Comes The Inquisitor, Shapeshifters, TEEN, Complete-9/23

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY



July 20, 1947, 1130 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




Yvonne White entered the bathroom attached to the room where the alien was being held and set the surgical scrubs down on the counter. Behind her, the alien slouched on top of the toilet, still wearing the hospital gown, still very weak from his showdown with General Ramey. That display of strength had cost him dearly; angry red welts on his arms testified to the force necessary to break his restraints, and he was shaking slightly from what was probably exhaustion. Still, from his perspective he'd gained considerable ground: He was no longer restrained, and he'd won an audience with the General, not to mention some vindication based on Stephen's admissions. And if he'd lost....well, sedation—or even death—might look more attractive right now than endless captivity.

"You took an awful risk out there," Yvonne said quietly, reaching for a towel.

<Spare me the lecture,> the alien replied in a drained voice. <I am certain my companion will be more than happy to take up that duty when he returns.>

Yes, he will, Yvonne thought, smiling slightly. "I wasn't going to lecture you," she said. "You took an awful risk, but you gained a great deal. You gambled and won. Hard to argue with that."

He glanced up at her suspiciously, as though he didn't really believe she meant what she said. "You need to clean up," she continued, dropping the subject, "and I've brought you what I hope will be more comfortable clothes. Do you know how to work a shower?"

<'Shower'? Do you mean a rainstorm?>

Yvonne reached into the shower and turned on the water. "No, I mean this. There are two taps, one for hot water, one for cold. You mix them to the temperature you want. Or I will, if you like."

The alien stared at the spray raining on the shower walls. <You want me to….bathe?>

Yvonne turned the water off. "Don't your people bathe?"

<Prior to my abilities being suppressed, there was no need.>

"Well now there is," Yvonne said firmly. "The soap is in the dish up there on the wall, and here's a towel. For drying yourself off," she added, when the alien looked quizzically at the proffered towel. She studied him a moment, taking in the shaking legs that hadn't been used in several days. "You have to stand in there," she said, nodding toward the shower. "Do you think you're strong enough to do that, or should I get you a chair to sit on?"

<Of course I’m strong enough,> the alien said irritably. <Leave me.>

Yvonne regarded him skeptically. "Stand up so I can see how steady you are."

<I beg your pardon?>

Burning eyes fastened on her, eyes that only a day or two ago would have made her quail. But Yvonne was getting used to his moods, and she'd dealt with many grumpy, laid up officers who were accustomed to ordering people around; this was familiar ground in more ways than one. "Look," she said, folding her arms in front of herself. "You're weak. I know you don't like that, but that's the way it is. You haven't been on your feet in several days, you’ve only just started eating again, and now you're weaker than ever after all the gymnastics out there. What good is it to go through all that—and win, mind you—only to collapse in the shower, whack your head, and knock yourself out? No chat with the General if that happens. So here's how it works: You're going to stand up, and I am going to decide whether or not you need a seat in there. If you do, I'm going to get you one whether you want it or not. Because having watched you nearly kill both yourself and one of our soldiers trying to get the General to talk to you, I'm going to make certain you are bathed, dressed, and conscious for that talk. And," she added with a sudden flash of inspiration, "if you won't stand up, I'll just assume it's because you're too weak."

That did it. The alien promptly rose to his feet, standing there steady as a rock. How does he do that? Yvonne wondered, eyeing him up and down for any signs of unsteadiness. Remarkably, there were none.

"Okay," she said. "You win. I'll be outside if you need anything. You can just leave your clothes on the floor, and I'll get them later."

The alien promptly let the hospital gown drop to the floor. Yvonne was horrified to feel her face growing hot. Certainly she'd seen him nude before, but never when he was conscious and standing. And now here she was, a seasoned registered nurse who'd seen Lieutenant Generals stark naked without batting an eyelash, acting like a first year nursing student. So much for all her experience.

<Why is your face red?>

Yvonne's face grew even hotter, if that were possible. "Well, it's just that….I…..I mean……" She stopped. She was babbling like an idiot. "I don't know how things are done where you come from, but around here, we wait until we are alone to undress."

<Why? Is there a taboo against nudity in your culture?>

"No. Yes," Yvonne corrected herself, her face virtually on fire. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is."

<That would explain this peculiar garment,> the alien said, glancing at the hospital gown in a heap on the floor.

"Don't your people wear clothes?" Yvonne asked, careful not to follow his gaze. Looking down was a bad idea right now.

<Sometimes.>

Sometimes? "We wear them all the time," she said pointedly.

<All the time? Even when bathing or mating? That seems counterproductive.>

"No, not when bathing or….look, just wash yourself will you?" Yvonne said in exasperation. "The General's waiting for you. And be sure you put those new clothes on before you come out."

The alien climbed into the shower, and Yvonne headed gratefully out the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of her very red face in the mirror on the way out. The last person she'd seen wearing a face that red had been Stephen, right after he'd found the free alien taking her shape. He never had told her why.

"Is it in there?" an angry voice demanded.

Private Walker was standing only a foot from the bathroom door, his fingers twitching at his sides like he just couldn't wait to get his own hands on the alien's neck. "Private!" Yvonne said, hastily closing the door behind her. "How are you feeling?"

A rather unnecessary question. Walker looked furious, the purple bruises on his face where the alien had gripped his chin as a prelude to snapping his neck only adding to the overall impression.

"Let me in there," Walker demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"I said let me in there. I have a score to settle with that…that thing."

"You'll have to settle it later," Yvonne said firmly, remaining in front of the bathroom door and keeping her hand on the knob. "The General is waiting for him."

"Oh he is, is he?" Walker hissed furiously. "Those two murderers are going to have a nice little chat, are they? And I'm not supposed to keep them waiting? Ask me if I give a shit. Go on. Ask me!"

Yvonne felt the doorknob pressing into her back as Walker took a menacing step toward her. Glancing over his shoulder at the two guards inside the room, she found both of them studiously ignoring what was going on. She could call for their help, but there was no guarantee she'd get it. They'd shouldn't have let Walker in here in the first place, so they were unlikely to be sympathetic.

"Private, I know you're upset…."she began soothingly.

"Upset? Upset? That thing tried to kill me, and that asshole of a General would have let it! Now get out of my way!"

"Stop it!" Yvonne commanded. "That's an order!" Walker had stepped even closer, and there was nowhere for her to retreat. Time to pull rank. "You're courting big trouble by speaking of the General that way and ignoring a superior officer. Which would be me, by the way, just in case you missed the fact that I'm a Lieutenant and you're a Private."

"There's a lot of things I haven't missed," Walker said darkly, so close to her now he was practically breathing on her. "I haven't missed the way you defend that piece of shit in there, or the way you call it 'him' even though it's a monster. I haven't missed the way you're protecting it now, even though I was the one it tried to kill…."

"Oh, I see," Yvonne said coldly. "So you were the only one being threatened. There really wasn't a roomful of soldiers pointing guns at him? I just imagined all that?"

Yvonne mentally kicked herself as the expression on Walker's face took a turn for the worse. Why had she said that? She knew better than to get into an argument with someone who wasn't behaving rationally.

"So I take it you don't care that it tried to kill me," Walker said angrily. "No big surprise."

"Of course I care....and he didn't kill you," Yvonne pointed out. "If you go in there now in this frame of mind, he might very well do that. You say I'm protecting him, but I'm also protecting you."

"Nice try," Walker said grimly. "Now move!"

"Private Walker, back off!" came a new voice behind them.

Walker spun around to reveal Lieutenant Spade behind him. Pressed up against the bathroom door, still holding a death grip on the knob, Yvonne slowly exhaled. Thank God.

"Well, if it isn't the other alien lover?" Walker said derisively. "Or perhaps I should say the third alien lover? How many alien lovers are there, anyway? Tell me, what about us? What about the humans here? Does anybody give a crap about us?"

Spade kept his voice neutral. "Private, you've had a difficult day. You're relieved of duty until tomorrow at 0600. From now on you'll be assigned to first floor guard duty only. In light of what's happened, I'll overlook your insubordination—this time. I'll even overlook the fact that you're not authorized to be in this room," he added, with a pointed look at the guards who seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the ceiling.

"Well, isn't that right nice of you, sir," Walker said mockingly. "That just makes me all warm and fuzzy and…"

Spade grabbed Walker by the arm and hauled him so close their noses were touching. "I said this time, Private. Only this time. You do speak English fluently, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Walker replied defiantly, every muscle in his body shouting hatred.

"Good. Then I know we understand each other. Dismissed."

Walker slunk sullenly away, drawing sympathetic glances from the guards who carefully avoided looking at Spade.

"You all right?" Spade asked gently.

"Yeah. But boy, am I glad to see you," Yvonne said sincerely, relaxing her grip on the doorknob. Her fingers hurt. "Is he all right?" she asked, watching Walker's retreating form.

"Oh, he's all right—physically," Spade said. "He's just figured out what you and I already knew—that we're all considered flushable." He nodded toward the bathroom door. "How about him?"

"He's weak," Yvonne said, "but ornery as ever. This 'talk' should be interesting, especially since Ramey now knows that we weren't exactly a bunch of angels either." She paused. "I'm really glad you spoke up, Stephen," she said, dropping her voice lower. "People need to know what really happened...even if they don't want to."

"That makes one of you," Spade sighed. "Cavitt's out there getting his ass kicked by Ramey, and an awful lot of the men feel the same way Walker does. I'm afraid I'm on the shit list now."

"For telling the truth?"

"For siding with the alien."

"You didn't 'side' with the alien," Yvonne argued. "You simply confirmed what he said. And if you hadn't, Walker might be dead now. They do realize that, don't they?"

Spade scratched his head and shot a look back at the guards by the door. "I don't think that matters. Logic isn't exactly anyone's strong suit right now."

"Sir?"

Yvonne grabbed the doorknob again, unsure of what the unfamiliar Private standing behind Stephen wanted. But he merely nodded to her and turned back to Spade. "The General wants to see you now, sir."

"Thank you, Thompson. I'll be right there."

"Uh…sir? I have orders to escort you to the General."

Spade blinked. " 'Escort' me? Why? Does he think I'll get lost, or hide in the broom closet?"

Thompson cast a wary glance over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "I believe the General is afraid Major Cavitt may try to waylay you on the way there," he whispered. "I'm to see no one stops us."

