied.

"I know that too," Dee answered with a touch of annoyance. "They don't have gender. Urza explained all that."

Courtney stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, other pedestrians fading left or right to avoid them. "I thought you just knew 'Carl'," she said, her eyes very wide. "You talk about them like....." She paused, staring at Dee as though really seeing her for the first time. "It was you," she whispered. "It was you, wasn't it? You were the ally they found after the crash!"

"Me and my parents," Dee corrected. "I was only eight. I actually saw the crash; I was looking out my window, and I thought it was a shooting star. The next morning, I asked Mac to take me to the ranch—"

"Mac...Brazel? You know him too?"

"My next door neighbor," Dee confessed. "But he really is out of town now. He always goes out of town around this time because he gets inundated with tourists. Anyway, I asked him to take me to the ranch so I could find my star....and he did. And I did. I found it, and then some."

"So...you know them?" Courtney asked incredulously. "You've actually met them? All of them?"

"I've done a whole lot more than just meet them," Dee said.

Courtney backed away, stopping only when she bumped into the building behind her. "Don't tell them," she begged. "Please don't tell them. No matter what you say, no matter what you believe about them, if you turn me in, they'll kill me!"

"Stop it!" Dee whispered furiously, taking Courtney by the arm and pulling her back into a walk as another pedestrian slowed and stared at them on his way by. "You can't go on about people killing you on a public street! I'm not going to turn you in to anyone, and neither is Carl. We'll figure this out, but I need a chance to think about it. Let me get this meeting with Mr. Parker over with, and then we can talk some more."

Courtney, who had flinched when Dee grabbed her arm, relaxed slightly and fell into more willing step beside her. "So what do you want to do?" Dee asked. "What's the next step now that you've found what you're looking for?"

"I have to report back," Courtney said, sounding steadier now, "so the leaders of our resistance can approach them. I knew they were here. This is where the ship crashed, so this is where they would have....unloaded it," she finished evasively as Dee thought of the pods in their rock chamber. "But then I got here and found Mark dead and the sheriff suspicious, probably because he knows his body isn't behaving normally."

"He still doesn't have any way to connect you to Mark," Dee reminded her. "Was Mark resistance too?"

"No," Courtney said, "and I haven't reported his death because I saw an opportunity to find the Warders for the resistance with no interference from the rest of my people. If I'd told them he was dead, not only would they have sent another operative, but my father would have yanked me back. This is the best opportunity the resistance has had so far, and I wasn't going to let that slip away. Operatives don't report in that often, so I thought I could get away with it, and I did.....until Pierce died. Now everyone wants to talk to Mark, and of course Mark isn't here, and eventually they're going to find that out, and I'll have to explain why I didn't report that, and I have absolutely no explanation, and....." She paused as a squirrel scooted across the sidewalk on its way up a nearby tree. "I'm sorry," she finished quietly. "I'm whining, and I shouldn't be. I knew this would be dangerous, and I know I should be glad I found what I wanted, but I never expected to get this close. I can't believe I actually met one of them and didn't even know. It was in my apartment. It was alone with me!" She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as though she were cold. "That's one of my worst nightmares."

You met more than just Malik, Dee thought privately, just now realizing the irony of Courtney waiting on Brivari at the diner. If this is how she reacted upon meeting a lesser Covari, what would she do if she figured out that one of her regular customers was the King's Warder? More importantly, what would the King's Warder do if he found out that his waitress was an enemy alien who wanted Jaddo's Ward on the throne? The sheer complexity of this drama was overwhelming, and she mentally pushed it aside as they neared Parker's. They could hash this out later on tonight.

This end of Main Street was teeming, the UFO center still had lines for auditions snaking around the block, and Parker's was jammed. "Wow," Dee said, recalling how empty it had been yesterday morning. "I guess Pete was right."

"It was crazy on my shift," Courtney said. "People who got jobs came here to celebrate, people who didn't get jobs came here to complain, and people who came just to see what was going on got hungry. My feet are killing me."

"Look's like Pete's going to need more help than just me," Dee said, stepping back as waitresses flew by. "But on the upside, it'll be hard to get bored. Which one is Nancy?"

"Back there," Courtney pointed.

Nancy was unloading a heavily laden tray at an even more heavily laden table, with six customers crammed into a booth meant for four. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes!" she exclaimed. "I can't wait for you to start, Dee. Courtney, why don't you show her the booth numbering; that would throw off anyone who's worked at another diner. I'll be right back."

"Yikes," Dee murmured as Nancy rushed off. "I never noticed they were numbered out of sequence. It looks completely random."

"Mr. Parker numbered them," Courtney answered. "Something about his favorite ball players? It goes by team, I think, with the back booths—"

Courtney had stopped and stiffened beside her, and when Dee followed her gaze, she could see why; Brivari and that friend of his, Mr. Anderson, were sitting at one of those back booths. Don't put it together, Dee begged silently. Not here. Not yet.

"That's who Carl went to on the night of the Crash Festival," Courtney whispered as Dee's heart sank. "That soldier came up to him, and then he went to....and went off together with....."

"I wasn't there, so I don't know what happened," Dee said lightly. "Why don't we go find Nancy in the back? We'll be saving her feet."

Some of the glazed look left Courtney's eyes, and just when Dee thought that perhaps she'd distracted her from the dangerous path of logic she was heading down, Mr. Anderson chose that moment to look up.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, gesturing to Courtney to come closer as she flinched. "We missed you today, dear. We're later than usual, aren't we, Langley?"

The time it took to speak those three sentences was unfortunately all Courtney needed to finish playing "connect the dots". A look of utter terror crossed her face, similar to, but worse than when she'd recognized Malik, and her body went so rigid that customers nearby looked up from their shakes and sandwiches for the source of the tension they could feel, but not place. Brivari, for his part, was paying no attention; he looked every bit as dejected as Malik had said he was. Perhaps there was still time to save this.

"Let's go," Dee whispered, gently tugging Courtney's arm. "C'mon—let's just go. I'll talk to Nancy, and then we'll go out through the back door."

"But he's.....that's......" Courtney whispered.

"Let's go," Dee urged.

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Anderson boomed as Dee cursed his megaphone voice. "My dear, you don't look well. She doesn't look well, does she, Langley?"

No! Dee thought frantically as Brivari's eyes swung up to rest on Courtney.....who promptly panicked. Face to face with a Warder at last, she turned and ran, narrowly missing waitresses with food laden trays, flying out the door at breakneck speed. The startled hush that she left in her wake was almost deafening.

"Oh my," Mr. Anderson said, taken aback. "Is something wrong?"

*Indeed,* Brivari's voice came in Dee's mind. *What was that all about?*




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 23 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



July 7, 1959, 4 p.m.

Roswell



Courtney pelted down the street in a panic, weaving among pedestrians who looked at her in astonishment as she flew past, probably wondering why a waitress from Parker's looked like she was running for her life. Because I am, she thought wildly, her head nearly ready to explode with what she'd just figured out. The soldier at the Crash Festival had come right up to Carl, and Carl—Malik—had promptly gone straight to Mr. Langley, leaving Mr. Anderson and Courtney alone with each other. Which made "Mr. Langley" none other than a Royal Warder. Not only had she been unwittingly keeping company with a Covari and the Warders' human ally, but with a Warder itself.

Careening around a corner, Courtney came to a stop, leaning against the side of a building as she tried to catch her breath. There was one bit of good news, at least; their husks had proven to be impeccable disguises. Much had been made of the Warders' enhanced abilities, but those did not apparently extend to being able to recognize a husk. Not that anyone had expected them to, but it was nice to have it confirmed all the same. She risked a peek around the building; no one seemed to be in pursuit, although with shapeshifters, it was impossible to tell. She would have to suspect everyone she saw now, every single person she laid eyes on. Covari could look like anyone....

Stop it! she chastised herself severely. This is what she had come here for, to find the Warders, and by sheer luck, she had done so in the best way possible: She had found them without them finding her. Thank goodness her father wasn't here; if he could see her now, panicking and running, he would die of embarrassment, and with good reason. The confident arguments she'd made about why she should come here now rang hollow; clearly she wasn't really as brave or as capable as she'd presented herself. A sobering thought, that, because she was a soldier on a mission, a mission that had suddenly grown a good deal more complex. If she botched this, if she let her emotions get the better of her, an entire planet would pay the price.

The thought of home and those depending on her served to clear her head. She resumed walking, moving fast, but no longer running, her hand slipping inside her apron pocket and closing around the device her father had given her. Just touching it made her feel better, knowing that one of those five buttons could change a truly terrifying Warder into a merely terrifying Covari. A second activated the communicator, a third the infrared wash. What did the other two do? Anything useful? Maybe not, and now was not the time to experiment in any case.

Reaching her rooming house, she opened and closed the front door very quietly, climbing the stairs even more quietly. Malik was in Dee's room with Philip, and Covari had very sharp hearing; she literally held her breath until she was safely in her room with her door closed behind her and sank onto her bed, eyeing her salvation: The telephone. Contacting her father by communicator was not an option because the transmission could be intercepted or traced. The humans' favorite communication device was beneath Nicholas' notice, scorned by all Argilians as far too primitive and insecure. The good news was that this attitude, along with the fact that any listening device attached to such primitive technology could be easily spotted and removed, made telephones the communication method of choice for the resistance. Until now, with little or nothing happening, they'd had to use them for that purpose only rarely. That was about to change.

She picked up the receiver and dialed, the dial taking an agonizingly long time to wind back around after each number. The phone on the other end rang once, twice, three times. Four. Five. Six. Pick up! she begged silently as the ringing continued. Her father hated phones just like all her people did, finding them unbearably noisy. Maybe if she just let it keep ringing, he'd answer it in self defense. On the eleventh ring, she heard a click followed by a suspicious voice.

"Hello?"

"Papa!" Courtney exclaimed, nearly collapsing with relief, wishing desperately for a face to go with the disembodied voice in her ear. "It's so good to hear your voice! Are you busy?"

She heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a pause. "Yes," Michael answered, his reply incongruent unless one knew that "busy" meant "is it safe to talk". "Is something wrong? Did you—"

"Papa, I found them."

It came out in a rush, so fast she couldn't have stopped it if she'd wanted to. "What?" he exclaimed. "Both of them?"

"One," Courtney corrected, "but the other must be close by. My friend, Dee, who's helped me so much? She's one of their human allies, the ones who helped them after the crash. And one of her friends is actually one of the four Covari we thought were dead; it's working for the Warders now. They were all right here, all around me. I saw them nearly every day and didn't even know it."

"Oh, my," her father breathed. "Does Mark know?"

"No," she said truthfully, keeping to herself the fact that Mark would never know anything again.

"Do they know who you are?"

"The ally does, and Malik; I explained about the resistance and why I was here. The Warders don't know. The husks worked perfectly."

"Are they going to give you up?" her father asked, the fear in his voice almost palpable.

"They say they're not," Courtney answered. "I think Dee will help me. The Covari is more suspicious, but I think it will wait until it can learn more. I'm okay. For now," she amended quickly, lest she sound too complacent with the current precarious situation. "I can identify them for you, Papa. You need to send someone here right away."

There. Courtney leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes as a great weight was lifted from her shoulders. Message delivered; mission accomplished. She'd found what she'd come here to find, and now the true emissaries would move in and take over.

After a long pause, her father answered, "I can't."

Courtney's eyes flew open. "What?"

"Nicholas is on a tear," Michael said, having obviously picked up another human expression just since she'd been gone. "Now that the Warders have shown themselves by killing Pierce, he has operatives all over New Mexico looking for any sign of them, including most of the resistance members."

"Then it shouldn't be hard to divert some of them here," Courtney protested. "If they're close already—"

"On the contrary, it's impossible. There are so many people in such a small field that if even one goes astray, it would be noticed. I'm afraid it's up to you."

"You can't mean that!" Courtney exclaimed. "You told me just to find them! I'm not a negotiator, or an ambassador, or a—"

"I don't want you to be either," Michael said. "Just stay there. Talk to the ally, talk to the Covari, earn their trust. Gather as much information as you can and stay close so we can find them when this calms down. If we lose sight of them now, we may not get another chance.

"You want me to talk to it? I—"

"You know I would never ask this of you unless there was no other way and the straits were dire," her father said. "There isn't, and they are. You've already done what no one else has, found what no one else could find. You can do this. I know you can."

"But—"

"Daughter," Michael broke in, "you know I love you. You know I fear for your safety. But believe me when I say that there is no one I can safely send without compromising the entire resistance. There are so few of us.....as much as I fear for you, how could I live with myself if we were discovered because I was trying to protect my own child? If something happens to an operative who is clearly not where they should be, that would draw suspicion. But you are assigned there, so if anything happens to you...."

If anything happens to me, it will be assumed that I just got too close, Courtney finished as her father's anguished voice trailed off. She put her hand over the mouthpiece, grateful for once that these primitive telephones had no imager; the last thing she wanted was for him to see her cry. "Okay, Papa," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "But what do you want me to say? How much can I tell them?"

"Offer our assistance in tracking our people's movements," her father said, sounding better now that she'd accepted the inevitable. "Warn them about the trithium generators; everyone has one now. And—"

"Hello?"

Courtney whirled around to find Sheriff Valenti standing in her now open doorway. "Gee, I'm sorry," the sheriff said, removing his hat. "The door was ajar, and you sounded upset....is everything all right, Miss Harris?"




******************************************************



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Hey junior, can you get me another coffee?" Deputy Baker called.

"Comin' right up, sir!" Jimmy Valenti said enthusiastically, taking the empty coffee cup Baker handed him.

"While you're at it, get me one too," Deputy Alvarez added.

"And me," Deputy Checora chimed in.

"Jesus, give the kid a break," Baker said. "He can only carry two cups."

Jimmy paused, eyeing all the cups thrust his way for a moment before hooking his fingers through all three handles. "I can do three," he announced.

"Even when they're full?" Baker said doubtfully.

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said firmly. "I'll be right back."

Laughter accompanied his exit, perhaps genuine, perhaps at his expense, but Jimmy didn't care. Other eight year-old boys longed to fish and camp during the summer, but there was no place on Earth he would rather be than this station, working alongside his father. Granted, his father wasn't here right at the moment, but that was a mere technicality; this was where he'd always wanted to be, where he'd never had the chance to be until his mother's brainstorm this morning. She'd been listening to the radio reports of the bustle downtown, and after seeing how tired and agitated his father had been last night, she'd decided to take matters into her own hands. "Jimmy," she'd declared just after lunch, "what say we go down to the station and give your daddy a hand." He'd been in the car before she'd had to ask a second time.

Jimmy glanced toward the front as he filled one of the coffee cups. His mother had once been a nurse, and she had instituted a sort of triage in the crowded waiting room. Complaints were noted within three steps of the door and assigned priority: Critical, urgent, or it-can-wait. Critical complaints were dealt with immediately, while complainers from the other two categories were sent to wait until their name was called by a deputy. This system had worked flawlessly, streamlining the process and moving it along more efficiently with only a few grumbles here and there. Those were met with polite but firm requests for patience which were always granted, perhaps because no one wanted to argue with the woman doing the asking.

Walking very, very carefully, Jimmy balanced the three cups of coffee all the way back into the office. "See? I told you he could do it," Checora said approvingly. "Get me some more carbon paper, will ya, kid?"

"I know you're relatively new here, so now might be a good time to point out that the 'kid' is the sheriff's son," Baker said blandly.

Checora blinked. "Oh. Uh....sorry. You don't have to get me anything," he added hastily. "I'll get it myself."

"No, no, I'll get it," Jimmy protested. "That's why Mom and I came, to help out. Where is it?"

Checora looked at Baker, who shrugged. "Tall supply cabinet near the coffee urn," Checora said. "Top shelf. You might be too short—"

"I'll manage!" Jimmy said, hurrying away before anyone could stop him. Being the sheriff's son was certainly a mixed blessing. It could come in handy, like when he'd caught Bobby Osborn stealing Maggie Cumming's milk money and threatened to sic his father on him, causing Bobby to end his budding life of crime right then and there. It could also be a millstone around his neck when kids assumed he was a goody-goody or a tattletale just because his father was the sheriff. Some teased him, others shied away, and still others deliberately did something wrong right in front of him as if daring him to tell. That was a tough one, because if there was one thing James Valenti Jr. hated, it was people breaking the rules. He'd had to make his peace at a very young age with the fact that he was unwilling to let rule breakers off Scot free and that his refusal to do so cost him socially. On the other hand, it also tended to encourage people to behave better when they were around him, a worthy trade-off, to his way of thinking.

Top shelf. Jimmy gazed up at the packs of carbon paper perched on the top shelf of what was indeed a tall cabinet. A chair produced the necessary height to reach it, and a minute later he was making a delivery. "Thanks, kid," Checora said amiably. "What's your name?"

"Jimmy."

"Just like your daddy, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"So do you want to be sheriff one day, Jimmy?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" Jimmy exclaimed.

"Well, then, I reckon you oughta have a seat right here and see how it's done," Checora said, indicating a nearby chair.

Jimmy's eyes popped. He'd been fetching all morning; had he really just been offered the chance to sit in the main office, right in the thick of things? "Can I really, sir?"

"He just wants to keep his busboy close by," Baker chuckled.

"Cynic," Checora deadpanned. "I just thought if Jimmy's going to be our assistant, he should be close to all of us. Ain't that right, boys?"

Smiles and nods all around. Assistant! Jimmy floated into rather than sat in the proffered chair, drinking in the polite chaos of a busy sheriff's station. Phones rang, chairs scraped, pencils scritched, typewriters tap-tapped, and voices were everywhere, from the low, calm voices of the deputies to the often frustrated or angry voices of the public. For fifteen glorious minutes, Jimmy did nothing but stare in awe as each deputy called someone new to the chair in front of their desk and went through the same procedure: Patient listening, followed by questions which produced scribbled notes, followed by more patient listening and more questions which produced more notes. This was followed by the making of a carbon paper sandwich, three report forms layered with carbon paper in between and carefully fed into a typewriter so that all the papers lined up. An official report was then typed, with each mistake necessitating a correction on all three forms. Jimmy made a mental note that, along with extraordinary patience and the ability to calm people down, another necessary skill for law enforcement was good typing ability and being handy with Liquid Paper.

"Having fun?"

Jimmy twisted in his chair to find his mother standing over him. "They made me their assistant!" he announced proudly.

"Wow," his mother smiled. "An official title, and on your very first day."

"Do you think Dad will let me do this all summer?" Jimmy begged. "Please?"

"You mean you'd rather spend your summer in a sweaty office instead of swimming and playing with your friends?"

"I can swim and play with my friends after the movie," Jimmy persisted. "Please, Mom? Please?"

"My suggesting that we give your father a hand doesn't mean I want you here all summer," his mother said, eyeing a gentleman who was raising his voice to Deputy Checora. "An afternoon is one thing, but—"

"But the movie will be here this month and next, so Dad will need help all summer," Jimmy argued.

His mother raised an eyebrow. "It's rude to interrupt, James."

"Sorry," Jimmy said automatically. You always knew you were in trouble when your parents used your full name. "It's just that I've always wanted to be here, and now I'm finally here! Don't take that away, Mom, please?"

His mother hesitated, her eyes flitting back and forth from her pleading son to Deputy Checora's clearly agitated complainant. "I'll think about it. No promises," she added firmly as Jimmy practically leaped off the chair with joy. "Now, the wastebaskets need emptying. Don't forget the ones in the back."

Jimmy left reluctantly as his mother took on Deputy Checora's complainant, whose tone changed immediately when he found himself addressing a woman. He knew she'd ousted him because she hadn't wanted him to hear that exchange, but he didn't mind; he'd empty every wastebasket in the station fifty times a day if it meant he could stay here. He took his time in the main office, savoring the raw energy that ran through it before heading toward the back where his father's office, the interrogation rooms, and the records rooms were. And the jail cells, he thought with a little shiver as he walked by that door. It was quiet back here, all the excitement being out front, and he worked quickly, eager to get back until he paused in front of his father's office door, taken by a sudden urge.

Jimmy's eyes darted around the hallway; no one was back here. Dare he try it? Dare he sit in his father's chair? What if he got caught? Emptying the wastebasket didn't require sitting in the chair. But everyone else was busy, his father was out, and the longer he spent dithering, the sooner either of those could change. His mind made up, Jimmy carefully opened the door.

Someone had beaten him to it. The deputy occupying his father's chair looked up in surprise. "Did you get lost, kid?" he asked calmly.

"No. I'm Jimmy Valenti, and you're sitting in my father's chair."

"Oh," the deputy said, looking a shade less calm. "Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Your dad's not here right now."

"I know that," Jimmy said. "Why are you sitting in his chair?"

"I just came in here looking for something."

"Something you had to sit in his chair to find?"

The deputy eyed him for a moment, then beckoned him closer. Jimmy went slowly, stopping on the other side of the desk. "I have a confession to make," the deputy said sheepishly. "I've always wanted to know what it felt like to sit in this chair, and I.....well.....I guess I just saw an opportunity. Know what I mean?"

Jimmy said nothing. He did know what the deputy meant, having just had a similar desire himself, but in his limited experience, adults were not prone to making confessions to children. "I guess so," he said cautiously. "But I didn't know grown-ups did things like that."

"We're not supposed to," the deputy admitted. "But seeing as we're here...." He rose from the chair, and stepped aside. "Want to give it a try?"

Jimmy hesitated for only a moment before walking around the desk and sinking into the chair, that huge leather chair that looked more like a throne, running his hands over the arms, along the edge of the polished wood desk. "Pretty nice, huh?" the deputy said. "Yep, your daddy's got himself a nice seat. Say," he added, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything to your daddy. I just.....I don't know. Maybe I just never got the chance to do this as a kid. Like you just did, I mean."

Jimmy regarded him levelly, not sure how to respond. "I'd better get back to work," the deputy went on. "You have yourself a good sit. I'm sure your daddy won't mind." He smiled and headed out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

After another full minute of twirling in that wonderful chair, Jimmy reluctantly slid out of it to resume his trash duties. And that was when he noticed the lower left file drawer on his father's desk was slightly open. And since his father was absolutely meticulous about things like closing drawers, that was very, very curious indeed.




******************************************************




Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"I'll have to call you back," Courtney said stiffly into the phone, holding her hand over the earpiece as she replaced the receiver so her father's protests wouldn't be audible.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Valenti said, "but—"

"What are you doing here?" Courtney said sharply. "Do you always barge into people's apartments without knocking?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Harris, but as I said, the door was open—"

"No, it wasn't. I closed it when I came home."

"Well, then, I imagine it didn't latch like you thought it did," Valenti said gently. "Once again, I apologize."

He's good, Courtney thought as she took in the sheriff's contrite, hat-in-hand expression, but not good enough. There was no way in hell she hadn't latched that door with a Covari right across the hall. "I believe there's a law against breaking and entering," she said coldly. "Surely you've heard of it?"

Valenti smiled faintly. "I didn't 'break' anything, Miss Harris. The door was open."

"But you entered," Courtney protested.

"No," Valenti countered. "Actually, I haven't."

Courtney's eyes drifted south. He was right; Valenti's feet were planted just on the other side of her threshold, putting him officially in the hallway, not her room. "So this means there's nothing to stop me from going around and opening other people's doors just so long as I'm careful not to actually walk inside?" she demanded. "Somehow I don't think it works that way. Shall I try it and find out?"

"Miss Harris, once again, I apologize," Valenti repeated. "I gather you're upset. Is something wrong with your father?"

Damn! "Now you're eavesdropping?" she fumed. "Do you really think I don't know what you're trying to do? Do you really think I don't know that you unlatched my door and listened to my phone conversation? Just exactly how stupid do you think I am?"

"I've never thought you were stupid," Valenti said calmly. "Just untruthful."

"That much is clear, although for the life of me, I don't know why," Courtney retorted. "Either charge me with whatever fictitious crime you think I've committed, or leave me alone and stop breaking and entering."

"Like I said, I wasn't 'breaking and entering'—"

"I believe the correct term is 'trespassing'," a voice said behind him.

Courtney worked hard to keep the relief off her face as Valenti swung around to find Dee standing behind him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "How long have you been there?" Valenti asked, annoyance lacing his voice.

"Long enough," Dee replied. "You're not the only one who knows how to eavesdrop."

"I wasn't trying to eavesdrop," Valenti objected. "The door was ajar when I arrived, so—"

"So you pushed it open. Well, you must have," Dee continued when Valenti began to protest. "It's open now, and it's clear Courtney didn't open it. Or perhaps you'd like to tell me there's a stiff breeze on the second floor with no open windows in sight?"

Excellent, Courtney thought as Valenti's eyes narrowed. There was no way to prove whether or not the door had been latched, of course, but the door hadn't opened all by itself.

"Miss Harris sounded upset," Valenti said. "I was concerned about her."

"Of course you were," Dee said, smiling sweetly. "Are you all right, Courtney?"

"Absolutely," Courtney answered.

"There," Dee said. "She's fine. Thank you for your concern, Sheriff. Oh, by the way, Anthony and I have moved in across the hall. Things just didn't work out living at home. Now that I live in Roswell, perhaps we'll be seeing more of each other."

"Perhaps," Valenti said, sounding distinctly unhappy. "Well....ladies.....once again, I apologize if I upset you, Miss Harris. Have yourselves a good evening."

"Wait," Courtney said. "You haven't told me what you came here for."

Valenti paused, his hat hovering inches from his head. "Just passing through," he said casually. "And you sounded upset, and.....but we've been over this, haven't we?"

'Just passing through' on the second floor of a rooming house? Courtney held Valenti's gaze for several long seconds, long enough to let him know she saw right through him. "Yes, we have," she said at length. "So tell me, Sheriff, while you're 'passing through', have you learned anything more about what happened to Mark?"

"No, I haven't," Valenti said. "But when I do, I assure you, you'll be the first to know. Assuming you don't already."

"Get out," Courtney said coldly.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" Dee sighed.

Valenti smiled faintly. "Chalk that up as one more thing we have in common, Mrs. Evans. Now, if you ladies will excuse me...."

Courtney went out on the landing and watched Valenti walk down the stairs and out the front door. "He's out," Dee reported from the window. "He's walking down the front walk to his car. He's.....gone," she finished, turning around and giving Courtney an appraising look as she came back inside, locking the door behind her for good measure. "You handled that well. Too bad I can't say the same for what happened in the diner."

"There's no comparison," Courtney said, leaning wearily against the door. "Valenti's just a human. 'Mr. Langley' is a Warder. Which one?"

"Does it matter?" Dee asked. "And the sheriff is hardly 'just a human'. He was here after the crash, and my family had several altercations with him before we reached a sort of truce. He saw enough back in the forties to know that your people are real even without a weird body in his possession."

"He's never seen 'my people'," Courtney corrected. "Only Covari have been here, and Covari are not 'my people'."

"Semantics," Dee said dismissively. "The point is, he knows something's up. He can't prove any of it has anything to do with you, but he'll keep trying. Which means you'll have to be very clear on your story because you'll have to keep telling it over and over again. Do you remember what you told him?"

"Yes. No. I.....I think so," Courtney said, flustered. "Look, one crisis at a time, okay? This is crisis number four; I'm still reeling from number one."

Dee eyed her with concern. "Was Valenti right? Is something wrong with your father?"

Courtney sank onto the bed. "I called my father to tell him I'd found them and to send some representatives from the resistance. Those were my orders—to find them, not to identify myself, or negotiate, or anything. But my father says he can't. He says...." She paused, her throat constricting. "He says I have to stay here and learn everything I can from Malik until he can send someone."

Dee sat down beside her very carefully, as though afraid she would break. "Why can't he send anyone?"

"Because now that the Warders have shown themselves, a lot of operatives are scattered all over this state looking for them, including a number of resistance operatives. Nicholas doesn't know Mark is dead, so he thinks he has this area covered with two operatives already here. If my father tries to divert someone from the resistance, it would be noticed. And in a way, maybe that's better," Courtney added with a sigh. "It was easy to hide Mark's death before they killed Pierce because nothing was going on and no one expected him to report in very much. But now....they're already getting impatient with the fact that he's never here. I can't hide that much longer. This gives me a little more time."

"And what happens when they find out?"

"If I'm lucky, only my father will find out; he'll merely be livid," Courtney answered dully, flopping back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "If Nicholas finds out, he'll recall me and send other operatives, and you won't know who they are. And once I get back...." She stopped, keeping to herself what would happen if Nicholas found out she'd lied to him: Unless she could find a suitable explanation as to why she hadn't reported another operative's death, she would be executed for treason. "Dee, what am I going to do? I'm not a diplomat. I don't know how to negotiate with Covari. And how am I going to wait on 'Mr. Langley' knowing what I know?"

Dee lay back on the bed beside her. "Well, for starters, you're going to stop losing your marbles like you did at the diner. If you don't want the Warders to notice you, then for God's sake, don't make yourself noticeable."

"I know, I know," Courtney whispered, one hand over her eyes. "I'm sorry. I just....I remembered that Carl—Malik—went straight to Mr. Langley when that soldier came up to him at the Crash Festival, and then....." And then I lost my marbles, she finished privately as Dee tactfully remained silent. "What did you tell them?"

"That you'd had some bad news from home," Dee said. "Of course I had no idea that was true."

"Did he buy it?"

"Langley is too upset about his friend who died to spend much time on an emotional waitress," Dee answered.

"Don't be too sure about that," Courtney said. "He's not really upset. They don't have real feelings, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't know them like I do," Courtney answered. "You don't know what they really are. Your world isn't as advanced as ours, so you wouldn't understand. No offence," she added.

"None taken," Dee said cautiously. "But I might know them better than you think I do. For example, I know they can't reproduce naturally. They're grown in tanks."

Courtney blinked. "They told you that?"

"They've told me a lot of things," Dee said. "So?"

"So you know they're made, not born. They're created. They're things, not real people. They just look like real people."

Dee sat up abruptly. "You can't really believe that," she said sharply. "You befriended Malik. He befriended you. How can you sit there and say he doesn't have 'real feelings' or isn't a 'real person'?"

"Because he isn't," Courtney insisted, pushing herself into a sitting position. "I know they look like it, sound like it, act like it. They're made for that, to mimic what's around them, to copy, to blend in. And they do it very, very well, so well that sometimes it's hard to remember that it's all fake."

"So you're saying that Langley's grief over his friend's death is 'fake'?" Dee said in disbelief. "You saw how upset he was! How can you say that was fake?"

"Dee, I'm sorry," Courtney said gently. "I know it's hard for you to understand, but—"

"Oh, I understand," Dee interrupted angrily. "I understand because this is exactly the attitude the Army had when they held one of them captive. It's one thing to have humans acting like they're not real people, but you? You're both from the same world! You should know better!"

"And I do," Courtney said patiently. "Look at it this way: Do you consider animals the same as people? What about Mr. Parker's dog? You and the dog are both from Earth, but I'll bet you don't think of dogs as people."

"So now you're comparing them to dogs?"

"More like guard dogs," Courtney explained. "That's what they're made for, after all—to guard their Wards. Of course they function at a much higher level than your dogs, but their job is the same: To take down anything that threatens their masters. They act on instinct; it's bred into them."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this!" Dee exclaimed, rising to her feet. "So tell me, Courtney, what makes you real? Why should I believe that you're a 'real person'? And for that matter, what about me? Do you think I'm a 'real person', or am I just some primitive animal?"

"Of course not!" Courtney protested. "I never said you weren't a real person!"

"But why am I a 'real person'?" Dee persisted. "Or more specifically, why aren't they? You're obviously not stupid, so how could you possibly look at Malik and say he doesn't have real feelings? How can you look at Langley and say his grief for his friend isn't real? How much more real can someone get than to be able to miss someone else?"

"Don't your dogs miss their masters when their masters die?" Courtney said softly. She waited while Dee struggled to come up with an objection and failed. "Look, I don't expect you to understand. They look so real that it would be hard for someone in a civilization at this level to recognize the difference."

Dee's eyes hardened. "I've heard enough of this. You're on your own."

Courtney's mouth dropped open. "What? What do you mean.....Dee, what's wrong?" she sputtered, vaulting off the bed as Dee marched toward the door. "I'm sorry if I offended you; I didn't mean to—"

"No, you meant to offend them," Dee said angrily. "I'll bet you're not 'sorry' about that, are you?"

"But....you can't offend them," Courtney said desperately. "That's my point—they don't have the capacity to be offended, or—"

"And that's my point," Dee snapped. "Anyone who would believe that nonsense after what you've seen is either hopelessly stupid or hopelessly racist. And since you're not stupid, I'm left with the latter conclusion. I won't help a racist. It's that simple."

"Dee, wait! Don't go! I need you! I—"

The door slammed, and Courtney found herself alone in her room, both hands pressed to her mouth.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 24 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


July 7, 1959, 5:30 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"Dee, I appreciate the support; really, I do," Malik said gently. "But you can't blame her for the way she feels."

"What do you mean, 'I can't blame her'?" Dee demanded. "You should have heard her! She thinks you're some kind of animal, or...or...or a robot, or something less than.....alive," she finished, having been about to say "something less than human".

"Because that's the way she's sees me," Malik said calmly. "That's the way everyone on my world who isn't Covari would see me."

Dee stared at him in astonishment. "And you're okay with that?"

Malik gave a small shrug. "It doesn't matter if I'm 'okay' with it or not. It's just the way it is."

"Wow," Anthony whispered.

Dee shot her husband an annoyed glare. Anthony had said precisely nothing since he'd arrived home to find Dee in an uproar over the situation with Courtney, sinking into a chair and looking back and forth from Malik to Dee as Philip happily banged his beloved pots and pans and padded around his new home, oblivious to his mother's angst. "Is that the best you can do?" she said sharply. "You just earned a college degree in astronomy, and all you can come up with is 'wow'?"

"Forgive me," Anthony deadpanned. "This morning, Courtney was just a friend; now I find out she's not only an alien, but an enemy alien, but not quite an enemy alien because she's kinda sorta maybe on the Warders' side, or one of them, at least. What is it about you and aliens?" he continued. "Here we are, minding our own business, and suddenly we're in the middle of an alien war again. How do you do that? Did you spray yourself with some kind of alien attractant? Is there a repellant to match? You know, like the kind that keeps dogs off couches?"

"Very funny," Dee snapped as Malik stifled a smile. "And don't even think of using a dog reference. Courtney was comparing Malik's people to dogs."

"From her perspective, I think a monkey would have been a better comparison," Malik noted. "She probably thought of dogs because they're used as guard animals, but—"

"Whatever!" Dee exploded. "The point is, she's wrong!"

"No," Malik countered, "the point is you think she's wrong. Which she is, of course. But you're never going to convince her of that, so it's a waste of time to try."

"I'm not going to try," Dee said firmly. "I told her she was on her own, and I meant that."

"That might not be the wisest course of action," Malik warned.

"Lotsa luck," Anthony murmured.

Dee fixed him with a hard stare. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that Deanna Evans, champion of the oppressed of any species, might not be able or willing to look beyond her own outrage at the fact that not everyone sees everything exactly the same way she does," Anthony said, looking her straight in the eye. "A trait she may have acquired from her mother, if I'm not mistaken. Therefore," he continued as Dee flushed, "I think we—or more precisely, you—should hush up and listen to what Malik has to say. He knows more about this than either of us ever will, so if he thinks cutting her off isn't wise, I want to know why. Don't you?"

Dee locked eyes with her husband for several longs seconds before dropping her own. Anthony rarely spoke to her like that; when he did, it was a red flag that she was going too far. Much like her father did for her mother, Anthony functioned as a kind of invisible fence, sounding the alarm when she was straying too close to the edge. It was a useful failsafe, but she certainly didn't have to like it, and she sank down in a chair, arms crossed, her silence being her only answer.

"Now," Anthony said to Malik, "what's on your mind?"

"If Courtney is who she says she is—if—then she could be invaluable," Malik answered. "Allying with the Argilian resistance could give us information about their base, their operations, their movements....everything we'd want to know."

"So you could attack them," Anthony nodded.

"So we could avoid them," Malik clarified. "There are far too many of them and far too few of us, not to mention that it appears they're all armed with trithium generators which can identify us and disarm the Warders. The goal would be to simply avoid them, and if the hybrids are truly not developing on schedule as you mentioned, that means we'll need to avoid them for longer than we'd thought, perhaps a lot longer. That makes the intelligence Courtney could provide even more valuable."

"I don't see how anyone could use those generator things just anywhere," Dee grumbled. "It's not like I didn't notice when she turned it on."

"But you didn't know what it was," Malik pointed out. "You just thought it was some weird kind of light, and that's likely what anyone else would think. It would only take seconds to identify us."

"And then you could change your face," Dee argued.

"And then they could use the generator again," Malik said, "while any humans nearby run around trying to fix their lights. Those generators pose a huge risk, and we're already safer for knowing they're out there. I had no idea Amar had transmitted the design to Antar. And speaking of Antar, contact with the resistance could give us news from home, something we have no way of obtaining right now, or not safely, anyway. The resistance could keep us apprised of what's happening, and when the hybrids near their emergence, they could help coordinate things back home. At this point, there's really nothing but good that can come from allying ourselves with those who want Khivar off the throne."

"But they also want the king off the throne," Dee reminded him. "Is that really a smart trade-off?"

"That's not your decision to make," Malik said, "nor is it mine. This is something for the Warders to decide, and if I allow Courtney or any other member of the resistance to approach them in such a way that they'd shoot first and ask questions later, there may be no one else to question. The way I see it, I have a responsibility to make certain that introduction goes well. What happens afterwards is up to them."

"He's right," Anthony said. "This isn't our call."

"But how I feel about her attitude is my call," Dee retorted. "Why is this an issue, anyway? Why would someone who grew in a lab be considered less than alive by people who do all sorts of weird stuff in labs?"

"Because the 'weird stuff' is meant to augment the naturally born," Malik explained patiently. "My race is the only new species my world has ever created and allowed to grow, mainly because they found us so useful. But 'useful' doesn't mean 'equal' or even 'sentient', and it never will."

"This makes what happened in Little Rock look like a Sunday picnic," Anthony murmured.

"I'm afraid there'll be no National Guard called out on our behalf," Malik said. "I was shocked when that happened. To think that your country would actually mobilize the military to escort children into school....amazing. Every world I've ever seen has struggled with racism in one form or another, but few, very few, have responded the way yours have, and so short a time after your civil war. The human race is evolving at an incredible pace."

"Not fast enough for me," Dee muttered. "I don't care how impressed you are with us, or how typical you find her views—I don't have to like it. I don't have to accept it. I don't have to sit back and say nothing while people I've known for years are dismissed as dogs."

Dee watched Malik and Anthony exchange glances. "No, you don't," Malik agreed. "And I certainly can't make you participate. This is an Antarian matter. You're a long time ally, and I'd love to have your help, but failing that, I'll ask you to stay out of it and let me handle it."

"Then that's what I'll do," Dee announced.

"I'll take this opportunity to point out that you're doing exactly what your mother did when Malik and Marana were injured years ago and she wouldn't use the healing stones," Anthony said, eyeing Dee closely. "And before that, when she tossed Brivari out of your house because she was angry about what his people had done here before the crash. In both cases she withheld her support because she had personal objections, which produced a year long argument between the two of you, if I recall. Is that really behavior you wish to emulate?"

Damn it! Dee fixed a murderous glare on her husband, who returned her stare unflinchingly. He would have to bring that up, wouldn't he? "This is different," she insisted. "Marana and Malik were injured, dying, even, and Mama wouldn't budge. No one's dying now."

"That's bull, and you know it," Anthony said severely. "You're doing exactly what your mother did, but this is worse because it's purely a philosophical discussion. Courtney didn't kidnap anyone, or experiment on anyone. She's a product of her culture and her upbringing, just like the rest of us. And for that, you're willing to penalize not only her but Malik, Brivari, Jaddo, their royalty, all of them, just to make a point. What purpose will that serve other than making you feel virtuous?"

"Anthony...." Malik began.

"No, I'm not letting this one go," Anthony interrupted. "I watched Dee fight with Emily years ago, and Emily had a much stronger case. As an aspiring lawyer, Dee knows that."

Dee rose abruptly and walked over to Philip, scooping him into her arms, her back to the others. Anthony was almost right, but only almost. There was also that uneasy feeling in the back of her mind that allowing herself to be sucked back into the alien maelstrom would put her son in danger.....and yet hadn't that been one of her mother's reasons for stepping back? "All right, I'll help," she said grudgingly. "But I'm not going to lie. Her attitude is not okay with me, and I'm going to make that very clear to her. Maybe I can't change her mind, but she can't change mine either."