Spade's eyebrows rose. "I see. Well, then….would you wait outside for me? I'll be out in a minute."

"Yes, sir," Thompson said. He started to leave, then stopped. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Spade threw a look at Yvonne that plainly said, "Here it comes. "Go ahead."

"I know this isn't a popular sentiment now, sir, but….I wanted you to know that I have an enormous amount of respect for you for speaking up the way you did."

"Really?" Spade asked, surprised. "Thank you, Thompson. I appreciate that."

"You're welcome, sir," Thompson said sincerely. "I'll be outside."

"See?" Yvonne said softly as Thompson walked away. "I'm not the only one who thinks you did the right thing."

"Wow," Spade deadpanned. "That makes two of you. The numbers are going up."

"Cheer up," Yvonne said innocently. "It's not all bad. Word is that 'shit list' also sports a two-star General and a relatively attractive nurse. You could find yourself in worse company." She smiled at the look on his face. "You'd better go talk to the General, or he'll think Cavitt kidnapped you," she added, reaching out and squeezing his arm. "Good luck, Stephen. Tell Ramey what really happened. He seems like a decent man. Maybe he'll actually listen."

Spade shrugged. "Guess I'm about to find out."

He smiled and gave a little mock salute before leaving the room. Yvonne watched him go, noting the stony expressions on the faces of the guards as he passed. Ironic, she thought sadly. At the moment, she felt safer alone with the alien than she did with the soldiers at the door.



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



"Come in, Lieutenant. Close the door."

Lieutenant Spade entered the conference room in which General Ramey was holding court, sparsely furnished but for a long table and chairs, with Ramey occupying the chair at the far end. Despite all the conflict that had reportedly been raging between him and Cavitt, Ramey looked none the worse for wear. He sat, hands clasped in front of him on the table, his uniform impeccable, his face impassive. He cut an imposing figure, to say the least.

Spade saluted and stood at attention, waiting for and receiving the expected "at ease, solider." He complied, shifting his hands behind his back. He hadn't expected to be offered a seat. Inferiors never were.

"I've been reviewing the various reports of the encounters we've had with these creatures," Ramey began. "It's amazing—they've been here only a short time, that we know of, anyway, and you've already had multiple encounters with them. You, and you alone." He sat back in his chair, studying Spade closely. "They seem to like you, Lieutenant."

Spade was silent, not certain where Ramey was going with this. Besides, whenever one was under interrogation, the less said the better.

Ramey donned his glasses and pulled a stack of folders toward him. "You were among the first four soldiers to encounter the vessel," he said, sifting through the top folder. "You saw two of your fellow soldiers attacked and killed by an alien, the first two to die at their hands. Is this correct?"

"Partially, sir."

"Partially?"

"Before I saw Fifer and McCarthy killed, I saw Fifer advance on the craft over the objections of the rest of us and despite the fact that our orders were to observe and report. I also saw the alien disarm Fifer and McCarthy—without harming them—and I saw Fifer charge the craft, obviously meaning to attack. Isn't that all in there, sir?"

"Yes, yes, it's in here," Ramey answered. "Although I'm not certain what you're getting at. Removal of weapons is a hostile act, Lieutenant. I'm sure you're aware of that."

"I don't think it meant to be hostile, sir. I think it merely meant to disarm us."

"It could have been disarming you as a prelude to its attack," Ramey said sensibly. "Sounds like a good strategy to me. What makes you think otherwise?"

Spade hesitated. Ramey wasn't making this easy for him; he was going to have to go the whole nine yards. "I met the alien who killed Fifer and McCarthy later, sir. I don't believe it intended to kill them when it disarmed them."

"Oh, yes," Ramey replied, reaching for another folder. "The 'surrender' incident." He extracted a pile of papers and leafed through them; apparently his statement had been suppressed, not destroyed. "So you maintain that you spent approximately ten minutes speaking with this…creature?"

"Yes, sir."

"And based on that ten minutes, you feel qualified to assert that it wasn't trying to kill anybody?"

"That was my impression, sir."

"Based on what, Lieutenant?" Ramey asked, removing his glasses and plunking them on the table. "Because it spoke English? Because it argued for its life? Of course it did—it was trapped. These creatures are undeniably intelligent, but that doesn't make them benign."

"That doesn't make them hostile either, sir."

"I'd say killing people is a sign of hostility, wouldn't you?"

"By that definition, we are every bit as hostile as they are, sir."

Spade kept his eyes fixed on a point directly above Ramey's head so he couldn't see the expression on the General's face. But he heard the tapping of his fingers on the table, felt the heavy silence. He'd been hopeful that perhaps the General would listen. Perhaps that hope had been misplaced.

A rustling sound. Spade glanced down to find Ramey sliding two sheets of paper bearing Spade's handwriting down the table. "This is your statement of that encounter. Do you still hold with the account given in this report?"

"I do, sir."

"Don't you even want to look it over?"

"No need, sir. I know it by heart. All of it."

Ramey pulled the sheets of paper back toward him. "So you maintain that creature you found within the alien vessel surrendered to you while you were alone with it, that Private West arrived on the scene approximately ten minutes later and fired upon it in a fit of panic, and that Major Cavitt was not summoned until after all this had taken place?"

"I do, sir."

"You are aware, are you not Lieutenant, that Major Cavitt's version of events significantly differs from your own?"

"Yes, sir, I am aware of that."

"And how do you account for this discrepancy?"

"Easily, sir. Major Cavitt is lying."

Ramey fixed beady eyes on Spade. "Didn't you mean to say that the Major is….'mistaken'?"

"No, sir, I did not," Spade said firmly.

"I see," Ramey said, eyebrows raised. "Tell me, Lieutenant....does it bother you to brand your commanding officer a liar?"

"With all due respect, sir, the questions you should be asking are, does it bother the Major to be a liar, and does it bother you to have a liar under your command."

Ramey's eyebrows rose even higher, if that were possible. He was silent for a long moment before continuing.

"And Private West, who also presumably witnessed at least some of what you did—at least the part about Major Cavitt not arriving on the scene until long after he says he did—why would Private West have signed a statement corroborating the Major's version of events?"

"He was probably threatened by Major Cavitt the same way I was. The Major wasn't thrilled when I wouldn't lie for him, so he locked me up so I could 'think it over'. I would imagine he threatened to do the same to West."

"Yes," Ramey said, "that would be the third incident involving you and aliens." He pulled another folder from the pile. "According to this, you were 'kidnapped' by two aliens who killed the guard outside your room, and the guard outside the room where the two dead aliens were being held. You wound up unconscious with a concussion, and claimed you remembered little of this event. Is that correct?"

No. "Yes, sir."

"Yet only a few days later, after two more soldiers had died at alien hands, you suddenly remembered what it was they were looking for and effected the capture of one of them?"

"Yes, sir," Spade said guardedly. He didn't like the sound of this.

" 'Suddenly remembered'," Ramey repeated, closing the folder and tossing it on the table. "How very convenient."

Damn it! This had Cavitt's fingerprints all over it. Of course he would try to destroy Spade's credibility—what other defense could he have? Suddenly angry, Spade jerked his eyes down to face Ramey's.

"With respect, sir, what are you implying?"

"I'm not 'implying' anything, Lieutenant. I'm saying straight out that it's mighty strange that you suffered such a severe memory loss that just happened to right itself at that very moment."

"Sir, the doctor's report should be in that…."

"I've read the medical report," Ramey interrupted. "Your sudden recovery still looks suspicious. You want me to believe Major Cavitt is lying, yet your own credibility is suspect. Why should I believe you and not the Major?" Ramey leaned forward in his chair. "Give me a reason, Lieutenant."

Spade's throat burned; he could feel himself losing his temper. The bitch of it was that both he and Cavitt were lying, but it would be a cold day somewhere before either of them would admit that. But he was lying in an attempt to right a wrong, whereas Cavitt was trying to create trouble. And it looked like he was going to get away with it. Again.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," Spade said tightly. "Very freely."

Ramey sat back in his chair and regarded Spade with interest. "Granted."

"I used to be proud to wear this uniform," Spade began. "I was proud to be a part of the forces that brought Hitler down, proud to belong to a nation that stood for freedom. We are the United States Army, the finest fighting force in the world, from the strongest democracy in the world. I was proud to be a part of it."

"Did you mean to use the past tense, Lieutenant?" Ramey inquired blandly.

Spade's eyes flashed. "I did, sir. I'm no longer proud to wear this uniform. We're behaving badly. I'd expect this kind of shit from Russia, not us. I accepted that creature's surrender," he continued heatedly, his voice rising. "You know as well as I do that that made me responsible for its safety. West shot it because he panicked, but Cavitt had no such excuse. He lied because he wanted to cause trouble, because the evidence wasn't incriminating enough to suit him. And then to make matters worse, I was asked to lie, threatened if I refused to lie, and now I'm catching shit when I tell the truth! And I will tell the truth, General. Lock me up, court-martial me, I don't care. I don't care what happens to my career, or how many stupid accusations are made against me—I will repeat what really happened out there until I'm blue in the face, if I have to!"

Spade stopped, panting, waiting for the announcement that he was being reprimanded, or discharged…or worse. Curiously, he found himself resisting the notion of discharge. Not so long ago he would have welcomed a way out of this mess, but now…now he wanted to stay. He was one of the few people here who knew the score, not to mention the fact that if he left, Yvonne would truly be alone.

To Spade's complete astonishment, Ramey nodded with satisfaction. "Now that's more like it," he said approvingly. "Have a seat, Lieutenant."

There was a long, stunned pause. "Sir?" Spade asked, flabbergasted.

"I said have a seat. No, not there," Ramey added when Spade's eyes drifted to the nearest chair, at the opposite end of the long table. "Right here. Next to me."

Slowly, Spade walked toward the indicated seat, hesitating when he reached it.

"Go on," Ramey urged. "Sit down." He pushed his chair back and opened a cabinet behind him as Spade slowly took a seat. "Would you like some?" Ramey asked, holding up a bottle of what looked suspiciously like Scotch.

"I'm on duty, sir," Spade said faintly.

"Ah, hell. I won't tell," Ramey replied easily. "No? Suit yourself. Frankly, after everything that's gone on around here, I think we're both entitled to drink the whole bottle." He poured himself a glass and settled himself back in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket as he did so. "Damned things are always too tight," he remarked. "Of course, I used to be a bit smaller."

Spade couldn't have been more surprised if Ramey had stripped naked and danced a jig. "Sir….what just happened?"

"What just happened, Lieutenant, is that I saw what I was looking for," Ramey answered, swigging his Scotch. "Two things I know—first, either you or the Major is lying. You can't both be right. And second, if the same thing had happened to me, if a prisoner whose surrender I had accepted were treated like this and I'd been strong-armed to lie about it, I'd be furious. Absolutely furious. I didn't see that from you....until just now."

"So…now you believe me?" Spade asked tentatively.

"Now I believe you're more likely to be right than the Major. Besides, why would you stick to a story like that unless it were true? It'd only get you in trouble. A willingness to accept trouble in defense of the truth is a mark of the truth. This makes the third time today I've seen you do that."

Spade could scarcely believe his ears. The General believed him? The most he had dared hope for is that Ramey would at least consider the possibility that Spade was right, that he could cast some doubt on Cavitt's version of events. To actually be believed was amazing.. To be believed after popping his cork and swearing at a two-star general was positively astounding.

"Unfortunately, this isn't the only thing Major Cavitt has lied about," Spade began, deciding to press his advantage while he had one to press. "Fifer and McCarthy died when Fifer charged the ship, but Major Cavitt wanted me to sign something saying they'd…."

"….died in a jeep accident," Ramey finished. "I know. And I'm with the Major on that one."

Spade's eyes widened. "Sir?"

Ramey sat forward in his chair, his arms resting on his knees. "Son, I realize the dissembling bothers you, and I don't blame you for not signing that document. As long as you keep quiet about it, that's all right with me. But there are times when telling the whole truth isn't a good idea."

"So telling Fifer's and McCarthy's families the truth about their sons' deaths isn't a 'good idea'?" Spade asked, his temper flaring again.

"No, it isn't," Ramey said firmly. "If we tell them what really happened, word will get out about what's going on here, and the country will panic. Hell, the whole planet will panic. And do you really think telling their families that they died at the hands of aliens will make them feel any better? They just lost their children, Lieutenant. There isn't anything any of us can say or do that will take away, or even mitigate, pain like that. All they need to know is that their boys died doing their duty in the service of this great nation. How they died is beside the point."

"And what about the alien who surrendered?" Spade asked incredulously. "Is the fact that it surrendered 'beside the point'?"

"No," Ramey said quietly. "Of course not." Rising from his chair, he walked to the window, staring outside, glass in hand, as Spade twisted in his chair to face him. "Men like Major Cavitt are the Army's greatest asset....and greatest liability. They're warriors—they like to fight. I know the Major can be a pain in the ass, but in a battle, you'd be glad to have him leading the charge. Or watching your back."

"And when we're not in battle?"

Ramey sighed. "That's the liability part. Warriors don't like peace. They don't know what to do with themselves when there's no one to fight, so they have a nasty tendency to invent enemies."

"Like he did here," Spade said.

"Not entirely," Ramey answered, resuming his seat. "Not even mostly. The Major is absolutely right about one thing: These creatures are dangerous. They've killed several of our men, and I'm afraid the alleged surrender of one of them will never outweigh the bodies we've got piled up down there. Besides, the Major's fib isn't what killed the alien; that was Private West's panic attack."

"Perhaps we wouldn't have all those bodies piled up if we had behaved better, sir," Spade pointed out.

Ramey nodded slowly, examining his glass. "Maybe not. But I see the alien's death as an accident, one that might have been avoided if they hadn't attacked us."

"And what would you have had them do, sir?" Spade asked. " 'Surrender' to us?"

Ramey smiled slightly at the sarcasm in Spade's voice. "Touché, Lieutenant. Suffice it to say that neither side handled themselves well. Not us, not them. That alien down there threatening to break a man's neck certainly doesn't help me view them any differently."

"I'm willing to bet that dishonesty on the part of our officers doesn't make the aliens view us any differently, sir," Spade argued. "What happens to Major Cavitt now?"

"Nothing happens to him, son."

"What?" Spade exclaimed. "He lies and gets away with it? Just like that?"

"No, not 'just like that'. I'm his commanding officer, and I know he probably lied....but I can't prove it. I'm sorry, son," Ramey said firmly when Spade began to erupt further, "but my gut instinct isn't enough to charge an officer with perjury. Besides, do you have any idea how many people are trying to get their mitts on our 'friend' down there? Dozens, probably hundreds. You could do worse than the Major, I assure you."

"Then that's it?" Spade said, stunned. He'd finally gotten someone to believe him, a two-star general, no less, and nothing was going to be done?

"I'll make certain that your testimony accompanies the Major's in the files, along with a statement from me indicating that I consider the matter unresolved. That's the best I can do, and even that isn't much. Most of the people out there would believe the Major's story long before yours, be they high or low on the food chain. I'm afraid we simply don't have enough evidence to contradict him, and we have the aliens to thank for that, I might add. Private West was the only other witness, and he's dead, thanks to them."

No, he isn't, Spade thought. He hadn't intended to raise the matter of the false handprints because he hadn't so much as a shred of evidence to back himself up, but then again, he hadn't a shred of evidence to back himself up about the surrendering alien either. It was his word against Cavitt's. Again.

"No, he isn't," Spade said, swallowing hard. "Sir."

Ramey looked up from the second glass of Scotch he'd just poured. "Isn't what? Dead?"

"Isn't dead thanks to the aliens," Spade clarified. "The aliens didn't kill him."

Ramey stared at Spade for a moment, then rummaged in his stack of folders. He pulled one out, opened it, and shoved it over to Spade, who forced himself to look. It was West. Thankfully his face wasn't visible in the photograph, only his torso with the glaring silver handprint. The false silver handprint.

"Looks like they killed him to me," Ramey commented.

"That handprint is false, sir," Spade said, moving his hands from the table to his lap so the General wouldn't see them shake. "That's only silver paint."

Ramey set his glass down on the table and stared at him in silence for a very long minute as the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"And how exactly did you come by this information?" Ramey asked in a deadly voice that had lost all traces of friendliness.

"When we captured the first alien, I accused it of killing West and Belmont. It denied it. I went to the morgue and located the bodies. The handprints were fake."

"And to whose attention did you bring this information?"

Spade swallowed. "No one's, sir."

" 'No one'?" Ramey echoed. "You're implying that these two men didn't die the way everyone thinks they did, and you told no one?"

"The only person to tell was….Major Cavitt, sir."

Cavitt's name hung in the air, the accusation implicit. Ramey's eyes had turned steely. "I see," he said in a stony voice. "So now you're accusing your commanding officer of being a murderer as well as a liar?"

"I don't know who killed them, or how they died," Spade said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "All I know is that the aliens didn't do it. And someone planted those fake handprints, so someone was trying to make it look like the aliens had killed them. I don't know who."

"Lieutenant," Ramey said slowly, "do you realize the seriousness of what you're saying?"

Spade forced himself to look directly into those hard eyes even though he would have dearly loved to stare at his hands instead. "I do, sir."

"Do you have any proof of this outrageous accusation?"

"Doctor Pierce discovered the false handprints himself," Spade said, "but when he went back to run tests to find out what really killed them, he said the bodies were gone." He paused. "I take it Dr. Pierce didn't mention any of this to you?"

"He did not," Ramey said curtly, "a wise move if there's no way to prove it. And it'll be a cold day somewhere before I see Sheridan Cavitt as a murderer. I know perfectly well he can be a difficult man to serve under, but to suggest he would take the lives of his own men…." Ramey stopped, apparently at a loss for words to describe the preposterousness of the idea. "Jesus Christ Almighty, Lieutenant! I could have you court-martialed for even suggesting such a thing without proof!"

"I haven't filed a formal accusation, sir," Spade protested. "This is just between you and me."

"When the 'you' in that equation happens to be a major general, it automatically becomes a formal accusation," Ramey said severely. "And since you apparently didn't realize you were committing career suicide, I'll give you a chance to retract it."

Spade hesitated, Ramey's eyes boring into his own. Wouldn't it be better to take it all back and get the General back on his side again? He had been so relieved when Ramey had believed him; now it seemed he was back to square one. But then again…what difference did it make?

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

Permission was a long time coming this time. Spade wasn't counting, but he could have sworn a full minute passed before Ramey finally nodded.

"You told me earlier today," Spade began slowly, "that you respect a man who stands by his decisions. I've done that several times today, and I have no intention of stopping now. I know what I saw. Just like I saw that alien shot with its hands in the air, I saw paint on those two bodies. You judged me worth believing before—why wouldn't I be worth believing now?"

Spade waited. Ramey said nothing, just stared at him, waiting for him to finish.

"But in the long run, sir, it doesn't matter whether you believe me, or if you punish me for even raising the subject. Because whoever killed West and Belmont is probably still out there. I'm the only surviving witness to an awful lot of crap, and I'm willing to bet good money I'm at the top of their list. It doesn't matter what you do to me—I'm probably dead already. You can't threaten a dead man, General. Dead men have nothing to lose."

The alien's words hung in the air like a cloud as Spade waited for the axe to fall, for Ramey to announce that he was demoted, or discharged, or under arrest. At this point he really didn't care. He was tired of the truth always being such a liability, tired of always being the one who was caught in the crosshairs. Who knew telling the truth would be so hard?

The silence became more oppressive with each passing moment. Finally Ramey rose to his feet, buttoning his uniform jacket. Perhaps he wanted to be all spiffy when he charged him with insubordination, or perjury, or whatever it was he was going to charge him with.

"Lieutenant," Ramey began slowly, "we never had this conversation. I never heard you accuse one of your CO's of cold-blooded murder, and of course you never refused to retract that accusation. Couldn't have—you never made it in the first place. Is that clear?"

"Clear, sir," Spade whispered.

"Good," Ramey said firmly. "Dismissed."



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



General Roger Ramey walked slowly down the hallway toward the room where the alien prisoner was being held, mentally reminding himself that he was a two-star General, that he had seen combat in countless situations, that he had received so many awards and commendations for meritorious service that were he to wear them all, he would find it difficult to move. Yet none of that seemed to matter now. His entire resume, his lengthy, illustrious career paled before his current task. He would be the first human to speak with a being from another planet. The opportunities had never been so vast, the danger never so great.