"Fair enough," Malik said. "The first order of business is to find out if she really is who she says she is. Let's start with the operative she was supposed to stay with, the one Valenti's all up in arms about; I don't think she killed him because she wasn't in town yet."

"Not only that, but she's been keeping his death a secret," Dee said, setting Philip down when he squirmed in her arms. "She wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to look for the Warders all by herself, so she's been covering for Mark, saying he's at work or whatever. She says that was easy before Pierce died, but now they're getting antsy because Mark never appears."

"He was the senior operative, so he would definitely be expected to present himself at a time like this," Malik nodded. "She won't be able to cover for him forever."

"There's more," Dee sighed. "Courtney says her orders were to just find the Warders, and then her father, who's apparently the head of the resistance, would send emissaries, or whatever. But now he says he can't send anyone, that everyone is deployed all over the state because of Pierce's death, and moving any of them would look suspicious. He told her to just stay here and keep any eye on them, and he doesn't know how long she'll have to do that."

"Ouch," Anthony murmured.

"The resistance leader's daughter?" Malik murmured. "Interesting, although it could certainly be a lie. Still, her keeping her fellow operative's death a secret is the best evidence so far that she's genuine. If Nicholas finds out she lied to him, she's as good as dead."

"How do we know she really did keep it a secret?" Anthony asked. "For that matter, how do we know any of this is true? I mean, she sounds sincere, but....how do we really know?"

Everyone was silent for a moment. "What's for dinner?" Malik asked suddenly.

Dee and Anthony exchanged baffled glances. "Pork chops," Dee answered, "but I haven't started them yet. Why?"

"Is there enough for two extra people?" Malik asked.

Anthony smiled. "I'll set the table."




******************************************************



Valenti residence




Jim Valenti pulled his car into his driveway and shut off the engine. His encounter with Dr. Blake still made him uneasy, and his subsequent encounter with Courtney Harris hadn't made him feel any better. Miss Harris appeared to have acquired both a backbone and a new neighbor, none of which boded well for dragging any information out of her. Not that there was a shred of evidence that she knew anything about Mark Green, whoever—or whatever—he was, but Valenti knew she was lying about something; he could feel it. Perhaps placing Dee Evans right across the hall was God's way of telling him that it was none of his business? Like hell it isn't, he thought darkly, climbing out of his car. He was the law in this town. Everything was his business.

Having expected dinner to be over, Valenti was pleased to find Andi and Jimmy not quite finished. "This is a surprise," Andi said as he kissed her on the cheek and ruffled his son's hair. "We didn't expect to see you until later."

"You probably won't for the next couple of months," Valenti said, sinking wearily into his chair, "so enjoy it while you've got it. Filming starts tomorrow, and that doesn't always take place during business hours. Forget about scheduling anything." He helped himself to some mashed potatoes, meat loaf, and green beans, having just now noticed that he'd skipped lunch. "I really appreciate what you did at the station today," he continued. "I couldn't believe how fast you whipped that place into shape. It was downright embarrassing."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Andi said dryly. "And you're welcome. And I had some help, you know. Jimmy saved everyone a lot of time by fetching supplies and coffee."

"That so?" Valenti smiled.

"Dad, it was so cool!" Jimmy said excitedly. "The deputies let me sit by them, and they sent me for things they needed. I saw everyone coming in and going out, and I even got to answer the phone once when one of the deputies was in the bathroom. It was the coolest day I've ever had!"

"I'm glad you had a good time," Valenti said. "I really appreciate your help, but tomorrow, I'll let you get back to your summer."

Jimmy's face fell, and his head swung toward his mother, who was studying her plate. "What?" Valenti said.

Andi set her fork down. "Jim, I meant what I said earlier about making this a family affair as long as need be. And the need is there. You're going to need more help this summer, and not just extra deputies, but extra hands. Jimmy and I are just the people to provide that."

Valenti blinked. "You mean all summer?"

"Some of it, anyway," Andi answered. "Jimmy's off from school, and he loves it at the station. Our being there today freed your deputies to do police work while I handled the logistics and Jimmy handled the smaller chores that take up everyone's time. The station ran so well today because we were there, and since you and I both know it's going to get worse before it gets better, I think we should continue to be there, at least until you get a handle on all this. It obviously worked."

"Well, of course it did, but a sheriff's station is no place for an eight year-old," Valenti protested. "An eight year-old should have a summer."

"But I want to be at the station," Jimmy said. "Everybody fishes and rides their bikes and plays ball, but they don't get to go to the station. Please Dad? Please?"

"Absolutely not," Valenti said firmly. "It's not appropriate. Nothing happened today, but other days....you just never know."

"I'm not suggesting you take him out on calls," Andi said patiently. "He'd be doing basically clerical work, and I'd be there with him. If anything 'happened', I could always take him home."

"After something happened," Valenti argued. "That's my whole point. The station is the focal point for the lower elements of Roswell, and I don't want my son exposed to that."

"I'm not a baby," Jimmy muttered.

"And he's not just 'your' son," Andi said pointedly. "He's my son too, and I think this would be good for both of you."

"How would it be 'good for me' to have one more thing to worry about?" Valenti exclaimed. "Good Lord, Andi, I've got enough to worry about! I don't need to add my own kid to the list. Do you want to explain it to him when some drunk, or robber, or prostitute gets booked? He's a boy. The station is no place for a child."

"That 'child' helped keep your precious station running like clockwork today," Andi reminded him.

"Are you suggesting I can't run my station without an eight year-old?"

"Are you suggesting your station is more important than your eight year-old?"

Scrape. Valenti's reply died in his throat as his son pushed back his chair and silently carried his dishes to the sink. No one said a thing until Jimmy had left the kitchen, his footsteps fading away toward the back porch.

"Nicely done," Andi deadpanned, crossing her arms in front of herself. "Perhaps you'd like him back in diapers so you can continue the illusion that he's still an infant?"

"I know he's not an infant," Valenti said crossly. "But that doesn't mean he's an adult; don't tell me you've forgotten about that period of time in between called 'childhood'. The station is not the right place for a child, Andi. All kinds of weird things can happen there, and the next couple of months are going to see even weirder things what with Steinfeld and company taking over the town."

"So what?" Andi demanded. "This is Roswell, the nation's capital of weirdness! If you don't want him exposed to anything 'weird', then we'd better up and move fast. Where should we go? Never Never Land? Shangri La?"

"Very funny," Valenti said darkly, "but you're missing my point."

"No, you're missing my point," Andi said firmly. "You have a son who worships you, and whom you rarely see. I know your work comes first; I knew that when I married you. But since Jimmy was born, that's become harder to take because he didn't agree to live a life where his father puts him second or third."

"I don't do that!" Valenti objected. "I—"

"I'm not finished," Andi interrupted. "He wants to be with you, Jim, and he's old enough to be helpful. This is a way for the two of you to spend time together. Most of the year he's in school, and the only real time the two of you get is in the summer. But this summer's different; with the movie going on, he won't see you much at all, and then you won't see much of each other again until next summer. Do you really want to miss a whole year of your son's life?"

"No, of course not," Valenti said impatiently. "But what can I do about it? I have responsibilities—"

"What you can do is let him help," Andi insisted. "Did you see him today? I don't mean see him across the room, I mean really see him, see how excited he was to be there, how proud? He doesn't want to fish or ride bikes, he wants to be there, with you. I've never seen him as happy as he was today, fetching and carrying and emptying wastebaskets. To him, that's heaven. He needs this, and you need him. Why is this so hard?"

"Because I don't want him exposed to what he might be exposed to," Valenti said urgently. "You don't know what's going on out there. When I talked to Ray today, he—" What? Valenti thought. He told me we have an alien in town....again? Even if it was a spy instead of an alien, that had ramifications that went far beyond Roswell. That meant military intervention, or the CIA, or the FBI, or maybe all three. The last thing he wanted was his son on the premises for some of the crap that could go down around the whole Mark Green debacle, and that didn't even touch the debauchery that Hollywood was going to drag into town.

"Then let us help manage the station while you chase whatever it is you're chasing," Andi said softly, with that damnable insight he loved her for. "We're coming, Jim, whether you like it or not. I have responsibilities too, to my son, and my husband, and my town. If it doesn't work for some reason, we can always call it off, but we're going to try. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you."

"Sometimes I wonder who really wears the badge in this town," Valenti grumbled.

"Go tell Jimmy that he's welcome at the station this summer, and watch how he reacts," Andi said, ignoring him. "Then come back in here and keep complaining. If you can, that is."

Sighing, Valenti rose from his chair. He knew better than to argue with Andi when she used that tone, so it was best to just go along until something happened that was so awful that even she wouldn't be able to deny it. Jimmy was on the back porch, dangling his legs over the edge as he leaned against the railing, looking like he'd just lost his best friend.

"Hi," Valenti said, sitting down beside him.

"Hi," Jimmy answered dejectedly.

"Your mother tells me you were a big help today," Valenti said.

"Why did she have to tell you? You were there. Didn't you see?"

No, I didn't, Valenti thought guiltily. He'd left shortly after they'd arrived, and by the time he'd come back, he'd been so wrapped up in Ray's revelations that he'd only processed the efficiency Andi had ushered in. He hadn't even noticed what Jimmy was doing.

"Look," Valenti said, rushing on in an effort to avoid answering that last question, "your mother thinks the two of you should keep coming, and.....and I agree."

Jimmy's head jerked up, his eyes very wide. "Really? Do you mean it? You're not joking, are you? I can really come?"

"Yes, you can really come," Valenti smiled.

"Oh, man!" Jimmy shouted, leaping to his feet and pumping his fist in the air. "Oh, man, wait until the guys hear this! This is....this is.....Dad, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me!"

Valenti squeezed his eyes closed as his son enveloped him in a crushing hug that said more than any words ever could. "I'll make you proud, Dad," Jimmy whispered fiercely in his ear. "You'll see. You'll be glad I'm there." He paused. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too," Valenti said, blinking back tears. He'd expected the kid to be happy, but he'd never expected this. "And I'm already glad you're there. Just look what you and your mother did in only one day."

"I'll do more," Jimmy promised enthusiastically, pulling away, his eyes shining. "I can do so much more! And I can tell you things, things that maybe other people didn't see. Like about that deputy I caught sitting at your desk today."

The bubble burst as Valenti sobered immediately. "Someone was sitting at my desk? Who?"

"I'm not sure. I've never seen him before."

"They all wear name tags. Didn't you see it?"

"Uh.....no," Jimmy confessed. "I didn't."

"You can't afford to miss details like that, son," Valenti said seriously. "Never ignore the details, like someone's name tag, or what they're wearing. They could be important later."

"I won't, not ever again," Jimmy said, shaking his head vigorously. "I can point him out to you. I remember what he looks like."

"Good. So what was he doing at my desk?"

"He said...." Jimmy hesitated. "He said he just wanted to see what it felt like to sit in your chair, and then he asked me if I wanted to sit down in it."

"And did you?"

Jimmy's eyes dropped. "Yes. And then he asked me not tell on him."

"And what did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," Jimmy answered. "I didn't say I would, and I didn't say I wouldn't."

"Good," Valenti said approvingly. "So why did you tell me?"

"Because he's lying, Dad. The file drawer was open, and I know you'd never leave a drawer open."

"Which file drawer?"

"The lower one on the left," Jimmy answered.

"Maybe it just didn't close all the way?"

"No," Jimmy said firmly. "It was open too far. And he's lying. I know he is. I.....I could feel that he was lying." He paused. "Does that sound crazy?"

"Not at all," Valenti assured him, pointing to his son's middle. "That's your gut talking."

Jimmy looked down. "You mean my stomach?"

"Your intuition," Valenti explained. "It's like a sixth sense, and it can guide you when experience and rules and everything else we depend on fails. All the best lawmen have excellent intuition, and they learn early on to pay attention to it."

Jimmy's face split in a wide smile. "Mom!" he called, springing up from his seat and charging into the house. "Guess what Dad just said! He said I can come to the station, and he said I have in....intoo....he said I have a good gut!"

Valenti smiled in spite of himself as he leaned back against the porch post. Jimmy was happy, and Andi would be thrilled that Jimmy was happy, but it was really too bad he couldn't join in their happiness. He had no idea if his son's intuition was as reliable as his own, but he did know that the lower left drawer was where he kept records he wanted out of the official stream. Things he was looking into. Things he was sitting on. Like Mark Green's murder, for example. Only Hanson knew what Valenti kept in his lower left drawer, and Jimmy would have recognized Hanson. Someone else was fishing.

Happy chattering floated out the porch door as Jimmy celebrated his good fortune, and after a minute, Valenti went back inside. It was possible, of course, that whoever Jimmy had found in his chair had just been doing a little daydreaming. Possible.....but his gut was telling him otherwise.




******************************************************




Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"Damn it!" Courtney swore, yanking her hand away from the sizzling hot handle of the metal spoon she had absentmindedly placed in the pot of soup on the stove. Blinking back tears of frustration, she held her hand under cold running water, watching the redness spread. It wouldn't last long; husks healed quickly. Unfortunately they also referred pain every bit as well as any real human skin, something their designers had felt necessary to make them function as suitable camouflage. They'd done their job a bit too well, and she winced as she rubbed a towel over her sore hand and resorted to patting it dry instead. She should have just made a sandwich; she was far too upset to be trying to cook, a skill she still hadn't really mastered. "Carl" offered to teach me to cook, she remembered, her stomach turning at the thought that it had actually been in her room, standing right next to her, and she'd never even known. Add that realization to the ever-growing list of why this was one of the worst days of her life, with one crisis breaking after another and each successive crisis worse than the last.

The latest crisis was the worst. Dee's stalking out in a huff had rattled her badly, even more so than finding herself surrounded by Covari she hadn't known were there. Dee had obviously forged relationships of some kind with them, or thought she had, and not having her as a buffer and a guide was a painful loss that had Courtney banging her head into the proverbial wall. Why, oh why, had she argued with her? Why hadn't she just shut up and let Dee think whatever she wanted? That was basically what her father had said when she'd called him back only minutes after Dee had left, desperate for advice, unable to believe she'd just been stupid enough to anger an ally almost as soon as she'd found her.

"What happened?" her father had asked suspiciously when he'd answered the hated phone for the second time today. "Why did you leave?"

"Mark came back," Courtney had lied, taking the opportunity to continue the fiction that Mark lived. "He's gone now. Papa, I've...I've done something really stupid."

He'd listened patiently while she detailed her incredible day, saying nothing even when she got to the part about Dee getting mad at her. His heavy sigh when she'd finally finished communicated his disappointment every bit as well as any imager would have, and she was secretly grateful that he couldn't see her tear-stained face. No wonder humans didn't mind their voice-only communication system.

"Courtney, you have to look at this from the humans' perspective," he'd said. "Covari are created to deceive, and they've obviously deceived their human allies very well. You can't expect the humans to understand this; how could they? They've only just begun to understand the construction of their own cells. Arguing with them is like arguing with a child. Why did you even bother?"

"I don't know," Courtney had answered. "I just....she's just so smart, Papa! I guess I wanted her to know the truth."

"She's obviously not ready to hear the truth," her father had said firmly. "Even the smartest child is still a child. Remember that. And since we need this particular child, make certain you indulge that child, even if that means pretending Covari are equals."

"What?" she'd exclaimed in disbelief. "First you want me to stay here indefinitely, and now you want me to act like they're people? I wasn't trained for this!"

"None of us were trained for this," her father had said soberly. "We've all had to develop skills we never thought we'd need, and I don't see that ending any time soon. If it's important to your ally that you treat Covari as equals, then you must find a way to do so, however much you know it isn't so. Think of it as indulging a child's fantasies," he'd continued when she'd begun to protest. "When a child hands you a doll and pretends it's real, you don't argue with that child—you play along. You must play along with whatever this ally believes, however ridiculous that may seem. In the end, we have everything to gain and nothing to lose. Playing along will never alter their true natures, but it might well secure the assistance of one close to them, one they already trust. That is too valuable an asset to lose."

"You didn't even want me to come here!" Courtney had objected desperately. "You gave me strict orders to only find them, to let you know as soon as I did, but now I'm not only supposed to stay here with them, but act like we're friends?"

"And you argued that this was an opportunity we should not pass up," her father countered. "And you were right—the resistance found them before Nicholas did. We now have an advantage we could only dream we'd have, and we must exploit that.....and that falls to you." He paused. "I'm sorry. I wish I could send a delegation and relieve you of at least some of this burden, but I can't. I just can't."

"I know, Papa," she'd sighed. "I'll do my best."

She'd rung off soon after amid unnecessary exhortations to be careful to keep this a secret from Mark. That was the one bright spot in an otherwise very dark cloud, that no one yet had an inkling that one of their operatives was dead. Perhaps she wasn't completely incompetent. Just mostly, she added dejectedly, carefully wrapping the hot spoon handle in a pot holder before stirring the soup again.

A knock sounded on the door. Probably the sheriff again, she thought wearily. Maybe she shouldn't answer it. Dee's advice to refresh her memory as to what she'd already told Valenti had been excellent, but she hadn't had the chance to do that yet. She'd deliberately kept the story simple because the simplest lies were the easiest to retell, but even simple lies required regular practice, and she hadn't practiced this particular set of lies in at least a couple of weeks.

"Courtney, are you in there?" a voice called through the door. "It's Dee."

Oh, no. Courtney turned off the gas beneath the pot of soup and stood stock still as she seriously considered not answering the door. She'd almost rather it be Valenti; at least he was mad at her for a good reason.

"Courtney, open the door," Dee said, sounding faintly put out. "I know you're in there. I can smell the soup."

Sighing, Courtney trooped to the door and pulled it open, bracing herself for the next crisis. Dee had her hands shoved in her pockets and looked distinctly unhappy to be there. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," Courtney said warily.

"Look, about what happened earlier.....Carl thinks I was too hard on you. He says that's just the way things are where you come from, and he feels that you have a lot to offer. So he asked me to invite you to dinner."

"What....now?" Courtney stammered.

"Yes, now," Dee said. "Why? The soup will keep."

"I know. I just...." Courtney stopped, at a loss for words. "Well....let's just say that I didn't expect to be invited over for dinner or anything else, ever."

"I still don't agree with you," Dee said, giving her a hard stare. "And I expect you to be civil to him, at least while you're around me. Why don't we just agree to disagree, and get on with it?"

Dee's tone made it clear that she found what she was "getting on with" to be distasteful, and Courtney found that comforting; the notion of eating with a Covari was similarly distasteful, producing an odd sort of symmetry and freeing both of them from the need to pretend. That was actually good news, and ten minutes later she found herself in the incredible position of sitting at a table with Dee, Anthony, Philip in his high chair, and a being no self-respecting Antarian would have broken bread with. Malik was fortunately seated across from her, still too close for comfort but as far away as the simple square table allowed, Philip was delighted to see her, and Anthony did not seem to share his wife's disapproval. Food was passed around the table in large bowls or platters, human style, and she was surprised to find herself hungry; multiple cascading crises apparently whetted the appetite.

"I really wish I could cook," Courtney said during a lull in the conversation about the "observatory" Anthony was working on. "This is good. Especially the potatoes."

"Thank you," Malik said.

Courtney looked up in alarm. "You made these?"

"Yes, 'he' made them," Dee said with a touch of annoyance. "He told you he cooked, even offered to teach you how. Why?"

"I....well....." Courtney stopped herself just before admitting that she'd assumed Malik's claim to cooking to be a lie. "Nothing," she said quickly, mindful of her father's admonition to indulge Dee's fantasies. "Forget it."

"I believe Courtney is having difficulty imagining how someone who can't taste can cook," Malik said casually. "I admit that can be a challenge, but I enjoy it all the same."

Courtney kept her eyes on her plate, desperately hoping the conversation would turn in another direction. "So," Anthony said, looking directly at her, "you're from Antar?"

Courtney blinked. "I.....yes," she stammered, having never envisioned herself admitting that out loud to humans.

"Amazing," Anthony said. "That's quite a disguise you've got there. I understand you're part of some kind of 'resistance'?"

"But we have no way of verifying that," Malik said when Courtney nodded mutely. "I don't even know who you really are because you won't give me your name."

"I don't know who you really are either," Courtney pointed out. "You could be a Warder."

"Would you like me to identify?"

"Please don't," Courtney said, closing her eyes quickly. If there was one thing that would upset the stomachs of anyone on Antar, it was the sight of a Covari changing shape. "Besides, it wouldn't mean a thing. You can look like anyone you want."

"Covari never take the native form of other Covari," Malik said. "It's a point of honor with us."

"Of course it is," Courtney said, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

"Are you saying you don't believe him?" Dee asked sharply.

"If I'm going to approach the Warders on behalf of the resistance, I'll need some kind of proof that you are who you say you are," Malik interjected. "Like information. Where is your base?"

"It wouldn't be safe for you or the Warders to go near our base with the trithium generators around," Courtney said.

"Then why not tell me where it is?" Malik asked.

"Because that might not stop them anyway," Courtney answered. "I.....I could play you the message I got from my father. The one where he told me that Pierce had been killed."

"That will only prove you're an Argilian, not a rebel," Malik pointed out. "I'll need more than that."

Three pairs of eyes stared at Courtney around the table, the one exception being Philip, who was busily picking food off his high chair tray, ignoring the galactic drama in front of him. "Well....I suppose I could have you talk to my father on the telephone. Nicholas doesn't monitor those, and—"

"And it would be meaningless," Malik interrupted. "Your father could be lying."

"Then what do you want?" Courtney demanded in exasperation. "I wasn't supposed to have to do this! They were supposed to send a delegation which would have known how to handle this, but now it's all in my lap."

"I have an idea," Malik said. "Show me where the seal is."

Courtney froze as Dee and Anthony exchanged blank glances. "The what?" Anthony asked.

Malik leaned forward, folding his arms on the table in front of him, his eyes boring into hers. "Show me where they put it," he said softly. "Show me how to kill you."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 25 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


July 7, 1959, 7 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




Dee felt her throat constrict when she saw the look on Courtney's face, felt the tension in the room rise to an almost palpable level. "Show me how to kill you"? What kind of a request was that? Anthony was giving her a speculative look, and she answered with a small shrug that said she had no idea what Malik was talking about. But Courtney obviously did, because her expression was one of pure terror.

"What do you mean?" Dee asked. "What 'seal'?"

"The seal on her husk," Malik explained. "Argilians can't survive in Earth's atmosphere, so after they put their husk on, it would need to be sealed shut. If the husk is compromised, the Argilian inside would die."

"So....you're looking for something like a zipper?" Anthony asked.

"More like a pressure seal," Malik answered. "Argilians are sensitive to both the composition of Earth's atmosphere and its atmospheric pressure. It would be very small and well hidden. The scientist Amar and I were working for before Brivari killed him had perfected a seal, but I have no idea where it was ultimately placed on the husk." He fixed his eyes on Courtney, who still hadn't answered him. "If you want me to believe you, give me something that assures me of your intentions. Tell me where it is."

"What difference does it make?" Courtney demanded in a brittle voice. "Royal Warders have all kinds of enhancements. They don't need to know where the seal is to kill me or any of my people."

"They do if you're all walking around with trithium generators which block those enhancements," Malik pointed out. "Not to mention that we have no definitive way to identify Argilians. Knowing the location of the seal would solve that problem. Show it to me."

"No!" Courtney exclaimed, setting her fork down abruptly and looking away, flustered. "Look, I'll play you the message from my father. If—"

"The message is meaningless," Malik interrupted. "Like I said, it could have been fabricated."

"Then I'll call my father. He can tell you—"

"He can tell me anything he wants, and I have no way to verify it," Malik said.

"Then....then I'll let you disable everything on my generator but the communicator," Courtney said, sounding desperate now. "I can't use what I don't have."

"That won't help us when we encounter more of your people, which we certainly will. Show me the seal."

A prickle of unease crept up Dee's spine as Courtney's eyes jerked from one face to another like a trapped animal looking for a way out. *Is this really necessary?* she asked Malik telepathically. *Here I went and told her you weren't a monster like she thinks you are, and now you're acting like one.*

*We have no way of verifying her identity or her intentions,* Malik answered. *Willingly turning over the means by which to identify or kill any of her race is one of the few things she can do to prove she's telling the truth.*

*Can't you just shoot them?* Dee argued. *My father shot a hunter.*

*That's not the point,* Malik insisted. *She has to tell me, and she has to tell me willingly. If she won't, that throws her entire story into doubt.* "Show me," he continued out loud to Courtney, "or I'll have to assume your intentions are hostile and respond accordingly." He paused. "All right, then," he said softly when she didn't answer. "Could you pass the salad, please, Anthony? I'm still hungry."

Anthony handed over the salad, and a heavy silence settled over the table. Courtney was staring at Malik in shock, the hands on either side of her plate beginning to tremble. "What about you?" she said to Dee after a moment. "Will you help me?"

Now it was Dee's eyes that flicked from one person to another, from Courtney's pleading expression, to Malik's raised eyebrows, to Anthony's disturbed face, to her toddler's cheerful smile. Courtney was obviously terrified, but....what if it was all an act? Or even if it wasn't, what if more of these "Argilians" came and threatened her family? If this "seal" was really the only way to identify them, wouldn't knowing its location be a good thing?

"I think you should show him," Dee said, averting her eyes as Courtney's face fell. "It seems to me that you're in a precarious position with very little to bargain with. Earlier today you were terrified Malik would kill you even though he didn't know the location of this 'seal', so keeping it a secret doesn't seem to mean much except that they won't trust you. Which is exactly what you want them to do....isn't it?"

Dee went back to her dinner, and everyone ate in silence for several long minutes save for Philip, who noisily requested "More!" of the sweet potatoes twice before she cut him off. Courtney stared at her plate, saying nothing, eating nothing, and Dee deliberately avoided looking at her, staying out of whatever inner battle she was waging over what to do and secretly grateful this wasn't a decision she had to make. While it may not make any practical difference if this particular vulnerability was exposed, it certainly wouldn't be any picnic to have to reveal it.

Courtney abruptly stood up. "All right. I'll show you."

"Good," Malik said. "Let's see it."

"What....now?" Dee objected. "Can't this wait until after dinner? I—"

But Courtney had turned her back to them, and Dee's eyes widened as she raised the back of her skirt. Good Lord in heaven......what was she doing? Where was this "seal", anyway? Was it some place.....unmentionable? Come to think of it, the best place to hide something like Malik described would be deep in some body cavity. "Uh.....couldn't she just tell you where it is?" Anthony asked warily as Courtney tugged her skirt up further, exposing her lower back.

"Or show you in private?" Dee added desperately as Courtney's hand rose behind her to the waistband of her underpants, plucking at the edge.....

A second later, she found herself staring at the one of the most confounding things she'd ever seen. Courtney hadn't dropped her underwear like Dee had had been afraid she was going to. Instead, she had pulled up a sort of flap to reveal a round, silvery, shiny object set deep in the hollow of her lower back. Anthony's mouth dropped open, and Dee couldn't blame him; it was completely incongruent, this young girl with flowered underwear and bobby socks, the skirt of her cotton dress bunched around her waist....and a metal valve in her back. Even Philip stopped eating and stared, transfixed.

"My God, that's huge," Malik remarked as Anthony and Dee gaped.

"Pitty," Philip announced, the way he usually did when spotting something shiny, probably mistaking it for some kind of jewelry.

Courtney let go of the flap, which settled down over the silver knob and....disappeared. Completely. Anthony leaned forward in spite of himself, no doubt noticing what Dee had; there was no outline, no telltale edges, nothing. Her back now looked as smooth and unbroken as anyone else's. The silver knob and whatever was covering it had simply vanished.

"Where'd it go?" Dee asked.

"It's a self-healing graft," Malik explained. "The cells repair and re-bond every time it's replaced, so it looks seamless. Show me again," he ordered.

This time Dee noticed Courtney wince as she pulled up the flap, revealing the shiny round knob again as if by magic. " 'Self-healing'.....do you mean that every time she pulls that up, she's.....hurting herself?"

"She's hurting the husk," Malik corrected, "not herself. Remember, the husk is essentially a pressure suit, albeit an organic one."

It sure looks like she's hurting herself, Dee thought. "That's enough," she said firmly. "Courtney, sit down. You gave him what he wanted."

Anthony looked away as Courtney lowered the flap and resettled her dress. Deprived of something "pretty", Philip resumed his dinner, while Dee found that she'd lost most of her appetite. "Why is it so big?" Malik asked, unperturbed by the unease around the table. "It should be much smaller and much better hidden."

"There wasn't time," Courtney said, her cheeks pink the way any woman's would have been if they'd had to go through what she'd just endured. "Our scientist hadn't quite finished when Brivari killed him, and no one else managed to improve on what he'd come up with. Add to that the fact that Nicholas increased the number of operatives he wanted to bring with him, making the focus on creating enough husks to go around, not making an already working seal smaller."

"Well....good news for us," Malik said. "How do we compromise it?"

"How should I know?" Courtney said irritably. "It's not like they gave us lessons in suicide."

"But you can take the husk off under the right conditions, can't you?" Malik asked.

"Yes," Courtney said, growing pale. "But it's a one way trip; you can't put it back on. A husk isn't just a 'pressure suit', it's....it's more than that. You can't put it on and take it off like a jacket."

"Maybe I'm missing something, but how does this help you identify them?" Anthony asked. "You can't exactly walk up to someone and scratch around on their back to see if they have a 'seal'."

"True," Malik allowed. "How do your people recognize each other?"

"The same way humans do," Courtney said. "By our faces. Those we know, at least."

"You mean you don't know all your fellow operatives?"

"I know the operatives, I just don't know what husk they received," Courtney said. "Only a chosen few saw the husks while they were maturing, and Nicholas separated us into different groups when it came time to distribute them. I think he's obsessing about the possibility of the resistance having tagged along....and he should be, because we did."

"Wait," Dee said slowly. "Do you mean that there could be more of your people here, and even you wouldn't know about it?"

"Nicholas said he wasn't sending anyone else," Courtney answered.

"But if he did, is there any other way for you to identify another operative?" Malik asked.

Courtney shook her head. "Unless I happened to know that husk, there's no way for me to know."

Malik and Dee exchanged glances. "Which means Roswell could be crawling with them," he said softly, "and we'd never know."




******************************************************



July 8, 1959, 7 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Everyone ready?" Valenti asked, walking out of his office with his eyes on the duty roster in his hand.

"Assembled and waiting, sir," came the answer.

Valenti looked up in surprise. "Hanson? What are you doing here? I thought you were off screaming, or something."

Hanson's face pinked. "That....didn't work out, sir."

"Oh? Why not?"

"It just didn't. I'll tell them you're on your way," Hanson said, rushing off as the unfamiliar deputy behind him smiled.

"What's up with him?" Valenti muttered as Hanson practically ran down the hall toward the main office.

"I hear they told him his voice—or rather, his scream—wasn't deep enough," the deputy chuckled. "Guess he has a girlie scream."

"And you are....?"

"Deputy Sanchez, sir, from Franklin County. I haven't had the chance to introduce myself yet."

"But you've had a chance to mock Hanson?"

Sanchez stopped smiling. "Sorry, sir. I.....I meant no disrespect."

"Never mind," Valenti answered. "I hear Hollywood can be a rough place. Let's get this over with."

Valenti's entire staff was assembled in the main office, both those on and those off duty. Scanning the crowd, he realized that his earlier estimate had been correct; only about half were his usual staff, the rest on loan from Sheriff Wilcox or other county sheriffs. He recognized only a few of the new people, including Sanchez from a moment ago, and Crist from yesterday's encounter with the indignant Mrs. Murtle....and the very deputy he had been surprised to have his son finger as having occupied his chair. Crist hailed from Wilcox's station and appeared to be a serious young man who didn't look the type to be rifling through his boss's desk; he had a call in to George about that, but first things first. Everyone quieted as he entered the room for what would be similar to his pre-Crash Festival pep talks. This particular "Crash Festival" was going to last two months, not one night, so this would the mother of all pep talks.

"Good morning, everyone," Valenti said briskly. "Welcome to Hollywood, a.k.a. Roswell, New Mexico."

Laughter and applause all around. Most of the station didn't share Valenti's opinion of the movie being filmed here, finding it terribly exciting even it was going to be a pain in the ass for them.

"Some of you are on loan from other stations," Valenti continued, "and I appreciate your willingness to help out. I'm sorry I haven't learned all your names yet; I'll do my best to learn them quickly, and don't be shy about reminding me when I forget. We also have two temporary employees who are here to help things run smoothly. My wife, Andrea Valenti, will be acting as office manager, routing complaints in various directions like she did so successfully yesterday." Andi gave a small curtsey as appreciative applause broke out. "And my son, James Jr., will be your gopher, fetching you supplies or coffee, delivering messages, keeping the office clean, and so forth."

More applause; Jimmy beamed as a number of nearby deputies either ruffled his hair or offered to shake his hand. It had been exceptionally weird driving in to work today with his entire family in the car. Weird....and wonderful. Much as he was still concerned about what his young son could wind up seeing, it was obvious that Jimmy was thrilled to be here and hard not to share in his happiness. He'd received dozens of compliments on both his wife's and his son's performances yesterday, and he had to grudgingly admit that Andi was on the right track. His staff had done more than merely praise her organizational skills; they had pointed out that the mere presence of a woman had had a civilizing effect on deputies and public alike. No one wanted to behave badly in front of a woman, especially a good looking woman like Andi, and his staff was eager for any help they could get in calming what could be a temperamental public. Add to that the praise for all the time Jimmy saved them by fetching and carrying and it was clear that, whatever Valenti's own misgivings, his staff wanted his family here. And since his wife and son wanted the same thing, he found himself outvoted. Again.

"I have the duty roster for the next three days," Valenti continued, holding it up. "Keep in mind that filming can occur at any time around the clock and is subject to change, which will make life interesting for all of us, to say the least. The roster splits all personnel on duty into two groups: Those on duty at the filming location, and those on the usual beats. Crowd control will be the major focus on location, but our usual beats are just as important; we don't want the rest of the town going to pot because all of our attention is focused on Steinfeld and Co. There will be no time off for anyone for the duration of filming except for Sundays, when the movie crew is off. I'm estimating everyone will have two Sundays off for the rest of the summer. Sorry about that, but remember, you're getting overtime."

Heads nodded in approval. This was where it was advantageous to have everyone so excited about the movie; they were willing to put up with all sorts of inconveniences and impositions on their time just be near it. "I want everyone to keep something in mind," Valenti went on. "I know how exciting this is for many of you, but we can't forget that we're here to protect the people of Roswell. The ordinary citizen with the ordinary complaint is just as important as anyone on the movie set. Let's remember that these next couple of months and not lose our perspective. I don't want anyone making our citizens feeling like second-class citizens just because they're not Hollywood. Understood?"

More head nodding. "Good. Any questions?"

Baker's hand went up. "Has anyone seen the lead actress?" he asked enthusiastically. "She got into town last night. Boy, is she stacked!"

The embarrassed smiles and chuckles that followed this announcement puzzled Baker for a second before he remembered that his workplace now boasted both a female and a child. "Anyone have any relevant questions?" Valenti clarified as Andi's eyebrows rose about as far as Jimmy's eyes had widened, and Baker flushed a violent shade of crimson. "No? Then see Hanson for your assignments. Good luck out there, people. Make Roswell proud."

Everyone filed away either to duty posts or back home to await their shifts, none faster than Baker, who practically ran out of the room. "Sorry about that," Valenti murmured when Andi walked up to him, "but I believe I did warn you."

"Stop fussing," Andi said calmly. "And now I'm curious. Do you think she's more 'stacked' than I am? I should have asked him."

"I have no idea, and I'm glad you didn't," Valenti answered. "He was embarrassed enough. This is usually an office full of men, so they'll need some time to adjust their behavior."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, no one needs to 'adjust their behavior' for me," Andi scoffed. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

I noticed, Valenti thought, his gaze drifting south before he chastised himself for being distracted by his own wife. Fortunately, Hanson chose that moment to appear.

"Excuse me, sir? Sheriff Wilcox on line one for you."

"I'll take it in my office," Valenti said. "And I'll see you later," he added to Andi. "Try to behave."

"You're no fun," she deadpanned.

Valenti closed his office door behind him before picking up the phone. "George? Jim. Thanks for all the deputies you convinced everyone to send over. You doubled my staff."

"Good," Wilcox replied. "I just hope it's enough."

"We'll see," Valenti sighed, sinking into his chair. "I had a question about one of the men you sent, a Deputy Crist. How long has he been working for you?"

"Benjamin Crist? About a year and a half. Why?"

"Well....someone found him sitting at my desk yesterday. They thought he might be going through it."

"Who, Ben? I doubt that," Wilcox chuckled. "More likely he was just enjoying the view from the throne."

"What can you tell me about him?" Valenti asked.

"He's young and idealistic," Wilcox replied. "A real by-the-book type because he hasn't been around long enough to run into the kind of situations that aren't in the book. Reminds me of another young deputy of our mutual acquaintance who had the same problem some years back."

Valenti felt himself flushing. Despite the passage of a decade and the fact that he was sitting in his own office as sheriff of his own town, just the mention of his behavior back in the forties could make him feel like a rookie all over again. "So why'd you send him to me? I suppose you wanted to give me a taste of my own medicine?"

"Hell, no," Wilcox said calmly. "We've all been the eager, wide-eyed innocent with the shiny name tag and the bag full of ideals. I sent him because he wanted to go. A lot of my guys wanted to go, so many that I had to have a lottery. The lure of Hollywood was pretty strong. I'll bet the rest of my station would up and leave in a minute if you so much as snapped your fingers. Which you shouldn't hesitate to do, by the way, if you find yourself in over your head. Even the crash didn't test me the way you're about to be tested."

"Is that a vote of confidence I hear in your voice?" Valenti asked dryly.

"I've never lacked confidence in your abilities, Jim," George said sincerely. "Which is precisely why I kept kicking your ass. Ben is a lot like you used to be. He was probably just daydreaming in your chair, but if you find out otherwise, don't hesitate to kick his ass. I kicked yours plenty hard, and you turned out okay."

"How many children did you have?" Valenti asked innocently.

"Four. And every single one of them got his ass kicked. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Not now," Valenti said. "Thanks for the extra hands, and I'll try to give you a heads up if I plan on snapping my fingers."

"I'll be here," Wilcox promised. "Good luck."

Valenti paused as he hung up the phone, musing on how life could turn former bosses into equals and former adversaries into friends. He'd been so certain that Wilcox was wrong back in '47, going round and round with him about his practice of selective reporting.....and then Sheridan Cavitt had decided to stage a kidnapping. It was Wilcox who had stopped Cavitt within sight of the Army base and bullied him into letting Valenti go. Watching those two powerful men cross swords had been an eye opener, as had Cavitt's attempt to bribe both of them in an effort to get what he wanted. Those had been heady times, confusing, upsetting....and exciting. And instructive, Valenti added silently, pulling open his bottom left drawer. This was where he practiced his own brand of selective reporting, the place where he housed cases or evidence not quite ready for the harsh light of day, none of which appeared to have been touched. Perhaps George was right and Crist had been telling the truth—perhaps he really had just been enjoying the throne.

Closing the file drawer, Valenti pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and locked the desk. Two things stood in the way of that theory: His own gut, and his son's. His son's intuition may not be fully developed as of yet, but he'd learned the hard way to listen to his own. He'd be taking these files home with him tonight. Better safe than sorry.



******************************************************



Parker's Diner




"There you are, sweetheart!" Nancy exclaimed. "Do you feel better today?"

"Much," Courtney answered, managing a smile. "I just....I was having a hard time yesterday."

"Well, if you need anything, you just let us know," Nancy said as several other waitresses nodded. "We've all had some rough times, haven't we, girls?"

Not like mine, Courtney thought as she opened her locker door. She hadn't slept a wink last night, but she felt strangely rested. Even staring at the ceiling for hours in quiet darkness was preferable to the string of nasty revelations yesterday had brought. Just when she'd thought it couldn't get any worse, it had, and just when she'd thought it couldn't get any worse than that, it had again. And so on and so forth, culminating in the ultimate humiliation of being forced to reveal the seal on her husk to a gaping audience. Any stray thoughts she'd had that Dee might be right about Malik had evaporated when he'd humiliated her like that. The one advantage had been that Dee had softened toward her, having obviously been disturbed by Malik's coldness. As a valued ally, she'd probably never seen that side of him before. Maybe now she'd listen to reason.