Nor had the waters of the moral swamp ever been so murky. It had seemed so easy when he was enroute to the base. His only goal as of this morning was to find reasons to keep the captured alien here, under his command. The chorus of voices demanding access to the prisoner and its technology had risen to an ear-splitting din, and Ramey had been determined to see that his prizes did not fall into another's hands. The reports he had read indicated that these creatures, however technically advanced they may be, were hostile, murderous, an obvious threat to this nation if not the entire planet. He had never questioned the accuracy of this determination, and certainly hadn't anticipated stepping into the pile of crap that was Cavitt's perjury and that angry young Lieutenant's accusations. The line between right and wrong had been clear this morning. Now that line was only barely visible, and what little he could see of it shifted even as he watched.

"Open the door," Ramey ordered the guards outside the prisoner's room.

"How many men will you want in your escort, sir?" one of them asked.

"Zero," Ramey replied.

"Sir?"

For a fleeting moment, Ramey almost had a change of heart. I could die in there, he thought with a sudden, chilling certainty, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. Still, even armed guards were no guarantee....and there was the delicate problem of perception. Ramey wasn't foolish enough to believe he could command by popular vote, but he realized his stock wasn't riding high with his men at the moment. Keeping his word by meeting the alien alone and unguarded would go a long way toward convincing the troops that he had meant what he said about everyone, himself included, being expendable in the service of their country. He could not in good conscience ask less of himself than he had asked of that nearly strangled Private. Going in alone would send a powerful message, whether he wound up leaving this room feet or face first.

"Zero," Ramey repeated. "You do know how to count, don't you soldier?"

"Of course, sir," the soldier replied briskly, holding out a tranquilizer rifle.

"What's this?"

"It's....it's for you, sir," the guard replied uncertainly.

"I'm going in alone and unarmed, Private," Ramey said firmly.

The guard's mouth worked for a moment. "Sir....with all due respect, sir, that's suicide."

"I gave it my word," Ramey reminded him. "I'm a man of my word. What about you, Private? Are you a man of your word?"

"Of course, sir," the guard answered promptly. "When I give my word to a man."

Ramey's eyes hardened as he stepped directly in front of the terrified guard. "Do I take that to mean you think my word shouldn't count if it's not given to a human?"

"Well...I...." the guard sputtered, obviously fearful of putting his other foot in his mouth. "I mean....well, it's like making a promise to your dog, isn't it sir? It doesn't really count."

Ramey glanced at the young faces nearby, all clearly in agreement with their fellow soldier, and shook his head sadly. "Listen to me, son. All of you listen to me. When you give your word, it always counts. When you give your word, you don't just give it to one person—you also give it to yourself. To everyone listening. To anyone in the future who will think less of you when they discover you didn't keep your word. Because any time you don't keep your word to anyone—or anything—you cast doubt on whether you believe in keeping your word at all. Do you really expect me to believe you wouldn't all think less of me if I marched in there with an armed escort?"

"I wouldn't think less of you, sir," one of the guards ventured.

"Then more's the pity," Ramey said soberly. "Because you should. Now open this door."

The guards complied immediately, opening the door and stepping away. Ramey stood in the doorway a moment, taking in the table that had been placed in the prisoner's room and the lone figure which sat at the far end. Above it the observation room window loomed, jammed with onlookers and soldiers poised to notify the guards at the slightest sign of trouble. No one up there would be able to hear what was said, and in some ways, Ramey found that comforting. At least if he made an ass of himself, there would only be one witness.

Majors Cavitt and Pierce were directly in the center of the throng, waiting expectantly. Cavitt appeared a bit flushed, still smarting, no doubt, from the drubbing he'd taken for placing Ramey in a compromising position at the worst possible moment. Pierce watched with his usual detached scientific interest and the confidence of one who had just handed Ramey the one thing he needed most: A proposal so alluring that there was no question but what the prisoner would be left here, at least for the time being. Granted it was preposterous, but still….if it could be done….if there was even a chance that such a thing were possible….the rewards would be enormous. And the Communists would never pose a threat again. No one would.

Dropping his eyes, Ramey studied the figure at the table. The creature sat bolt upright, hands folded on the table in front of it, having been dutifully washed and dressed by the brave nurse who, oddly enough, showed no fear of it. It appeared human in every respect, a relatively young man, roughly mid-thirties, dark hair, dark eyes, unremarkable in any way. Except Ramey knew this appearance was false, had seen the photos of what they really looked like. Staring at it now, he found himself seized with a sudden gratitude that he did not find himself facing a gray creature with a huge head and black eyes, a certain sympathy for the deceased Private West's twitchy trigger finger, and a hefty dose of admiration for Lieutenant Spade, who had kept both his composure and his wits. In some ways, the false human appearance made things easier. In other ways, it made his skin crawl.

Then the door closed behind him with disturbing finality, leaving him alone in a room with the greatest challenge of his career. This would have been so much easier, he thought wearily, if I still thought it was just a monster.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE




July 20, 1947, 1215 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



General Ramey paused for a few seconds after the door to the prisoner's room closed behind him, gathering his wits. It would not do for the crowd of onlookers upstairs gaping through the observation room window to see him looking uncomfortable, or frightened, or even a little bit nervous. And it certainly wouldn't do to appear any of those things before the figure seated at the opposite end of the table. Of all the prisoners he'd interrogated over the years, be they German, Japanese, or Russian, he had never laid eyes on one so intimidating. If it could pull off such a commanding presence wearing a surgeon's scrub suit, he ought to be able to do much better in full uniform.

Assuming he lived, that is. Ramey headed for the empty chair at the near end of the table, pausing directly behind it, waiting. Would the creature attack? Prevailing opinion held that it would; Major Cavitt had gone so far as to predict his demise within seconds of entering the room. But Pierce had felt differently, and so had Ramey. Now the seconds ticked by with the creature making no move toward him, merely sitting there with folded hands and hard eyes, waiting for him to begin, a subtle acknowledgment that Ramey was in charge. Glancing upward toward Major Cavitt's astonished face in the observation room window, Ramey allowed himself a moment of satisfaction; his intuition was not only sound, but apparently applied even to non-humans.

Confident now, Ramey set his folders on the table and briskly took his seat. Even if Cavitt later proved correct and this was to be his swan song, it was still his responsibility to see to it that he did right by both his country and the prisoner. Given what he'd seen and heard, that prisoner deserved a certain benefit of the doubt he would have found unthinkable even just a couple of hours ago.

"Perhaps we should start with introductions," Ramey began, deciding he might do better to adopt a conversational tone. "My name is….."

"General Roger Ramey," the creature announced. "You told me that already."

Ramey's eyebrows rose. Yes, he had given his name earlier, but he certainly hadn't expected it to remember. "And you are….?"

"Someone from another planet."

"I know that," Ramey answered, slightly annoyed. "I was looking for your name. How should I address you?"

"Address me any way you wish," the creature answered impatiently.

"Very well then. When we don't know someone's name, we refer to them as 'John Doe'. That will be your name unless you supply another." Ramey sat back in his chair, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. This one apparently favored candor over courtesies. Fine. If candor was what it wanted, candor is what it would get.

"So—you let the soldier go. I wasn't expecting that. I thought you'd kill him anyway."

"I know you did," the alien answered, disdain dripping from every syllable.

Ramey blinked. Four and a half sentences into their "conversation", and he was already feeling patronized.

"You have surprised me too," the alien observed.

"Because I'm here alone?"

"Because either of us is here at all. I expected to be sedated by now. I expected you to fail in your attempt to control your men."

Ramey's throat tightened. He had held back his soldiers, but only barely. "My men are my problem, not yours," he said shortly.

"Yes," the alien agreed. "They are your problem. And quite a sizeable one, from the looks of things."

"My troops are not the subject of this discussion," Ramey said firmly.

"Correct. This discussion concerns negotiations for my release."

"Release?" Ramey repeated in surprise. "So we release you, and then what?"

"And then I go home," the alien said, in a tone which made it clear that should have been obvious. "I merely want to go home, a desire even humans should find understandable."

"Understandable or not, I don't have the authority to discuss your release," Ramey answered, feeling the alien's sarcasm beginning to get under his skin.

"Then who does?"

"Only the President could do that."

"This…. 'president' is the leader of your race?"

"The leader of our country," Ramey corrected, "one nation among many, and Commander in Chief of our Armed Forces."

"Such as they are," the alien sniffed. "Very well, then. I will meet with this 'president' of yours."

"You don't just ring up and visit the President," Ramey said impatiently. "I'll have to go through channels, and those channels will want to know what you offer in return. At this point, the only thing you seem to be offering is broken necks."

"Unfortunately, that was necessary to get your attention."

"You could have just asked."

"I did," the alien said pointedly. "You refused. Is your short term memory really that poor?"

The alien stared at him as Ramey colored. It had asked to meet with him, and he had turned it down. Everything had been so much simpler then, when he'd thought it a monster.

"Ordinarily in a hostage situation, I would offer an exchange of hostages," the alien continued. "Being that we were not the aggressors, I regret we did not take hostages. We were unaware we would need them."

"You didn't take hostages, you just murdered people," Ramey retorted, all notions of giving it the benefit of the doubt evaporating.

"We were defending ourselves!" the alien snapped angrily. "You attacked us. You approached us with weapons, and when we defended ourselves, you called it murder. You took that which did not belong to you, and when we retrieved it, you called it theft. I am not native to this world, but I believe my dictionary is more accurate than yours."

"I don't care what 'dictionary' you're using," Ramey said testily. "You allowed yourself to be perceived as a threat by entering our territory unannounced and not explaining your purpose here."

The alien snorted softly. "We had no 'purpose' here. Our ship malfunctioned, and in case you hadn't noticed, this is the only habitable planet in this solar system."

"So this is all just a big mistake?"

"Growing bigger by the minute," the alien said bitterly.

"All right, your ship crashed," Ramey allowed. "But why did you hide? You couldn't have been worried about your appearance because you have the ability to change that."

The alien gave him the sort of pitying look usually reserved for children or imbeciles. "Really, General. What do you think would have been our reception had we knocked on your door and introduced ourselves?"

"Oh, but you did 'introduce yourselves'," Ramey said coldly. "Just in a different way." He opened the top folder in front of him and silently arrayed several photographs on the table, all of dead men either emblazoned with silver handprints or burned beyond recognition. "Do you deny responsibility for these deaths?"

The alien leaned forward and examined the photos. After a moment, he removed two. "These did not die at our hands," he announced.

Slowly, Ramey pulled the two photographs the alien had singled out toward him. He knew before looking what names he would see inscribed at the bottoms.

West

Belmont

The handprints were fake, Lieutenant Spade had claimed. And Ramey hadn't believed him for a moment, assuming that he was only trying to seize an opportunity to get back at Major Cavitt any way he could when he thought he had a receptive ear. Good Lord. Was it possible the Lieutenant was telling the truth?

"How can you tell?" Ramey demanded.

"You have eyes, don't you? Compare those imprints to the rest. They are different in many respects."

It was silver paint. Ramey's stomach suddenly clutched with fear. If that Lieutenant was right, the blood in which these men had died was so cold it was practically freezing, and he had a much bigger problem on his hands than a caustic alien.

"Aren't you going to look at the others?" the alien was asking. "I'd like to see them all."

"Others?"

"The other images," the alien explained with exaggerated patience, gesturing toward the next folder in the stack.

Slowly, Ramey emptied the folder. They were photographs of dead aliens, dozens of photographs, many more than the one or two apiece the human dead had deserved. Aliens with huge heads, huge eyes, and long fingers. Aliens with gunshot wounds, one with so many it looked like a target from a firing range. Aliens gutted, their organs lying neatly in rows. And the last photographs were of a live alien, curled in a fetal position, chained to a stretcher, surrounded by armed gunmen.

"Those are my people," the alien said, its eyes boring into him. "What's the matter, General? Why wouldn't you want to see these images? Is there some reason you don't wish to view the whole story?"

Silently, Ramey donned his glasses and inspected the new set of photos. He'd seen them before, of course, the first time he'd rifled through the files, but he'd paid them little mind. And why should he have? They were animals, monsters who deserved what had happened to them….weren't they?

"This," the alien was saying, pointing to the photograph of the bullet studded alien, "was our scientist, arguably the most intelligent of our little group. He was fond of telling jokes; he drove me crazy sometimes. I believe he surrendered to one of your soldiers and was shot for his effort. You'll forgive me then, for dismissing your claims that we should have approached you after our ship crashed. You claim that would have caused events to unfold differently. I disagree."

Ramey said nothing. The alien pointed to another photograph.

"This was the most irritating individual I've had the ill luck to meet," it continued, pointing to the photograph of the other dead alien. "But even I will admit he knew his duty, and performed it to his dying breath. He was shot while attempting to summon the rest of us so we could escape your soldiers. He wasn't attacking anyone."

"And this," the alien said, pointing to the photograph of the live alien, "was our leader, caught retrieving what you took from us. He would not have been here had you not stolen from us. He is likely dead now too. And then, of course, there are the rest," it finished, indicating the literally dozens of autopsy photographs, most of which Ramey had leafed through only briefly lest he lose his breakfast. "This is the way you 'introduced' yourselves. Charming, I'm sure."

The alien leaned back in its chair, waiting. Ramey was acutely aware of the stares of those in the observation room above, the stare facing him across the table, the mental stare of his own ambivalence. He surveyed the photos again, but now the creatures they depicted weren't monsters, but people. People who reportedly joked, and worked, and argued with each other. People he might liked to have met. He made a feeble attempt to mentally argue that this had been self defense, that these actions had been justified. But he could make the same argument regarding the human victims, and by the time he reached the last photo, he remained unconvinced.

"All right," Ramey said finally, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, deeply regretting all that Scotch. "Look, I realize we haven't acted like saints. Neither of our peoples behaved as they should have. Both of us killed, and both feel justified for having done so. I'm not proud of this," he said, indicating the alien photos, "but I'm not willing to just dismiss that either," he went on, pointing to the photos of the dead soldiers. "You can't really expect me to, just like I can't expect you to dismiss the harm done to your own people. Can we agree on that much, at least?"

The alien eyed him for a moment, its expression inscrutable. When it finally spoke, there was no sarcasm in its voice, only a deep skepticism.

"Agreed," it said warily. "And with that admission of guilt on your part, it is time to negotiate my release."

"I've already told you I'm not authorized to do that. And you're not getting anywhere near the President while they consider you a threat. Frankly, on paper, you look like a menace."

"What if my release affords you safety?"

"Safety?"

"Sooner or later, my people will discover where our ship went down, and how do you think they will respond when they learn how we've been treated? Do you think they will be impressed with your diplomacy and hospitality? It would not take us long to lay waste to your planet. Would you consider that a desirable outcome?"

Ramey's eyebrows rose. "A threat?"

"A fact," the alien said firmly. "You should consider the possibility that I may be a bigger threat to you captive than freed."

"Frankly, you could be a threat either way," Ramey answered. "If we let you go to ensure our 'safety', what's to stop you from turning around and coming right back?" He sighed, gathering up the photographs on the table and stuffing them back into their folders, falling silent for a moment, thinking. "I have no way of knowing if you're telling the truth about why you're here, Mr. Doe, but I've heard enough to give me pause. As a show of good faith, I'm going to assume you are in earnest, that your presence here is accidental, and that you mean no harm to the people of Earth. No one else is going to buy that, however, unless you back up that assumption with actions. You'll have to convince everyone you're not a threat."

"And how exactly can I accomplish that while I am incarcerated?"

"You can start by not threatening to break men's necks," Ramey said pointedly. "You can cooperate with us, teach us about your world, answer our questions. You could offer to share some of your technology or your knowledge, show a willingness to work with the people here."

"Work with those people?" the alien asked incredulously, staring at the observation room window where Pierce and Cavitt were still front and center. "You can't be serious!"

"I'll leave orders that you're to be well treated," Ramey continued. "Cooperate with Dr. Pierce and Major Cavitt, give me something to take to the President…and I'll work on getting you a meeting."

"And you really expect those orders will be followed?" the alien asked, shaking its head in disbelief. "For your world's sake, I certainly hope so."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you and yours had best watch your step. For good or ill—and I would say ill, at this point—your world has stumbled onto the intergalactic stage long before its time. You had best be careful how you comport yourselves. This time you encountered a few people on a damaged ship. Next time you might not be so fortunate."

"Another 'fact'?"

"An observation," the alien replied. "One you would be wise to take to heart."

"I already have," Ramey answered, rising from his chair. "I've done all I can for the moment, Mr. Doe. I've met you halfway—that's as far as I can go. The rest is up to you."





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




Pod Chamber



Panting after having flown at breakneck speed, Brivari slapped his hand on the handprint outside the pod chamber. His other hand gripped Valeris's book, the cover still empty. The door slid open with maddening slowness, and he pushed his way inside before the door was fully open, raising the light levels with a thought, not bothering to wait for the automatic lighting.

The pods were still leaning against the wall that hid the Granolith chamber, glowing brightly in the dim light. Fortunately they hadn't lost any more; they still had four complete sets, plus one extra Rath hybrid. And their best set, one of the two rescued by the Proctors, glowed brightest of all, the hybrids inside visibly kicking and turning even from across the room. Now he hurried toward the Zan hybrid of that set, the one the woman had commented on, the most promising candidate for what he hoped was happening, what he needed to be happening. Valeris had said it would likely take longer for the mark to form because the hybrids' development had been interrupted when they lost the heat from the incubators not once, but twice. Still, Brivari found himself hoping against hope that Valeris had been wrong. After everything that had happened, a light at the end of this very long tunnel would be most welcome.

Holding the book firmly in both hands, Brivari knelt before the Zan hybrid's pod. The fetus inside was curled in a ball, one hand in its mouth, the other over its left ear. Peering closely, he inspected its forehead. At this early stage of development, it should be visible to the naked eye. It always was when it first formed, only later sinking deeply into the brain, inaccessible to all but those who knew how to find it.

The mark of the Kings of Antar was an old tradition, a means of identification born out of paranoia and necessity. The paranoia rose from a world which housed a race capable of changing its appearance at will, the necessity from a planet where the crown passed only by bloodshed. The existence of one mark blocked the development of another, preventing duplication. Its presence also confirmed the identity of any body presented as the dead body of the current King, no matter how mangled or how close the resemblance. There was a unique mark for each king, imprinted during his coronation.

But Zan's mark had been different. He was the eldest son of a new dynasty; his mark had been imprinted at birth, lying dormant until Riall's death when it flared to life. The genetic changes necessary for the mark's formation had been carried along with Zan's genetic material when the hybrids were formed; the mark would activate in whichever Zan hybrid reached a certain level of development first, preventing its development in another....unless something happened to that hybrid. Valeris had found it prudent to introduce certain safeguards: The failure of a Zan hybrid bearing the mark would cause the activation of the mark in another, virtually ensuring its continuation unless all the Zan hybrids failed.

Or maybe not. Shortly after the crash when Brivari had been fretting over the fate of the hybrids, Valeris had made a cryptic remark about their mission not having failed until the very last hybrid died. Had he arranged for the mark to transfer to one of the other hybrids should all the Zan hybrids die? A completely unorthodox approach, but understandable in their present circumstances. And if he had done this, where did he send it next? Did he follow title and bestow it upon Ava? Or perhaps he followed the bloodline and sent it to Vilandra? Let us hope he followed sense and gave it to Rath, Brivari thought, wondering how Jaddo would feel if his Ward were to truly become King.

Brivari peered at the fetus for a long time, finally sitting back in disappointment. There was nothing there. The book's cover remained blank. Perhaps it was intermittent at first? This was the first mark allowed to develop from gestation rather than being applied after birth, so perhaps this one would behave differently. He didn't even let himself ponder his worst fear: That the hybrids' premature removal from the incubators had damaged them so much that the mark would never form. Even if all of the hybrids survived to adulthood, the absence of the mark would mean rejection by their own people.

Why did Valeris have to die? Brivari thought bitterly. He would have known the answers to these questions, could have offered reassurance or regret and ended the agony. But Valeris was dead, the only one who knew much at all about this process. They would just have to wait. The girl's mother had claimed she had seen dots of light on the forehead of this very hybrid, and the girl's picture was an accurate representation of elements of Zan's crest. There was still reason to hope.