Courtney closed her locker door and tied her apron around her waist, her hands lingering for a moment against the small of her back. She couldn't even see what was keeping her alive, keeping this husk sealed....and that was the point. Unable to make the seal smaller in the time allotted, their scientists had resorted to placing it in a spot which was hard to reach and hard to see, even with the aid of a mirror. They didn't want anyone fiddling with them or obsessing over them, and most of her people avoided them entirely, as if looking at a seal, any seal, would confer bad luck. Peeling up the skin graft which covered it had hurt like hell, perhaps another deterrent to the curious even though it had healed within seconds of being replaced. It had obviously been designed to stay hidden even from its owner, and she wondered not for the first time if Valenti or some other human had discovered Mark's seal and wondered what it was.

"You okay, honey?"

Startled, Courtney jerked back to the present. Nancy was looking at her curiously, and no wonder; she was standing in front of her locker, both hands on her back, staring into space. "Sorry," she mumbled, brushing past her and out the kitchen door, grabbing a pot of coffee and turning automatically to the row of seats at the front end of the counter for which she was responsible. "Coffee?" she asked the first customer, who nodded. She continued down the line until she came to the last one, stopping dead in her tracks as Malik looked up from his newspaper and smiled faintly.

"Aren't you going to offer me some coffee?" it asked.

Not willingly, Courtney thought darkly. First she'd been ordered to indulge Dee's fantasy that Covari were equals, then she'd had to eat a meal with one, and now she was actually expected to serve one. Was there no end to this humiliation?

"I expect you'd prefer I move to another seat," Malik observed.

Courtney glanced around; the nearest customer was four seats away and no one was paying attention. "Does that mean you'd actually do it?" she asked stiffly.

"No. I was just making conversation."

"Oh, of course," she said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Make me serve you. Don't miss a chance to rub it in."

"You've served me here before," Malik reminded her.

"That was different. I didn't know what you were. And you didn't know who I am, so you couldn't enjoy it as much."

"Contrary to what you seem to be thinking, annoying you isn't on my 'to do' list," Malik replied. "I'm not moving because, here, I don't have to. Here I'm treated like a person, not a thing. And I like that. Very much."

"That's just because they don't know what you are," Courtney muttered.

"The irony is that, were they to learn what you are, they would think no more highly of you," Malik said. "As far as they're concerned, we're both aliens, and that's that."

"Which only goes to show you how ignorant they are," Courtney whispered sharply. "And that includes Dee. Here I thought that maybe, just maybe, you were actually being honest with her yesterday when you told her not to hold my viewpoints against me, but it looks like you believe your own disguise."

"I told Dee that your attitude was common," Malik said. "That doesn't mean I agree with you, and it certainly doesn't mean you're right. Which you aren't, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. May I have some coffee, please?" it added in a louder voice just as Nancy walked by and glanced at her curiously.

Courtney felt her cheeks burning as she averted her eyes and poured its coffee before turning away and replacing the pot on the hot plate with an angry thunk. Whipping out her order pad, she started taking orders, adding them all to the spinner before going back to Malik in a somewhat calmer state. Emphasis on somewhat.

"What'll you have?" she asked impatiently.

"A little more caution from you," it said deliberately. "Keep up the tantrums, and certain people are bound to ask some very interesting questions. Even if you don't think they're 'real' people."

Courtney's fingers froze around her pencil as the diner's door opened and Mr. Langley walked in, heading for the table in the back where he and Mr. Anderson always sat. A Royal Warder she thought, averting her gaze. She'd never actually seen a Royal Warder until coming to Earth. Royal Warders were spoken of, not seen, and even then only in whispers. And to think that she'd been waiting on one, conversing with one......

"I'll have two eggs fried hard, with hash browns," Malik said. "So what training level have you reached?"

Courtney scribbled on the pad, suddenly finding waiting on Malik much more palatable now that the prospect of waiting on a Warder loomed. "Third," she answered.

"Ah. That explains it."

"Explains what?" Courtney demanded.

"Why you seem so competent and sure of yourself one minute and cowering the next. You've completed your basic training, but you lack experience. Experience can substitute for training, but never the other way around."

"I'm a third level operative, which means I completed two levels beyond basic," Courtney retorted. "Even the highest level operative out there doesn't have experience in a situation like this, not to mention that dealing with a situation like this wasn't part of my original orders."

"And now your orders have changed," Malik said. "Orders always change; as a soldier, you should know that. Do all third level operatives go bonkers when their orders change, or is it just you?"

Courtney felt herself flush, cursing whatever science made her husk so damnably lifelike. "You think I was hard on you," Malik continued. "I get that. What I don't get is why you're surprised. What I did to you is nothing compared to what they'll do to you. You need to prepare yourself for that. Warders respect strength and determination, the kind you showed when I was fixing your stove and you told me why you were here. Cower in the corner, beg for mercy, and no one will need to take their order—they'll just have you for breakfast."

Courtney turned away abruptly, unwilling to listen to one more word as she jammed the ticket with Malik's order on the spinner, her face still burning. It was right, of course. Given the bravado she'd displayed for her father when setting off for Roswell, her reactions yesterday had been positively embarrassing no matter what her level of training. Part of the problem was that she'd never expected to find herself surrounded by Covari; another was that she was alone, with no one to advise her. And another is that I'm inexperienced, she admitted grudgingly. While it was true that no one had experience in this bizarre type of situation, a more seasoned operative would have responded, not reacted. Her father's concern hadn't been just that of a parent for his child, but of a leader for an unseasoned soldier. Having that laid out for her by a Covari merely added to the already long list of humiliations she'd endured in the last twenty-four hours and put her in an even fouler mood.

She spent the next couple of minutes passing out plates of breakfast and fetching ketchup bottles and pitchers of maple syrup before Malik's breakfast was ready. "Anything else?" she asked coldly.

"Yes. Mr. Langley's hungry. You'd better get over there."

"How would you know what it wants?" Courtney asked irritably.

Malik raised his eyebrows, and Courtney looked away in disgust. Of course—all Covari were capable of telepathic speech. Most Antarians were too, to some degree at least, while most Argilians were not. One more reason her people had been made to feel inferior and resented the king's attempt to enhance his people's genome even further. "I've got the counter this morning," she answered curtly.

"You need to do it," Malik insisted. "And while you're at it, tell him you're sorry for his loss."

"Nancy will take care of 'him', and like hell I will," Courtney muttered.

"Do it, or I'll blow you in," Malik said, looking her straight in the eye. He leaned in further as she smoldered furiously. "Did you mean what you said about your mission being more important than what you wanted? Because if you did, that means your mission is more important than your racism. And in order to accomplish that mission, you're going to have to set that aside, at least temporarily. And if you can't—or won't—there's no point in your being here."

Courtney hesitated for only a moment before grabbing a pot of coffee and rounding the end of the counter, silently cursing Malik. Of course her mission was more important than her personal feelings, and of course she couldn't allow herself to cast shame on her father or their cause. Unfortunately her anger only lasted until she caught sight of "Langley" in the booth at the back, sitting all by itself. The one day she would have welcomed Mr. Anderson and his booming voice, he wasn't there, and she felt her heart banging all the way through her husk at the thought of being alone with a Warder. It's seen me before, and it couldn't tell, she reminded herself frantically, every step that brought her closer to the table more leaden than the last. And it shouldn't be able to tell this time either....unless, of course, she gave herself away. Pull yourself together! she ordered herself harshly, using her other hand to support the coffee pot so she wouldn't drop it. Here she'd just finished telling Malik she was a third level operative, and she was acting like a brand new recruit.

"Good morning," she managed in a remarkably steady voice.

The Warder was lost in the menu, which was interesting given that it couldn't taste anything. "Good morning," it replied without looking up.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

Breathing a bit easier now that she hadn't blown her cover, Courtney studied the creature in front of her. It was presenting a middle-aged form by human standards, early forties perhaps, with a bald head which now made perfect sense. For an Antarian, assuming human form by any means required adjustments, and one of the hardest after sheer height was.....hair. All of the races on Antar had evolved away from the need for body hair, so suddenly finding hair literally everywhere had come as a rude shock, much the same way as humans would have felt were they to wake up one morning covered in the amount of hair sported by their cave dwelling ancestors.

"So....you're alone today?" Courtney ventured. "Where's Mr. Anderson?"

"Mr. Anderson is enamored of the movie being filmed here," the Warder answered. "I am not."

No, I don't imagine you would be, Courtney thought, wondering again which Warder this was. Whichever it was, it was a master of disguise; it had certainly presented a convincing picture of grief last week. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked. "I mean.....about your friend....I....I'm so sorry," she stammered as its eyes fastened on her.

"As am I," it said after a moment.

"It's....it's hard to lose somebody you care about," she continued, carefully avoiding its gaze. "Especially the first time. Was this the first time you lost someone close to you?"

The Warder's eyes dropped. "Hardly," it whispered.

Courtney stared at it for a moment before quietly slipping away, troubled. There had been so much loss in that single word, so much pain that, for a moment, it would have been easy to fall into the trap of thinking it could actually feel.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 26 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


July 8, 1959, 10 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"You did what?" Dee exclaimed in disbelief. "You made Courtney go to Brivari?"

"I only told her to get him some coffee," Malik answered. "And—"

"Are you crazy?" Dee demanded. "She lost it at the diner just yesterday when she realized what he was! If she keeps doing that, he's bound to notice."

"I'm aware of that," Malik said patiently, "which is why—"

"Then wouldn't you want to keep her away from him?"

"If you'll let me finish—"

"And why threaten to blow her in? Were you really going to do that if she didn't trot right over? You must know that could mean instant death."

"If you'd just be quiet for a minute, I'll explain," Malik said, uncharacteristic irritation in his voice. "I can't get a word in edgewise, but then you come by that honestly."

Dee reddened at this latest reference to her mother and fell silent as she rolled the ball back to her son. Philip rarely tired of this game, where they sat on the floor rolling a small ball back and forth. It was more fun with more than two people because whoever had the ball could decide who to roll it to, and that wasn't necessarily the next person in line.

"Look," Malik said as Philip happily grabbed the ball, "Courtney is a soldier. She—"

"She called herself an 'operative'," Dee reminded him.

"That's just the English word they chose. She's a soldier who specializes in undercover work. Nicholas certainly wouldn't bring just any old grunts to mop up his mistakes. I'm certain most of his operatives are highly trained undercover officers."

"Courtney didn't act like a highly trained anything," Dee noted.

"My point exactly," Malik said. "It appears Nicholas also brought at least some operatives' family members along. Argilian military service runs in families, but those family members may not have the same level of training as the main operatives."

"Then why bring them?"

"Because they give him leverage," Malik answered. "If necessary, he could threaten them to keep his people in line. He's noted for that."

"Charming," Dee muttered as Malik sent the ball sailing past Philip, who jumped to his feet, laughing. Perhaps conversely, Philip loved it when he missed a catch.

"So Courtney told me she's a third level 'operative'," Malik continued. "That's three levels out of twelve, so she's pretty far down, maybe like a corporal in your army. And now she's been given the task of not just finding the Warders, but surveilling them for an undetermined period of time while negotiating with me, a job which should be reserved for one of your majors, if not a colonel. Imagine an enlisted man being given an officer's job, and you see the problem."

"So your solution to this problem is to scare the pants off her?"

"My solution is to toughen her up," Malik corrected. "She's going to have to grow up fast, Dee, very fast. As I said to her this morning, she can't afford to be cowering in corners or losing it in diners. She's going to have to start functioning as a higher level operative than she really is, and the worst thing to do would be to let her hold back. The last thing she needs is time to think about what she's just landed in. So I've shoved her out there twice now because she's got to get over it, if only so she doesn't give herself away."

"Fine," Dee grumbled, "but do you have to be so nasty about it?"

"This is interesting coming from one who was so upset with her last night," Malik said dryly. "What happened to all that indignation?"

"I still don't like her attitude, but I'm not exactly crazy about yours either," Dee answered. "Here she thinks you're some kind of animal, and I argue you're not, and then you go and act like an animal. That was downright weird what you did to her last night. It was almost like you were asking her to..... to strip," she finished uncomfortably. "Did you have to make her do it in front of everyone?"

"Didn't I just explain that?"

"Is this even worth it?" Dee persisted. "If she's such a rookie, maybe you're wasting your time. Maybe she can't pull it off."

Malik was silent for a moment, rolling the ball back to Philip, who missed again and scrambled happily after it. "She needs some grooming, but I think she can do it. She may only be third level, but if she really is the resistance leader's daughter, she has experience and insight any other third level would lack. She's kept Mark Green's death a secret, for example. That took guts. Defying Nicholas always takes guts. And then there's what she said to me when I was fixing her stove, when she didn't know who I was. She said she didn't want to be here, but had to be because she had something important to do, something that was more important than her personal desire to leave. I believe she meant that."

"So do I," Dee agreed. "But that's not enough to trust her with my son. Anthony's coming home later this afternoon to stay with Philip until we find another babysitter."

"Court Nee!" Philip exclaimed, having already connected Courtney with "babysitter".

"We can see Courtney later, honey," Dee said.

"Let me ask around," Malik said, climbing to his feet. "There must be a bunch of kids off school who could baby-sit."

"I can't hire a kid," Dee said sadly. "Whoever baby-sits Philip is going to be right across the hall from an alien. Anthony and you and I know what's going on, but anyone else wouldn't. What if something happens to them? I can't put someone else's child in danger."

"I'll help out as much as I can," Malik promised. "I'm really sorry this landed in your lap, Dee. It's my problem, not yours."

"No, I befriended her," Dee sighed. "Anthony's right—what is it about me and aliens? I must have a 'kick me' sign on my back that's only visible to people from your planet."

"Or perhaps you're just open to helping people out," Malik said gently. "I prefer to think of it that way."

Optimists, Dee thought darkly after Malik had left. Normally an optimist herself, she wasn't feeling the least bit optimistic right now. She had an enemy alien right across the hall from her family; well, supposedly not an enemy, but connected with enemies nonetheless. Like it or not, she was beginning to understand why her mother had always been so hesitant about the parade of aliens who had trooped through her house and her childhood. She who had always scoffed at her mother's protectiveness now felt claws emerging that she hadn't known she possessed.

"Ball?" Philip prompted.

"I'm sorry, honey," Dee said, settling back down on the floor and rolling the ball to her son, only to climb to her feet again when someone knocked on the door. A glance at the clock told her Courtney's shift wasn't over for several more hours, but that didn't mean anything; she might have lost her nerve again and come home early. Meaning Dee would have to deliver her "I'm not comfortable leaving you with my child" speech earlier than she'd thought, meaning she'd better come up with said speech fast. She'd thought of precisely nothing when she opened the door....and blinked.

"Mama?"



*****************************************************




It was midmorning before Brivari went in search of Atherton. His mood had been rife with contradiction since Quanah's death; life seemed to pass in a sort of leaden fog occasionally pierced by moments of sharp clarity, and he found himself alternately craving solitude and craving company. It was the latter he was looking for as he headed out of the diner and up Main Street, unable to eschew companionship entirely despite the pain that Quanah's death had caused. Whatever had been happening at the UFO Center was now over as evidenced by the lack of crowds outside, and he had only to follow the noise to discover where those crowds had moved. Five blocks south and down a side street, he found large crowds gathered around a parking lot full of testy people and primitive imaging devices. True to form, Atherton had found an unusual and spectacular viewing spot—the roof of a nearby building.

"How did you get up here?" Atherton asked in astonishment as Brivari settled down beside him. "I had to use all of my considerable charm getting the little old lady in the upstairs apartment to let me climb out her window."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not charming?"

Atherton broke into a smile. "I take the fifth. But perhaps things are looking up. It's nice to see you out and about, Langley. You'll never recover from your friend's death by hibernating."

"Is this the 'movie'?" Brivari asked, not eager to discuss Quanah.

"In all it's glory," Atherton said cheerfully. "That knot of people to the left are the extras playing the horrified townspeople, and the beautiful blonde is the lead actress. They're all supposed to be running from the aliens, the green ones over there with the horns."

"Horns?" Brivari muttered. "I gather they're not concerned about accuracy."

"Of course they aren't," Atherton said. "This is Hollywood, Langley! Tall tales and spectacle, dreams....and nightmares," he added as some sort of signal was given resulting in the "extras" and the "lead actress" erupting in screams as horned green "aliens" chased them around the parking lot followed by men wielding huge, unwieldy imaging devices. "Accuracy has nothing to do with it. Atherton would love it," he added with a chuckle. "This is just his type of nonsense."

"Is it healthy to refer to oneself in the third person?" Brivari asked dryly.

"Oh, come now," Atherton scoffed. "You said yourself that you use disguises."

"I don't treat those disguises as separate entities," Brivari answered.

" 'Disguises' plural?" Atherton said with amusement. "My, my. I'll bet you have some fantastic stories to tell, and someday I'm going to worm them out of you. At any rate, I have only one real disguise, and I'm quite fond of the old coot. He does bear my legal name and collect my paychecks, after all. And I tell you, he'd love this. Especially the horns."

They watched in silence for several more minutes as the extras attempted to flee the horned aliens without success. Various mishaps occurred, from the aliens' masks falling off, to the lead actress tripping in her footwear, to the watching crowd surging past the very busy sheriff's deputies and ruining the entire process. Tempers flared and choice words were exchanged resulting in several mothers covering their children's ears. Another man appeared and joined the fray, which only seemed to make things worse.

" 'Hollywood' does not appear to be very efficient," Brivari noted.

"Artistic temperaments are renowned for being difficult to work with," Atherton nodded. "They've been at it for an hour now, and I don't think they've filmed more than a minute's worth of footage. The director, that man in the blue shirt having kittens, is quite a handful; he's already fired a key grip and the clapper loader. Steinfeld is going to have quite a job reining him in."

" 'Steinfeld'?"

"The producer," Atherton explained. "Hollywood movie sets operate under a sort of hierarchy. At the top is the producer, the boss if you will; he's in charge of hiring everyone and securing funding. Next would the director, who's in charge of directing the actors and cameramen, and actually getting the movie filmed. Under him would be an assistant director, if not two or three, but this being a rather low budget production, he's on his own. Which might be part of the problem."

"It does not appear that the director has much respect for his superior," Brivari observed as the director launched into a tirade audible even from the roof.

"It certainly doesn't," Atherton agreed as that tirade became physical, the director shaking a finger in the producer's face before shoving a cameraman off his stool and sending him crashing to the ground.

"Why would the producer tolerate such behavior?" Brivari asked. "If he is truly in charge, he should never allow an underling to challenge him like that."

"He may not have a choice," Atherton answered as the director moved on to the extras, who quailed as he shouted. "This isn't exactly an 'A' list movie. He may have had a hard time finding someone willing to film it."

"Aren't most of those 'extras' local residents?" Brivari asked. "Why would they accept employment with such an abusive individual?"

"For the thrill of being on film," Atherton replied. "People seem to think that if their image is recorded, they'll live forever. They'll put up with all sorts of madness to gain the immortality of being on celluloid."

"Indeed?" Brivari murmured, strongly suspecting that humans had not yet discovered how quickly "celluloid" decayed.

"People are enamored with movies, both the finished product and the process of producing that," Atherton continued. "I understand a similar attitude prevailed back when photography was first invented. It was almost regarded as a form of magic."

Some 'magic', Brivari thought as the fracas below intensified. He saw no "magic", just a petty tyrant throwing his weight around as those in his path cowered in fear. Antar had certainly had its share of those, the latest being Khivar, making up for what his father had been denied by Riall's ascension. Khivar, who was personally responsible for the predicament in which Brivari found himself now, with dead Wards, slowly maturing hybrids, and an exile which seemed to stretch on forever.

A gasp rose from the crowd as the director advanced on the lead actress. Judging from his gestures, he was angry over the ruined film resulting from her tripping in her heeled footwear, and in the midst of yet another outburst, he reached down and wrenched one of her shoes off her feet with such force that she stumbled to the ground. "Oh, my goodness!" Atherton exclaimed. "He may have sprained her ankle! That isn't going to set well with—Langley? Langley, where are you?"

But Brivari was already gone, another shaft of clarity cutting through the fog which surrounded him. He hated petty tyrants. Some tyrants were actually good managers in spite of their penchant for tyranny, but petty tyrants never were. They thrived on destruction, moving from one hapless target to another as they attacked everything in their path. Everything that had befallen him since their ship had crashed on this planet was the direct result of a petty tyrant. That tyrant was currently out of reach, but the one below was not.




******************************************************




Ruth Bruce's rooming house



Emily Proctor hesitated outside her daughter's rooming house, clutching her housewarming gift in one arm. Coming up with a suitable offering had proven problematic; no matter what she'd thought of, it could be, and no doubt would be, misconstrued as a subtle judgment against something or other. And not without reason, Emily thought sadly. She had not done right by Dee and her family, and she was determined to correct that. Complicating that was nearly two years of testy relations between them and the fact that Emily still disagreed with her daughter's decision to stay in college after Philip was conceived. Dee's pregnancy had been an accident, and Emily certainly didn't hold that against her; she was married, after all, and accidents happened. What she absolutely could not fathom was Dee's decision to stay in college not only while pregnant, but after she'd had the baby as well. She had applauded her daughter's determination to pursue a law degree in an era when few women attended college for anything more than their "MRS" degree, but trying to juggle an infant with such a demanding schedule had seemed ridiculous.

But Dee had ignored her protests that it would be too hard and ploughed ahead, pointing to wartime working women as her role models. Even Emily had to admit she'd had a point; with so many men overseas during the war, women had taken up the slack in offices, factories, and stores, with round-the-clock day care centers springing up to watch the children they left behind. After the war those same women had been sent home to mind the children, and not all had gone quietly. While some were relieved to devote themselves to hearth and home again, others had relished their new life and were loathe to leave it. They hadn't gotten very far in the postwar period, where any woman who held a post other than that of teacher, secretary, or nurse was considered to be keeping a war veteran from a job. But the movement had not died, and showed signs of rearing its head again. Some women, it seemed, were not happy staying home with their children, and Dee appeared to be one of them. Much as Emily disagreed with that approach, she had to admit that Philip was a healthy, well-adjusted toddler who seemed to thrive on his unpredictable life. Perhaps not all babies craved the strict schedules Dr. Spock espoused. Perhaps in the future lots of mothers would work, and Dee was merely in the vanguard of approaching social change. No surprise there, as her daughter had spent most of her life bucking social trends and thumbing her nose at society's expectations. And she came by that honestly, Emily sighed as she pulled open the front door. Emily had done a good bit of trend-bucking herself, having only one child in an era that frowned on that and allowing her daughter to wear pants and climb trees. The tables had turned, and she hadn't even realized how much she was sounding just like friends and relatives who had nagged her when Dee was young. Did all young rebels turn into square adults?

Reaching the top of the stairs, Emily stood outside Dee's door, bracing herself for anything: Unhappiness at her being here, frosty courtesy, dismissal, even. She would bite her tongue, she reminded herself. She would say nothing judgmental, nothing accusatory, nothing contradictory. If not invited inside, she would simply leave the gift and not complain. Dee might not even be home, meaning all this agitation was for nothing. Her knock sounded loud and imposing even to her, and she plastered a smile on her face when she heard footsteps approaching, determined to make this a pleasant encounter no matter what.

The door opened, and Dee's eyes widened. "Mama?"

"Hi, honey," Emily said, talking rapidly before she lost her nerve. "I just wanted to drop off a little something for you and Anthony to celebrate your new place. It's fine if this isn't a good time; I know I didn't call. I...." I was afraid you'd make a point of not being home, she added silently, and was about to go on when Dee pulled her into the apartment and closed the door behind her.

"Mama, I am so glad to see you!" Dee exclaimed.

"You....I....you are?" Emily said, surprised. Of all the receptions she'd expected, this wasn't one of them. "Well....I'm certainly glad to see you! And you, sweetheart," she added to Philip, who had toddled over and attached himself to his grandmother's leg. "This is all cooked," she added, holding out the casserole. "It's Anthony's favorite, and I believe Philip liked it too."

"Thanks," Dee said shortly, taking the casserole and plopping it on the counter. "Mama, sit down. I have to talk to you. Remember my friend Courtney? She's an alien!"

Emily blinked. "She's what?"

What followed was the most bizarre recital Emily had heard since '47, when her husband had tried to explain to her why there was an injured, shapeshifting alien on their daughter's bed. This one took a good half hour and involved strange alien devices, something called a 'husk', something else called a 'seal', and a good deal of the usual alien political mumbo jumbo. By the time it was finished, a number of emotions jostled for supremacy: The shock of once again finding herself in the eye of an alien hurricane. The hope that came with the realization that their feud had now taken a back seat for Dee. And the fear that this time they had been joined in the crosshairs by her infant grandson, now seated on her lap and playing one his favorite games, that of removing grandma's glasses and trying to put them back on.

"Let me make certain I have this straight," Emily said, dodging an earpiece as it came dangerously close to her eye. "Courtney is from Antar, but she's not a shapeshifter?"

"Right. She's from the race that stole the king's throne," Dee said, taut as a bowstring, obviously upset.

"And even though she's not a shapeshifter, she looks completely human?"

"I told you, she's wearing something called a 'husk'. It's a perfect disguise; I never would have known."

"But she's a member of some kind of 'resistance' that wants someone other than their guy on the throne?"

"They want Rath on the throne, the general that Jaddo guarded," Dee explained. "Supposedly they made him an offer before the king was killed, but he turned it down, so now they want to try again."

"And how can you be sure that she's a member of this 'resistance'?"

"We can't. That's the whole problem. She's told us a lot of things, but she treats Malik like he's some kind of animal instead of a person, and there's no way to really know for sure who she is or what she's doing here."

Emily hesitated, having been about to launch into parent mode and checking herself at the last minute. "What do you think, Dee? Your instincts have always been sound. Do you think she's telling the truth?"

Dee was quiet for a moment, her fingers tapping on the arms of her chair. "Yes, I do," she said finally. "And so does Malik. Unfortunately that doesn't fix things. Even if she's a truthful alien, she's still an alien, and she's right across the hall. Which means that either way, I'm in the middle of it. Not to mention the fact that I took a job at Parker's because Courtney offered to babysit Philip, and now I can't do that. I can't leave my child with an alien I know nothing about."

Emily smiled faintly. "Your father did."

"Did what?"

"Left you with aliens he knew nothing about. That night he helped them move the pods, when I was out of town, he left you with the Warders at their ship."

Dee stared into space for a moment. "He did," she said, sounding flabbergasted. "I remember.....that was the first night he'd met them, and you were gone, and the Army had taken Mac, and....." She paused. "He left me!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "He actually left me all alone with aliens!"

"I don't recall you objecting at the time," Emily reminded her.

But Dee was looking at her son, who had donned his grandmother's glasses and was peering at his mother curiously. "He left me!" she repeated as though she just couldn't believe it. "My God, if Anthony ever did anything like that, I'd kill him!"

Emily's tongue nearly cleaved in two, so hard was she biting it. How do you like it? she thought silently. That's what if feels like to have the most precious thing in your life put in that kind of peril. A mixture of outrage and understanding washed over her daughter's face, replaced a minute later with horrified realization.

"How did you ever survive that?" Dee whispered.

Emily looked down at her grandson, now busily fingering her glasses, covering them with tiny fingerprints. By all rights, she should feel an enormous sense of vindication right now, of smugness that her daughter had finally figured out what a mother's protective instincts felt like. Instead, she felt something more akin to peace.

"It wasn't easy," Emily admitted, reclaiming her glasses. "That first round was all over by the time I got home, which was just as well. And the rest....well....you know all about that."

Dee's expression softened. "Mama, I am so sorry—"

"Don't," Emily broke in. "Just don't. We've both done things we feel the need to apologize for, and since neither of us is very good at apologies, why don't we both just acknowledge that and go on from there."

"But I didn't know," Dee whispered.

"Of course you didn't," Emily said gently. "How could you? You were a child. And even when you weren't, there's just no preparing someone for becoming a parent. It changes you in ways you can't imagine. I know I couldn't."

"It turns you into a warder," Dee said faintly.

"That's one way to put it," Emily agreed.

"Which is why you and Brivari always seemed to understand each other even when you were fighting," Dee said. " Why he always backed off, or at least backed up, when you got mad. I never understood that."

"Yes....well....you have a bigger concern," Emily said, anxious to avoid any discussion of their sometimes tumultuous past. "You need a babysitter, and I'm happy to fill in. Just until you can find someone else," she added hastily as Dee's eyes widened. "I borrowed the car today, but I can get a ride in with Rachel's father, and your father can pick me up on the way home. And I promise, no bottles. I'll do exactly as you say."

Dee was quiet for so long that Emily began to worry that she'd upset the precariously balanced apple cart. "You'd do that?" Dee said finally. "You'd babysit right across the hall from an alien?"

Emily hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Dee, I know we haven't always agreed with each other, on that or any other subject.....and perhaps that's an understatement. But you must admit that I have sterling credentials when it comes to aliens. Who better than me to be right across the hall from an alien?"

A moment later, Emily found herself the recipient of a crushing hug. "Thank you, Mama," Dee whispered.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Emily replied, grateful that her daughter couldn't see the tears welling in her eyes. How very ironic. Years ago, aliens had driven them apart.....and now they'd brought them back together.




******************************************************



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




The participants in the melee had moved by the time Brivari reached the scene, but locating them wasn't difficult. One prominent feature of petty tyrants was their need for an audience, which meant they rarely used a normal tone of voice; one need only follow the shouting. In this case, that shouting led to a kind of portable room on wheels bearing a sign that said "Make-up Trailer".

".....should have hired someone who could walk and talk at the same time!" exclaimed the director angrily. "Honestly, are all women imbeciles?"

"You try running in four inch heels!" the female which Atherton had identified as the "lead actress" spat back, the mass of yellow hair wreathing her face not even moving as she leaned over and massaged her ankle. "And don't call me an imbecile!"

"I'll call you anything I want, and you were hired to do as you were told," the director snapped. "So when I tell you to run, you run. I didn't say 'stumble', I said run. Do you need a goddamned dictionary?"

"You should watch your language around a lady," said a male onlooker nervously.

"Maybe I would if there was a lady around here," the director retorted. "And who said you could talk? Did I say you could talk? No? Then shut up!"

The man drew back in alarm as Brivari watched from the doorway. Four men and the female ringed the director, but only the female and this one male had made any move to challenge his behavior. The rest looked at the floor as if too embarrassed to watch, or cast sympathetic and ultimately useless glances in the female's direction, causing Brivari to wonder what kind of hold the director had over them. Tyrants used torture and death to maintain control, but seeing as how this branch of human society frowned upon those methods, at least officially, it was unlikely that anyone here feared either.

"Now you," the director continued, jabbing a finger at one of the men who had remained silent, "tell the costumer that if one more mask falls off, I'm going to have it glued to her own face! And you," he continued to another, "make sure that sheriff keeps the riff raff behind the barricades, or I'll find a use for my pistol. And you," he said to the female, "put that shoe on, get out there, and run when I tell you to. Think you can handle that?"

"Are you kidding?" she said defiantly. "You damned near twisted my ankle! I couldn't run in these shoes before you twisted it, and I certainly can't now."

"We could have her kick her shoes off and start running," suggested the man who had spoken before. "That would solve both problems at the same.......time," he finished in a whisper as the director thrust his face into his.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" he demanded as the man backed up. "No? Then that's a clue that I don't want your opinion!"

"Leave him alone!" the female exclaimed, only to be silenced by a vicious slap across the face. One of the men who had thus far remained silent actually stepped forward to object, only to hastily retreat when the director raised his hand again.

"I'd advise against that," Brivari said.

Six heads swung in his direction bearing six shocked expressions. "Who the hell are you?" the director demanded.

"Someone you don't want to cross," Brivari said softly.

"Is that so?" the director asked as his hand descended.....only to stop abruptly as he winced in pain and begun rubbing his arm. "What the.....? What did you do to me?"

"Everyone here knows that I never went near you," Brivari answered calmly.

The director spent a full minute frantically rubbing his arm and glaring suspiciously at Brivari as the rest looked at him in confusion. It had only taken a mental pinch on just the right muscle to produce intense pain. "What are you all standing around here for?" the director barked. "Back to work! We've got a movie to shoot!"

The director pounded out of the trailer, stopping momentarily to thrust his face menacingly into Brivari's, who never moved. The other men followed at a safe distance, no doubt worried their superior would suddenly regain the use of his arm. The female sank wearily into a chair and reached for a tissue. Her lip was bleeding.

"Are you injured?" Brivari asked.

She smiled faintly. "Nothing I can't handle. Besides, the blood matches my lipstick." She finished dabbing and lit a cigarette, studying him with an amused expression as smoke drifted around her. "So you're my knight in shining armor. Not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of tall, dark, and handsome, not short and bald."

"I fail to see why my appearance would be relevant," Brivari said.

"It shouldn't be, but it is," the female sighed. "In my line of work, that's almost all that matters." She paused, dropping her eyes. "I'm sorry. I must sound like an ungrateful bitch, and I didn't mean to. Thank you for stopping him. Even if it is job suicide to mess with Larry."

"I am not employed here," Brivari answered, walking slowly around the trailer, which appeared to be purposed for the application of face paint. "But you are, and so were the others. Why do you tolerate such abuse?"

"Didn't you just answer your own question? We have to eat, you know."

"Is there not other employment that would allow you to earn a living without abuse?"

The female stared at him a moment before breaking into a smile. "You know, I keep forgetting we're not in Hollywood, so of course people don't realize how Hollywood works."

"And how is that?"

"Well, the movie world is a very small, tight community," the female explained, "kind of like a small town where everyone knows everyone else's business. Know what I mean?"

"Like the palace," Brivari murmured.

The female blinked. "Couldn't tell you. Never been in a palace. But anyway, it's hard to get work in such a small bunch if even one of them is mad at you. So if you want to work in this industry, you have to put up with a lot of crap."

"You didn't seem to be putting up with it," Brivari observed.

"Sometimes my mouth gets in the way of my head," the female admitted.

"I couldn't help but notice that there were five people in this room and only one 'Larry'," Brivari said. "Perhaps you would find strength in numbers. What would happen to this endeavor if a large number of employees suddenly left their posts?"

" 'Endeavor'?" the female chuckled. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard a B movie like this referred to as an 'endeavor'. But to answer your question, I think the only thing that would happen if a bunch of us left our....'posts' is that a bunch of us would be out of a job."

"What is going on here?" a man's voice demanded.

It was the man Atherton had identified as the "producer", red-faced and sweating in the summer heat. "Audrey, I heard.....oh, Lord," he finished, spying her lip. "Oh, Jesus, what was he thinking? All the pancake in the world might not cover that!"

"Your concern for my welfare is touching," Audrey said dryly. "But I'm fine, thank you."

The producer colored. "I didn't mean.....I'm sorry," he said, flustered. "Larry has no right to blame you for all the things that were going wrong out there. I'll speak to him, I promise."

"For all the good it will do," Audrey sighed.

"You'll have to do much more than merely 'speak' to him if you wish to alter his behavior," Brivari said.

The producer's eyes widened. "Who are you? Do you work here?"

"I do not," Brivari answered. "And neither, apparently, do you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the producer demanded, flushing again. "I'm the producer! I'm the one in charge!"

"Hardly," Brivari said flatly. "As long as you allow those under your command to behave the way this 'Larry' did, he is in charge, whether you acknowledge that or not. Were I you, I would correct that imbalance immediately. Surely you've noticed that his tantrum shut down whatever it is you're trying to do here. Surely such a cessation of work is not a good thing."

The producer's mouth opened and closed as he looked from Brivari to the actress and back. "You should have seen him, Morty!" Audrey said enthusiastically. "He just said one thing to Larry, and Larry just.....stopped. Just like that."

The producer blinked. "He did?"

The director appeared in the doorway, scowling furiously and with his arm recovered. "That's him!" he exclaimed, stabbing a finger in Brivari's direction. "No one knows who the hell he is, so he shouldn't be back here. You should have better security, Steinfeld. The way it is now, any old thug can just walk back here!"

"Indeed," Brivari agreed, "as evidenced by the fact that you are here."

Audrey stifled a smile, while the producer merely looked stunned. The director, on the other hand, was virtually apoplectic. "Get him out of here!" he raged at the producer. "If you won't have him thrown out, I will! He doesn't work here, so he has no business being here!"

"Yes, he does," the producer said suddenly.

"Does what?" the director demanded.

"Work here," the producer replied. "Larry, I'd like you to meet your new......clapper loader. This is Mr....." He paused, his eyes pleading with Brivari to respond.

"Langley," Brivari finished.

"Langley!" the producer said triumphantly. "Mr. Langley, this is Larry Nivens, our director, and this is Audrey Tate, one of our leads."

"You can't be serious!" the director protested.

"And why not?" the producer asked irritably. "This is your doing, Larry; if you hadn't fired the first clapper loader, we wouldn't need a new one. And now that we have another, let's get back to business."

The producer swept out of the trailer, followed a minute later by the director, who appeared too angry to speak, although that wasn't likely to last long. "Whoa!" Audrey breathed. "I didn't think Morty had it in him. This should be interesting! So.....what do you do when you're not rescuing damsels in distress, Langley?"

"I challenge 'thugs'," Brivari answered.

"In palaces, right?" Audrey smiled when Brivari's eyebrows rose. "There aren't many days I get rescued by guys who work in palaces. Or rescued at all, for that matter." She sat back in her chair, stabbing her cigarette into an ashtray. "You don't want to tell me what you do. I'm good with that. I don't really care, not as long as you help Morty fend off Larry. I always thought Morty was a decent guy. It's just that this is his first time producing, and he lacks confidence. If you being nearby gives him confidence, I don't care if you're a hit man for the mob." Reaching down, she grabbed the shoes which had been giving her so much trouble. "C'mon. I'll walk you out."

"I thought you'd twisted your ankle?" Brivari said as they left the trailer.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Audrey admitted. "I was playing it up. Look, if you have any questions, just ask me, okay? I'm betting you've never been near a movie set before."

"Then you are 'betting' correctly," Brivari replied. "And I do have one question."

"What's that?"

"What exactly does a 'clapper loader' do?"

Audrey broke into a wide smile as they stood in the summer sunshine outside the trailer. "Don't worry, Langley. I'm gonna bet again, and this time, I'm betting you can figure that out."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 27 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


June 8, 1959, 2:30 p.m.

Roswell



It was something of a relief when Courtney's shift finally ended, but only "something"; work had taken her mind off her precarious situation for a while. That situation came rushing back in full force as she began her walk home in the mid-afternoon heat, anxious to shed her uniform and get into something cooler. Malik had left after finishing his breakfast, mercifully not demanding that she make any further contact with whichever Warder Mr. Langley was masquerading as. Much as she hated to admit it, talking to it this morning, however briefly, had done her good by confirming that her husk was a perfect disguise. That shouldn't be an issue because it had seen her several times already, but having that confirmed had gone a long way toward calming her nerves. She'd spent the better part of its time there watching it carefully and trying to guess which Warder it was without success. But she had figured out the source of the confrontation it had had with another customer shortly after its "friend" died, a silent confrontation which had puzzled onlookers at the time, but now made perfect sense; the "man" it was angry with must have been either Malik or the other Warder, their argument taking place via telepathic speech. The notion that she may have been in the presence of not one, but two of the deadliest beings on Antar was not a pleasant one, and she was glad when Mr. Langley had given up on Mr. Anderson and left after waiting for a full hour in brooding silence. It certainly played the part of the grieving friend very well, so well that it was easy to see why Dee had fallen into the trap of seeing Covari as people.

Now she hurried home, anxious to see if Dee's sympathy for her last night had worn off and to tell her about Malik's behavior this morning. Surely she must see what was going on; in the presence of someone who knew what it was, it had dropped all pretenses and behaved like its true self. That had obviously been a surprise to Dee last night, and Courtney intended to press that advantage as hard as she could without running afoul of her father's order to not antagonize her. She wasn't quite certain how she was going to do that, but she had the rest of the walk to figure it out.

Or did she? Courtney stopped dead in her tracks as she spied what looked like Dee coming toward her, dressed in her waitress's uniform. "Dee?" she said in surprise as they came abreast of each other. "Am I late? Did your shift change? Where's Philip?"

Dee shifted her purse to her other shoulder and crossed her arms in front of herself. "I don't mean to be rude, Courtney, but I just can't leave Philip with you."

"Oh," Courtney said, taken aback. "Okay, but....did you get another babysitter?"

"It's taken care of. And no, my shift didn't change; I just wanted to make up for what I missed yesterday when....when I had to leave early."