Brivari pushed himself to his feet. He would take the book back with him to the Proctor's dwelling and keep an eye on it. The presence of the mark would activate the crest, so he would know when it appeared. If it appeared.

He was about to leave when something caught his eye.





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





Eagle Rock Military Base




"You must be joking!" Major Cavitt sputtered.

"If you will observe me closely, Major, you might notice that I'm not laughing," General Ramey said dryly.

"But…"

"I repeat, Major—you can't hurt it," Ramey said firmly. "I forbid you to deny it food, clothing, shelter, or medical care. I forbid you to use bodily harm or threats of same. Is that clear?"

"Can we at least restrain it?"

"What for? You've seen how useless that is."

"But what if it becomes violent?"

"Then it will be sedated, meaning it won't get what it wants—and neither will we. Look," Ramey continued as Cavitt's mouth opened again, "it kept its word. It let the soldier go, it didn't attack me, it didn't attack the nurse. As long as it behaves itself, then I'm willing to see that we behave ourselves and attempt to establish communication."

"But, sir! You've seen what kind of a disposition that thing has!" Cavitt protested. "It's not going to just cheerfully cooperate with us and tell us everything we want to know. If we can't use the usual methods of persuasion, I don't see how we're going to accomplish anything!"

"Then it's your job to convince it to cooperate," Ramey said, "once Dr. Pierce decides it's sufficiently recovered from recent events to withstand interrogation. Do you have a problem with this, doctor?" he added to Pierce, seated on his other side in the conference room.

Pierce shook his head. "Not at all. I've said all along that harming useful test subjects is pointless. Skews the results. And there's only so much one can learn through coercion. If we can secure even a small amount of its cooperation, we stand to learn more, and learn it much more quickly."

"Good," Ramey said, nodding approvingly. "Because it appears that you and your helpful nurse would be the best ones to approach it in a bid for its cooperation. As you know, I assigned you to this project in the hopes of securing a different perspective, so here's your chance to provide just that. I've agreed to plead the creature's case with the President if it agrees to work with you and reassure us of what it claims are its benign intentions. Feel free to remind it of that if necessary."

"Of course, sir," Pierce answered.

"This is insane!" Cavitt said angrily. "With all due respect, sir," he added hastily, seeing the dangerous look in Ramey's eyes, "the President doesn't even know we have an alien. And are you really buying this 'my people will be angry that you weren't nice to me' bit? Being nice to that thing down there isn't going to gain us a damned thing. If they mean to invade, we need to extract as much information from it as possible in the shortest amount of time possible so that we may prepare ourselves as well as possible for yet another attack!"

" 'Prepare'?" Ramey echoed. "How? Just the little bits of its technology I've seen make it very clear that we would be unable to defend ourselves should it come to enemy ships hovering over the planet. Exercising restraint in our treatment of the prisoner may be our best chance of staving that off, whether we're looking at invasion or a simple accident, as it claims."

"They mean to invade," Cavitt said with utter certainty. "This nonsense about an 'accident' is just that—nonsense."

Ramey shook his head skeptically. "I haven't seen anything that points to an invasion. One ship? Four people? No discernable weapons? That's what you call an invasion? Am I missing something, Major? Or perhaps there's something else you felt wasn't 'pertinent' enough to bring to my attention?"

For a moment Ramey was convinced Cavitt was going to answer that question in the affirmative, but after a long pause, he shook his head. "It's just that....they attacked us, sir," he said tightly. "Surely that signifies hostile intent."

Ramey eyed Cavitt closely. "I'm not at all clear about who attacked whom, Major."

Cavitt's mouth opened, then closed. "What did that little dick of a Lieutenant tell you, sir?"

"I'm under no obligation to divulge my debriefings to you," Ramey said stonily. "Suffice it to say that I find reason to believe both sides made errors in judgment. If you're right, and they're planning to invade, then frankly we would be helpless against that. But if the creature is right and its presence is acccidental, we could go a long way toward avoiding an intergalactic diplomatic nightmare by making certain it's well treated. It's worth the risk, Major. An army of people who can change their appearance and do even half the magical stuff you say they can do makes the Communists look like playground bullies. We can't afford to make enemies of these people, not if we can avoid it. My orders stand."

"It's blowing smoke to save its own skin," Cavitt muttered.

"Perhaps," Ramey agreed. "But I can't take that chance. And I don't want one of the most important events in human history, if not the most important event in human history to get screwed up on my watch. Is that clear?"

Cavitt was silent. Ramey leaned closer to him. "Major, I'm giving you a direct order. If you don't feel you can follow that order, I know lots of people who will."

"Sir, I must protest this course of action!" Cavitt exclaimed. "I…."

"Your objections have been noted, Major," Ramey said coldly. "My orders stand."

"But…."

"Don't make me repeat myself, Major."

"Major Cavitt will be fine, sir," Dr. Pierce broke in suddenly, giving Cavitt a pointed look. "I'll tie him up myself if I have to. I guarantee the prisoner will be well treated, and my staff and I will work very hard to gain its trust as we see it back to health so that we may begin the process of gathering intelligence."

"Good," Ramey said, still eyeing Cavitt, who was glaring at Pierce. "I'll give you a month. Make sure you have something for me by then. The wolves are gathering, gentleman, and I don't know how long I'll be able to keep them at bay without at least some results."

"Understood, sir," Pierce nodded. "And about my proposal, do I have your permission to pursue that....other matter we discussed?"

"Permission granted. You said it's mostly theoretical at this stage, correct? When will you start needing animals for testing?"

"Not for a while sir," Pierce replied smoothly. "I'll let you know."

"I'm quite certain the Pentagon will be willing to give you plenty of leeway on that one," Ramey said, pushing back his chair. "Just let me know what you need, and I'll make certain you have it. Oh, and one more thing," he said casually. "I want all the records about the deaths of Privates West and Belmont before I leave."

As his words registered, Ramey watched the two faces in front of him closely. Pierce's betrayed only the most fleeting of reactions; Cavitt looked positively thunderstruck.

"With respect, sir…so many died at the aliens' hands. Don't you want all the records?" Cavitt asked.

"No. Only those two."

"But….why are you interested in only those two?"

""I'll be leaving in fifteen minutes," Ramey said calmly, ignoring Cavitt. "I expect those records to be in my hands when I leave. I trust you remember our earlier discussion about withholding records, do you not, Major? I tried very hard to make that memorable."

Cavitt flushed. "I remember, sir."

"Good." Ramey said approvingly. "I'd hate to see anything like that so-called 'inadvertent oversight' happen again." He headed for the door. "And Majors?"

"Yes sir?" Cavitt asked, a bit apprehensively.

"If anything should happen to Lieutenant Spade….if he should meet with any unfortunate 'accidents' or come down with so much as a bad cough…..I'm holding both of you personally responsible. Is that clear?"

Pierce answered for both of them, as Cavitt seemed to have lost his voice. "Yes, sir. Perfectly."





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




Pod Chamber



Brivari's heart began to pound. Was he actually seeing what he thought he was seeing, or was this just wishful thinking? Setting the book down on the floor, he bent closer and caught the fetus between both hands, immobilizing the tiny head between two thumbs, causing it to squirm in disapproval.

Tiny pinpoints of light were forming on the forehead of the Zan hybrid. One by one they flared, until five dots in the shape of a "V" showed clearly through the walls of the sac. The cover of the book he had set on the floor flared to life, symbols appearing one after another. Releasing the indignant hybrid, Brivari traced his finger over the familiar images on the cover with a shaking hand.

Zan.

"Finally," Brivari whispered. After all the turmoil of these past days, and everything that had gone wrong.....if only Valeris were here to see his triumph.

They had a King.


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


End of Part Two

[Kathy W 2200]

PART THREE—THE BARGAIN




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Three weeks later

August 7, 1947, 0900 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



<That’s all you’ve managed to accomplish?> Jaddo asked in astonishment. <Honestly, Brivari, I don’t know how much longer I can take this!>

Brivari, wearing the guise of the female healer, leaned back in his chair and sighed. Above, the human named Cavitt watched intently through the window of the observation room, never taking his eyes off Jaddo. Behind them, two guards shifted uneasily when they saw the furious look on Jaddo’s face, their own faces betraying a mixture of nervousness and anger.

No surprise, Brivari thought. Jaddo’s little stunt three weeks ago where he had threatened to kill a human soldier had left all of the soldiers angry and resentful. Ostensibly, however, it had worked: With the exception of a good deal of muttering in the ranks, the human general’s order to treat their prisoner well had so far been obeyed. Jaddo remained unfettered and unmolested in any way....which was odd, to Brivari’s way of thinking. He moved the female healer’s eyes ever so slightly in Cavitt’s direction, wondering not for the first time why no one had even attempted to interrogate Jaddo, do further medical tests, or approach him in any way other than to administer the troublesome serum and feed him.

Still, though the humans’ willingness to obey their general’s orders was encouraging, imprisonment was taking its toll. Jaddo had recovered from his earlier ordeal, but being well rested and well fed had its disadvantages; now he prowled the room like a caged wild animal, bored, restless, and increasingly frustrated. Even Brivari’s daily visits at meal times had ceased to calm him, as each visit now ended in an argument about why Brivari wasn’t working faster to free him.

As this one is likely to end, Brivari thought, watching Jaddo scowl. Always having been the temperamental and impatient sort, the present situation only magnified those traits. If something didn’t bend soon, Jaddo was likely to make something bend, the results of which were highly unlikely to work in their favor.

<I told you,> Brivari said wearily, for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last week, <this compound is very difficult to navigate. It was like that when you tried to rescue me—it’s easily ten times worse now. It’s small, and….>

<If it’s so small, then what’s taking so long?> Jaddo interrupted irritably.