You mean when I ran out of the diner, Courtney thought, flushing at the memory of Malik's jibes about her training level. "Okay, but who's with Philip?" she asked. "You didn't leave him with Malik again, did you? Why would you do that after it way it behaved last night?"

" 'He' had his reasons for doing what 'he' did," Dee said, her impatient emphasis on the pronouns making it clear this was an issue with her.

"But it—I mean 'he'—did it again this morning," Courtney said, deciding she'd have to get used to indulging the delusion that Malik had a gender. "Did he have his 'reasons' then too?"

"He told me about this morning, and yes, he did. And from what he said, he explained those reasons to you, so you should already know that."

"Dee, you can't keep leaving Philip with him," Courtney said urgently, her father's admonitions going right out the proverbial window. "I know you think he's harmless and friendly, but he's not. Believe me, I know. They look normal—"

"We've been over this," Dee interrupted, "and we agreed to disagree, remember? I'm not going to go through this every time we talk. Philip is safe, and you're off the hook for babysitting. Thanks for the offer, but right now, I just can't see my way clear to doing that." She paused, her expression softening. "For what it's worth, I want to believe you. The part about the resistance, that is. I just need a little time. You can understand that, right?"

"Sure," Courtney said faintly. "No problem."

"Good." Dee gave her hand a little squeeze. "I'll see you later then. I only have a four hour shift."

Dee continued on her way to the diner as Courtney resumed her walk home, her feet feeling like lead. So much for Dee being sympathetic; she was still deemed more of a threat than a Covari, a slap in the face if ever there was one. Trudging up the walk to her rooming house, she cast a glance at Dee's door after climbing the stairs, uneasy at being across the hall from a Covari. She had only just opened her door when her phone began to ring.

Courtney sighed. That would be her father, and he'd want an update. And what did she have to tell him other than that she'd given away the one thing that kept them all alive on this planet? I can't take this now, she thought, leaning wearily against the doorframe as the phone continued to ring, sounding louder the longer she resisted answering it. Right now all she wanted was to take her shoes off, have something cold to drink, and sit in front of a fan.

"Are you all right?"

Courtney whirled around to find a woman standing in Dee's open doorway, watching her with concern. The resemblance was so striking that there was no doubt who it was. Things must be very bad indeed if she'd turned to her mother for help, the very mother she'd moved here to avoid.

"You know, you don't have to answer it," the woman said as the phone continued to ring. "I've done that sometimes." She paused as Courtney continued to stare at her. "Are you Courtney? I'm Emily Proctor, Dee's mother. She tells me you're.....a long way from home."

Courtney blinked. Was there anyone who didn't know she was from another planet? Behind her, the phone fell silent, the silence somehow louder than the ringing. "There," Mrs. Proctor said. "See? They gave up for the moment. They'll just think you weren't home. Would you like to come over? I just made some iced tea, and you look like you need to get off your feet."

That's exactly what I need, Courtney thought, eyeing the woman curiously. So this was the parent who had driven Dee to move out? She certainly didn't look that bad. She was wearing a conventional dress, unlike her daughter who favored those short pants called "pedal pushers", but the eyes and the no nonsense attitude had Dee written all over it. The prospect of iced tea and the chance to see Dee's mother up close was overpowering. Assuming, of course, that this really was Dee's mother.

"Okay," she said carefully. "I'll be over in a minute."

"Good," the woman smiled. "I'll pour you a glass."

Five minutes later, Courtney knocked on Dee's door. The woman opened the door and ushered her inside with a smile that certainly appeared genuine. The apartment was surprisingly cool, with the curtains drawn against the heat of the afternoon and two fans going, one blowing on Philip who was sound asleep in his crib, the other blowing on the table on which sat two very inviting glasses of iced tea.

"Have a seat and take your shoes off, dear," the woman said. "I waitressed once, and I know what it feels like. Don't worry about Philip," she added. "He appears to sleep through anything. I don't know how he does it, but he does." She set a sugar bowl and a plate of lemon wedges on the table and sat down across from Courtney, who had pushed her shoes off and was gratefully stretching her toes. "Now—I'll bet you're wondering if I'm a shapeshifter. It's all right," she continued when Courtney stiffened. "Dee tells me you have something that can settle that, and I would imagine you have it with you. I know I would. So go ahead and use it so we can talk."

Courtney hesitated for just a moment before pulling the generator out of her pocket. The woman looked around with interest as the infrared wash confirmed that there were no Covari in this room in any form. "No offense," Courtney said, "but I had to know."

"None taken," Mrs. Proctor said briskly. "It's a legitimate question. I've sniffed out a few of them in my time as well, although my methods were a lot less fancy. Would you like sugar or lemon with your tea?"

"Both, thank you," Courtney said.

"So you can taste?"

"Of course I can," Courtney answered. "I'm a real person."

Mrs. Proctor's eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn't challenge that simple fact the way her daughter had. "I'm surprised to see you here," Courtney said, changing the subject quickly. "I thought you and Dee were fighting."

"We were," Mrs. Proctor confirmed. "Or maybe 'are'. I'm not sure. It's hard to tell. Dee and I have a rather....complicated relationship."

Courtney smiled faintly. "Don't all mothers and daughters have complicated relationships?"

"Was that your mother on the phone?" Mrs. Proctor asked.

"It was probably my father," Courtney sighed.

"I'm going to assume your father's here since he has access to a telephone. And what about your mother? Is she here too?"

"No. She's still home. I'm here because our commander likes to...." Courtney paused, her throat tightening. "He likes to have options when it comes to motivating his operatives."

"I see," Mrs. Proctor murmured. "How very human of him."

"Cruelty isn't confined to humans, Mrs. Proctor."

"So I'm told," Mrs. Proctor said quietly. "How very depressing." She stirred a great deal of sugar into her tea, the spoon clanking against the class as the cold liquid struggled to absorb it. "Why didn't you want to talk to your father?"

Courtney's eyes dropped. "Because I've messed everything up. Because he wants me to do something I just don't know how to do. Because...." She stopped, afraid her voice would betray her if she continued. "Let's just say things haven't worked out the way I thought they would," she whispered.

Mrs. Proctor glanced at her sleeping grandson. "They never do. Not here, not on your world, not anywhere, I imagine." She reached across the table, pushing Courtney's class closer. "Why don't you drink your tea," she said gently, "and tell me about it."




*****************************************************



Eagle Rock Military Base



Jaddo had only just taken a seat at an empty table in the mess hall when someone sat down directly across from him. Irritated, he looked up to find one he hadn't been expecting.

*What are you doing here?* he demanded.

*Nice to see you too,* Malik said calmly. *I was wondering if there's been any activity here because of Pierce's death.*

Jaddo's irritation level lowered just a bit. *I'm glad to see that someone else besides me cares about that. Is Brivari still moping?*

*Was that a 'yes'?* Malik asked.

*No,* Jaddo replied. *Oh, there have been a great many meetings, a great deal of posturing, and a great many boxes pulled out of storage and dusted off for inspection, but that's been the extent of it. The humans seem too distracted by events on their own world to bother with what happened years ago.*

*They're worried about Castro,* Malik nodded. *Fidel Castro?* he continued when Jaddo looked blank. *He's a communist, and he invaded Cuba earlier this year. Caused quite a stir.*

*Never heard of him,* Jaddo answered.

*Don't you pay attention to human politics?*

*What for? They are distracted, and that is advantageous for us; why is irrelevant. On top of that, I gather not everyone even believes it happened given that they don't have access to Pierce's body.*

*Why not?* Malik asked.

*Major Lewis apparently confiscated it, although he's no longer 'major',* Jaddo answered. *He now works for a rival organization called the 'FBI', and there was a brief skirmish over territory which now seems to have been resolved.*

*In whose favor?*

Jaddo frowned. *I'm not sure. Lewis has only shown his face here once, but he was not reinstated, and the Army does not appear to have surrendered anything. On the other hand, they still do not have the body.*

*Perhaps we should be watching the FBI as well,* Malik suggested.

*Perhaps,* Jaddo allowed, *although no one will be able to find us. And please do not lecture me about leaving a handprint on Pierce. The satisfaction that afforded me was well worth this minor hiccup. This will pass.*

*Perhaps,* Malik replied as Jaddo's eyebrows rose at the lack of complete agreement. *I'm curious about something,* he continued. *What do you know of an offer made to Rath by Argilian rebels to help him ascend the throne?*

*How do you know about that?* Jaddo asked sharply.

*Brivari mentioned it in passing. More of an allusion, really. But I'd never heard of this, so—*

*Of course you haven't,* Jaddo interrupted. *You're not a Warder.*

*I know that,* Malik said patiently. *I'm just unfamiliar with any Argilian resistance, or rebellion, or whatever it was. What were they rebelling against?*

*And why do you care?* Jaddo asked, his eyes boring into Malik's. *You left. You would not have been affected by the outcome.*

* 'Outcome'? So there was an offer made?*

Jaddo sighed, making no effort to mask his annoyance. Malik was absolutely imperturbable, immune to his temper, to insults, to just about anything. Living with that insufferable Amar probably had something to do with his unflappability, but that notion invited comparisons between Jaddo and Amar, comparisons Jaddo did not wish to make. *Yes, there was an offer. What of it?*

*Wow,* Malik said faintly. *How many emissaries did they have to send before one got through?*

*What difference does that make?*

Malik shrugged. *Just curious.*

*Six,* Jaddo answered. *Are we done now?*

*So the seventh made it through, and what did they want exactly? I gather they didn't want Khivar to rule? Were they angling to kill Zan, or just replace him? This is the first I've heard of this, so I'm just trying to understand,* Malik added when Jaddo scowled at him.

*Perhaps you would have understood better if you hadn't gone rogue,* Jaddo said pointedly.

*So this 'offer' was public knowledge?*

Jaddo gave an exasperated snort as Malik looked at him innocently. He was right, of course; even if he had returned to Antar instead of staying behind on Earth, he wouldn't have known a thing about this. *The Argilian rebels were pleased with Riall's rule, but skeptical of his son's ability to continue it,* Jaddo said. *They felt Khivar too inexperienced and self-absorbed to make a good monarch, and Zan too weak to resist him. They identified Rath as the best candidate for monarch and offered to help him attain that. He turned them down, of course. Rath would never betray Zan.*

*No, of course not,* Malik murmured. *What do you think? Do you think Rath would have made a better king?*

*Is this some kind of test?* Jaddo snapped. *Did Brivari send you because he couldn't find the time, what with him wasting time on that ridiculous 'movie' earlier today?*

*It's no test, just a question. A question I don't feel I can ask Brivari even if he wasn't in the mood he's in. I'm not certain.....* Malik paused, as though debating whether to finish that sentence. *I'm not certain he could give me an objective answer.*

Jaddo relaxed, his guard dropping immediately. Objectivity had never been Brivari's strong point; he always wound up personally involved, and his current behavior was a perfect example. *Zan was.....young,* Jaddo began. *Young and inexperienced. Everyone knew that. But his chief weakness was that he had been trained by his father to rule a world that did not yet exist in his father's time, a world his father hoped would exist by the time his son took the throne, and didn't...or not quite. Riall's new world no longer needed his strong hand to keep it in line, but it did need a stronger hand than his son typically showed.*

*So do you think Rath would have made the better king?* Malik asked.

*Rath was, in many ways, the antithesis of Zan,* Jaddo continued. *Zan had been taught to communicate, to make alliances, to compromise. Rath was a soldier; his natural instincts were more along the lines of what the humans refer to as 'shoot first and ask questions later'. This is why they functioned best as a set; separately, they each leaned too far in one direction or the other, while together, one balanced the other. The king and his second frequently disagreed, often loudly....but the result was always better than it would have been had either been left alone to decide.*

*So....you don't think Rath would have made the better king?* Malik ventured.

*What I think is that Antar was in love with the notion of peaceful succession for the monarchy and the dynasty Riall wished to build,* Jaddo answered. *That meant Zan must stay on the throne because the people would view anyone of another bloodline as a return to the old ways. But Zan needed a good deal of counsel, and he should have listened to his counselors more than he did. What was needed was not a new king, but a king more willing to listen to both his second and those around him.*

*Not that that would have helped,* Malik said. *It was Vilandra who brought him down.*

*Because the king was insisting she marry someone she did not wish to,* Jaddo said. *Vilandra was a fool, and may well have done what she did regardless, but there is no question that her brother's heavy-handedness played a part in that, as did the fact that he didn't trust Brivari enough to tell him about his struggle to control his sister's behavior. However one views it, all roads lead back to the king.*

*I take it you didn't approve of Vilandra as a wife for Rath?*

Jaddo eyes narrowed. *I would strongly advise you not to pursue that subject.*

*Right. So what happened after Rath said no? Did you hear from the rebels again?*

*No. Why?*

*Here's what I'm thinking,* Malik said. *If a silver handprint has roused the human military and whatever organization the former Major Lewis is now working for, it's safe to assume that it also roused whatever Argilian faction is here, assuming they ever arrived in the first place. And should we ever encounter them, assuming they're here, it's possible that the rebels infiltrated that contingent and we might have allies among them.*

*Allies?* Jaddo echoed. *I strongly doubt Brivari would see it that way.*

*So do I,* Malik agreed, *but the fact remains that there may be some who would be willing to work against Khivar. And since our natural reaction should we ever encounter any Argilians would be to....well....to 'shoot first and ask questions later', is it possible that we should keep that in mind?*

*No,* Jaddo said flatly. *How would we ever know there was a rebel faction? And what difference does it make since they can't recognize us? We are as invisible to them as they purportedly are to us. We merely need to maintain that balance until the hybrids emerge, be that tomorrow or a hundred years from now.*

*Okay,* Malik said slowly. *But just out of curiosity, what do you think the rebels would do if they're here? Would they try to contact you again? Would they—*

*Where is this coming from?* Jaddo demanded. *Do you know something you're not telling me?*

Malik retreated instantly. *Sorry. I was just....playing around with possibilities because it had dawned on me that your handprint could have alerted Athenor if he did indeed come here as Larak said he was, and now I hear this bit about rebels, and.....I was just putting two and two together. I like to be prepared for anything.*

Jaddo was silent for a moment. *Commendable,* he said finally. *Would that Brivari would do the same. Normally he would, but he's all taken up with the death of that so called 'friend' of his and the hybrids not developing as fast as he would like. I can see the latter, but the former is conceit, pure and simple. It makes no sense to form relationships with beings whose lives are so fleeting compared to ours.*

*He's going to have to do something with himself one way or another,* Malik said. *Brivari's used to running things, to balancing competing forces. Those strengths of Zan's you mentioned, communicating, forming alliances....those are Brivari's strengths too. That's how he managed to rally our people behind a potential king for the first time in our history. He'll be very unhappy without something to manage or balance for the number of years he'll have to wait, even if the hybrids are growing on schedule.*

*Then he should find some suitable employment and stop fooling himself that he can ever enjoy anything more than brief relationships with humans,* Jaddo said. *And while he's at it, he might pay some attention to our own situation, as you have. I'm impressed, Malik. You've shown a foresight I'd not thought you capable of.*

*Does that mean I'll get an answer to my question?* Malik asked.

*Which one?*

*How would we know if there are rebels among the Argilians? Do you think they'd contact you to make their presence known?*

*They would be unwise to do so,* Jaddo said with a level stare. *Proving their sincerity Earthside would be next to impossible, so unless I found myself dealing with the same people I encountered on Antar, I would be forced to assume any who presented themselves as rebels to be spies and would not hesitate to kill them just as soon as I'd wrung every last bit of useful information out of them. Does that answer your question?*

Malik's eyes widened slightly. *Yes,* he said faintly. *Yes, it does.*




******************************************************



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"That's a wrap!" Morty Steinfeld called. "Everyone go get some dinner, and meet at the next location at 9 p.m."

"Would you like a chair, Miss Tate?" one of the best boys asked.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Audrey said gratefully, sinking into the chair and pulling off her shoes, her feet complaining loudly as her heels came level with her toes for the first time in hours. Fortunately those feet had several hours to recover because they'd finished shooting the day's scenes earlier than anyone had dreamed they would. Part of that was because Audrey had somehow managed to half run, half trot in her tottering heels without tripping; part was because they'd learned the hard way that, in this oppressive heat, the actors playing aliens had to remove their heavy masks periodically or they'd faint, which had a tendency to slow down production. But most of their efficiency was due to the fact that their famously bad tempered director hadn't thrown a single tantrum since this morning.

Carefully, Audrey worked her heels up and down, wincing as cramps slowed the exercise and watching the political dust settle. Many were casting curious glances Larry's way, unable to figure out why he was displaying a heretofore unknown facet of his personality: Self control. Only a handful of people had seen the altercation in the make-up trailer, and no one had yet had the leisure to spread the story, making Larry's comparatively good behavior unfathomable to many. Oh, he'd shouted, he'd sworn, he'd belittled, and so on. But that was small beans when it came to Larry, and whenever he'd seemed to be on the verge of one of those famous blow-ups that could shut the set down, he would look over at the new clapper loader, and pause. And that was weird, because Larry Nivens paused for nothing and no one....or so she'd thought. It turned out he did pause for a relatively short, bald, and decidedly very odd man whose presence had him fit to be tied.

And "presence" was the operative word, something else that made the clapper loader's hold over Larry all the more puzzling. Langley, the single name by which the new employee had identified himself, had not spoken so much as a word since stepping into the position this morning. He had mastered the job in ten minutes flat and performed it flawlessly, just like she had somehow known he would, but he had not uttered a thing, even to Larry. He didn't have to. Langley had a presence about him, a..... A what? Audrey thought, eyeing him now as he packed up his clapboard and chalk. A posture? No, this was much more than just posture. An aura? No, nothing that airy fairy. She wasn't certain how to classify it, but whatever it was, Larry sensed it too, and every time he'd been on the verge of one of his trademark meltdowns, he'd glance over at Langley, and Langley would give him a look which was indefinable but perfectly readable: I wouldn't do that if I were you. But why not? What was Langley going to do if Larry ignored him? Larry was easily half again as big and heavy, although that certainly hadn't stopped Langley from putting him in his place this morning, and with mere words. It was a mystery, to be sure.

"Water, Miss Tate?"

"Thanks honey," Audrey smiled, accepting the glass from one her many admirers. That was something else puzzling about Langley: He barely noticed her. Audrey had been the subject of male attention since her first bra at the tender age of twelve, and it was the rare man who didn't cast appreciative glances her way when she came within a hundred feet of him. But not Langley. He'd ignored her completely, even when the director had told her to bend over during a scene, giving everyone present a good view of both her cleavage and her ass. Morty had shushed the resulting catcalls, but not one of them had come from Langley, standing only feet away and paying no attention at all. What was wrong with him? Was he one of those men who liked men? He certainly didn't seem that type.

Whatever type he was, Morty obviously didn't care. "Mr. Langley, it was so nice to have you," he gushed, smiling broadly. "You'll be staying on, won't you?"

"If he's staying, then I need paperwork," one of Morty's officious office boys announced. "Fill this out," he ordered Langley, handing him an employment application. "We need your name and address, your social security number, your—"

"I'm sure you can fill the position with someone else," Langley replied, handing the application back to the startled paper pusher.

"No!" Morty exclaimed. "Get rid of that," he snapped at the office boy, who fled. "I understand completely Mr. Langley," Morty continued soothingly. "You want cash. Keeps Uncle Sam off your tail, eh? No problem. I can make this strictly under the table. Now will you stay?"

For a moment, Audrey was certain Langley was going to decline, and wondered what Morty would do when he did. But Larry chose that moment to walk by, casting a murderous glare Langley's way, and Audrey took note of his answering expression.

"I will stay," Langley said as Larry snorted and moved on.

"Great!" Morty exclaimed with obvious relief. "I'll see you at the next location at nine this evening, then? You can get all the info you need from one of the assistant directors."

"I'll take care of him, Morty," Audrey broke in. "It's the least I can do for my rescuer."

Morty gave her an appreciative peck on the cheek and rushed off, leaving Audrey alone with Langley as the rest of the crew swirled around them. "I didn't think you were going to stay," she remarked.

"I dislike divulging personal information," Langley said.

"I noticed," Audrey chuckled. "We don't even know your first name."

" 'Langley' is sufficient."

"I guess it is," Audrey smiled. "Well, Langley, would you be a dear and get me my handbag? It's tucked behind that camera dolly to your right."

Langley looked down briefly. "You cannot retrieve it yourself?"

Audrey blinked. Men usually fell over themselves to do something for her, just like the two crew members who had practically collided trying to retrieve the handbag. "Thank you," she said faintly to the beaming winner, slipping the strap over her shoulder. "Well.....where would a girl go to get some dinner around here?"

"I frequent a diner nearby," Langley answered, "although I've never noticed that the proprietors discriminate by gender." He gave her a brief nod.....and walked away.

Audrey's mouth fell open. Her question would have been any other man's cue to invite her to dinner. What was with this guy? "Wait!" she called, suddenly clamming up as Langley stopped and turned around. What was she doing? Audrey Tate had never in her entire life found herself in a position where she had to chase a man, any man. Usually she was beating them off with sticks. This was completely unfamiliar territory.

"I....uh....I wanted to invite you to dinner!" she said brightly. "To thank you for what you did with Larry today."

He said nothing for a moment, and Audrey felt her cheeks pinking, although she doubted it would be noticeable beneath all the pancake. Is this how men felt when they asked a girl out? Did they sweat the answer like she was sweating this one? And why was she sweating, for heaven's sake? This man wasn't even remotely attractive, rescue services notwithstanding.

"Very well, then," Langley said finally. "I accept."

Ten minutes later, after stopping to sign some autographs from the few spectators left, they were walking through town, Langley striding purposefully along without offering her his arm. He also offered nothing in the way of conversation, which was no surprise after his day spent in close to total silence, but it put Audrey in yet another unfamiliar position. Men were never silent in her presence. They stuttered, they stammered, they commented on the weather, they asked awkward questions and immediately regretted it, but they were never silent. She always played the role of the facilitator, trying to calm them down and coax them onto suitable subjects. She'd never been in the position of actually having to start a conversation, and she found, to her dismay, that it was harder than it looked.

"Whew, it's hot!" she remarked, pinpointing weather as the safest available subject. "No wonder all the aliens were fainting."

Langley whipped his head around to look at her, and suddenly weather didn't seem so safe. "The actors," she explained hastily. "With the masks. They were fainting from the heat."

"The heat is always oppressive in this region at this time of year," Langley said. "I'm surprised your producer didn't know that."

Most likely he just didn't care, Audrey thought privately, making no further attempt at conversation until they reached the diner, a quaint little place with a bar next door. "I could use a drink," Audrey said, looking longingly at the bar.

"They serve beverages on this side," Langley answered, not taking the hint and not holding the diner's door for her either. Honestly, had this guy been raised in a barn? She followed him through the diner, which was filled with locals who threw her glances ranging from admiring, to inquisitive, to disapproving—those last would be from the women—to a booth in the back. She'd only just slid into her seat when someone approached.

"You're with the movie, right?" the fresh-faced young man asked hesitantly, all shiny-eyed and breathless. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Aren't you sweet!" Audrey beamed. "I imagine a lot more of the crew will find this place before long, so keep your pen handy," she advised as she handed it back after obliging.

"Why the repeated requests for signatures?" Langley asked after the young man had bolted away to show his friends his new prize.

"Never asked someone for their autograph?" Audrey teased. "I guess people like to take a little bit of Hollywood with them. What about you? Why did you come to the set today?"

"I was looking for a friend," Langley answered.

"And did you find him? Or her?"

"Yes."

Such a conversationalist, Audrey thought dryly. "Then why did you stay? You don't have to answer that," she added when he didn't. "I already know."

"What do you 'know'?" Langley asked warily.

Audrey smiled faintly. So that's what caught this one's attention—he didn't like it when someone knew something about him that he thought he'd managed to hide. "You stayed," she said slowly, leaning in closer, "because you enjoyed busting Larry's chops. I saw the look on your face when Morty was asking you to stay and Larry walked by. You like yanking his chain, don't you? Like to bully the bully?"

Langley's eyebrows rose, and for one awful moment, she thought she'd offended him. "I'm sorry," she said self-consciously. "That didn't come out quite the way I intended."

"No need to apologize," Langley said. "I have overheard several people refer to you as a 'dumb blonde'. I have no idea why hair color is linked to intelligence, but I find them mistaken. You are quite perceptive."

Audrey stared at him. "Wow."

" 'Wow'?"

"Well.....let's just say that my brains aren't exactly the first thing men notice about me," Audrey chuckled. "Assuming they believe I have any, that is."

"And what is the first thing men notice about you?"

Audrey blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Is there some reason I wouldn't be?"

Just as she was trying to digest that fantastic statement, a waitress appeared in a crisp uniform, her relatively short, sandy hair pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail. "Hi!" she said enthusiastically to Langley, obviously acquainted with him. So the guy had some friends, at least. That was a comfort. "You here for dinner? I—" She stopped, her eyes bulging at the sight of Audrey. "Who's your friend?"

"I'm Audrey Tate, and you're....'Dee'," Audrey said, reading the waitress's name tag. "So you know Langley?"

"You could say that," Dee answered, eyeing her up and down in disbelief. "Do you....'know' him too?"

"Langley rescued me today," Audrey smiled, "from a very temperamental man. And then he took a job on our movie set as a clapper loader."

Dee's eyes swung back to Langley, her expression more appropriate to one who had just been informed that Langley had taken a job as a hula dancer. "You have a.....job?" she repeated, as though that were unthinkable.

"So do you," Langley noted. "I didn't know you were employed here."

"I just started," Dee answered. "Anthony and I moved out. The whole thing with Mama, you know."

"Ah," Langley said as though he knew exactly what she was talking about. "So you chose retreat. A wise choice under the circumstances."

"Would you be a dear and get us some coffee?" Audrey asked. "Thanks ever so much, sweetie."

Dee vanished, her stunned expression still firmly in place. "She doesn't like me," Audrey confided in a whisper.

"Why wouldn't she like you?" Langley asked.

"Women never like me," Audrey sighed. "Women don't like me, and men think I'm stupid. They always like to think they're the smarter ones. They're not, of course, but most of them are just too dense to realize that, so it's best if I just let them believe that."

"Does that include me?"

"I....um....oh, shit," Audrey stammered. Why had she just said that? "I....no. Present company excepted, of course."

"What I cannot understand," Langley continued, ignoring both her discomfiture and her profanity, "is why you wouldn't correct the perception that you lack intelligence."

Dee reappeared with two cups of coffee, took their orders, and vanished again, still casting disbelieving glances in Audrey's direction. "Believe it or not, there are advantages to people thinking you're a bimbo," Audrey said after she left.

"Such as?"

"Such as they say things in front of you that they might ordinarily not say because they think you're too stupid to understand them. You wouldn't believe the things I've learned that way. And I can pull things without them even noticing because they don't think I'm smart enough to get up in the morning. I'm only making the paycheck I am on this flick because I snuck into Morty's office and found out what the lead actor is being paid. He won't even be here for a couple of weeks, and he's only in half as many scenes, but he was being paid almost twice as much! Morty has no idea how I found that out, and he'd never suspect I'd do something like that."

"Turning a perceived lack of intelligence to one's advantage strikes me as proof of intelligence," Langley said. "Why would they continue to think you 'stupid' when you obviously aren't?"

Audrey smiled. "Because they want to, love. Like I said, men like to think I'm stupid, and they just ignore anything that would prove otherwise."

"There you are, Langley!" an exasperated voice called. "You left so quickly, I completely lost track of you! I—"

The middle-aged gentleman who appeared beside their table stopped, gaping at Audrey. "Oh, my," he breathed. "Oh, my, Langley......is this who I think it is?"

"Audrey Tate, handsome," Audrey smiled. "And who might you be?"

"James Anderson, at your service!" the man said enthusiastically, extending his hand and planting a kiss on hers when she reciprocated. "Miss Tate, I must say, this is such an honor! No wonder my friend ran off so quickly! Langley, you little devil, you, making off with a beauty and not saying a word!"

"We were only sharing a meal," Langley said.

"Good heavens, you don't merely 'share a meal' with a vision like this!" Mr. Anderson objected. "May I.....?"

Audrey scooted over, and Mr. Anderson sat down beside her, wide-eyed, smitten, and gushing her praises. This is more like it, Audrey thought, back on familiar ground once more with a besotted admirer who saw nothing more than a beautiful woman in front of him. Familiar, perhaps.....but for some reason, nowhere near as satisfying as it had been just this morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post chapter 28 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


July 8, 1959, 6:30 p.m.

Parker's Diner




"Thank you for the meal," Brivari said as he, Audrey, and Atherton exited the diner.

"You're welcome," Audrey replied, hesitating as though she were expecting something else. "Well.....I'll see you on the set, then?"

"The director said nine o'clock," Brivari noted.

"Right. Nine," Audrey agreed, then hesitated again. "Walk me back to my hotel?"

"Have you forgotten the way?" Brivari asked.

Audrey blinked. Behind him Atherton snorted softly, an irritating habit he'd developed just this evening. "I can find it," Audrey assured him. "See you later."

"Holy Christ, Langley!" Atherton erupted after she was out of earshot. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to treat a lady?"

"You think I mistreated her?" Brivari asked, wondering how Atherton would feel about the movie director's behavior earlier today. "In what way?"

"It's hard to know where to start," Atherton fussed. "For starters, you didn't pick up the check."

"She offered to pay for my meal as a gesture of gratitude."

"That doesn't mean you should actually let her pay for it!" Atherton argued. "And why didn't you hold the door for her when we left just now?"

"She was perfectly capable of operating the door by herself," Brivari said.

"Of course she was," Atherton said in exasperation.

"If we agree on her capabilities, then why are you angry?" Brivari asked, puzzled.

Atherton sighed heavily. "I'm not angry, just....just baffled. You seem to lack the most basic social skills when it comes to women. I know you're the type to immerse yourself in your work, but didn't you have a life of your own at least some of the time? Didn't you ever date?"

No, Brivari thought. Covari formed friendships, but they did not form romantic relationships. Shapeshifting disrupted the biological mechanisms which fueled both sexual desire and reproduction, making any mating between them perfunctory at best. "If you feel I behaved inappropriately, then how should I have behaved?" he asked Atherton.

"Pay attention," Atherton ordered. "A man always holds a door open for a lady. A man always pays for any kind of food or drink regardless of a lady's offer to pay. And you should have offered to walk her home; she shouldn't have had to ask, and you certainly shouldn't have turned her down."

"You heard her say that she knew how to locate her hotel—"

"That's beside the point," Atherton interrupted impatiently. "Honestly, Langley, every red-blooded American male that was near that set today would kill to spend time in the company of a woman who looks like that! You must have noticed how gorgeous she is, or you wouldn't have been with her."

Why was I with her? Brivari wondered privately, having not considered that question. It certainly had nothing to do with the actress's appearance; he found her heavily painted face unattractive. Perhaps it was just because she had invited him to dinner. Perhaps it was curiosity over why an obviously intelligent person would tolerate the way she was treated. Perhaps it was just a longing for some company. "My goodness," he sighed, having not realized he was entering such a minefield. "What else is expected of me as a male in a female's company?"

"Don't say 'male' and 'female'; say 'man' and 'woman'," Atherton instructed. "Otherwise you sound like a veterinarian. The man always helps the woman and acts as her protector. In addition to holding doors open for her, he would also offer her his hand when she's climbing out of a car, for example, or his arm when she's ascending or descending stairs. If she needs something, like more coffee in a restaurant, the man will summon the waitress and see to it that his lady's needs are met."

"Do men offer this level of assistance even if it's not necessary?"

"It's not about what's necessary, it's about manners," Atherton explained. "Most women don't 'need' these things, they're just expected."

"But why?" Brivari persisted. "Why would men wish to perpetuate an illusion of helplessness?"

"Oh, my," Atherton laughed, his good humor returning now that Brivari was asking the right questions. "I suppose it dates back to when women were considered stupid and helpless. They used to be property, you know."

"As in slaves?"

"Well, no.....not officially, anyway," Atherton replied. "But for all practical purposes, they may as well have been. For a long time, women were barred from many professions—still are, to some degree—and they couldn't own property within a marriage, or vote. Even inherited wealth became the property of their husbands when they married. Fathers chose husbands for their daughters, and daughters had little or nothing to say about it. And all this because women were considered too weak and foolish to manage their own affairs."

"Or perhaps because men enjoyed the power that system of belief afforded," Brivari countered.

"Quite true," Atherton agreed. "Most of that has changed radically now, but the old courtesies based on that belief system remain. And if you don't observe those courtesies, women consider you to be rude."

"So women obtained rights they previously lacked, and yet they continue to expect their men to treat them like they're helpless? That makes no sense," Brivari protested. "They shouldn't be tolerating such behavior, never mind seeking it."

"Take my advice, Langley, and don't try to make sense of what women want," Atherton advised him. "It only gives one a headache. Now, when you see Miss Tate later—that's the appropriate way to address an unmarried woman, by the way—this is what I would recommend."

Atherton launched into another of his speeches, and Brivari tuned out the lion's share of it. He had never paid much attention to human relations between genders, and the examples he had at his disposal hardly supported what Atherton was saying. David Proctor certainly never treated his wife as Atherton was suggesting, and with good reason; 'helpless' was a word that had never described Emily Proctor. The same held true for Dee Proctor and her husband, and Quanah and his wife. The notion of pretending that "Miss Tate" was helpless was equally ludicrous when it was very clear that she was anything but.

"By the way, you haven't told me what it was like on the set today!" Atherton was saying, having finished his recommendations and moved on to other subjects. "You just disappeared this morning without saying a word, and then I see you down there working! What happened? Why did they hire you? Are you going to keep the job?"

Yes, Brivari decided, having suddenly answered his earlier question of why he was with the actress at all. This was the first time since this morning that Quanah had crossed his mind, and the pain and regret that came rushing back at the mere thought of him only underscored the fact that he badly needed a distraction. And if that distraction came in the form of bullying directors, painted actresses, and silly forms of human entertainment, so be it.



******************************************************



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"You invited her over?" Dee asked incredulously. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mama, but wasn't the whole point to keep Courtney away from Philip?"

"He was asleep," Emily said patiently, casting a fond glance at her grandson, who was busy stacking blocks on the other side of the room. "And I certainly didn't leave her alone with him. She only stayed about half an hour, and I was here the whole time."

"But—"

"So what did she tell you?" Malik asked.

"Yes, did you learn anything?" Anthony chimed in.

Dee's mouth set in a thin line as she glared at her husband. Here she'd just been thinking that her last minute decision to accept her mother's offer to babysit might not have been such a good idea, and all he could think of was what she'd managed to drag out of Courtney. Was this just the way men's heads worked? Was this why her father had been willing to leave her with a bunch of aliens so long ago? More importantly, was this why she and Anthony now seemed to be reprising her parents' roles, with Anthony forging ahead like her father while she hung back out of concern for her child like her mother? Although that mother hadn't exactly "hung back" this afternoon. Instead, the mother who had never really made peace with the notion of aliens in her own house had invited one into Dee's.

"I didn't learn much that you didn't already know," Emily was saying. "She really misses her mother and doesn't think she'll ever see her again. She said something about their leader using family members as a kind of collateral to keep them all in line."

"That he does," Malik nodded. "And I would imagine any Argilian who came here would expect it to be a one-way trip."

"I'd say she's definitely not expecting to survive this, and I really don't think that was an act," Emily said. "She looked terrified when her phone started ringing, and she had no idea I was watching her. Later on I would have sworn she was close to tears when she said things weren't working out the way she'd thought they would. She just struck me as very young, and very upset, and very much at a loss for what to do."

"She could be all that and more, and still not be part of any 'resistance'," Dee said.

"True," Emily agreed. "But you're not sure, and you've already tried the stick. Why not try the carrot?"

"She has a point," Malik said. "I've already put Courtney under a lot of pressure. Your mother may get something more out of a sympathetic approach, not to mention help steady a nervous operative who's out of her league. Which can only be a good thing; we don't need any more meltdowns like she had the other day."

"I wouldn't worry about Brivari paying much attention," Dee said. "He was at Parker's tonight with a floozy."

Malik blinked. "Really?"

"Really," Dee said, rolling her eyes in disgust. "You should have seen her, a bleached blonde with red lipstick and eyeliner for days. I heard she's the lead actress on the movie, and Brivari took a job on the set. What on earth would a woman like that want with a man like him? He's not exactly what I'd call handsome."

"No," Emily said thoughtfully. "He's powerful. For better or worse, women have always been attracted to powerful men, regardless of what they look like or what kind of people they are. I'm sure she doesn't have any idea he's an alien, but she must have sensed something different about him."

"That's what worries me," Malik said. "If she sensed it, others will too, and if he's actually working on the set, he's in a very public place. I know he's upset about his friend and needed something to do, but....my goodness. He's worse off than I thought."

"Isn't it Jaddo we should be looking at?" Anthony asked. "If Courtney's resistance wants to put Jaddo's Ward on the throne, the last person we should even be thinking about approaching is Brivari."

"I talked to Jaddo about this today," Malik answered. "Obliquely, of course. He acknowledged that Rath had been approached by the Argilian resistance who offered him their support if he made a bid for the throne, and said six operatives died trying to make that offer before the seventh won an audience."

"That's what Courtney said," Dee nodded. "Although that still doesn't prove she's resistance."

"I know," Malik said heavily. "Jaddo said there was no reason for them to deal with the resistance because they don't need them to accomplish their task, and the only way he'd listen to a proposal from them was if it were made by the same people who approached Rath the last time."

"But....how could they identify themselves if they're wearing 'husks'?" Anthony asked.

"I'm not sure they can," Malik admitted. "Even if Courtney's telling the truth, this isn't going to be easy."

"Part of the reason it's so hard is because there's no incentive for the Warders to listen," Emily said. "They're safely hidden at the moment, so why would they take the risk? And frankly, they may never need to. I doubt it would be wise to ever approach them with this when they don't stand to gain anything from it."

"Quite possible," Malik allowed.

"So we just wait and learn what we can," Anthony said. "Emily, are you still willing to babysit?"

Dee's eyebrows rose; her mother noticed, and backpedaled. "I'm happy to help for as long as you need me, but I'm sure you'd like to find your own babysitter," she said diplomatically.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Dee said to Anthony, pulling him out into the hallway. "What are you doing?" she demanded once the door was safely closed. "Didn't we just move out to get away from her?"

"You're the one who let her babysit this afternoon," Anthony countered.

"That was an emergency!" Dee insisted.

"Does that mean you have another babysitter lined up?"

Dee sighed in exasperation. No, of course she didn't have another babysitter lined up. She hadn't had time to give that a moment's thought between various alien revelations, her new job, and Brivari showing up with a floozy. "Not yet, but—"

"But you know as well as I do that there's no one else qualified," Anthony broke in. "What do we advertise for, Dee? 'Babysitter needed for toddler with an alien living across the hall'? Who else could we possibly put in this position? Your mother is perfect. She's been down this road before, and we both know first hand how fiercely protective she is."

"Which is why we're here and not in her house," Dee argued. "We left because she was interfering. I know I asked her to sit today, but I had no intention of making it permanent."

"This is different," Anthony said. "That was her house; this is our house, and we can fire her at any time. Besides, she clearly has a different attitude now. I haven't heard her put us down once this evening. How was she with you earlier?"

Dee hesitated. "Apologetic," she admitted. "Sort of. And I...."And I finally realized what things must have looked like from her perspective, she thought, unwilling to say that out loud. Her mother hadn't been the only one feeling apologetic earlier. "And we got along," she finished. "Briefly. I have no idea if it will last."

"Then let's find out," Anthony said. "Under the circumstances, I'd feel much better with your mother here than anyone else. It's not just Courtney—what about Valenti? He's probably sniffing around because he noticed something odd about his murder victim, and we both know he's right. He's no fool and he's not a bad guy, but all the same, it wouldn't be a good idea for him to find out about this; he'd very likely overreact, and that could cause a world of trouble for all of us."

Dee glanced at Courtney's closed door. Valenti would be back; she was certain of that. And for all that they were grateful to him for helping to save Emily years ago, she knew enough about him to know that nothing good would come from involving him in alien politics. "All right," she conceded. "We'll try it for a while. But no promises."

"There never are any promises," Anthony said. "Well...maybe one," he added mischievously. "Can you imagine the look on Valenti's face when he comes around again and finds your mother here?"




******************************************************



Roswell Sheriff's Station



It was well after dinner time when Valenti arrived back at the station, bracing himself for what he would find. But all was quiet, the processing of the last of the day's miscreants being finished as he approached the front desk, removing his hat and fanning himself as he did so.

"Be with you in a minute," Deputy Sanchez said without looking up, having no idea it was his boss standing there. "Hey Hanson! Where's that kid? I need more carbon paper!"

" 'That kid' most likely went home with his mother," Valenti told a stricken Sanchez. "Which means you'll actually have to get off your ass and go get it yourself."

"Yes, sir," Sanchez said quickly. "Sorry, sir. Didn't see you there."

"The point is, you didn't look," Valenti said firmly. "We're going to be overworked and pressed for time for the next couple of months, deputy, and I won't let that become an excuse for rudeness."

"Right, sir," Sanchez said. "I was just in the middle of something."

"Which is fine—just make certain you make eye contact with the citizen and say hello before telling them they'll have to wait."

"Yes, sir," Sanchez said. "And if I may, sir, your son has been a huge help to all of us here."

"So I gather," Valenti said dryly. "Go get your carbon paper."

Hanson was hiding a smile as Sanchez hurried off. "They do love having a gofer," he said. "Saves all kinds of time. And so does Mrs. Valenti, by the way. People are a lot nicer when they see a woman watching."

"I'm sure my wife and son will be pleased to hear that," Valenti said. "What are the damages?"

"Well, sir, after that rough morning, I think we got our point across. When we made it clear that we weren't going to hesitate to make arrests, the word got out, and people settled down."

"But the cells are full, right?"

"Bursting," Hanson admitted. "But Sheriff Wilcox said we can use his cells if we want to, and most are only being held overnight, so it should ease tomorrow, when hopefully we won't have as many."

"Hopefully," Valenti agreed. "Leave the reports on my desk. I'll be in my office."

"Aren't you going home, sir?"

"Not just yet. Filming starts again in a couple of hours, and I want to be there."

"You've been here all day, sir," Hanson objected. "Why not leave the night shift to us?"

"Because it's the first night, and like you said, we have a point to get across—I will not have people acting like hooligans in my town. I don't care if we have to stack them like cordwood; anyone acting up will have a night in jail to think it over."

"Yes, sir," Hanson nodded. "I'll get you those reports."

"And some coffee," Valenti added.

"Right away, sir."

A minute later, Valenti sank wearily into his desk chair, depositing his hat on the desk. God, he was tired. As expected, their morning had been harrowing, with a great deal of testing by the crowds to see just how far the law in Roswell would let them go. The answer: Not very far at all, and those who stepped over the line found themselves arrested and booked on charges of disturbing the peace, although "peace" was a relative term at best when applied to the mob who had shown up to watch the filming. Valenti had long since discovered that a single night in the slammer offered much needed perspective, and there were approximately three dozen people who would boast new perspectives by tomorrow morning, if they weren't already, that is. Most of those three dozen had been arrested in the morning, with only a few in the afternoon, so hopefully word had spread that he meant business.

"Sir?" Hanson was at the door. "Doctor Blake is on line two for you."

"Thanks," Valenti sighed, reaching for the phone. "Ray? Jim. What's up?"

"You tell me?" Ray's voice said. "Have you found anything on Mark Green?"

"I haven't had time," Valenti said, settling back into his chair.

"Then make time," Ray said severely. "Did you at least think about what I told you?"

"I've thought of little else since then," Valenti admitted. "I did try, but I hit a snag, and in case you haven't noticed, the movie started filming today. I'm a little busy."

"What kind of snag?"

A Proctor snag, Valenti thought ruefully. The very worst kind. "It doesn't matter; it's my problem, and I'll take care of it. Until then, mum's the word."

"But what if there are more of them?" Ray demanded. "Whether I'm right or you're right, what if this isn't the only one? Jim, we have a duty to—"

Click

Valenti sat bolt upright. "Did you hear that?" he interrupted sharply.

"Hear what?" Ray asked.

Click

"Hang on a minute," Valenti said, setting the receiver on the desk and heading out to the main office. Everyone was busy at their desk, and no one was on the phone. "Where's Deputy Crist?" he demanded.

Startled faces looked up. "He went home, sir," Deputy Sanchez answered. "He was on the day shift."

"And he's not here now? You're sure?"

Sanchez blinked. "I'm sure, sir. Would you like me to call him for you?"

Valenti's eyes raked the office again. "No. Never mind."

"Jim, what's going on?" Ray asked when he came back.

"It was nothing," Valenti said dismissively. "Look, regardless which one of us is right, we shouldn't be discussing this over the phone. I'll let you know when I have more information. Until then, sit tight."

Valenti hung up quickly before Ray had a chance to argue further or say something he shouldn't. Unscrewing the mouthpiece of his phone, he inspected it carefully for bugs and found nothing. Someone must have picked up an extension. He hadn't seen anyone on the phone in the main office, but they'd had plenty of time to hang up between the time he'd heard the telltale clicking and the time he'd gone out there. And it could have been an honest mistake, with someone just picking up the wrong line.

Could have been, Valenti thought doubtfully, glancing at his lower left drawer. His desk was now locked, as it would be any time he wasn't in the office from now on, Wilcox's assurances about his loaned deputies notwithstanding. With so many new people in the station and both his own and his son's misgivings, it seemed the wisest thing to do. And maybe that was the problem. Deprived of the opportunity to go through his desk, perhaps they'd resorted to listening in on his phone conversations. The only problem with that theory was that the deputy caught sitting at his desk wasn't even here now. Meaning that, if he was being watched, either his lines were being tapped in a much more sophisticated way.....or that there was more than one person doing the watching.

Pulling out a ring of keys, Valenti unlocked his desk and pulled out the contents of the lower drawer. He'd been intending to take these files home later on tonight, but maybe he should stop off there before heading to the movie set. Just in case.




*****************************************************



Pierce residence

De Baca County




"Easy, now," Bernard Lewis said, extending a hand. "Don't rush."

"Honestly, I am so awkward!" Helen Pierce exclaimed, swinging her legs out of the passenger seat with difficulty and accepting Lewis' help as he pulled her to her feet. "It's hard to believe I've got two more months to go. It's hard to believe I'll actually get bigger. I can barely move now."

"No one ever said creating new life was easy, my dear," Lewis said soothingly, offering his arm on the long journey up her front walk. "And perhaps it shouldn't be. Perhaps the whole point is to make us think twice about the gravity of making another person."

"And how does that work, exactly, when only half the population has to deal with that 'gravity'?" Helen chuckled. "Besides, have you ever heard a man back off because he was suddenly stricken by a bout of responsibility?" She paused. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Of course you did, and you should have," Lewis answered smoothly. "You are quite correct that too many of my gender do not take their responsibilities seriously precisely because they will not be physically affected themselves."

"But you're not like that," Helen said quickly, "and I had no intention of implying that you were. You've been so kind to me, so kind. And dinner tonight was wonderful, and....I'm just so glad you're here, Dr. Lewis."

"As am I, my dear," Lewis smiled. "I can't tell you what an honor it is to assist a dear friend's widow in her time of need. And please....call me Bernard. Dr. Lewis sounds so.....cold."

Helen flushed slightly, making her resemble a fat red balloon instead of a fat white balloon. "If you insist....Bernard." She took his hands in her own, and he resisted the urge to pull away. "Now that the legal chores have been done, will I be seeing you again?"

"Would you like to see me again?" Lewis murmured.

"Oh, yes," Helen breathed, staring at their hands. "Very much so."

"And I would like that as well," Lewis smiled. "This weekend, perhaps?"

"That sounds like forever, even though it's only two days," Helen said.

"It does," Lewis agreed, immediately withdrawing, dropping his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It would be improper of me to feel that way about Daniel's widow so soon after his death."

"No!" Helen protested. "I don't feel that way at all. You were such a good friend of his that being with you seems to keep him alive. Don't you feel that too?"

Five minutes later, after more heartfelt goodbyes, Lewis climbed into his car and headed back to Santa Fe, desperately wishing for some mouthwash. Keep him alive, indeed, he thought sourly. The last thing he wanted was to keep Pierce alive, although he wouldn't have minded keeping him alive long enough to drag out of him what he'd done with that serum. The posturing he was having to go through to get close to it was nearly insufferable. Fortunately Helen Pierce was a ripe target, emphasis on the "ripe". Nearing delivery, deprived of her husband, and worried about what would happen to her and her child, she was all too eager to fall into Lewis' lap, and much as it made him nauseous, he had to let her. The only way to get his hands on that serum was to make certain he held sway over Pierce's child, and the best way to accomplish that was to ingratiate himself with his widow. Just the thought of what he had to gain from these revolting performances put Lewis in a better mood by the time he walked into his Santa Fe office nearly three hours later to find Agent Del Bianco on the phone.

"Has everyone reported in?" Lewis asked.

"Last one's reporting in now, sir," Del Bianco answered. "Nothing yet."

"Nothing?" Lewis echoed. "Not even from the sheriff's stations?"

"No, sir. I've got Roswell on the line now, agent—"

"Give me that," Lewis snapped, grabbing the receiver. "This is Agent Lewis," he announced imperiously. "Do I understand correctly that you have nothing to report? No? You're in a sheriff's station, for God's sake! There should be something there of interest! You haven't? Why not? Oh, for Christ's sake, agent, I don't care if the sheriff's son is hanging off your belt loops! You're an agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation! You should be able to work around one young boy. What the hell is a child doing there anyway? Never mind," he added impatiently. "That's irrelevant. Get me something to go on, and stop hiding from children."

"What about the Chaves County station, any news from there?" Lewis demanded as he handed the phone back to Del Bianco.

"No, sir," Del Bianco answered.

"I know the aliens stayed in that area," Lewis insisted. "They must have. Whatever they took off their ship is hidden somewhere around there. Not to mention that George Wilcox is still sheriff in Chaves County, and he gave us one hell of a time back in the forties. I'd love to settle that score. Who's the sheriff in Roswell?"

"James Valenti," Del Bianco replied. "He's new, only on the job three years. Was a Roswell deputy for ten years prior."

Valenti. Why was that name so familiar? It had piqued Lewis' interest just this weekend when he was making field assignments, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why. Wilcox had been squarely in Sheridan Cavitt's crosshairs along with several others, but Valenti......why was that name ringing alarm bells?

"Pull Valenti's record," Lewis said. "I have a feeling I've run into him before."

"I thought it was the Chaves County sheriff who made your life miserable?" Del Bianco said. "Valenti's a Roswell guy."

"Pull it anyway," Lewis ordered.

Fifteen minutes later, Del Bianco knocked on his office door with a wide smile. "Good memory, boss. Valenti was loaned to Wilcox in the summer of '47 by then Roswell Sheriff Hemming, along with several others. Valenti wound up staying right through 1950. And get this—he filed a report on an incident at Eagle Rock in June of 1950 where he claims he helped an Army captain rescue a civilian who'd been kidnapped by another officer."

"June,1950," Lewis murmured. When the alien had escaped, and Sheridan Cavitt had taken a civilian he thought may have been assisting the aliens into custody, only to have the Army turn on him. Lewis' memory of those events was incomplete as he had been sedated at the time by the invading aliens and incarcerated by General Ramey; Sheridan had died shortly afterwards, supposedly by his own hand. But he did recall hearing that it was Captain Spade and a sheriff's deputy who had thwarted Sheridan, although he'd never learned exactly who.

"Thank you, agent," Lewis said, taking the file from Del Bianco. "Good work."

James Valenti, Lewis thought, gazing at the photograph in the file after Del Bianco left. So he was sheriff in Roswell now, while Wilcox remained in Chaves County. Both knew of the existence of aliens; both had suppressed that information and hindered those who would expose it. The good news was that both would be sensitive to any alien activity in their respective jurisdictions because both knew for a fact that aliens were no myth. The bad news was that both Wilcox and Valenti had proven to be stubborn and hard to intimidate, so while they were likely to possess the information he wanted, they were also much less likely to give it up or take kindly to anyone mucking about in their territories. Exceptional stealth was called for here. Perhaps it was wise to be wary of James Valenti's son.

But there's more good news, Lewis thought with deep satisfaction as he closed Valenti's file. He was now in a position to ruin two men who had destroyed both his own ambitions and a good friend of his. Granted, his mandate was to capture aliens......but no one would object if he managed to kill two birds with one stone.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 29 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


July 8, 1959, 11:30 p.m.

Roswell



"I cannot work under these conditions!" the actor exclaimed, ripping off his alien mask and gulping air like a dying man. "It's too damned hot!"

"Of course it's hot," the director retorted. "You weren't hired to be hot, you were hired to wear that mask, and do what I tell you!"

"I also wasn't hired to not breathe," the actor shot back. "I can't see, and I'm suffocating in this thing! Why can't our masks be like his?" he added, pointing to another "alien" with a noticeably larger mask.

"Because he's the alien king," the director explained impatiently. "You're all running toward your king, and you can tell he's the king because he has a bigger head. Isn't that obvious? Put that mask back on and take your position!"

Brivari watched as the actor swore only slightly under his breath before pulling the mask over his head and heading over to his patch of similarly air-starved fellow "aliens" in the wide field where tonight's filming was taking place. This particular scene was supposed to involve the aliens taking their captive—Audrey—back to their king in the field where their ship had landed. The "ship" in question was every bit as laughable as the notion that alien kings had bigger heads than their subjects, a hastily thrown together affair made of wood, painted black, and festooned with strings of electric lights that looked suspiciously like the type used on Christmas trees. The fact that their cargo ship actually did have lights was the one and only point where reality and fantasy met.

"Places!" the director called as Brivari chalked a "6" on the clapper, the means by which the humans marked each attempt to film a scene to their liking. The cameras began rolling, and Brivari clapped the clapboard in front of the lead camera and retreated.

"You know, you're supposed to actually say 'Take 6'," the director said acidly.

"Why?" Brivari asked. "Can't you read?"

The stillness which followed made it clear that it wasn't only the aliens who weren't breathing. Word of Brivari's altercation with "Larry" had clearly made the rounds by the time filming had begun this evening, and he had arrived at the new filming location to find himself the subject of intense scrutiny. Audrey had greeted him cheerfully, apparently harboring no ill will over his supposedly rude behavior earlier, and the producer had clearly been relieved that he'd returned, but everyone else had seemed almost afraid of him, as though one who could influence their director's behavior was more fearful than the director himself. Brivari had said nothing, mindful of the fact that the less one said, the more one was listened to when one finally spoke, a lesson which Zan had actually learned well. The director also had said nothing, merely glaring at Brivari as he nursed his continuing shock from this morning that someone had successfully challenged him. Such shock was typical of the career bully, and never lasted long. "Larry's" had apparently worn off.

"I know you've never done this before, so allow me to clue you in on the requirements of your job," Larry said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "You announce the take number so the cast and crew will know how many takes we've already done. Clear?"

"No," Brivari answered calmly. "Assuming everyone can hear me, a dubious assumption at best given the number of people present, of what benefit is such information?"

Larry's face reddened in a most satisfying way as mouths gaped as this impudence. "Perhaps you can help me," Brivari continued, addressing the lead camera operator. "I was given to understand that the numbering of takes assisted in the editing process, where one is sifting through several renditions of the same scene. But what purpose does announcing this information serve on the set? Will anything be done differently because of the number which is announced mere seconds before filming begins?"

The camera operator blinked. "Uh......no," he admitted. "Well, it won't!" he added defiantly as the director threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of either defeat or irritation. "The take number only really matters in the editing room. You know that."

Brivari kept his expression carefully blank as Larry threw a withering glare in his direction. This had been happening all evening; emboldened by this morning's clash, those employed here had begun challenging their director's behavior. No doubt the director held him responsible for that, and Brivari couldn't have been happier to take the blame.

"Places!" Larry bellowed, apparently deciding not to fight this particular battle. "Ready.....action!"

The horde of fake aliens promptly picked up the bound and gagged Audrey and carried her toward their "ship". Halfway there, the alien king stumbled and fell, causing an alien pile up behind him, domino style. Audrey squealed as she was tossed unceremoniously to the ground, fortunately landing atop a satellite pile of aliens.

"What now?" Larry demanded. "Doesn't anyone on this godforsaken set know how to walk? I'm not even asking you to walk and talk, just walk! What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Larry, we can't see in these things!" one of the aliens exclaimed, extricating himself from his fellow extraterrestrials. "You have to let the costumers cut bigger holes in the masks, or we'll never get this movie shot!"

"I can't have human eyes starting out of an alien face!" Larry objected.

"Then cut holes where the nose is," another actor suggested.

"Everyone knows aliens don't have nostrils!" Larry declared. "We're going for realism here!"

And failing, Brivari thought, rolling his eyes as the argument escalated, the decibel level rising until Larry finally lost his temper much as he had this morning, flinging his chair to one side as everyone backed up in alarm. "Enough!" he roared. "Anyone who isn't on their mark in ten seconds is fired!"

"Give us holes in our masks, or I quit!" an actor declared.

"You can't quit!" Larry protested. "You have a contract!"

"Watch me!" declared the actor, throwing his mask on the ground as others quickly followed suit.

"What's going on here?" another voice barked.

It was the producer, with Audrey, now freed, on his heels. Accusations, arguments, and a great deal of finger pointing and shaking ensued, much like it had this morning. Sweating profusely, Morton Steinfeld finally drew Brivari aside.

"Help me out here, Langley," he begged. "What do I do?"

"Does your director have the authority to dismiss someone?" Brivari asked.

Steinfeld blinked. "What?"

"This contract they speak of," Brivari clarified. "With whom was it made?"

"Well....it's with the production company, and as their representative, only I have the authority to hire and fire," Steinfeld replied.

"So in other words, your director is attempting to wield authority he does not possess. Why would you let him do that?"

"Because I need him," Steinfeld said urgently. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a director for a measly little production like this?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to regain authority you have ceded to someone else?" Brivari countered. "Not to mention that allowing him to wield authority he does not possess will embolden both him and others to challenge you as well. Let me tell you something I once told someone else whose authority was being questioned—you must decide who is in charge here, and if that someone is you, be prepared to fend off attempts to wrest that authority from you because there will always be someone willing to try."

Audrey appeared behind them, flanked by four actors. "Morty, these gentlemen would like a word with you," she said. "Go on," she coaxed, prodding one of the actors. "Tell him!"

"We want masks that let us do our jobs, or we quit," one of the actors declared. "All of us, right here, right now. I mean it, Morty; we're out of here unless we get what we need."

Steinfeld pulled Brivari further away. "What do I do?" he wailed, sotto voiced. "I can't replace a couple dozen actors or a director on short notice!"

"I will ask you again," Brivari said deliberately. "Who is in charge here?"

Steinfeld swallowed hard. "If I tell him off, he might quit."

"Then let him. If he feels he is irreplaceable, there will be no stopping him."

"But I risk—"

"There is risk either way," Brivari interrupted. "I repeat—who is in charge here?"

"But—"

"Who is in charge here?"

Steinfeld stared at him a moment, then glanced at Larry, who was glowering behind the revolting aliens. "I am," he said finally, haltingly. "I am in charge."

"Don't just say it," Brivari advised. "Sound like it. Convince me. Convince them." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "Play the part."

That last instruction seemed to resonate with Morton Steinfeld, who lived in a world where everyone played a part; his eyes widened and appeared a good deal harder as he approached the group awaiting his verdict. "We'll fix the masks," he told the actors. "And before you say a word," he continued severely to the director, who has about to erupt, "I'd like to make one thing clear: I decide who comes and goes on this set. That's in my contract."

"Is that a threat?" Larry demanded.

"It appears to be a simple statement of fact," Brivari offered.

"Exactly," Steinfeld agreed. "A simple statement of fact."

"Then let me add another 'simple statement of fact'," Larry ground out. "I quit!"

"Go right ahead," Steinfeld retorted. "I'll be sure to have our lawyers invoke the clause in your contract about leaving without sufficient notice. Everyone, we're done for the night!" he called to the rest of the set. "I'll have the costumer fix the masks, and I'll see you all tomorrow."

Hearty applause met this announcement, coupled with shock on the faces of the "aliens" who clearly hadn't expected to prevail, along with shock on the face of Larry, who clearly had expected to. He stood there for a full minute, glaring at everyone in turn, his eyes protruding what looked to be dangerous dimensions from his face. Finally he stalked off into a nearby trailer, banging the door so hard behind him that the entire trailer shook.

"Morty, you were magnificent!" Audrey exclaimed, throwing her arms around the producer. "I knew you had it in you!"

But whatever internal fire had lit Steinfeld had now gone out. "What have I done?" he whispered. "Why did I say that? If he quits—"

"Then good riddance," Audrey said firmly. "Who needs him? You could direct this movie yourself, if you have to. How much direction do we need to run around and scream? Cheer him up, boys!" she called to the enthusiastic crew. "Tell'im he did good!"

Steinfeld was immediately engulfed by grateful cast and crew members, who whisked him away on a tide of gratitude. "He'll be okay," Audrey assured Brivari. "He just needs a little time. And somebody to give him a good kick in the pants," she added. "What did you say to him?"

"I would imagine your little uprising had as much to do with this as anything I said," Brivari answered.

"It was your idea," Audrey said. "You asked me this morning what would happen if a bunch of us left, and I've been thinking about it all day. Didn't really expect it to work, though. And I'll probably catch hell for it when Larry quits."

"He won't quit," Brivari said.

Audrey raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know that? All that palace experience?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Something like that."

"You know, you have a nice smile," Audrey said, flashing one of her own. "You should smile more often. Walk me home?"

"Of course," Brivari answered.

Ten minutes later, they were walking through the streets of Roswell, largely empty at this time of night save for the bars. "I am told that I was rude earlier when I declined to walk you home," Brivari said after several minutes of silence. "Is that true?"

"Well....most guys would have offered," Audrey allowed.

"I wish you to know why I declined," Brivari said. "I deplore this habit of treating women as though they were helpless. You are unquestionably one of the least helpless women I have ever met."

Audrey stopped short and stared at him, and for a moment, Brivari thought he had made yet another misstep until she broke into a wide smile. "Why, Langley.....I do believe that's the nicest thing any man has ever said to me."




*****************************************************



July 9, 1959, 7 a.m.

Parker's Diner




The bell on the door jingled as James Atherton opened the door to Parker's, which was crowded even at this early hour, the crew of the movie having lost no time discovering it. It was a miracle his usual booth was available, and he slid into it before anyone else claimed it, feasting his eyes on the tiny thread of Hollywood that had descended on Roswell. This was why he was here, even though the movie being made was laughable—for the sheer experience of being close to a Hollywood movie set. Well, that and the fact that he happened to know that several serious alienologists had taken up residence in Roswell for the purpose of protesting what they considered to be the movie's inaccuracies. The term "inaccuracies" didn't even begin to describe the nonsense he'd witnessed yesterday, and Atherton was eager to hear what these alien aficionados had to say. Which was precisely why he was here as James Anderson; no serious alienologist would waste a moment's time on the farce that James Atherton had become. But that farce brought in good money, so Atherton was content to lodge his true psyche in the pseudonym of Anderson while his legal persona raked in the bucks from people terrified of exactly the type of claptrap this movie conveyed, the very same people Hollywood hoped would buy tickets to see it. A distressing relationship, to be sure, but a lucrative one nonetheless.

"Is this seat taken?"

Atherton gaped at the vision that hovered beside his table. "Miss Tate!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet. "This is indeed an honor! Of all the people you could have sat with....I must say, I'm speechless!"

Miss Tate beamed at him, red lips on creamy alabaster skin. "It's Mr. Anderson, right?" she smiled, rendering him weak in the knees. "Well, Mr. Anderson, you're very kind, but I have a confession to make—I was looking for Langley. Have you seen him?"

Langley? Atherton shook his head as he wondered anew what in the world a bombshell like Audrey Tate would want with a homely man like Langley. Granted, Atherton was no Errol Flynn, but still....what could be the attraction? It was maddeningly frustrating to have to watch from afar as his silent, brooding friend marched his way into a job on the set on the very first day of filming and walked off with a beautiful actress, all without seeming to realize his good fortune. "I was looking for him myself," Atherton admitted, "but you're certainly welcome to have a seat whilst we both look."

" 'Whilst'? Been awhile since I've heard that one."

"I'd be surprised if you'd ever heard it," Atherton chuckled. "No offence," he continued hastily as Miss Tate's expression chilled slightly. "It's just not a common expression this side of the Atlantic."

"Of course," Miss Tate said, sounding unconvinced.

"Ah!" Atherton said, grateful for the chance to change the subject as Courtney appeared with a pot of coffee. "Coffee for myself and the lady, please. You haven't seen Langley today, have you Miss Harris? We're both looking for him."

Courtney's eyes darted from Atherton to Miss Tate, the coffee stream swerving as they did so. "She's looking for him?" she echoed in surprise.

"This is Miss Tate, the lead actress in the movie," Atherton said, wondering if bad manners were communicable. "Miss Tate, this is Miss Harris, our usual morning waitress."

"So glad to meet you, dear," Miss Tate smiled.

"You too," Courtney said faintly. "And no, I haven't seen him this morning. Sorry," she added, sounding anything but.

"She's a bit high strung," Atherton confided after Courtney left. "Very emotional. Had a bit of a breakdown the other day, running out of here in a panic."

"She's young," Miss Tate said. "I was more emotional when I was her age." She paused, tapping red nails on the table. "Do you happen to know where Langley lives, Mr. Anderson?"

"As a matter of fact, I don't," Atherton replied.

"Well, he must live somewhere. And it must be somewhere nearby because I've only ever seen him on foot."

Atherton hesitated. "May I ask you a personal question, Miss Tate?"

She cocked an eyebrow, leaning her chin on one hand. "I'll tell you the same thing I've told the other million people who've asked me that: You can ask, but there's no guarantee I'll answer."

Atherton smiled slightly. "Fair enough. What exactly do you see in Langley? I realize you're grateful for him 'rescuing' you, but he is seriously lacking in social skills. He treated you dreadfully yesterday, and didn't seem to realize it even when I pointed it out to him."

"That's what I thought," Miss Tate admitted. "At first." She paused, then reached across the table and took Atherton's hand. "Tell me something, Mr. Anderson—"

"James," Atherton interrupted. "Please, dear, call me James."

"James it is," she agreed. "What was the very first thing you noticed about me, James?"

"Your beautiful smile," Atherton answered promptly.

Miss Tate promptly shot him a dazzling example. "Don't lie to me, James."

Atherton blinked. "Lie? I.....well, I.....well, you're an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and...."

"And?" she prompted.

"And you do have a lovely smile," he insisted. "I'm not lying about that."

"But you are lying about the first thing you noticed," she said. "Actually, I should say 'things', plural. As in two," she added, glancing down at her chest.

Atherton flushed so fiercely it was physically painful. It didn't help that she was absolutely right. "Miss Tate, please!" he sputtered. "I don't know what you're talking about! I—"

"Steady there, Jamie," Miss Tate said calmly. "It's not like I don't know they're there. Have been ever since I was twelve. They always get someplace a good five minutes before I do. I know that's the first thing men notice about me even if you don't want to admit it. I see their eyes, see what they look at. I saw your eyes....and you weren't looking at my beautiful smile."

"This is a most uncomfortable conversation," Atherton said stiffly, making certain his eyes were somewhere, anywhere else but on Miss Tate's considerable assets. "And I don't see what you're getting at."

"Here's the thing," she said, leaning in closer. "All my life, I've always only been noticed for my looks. I heard it the whole time I was growing up—'What a pretty girl!', and 'Keep a shotgun handy for that one!' I've never had a man tell me I was smart. Not that I'm not smart," she added. "I'm smart, and I know it. I work hard to keep it to myself because men don't like smart women." She paused. "And then I met Langley."

"I gather he told you you were smart?" Atherton ventured.

"He does more than that," Miss Tate said. "He treats me like I'm smart. This is the first time in my entire life that I've met a man who thinks I'm smart and doesn't give a rat what I look like. Not only that, but he doesn't go for the 'treat her like a baby' bit because he says I'm one of the least helpless people he's ever met."

"Sounds like a convenient excuse for poor manners," Atherton grumbled.

"With any other man, it probably would be," Miss Tate agreed. "But not Langley. He means it. He's the strangest person I've ever met, but when he looks at me, he doesn't see what everyone else sees. That's never happened to me before.....and I like it."

"I'm sorry I made such a poor impression on you," Atherton said unhappily. "If it means anything to you, I've never equated physical beauty with stupidity, and never intended to imply such."

"Aw, you're sweet," Miss Tate smiled. "Don't worry, James, you've been nothing but nice to me. And so has Langley, just in a different way."

"I'll grant you he's an odd duck," Atherton allowed. "I get the impression he doesn't get out much."

"Do you know what he does for a living?" Miss Tate asked. "I can't get him to tell me a thing about himself."

"He certainly hasn't been forthcoming to me," Atherton said, "but I gather he's some sort of personal guard to someone of great wealth or importance. I was given to understand that his work involved a good deal of subterfuge and disguise."

"And bullies," Miss Tate said thoughtfully, "because he certainly knows how to deal with those types. And he said something to me about working in a palace."

Atherton's eyes widened. "A palace, you say? That would explain a lot. He could be some sort of royal secret service agent."

"Then what's he doing here? Is he on vacation?"

"I doubt Langley knows the meaning of the word," Atherton chuckled. "And he's been here for some time now, long enough to make a friend in the area whose death distressed him greatly."

"Oh," Miss Tate said slowly. "Maybe that's why he's so quiet."

"I'm afraid not," Atherton said. "He was every bit as quiet and tight-lipped before his friend died. No, our Langley is a puzzle. And as I said, not the only one who finds you intelligent, I assure you," he added, dropping his eyes to the tabletop, feeling himself blush again. "Is it permissible to find you both intelligent and beautiful?"

She flashed that dazzling smile again, reaching across the table and patting his hand. "Sure it is, sweetie. Nice talking to you."

"Won't you stay for breakfast?" Atherton said hopefully. "Langley may show up."

"I'll look for him myself, but thanks anyway. Bye."

Atherton sighed heavily as she sashayed out of the diner, every male head turning in admiration and no doubt paying not one bit of attention to her brain, which was admittedly hard to notice when so many other things were swaying before your eyes.

"What are you having this morning?"

Courtney had reappeared, looking questioningly at the empty seat opposite him. "A ham and cheese omelet, and an explanation," Atherton answered. "What in the world would a woman like that see in a man like Langley? What does he have that I don't?"

Courtney glanced up briefly as the bell on the door dingled, signaling Miss Tate's departure. "Trust me," she said as she scribbled on her pad, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."




*****************************************************



2:30 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




Sweating profusely, Courtney stepped gratefully into the cool of the front hallway and started slowly up the steps. It was beastly hot today; just the walk home had taken its toll on her. Not having slept much last night hadn't helped; the phone had rung over and over, six to eight rings about once every hour, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to pick it up. It was undoubtedly her father calling, and he would undoubtedly be frantic that she wasn't answering, but she just wasn't ready to talk to him yet. She should probably just answer the phone and tell him that instead of leaving him to imagine what could have happened to her in the proximity of Covari, but she dreaded that conversation almost as much as she dreaded seeing Dee again.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Courtney glanced over at Dee's closed door. Dee wouldn't be going to the diner; business had been slow after the morning rush, filming having apparently taken place somewhere outside town. Mr. Parker had called his extra waitresses and told them to stay home today, wisely deciding to build future work schedules around the filming schedule. I should go over, Courtney thought, hesitating at the top of the stairs. She should.....but she wasn't in the mood for that either. She wasn't in the mood for much of anything these days, and she unlocked the door to her room just as the phone rang again.

Courtney sank onto the bed and put her hands over her ears. Why did the Warders have to pick a world with such backward technology that they couldn't silence their communication devices? She'd seriously considered disconnecting the phone last night just so she could get some sleep, but that would have truly panicked her father. Like not answering didn't, she thought ruefully, imagining her father standing in their front hallway in the middle of the night as the phone rang and rang, wondering where she could be. And here she was not answering again, panicking him again, assuming he'd ever stopped. Everything she touched just went to hell these days.

"Would you like me to get that?"

Dee was in the doorway, looking every bit as awkward and uncertain as Courtney felt. "Where's Philip?" Courtney asked.

"Asleep," Dee answered. "He actually conked out early today. That phone's been ringing all morning," she added. "Over and over. If that's your father, he must be really worried."

"I'm sure he is," Courtney admitted, "but having you answer isn't going to make him any less worried."

"You sure?" Dee asked as the ringing continued incessantly. "I could tell him you're in the bathroom."

"And then he'd think you'd killed me if I didn't call back in short order," Courtney said. "What I'd really like is a way to shut that thing up without disconnecting it."

"You mean like turn the bell off? That would be nice, especially since we have to sleep in the same room as the phone. Maybe Malik could fix it to work that way."

"No thanks," Courtney said quickly, refraining from pointing out that she'd rather listen to the phone ring all day and all night then be anywhere near a Covari.

The ringing stopped, sending a wave of guilt her way as she imagined her frantic father hanging up on his end. "You're going to have to answer it some time, you know," Dee said gently.

Courtney gave her a skeptical look. "Why do you care? I thought you didn't want anything to do with me."

"I didn't say that," Dee said levelly. "I said I didn't want you watching my son, that's all. You can hardly blame me under the circumstances." She paused. "I heard you found my Mama."

"She found me," Courtney corrected. "It was nice to talk to somebody's mother, even if she wasn't mine."

"She seems to be in a much better mood now that I've moved out," Dee observed. "And now you think I'm crazy for being mad at her, I'll bet."

Courtney shook her head. "No. Mothers are always harder on their own daughters. God knows mine was."

"You fought with your mother?"

"All the time. She didn't want me to go into the military. Never mind that my father was in the military, and all my brothers went into the military, and lots of my friends were going into the military; for some reason, I wasn't supposed to. Needless to say, I did anyway.....and now I'm not there so she can say 'I told you so'."

"If all your brothers are in the military, then why didn't one of them come too?" Dee asked.

Courtney smiled bitterly. "Because I'm better leverage. I'm the youngest, the least trained, and the one my father worries about the most. And the best one to keep him in line."

"Geez," Dee muttered. "I don't like the people you work for."

"Neither do I," Courtney sighed. "Neither do I."

They sat in silence on the bed for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. "Malik talked to Jaddo," Dee said suddenly.

Courtney's heart nearly stopped. "He....he told him? About me?"

"Of course not," Dee said. "Do you really think you'd still be alive if he'd done that? It was just a hypothetical conversation, a 'what if' kind of thing."

"And?"

"And Jaddo said he would only deal with someone he'd dealt with before, from the last time your people tried to talk to his Ward. Is there anyone here like that?"

Oh, no. Courtney's heart went from racing, to slowing, to sinking as she realized what that meant. "My father led the delegation who approached Rath, but—"

"Then there's someone here he'd recognize," Dee said. "That's good!"

"That's bad," Courtney corrected. "He's wearing a husk and is virtually unrecognizable."

"Can't he take his husk off?"

"Not without killing the husk," Courtney answered. "Our husks.....connect with us. Break those connections, and they won't reform."

"Does he have a spare husk? Could he take off one and put on another?"

"No one has a spare husk," Courtney said. "That was made very clear to us on the way here, that we had to be very careful with our husks because they take such a long time to grow."

"So," Dee said slowly, "he can't identify himself without killing himself in the process."

"Exactly."

Dee was quiet for a moment. "There has to be a way to work this out," she said finally, with the conviction of one who just didn't understand. "We'll find a way."

Courtney managed a wan smile. "Sure we will."

The phone rang again, sounding louder than ever. "Are you sure you don't want me to answer that?" Dee offered.

"No, thanks," Courtney said quietly. "I'll get it."

Dee rose from the bed, pausing by the door. "Come on over after you talk to him. If you want. I don't mind."

"Okay," Courtney whispered.

Dee closed the door behind her as Courtney stared at the ringing phone. Here she'd been justifying not answering on the grounds that she had nothing to report. She should have answered it before, when she didn't have to tell the leader of the resistance that any chance of accomplishing their mission had just evaporated.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 30 next Sunday.

I really really wish that they were still writing the Roswell books - your story so could have been part of the series...well actually your fics are better

^ Aw, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it. Thanks for letting me know.







CHAPTER THIRTY


July 9, 1959, 3 p.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona




Michael closed his eyes with relief when he finally heard his daughter's voice on the line. As the humans would say, what a roller coaster this past week had been. It had begun with the first sighting of the Royal Warders in over ten years, which had sent Nicholas off on a tear and galvanized every Argilian operative on this planet. Michael had found the news welcome for an additional reason: The Warders were not in Roswell. Granted, they'd shown themselves just north of there. But they were clearly pursuing one of Jaddo's captors and so had gone where that captor was, which meant that his daughter was not in the line of fire as he had feared every single day since she'd left. The frantic deployment of operatives and furious searching which Nicholas had subsequently begun would likely be fruitless; having shown themselves so obviously, the Warders would now be very careful not to do so again.

And then just as he was drawing breath, Courtney had dropped the bombshell that she'd actually located them. Michael had listened to her report with a veritable tidal wave of mixed emotions, simultaneously elated that the resistance had found them first and terrified that his own child was not only in the line of fire, but the prime target. Ultimately he had made the most difficult decision of his life: Courtney must remain there and maintain contact. She was not trained for it, and could very likely not survive the attempt, but there was no other alternative. They could not let this chance slip through their fingers; she was the only resistance operative anywhere near Roswell, and relocating operatives under Nicholas' eagle eye was impossible. If only she'd found them just a week earlier, things might have been different.

He had immediate cause to regret his decision. Courtney had apparently offended the Warders' human allies, who understandably saw Covari as sentient beings, which was exactly what they imitated so well. She was simply not prepared for this, not prepared to deal with an ally who couldn't possibly understand what Covari truly were, never mind deal with a Covari itself. But what else could he do? It was nothing short of a miracle that a resistance operative had located the Warders first, and it was not lost on him that the only reason that had happened was his daughter's stubborn insistence that the Warders' would have stayed in Roswell. She had been right, but being right hadn't staved off the heartbreaking fear and confusion in her voice the last time he'd talked to her, and it had been all he could do to guide her without letting his own fear get the better of him. And then she didn't answer the phone, hadn't answered for a full day now, and he'd thrown caution to the winds, calling and calling, not caring if he aroused suspicion by using the phone so much. If anything had happened to her.......

"I'm sorry I worried you, Papa," Courtney was saying. "I just....I just didn't have anything to report until now."

"That's no excuse for not answering!" Michael insisted. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"I'm sorry," Courtney repeated. "I won't do it again."

"I certainly hope not," Michael said, ashamed to find himself trembling, he was so relieved. "I shouldn't be using the phone so much, and every time you don't answer means I have to call back."

"Are you all right?" Courtney asked worriedly. "What's going on there?"

"Very little," Michael admitted. "Nicholas must know that the Warders won't show themselves again so soon, but that hasn't stopped him from looking."

"But what about you?" Courtney asked. "How has this affected you?"

For the better, Michael thought silently. Consumed with his hunt, Nicholas had temporarily lost interest in the harvesting of human children for his experiments, what was surely the most distasteful task Michael had ever been given and one that was certain to draw suspicion in the future. And so unnecessarily too; they possessed the expertise to take what they wanted without harming the children permanently, but it was Nicholas' way to simply use up whoever or whatever was in his possession and discard the remains. "I am in no danger," Michael answered, sparing his daughter the unpleasant details. "You said you had something to report?"

"Dee seems to have calmed down. And I met her mother, who also knew the Warders. I think she liked me."

"Good!" Michael replied. "It is most important to court their human allies because they are far easier to reach."

"For all the good it will do," Courtney said sadly.

"Meaning?" Michael asked warily.

There was a pause. "Malik talked to Jaddo," Courtney said. "He didn't tell him anything specific, but he tried to get a feel for how he would react to us by asking him about the first time Rath was approached. Jaddo said he wouldn't meet with anyone who hadn't been there before, someone he knew and could identify."

"We expected that," Michael answered. "I am the only one of the original delegation on this planet, so I must lead the negotiations when the time comes."

"That's just it—you can't," Courtney answered. "How would you identify yourself? You can't take your husk off without destroying it, and there aren't any spares."

Michael hesitated, looking around carefully to make certain he was alone. "That's not true," he said quietly. "They lied to us."




******************************************************



11:30 p.m.

Roswell




Clap! Brivari snapped the clapboard and stepped back mere seconds before the director yelled, "Action!" Feet pounded and screaming began.

"Cut!"

Deep sighs were heard all around as Larry climbed out of his chair and headed over to his cast, which included Audrey in the requisite unworkable footwear, a group of "extras" whose sole directive was to scream and run, and a group of "aliens" now sporting large holes in their masks which prevented them from fainting from lack of air, although several had already fainted from the heat. "Where are the rest of my extras?" he demanded. "We should have about fifty people running away, and it looks like only about twenty."