<…there are only a small number of humans stationed here, all of whom know each other well,> Brivari continued, ignoring the interruption. <A stranger would be noticed immediately, and….>

<So take the form of one of those well-known people!>

<…taking the form of one already here is problematic because of the security precautions and the strict scheduling,> Brivari continued, praying for patience. <At the moment, I can only go where the healer is allowed and expected to go. They will question anyone who isn’t where they should be….>

<Then become someone who should be wherever you’re going!>

<…or who is where they should be when they shouldn’t be there,> Brivari finished in a testier tone. <How many times do I have to go over this with you? Was your hearing affected along with your ability to shift?>

Jaddo gripped the edges of the table hard. <How dare you joke about this? Do you have any idea what it’s like being cooped up in here like this?>

<Jaddo, calm down…>

<I’m not only trapped in this room, I’m trapped in this form! Do you know what that feels like? I see no one but you and the healer, have nothing to do but stare at these four walls. I….>

<Oh, will you stop it!> Brivari spat, finally losing his temper. <This is a palace compared to what Covari used to endure in the days before Riall! The humans haven’t harmed you….>

<Yet,> Jaddo muttered darkly.

<…which is nothing short of a miracle, considering what you pulled when their General was here,> Brivari continued angrily. <Now they’re so afraid of you, it appears none of them are even willing to approach you but the healer.>

<Good,> Jaddo said, eyes burning.

<Not good,> Brivari said firmly. <I told you—I need you to keep them busy. I need all eyes focused here so that I may move more freely elsewhere.>

Jaddo rose abruptly and leaned on the table, causing the dishes to rattle. The two guards by the door raised their rifles.

<Sit down!> Brivari ordered. <You are alarming the humans.>

<Do not presume to lecture me about what I should be doing!> Jaddo seethed. <You are the one who is free! You are the one who should be getting me out of here, and…>

<I said, sit down.>

<…you are the one who is not doing his job! Oh, I suppose you are in no hurry. Why would you be? You can come and go as you please! You…>

<Sit!>

<…probably don’t care if I….>

<STOP IT!> Brivari roared, rising to his feet, the cutlery he’d been using to eat clattering to the floor in the process.

The two faced each other like they had so many times before, one pair of angry eyes to another, neither willing to yield. Behind them, the guards had edged closer, their eyes wild. Cavitt had his face pressed so close to the observation room window that his nose was practically bent.

"It’s all right," Brivari said calmly to the soldiers in the healer’s high-pitched, female voice. "He won’t hurt me."

"Just the same, I think we should get you out of here, Lieutenant," one of the guards said, his voice shaking as he stared at Jaddo. "It looks unstable."

"He’s just agitated because he’s confined," Brivari said sensibly, turning the healer’s brown eyes on the guard. "I believe he’ll calm down now. Won’t you?" he added to Jaddo, his voice even, his eyes hard as flint.

"It’s my job to keep you safe, ma’am," the guard persisted, edging closer still. "And in my opinion, you’re not safe now."

"Please," Brivari pleaded, "let me stay. I’ll sit further away from him if it will make you feel better, but please let me stay. I feel it’s my…professional duty to help him. And I’d appreciate it so much," he added, as the guard stopped advancing, hesitating uncertainly. Brivari had already noted how successful the healer was at getting her way if she used a particular expression with the soldiers. He had enjoyed similar success using that same expression. Hopefully this time would be no exception.

It wasn’t. The guard reluctantly lowered his gun a bit. "Well…all right, ma’am. But you sit back from it like you said. And if it so much as twitches, I’m shootin’ it," he added firmly, glaring at Jaddo.

"Thank you so much, Private," Brivari replied smoothly, resuming his seat and obediently pushing the chair back a couple of feet. "I appreciate your concern."

<I think I’m going to be sick,> Jaddo muttered.

<Sit down and be quiet,> Brivari ordered bluntly, <while I attempt to repair the damage you’ve done.>

Sullenly, Jaddo resumed his seat. The guards retreated warily to the door, rifles still ready.

<Now you listen to me,> Brivari said severely. <I have told you time and time again how important it is for you not to appear angry or unhappy in any way with the healer. The humans have no idea we’re speaking to each other. All they see is you becoming angry with her for no apparent reason. That must not happen. She represents my only access to you. You think you’re alone now? Without her, you will be totally alone, and if they think she isn’t safe here, they will remove her. You can’t let that happen. Do you understand me?>

Jaddo sat silently, his face set.

<I said, do you understand me?>

<Yes,> Jaddo said after a moment, <I understand you. Now, do you understand what’s it’s like to be locked in a small room, day after day, with no hope of escape? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be locked into one form? I am imprisoned twice over, Brivari....and that's only the beginning. I have to bathe, like any other solid species. I have to….> Jaddo paused, his face contorting with disgust. <…excrete like a solid species. You have no idea what that’s like. I don’t understand how they live like this!>

Brivari kept the healer’s face impassive, acutely aware that they were being watched even more closely than before. <I don’t know what it’s like to be trapped in one form,> Brivari admitted, <and I hope I never will. But shapeshifting is the exception, not the rule. Other species surmount these…difficulties. And you will too. This will not last forever. And when it is over, you will be back to normal.>

<You don’t know that.>

<And I don’t know that you won’t> Brivari replied firmly. <You're obviously not dying in spite of not being able to shift, and we have no reason to believe that both your powers and your ability to shift won't return once the serum is stopped. You can’t compare your situation to those of Covari at home who can’t shift. This isn’t a genetic defect or an injury—it’s an outside influence that can be removed. And will be removed, if you would just settle down and give me more time!>

<How long have I been here?> Jaddo whispered. He appeared calmer now, though his hands were trembling a bit.

<Twenty-six Earth days.>

<Is that all?> Jaddo said faintly. <It seems like much longer.>

<I’m certain it does,> Brivari said in a gentler tone. <But I will get you out of here. No matter how long it takes, I will free you. We have a King now, Jaddo. Our mission was a success. Zan is back; now it is only a matter of time. And when he returns, Rath will be with him, and Rath will need you. Think of Rath when this seems intolerable. You must be here for him when he emerges. He will need you then like never before.>

Jaddo nodded vaguely, his eyes staring off into space. <How many times have you seen the mark?>

<A total of three times,> Brivari answered, <although it could be more often because I visit the pod chamber infrequently. Valeris’s notes confirmed that the mark would likely be intermittent at first because the fetus is still very young, but it is there. That’s all that matters.>

Jaddo closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself. Brivari waited, only too well aware of how difficult it was for the other to reign in his temper, and how critical it was that he do so.

<Very well,> Jaddo said, taking a deep breath. <I will endeavor to control myself better.> He flicked his eyes upwards, toward the observation room. <I shall instead direct my anger there, toward that idiot. Just look at him, staring at me like I’m some kind of lab specimen.>

<He’s not an idiot,> Brivari said soberly. <He managed to capture both of us and devised a method of keeping you. His security measures are so onerous that I take my life in my hands every single time I come here. Believe me, if he were an idiot, this would be a lot easier.>




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





"Just look at it," Cavitt announced to Pierce, who had joined him at the observation room window, "staring at me like it wants to wring my neck."

"It probably does," Pierce replied. "I’ll tell it to get in line."

"They are the oddest pair I’ve ever seen," Cavitt continued, ignoring Pierce. "Sometimes I’d swear they were arguing, but neither of them is speaking. They barely speak to each other at all."

"But have you noticed how it anticipates her arrival?" Pierce asked. "I have Lieutenant White arrive at exactly the same time, three times a day, and every single time, it knows when to expect her. Before she arrives. Like it has a built in watch, or something."

"So?"

"So, it has come to depend on her presence," Pierce said patiently, as though he were explaining a difficult concept to a child. "Much the same way I have come to depend on finding you here. Tell me, do you ever leave this room?"

"What choice do I have?" Cavitt said irritably. "You won’t let me near it, so I’m reduced to standing here watching it take tea."

"Coffee," Pierce corrected. "It loves coffee. Drinks massive amounts of it, with loads of sugar. Interesting."

Cavitt turned his head to stare at him. "Drinking coffee is interesting?"

"Where did it learn to like coffee?" Pierce mused, leaning against the window. "Where did it learn to put sugar in it? I’d like to know."

"Oh, would you now," Cavitt said in an incredulous tone. "Daniel, every single time I think you can’t get any more oblivious to reality than you already are….."

"Here it comes," Pierce sighed.

"….you prove me wrong. Coffee? You’re joking, right? We have our first ever alien in there, a ship in the hangar with technology we can’t even begin to understand, a steady stream of people marching through here dying to be in our shoes, and the first thing you want to know about is coffee?!"

Pierce smiled faintly. " "First thing’? No. Merely something on the list."

"Let me tell you what’s on my list," Cavitt said, his voice rising. "I want to know how its ship works. I want to know what weapons it has, what energy source it uses, and whether or not it can be repaired. I want to know….."

"All in good time, all in good time," Pierce interrupted calmly. "Honestly, you have the patience of a tornado."

"Good time?" Cavitt erupted, pushing himself off the windowsill. " ‘Let it recover’, you said. ‘Its so weak—let it get its strength back’, you said. Its been ‘recovered’ for almost three weeks now, pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage, and still I’m up here in this dingy little room, watching it through glass!"

"Yes, it is getting quite restless, isn’t it?" Pierce mused. "Restless, and dependant on the Lieutenant." He smiled. "Good."

Cavitt blinked. "Good? What’s good about it?"

"Use your head, Sheridan," Pierce said, settling into a nearby chair. "Do you really think you’re just going to waltz in there and it's going to cough up all its secrets because you told it to? You of all people should be familiar with the kind of personality it has."

"Of course I am," Cavitt said impatiently. "It’s angry, defiant, and thoroughly uncooperative."

"Yes, you two do have a lot in common," Pierce remarked dryly, smiling as Cavitt scowled. "My point is, its not going to just tell us what we want to know. It needs to decide that telling us is in its best interests. It needs an incentive."

"I see. And your idea of an ‘incentive’ is to feed, clothe and house it indefinitely with no interrogation of any kind? Now, why didn’t I think of that?" Cavitt said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "We don’t have any ‘incentives’, Daniel! Ramey has tied our hands by forbidding us to use normal methods of persuasion, so what possible ‘incentive’ could we offer?"

Pierce sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the chair. "You know what your problem is?"

"Good Lord," Cavitt muttered, turning back to the window. "Not this again."

"You lack subtlety," Pierce continued, ignoring him. "You bash around like a bull in a china shop and then profess surprise when you can’t find what you want, not realizing that you broke what you wanted in your own stampede."

"Oh, stop it, Daniel! You’re changing the subject! You’re supposed to be psychoanalyzing it, not me!"

"I daresay psychoanalyzing it will be easier," Pierce said blandly.