"They didn't show up," one of the assistants ventured, keeping his distance.

"Then tell Morty to get me more extras!" Larry exclaimed. "How the hell am I supposed to film this damned thing without enough people to run away from the aliens? And you shouldn't be stopping," he barked at the aliens as the assistant scurried off. "The point is that you don't catch them because you can't see them. All of the humans are hiding in the dark by the side of the building, so the aliens can't see them, and they run by."

"Hiding?" an extra grumbled. "Are they blind? There's enough light pouring down on us to make it look like the middle of the afternoon."

"Those are stage lights," Larry said impatiently. "They're for the cameras, not the aliens."

"So we have people who can build ships that fly to another planet, but they can't catch us because they haven't invented the flashlight yet?" Audrey said innocently.

Brivari suppressed a smile as muffled laughter echoed around the set. Audrey loved to point out the inanities in the "script", and there were certainly enough of them to keep her busy for a good long while. "Yeah, I know, I know," Audrey said before Larry could erupt. "I was hired to scream and run, not write the script. I'm just hoping that real aliens wouldn't be so stupid."

"They were stupid enough to get killed," Larry retorted. "Is that stupid enough for you? Places! Let's try to—ouch!"

This time the laughter wasn't even remotely muffled as the director tripped and nearly fell to the ground. Brivari erased the "3" on the clapboard and replaced it with a "4", paying no attention. It was petty really, to trip him like that, but that remark about being stupid enough to get killed had hit a sore spot. Neither Urza nor Valeris were being stupid when the humans' ambush had taken their lives. Bad luck was bad luck no matter how technologically advanced one's civilization.

"Get back to work!" Larry snapped. "This is going to take longer than ever because we have to make the crowd look bigger than it is. Morty!" he added as the producer appeared on the set. "Where the hell are my extras?"

A heated discussion ensued. Morton Steinfeld was not having a good day; a number of the extras he had so painstakingly hired had not reported for work today, hampering filming. To make matters worse, the alien "experts" Atherton had referenced had begun to arrive, badmouthing the entire process to anyone who would listen. Brivari had noticed little effect on the watching crowds; the lure of Hollywood apparently outweighed the need for their entertainment to make sense, not to mention that this story, if one could call it that, mirrored the humans' preconceptions and fears about not being alone in the universe, much like Atherton's book.

Flustered, Steinfeld detached himself from the group which included the director and several assistants and employed his usual method of solving problems these days—he headed for Brivari. "Only half the extras I hired showed up for work today, and less than that showed up tonight," he said in exasperation. "I can't reach them on the phone, and I have no idea where they are or why they're not here. What do I do?"

"Simple," Brivari said calmly. "Dismiss them."

"Is that your solution for everything? It was a miracle that Larry came back after quitting yesterday—"

"That was no miracle. I believe I predicted he would reappear."

"But what if he hadn't?" Steinfeld persisted. "And now I've got all these people who were carefully chosen for their ability to scream—"

"A trait which is useless if they do not report for duty," Brivari noted.

"—and you want me to just cut them off? I don't have time to hire more extras without seriously screwing up the production schedule! I can only throw my weight around so much before it starts to backfire. I already tried the strong arm method with the sheriff, and he threatened to sic an alien on me!"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Did he, now? While I'm uncertain as to how he would fulfill that threat, perhaps it would help if I illuminated some boundaries. The sheriff is not in your employ; he falls under the heading of 'associate'. One does not command associates; one negotiates with them. Those you have employed, however, are a different matter. They are your subordinates, and if those subordinates are not performing their duties as required, they should be dismissed and promptly replaced. Tolerate such behavior, and you will find yourself surrounded by those who are all too willing to take advantage of that tolerance; refuse to tolerate it, and you will find yourself surrounded by those willing to live up to your standards."

Steinfeld stared at him. "What the hell kind of job did you have before you came here?"

"The kind that makes it easy for me to spot one who is inexperienced and easily intimidated," Brivari answered, "traits which hamper leadership. Another trait which hampers leadership is the inability to alter course when necessary. Those you hired have not fulfilled their end of the bargain, and now you must alter course."

"But how?" Steinfeld asked desperately. "Where am I going to find more extras right now?"

"How about over there?" another voice said.

Audrey had sidled up behind them, those impossible shoes in her hand, making her footsteps almost silent. "You mean the crowd?" Steinfeld said in disbelief. "What, you mean just pull people out of the crowd and stick them in front of the camera? But they're not trained, they're not—"

"So what?" Audrey said. "All you did with the others was tell them to look scared and run from point A to point B. How hard is that?"

"But they don't have contracts—"

"Screw the contracts," Audrey said. "Offer'em a buck apiece just to be in these last couple of scenes; that's less than you would've paid the no shows. If they're out here at midnight just to watch, I'll bet they'll jump at the chance."

"I wouldn't be surprised if recruiting from the crowd would anger the protestors," Brivari added casually.

That did it. Steinfeld was particularly put out with the protestors, so anything that would upset them had to be good. "Sorry for the eavesdropping," Audrey said as Steinfeld marched off with a gleam in his eye. "Nobody talks to me, so a lot of times the only way to find out what's going on is to listen in."

"You had an excellent suggestion," Brivari said. "Frankly, I find you far better equipped to run this production than Mr. Steinfeld."

"Me?" Audrey laughed. "A woman produce a movie? No one would ever go for that."

"I remain confused as to what gender has to do with it," Brivari admitted.

"I know," Audrey smiled. "That's why I like you. You're different."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are 'different' too," Brivari said. "You are certainly not what society at large seems to think you are."

"Yeah, well.....a girl has to be careful about how 'different' she is," Audrey said. "It's all well and good for a man to be different; he can get away with it." She paused, watching Steinfeld and one of his assistants approach the crowd in the distance. "I looked for you this morning at the diner, but I only found your friend, Mr. Anderson."

"I'm sure he was excellent company," Brivari said, imagining Atherton's joy at being approached by one he had identified as a "bombshell".

"I didn't stay," Audrey said. "Oh, he's sweet, and all, but.....I was really hoping to find you. Since I missed you for breakfast, can I....walk you home?"

"Are you concerned I might lose my way?" Brivari asked dryly.

"No, just nosey," Audrey laughed. "Langley, no one knows anything about you! Nobody knows where you live, or what you do, or even what your first name is. You do have one, don't you?"

"I have always found one name to be more than sufficient," Brivari replied.

"Okay, then where do you live?" Audrey pressed. "It must be somewhere nearby because I never see you with a car. Even Mr. Anderson doesn't know where you live."

"What difference does it make where I live?" Brivari asked.

Audrey leaned in closer. "Everyone is really interested in you, Langley. You appear out of nowhere, you flatten Larry with a few words, Morty won't move without your advice.....naturally people are curious." She glanced sideways as though checking for fellow eavesdroppers. "There's a bet going," she confided, "on who can figure out where you live first. A couple of the crew followed you when we broke for dinner, but they lost you. Now everyone's really curious."

Oh, dear, Brivari sighed. If he wanted to continue here, it looked like he would have to satisfy the humans' curiosity. And he did want to continue, if for no other reason than it took his mind off Quanah. The reason he had not been at the diner for breakfast was that he had paid a visit to Quanah's village, keeping his distance, watching from the shadows, ultimately unwilling to show himself. The thought of entering Quanah's house when Quanah was not there, would never be there again, was just too painful.

"It appears that Mr. Steinfeld could use your expertise," Brivari said, nodding toward the director who was being mobbed by prospective extras, proving once again that success could be every bit as daunting as failure.

"Poor Morty," Audrey said, shaking her head. "He means well, he really does, but he just doesn't know how to grab the bull by the horns." She started for Steinfeld, then stopped, giving Brivari one of those looks which made human males behave like fools. "I'd really like to win that bet, Langley."

And then she was off, the crowd of newly minted extras who had been giving Steinfeld such a hard time shushing at her approach, giving her their undivided attention; admiring attention from the men, grudging attention from the women, but attention nonetheless. Within five minutes she had dispatched two rude individuals, which had the predictable calming effect on the rest of the group, lined them up, and begun giving instructions. It never failed to amaze him how the ability to command came in such disparate packages. When it came to leadership, Audrey was the least respected member of the movie crew, supposedly because of her gender, yet she was clearly a born leader, taking initiative where others hung back. Riall had been a born leader also, innately possessing the characteristics necessary in those who not only command, but command well. And his son...... His son could have been, Brivari thought. Zan's instincts had been sound, but he had tended to ignore advice and either over- or under-react; perhaps if he'd had a little more time to mature, to listen to his advisors, to learn the delicate, ever-changing balance of command, he would have become a leader to rival his father. Perhaps.....

A line of new extras marched by, led by Audrey, who threw him a wink, and trailed by a relieved Steinfeld. Because of her willingness to alter course, the director would have his extras and filming would continue. Perhaps she deserved to win that "bet". Perhaps he should see to it that she did.




*****************************************************



July 10, 1959, 7 a.m.

Parker's Diner




"Oh!" Courtney gasped, skidding to a halt as she entered the bathroom. "Geez, I'm sorry Nancy!"

"Don't be, hon," Nancy chuckled, as though she wasn't standing there with the top of her uniform hanging around her waist and sporting nothing but a bra on her upper half. "It's a ladies room, after all. I figured I'd cool off while I had the chance. All the fans in the world don't help when it's this hot." She paused, reluctantly sliding back into her uniform. "One of these days, I swear I'm going to go out there naked. I don't care if everyone faints; at least I'll be comfortable. Haven't you ever felt that way? Haven't you ever wanted to just take it all off?"

Turns out I can, Courtney thought, answering Nancy's question with a smile and a nod as the latter finished buttoning her uniform and headed back out to the kitchen. After all of the lectures about protecting their husks, about how difficult husks were to grow, about how there were no spare husks, it turned out at least some of that was a big fat lie.

"There are spares?" she had exclaimed to her father in disbelief. "But we were told there weren't!"

"Of course we were," her father had said patiently. "You've seen how some have behaved once connected to these primitive skins. The specter of death is the only thing keeping some of us in line."

"But they lied to us," Courtney had said angrily, aware even as she spoke of the silliness of that objection. Naturally Nicholas had lied to them; it was what he did best.

"Not entirely," her father had countered. "Husks are precious; it takes years to grow a new crop. And removing a husk is no small matter, akin to being skinned alive."

"But once it's off, could you put on another right away?" Courtney asked, trying to block out the unpleasant images that conjured.

"Yes, but this is still not something to be taken lightly," her father cautioned. "The old husk would die, and the spare husk would need to be immediately available. Obtaining the spare would be difficult; Nicholas' immediate family have theirs in Copper Summit, but the few remaining spares are on the ship, like Greer's, for example. Obtaining them wouldn't be easy."

"Is one of those spares yours?" she had asked, bewildered.

"I'm not sure," Michael had admitted. "I had to tread carefully just to find out about the spares on the ship after stumbling across the spares in the basement. But if Greer has a spare, I would imagine I have one as well."

"But what if you don't?" Courtney had persisted. "If you use someone else's, there would be two of someone."

"One thing at a time," her father had answered. "The most important thing now is that Jaddo has expressed a willingness to hear us, whatever the circumstances. We have plenty of time to figure this out; it will be awhile before Nicholas relaxes his vigilance. Nothing can happen before then."

The rest of the conversation had gone well enough, with Michael relieved that Dee was no longer angry and Courtney relieved to no longer have a phone ringing off the hook. But instead of sleeping better last night, she'd lain awake, stewing. So Nicholas and his cronies had spare husks. Well, of course they did—Nicholas wasn't about to risk himself or his family the way he cheerfully risked everyone else. Even though having a spare husk was no guarantee of survival—something could certainly happen to you when you weren't close enough to utilize the spare, for example—it was still galling that Nicholas had gone on and on about the need to care for their husks while he had a spare in his basement. What else isn't he telling us? she thought angrily, exiting the bathroom and grabbing a pot of coffee. Probably plenty. Probably enough that she was better off not thinking about it.

"Coffee?" she asked reflexively to the first of the new customers who had arrived in her absence, repeating the query down the line of booths which were her responsibility until she came to the back booth.

"Good morning, sweetheart!" the blowzy blonde with the bright red lipstick chirped as Courtney froze with the coffee pot in midair. "I'm Audrey Tate. We met yesterday, remember?"

"Right," Courtney said faintly, accepting the hand with the long red nails that resembled claws. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please, but then I'll wait to order," Miss Tate said. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Mr. Anderson?" Courtney ventured.

Miss Tate smiled. "No. Mr. Langley. He agreed to meet me here for breakfast, but he's a bit late." She paused, glancing around the diner. "Can you set for a spell?"

" 'Set'?"

"Sit," Miss Tate translated, indicating the bench opposite. "I want to ask you something."

Slowly, Courtney set the coffee pot down and slid onto the bench. "I was wondering," Miss Tate said in a low voice, "if you could tell me something about Langley."

"Like what?" Courtney asked warily.

"I'm having the hardest time finding out anything about him, and so is everyone else," Miss Tate confided. "But I hear he eats here on a regular basis, right?"

"Well.....he has been," Courtney allowed. "But I've only worked here for a few weeks, so I wouldn't know much."

"Do you know where he lives?" Miss Tate asked eagerly, as though that were a very important question.

In a huge palace. "No, I'm sorry, I don't," Courtney answered. "Why?"

"There's a bet going on the set," Miss Tate said, lowering her voice further to a conspiratorial whisper. "The first one to figure out where he lives is going to get a pile of cash."

They're stalking a Royal Warder? Courtney thought, dumbfounded. "Why is there a....'bet'?" she asked out loud. "Can't you just ask him?"

"Oh, I did," Miss Tate said. "But Langley is nothing if not enigmatic. It has to be somewhere close, though, because he doesn't seem to use a car."

Who needs a car when you can sprout wings and fly? "So....is that why you're meeting him for breakfast?" Courtney asked. "So you can find out where he lives?"

Miss Tate dropped her eyes. "Partly. But only partly. Look, I know Langley's not a looker, but....I find him fascinating. He's so different, and in an odd way, that makes him attractive."

For a moment Courtney's stomach churned until she reminded herself that this was Earth, not Antar. Covari were in high demand for sex on her world. If the thought of simply interacting with a Covari was revolting, the thought of coupling with one was far worse. But that didn't stop the many who were attracted by a being who could become multiple partners of any gender or species imaginable. There were tales of those who employed Covari for just that purpose, or so their spouses would leave them alone. Whatever the reason, it was sickening.

"I think you should stay away from him," Courtney said suddenly.

Miss Tate's eyebrows rose. "Really? Why?"

"He just.....seems.....dangerous," Courtney stammered.

To Courtney's surprise, Miss Tate nodded knowingly. "He sure does," she said with satisfaction. "And that's part of the attraction. Haven't you ever been attracted to a dangerous man, hon? Well, no, you probably haven't," she continued, patting Courtney's hand with her claw-like fingernails when Courtney shook her head vigorously. "You're a bit young for that. When you're young, it's all about the looks, and do they bring you flowers, and stuff like that. When you get older, you want......more."

"This would be more than you ever bargained for," Courtney murmured.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Courtney looked up.....and lurched to her feet. "Langley, you scared her!" Miss Tate admonished. "Poor little thing! Say you're sorry!"

"My apologies," Langley said, sliding into the booth as Courtney struggled to hold the coffee pot steady. "May I have some coffee, please?"

"Don't worry, honey, he does that to the rest of us too," Miss Tate assured her. "He walks on little cat's feet. And don't you worry about me," she added with a wink as Courtney finished pouring and started to flee. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

Not this time, Courtney thought, escaping as quickly as she could. Lady, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.




******************************************************




12:15 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Here you are, sir," Jimmy Valenti said, setting the cup of coffee on the deputy's desk. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"God, you're spoiling us, kid," the deputy chuckled. "It's going to be hard getting along without you after the movie's over."

"I really like being here, sir," Jimmy said sincerely.

"And we like having you," the deputy smiled. "Why don't you take some coffee to whoever's in back? They don't get waited on back there the way we do up here."

Jimmy's eyes widened. "Yes, sir!" he exclaimed, scurrying back to the coffee pot. He'd never been in the "back", where the cells were; even his mother, who had championed his presence here, didn't like him going back there. His father had stationed a deputy by the cells full time because of the number of people they were locking up for disorderly conduct or petit larceny. Fewer people were being arrested now that word was getting out that his father meant business, but there were still plenty of people testing the limits, and it was said that things could get gnarly back there when the cells started to fill up.

Carrying the cup carefully so as not to spill it, Jimmy wound his way through the station until he came to the door which led to the cells. Should he knock? If he knocked, whoever was back there definitely wouldn't let him in. Perhaps he should just let himself in? None of the deputies would knock. And he'd been asked to bring coffee, so it's not like he was just being nosy.....

Cautiously, Jimmy opened the door a crack, then further. He was in a small anteroom, by the looks of it, which held only a chair surrounded by stacks of magazines. No one was there, and for a moment, he was tempted to just set the cup down and run.

"I thought I told you to behave yourself," came a stern voice nearby.

Startled, Jimmy nearly dropped the cup until he realized the voice was coming from a doorway off to the side. Creeping to it, he saw a row of cells, each holding several people, and Deputy Crist, the man he'd caught sitting at his father's desk. As Jimmy watched, Crist unlocked a cell, pulled a man out, and moved him to another, the key clanking in the lock.

"We were just doing what comes naturally," the displaced prisoner grinned. In the cell he'd just vacated, a woman in a tight dress and high heels lounged on a cot, smiling.

"Shitting's natural too," Crist said, pocketing the keys and turning around to find Jimmy staring at him goggle-eyed.

"I....I brought you some coffee," Jimmy stammered. "One of the other deputies asked me too."

"What a little sweetie," the tight-dressed woman cooed, coming to her cell door. "Did you bring me anything, handsome?"

"No, ma'am," Jimmy whispered, backing up even though she was a good distance away and locked up besides.

"Simmer down," Crist ordered, steering Jimmy back into the anteroom. "Thanks," he said, taking the cup, which was just as well because Jimmy's hands were shaking. "Don't mind her. She's just ornery."

"What's she in for?" Jimmy asked, sneaking a peek back around the corner where the woman was still leering at him.

"World's oldest profession," Crist chuckled.

"What's that?"

"If you're young enough to ask, you're not old enough to know," Crist said cheerfully. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a Hershey bar. "Here. This is for you."

"Me?" Jimmy said. "Why?"

"Because I really appreciate you not telling your daddy about finding me sitting at his desk," Crist said, settling himself on his chair. "A lot of other kids would've blabbed."

But I did, Jimmy thought uncomfortably. He'd been feeling bad about that ever since he'd told his father about it. He'd been so sure that night, so positive that Crist was lying. But by the next day, the glow of his father's announcement about his "intuition" had faded, and he'd begun to wonder if maybe he hadn't exaggerated the whole thing. Maybe he'd just been too caught up in the excitement of being at the station, or maybe he'd wanted to prove his worth to his father. Maybe he'd gotten an innocent man in trouble by shooting his mouth off. Maybe.....maybe that's why Crist is back here he thought worriedly. Maybe his father had assigned him cell duty to keep him away from his desk. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut and waited to see if anything else happened. Certainly Crist hadn't made another move toward his father's office or anywhere else he wasn't supposed to be.

"Go on," Crist urged. "Take it. You're not taking candy from a stranger because I'm not a stranger."

Feeling like a traitor, Jimmy pocketed the candy bar. "Thanks," he said uncertainly as the urge to fess up became overpowering. "But...."

The door to the anteroom opened, and Andi's head appeared. "Jimmy? What are you doing in here?"

"He was just bringing me coffee, ma'am," Deputy Crist answered. "Right nice of him, too. It gets a little lonely back here."

"Well, it looks like you have your coffee, so Jimmy can come back out now," Andi said. "I have his lunch ready."

"Yes, ma'am," Jimmy said reluctantly.

"She doesn't want you back here, does she?" Crist asked after Andi had retreated.

"No, sir," Jimmy said.

"But I bet you'd like to see what's back here, wouldn't you?" Crist asked.

Jimmy dropped his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Kind of like I wanted to sit in your daddy's chair," Crist winked. "Tell you what—I'm here for the rest of the day, so why don't you check back every hour or so, and you can spend a few minutes with me. I won't say anything."

"Really?" Jimmy asked.

"Sure. You didn't say anything about me. One good turn deserves another."

A minute later Jimmy was back in the station, feeling both traitorous and excited about the invitation. Maybe he'd been a bit hasty about Deputy Crist. Maybe he should think more carefully before passing any little thing along to his father.




******************************************************




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney gratefully turned the corner onto her street, eager to be home and out of the blazing sun. It was especially fierce today, so fierce that it had actually broken the resolve of some of the movie-watching crowds, who had retreated to Parker's, shade, and fans. The place had been so packed when she'd left that she'd felt guilty and offered to stay, but Nancy had shooed her out.

"You've been here for hours, dear," she'd said. "You've done your bit. Just make sure that your friend comes in today. We'll need her!"

Poor Dee, Courtney thought, heading up the front walk to her rooming house. At least it was cooler, relatively speaking, for most of her own shift, but Dee got the afternoon and early evening when the heat was at its peak. Then again, she'd grown up here, and it didn't seem to bother her. Still, Courtney felt guilty all over again for looking forward to peeling this uniform off, maybe having another chat with Mrs. Proctor and another glass of iced tea. She was mulling over whether to await an invitation or seek one out herself when she stepped through the door and nearly ran smack into someone.

"Sorry," she said, stepping sideways. "I didn't see.....Miss Tate?"

It was indeed Audrey Tate, all blond hair and red lipstick just like this morning. "Hi sweetheart!" Miss Tate exclaimed. "Do you live here?"

"Uh....yes," Courtney said, confused. "Why? Do you?"

"No," Miss Tate said with satisfaction, "but someone else does." She leaned in closer. "I won the bet!"

" 'Bet'?" Courtney echoed stupidly.

"Yes, the bet I was telling you about earlier! About where Langley lives!"

Courtney's heart nearly stopped. "He....he lives......"

"Right here!" Miss Tate said happily. "He's your downstairs neighbor!"



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 31 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


July 10, 1959, 2:45 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's Rooming House




......your downstairs neighbor.

Courtney stared stupidly at Miss Tate, the words ringing in her ears even as her mind refused to process them. "Mr. Langley.....lives.....here?" she stammered. "In this building?"

"Right over there," Miss Tate said, indicating a room to her left that was right beneath Dee's. "He brought me here over our lunch break, and now we're heading back to the set. You weren't holding out on me this morning, were you?" she added with a sly smile.

"N....No!" Courtney exclaimed, finding it difficult to talk because she was finding it difficult to breathe. "I....I've never seen him here! Honest, I wasn't—"

"Don't fret, dear," Miss Tate said, patting her hand. "Langley is like a ghost; he appears and disappears. If it were anyone else, I'd wonder, but because it's him, I believe you. He could probably sneak right by you without you even knowing."

You have no idea, Courtney thought frantically. "Would you excuse me?" she begged, rushing away before "Langley" showed himself and made her completely lose her marbles. She found Mrs. Bruce in the living room, settled on the sofa watching As The World Turns, one of those delicious television programs so many Argilians enjoyed.

"Miss Harris?" Mrs. Bruce said when she saw Courtney, all breathless and flustered. "My goodness, what's happened?"

"Did you just rent that downstairs room?" Courtney demanded.

"Why.....yes," Mrs. Bruce answered. "Just this morning. And to a very nice gentleman, too. Such impeccable manners! Believe me, I've had all types, and you don't often find one like him. I was all too glad to rent to him." She paused. "Is something wrong, dear? Do you know him? Is there something I should know?"

"No," Courtney whispered numbly. "I.....thank you."

Courtney headed back out to the front hall, using the wall for support, unable to believe her bad luck. One of the Warders was living downstairs? She would have to find some other place to live because there was absolutely no way she could live with a Covari in the building, never mind a Warder. What if it heard something? What if it noticed something? Or....what if it already has? Courtney thought in a panic. Did it know what she was? Was that why it was here? And if so, how had it found out?

Miss Tate had disappeared, and the front hall was mercifully empty. Racing up the stairs, Courtney pounded on Dee's door, which earned her an annoyed, "Just a minute!" from inside, followed by the door opening. "Courtney?" Dee said in surprise when she saw the wild look on her face. "What's wrong?"

"Did you tell them about me?" Courtney demanded, pushing her way into Dee's room. "Did you?"




******************************************************




Dee stared at Courtney in astonishment, stepping back as she practically fell into the room. "Court Nee!" Philip exclaimed, running over to see one of his favorite people, reaching out with his arms. "Up?"

"Not now, honey," Dee told him. "Calm down," she ordered Courtney. "What are you talking about? Did I tell them what?"

"About me!" Courtney exclaimed as Dee hastily closed the door before anyone else overheard. "It...he's downstairs! He moved into the room downstairs!"

"Who did?" Emily asked.

Courtney's gaze swung right, becoming a bit less frantic as she took in Emily's presence. "Langley," she answered. "He's moved in downstairs, right under you!"

"Langley moved in here?" Dee echoed. "How do you know that?"

"That woman told me," Courtney said impatiently, "that blonde who's been hanging around him."

"You mean the actress? The one with the fire engine red lipstick?"

"Yes! That one. She asked me this morning if I knew where Langley lived," Courtney said. "Something about people on the movie set trying to figure out where he lived, and there was some kind of bet going to see who could find out first. And now she says he lives here, and she won the bet! Dee, what is he doing here? Did you say something?"

"Would you look at that," Emily said softly, staring out the front window. "I'd call that bleached blonde."

Dee and Courtney joined her at the window, as did Philip, who stood on tiptoe and tried to see over the windowsill. Brivari and the actress were walking down the street, her ample backside sashaying right and left as she perched on her high heels. "Don't tell your father," Emily said dryly. "He'll be jealous."

"This is no time for jokes, Mama," Dee said severely.

"It's also no time for panic," Emily countered. "Courtney, we haven't said a thing to either Warder about you, and you must know that. If we had, I sincerely doubt their first move would be to get an apartment in the same building as yours, don't you agree?"

"But why here, if not because of me?"

"Rooms are scarce now, what with the movie and all," Dee pointed out. "Most likely this was the only one he could find."

"It sounds like he needed to satisfy people's curiosity," Emily added. "If there's a bet going, and people were following him around, obviously that wouldn't be good. I can't imagine his being here has anything to do with you."

"But you don't know that," Courtney argued. "You really don't know what you're dealing with, Mrs. Proctor. I know you think you know these....'people', but do you really understand what they're capable of? They're programmed to be killers! They're—"

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with, thank you very much," Emily interrupted, her voice a shade cooler. "I understand we've only just met and you haven't heard the whole story, but I'd wager I know a good deal more about them than you do. As for what they're capable of, that cuts both ways. For example, they saved Dee's life."

Courtney's eyes widened. "They.....what?"

"Saved my life," Dee said. "Right after they crashed. Urza talked them into it."

Silence. Courtney looked back and forth from Dee to Emily in shock, this information clearly not squaring with her expectations. "Court Nee?" Philip said hopefully, holding up his arms again.

"Courtney's going to go back to her room and change into something more comfortable, honey," Emily said to Philip. "And then maybe she'll come back after Mommy goes to work. I made iced tea," she added, nodding toward the table.

Courtney nodded numbly. "I....thanks."

"Try not to obsess about it, okay?" Dee said. "If the room is just a front, he probably won't be there much anyway."

"I can't live with a Covari in the building," Courtney whispered.

"Of course you can," Emily said crisply. "If I had a nickel for all the things I've done that I thought I couldn't do, I'd be independently wealthy. And he's gone now, so there's no need to fuss. Run along, and come back when you've changed. And no more tantrums," she added firmly. "You do realize that outbursts like that are dangerous, don't you?"

Courtney nodded wordlessly and left, closing the door quietly behind her. "Do you think we should tell her what happened to me?" Dee asked.

"Why not?" Emily said. "It might just poke a hole in those misperceptions she has. 'Programmed to be killers'? They can certainly be killers, but never once have I thought they were 'programmed'. And why on earth is Brivari taking up with an actress?"

"He took a job on the movie set," Dee said. "Something about a 'clapper loader', and the actress claimed he'd 'rescued' her." She sighed, sinking into a chair. "This is all my fault, Mama. He was all depressed about the babies not growing as fast as they should be, and I told him he should do something with all the extra time he had to spend here. And then one of his Indian friends died....I told you about that, he was so upset.....do you think he's gone off the deep end?"

Emily was quiet for a moment. "I think he's grieving," she said finally. "And I think he's finally gotten bored. I asked him a long time ago if they planned on living like humans the way Malik and his friend did, and he looked at me like I had two heads. I don't think he'd really thought about it yet, what with Jaddo still captive. But I say, good for him. He can't just sit around for decades with nothing to do."

"But what about the actress? She's the one who doesn't know what she's dealing with."

"And we certainly can't tell her," Emily murmured.

Dee shifted uncomfortably. "What if she finds out?"

Emily shook her head. "She's only here for a few weeks. We'll just have to hope she doesn't."




******************************************************





Valenti climbed out of his car in front of the rooming house, still in a quandary over what to do. He was taking advantage of a dinner break for the movie crew to follow up on his aborted conversation with Courtney Harris, something he hadn't had a chance to do in all the flurry of trying to keep order in a town gone Hollywood. Summer was always a busy time in Roswell, but this one broke all records; the latest estimates were that the population was up by twenty five percent instead of the usual ten to fifteen percent. A shortage of accommodations in town had led some to open their doors to strangers, seeing a way to make a little money; unfortunately this backfired if the new tenant turned out to be a thief. He and his men had responded to several calls about thefts from private residences by short term boarders, but there wasn't much they could do save for keeping an eye out for both thieves and stolen goods, and recommending the victims find some other way to raise cash. The larger crowds were also proving to be ripe feeding grounds for all the usual suspects like pickpockets and prostitutes, the latter of which were growing quite brazen. No discreet appointments made with discreet women like Rosemary for this bunch. Fortunately they all seemed to be independent contractors, which spared him the necessity of pursuing their pimps. But he did have to go after their customers if he wanted to keep it down to a dull roar, and the cells back at the station held many a randy male. This summer just kept getting worse.

"Sheriff!" Mrs. Bruce exclaimed, leaving her always babbling television to greet him at the door. "What a nice surprise!"

"Afternoon, Mrs. Bruce," Valenti said, removing his hat. "How's things? Any problems here?"

"None, I'm happy to say," Mrs. Bruce answered. "I've been hearing about the problems other renters are having, and I'm delighted to have such upstanding tenants. I just rented my last room to an extremely polite, well turned out gentleman. No complaints here."

"I'm glad to hear that. I do believe you're the first person I've spoken with today that didn't have a complaint."

"Ah, you poor man; this must be very difficult for you," Mrs. Bruce said sympathetically. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I'm here to speak with Miss Harris," Valenti answered. "Nothing serious. Just wanted to talk."

"That was a nasty business with Mr. Green," Mrs. Bruce said, shaking her head. "I know she's off work, but I don't know if she's in; go up and see."

"Thank you, ma'am," Valenti said politely, heading up the stairs, that feeling of foreboding returning. He really had no idea what to do with the Mark Green debacle. Calling in the military would result in him being shut out of any investigation at the worst possible time, with all these guests in town. And despite his gut feeling that Courtney Harris was lying to him about something, he didn't have a shred of evidence to make him think that something had anything to do with Green's death or his exploding body, and the little he'd heard of that phone call to her father only supported that. What if she'd run away from home after a dispute with her father? Was that why she hadn't been more forthcoming? Regardless, lying was lying, and he wasn't certain how much longer he was going to be able to keep Ray quiet about this. Whatever her reasons, she'd have to come clean.

Valenti reached the top of the stairs and knocked on Courtney's door, waiting patiently for an answer. When none came, he knocked again, harder this time.....and a door opened behind him.

"Sheriff," a familiar voice said. "Can I help you?"

Valenti suppressed a sigh as he turned around. The movie crew's dinner break hadn't been the only reason he'd chosen this time to come here; the fact that he'd seen Dee Evans hard at work serving them their dinner at Parker's had a lot to do with it too. But there was no avoiding the Proctors, who seemed to spring up in the darnedest places when you least expected them.

"Mrs. Proctor," Valenti said politely. "I was looking for Miss Harris."

"She went grocery shopping," Emily replied. "She only just left, so I imagine she'll be back in an hour or so. Can I give her a message?"

Tell her to fess up about whatever she's hiding, Valenti thought, having half a mind to say that out loud.....and then something occurred to him, a fantastic thought that nonetheless made sense. "No message," he said slowly, "but.....Mrs. Proctor, would you mind if we.....talked for a few minutes?"

"About Courtney?"

"Partially," Valenti admitted.

Emily regarded him levelly for a moment before stepping back from the doorway. "Come in."

"Thank you," Valenti nodded, following Emily into the apartment, smiling when he saw Philip curled on the floor amid a pile of blocks.

"He just went to sleep, so I left him there," Emily said. "Of course in my day, children were always tucked into bed for naps, but Philip doesn't seem to mind sleeping anywhere. Iced tea?"

"That would be wonderful," Valenti said, settling into a chair at the kitchen table, setting his hat beside him. "Jimmy used to do the same thing. He couldn't bring himself to stop, and eventually, he'd just sack out wherever." He paused. "I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you and Dee were.....you know."

"Let me guess," Emily said, her voice heavy with irony. "The entire town knows that my daughter and I have been feuding."

"Actually, I doubt anyone knows but me," Valenti replied. "I've run into Dee a few times. She's been giving me legal advice, just like she did when she was nine. She may be taller, but she's not much different than she was back then. She grew up early."

Emily stopped pouring the tea for a moment, staring into space. "Maybe that's my problem," she said finally. "Dee doesn't seem that different to me, so I still think of her as a child instead of an adult." She set two glasses on the table along with a plate of lemon wedges. "But enough small talk. What's this about, sheriff?"

"Never one to beat around the bush, were you?" Valenti chuckled.

"Neither were you," Emily replied thoughtfully. "But you are now. Out with it."

Valenti paused a moment, eyeing her across the table. How much to say? There was no one else he could talk to, no one he could confide in save for Ray, who wasn't much help because he was growing more impatient by the minute. No one, that is, but the woman sitting across from him, someone he'd traveled many roads with, however reluctantly. Someone who knew aliens were real. Someone who might be able to confirm or deny the disturbing notions Ray had put in his mind. Assuming she was willing to, of course.

"Mrs. Proctor, can you keep a secret?"

Emily cocked an eyebrow. "I should think my credentials in that area would be beyond reproach."

"Right," Valenti smiled. "Of course they are. Dumb question." He hesitated, still weighing how much to divulge. "Have you heard about the former tenant in Miss Harris' apartment?"

"One Mark Green," Emily answered. "Murdered prior to her arrival, yet you suspect her in some way."

"Good synopsis," Valenti said. "But there's more. Green supposedly died of a knife wound to the back. But the wound wasn't behaving normally, and when Dr. Blake started poking around.....he exploded."

Emily blinked. "Dr. Blake exploded?"

"No, Green's body exploded," Valenti explained. "For lack of a better term."

"And how is it that everyone appears to have missed this 'explosion'?"

"Well.....that's the thing. It wasn't an ordinary body. All that was left of it were skin flakes. Like dry skin, only a lot of it. And when Dr. Blake checked out those skin flakes, he said he found human cells and......and non-human cells."

" 'Non-human'," Emily repeated slowly. "So....you think it was an alien?"

"Frankly? I don't know what to think," Valenti admitted, relaxing somewhat now that the "A" word had been uttered, and not by him. "That's what Dr. Blake thinks. But back in '47, when I watched that....thing.....in your house die, it didn't happen like that. It just.....collapsed. Into a pile of dirt, not skin flakes. Have you ever seen anything like what I'm describing, Mrs. Proctor?"

"No. Never." She stirred her tea, the spoon clanking loudly against the glass. "What are you going to do?"

"Ray wants me to call the military."

"Oh, that'll help," Emily deadpanned.

"Exactly," Valenti agreed. "Which is why I haven't. But....well, I don't know what to do. If I call in the Army, I probably won't get to investigate myself, and anything they do will likely panic the population of a town which has already been upended. But if I do nothing, and there's a real threat, especially with all these extra people here......" His voice trailed off, the implication obvious.

Emily was quiet for a long time, her fingers tapping on her glass. He watched her face, her eyes, but if she had any idea what he was talking about, it certainly wasn't showing. "Let me ask you something," she said at length. "Was this Mark Green a troublemaker?"

"Not at all," Valenti answered. "Fine upstanding citizen, from what I can tell."

"And someone killed him.....why?"

"Presumably for money," Valenti said. "But they must have been scared off because he had a large amount of cash on him when he was found."

"And this is the only time something like this has happened?"

"Yes."

"So what you've got here is a man dead in a strange way, but that's it? No other threat you can see?"

Valenti hesitated. "No."

"Then I'd do nothing," Emily said, "at least for the time being. That'll give you more time to look around and see if anything else comes up, and it might get you past the filming so that if and when you do decide to contact someone, the ruckus will have died down."

"Those were exactly my instincts," Valenti admitted. "You're not after my job, are you?"

"I don't have the people skills to be a sheriff," Emily said dryly. "I can't seem to keep the peace with my own daughter, never mind an entire town. But seriously, when I'm not sure what to do, I hold off on doing anything as long as I can because the longer I wait, the more information I might be able to gather. And since there doesn't seem to be any pressing reason to push this right now, I'd just let it lie. You can do just as much damage from reacting too quickly as you can from not reacting at all."

"Can I quote that to Dr. Blake?" Valenti chuckled.

"I'll tell him myself, if you like," Emily said. "Rumor has it that I have a habit of speaking my mind."

"Really?" Valenti said in mock surprise. "Rumor has it that I do too."

"We have that in common, don't we?" Emily said softly.

"Mrs. Proctor, it has always been a pleasure sparring with you," Valenti said. "Well, not that time you slammed my hand in the door. But every other time. Definitely."

"You just had to bring up the hand in the door, didn't you?"

Valenti smiled faintly. "Thanks for the tea," he said, rising from his chair. "And the advice."

"You're very welcome," Emily answered, following him to the door. "Any time."

"One more thing," Valenti added. "Don't worry about you and Dee. No matter how many times the two of you go round and round, you always find each other."

"I certainly hope so," Emily said. "I just wish I could learn to dispense with the 'round and round' part."

"Maybe you will," Valenti said. "You and I did." He donned his hat, tipping it slightly. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Proctor."

"Sheriff........"

Valenti stopped just outside the door. "Yes?"

The pause that followed grew awkward in length before Emily spoke again. "I just......wanted to wish you luck."

"Thank you," Valenti replied. "I could use some."




*****************************************************




11:30 p.m.




"Did you see the looks on their faces?" Audrey laughed. "They just couldn't believe it! They couldn't believe I won!"

"They certainly did appear annoyed," Brivari agreed as he unlocked the door to the room he had secured just that morning before breakfast. "Of course, that could have something to do with the prize. I must confess I was surprised at the amount which had been collected."

"Like I said, everyone was really curious about you," Audrey smiled. "Curious enough to pony up real bucks."

But curious no more, Brivari thought with satisfaction as he flipped on the lights. Renting this room had taken the proverbial wind out of everyone's sails....or perhaps it was just the amount of currency that many had lost. Currency which now resided in Audrey's handbag courtesy of Brivari giving her the information she had needed to win it.

"The money will certainly come in handy," Audrey said. "Now I won't have to worry so much about how I'll make ends meet after this film is over."

"Is your profession that unstable?" Brivari asked.

"It's feast or famine," Audrey sighed. "You may have steady jobs for a year, then none at all the next. You have to learn to set money aside for those times when work is scarce."

"I'm curious as to why you don't secure more reliable employment," Brivari said.

"You mean like a 'real' job?" Audrey said. "Like a waitress, or a department store clerk, or something like that? I could. Sometimes I do, when I have to eat. But.....I don't know. They're boring. Dependable, but boring. I don't like boring." She paused, eyeing him. "You know what I mean. You don't like boring either."

"I would imagine few people prefer to be bored," Brivari answered, privately noting that, whatever his life had been, it had never been boring.

"So what do you do when you're not on a movie set, Langley? Mr. Anderson thinks you're some sort of security guard."

"Mr. Anderson thinks a great many things," Brivari replied, "and I am happy to leave him to his musings."

"Maybe a royal security guard?" Audrey suggested. "You did mention a palace."

"And what makes you think I was serious?"

Audrey broke into a laugh. "Are you ever anything else? I can't imagine you any other way. Do you even know how to smile?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "It's late, and your co-workers are waiting for you outside. You should retire so you have enough rest for tomorrow."

"Well, at least I got you to smile a little bit," Audrey said playfully. "That's something." She reached out a hand, ran a finger over his shoulder. "Sure I can't stay awhile and.....keep you company?"

"No, thank you," Brivari replied.

"Oh," Audrey said, clearly--and strangely--disappointed. He followed her out to the front hallway, where she turned suddenly and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"That's for letting me win," she whispered.

And then she was gone, moving with surprising ease in those impossible shoes. Brivari watched through the hallway window as she walked down the street with several of their colleagues who had tagged along to personally lay eyes on where he was staying, trying to decide if he should spend the night here. He hadn't planned on actually using the place, but what if someone returned, looking for him?

*How touching.*

Jaddo was standing in the apartment doorway wearing a deeply skeptical look. *What are you doing here?* Brivari asked.

*I thought you might be interested in an update from the base, but I gather you're busy caressing human females,* Jaddo replied.

*She caressed me,* Brivari corrected.

*And you did not object,* Jaddo countered. *Do you plan to play house like Malik does? Perhaps he'll teach you how to cook? At least he asked if I'd seen any signs of pursuit. You don't even care.*

*Is there something you wanted to tell me?* Brivari asked irritably, brushing past Jaddo into his room.

*If you can pull yourself away from various distractions, you might be interested to know that the Army still does not show any worrisome signs of interest.*

*Good,* Brivari said. *That means your impulsive behavior has not harmed us—yet.*

*And what about what you're doing?* Jaddo demanded. *I know you acquired this dwelling to allay suspicion. Hasn't it occurred to you that having a host of curious humans surrounding you is a very bad idea?*

*As bad an idea as alerting the military to our presence for no other reason than to satisfy your lust for revenge?* Brivari retorted.

*Are you even the slightest bit interested in what they're doing, or are you too busy with your ridiculous movie?*

*You said we needn't fear pursuit,* Brivari reminded him, *that there was no way for them to track us and no reason to be concerned. Yet you obviously don't believe that because you're spending all your time at the base.*

*While you fritter away your time on worthless human frivolities and so called 'friends' with short lifespans,* Jaddo said acidly.

Brivari advanced on him so quickly that Jaddo backed up. *Do not presume to judge my relationship with Quanah,* he warned. *And what difference does it make how I choose to amuse myself?*

*It makes a difference because any humans with whom you come into regular contact will perceive something different about you,* Jaddo argued. *We can't afford to form close ties with anyone. You know that.*

*I would hardly refer to my relationship with Miss Tate as 'close',* Brivari said testily.

*Perhaps now,* Jaddo said softly. *But how would you choose to characterize you relationship with Quanah?* He paused as Brivari glared at him. *You're doing it again, Brivari,* Jaddo continued. *You're becoming emotionally involved when you shouldn't. You took the fall of our world too personally, and now you're taking the death of your human 'friend' too personally as well. It affected your judgment before, and it's affecting it again. You're endangering our Wards.*

*Our Wards are nothing more than infants when they should be halfway to maturity!* Brivari snapped. *I have plenty of time, too much time to amuse myself before they emerge, assuming I am even alive when they do so.*

*We have already had this conversation,* Jaddo said coldly, *and I see no point in repeating it. But I ask you this—is your boredom more important than your king's safety?*

Brivari's mind clenched as he stopped himself from hurling Jaddo across the room. *Get out,* he breathed. *Get out before I throw you out!*

*Yes, I should leave,* Jaddo agreed. *I don't belong here. Then again, neither do you. With any luck, you might actually realize that.*

Brivari seethed for a good ten minutes after he left before heading back out into the night. A short while later, Malik jerked awake, sitting up abruptly in bed when he saw who had awakened him.

"Brivari?" Malik said worriedly. "Is something wrong?"

"No. But I require your assistance," Brivari announced.

"Okay," Malik said slowly, glancing at the clock, which read ten minutes past midnight. "With what?"

"I need to provision my apartment."

Malik blinked. "You have an apartment?"




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


My dance school has its recital next weekend, so I'll be posting Chapter 32 in two weeks on Sunday, June 15.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Two weeks later


July 21, 1959, 1 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house



"I couldn't eat another bite," the assistant camera man said contentedly, easing back in his chair. "Don't get me wrong, I love the diner, but it's nice to eat something different. Nice idea, Langley."

"Nice spread, too," a gaffer added.

"We have Miss Tate to thank," Brivari replied. "This was all her doing."

"Glad you like it," Audrey beamed.

"What time is it?" the camera man asked.

"Just after one o'clock," the gaffer answered. "Back to work."

"Yep. Think the aliens have recovered yet?"

Chuckles echoed around Brivari's apartment, everyone no doubt recalling the ongoing feud between the actors playing aliens and the costumers, who insisted on masks which made it next to impossible to see where they were going. Brivari's intervention had gotten them air holes which kept them from fainting, but seeing was still an issue. It was a running joke on the set about how the aliens were supposed to be so advanced, yet they kept bumping into things because they couldn't see. This morning had been especially bad, with one actor sent to the hospital after colliding with a utility pole.

"Let's do this again some time," the camera man was saying as he rose from the sofa.

"How about tonight?" Audrey suggested. "If that's all right with Langley," she added hastily.

"Of course," Brivari answered.

"Great!" the camera man enthused. "I hear this is the only place in town where you can whoop it up and not get yelled at for making too much noise."

It helps to soundproof the room, Brivari thought as the small subset of the crew that had been lunching here filed out, all except for Audrey, who lingered behind. Brivari's apartment had become a popular meeting place, located as it was at the center of town. He had been careful to invite different members of the crew each time, knowing from long experience how much one could learn from intimate gatherings where people felt freer to speak their minds. That bit of advice had been lost on Zan, always a bit of a loner who tended to keep to himself and his closest intimates, unlike his gregarious father who was comfortable in virtually any social situation. Zan had seemed to always use up his limited tolerance for socializing on the large, ceremonial affairs which were part and parcel of any monarch's life, leaving little patience for the smaller variety which were every bit as important, if not more so.

"Everyone loves it here," Audrey was saying. "I knew they would."

"Due to you, in large part," Brivari replied. "You did most of the work."

"Well, the food, anyway," Audrey said. "And a few touches here and there. But it was good to start with. Way better than most bachelors I've met."

A compliment for Malik, Brivari thought as he stacked dishes in the tiny kitchen area. As he understood it, Malik had done a passable job of outfitting the apartment, with Audrey declaring that it needed only "a woman's touch" instead of the usual complete overhaul she seemed to think men's living quarters required. Brivari had indulged her, allowing her to amuse herself as she saw fit, including the introduction of these gatherings which served to further reduce curiosity about him and furnish him with valuable insights as to how the world of movie-making worked.....and all of which served as a distraction from that which he would rather not think about. Quanah was far from his thoughts these days, coming to the fore now and then only to be pushed firmly back, hidden behind the daily demands of filming. Others complained about the onerous schedule; Brivari found it liberating.

"Leave these," Brivari said as they finished retrieving the dishes. "You are expected in make-up shortly, are you not?"

"Before we go, I have something for you," Audrey said brightly.

"What else could this apartment possibly need?"

"It's not for the apartment; it's a.....a present," Audrey said, sounding suddenly awkward. "For you. Here," she urged, handing him a box. "Open it."

Brivari removed the lid of the box to find a round of cloth with a wide brim on one side. "What's this?"

"It's a cap, silly," Audrey said a bit defensively. "The bald look is just so.....severe. This softens it up a bit." She plucked the "cap" from the box as she spoke and centered it on his head. "Take a look," she ordered, pulling a mirror out of her purse. "See? Now you look....jaunty!"

And definitely more human, Brivari thought, gazing at his image. The lack of hair which was normal for Antarians always seemed to bother humans. "Don't you like it?" Audrey asked worriedly when he didn't say anything.

"Do you feel this improves my appearance?" Brivari asked.

"Oh, yes, absolutely! A lot of guys on the set wear caps, so this will help you blend in."

Brivari smiled faintly; Audrey knew he needed to "blend in", although she didn't know why. "If you feel this is an improvement, then of course I will wear it. Thank you."

Audrey broke into a smile. "You're welcome. It was the least I could do after everything you've done for me." She paused, reaching out to take his hand. "I want you to know that I've really enjoyed these last couple of weeks."

"As have I," Brivari answered. "I'm sure we will both enjoy the rest of your time here in Roswell."

"I hope so," Audrey said, her smile fading. "My co-star gets in tonight."

"Why so late?" Brivari asked.

"That's just the way the script was written," Audrey said. "His character doesn't show up to rescue me until after I've been abducted, so we spent the first couple of weeks doing scenes that didn't include him. My point is that I'll be expected to spend time with him when he gets here, so I won't have as much time to spend with you."

"Of course you'll spend time with him," Brivari said. "Won't we all?"

"Well....he gets kind of jealous," Audrey said, sounding distinctly unhappy. "I've worked with him before, and.....he doesn't like it when I spend time with other men."

"Are you married?" Brivari asked.

"No!" Audrey exclaimed. "God, no. Nothing like that."

"Betrothed?"

" 'Betrothed'?" Audrey laughed. "Good Lord, who uses that word any more? No, we're not engaged. He's just.......never mind. It's no big deal. I just won't be able to be with you as much as I have been, and.....I don't like that."

"Why would you alter your behavior if you don't want to?"

Audrey's expression turned wistful. "For the same reason I always do—to survive in a tough world. Look, I shouldn't have brought it up. Forget about it. I have a whole afternoon and evening to be chased by aliens, and then we'll all get together tonight, and then...." She paused, dropping her eyes. "And then I'd really love it if you'd let me.....spend the night."

Brivari shrugged slightly. "Very well, then."

Audrey's eyes widened. "Really?" She watched him closely for a moment as though trying to decide if he was joking, ultimately deciding he wasn't. "You won't be sorry," she promised with that wide smile that seemed to split her face in two. "I'll make it a night to remember!"

Brivari followed her out the door, puzzling. This was only the latest of many requests to "spend the night", and he still didn't know what was meant by that. Judging from her demeanor, she had something other than merely spending the hours between dusk and dawn here. He kept forgetting to ask Malik. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to remember.




******************************************************




Parker's Diner




"Are you sure you don't want me to stay later?" Courtney asked. "It's no trouble, really."

"Goodness, no," Nancy said firmly. "You've been here since 6:30 this morning; we'll manage."

"But it's so busy," Courtney protested, "and Maggie can't make it today, and—"

"And you'll fall over if you stay here any longer," Nancy interrupted. "Or at least I would," she added with a chuckle. "You seem to handle this chaos better than the rest of us. But don't worry, we'll call in someone else. You go home when your shift's over."

Chaos is nothing, Courtney thought as she loaded up a tray with the last few lunches and set off to deliver them. As busy as the diner had been these past weeks, all the crowds in the world paled beside the notion of living among Covari. Of all the things she'd had to accustom herself to this past month—navigating human society all by herself, lying about Mark's death, pursuit from the sheriff—that had been the hardest to get used to. Who would have dreamed that she'd find herself in the position of not only having to serve a Royal Warder food, but actually living in the same building with one? Granted, Langley was largely invisible, coming and going at times unknown to her, which suited her just fine. But he was very much in evidence at the diner with all of his movie friends at least once a day, often twice. She'd had to get used to his presence fast, not because of him—Langley largely ignored her, although he was unfailingly cordial—but because of his constant companion, Audrey Tate. Miss Tate, it turned out, was far sharper than most seemed to give her credit for. Langley may have dismissed Courtney's unease in his presence, but Miss Tate never failed to not only notice it, but comment on it as well, making it necessary for Courtney to make certain she had nothing on which to comment.

After a full week of bracing herself every time she approached their table, Courtney had ultimately decided that Miss Tate had done her a favor, albeit unintentionally; her scrutiny had forced Courtney to calm down, and in the process, she found herself watching Langley with interest. Most on Antar never got close to Royal Warders except their Wards and their victims, so this was an unprecedented opportunity to watch one in action, to observe without being observed. And those observations had led her to one conclusion—Langley was none other than Brivari, the king's warder himself. Jaddo was noted for his bluntness, his lack of social graces, his tendency to strike first and ask questions later. Brivari, on the other hand, had rallied his people behind Zan's father, placing him on the throne and changing Antar drastically in the process. Such a role required leadership skills and a certain level of patience, both of which were clearly in evidence as she watched Langley with those from the movie set and listened to their tales of how he could silence an unruly director with a look or influence the producer with a few words. Those he kept company with looked upon him with awe, aware of his power without understanding its source. Yet it seemed no one had seen the Royal Waders' fearsome abilities; it was the power to sway that had earned Langley the respect of everyone around him, that same power which had founded what was to have been a dynasty and either freed his people or unleashed them upon an unsuspecting populace, depending on one's point of view. Both Riall's elevation to the throne and the enormous success of his reign was due almost entirely to the support of the Covari who backed him, support which had been created, marshaled, and focused by the relatively short, bald-headed man who usually sat in the back booth. He was the architect of Antar every bit as much as the man he had put on the throne.

Or of the Antar that was, she thought sadly as she returned the tray to the kitchen. Her talks with her father had gone better now that her own position had stabilized and Nicholas continued to learn nothing about the Warders' whereabouts. But news from home was not good; the five planets continued to spar with each other, the seeds of distrust sown largely by Khivar back when Zan had fallen having blossomed into war on multiple fronts that would likely never end until one of two things happened: Zan returned, or it was proven that he could never return. They had a long way to go before either of those things would happen, and the havoc which could be, indeed was being wreaked in the meantime was not pleasant to hear about.

"Get out of here," Nancy ordered as Courtney grabbed a coffee pot to take care of her seats at the counter.

"Just let me get any new customers started, and then I'll leave," Courtney said. "That'll give you a few minutes breathing room."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Nancy said gratefully. "But then you leave, you hear?"

"I promise," Courtney said, pushing open the swinging kitchen door and stopping in her tracks when she saw her one new customer. Sheriff Valenti hadn't spotted her yet; she could still sneak back into the kitchen with him none the wiser. She was about to do just that when she recalled Mrs. Proctor's advice on the subject of avoiding Valenti, advice which could be neatly summed up in a single word: Don't. "You can't avoid him forever," Emily had said a couple of weeks ago after waylaying Valenti while Courtney was out shopping. "Get your story straight, then go to him; don't wait for him to come to you. That way you control when and where you talk, not him." Good advice, that, and further proof of where Dee had learned the art of seizing control of a situation before it seized control of her. Perhaps it was time to emulate that.

"Afternoon, sheriff," Courtney said. "Coffee?"

Valenti looked up in surprise. "Afternoon, Miss Harris. Please."

"I heard you were at my apartment looking for me a little while ago," Courtney said. "What did you want?"

"Just to talk," Valenti said with a small shrug.

"Well, here I am," Courtney said. "Let's talk."

Valenti hesitated. "First of all, you're working, and secondly, I was thinking along the lines of somewhere more private."

"I'm off now, and the booth behind you just opened up," Courtney said. "Shall we?"

Courtney replaced the coffee pot on the warmer and marched away without waiting for an answer. Less than a minute after she'd slid into what was now a rarity at Parker's, a vacant booth, Valenti slid in across from her, pushing his coffee cup across the table.

"So this is how it works, sheriff," Courtney said briskly before Valenti had a chance to speak. "I want you to leave me alone, so tell me what you need to know in order to stop bugging me."

"I'm sorry if you think I'm 'bugging you', Miss Harris, but a man did lose his life," Valenti said. "I think having a knife in your back is worse than a little 'bugging', don't you?"

There are far worse things than decompression, Courtney thought privately, recalling the Proctors' horror at Valenti's description of what had happened to Mark's body. As dramatic as the term "exploded" was, that was nothing compared to what had happened to operatives who had donned immature husks which had proceeded to, at best, fall apart, at worst, eat them alive. Watching the victims as they had scrambled to say their goodbyes, recording messages that may or may not ever reach their families back home, had been agonizing. If the time ever came for her to lose her husk, she wanted to go the way Mark had.

"I'll tell you again," Courtney said. "Mark and I met at a bar, and he offered me a place to stay. When I got here, he'd already been killed. That's it."

"So you said," Valenti nodded. "And you don't remember the name of the bar, or even where it was. You've been moving around a lot, haven't you?"

Courtney blinked. What? "Miss Harris, I never had any cause to connect you to Green's death," Valenti continued. "But I did know that you were lying to me about something, and now I know what. That phone conversation you had with your father—"

"My father is none of your business," Courtney interrupted.

"—you're trying to get away from him, aren't you?" Valenti continued, ignoring her. "That's why you've been so secretive, why you've been moving around so much, taking up with people you meet in bars. You don't want your father to find you."

Courtney's eyes widened as Valenti adopted a satisfied look, apparently mistaking her silence for assent. Incredible. The sheriff had just handed her an alibi he was willing to accept.

"So....what if I have?" she said, treading carefully. "Is there some sort of law against having a fight with your father?"

"Of course not," Valenti said calmly. "What I need from you, to answer your specific question, is to know how old you are."

"Nineteen," Courtney said promptly. "Are we done now?"

"Not quite. As long as you're of age, you can't be considered a runaway, but I'll need proof of that, either a birth or baptismal certificate. Did you happen to grab either of those when you left home?"

"Of course," Courtney lied. "Shall I bring it by the station?"

"That would be very helpful."

"And then you'll stop bugging me?"

"And then I'll stop bugging you," Valenti confirmed. "Unless I'm given further reason not to, of course."

"You won't be," Courtney promised. "Nice talking to you, sheriff. Nancy will be your waitress for the rest of your meal."

"Like I have time for a meal," Valenti chuckled. "Tell Nancy not to bother. All I came in for was coffee."

Courtney left the booth, holding herself together until she reached her locker. She knew what a birth certificate was, of course; every Argilian had the necessary documents to pose as human. But her "birth certificate" was safely stored in Copper Summit, and explaining to her father why she needed it was out of the question. Where was she going to get another, one good enough to fool Valenti?

Opening her locker, Courtney extracted her purse and slammed the door closed with a sigh. Time to swallow her pride again, as though she hadn't done that a dozen times already.




******************************************************



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Jimmy, have you had lunch yet?" Andi called from the front.

Jimmy, who had been hoping against hope that his mother wouldn't notice he hadn't had lunch yet, didn't answer. Maybe she'd be too busy to come looking. He only needed a few more minutes.....

"Jimmy?"

Jimmy turned around to find his mother standing behind him, arms crossed, wearing that "and just what exactly do you think you're doing?" expression common to mothers everywhere. "I'll eat in a minute, Mom," he said impatiently. "I'm—"

"You will eat now," Andi said firmly. "As in right now. Go."

Sighing, Jimmy headed for the break room, throwing a longing look back toward Deputy Hanson, who was booking an assault and battery. They didn't get too many of those in Roswell, mostly just petty theft, disturbing the peace, and what Deputy Crist had referred to as the "world's oldest profession", something he still didn't understand, but that involved women wearing high heels and lots of lipstick. As luck would have it, there had been a huge fight this morning near where the movie was filming between those who'd come to watch and members of some kind of alien study group who insisted the movie wasn't accurate. Deputies had been filing fight participants into the station and booking them for battery for the past couple of hours now, and Jimmy had watched, fascinated, as one sullen punch-thrower after another had been plunked in a chair, asked a couple of dozen questions, photographed, fingerprinted, and locked up. They were a motley bunch, ranging from working stiffs to men in suits, the latter of which Jimmy assumed were from the alien study group. Most complained that the so-called "fight" had been little more than a shoving match, and that could very well be; Jimmy knew his father would come down like a ton of bricks on even a shoving match just to make it clear that such behavior would not be tolerated.

Deputy Crist walked by as Jimmy was grabbing his lunch box from the shelf where he kept it. "So she finally caught up with you," he grinned, glancing Andi's way. "But you got a good hour or so out of it; that's pretty good. Want to eat out back?"

"It's too hot," Jimmy said.

"I know a spot out of the sun," Crist said. "Nice shade."

A couple of minutes later, they had settled on the steps of a back door that was shaded by a corner of the building. Jimmy pulled out his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thermos of milk, eyeing Crist as he took out a large, complicated sandwich and nothing at all to drink. Deputy Crist had proven to be very friendly, going out of his way to let Jimmy near the cells now and then even though he knew Andi didn't like it. And Crist hadn't gone near his father's desk again as far as Jimmy could tell, suggesting that those "instincts" his father had referenced weren't as reliable as promised.

"So what happened today with the fight?" Jimmy asked with a mouthful of sandwich, knowing that none of the deputies would object to him talking with his mouth full because they did it all the time.

"Bunch of people got pushy," Crist said. "That group of 'alienologists', as they call themselves, thinks the movie is bunk."

"Sure it is," Jimmy chuckled. "Everyone knows that."

"You'd think," Crist sighed. "But I guess not. Of course, they've got a point. Real aliens probably don't look anything like that."

Jimmy stopped chewing. "You believe in aliens?"

"Sure," Crist said. "Why? Don't you?"

"Well....aliens make people a lot of money around here, but they don't actually believe in them," Jimmy replied.

"Is that so? Your daddy does."

"No he doesn't," Jimmy said quickly.

"Did he tell you that?"

No, Jimmy reflected silently. Aliens were a subject that were simply not discussed in the Valenti household, and Jimmy had always just assumed that was because his father didn't believe in them. "Not exactly," he allowed. "But my dad's always talking about the 'alien calls', people calling in saying they've seen aliens, or aliens took them, stuff like that, and he always sounds really annoyed."

"I don't blame him," Crist said. "There's nutters out there for sure. But that doesn't mean there aren't real aliens, or that your daddy doesn't know that."

"What makes you think he believes in aliens?" Jimmy asked.

"I'm in Roswell on a loan," Crist said. "Usually I work for Chaves County. Back in the late forties, your daddy did the same thing; he worked in Chaves County on loan for three years. And the people he worked with say he definitely believed in aliens."

"Really? Why?"

"He said he saw aliens," Crist shrugged. "And chased aliens, and that aliens chased him. I gather he got teased about it."

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably on the step. Deputy Martian. That's what Tommy Cook had called his father, and he'd supposedly heard that from his father, who had worked with Jimmy's father way back before Jimmy was born. His father never talked about those day, or aliens, for that matter. Was this why?

"I don't know anything about that," Jimmy said, anxious to drop the subject.

"You should ask him," Crist said.

"I should?"

"Absolutely. I hear he was involved in chasing an Army officer back in '50, and that had something to do with aliens. I gather he rescued someone."

"From aliens?" Jimmy said doubtfully.

"Don't know," Crist said, "but it sounds like he was quite the hero."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You should ask him."

Jimmy hesitated. "I don't know. My dad doesn't like to talk about aliens."

"Then don't ask him about aliens. Ask him about the time he was a hero. He shouldn't have a problem talking about that, should he?"

"He's really busy now," Jimmy hedged. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I already did," Crist said, "or everything I heard, anyway. Well....I did hear one more thing," he confided, leaning in closer. "There were two other people involved in that chase; one of them is dead, and the other is missing. So if you want to know more, you'll have to ask your dad. He's the only one left to ask."

"Wow," Jimmy whispered.

"That's what I thought," Crist agreed. "I'd ask him myself, but he barely knows me." He paused. "Tell you what. If you can find out something about what happened, even just a little bit, I'll make certain you get to act as my assistant the next time I'm on picture duty. That's right," he added as Jimmy's eyes popped. "You can set up the camera, and paste the pictures into the record. Heck, I'll even let you put the board together. What'dya say?"

Jimmy nearly dropped his sandwich. Everyone who got arrested had their picture taken holding a small board with interchangeable letters and numbers which spelled out their name and the date. Usually the deputies inset the letters, pulling them one by one out of a leather case; now he would get to do that? "Really?" he said in disbelief. "You'd really let me do that?"

"Sure I would," Crist replied. "You do something for me, I do something for you. Fair's fair."

"Okay!" Jimmy said enthusiastically, his worries about his father's opinion of aliens evaporating. The chance to be the photographer's assistant was more than worth the risk that his father would get testy. Besides, Crist was right—who wouldn't want to talk about being a hero?



*****************************************************



3:30 p.m.




Malik's eyebrows rose when he answered the knock at his door. "This is a surprise," he said dryly.

Courtney's eyes narrowed. "Don't make this any harder than it is already, okay?"

"Okay," Malik said, stepping back. "Come in. Or not, if you'd rather stand in the hallway and stare," he added when Courtney didn't budge. "I've got work to do."

Courtney waited until he'd walked away before stepping gingerly inside. This rooming house was only four streets over from her own, and the room much the same—a single, large room with a tiny kitchen area along one wall, a closet, and a shared floor bathroom. The only real differences were the fact that this room was neat as a pin, in sharp contrast to her own, and the large workbench which dominated one whole side of the room and which was strewn with various examples of Earth technology, some of which she recognized and some of which she didn't. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the device Malik was currently repairing.

"An electric frying pan," he answered. "Just plug it in. No need to fuss with gas burners."

Courtney flushed, recalling how she'd been unable to operate the stove in her apartment until Malik had shown her how. "So....business is good, I take it?"

"They have lots of stuff that breaks, and it's easy for me to repair it, so yes, business is good," Malik replied. "But I doubt you dragged yourself here just to ask me how business is."

His tone was casual, but there was that edge to it, that niggling challenge which always reminded her that, despite the fact he understood her opinion of him, he still felt she was wrong. She almost preferred Dee's blunt announcements to these unspoken undertones. "Langley is Brivari, isn't he?" she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"The way he holds court in that back booth," Courtney answered, taking a few steps further in, but still remaining close to the door. "The way everyone fawns over him and thinks he's magic with difficult people. The way that actress slobbers all over him and hangs on his arm like she's in love with him. I can't imagine Jaddo putting up with that."

Malik smiled faintly. "Neither can I. But I also can't imagine you coming here just to confirm who Langley is. You could have asked Dee about that."

Courtney hesitated, her next words painful even before she spoke them. "I need your help."

"With what?"

"I talked to Sheriff Valenti today," Courtney said, relieved that Malik hadn't decided to taunt her. "He overheard enough of a conversation with my father to think that I'm having a fight with him. Which is good, as it turns out, because he's decided that's what I'm lying about, that I'm trying to get away from my father, and I don't want him to know."

"I hope you didn't correct him," Malik said.

"Of course not," Courtney said irritably. "Problem is, he wants proof that I'm 'of age' before he'll leave me alone, and that means producing a birth certificate. Mine is back in Copper Summit, so getting a hold of it, never mind explaining why I need it, would be difficult."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Malik said, setting down his screwdriver and flipping the frying pan right side up. "I can make you another. We'll just have to pick a birthplace for you and make certain a copy is on file with the county clerk of whatever county we pick because Valenti's the type who will check."

"How do we do that?" Courtney asked uncertainly.

"Easy. I make two copies of the fake birth certificate, break into the county clerk's office, and plant one copy in the files. That way when Valenti calls the clerk's office to check that they have a matching copy, it'll be right there."

Courtney blinked. "That's it? Two pieces of paper, and I'm off the hook?"

"Well, not just any pieces of paper," Malik allowed. "I'll need to make certain the signature matches that of whoever was clerk in that county for whatever birth year you pick, and it'll have to have a raised seal....but other than that, that's pretty much it."

"Two little pieces of paper, and he'll think he knows who I am," Courtney said, shaking her head. "You'd think they'd have something more secure."

"They really don't need anything more secure.....yet," Malik said. "Humans don't currently have the technology to easily copy something like this. Once they develop it, things will change, of course." He wiped his hands on a rag and reached for a pencil. "How old did you tell him you were?"

"Nineteen," Courtney said worriedly. "Is that old enough? I'd heard humans were adults at eighteen, but then someone else said twenty-one."

"Eighteen is enough to make you not a runaway," Malik nodded.

"Incredible," Courtney murmured. "They're considered adults so young."

"They have a much shorter lifespan than we do," Malik noted, "not much more than sixty or seventy years at best. They have to grow up fast."

"I can't imagine living only seventy years," Courtney said. "Sometimes I just don't process how primitive this species really is."

"True," Malik allowed. "But consider this—at the turn of the century, the average human lived to only about thirty-seven. In only sixty years, they've almost doubled their lifespans. That's impressive."

"Maybe," Courtney said doubtfully. If living to only sixty-five was hard to imagine, living to only thirty-seven was even harder; someone of similar age on Antar had only begun to live.

"Of course it depends on which segment of the human race you're looking at," Malik continued. "Brivari's friend who died was in his fifties, which was quite good for his race." He paused, sitting back on his stool. "That's why Brivari is getting so involved with this movie, you know. He just can't accept his friend's death. I've been urging him to make a life for himself while they wait, but I wasn't getting anywhere until his friend died. This wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I guess something's better than nothing."

"Right," Courtney said tonelessly. "Too bad he decided to 'make a life for himself' in my building."

"I thought you said you never saw him there," Malik said.

"I don't. I just hear about him all the time, about the parties he throws and the people who attend them. Mrs. Bruce is so agog that movie people are hanging out in her house, she can barely stand it. She keeps asking them to pose for pictures and shows them to anyone she can corner."

"I think he's just having people over, not 'throwing parties'," Malik corrected. "What's wrong with being sociable?"

"Because it's deceptive," Courtney said before she could stop herself. "Because—" She stopped, her father's admonitions not to upset the Warders' allies ringing in her ears. She had a dozen other "because's", and she couldn't say any of them out loud. God, this was hard.

"Because they don't know that he's someone from another planet pretending to be human," Malik finished for her. "Just like me. Just like....you."

"Do not presume to compare us in any way, shape, or form!" Courtney snapped, her temper getting the better of her. "Those poor people have no idea what they're dealing with!"

"Neither does anyone you serve at the diner," Malik said mildly. "We have that in common, if nothing else."

Courtney opened her mouth, then closed it with a monumental effort. She was not having this conversation again; doing so would accomplish nothing. "Thank you for your assistance with the birth certificate," she said stiffly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."

"My, my," Malik murmured. "Courtesy. That's new."

Courtney stalked out, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her, walking very fast until she was all the way up the block, her emotions in turmoil. Had she actually just done that? Had she really just thanked a Covari like it was a normal person? She had to be polite to Malik when he came to the diner, and her father never ended a conversation without cautioning her to indulge Dee's fantasy that Covari were just like anyone else. But this wasn't the diner, and Dee wasn't here; what could have possessed her to behave that way in private, when she didn't have to pretend that he was more than he really was? Was she starting to fall for the illusion that they were real?

Of course not, she told herself firmly. She was just being instinctively cautious. Malik would of course tell Dee if she were rude to him, so being polite at all times was essential. That's all it was.

That's all it could be.




*****************************************************




July 22, 1959, 1:30 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Finally!" Audrey exclaimed when the last of the crew had headed for their hotels. "I thought they'd never leave! Just give me a few minutes to.....freshen up."

The way that last line was delivered made it clear that Brivari was supposed to know what it meant. She was mistaken, but he didn't give it much thought as Audrey disappeared into the bathroom, humming to herself. His agreeing to let her "spend the night" had put her in a very, very good mood for some reason, a reason which escaped him as he couldn't imagine what could be so exciting about sleeping in a different location. Perhaps her sleeping at his dwelling would confer some kind of additional status upon her? In that case, she should be "spending the night" with people of more prominence, such as the producer or the director, although he couldn't imagine her lasting an entire night with the latter. Whatever was buoying her spirits, her presence presented something of a problem as he had secured only one bed for his dwelling, unnecessary for him, but necessary to maintain the illusion of being human. Perhaps he should offer her the bed. Too bad he hadn't had time to consult Malik on this matter, or he would have been better prepared.

"I'm ready," Audrey said behind him.

"I'm sure you're fatigued," Brivari said, pulling back the bedcovers. "You may use the bed if...."

He stopped, having turned around. Audrey was standing in the bathroom doorway wearing.....nothing. Nothing but a smile, that is. She had removed every single item of clothing, all in a neat pile on the bathroom floor behind her.

"I'm not the least bit 'fatigued'," she assured him, in a low voice he'd never heard her use before. "And I have no intention of sleeping." She walked toward him with a lanky gait which made her sizeable chest protrusions bobble up and down. "I hope you're not tired either," she added, removing the cap she'd given him earlier, running a hand over his head. "I had.....other plans for tonight."

Brivari glanced down as she reached for his belt buckle, then back up to her.

"So I see."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 33 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE



July 22, 1959, 8:00 a.m.

Roswell



"Good morning, Charlene!" Audrey sang, breezing into the make-up trailer and plopping into a chair. "My, but you're looking lovely today! And how are you this fine morning?"

Charlene's eyebrows rose. "Someone had a good night," she said sagely.

"I certainly did," Audrey agreed happily.

Charlene set her magazine down. "Who with?" she asked eagerly.

"Not telling," Audrey smiled.

"Aw, c'mon!" Charlene protested. "You can't come in here all Mary Sunshine and not tell me who with!"

"I can, and I have," Audrey replied, pulling her hair off her face and into a ponytail. "Now, make me beautiful, beautiful!"

Charlene gave a soft snort. "It'll be a cold day somewhere before anyone believes I'm beautiful, or that you need any help getting that way."

It'll also be a cold day somewhere before anyone would believe the answer to your question, Audrey thought, settling back into the chair as Charlene began the process of cleansing, toning, and pancake, followed by layers of eye make-up and lipstick. No one would believe that, not only had she actually pursued a man for the first time in her life, but she was actually attracted to the bald-headed clapper loader who wasn't the least bit attractive, even by generous standards. It was amazing how desirable a man became when he wasn't trying to bed her, and further amazing how she who was usually beating off men with sticks had actually wanted it, plotted it, gone after it like a lioness in heat. Sex had always been a chore and a bore, involving sweaty, thoughtless men who satisfied themselves in seconds and never gave her a second thought. One put up with it, of course, because sex brought you jobs, and money, and favors, and all sorts of things a woman needed in a man's world, but never had she actually enjoyed it. It was always over long before she'd had a chance to enjoy anything, and afterwards the men either brushed her off as a conquest made or acted like they owned her, like she owed them something for the privilege of being graced with their favor.

But not Langley. He hadn't acted a bit different at breakfast this morning, hadn't referenced their night together, hadn't regarded her as his personal pet, hadn't.....well, just hadn't. It had happened, it was over, and that was the end of it....for him, anyway. Now it was her turn to feel like she'd made a conquest, like she'd gone after something and gotten what she wanted with no strings attached. And what a something, she thought, pinpricks of pleasure rushing over her at the memory. Good Lord....she hadn't known there were parts of her body that could feel that way. Now she knew what men felt like when they seized and gasped with a pleasure that looked almost painful. She'd never experienced that until last night, when she'd experienced it so often that she had finally collapsed in exhaustion. And through it all, Langley had never shown so much as a moment's interest in his own pleasure—it was all about her and what she wanted, stopping when she asked him to, resuming when she'd recovered, watching her with a curiosity that seemed almost clinical at times. And talk about staying power; any other man would have shot his load in a minute or two, rolled over, and gone to sleep. She would have bet very good money that Langley would have gone all night if she hadn't given out first.....

"Are you okay?"

Startled, Audrey came back to the present. Charlene had finished with the pancake and was holding a sponge full of rouge, which a glance in the mirror made very clear wasn't needed. Her whole face was flushing, along with her neck, her arms, probably her entire body given that wonderful tingling sensation which seemed to envelop her from head to toe. Is this what men felt like? It was a primal, animalistic feeling, and she could almost forgive their callousness if the cause of it was wanting more of this. Because she wanted more of this, wanted it tonight....no, now....right now.....

"You look sick," Charlene said. "Do you have a fever?"

"I'm fine," Audrey said dismissively. "It's warm in here."

"It's always warm in here, but I've never seen you like this," Charlene answered, readjusting a fan so it blew closer to Audrey. "You certainly don't sound sick. Is this all about your wonderful night, or is it because Charles is due in today?"

A wave of ice washed over Audrey, dousing the burning embers of last night's experience. "I forgot about that," she said dully. "When is he getting in?"

"This afternoon," Charlene said, smiling broadly. "And I don't mind telling you that I can't wait! Imagine little old me getting to do Charles Dean's make-up! That man is just to die for! You must have been so thrilled when they cast him opposite you. I can't imagine what it must be like to actually kiss him!"

"Neither can I," Audrey said dryly. "Charlie doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."

"But he's so handsome!" Charlene exclaimed. "Those eyes, and that hair....." She sighed, leaning against Audrey's chair as though her legs wouldn't hold her. "I just hope I don't make a fool of myself when he's in here. I'm afraid I'll say or do something silly, and then he'll think I'm just some stupid girl."

"He will anyway," Audrey said tonelessly.

"Well, you look better," Charlene said, apparently missing that last remark in her euphoria over the prospect of being near a handsome man. "Not so red any more. Looks like whatever ailed you is gone."

"Yeah," Audrey said sadly. "Looks like."




******************************************************




10:30 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing the sheriff's department can do."

"Then to whom should I address my complaint, madam?"

Directly behind the complaining gentleman, Courtney glanced at her watch. She was here on her break, with Nancy having agreed to cover her tables if she didn't make it back to the diner on time. Which was looking more and more likely as the tweedy man in front of her continued to argue with the lady at the small table just inside the door of the sheriff's station who referred everyone to this or that deputy after a brief conversation. Only this particular conversation was anything but brief, having dragged on for a full five minutes now.

"We have no control over the content of the movie, sir," the woman was saying. "If you don't like the content, may I suggest not buying a ticket? That's usually the way the free market works."

"But what if that content is false?" the man protested. "What if the public is being misled? Do you mean to tell me that the sheriff condones lying to the American public?"

Fidgeting impatiently, Courtney examined her false birth certificate for the hundredth time. Malik had been admirably efficient, having slid this under her door at some point during the night. It certainly looked official, with it's bumpy imprint and scrawled signatures from the "county clerk" of "Grant County", apparently some other part of the state of New Mexico. He'd given her an October birthday, making her nineteen, almost twenty, and she could have sworn he'd done something to the paper so that it didn't look brand new. All of which would have been easy to do back home, but much trickier on Earth with its dirth of technology.

"I'm afraid there's no consensus on just exactly what constitutes 'lying'," the woman was saying. "Since no one knows exactly what happened, no one can know—"

"I know, madam," the man announced. "I know that aliens do not look or act anything like what you see in this movie!"

The woman's eyebrows rose. "So you've actually seen aliens?"

She wasn't shouting, but she may as well have been; a hush fell over the crowded station, and Courtney beat back a fleeting wave of panic as every head swung in her direction. They're looking at him, not me, she reminded herself as the man in question suddenly looked less sure of himself. "Well.....not yet," he allowed. "But you mark my words, we will! We are all working on establishing direct contact, and ridiculous movies like this only further the notion that aliens are stupid, animal-like creatures who are only here to eat us. We mean to set the record straight, and—"

"Then you'll need to set it straight somewhere else," the woman said firmly. "Unless you have a specific legal complaint, we can't help you. Next!"

"Madam," the man said haughtily, "some day, we will establish contact with beings from another planet, and when that day comes, they will look to me and my colleagues and say 'thank you!' for helping to correct this gross distortion of the facts!" He turned abruptly, walking smack into Courtney. "Excuse me, miss."

"Thank you," Courtney said.

He stared at her a moment in confusion, then hurried off, muttering to himself about lies and those who condoned them while chuckles echoed around the station. Poor guy, Courtney thought as she stepped to the head of the line. He had it right, although she had no idea why he felt that way.

"I'm sorry about that," the woman at the table said. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to show the sheriff something," Courtney said, "something he asked me to bring by."

"Sheriff Valenti isn't here right now, but I can leave whatever it is on his desk," the woman answered.

"Oh.....well.....it's a birth certificate, so it's hard to replace," Courtney said. "I'd rather not leave it with his secretary."

"Actually, I'm his wife."

Courtney blinked. "He has a wife?"

"And a son," the woman answered dryly. "I'm Andrea Valenti. And you are.....Courtney Harris," she continued, reading the birth certificate. "Nice to meet you, Miss Harris. If you'd rather, I can have a deputy copy down the information from your birth certificate so you don't have to leave it."

"Yes, thank you," Courtney said, escaping to the indicated bench before she insulted the sheriff's wife again. Honestly, she really had to learn to keep her mouth shut, even if it was hard to believe that Valenti not only had a wife, but a wife that looked like that. Properly painted, Andrea Valenti could give Audrey Tate a run for her money.

"Can I help you, miss?"

It was a deputy, one 'Deputy Crist' according to the name tag. "That was fast," Courtney said, following him to his desk. "There are so many people here, I thought I'd be waiting awhile."

"You're in the 'quick and easy' line," Deputy Crist smiled, indicating the chair beside his desk. "Have a seat. What can I do for you today?"

"The sheriff wanted to see my birth certificate, but he's not here, and I didn't want to leave it, so the lady....Mrs. Valenti....suggested someone copy down the information," Courtney explained.

"Will do," Crist said, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil. "If I can have that for just a moment......"

Courtney handed over the birth certificate and let her gaze wander around the crowded station. Every single deputy had someone sitting in the chair beside their respective desks and was busily writing or typing away while Mrs. Valenti vectored people this way and that, and a young boy that bore a striking resemblance to the sheriff hurried amongst the various desks bearing cups of coffee, paper, and sharpened pencils. Imagine having a writing implement that kept giving out on you and had to be sharpened. It was bad enough to need a writing implement at all, but one that was used up so quickly was doubly inconvenient. Personally she preferred the so-called "mechanical pencils" with the sticks of lead which were advanced little by little, but humans seemed to regard those with suspicion, as though something that convenient must be, by definition, less worthy than something that was more work. They were very much into the value of hard work, these humans......

Courtney's heart skipped a beat. Her sweep of the room had led her back to Deputy Crist, whom she assumed had been copying down the information on her birth certificate. But he wasn't; instead, he was staring at it curiously, almost intently, having not written down a single thing. What's wrong with it? she thought frantically. Had Malik missed something? She'd taken for granted that he knew what he was doing, but he was Covari; trusting him implicitly was hopelessly stupid. Or.....she froze to her chair as another thought occurred to her. Maybe he made it wrong on purpose so I'd be caught. But why go to all the trouble to have humans catch her? Wouldn't it be easier to just tell the Warders and let them take her out?

"Is something wrong?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Courtney Harris," Crist said, tapping his pencil on the desk.

"Yes," Courtney said slowly, sliding ever so slightly toward the edge of her seat, poised for flight. "Why?"

"Harris," Crist repeated, as though that name meant something to him.

"Have we met?" Courtney ventured.

"Sure we have. We just did," Crist said, still staring at the birth certificate.

"Then....have you met another Harris?" Courtney asked, hoping that's all his hesitation meant.

"Why does the sheriff want to see this?" Crist asked, ignoring her question.

Courtney's mouth opened, then closed. The last thing she wanted was to bring up Mark's murder right here, in the bowels of the sheriff's station. "He knows why," she answered. "Can you just record the information, please?"

"Does he think you've broken the law?" Crist persisted.

"No!" Courtney said reflexively. "If he thought that, he would have arrested me."

"Then why does he want it?"

"I don't see as that's any of your business," Courtney replied in a brittle voice.

"I'm a sheriff's deputy. Of course it's my business."

"Then why don't you ask the sheriff why he wants it when he gets back," Courtney said, desperate now to get out of there, certain that something was wrong. "If you're not going to copy it, then give it back, and I'll bring it in later."

Crist sat back in his chair. "No. Not until you tell me why he wants it."

Courtney's hands clasped and unclasped in her lap as she looked around desperately for help. Would anyone here make him give back her birth certificate? Unlikely; everyone else was busy, there was now an even longer line waiting to get in than there had been when she'd arrived, and besides, what possible reason could she give for withholding information that wouldn't look suspicious?

"He thinks.....he thinks I might be a runaway," she blurted out. "I had to prove I was eighteen."

Crist stared at her for so long that she was certain he wasn't buying it.....and then abruptly nodded, grabbed his pencil, and began copying. He was done in less than a minute, during which time Courtney tried to breathe. It was all she could do not to snatch the birth certificate away when Crist held it out to her.

"All set, Miss Harris," he said calmly, as though he hadn't just been holding her paperwork hostage. "I'll make sure the sheriff gets this."

"Thank you," she said weakly, standing up on shaky legs.

"And Miss Harris?" Crist added before she could make her escape. "Be careful you don't do anything that would land you back in here."

Courtney blinked at him a moment, then fled, clutching her birth certificate, completely forgetting to put it in her purse. By the time she arrived back at the diner, it bore a large, sweaty handprint.




*****************************************************



1:30 p.m.

Roswell




*Tell me again why this nonsense holds such fascination for you?*

Brivari slapped the clapper shut and stepped aside as another scene began filming, this time in one of the town's narrow back alleys where the "aliens" had once again cornered the heroine as a group of extras milled to one side, waiting for their cue to intervene. Brivari's advice to fire those extras who failed to report for work coupled with Audrey's suggestion to hire replacements from the watching crowds had worked flawlessly, as those who had previously been hired learned they would lose their jobs if they failed to appear, and the watching crowds swelled with the hopeful. Steinfeld need never worry about not having enough extras again. Of course this strategy also meant a certain number of unexpected faces every day, and Jaddo had taken advantage of this by disguising himself as one of them.

*Are you here for a specific reason, or merely to annoy me?* Brivari asked.

*I continue to puzzle over why you would have the slightest interest in these goings on,* Jaddo said disdainfully as several costumed "aliens" cornered Audrey at the end of the alley. *I'm beginning to think you've taken leave of your senses.*

*Exactly what I thought for the past nine years as you pursued Pierce with a zeal that bordered on obsession,* Brivari remarked. *I would hardly compare this little distraction to that single-minded fixation.*

*So you disagree with our pursuit of Pierce?*

*I didn't say that. I merely see a difference between pursuit and obsession.*

*And I see a difference between distraction and a dangerous preoccupation,* Jaddo retorted. *You've become quite the socialite, with your apartment and your parties. Are you homesick for the palace?*

*I didn't throw parties at the palace—the king did. Or more specifically, the queen. The king wasn't the party type.*

*But you are,* Jaddo observed. *And quite the ladies man, from what I hear.*

*What do you 'hear'?* Brivari asked irritably. *I thought you were camped out at the base, watching for fallout from your irresponsible behavior with Pierce.*

*Your female friend appears somewhat downcast,* Jaddo remarked, ignoring him. *Aren't the two of you getting along?*

We certainly are, Brivari thought, recalling again the puzzling events of last night. "Spend the night", as it turned out, had been a euphemism for mating, one that Brivari meant to investigate as he was not clear as to how the time of day affected the process. He was familiar with the basics, of course, nine years being more than enough to learn that. What he was not familiar with, however, having never actually observed humans mating, was the violence of the act, or the way that pain and pleasure commingled. He'd had no idea that humans possessed specific pressure points that apparently caused pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, or how those in the grip of this "pleasure" seemed to turn back the clock of evolution and behave in almost feral ways. It had been a fascinating encounter, one that underscored how, for all their outward appearance of civility, humans really were much closer to their primitive ancestors than they would like to believe.

That point would not have been lost on Audrey had he been free to argue it, and he sincerely doubted she would have taken offense. On the contrary, she had reveled in their collision, crying out with such force that he was initially concerned he had injured her, only to collapse into a state of blissful exhaustion that belied any earlier concerns about injury or discomfort of any kind. After a few minutes of recovery, often less, she had wanted to repeat the procedure. And so it had gone, one repetition following another as Brivari had watched closely for the dividing line between pain and pleasure. He never located it, the two seeming to exist in a perfect but unintelligible harmony. Eventually she had stopped due to sheer exhaustion and fallen into a sound sleep. It was the strangest experience Brivari had ever had, bar none, and he had lain awake beside her long after she had fallen asleep, pondering how very different their two worlds were. Mating among Antarians, by contrast, was a much tamer affair.

Whatever their differences, the activities of last night had sat well with Audrey, who had been cheerful and rested this morning at breakfast despite having been awake half the night. Lunch time had been a different story; she had seemed sad and withdrawn, and he didn't know why. Was this a normal consequence of human mating? Did humans regret their animal behavior the following day? Was there some post-mating ritual he had failed to observe? Perhaps he should have done more research before engaging in this activity.

*Jaddo,* Brivari said suddenly, ignoring his last question as something occurred to him, *when you were captive and began to taste, did you acquire other senses as well?*

Jaddo stared at him. *Excuse me?*

*Did you acquire other senses besides taste,* Brivari repeated. *Smell, perhaps? Or tactile sensations that were previously blocked?*

*Why on earth would you bring that up now?* Jaddo demanded.

*I have been interested in what you experienced for years,* Brivari countered. *You just won't discuss it.*

*And I don't wish to discuss it,* Jaddo said severely. *Ever. But I do wish to know why you're suddenly so interested in 'tactile sensations'.*

*And I am interested in why you refuse to address this issue. You have had an experience that likely no other Covari has ever had, and it frightens you so much that you prefer to pretend it never happened.*

*May I remind you that I was under the influence of a drug at the time?* Jaddo said angrily. *A drug which I wasn't certain I would ever recover from? Why would I wish to do anything other than forget that? Why do you think I'm so determined to destroy the formula for the serum? Why—*

Jaddo's tirade was cut off by the arrival of a long, black car, which moved slowly toward the set as the crowd parted to make way for it. coming to a halt some ways away. The driver climbed out and opened the back door, through which stepped a young man Brivari had never seen before. The effect of this young man's arrival was immediate....and noisy. Screams erupted from the female element of the crowd, judging by the pitch, and both Steinfeld and the director dropped what they were doing to run to the young man's side. Handshakes were exchanged all around, the man gave a perfunctory wave to the crowds, and then marched onto the set as though he owned it, heading straight for Audrey.

*Who is that?* Jaddo asked.

*I think it must be the movie's male lead. He was expected this afternoon.*

The newcomer had arrived at Audrey's side. "Hey, baby," he said, wearing a wide smile that was more chilling than cheerful. "Miss me?"

*Why is he addressing her as an infant?* Jaddo asked.

*I am not sure,* Brivari murmured.

*Whatever the reason, it appears you have been supplanted by another,* Jaddo said, a faint note of amusement in his voice. *Perhaps now that she's chosen a human male, you'll come to your senses.*

She hasn't 'chosen' anything, Brivari thought as the young man pulled Audrey into a tight, rather possessive embrace while everyone smiled as though a wonderful reunion had taken place. Everyone, that is, but Audrey, whose expression bore more of a resemblance to a trapped animal.




******************************************************




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney's eyes hardened when she saw who was waiting for her outside the front door of her rooming house. "What are you doing here?" she asked flatly.

"Nice to see you too," Malik said dryly. "I just came to see if you got my delivery—"

"Oh, I got it all right," Courtney interrupted as she stomped up the stairs, unlocked her door, and tossed her purse on the bed. "And you did something wrong."

"Wrong?" Malik repeated, as though that were unthinkable. "What, you mean they didn't accept it? Why not?"

"Valenti wasn't there, and I didn't want to leave it, so a deputy copied down the information on it," Courtney said in a rush, having held this inside all day. "He stared at it for the longest time, and then he demanded to know why the sheriff wanted it!"

"What did you say?"

"That he thought I might be a runaway," she answered. "He wouldn't give it back until I told him something, so I told him that."

"That's it? He didn't make any phone calls, or ask you about dates, or anything else?"

"Did you hear me?" Courtney snapped. "He wouldn't give it back until I gave him an answer!"

"I heard you, but I fail to see how this means that I did something wrong," Malik said.

"You must have! Why did he stare at it for so long? Why did he question me?"

"Maybe he was just being nosy," Malik suggested.

"This was a lot more than just nosiness," Courtney insisted. "Something was wrong with the birth certificate because that's what he was looking at when he got all suspicious."

"Look, I know it fits with your world view to blame me, but there's no way he could have found something 'wrong' with that birth certificate without checking with the Grant County clerk," Malik said. "And even then he wouldn't have found anything because there's a certified copy on file with that clerk, I was very careful to use the same type of certificate used in 1939, the year you were supposedly born, and to copy the signature of the county clerk at the time. I even added birth certificates for your 'parents' in case they cross-checked."

"Yes, yes, you're brilliant," Courtney said peevishly. "So brilliant, you almost got me in trouble. Just go."

"They took it, didn't they?" Malik reasoned. "I really don't think—"

"I really don't think I care what you think. Get out."

Malik hesitated for only a moment before complying, and Courtney slammed the door behind him. She'd been fuming all day about the humiliating encounter at the sheriff's station, certain that Malik had overlooked some important detail which had aroused suspicion. Unfortunately, it wasn't clear exactly which detail had tripped the deputy's alarms, so she had no way of knowing what would happen once the sheriff received whatever notes had been taken. This might not be over.

A knock sounded on the door. "I told you to leave!" Courtney exclaimed, throwing the door open to find.....Deputy Crist.

"Where's Mark?" he demanded, pushing his way past her into the room.

"He.....what?" she said stupidly, scanning the upstairs landing for Malik without success. How typical. Covari weren't there when you needed them, and screwed up when they were. Had Crist been a friend of Mark's? But then he must have known he was dead. Did he blame her for Mark's death? Had he been talking to the sheriff?

"He's not here, is he," Crist said tersely. "He's not here because he's dead. Dead, Courtney. A fact which you neglected to report."

Courtney gaped at him in shock as the reason for Crist's earlier suspicion became horribly clear. He's one of us. How much did he know? And more importantly, how much had he reported? "I....I don't know you," she stammered. "How long have you been here?"

"I've been working for the Chaves County sheriff for over a year now, and I was transferred to Roswell to help provide extra security during the filming," Crist answered. "I knew we already had an operative here, but I didn't know who, and I couldn't figure out why they'd send the third's daughter, of all people. So I called in a few favors and found out we have two operatives in Roswell.....or we're supposed to. Why haven't you reported Mark's death?"

"Because....because.....I was afraid they'd recall me," Courtney said, searching frantically for a suitable explanation. "The only reason my father allowed me into the field was because he thought I had a chaperone, and—"

"This isn't about your career!" Crist snapped. "They have Mark's body! Don't you think they've noticed something odd about it? Like the fact that it isn't decaying the way it's supposed to?"

Or the fact that it exploded, Courtney added silently, closing her eyes to block out the sight of both the angry face in front of her and the specter of an exploding husk.

"Where's your communicator?" Crist demanded.

"Haven't you already called it in?" Courtney hedged.

"I only just found out Mark died. And the sheriff's sitting on the investigation; gee, I wonder why?" Crist added sarcastically. "You and I are going to call this in together, and you're going to tell them everything you know about Mark's death before I go back and take care of the sheriff. Now, where's your communicator?"

"I....I don't have one," Courtney lied, stalling for time, knowing full well that "taking care of" Valenti meant that the pretty woman she'd spoken to earlier would be a widow before nightfall. "I was supposed to use Mark's, but then he wasn't here when I got here, and I never found it—"

"Don't lie to me!" Crist exploded, grabbing her by the shoulders. "I know damned well they wouldn't have sent you into the field without a communicator! Where is it?"

Frozen in his grip, Courtney didn't answer, couldn't answer. If he exposed her, it would mean her death and maybe her father's as well, not to mention a severe blow to the resistance. But what good would not telling him do? He must have his own communicator, and she certainly didn't have the means to keep him from using it. I have to run, she thought frantically. She'd be a fugitive, unable to contact her father, unable to—

Bang

Startled, Courtney fell to the floor, throwing up her arms reflexively. When she lowered them a moment later, she saw nothing but Malik standing several feet away as a soft cloud of skin flakes rained down around them.





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




I'll post Chapter 34 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


July 22, 1959, 2:55 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney crouched on the floor as a fog of skin flakes settled softly around her, all that was left of the man she'd just been talking to. Literally all that was left: No flesh, no bone, no blood, no evidence of any kind that a thinking, feeling being had been hidden, protected behind a barrier now reduced to skin-colored snow. This is what happens to us, she thought in horror, just as an equally horrible future presented itself. This is what will happen to me. She had always been certain she wouldn't make it home, and unless they somehow came up with an endless supply of husks or miraculously changed Earth's atmosphere, now she knew exactly how her end would come: In this silent rain of skin flakes. Thank goodness she wouldn't be there to see it, and she wondered idly who would.

"I passed him on the way down the stairs, so I stayed to see what he'd say," Malik said, pulling her out of her stupor. "Good thing you told me where the seal was."

"You killed him!" Courtney said accusingly.

"Of course I killed him," Malik said coldly. "He was about to set in motion events that would have killed you, not to mention the fact that he was going to kill the sheriff and anyone else who knew about Mark. And you're welcome, by the way."

"You expect me to be grateful?" Courtney exclaimed, pushing herself to her feet, shivering as a shower of skin flakes fell off her. "He hadn't turned me in yet! Why did you have to kill him?"

"What else would you have done?" Malik demanded. "Held him hostage? Where? For how long? Don't you think he would have been missed? And what would have happened when he escaped and hightailed it back to Nicholas?"

"Courtney, are you all right?" Dee's voice called from the door. "We heard a noise."

When no one answered, the door opened to reveal Dee wearing her waitress uniform with her mother close behind, both of whom gaped at the mess all over the apartment. "What happened here?" Emily whispered.

"It turns out Courtney wasn't the only Argilian in Roswell," Malik said darkly, "and the one who just found her was about to blow her in. Anyone else you'd like to tell us about?"

"I didn't know!" Courtney insisted. "And he didn't know I was here either, not until he checked. We can't recognize our people just by looking at them, not unless we already know them, or have a description, or something. Very few of us know everyone, and even fewer know where everyone's assigned."

"What's going on up there?" Mrs. Bruce's voice floated from the downstairs hallway. "I heard a noise. Is everything all right?"

"A piece of furniture fell over," Emily called down, going out to the landing and leaning over the banister. "I'm sorry to bother you." She reappeared a moment later. "We have to clean this up. Daddy gave you our old vacuum, right?"

"It's in the closet," Dee answered, still wide eyed.

"You're going to vacuum him?" Courtney said in disbelief. "He was a person, not a pile of dirt!"

"There's no way to explain this, so it has to be removed," Emily said firmly. "I'll give you the bag afterwards," she added, her voice softening when she saw the look on Courtney's face, "so you can....disposition it as you like."

Emily left, and Courtney whirled on Malik. "There wouldn't be anything to 'clean up' if you hadn't killed him!" she said angrily. "How typical of a Covari—just remove anything that's in your way!"

"Malik just saved your life!" Dee retorted. "Doesn't that count for something? Would you rather have one of your own people kill you than be saved by a Covari? I guess prejudice makes you stupid."

"Leave her alone," Malik said as Courtney recoiled in shock. "Yes, I know you're right, but the reality of having your own people willing to kill you is never pleasant. Even if you knew that's the way it was, having it confirmed is another matter entirely. Believe me, I know."

Dee glared at Courtney for a moment before apparently deciding not to press the subject. "So tell me," she said tersely. "If you didn't know this guy, how did he know you?"

"My father is Nicholas' third, and I'm his daughter," Courtney reminded her. "He recognized my name."

"Sounds like you need a new name," Dee commented.

"Too late," Malik said. "She's already submitted the birth certificate with 'Courtney Harris' on it. We can only hope no one else recognizes it."

"Would they really keep their own people in the dark like that?" Dee asked. "Wouldn't they want everyone working together?"

"Not necessarily," Malik answered. "Having operatives aware of each other increases the risk that one or both will be exposed, not to mention that people who don't know each other can't band together against Nicholas. And the deputy did say that he had to call in favors to find out exactly who was here, so it's clear he wasn't supposed to know that."

"Wait—'deputy'?" Dee exclaimed in astonishment. "One of Valenti's deputies was an alien?"

"He wasn't Valenti's deputy until just recently," Courtney said. "He said he'd been working for Chaves County, and he'd been transferred here because of the movie."

"Chaves County is Sheriff Wilcox," Dee whispered. "He had an alien working for him, and he never even knew."

"And he never will," Malik said. "I have to make certain Crist disappears; no one can know what happened." He looked around at the skin laden apartment, the flakes having settled literally everywhere. "Sure you can clean this up?"

"Mama's handy with a vacuum," Dee replied. "That's how we got rid of that hunter, or what was left of it."

"Good," Malik said. "While you do that, I'll make sure 'Deputy Crist' quits his job and hits the road."

"How?" Courtney demanded.

She was instantly sorry she'd said that as Malik's features and clothing changed, melting and reforming into a perfect likeness of Crist. "Don't do that!" Courtney ordered, spinning around so she wouldn't have to look. "Don't ever change in front of me!"

A moment later the door opened and closed. "He's gone," Dee said. "Are you all right?"

Courtney opened her mouth to answer, shaking her head as she did so.....and stiffened as skin flakes settled into her mouth. A moment later she was lurching for the kitchen sink. She was most definitely not okay, and it took a full minute of heaving to rid herself of her lunch, with another minute after that before her empty stomach gave up.




******************************************************



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Audrey sighed heavily and closed her eyes when she heard the door to the make-up trailer open behind her. Beside her Charlene had gone rigid, her eyes widening in that Oh-My-God! look women always got in the presence of desirable men. Get a grip on yourself, honey, she thought sourly. You're smarter than he'll ever be.

"Mr. Dean!" Charlene gasped, dropping the sponge she was using to touch up Audrey's make-up. "What an honor! I'm Charlene," she babbled, extending a shaky hand. "I'm the chief make-up artist for "They Are Among Us" so I'll be doing your...." Her voice trailed off as Charlie accepted the proffered hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. "Ohhhhhhh," Charlene gasped, her unoccupied hand fluttering more than her voice. "Such a gentleman!"

"I'm sure you're an expert at what you do, Miss Charlene, and I hope you can make the most of me," Charlie said gallantly.

"Oh, that won't be difficult!" Charlene gushed, smiling broadly as Audrey rolled her eyes. "Making you look good will be so easy—"

"Would you be so kind as to give Miss Tate and me a moment alone?" Charlie interrupted.

"Of course," Charlene said quickly. "Take all the time you need. Really. All you need."

Audrey frowned as the door closed behind Charlene. "Didn't your mama ever teach you not to interrupt, Charlie?"

"Don't call me 'Charlie'," Charlie ordered. "It's 'Charles' now; you know that. 'Charlie' makes me sound like that round-headed kid with the beagle. 'Charles' is a movie star's name, baby."

"You're no movie star, and I'm no baby," Audrey said tartly. "Now, get lost. Charlene needs to finish."

"She can wait," Charlie said dismissively, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"No, she can't," Audrey said firmly, pushing his hands away. "I'm due on set in only fifteen minutes, and she still has more touching up to do."

Charlie spun her chair around to face him, kneeling in front of her, reaching up to caress her cheek and wearing that smile that made women weak in the knees, had made her weak in the knees when she'd first seen it. "Baby, no one, and I mean no one, could possibly make you more beautiful than you are right now."

What's wrong with me? Audrey thought. Any other woman would kill for a compliment like that from a man like this. He meant it; she knew he did. The problem was, that was all he meant. To Charlie Dean, or "Charles", or whatever in blazes he was calling himself these days in his endless quest for glory, she was nothing but a pretty face and voluptuous body. Both true, of course, but after two weeks of spending time with a man who admired her smarts, this was hard to take.

"I'm afraid the camera isn't as benevolent as you are," she said diplomatically, gently pulling his hand away from her face. "I really do need Charlene back."

But Charlie just grinned at her, leaning into her lap, trapping her in the chair. "What if I don't want her back? What if I want you all to myself?"

What else is new? "This isn't a game, Charlie—

"Charles."

"This isn't a game, Charles," Audrey said, giving up on the name business. "We have a job to do. If we're not on the set when we're supposed to be, we'll look bad."

"We're the stars!" Charlie said breezily. "We can do what we want."

"Maybe you can, but I can't," Audrey said. "If word gets out that I don't show when I'm supposed to, it'll be hard for me to find work, and it's hard enough already."

"I'll get you work," Charlie said confidently.

"Right, when Hollywood realizes what a stellar talent you are?" Audrey said dryly. "I can get jobs on my own merits, thank you."

Charlie frowned. "What's with the fancy language, baby? 'Benevolent'? 'Stellar'? 'Merits'? You haven't been taking correspondence courses or anything, have you? My daddy always said that educating women was a bad idea."

That's because your daddy was an abusive son of a bitch, and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. "It's just English, Charles," Audrey said lightly. "I can translate for you if you like."

"I just don't like my baby sounding all high and mighty," Charlie said disapprovingly.

"For the second time, I'm not a baby," Audrey said, dredging up a smile. "Please don't call me that."

"Why not? You're my baby," Charles said, in a tone that made it clear that she was supposed to be grateful for that.

"I'm nobody's baby," Audrey replied, holding back her temper with difficulty, surprised at how little tolerance she had for this nonsense. "Charlene!" she called. "I need you back here, honey! You need to leave," she added to Charlie.

"What if I don't want to?" Charlie teased.

"I don't care if you want to or not," Audrey said crossly, pushing him away. "Let me go."

But he wouldn't move, just gave her that maddening grin as he remained on his knees in front of the chair, splayed across her lap. "Move, you oaf!" Audrey insisted. "Let me up!"

"Make me!" Charlie laughed.

"I'd be delighted to," said a voice behind him.

Charlie's head whirled around, and Audrey's stomach clutched when she spied Langley in the doorway of the make-up trailer. When had he come in? She hadn't even heard him open the door. "Who's this?" Charlie asked warily.

"This is Langley, our clapper loader," Audrey said. "Langley, this is Charlie—Charles—Dean."

"What's the clapper loader doing in the make-up trailer?" Charlie asked suspiciously.

"Miss Tate asked you to leave," Langley said, ignoring the question. "I would advise you to honor that request."

Silence. Audrey bit her lip as Charlie, who was used to practically everyone kissing the ground he walked on, gaped at Langley in disbelief. He'd probably never been addressed that way by a member of the crew. Ever.

"Charles was just leaving," Audrey confirmed, taking advantage of Charlie's discomfiture to wiggle out of the chair. "I have to finish make-up. Charlene!" she called through the open door. "Come on back, or I'll be late. Go on," she added to the still flabbergasted Charlie. "I'll see you on the set."

He left without protest, but throwing dark glances Langley's way, probably because Langley was staring him down with that look that could freeze boiling water. She was going to hear about this later, she just knew it.

"Wait," Audrey said after Charlie had left, holding up a hand before Langley could say anything. "Look, I know he's an idiot who treats me like a child and can't see past my boobs, but frankly, he's no worse than a lot of other men. And he's considered the up and coming hot property in Hollywood in some circles, so working with him carries at least a small amount of cache. And I need the work. It's so hard to break into this business, so a girl has to take whatever advantage she can, use whatever she's got, and even then she might not make it." She paused, surprised, yet somehow not surprised that Langley hadn't said anything. Anyone else would have butted in by now. "I just have to put up with him until the end of shooting," she continued, "so please don't do anything to make him angry. Just let me handle him. If he gets mad, I could lose my job."

Charlene appeared, all wide-eyed and looking for a Charlie update, hesitating when she saw Langley and Audrey standing in the doorway, then slipping past to the make-up table without saying a word.

"I would of course not do anything to jeopardize your employment," Langley said. "I apologize for the intrusion."

Audrey felt a wave of relief wash over her. No argument, no recriminations, no admonitions that she was wrong. Just a simple statement of support and an apology to boot. "Thank you," she said sincerely, briefly squeezing his hand. "I really appreciate that."

"Well, I'll be damned," Charlene murmured after Langley had left, watching his capped head bob through the crowd back toward the set. "You and the clapper loader!"

Audrey face caught fire. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Charlene's eyebrows were grazing the ceiling. "Sweet Jesus, Audrey. Spare me the denials, and the 'I'd never's', and all the rest of that nonsense; you know perfectly well that we women know these things."

"You're not going to tell, are you?" Audrey asked in alarm.

"Heck, no!" Charlene laughed. "Cross my heart and hope to die. Women don't tell on each other. We've gotta stick together in a man's world. It's just.....well....honey, why would you want that when you could have Charles Dean?"

Audrey just smiled and shook her head as she settled back into her chair. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."




******************************************************




Roswell Sheriff's Station




Jimmy Valenti hesitated in front of his father's office door, his paper lunch bag bunched in his hands. He'd managed to postpone lunch by telling his mother that he was waiting for his father, who was due back at the station mid-afternoon. His mother had loved the idea and had scurried him off toward the office as soon as his father got in, which meant that now he had no excuses. First thing this morning, Deputy Crist had wanted to know if he'd asked about the aliens. Jimmy's father had gotten home too late last night to talk to, probably a good thing as he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to raise the subject. But Crist's insistence, coupled with a reminder of the promised reward had spurred him onward, and now here he was. If he could just stop his knees from knocking, everything would be peachy.

"Who is it?" his father called when Jimmy knocked on the door.

"Jimmy. I thought.....I wanted to eat lunch together."

"Hey, kiddo!" his father said, throwing the door open. "Come on in. Here your mother wanted you to work at the station this summer so we could be together more, but we barely see each other. How's it going? Still enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said, pulling up a chair beside his father's desk and taking out his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "I'm real busy."

"You and me both," his father sighed, sinking into his own chair in front of his own lunch, which appeared to be a cup of coffee. "Just when I think it's calmed down, it picks up again. Some heartthrob actor arrived today, so now there's a legion of teenyboppers out there in addition to everyone else. And I had to remind Mr. Steinfeld that he was to give me a week's notice to close down Main Street for filming. How much you want to bet he doesn't?"

Jimmy shrugged, not bothering to ask for definitions of "heartthrob" and "teenybopper". He loved it when his father talked shop, even if he only understood half of it. "Here," he said, pushing half of his sandwich toward his father. "You should eat something."

"Now you sound like your mother. I'm not taking your lunch, Jimmy."

"There's tons of doughnuts and coffee cake back in the break room, and Mom will be mad if you don't eat," Jimmy said matter-of-factly.

"That she will," his father agreed. "But who's going to tell her? You?"

"No. But I'd feel better if you ate something."

"In that case, I'll eat it," his father smiled. They munched in companionable silence for a minute while Jimmy mentally went over his game plan. He'd decided the best approach was a direct one; there was no way to tackle a subject like this obliquely, so it was best to not even try.

"Dad," he said after he'd finished his sandwich, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot," his father said, still chewing.

"I've....heard some things here," Jimmy said, staring at the bread crumbs on his sandwich wrapper. "About you and the 'crash'. People say you were a deputy then, and that you....saw aliens. They even said you helped rescue someone from aliens."

His father stopped chewing immediately. "Who told you that?" he asked sharply.

"Lots of people," Jimmy said vaguely, having anticipated this question.

"Lots of people like who?" his father pressed.

"I don't want them to get into trouble," Jimmy said, having anticipated this as well. "And it sounds like they would if I told you."

His father sighed and sat back in his chair. Jimmy was careful to wait patiently, using the time to nibble a stripe around the middle of his apple. If his father wasn't going to answer, then he wasn't going to answer, and he'd just have to let that wonderful offer to help with the mug shots pass. Then again, this might be a two-step or even multi-step process. His father might refuse to talk about it now, but bring it up later after he'd had a chance to think about it. Which could be problematic, because Deputy Crist didn't seem like the patient sort.

"I didn't see any aliens," his father said after a moment, "and I didn't rescue anyone from aliens."

Jimmy's initial elation that he'd actually gotten an answer in short order evaporated. "But....they said you were a hero! Something about an Army officer and you rescuing someone."

"I suppose I should be grateful they don't have me going up in my rocket ship and rescuing little green men," his father said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "Okay, yes, I was involved in the retrieval of a civilian from the Army base."

"Really?" Jimmy exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Someone from the base got a bit carried away."

"Why?" Jimmy pressed.

"There was a bit of a scuffle about military versus civilian law and where they did or did not overlap, that's all."

"Oh," Jimmy said, disappointed. That didn't even sound interesting, never mind heroic. "But were there aliens, Dad? You were there. Were the aliens real?"

His father hesitated. "An awful lot of people thought they saw aliens back then," he said finally. "I went on hundreds of calls from people who said they'd seen aliens, or talked to aliens, or been kidnapped by aliens. When people are frightened, they can imagine all sorts of things that aren't there."

"So no one really did see aliens? Not one of them?"

A knock sounded on the door. "Sheriff?" Hanson said, poking his head in. "Sorry to bother you, but the Grant County clerk is returning your call on line one."

"Thanks," his father said. "Sorry," he added to Jimmy. "I need to take this."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said disconsolately, gathering up what was left of his lunch and retreating to the main office. He didn't have much to tell Deputy Crist, but hopefully it would be enough. He found Crist at his desk, pounding away at his typewriter.

"I talked to my Dad just like I promised," Jimmy announced.

"Oh?" Crist said, sounding distracted.

"Aren't you going to ask me what he said?"

"I'm a little busy right now," Crist answered.

"But....you wanted to know," Jimmy said. "You wanted to know if he'd seen aliens, and what happened with that person he rescued."

Crist stopped typing and gave him a level stare. "Oh, I did, did I?"

"Yes," Jimmy insisted. "You even promised I could help with the mug shots if I asked him, and I did. Fair's fair. You keep saying that, right?"

"Then it appears life just got unfair," Crist said. "I won't be able to hold up my end of the bargain."

"But you promised!" Jimmy protested. "I did what I said I'd do, so now it's your turn."

Crist's expression softened. "Look, I should never have asked you to talk to your father about that. I know he doesn't like talking about it, and it's none of my business, so trying to get to him through you wasn't fair, not to him, not to you. I'm sorry."

Jimmy blinked. "It's okay," he said, drawing a blank on the last time an adult had admitted wrongdoing, never mind offered him an apology. "I didn't get in trouble, or anything."

"Good," Crist said, pulling the paper out of the typewriter. "And one more thing: Don't take bribes like that. Someone who tries to bribe you is usually up to no good."

"Even you?" Jimmy challenged as Crist walked away.

Crist paused a moment, turning to face him. "Yup. Even me."




******************************************************




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Bang!" Philip Evans cried with undisguised delight as the towering pile of blocks came tumbling down. "Bang, bang!"

"That's right," Courtney agreed, sitting on the floor amongst the scattered blocks. "Bang!"

"More," Philip announced, beginning the stacking process again. Courtney joined in, finding the process of building and destroying strangely therapeutic as well as being one of Philip's favorite games as they waited for Dee, who was across the hall with her mother cleaning up what was left of Crist. Courtney had helped, grimacing as she'd brushed the skin flakes that seemed to have settled virtually everywhere onto the floor so they could be vacuumed up, until Dee had taken pity on her and offered to finish it herself. Courtney had been doubly grateful for the offer, not only because she needed some space from what had happened, but because this marked the first time since Dee had found out who she was that she'd been willing to leave Philip with her. She wondered if that meant she could have her babysitting job back, and that prospect actually saddened her. She had enjoyed her afternoons with Emily. If she couldn't have her real mother, it was nice to at least have Dee's, with the fact that Emily knew who and what she was an added and unexpected bonus.

The sound of a vacuum cleaner starting up drifted faintly across the hall, and a minute later, Dee appeared in the doorway. "Mama!" Philip said proudly, pointing to his half completed tower. "Bang!"

"More 'bangs'," Dee smiled. "How many of those have you built?"

"Lots," Philip answered solemnly.

"About ten," Courtney answered. "That's a good record for only twenty minutes." She paused, her eyes on the blocks. "Thank you for doing that for me."

"No problem," Dee answered, closing the door behind her. "Mama should be done soon." She sat down next to her son and began adding blocks to the pile. "I'm sorry I called you stupid, but you do realize that Malik saved your life, don't you?"

"Not just mine," Courtney said quietly, having had a good deal of time to think this over. "Had he reported that I kept Mark's death to myself, my father might have been executed as well, or at least seriously demoted, both of which would have been a huge blow for the resistance."

"Then why were you mad at Malik?"

"Because I hadn't gotten that far," Courtney sighed. "Because I'd never seen one of us die like that. Because I know whoever 'Deputy Crist' was probably has family here, and now they'll never know what happened to him."

"That's too bad, but 'Deputy Crist' was going to turn you in, from what I understand," Dee said. "Trying to kill you outweighs family in my book."

"It wasn't just me," Courtney said. "He was also going to kill the sheriff."

Dee paled visibly. "Good Lord," she muttered. "I know Valenti can be a pain, but he doesn't deserve to be murdered for it."

"I know. And I'm glad he was stopped. I just wish there'd been some other way to stop him, something that didn't involve death and Covari."

"Why is it such a big deal that Malik stopped him?" Dee asked. "Would you have felt any better if I'd been the one who killed him?"

"Yes," Courtney said firmly. "Definitely."

"But why?" Dee asked incredulously. "What difference does it make who does it?"

"All the difference in the world," Courtney argued, wondering how to explain this without making Dee angry. "Look, in your world you've got your demons, the things you use to scare children into behaving. Where you live I guess it's called the 'bogeyman'; I understand that in Ireland, they tell their kids to behave or 'Cromwell's men' will get them. On Antar, it's Covari that fill that role. And you can see why," she continued as Dee's eyes widened. "I had no idea Malik was in my room. Even now, I don't know how he got in; I only saw Crist. Hell, Crist could've been Malik for all I knew. Covari are sneaky—sneaky, and underhanded, and deceptive, and any other synonym you can think of. You can't trust anything about them."

"But....Malik doesn't usually invite himself into people's apartments," Dee pointed out. "And I would think today wouldn't count because it was an emergency. You didn't really expect him to knock politely, did you?"

"Of course not," Courtney admitted. "It's just that, seeing Crist....decompress....knowing that could happen to me, or to my father...." She paused, that awful noise and cloud of skin flakes fresh in her memory. "Let's just say it's very hard to think of that dispassionately, no matter how necessary it may have been."

Dee was quiet for minute, shoring up the base of Philip's tower so he could build higher, although it was almost too high for him now. "What's it like?" she asked finally. "Wearing a husk, I mean. What's it feel like?"

"Well....for starters, you're too tall, so it's hard to get your balance," Courtney answered. "And your eyes are too small, but that can be a blessing because humans don't have a second eyelid, so your eyes are either uncovered or they're not, meaning your really bright sun seems even brighter. And your hands are too small, so you feel like you're picking everything up with just the tips of your fingers, and you keep dropping things."

"Weird," Dee murmured, picking up another block with her fingertips.

"But the hardest thing to get used to is the air exchange," Courtney continued. "Your atmosphere has to be altered, so every time we breathe, it takes a second or two to go through the filters before it actually reaches you. After a while, you don't notice the delay, but at first, it can feel like...." She paused, recalling her panic when she'd first donned her husk despite the warnings she'd been given. "It can feel like you're suffocating," she finished. "That, plus the way it latches on to you at first can be very frightening."

" 'Latches on'?"

"A husk is a life form in its own right," Courtney explained. "You have to feed it, just like any other life form. That's why we have to make sure we eat regularly, and eat more than a human our size would. No matter how much I eat, it would be practically impossible for me to gain weight."

"Lucky you," Dee chuckled.

"Not really. My husk's relationship to me is parasitic. If I don't eat enough, it will start to eat me."

Dee blinked. "Okay, I'll stop complaining about my baby weight. So.....why would you go through all this? Is finding the Warders really that important?"

"Absolutely," Courtney said soberly. "Antar could have remained peaceful and stable. We were so close to moving beyond our violent past....and then it all fell apart, and it's only gotten worse since then. We need the royal family to bring it back to the way it was. And in order to find them, we need to be here, and in order to survive here, we need these husks. Without them, we'd......"

"Bang!" Philip exclaimed, sending his latest towering pile crashing to the floor.

"Exactly," Courtney whispered.

The apartment door opened and Emily appeared, pushing a vacuum cleaner in one hand and holding a paper bag in another. "It's all in here," she said, handing the bag to Courtney. "Sorry I didn't have a better container."

"I have no idea what to do with this," Courtney admitted, accepting the bag gingerly.

"Do your people have any funeral rites?" Emily asked.

"Of course we do," Courtney answered. "And they all involve a body."

Emily glanced at Dee. "We know of a rite that doesn't involve a body," she said softly.

"That would be perfect," Dee nodded.

"What would be perfect?" Courtney asked.

Dee gave her a level stare. "I can show you after my shift, if you're willing to use.....someone else's traditions."

"I suppose a human rite is better than none at all," Courtney said. "What is it?"

Dee took the bag from her, folding the top over carefully so none of the flakes could escape. "I'll tell you afterwards," she said matter-of-factly, "when you might be more willing to listen."





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I'll post Chapter 35 next Sunday.