"Then get on with it, will you?" Cavitt demanded. "The clock is ticking even as we speak! Major Lewis was here less than an hour ago, and you should have seen the expression on his face when he realized we hadn’t even attempted to question it yet. He wants at that thing so badly he can taste it, and if you keep up this ‘let it recover’ nonsense, he just might succeed!" Cavitt stopped, seething for a moment before continuing. "I don't suppose you've made any progress on our mutual project? Something? Anything?"

"We're beginning the data collection process today."

" 'We'?"

"Corporal Brisson will be in charge of that," Pierce explained. "Should he be noticed, his presence would be easier to explain than mine."

"Are you sure he's trustworthy? Are you sure he knows what he's doing? I don't want this dragged out because of some Corporal's incompetence."

"Yes, yes, and it won't be. Patience, Sheridan," Pierce counseled. "Corporal Brisson is my most trusted assistant, and as for his competence, it was his sharp eyes that noticed the potential in those alien cells to begin with. And if you'll recall, I mentioned at least three dozen times that this would take awhile. Just collecting the necessary data in order to begin the trials will take several months. If you’re losing your hair already, that’s a bad sign."

"You're positive Ramey approved this?" Cavitt fretted. "It's hard to believe he'd green light what you have in mind after ordering us to 'use restraint' with that thing down there."

Pierce smiled. "He approved the basics."

Cavitt's eyebrows rose as he turned to stare at Pierce. "You mean you lied?"

"Of course not," Pierce said calmly. "Everything I told Ramey was true. I just didn’t tell him everything."

Cavitt stared a moment longer before turning his gaze back to the window. "Perhaps I underestimated you," he murmured.

"You have always underestimated me," Pierce commented. "Yet another of your many problems."

"Not so fast," Cavitt retorted. "You haven’t delivered."

"Yet," Pierce pointed out. "And this would be easier if I had another specimen. Any luck finding the first one?"

Cavitt shot him a steely glare. "No. Brazel doesn’t have it. We’ve followed him for two weeks now, even searched his house when he was out. It’s not there. And no one’s reported food missing, a rise in thefts, or anything of note. We lost its trail the night it escaped."

"Someone’s helping it," Pierce murmured. "I wonder who?"




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




Chambers Grocery Store,

Corona, New Mexico



Emily Proctor heaved yet another pound of coffee onto the counter and reached for the next item in her cart. "Good Lord, Emily," a voice drawled from behind the grocery store counter, "look at all that food! Are you tryin’ to feed the army?"

No, just an alien, Emily thought, piling loaves of bread into a pyramid and catching them as they slipped.

"You know what I think?" the woman behind the counter asked. "I think," she continued, not bothering to wait for an answer, "that you’re hidin’ somethin’."

Emily paused in her stacking to look into the beady eyes peering at her. Small town grocers were widely regarded as being more reliable than the local paper when it came to news, but when gossip was what one sought, one went to small town grocers’ wives. Essertine Chambers, a portly woman with an upper deck roughly twice the size of the Titanic’s, took her position as the wife of Bill Chambers and the queen of town gossip very seriously, and there was no doubt she was very good at her job. Anything uttered in Essie’s presence typically hit the gossip airwaves before the storyteller had finished speaking. She was that good.

Which is precisely why Emily paused. It was, unfortunately, not unthinkable that Essertine actually knew the Proctors were harboring a space alien. Army Intelligence had nothing on her.

"Whatever are you talking about, Essie?" Emily asked casually. "What on Earth would I be hiding?" Fortunately, she was prepared for this; she and David had already concocted a cover story for Brivari’s presence because someone was bound to notice him at some point. Perhaps someone already had.

Essertine planted her chubby forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Emily. "Want to know what I think?" she repeated.

"Does it matter?" Emily asked dryly.

"I think," Essertine continued, ignoring Emily, "that you…"—here she paused and lowered her voice to a whisper that could only be heard one aisle away instead of three—"…that you have a bun in the oven!" she finished triumphantly.

Emily sighed and rolled her eyes as several women nearby inclined their heads to hear her response. She and David had no intention of having another baby, and that was not a popular choice. In many ways, having only one child was regarded as more odd than having none. Every so often Corona would buzz with speculation that they had changed their minds, and Emily was getting tired of it.

"I’m not pregnant, Essie," Emily announced loudly.

Essertine’s mouth dropped open. The nearby women were now openly staring. Discussing pregnancy—or lack thereof—in public was considered bad taste. Matters of taste normally didn’t bother Essertine, but that seemed to have changed now that Emily had planted the proverbial heel right on top of her latest gossip.

"Keep your voice down, Emily!" Essertine admonished.

"Why? You never do."

"Well, I….I…I was just….."

"Nosy?" Emily offered helpfully.

Essertine flushed scarlet. "I just think it would be good for Dee to have a sibling, that’s all. She’s such a little tomboy! Running around with the boys most of the time, always wearing those pants…."

"They’re called ‘shorts’," Emily interrupted.

"All right, ‘shorts’," Essertine repeated, with a disapproving look at Emily’s own pedal pushers. "Still, it’s not natural for a girl to wear those!"

"For heaven’s sake, it’s summer vacation," Emily said impatiently. "Dee wears dresses to school and church. What she wears at home is her business."

"I suppose," Essertine agreed doubtfully. "Although I don’t see how she’s ever going to get a man if she doesn’t learn about a woman’s protective, nurturing side."

Leaning over her cart, chasing a runaway green pepper, Emily almost burst out laughing. "Protective, nurturing side"? It was her young daughter who had been the staunchest advocate for the aliens and their tiny charges, placing herself in danger on their behalf far too often for Emily's comfort. Dee could give a college lecture about being "protective and nurturing". "Well, it’s Dee’s birthday tomorrow," Emily said brightly. "Say, why don’t you drop by the party on Saturday and inform her that her only goal in life is to get a man, and all he’ll ever be interested in is what she wears?"

"I….well, I didn’t mean it that way…."

"I certainly hope not," Emily said tartly, heaving the last of her groceries onto the counter. "Could you ring me up please? Or do you have more advice on how to raise my child?"

Essertine’s lips set in a thin line as she started punching buttons on the cash register. "You still haven’t told me what all this food is for," she said peevishly, as though Emily owed her an answer. "This can’t all be for the party. You’re not planning on serving coffee there, are you?"

Emily didn’t answer. She stood in the front of the cash register, wallet in hand, watching the numbers fly by and wondering how much longer they were going to be able to afford being an alien hotel.

Granted, Brivari was in many ways the perfect houseguest. He never hogged the bathroom—never even seemed to use the bathroom, for that matter—never left the guest room a mess, never even needed clean sheets. He came and went as he pleased, disappearing for hours at a time, reappearing just as suddenly, and all so quietly that frequently no one noticed. They were growing accustomed to these comings and goings, and Emily had even begun to anticipate the early mornings when she rose with David to see him off to work. Brivari was usually already there, nursing a cup of coffee from the pot he had prepared for all of them. It was really nice to wake up to the smell of fresh coffee. It was even nicer when, learning that the Proctor’s car had developed a problem that was costly to repair, Brivari had placed his hand on the hood and magically fixed whatever was wrong. She and David had been fretting that bill; to have it disappear so quickly was indeed a gift.

But the one thing that wasn’t going to disappear were the food bills. Brivari ate an enormous amount of food. Fortunately he didn’t eat meat, so that left out the most expensive food category, but still, his appetite was huge. Her guess was that the aliens expended a great deal of energy changing their shapes and doing whatever else they could do…like fixing cars and heating coffee. Whatever the reason, their budget was feeling the pinch.

"$35.23," Essertine announced, setting the last bag in the cart and looking up briefly as the bell on the front door announced another customer. She seemed to have recovered her good humor, a necessity in her business. "My goodness, that’s a large bill!"

Too large, Emily thought sadly, peering into her wallet. She only had $32.00. All the party supplies had taken their toll. "I have $32.00—can you put the rest on my bill?" she asked.

"No problem," Essertine said, reaching for her account book.

"I’ll pay the rest of the lady’s bill," came a familiar voice behind Emily, who turned in surprise.

Deputy Valenti.

"Why, isn’t that nice of you, Deputy!" Essertine exclaimed, beaming. "Emily, this is Deputy Valenti, up from Roswell to spell George’s boys. Deputy, this is Emily Proctor."

"Mrs. Proctor," Valenti said cordially, tipping his hat and holding out his hand.

Emily stared at the proffered hand, then at the bland, pleasant face in front of her. What on Earth was he thinking? Valenti looked like he’d never tracked her child like a bloodhound, never had his hand slammed in her door, never even laid eyes on her. Did he really believe she would act like nothing had ever happened?

Then Emily saw Valenti’s eyes flicker toward Essertine, who had correctly interpreted Emily’s hesitation as potentially interesting material and was hovering expectantly, nose twitching. And suddenly she realized that Valenti really did expect her to act like nothing had happened. He was betting that she wouldn’t say anything about their altercation in front of Corona’s gossip queen. He was betting she would want to keep that quiet. And he was dead wrong. Time to put Essie Chambers’s nose for news to good work.

"How dare you," Emily breathed, stepping back from Valenti. "How dare you act like you’ve never seen me before, when just last month you were threatening my entire family!"

A hush fell over the store. Essertine was staring at both of them so avidly that Emily expected her to sprout rabbit ears like one of those new television sets.

Valenti adopted a surprised expression. "Excuse me? Have you mistaken me for someone else?"

"How could I possibly mistake the man who stood on my front porch and made some of the wildest claims I’ve ever heard?" Emily replied coldly.

Valenti dropped his hand, his expression hardening a bit. "Ah. You mean that little….misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding, my foot," Emily said severely.

"Gracious, what happened?" Essertine blurted, unable to contain herself any longer, her massive upper deck heaving fore and aft.

"I’ll tell you what happened," Emily replied before Valenti had a chance to open his mouth. "This so-called ‘sheriff’s deputy’ came to our house a few weeks ago and insisted that my daughter had something to do with whatever it was the Army got so excited about out on Pohlman Ranch. He was positively raving. I had to...."—here she paused for dramatic effect—"Why, I had to call my husband to shoo him off."

Emily mentally kicked herself for uttering that last line, but it had the desired effect. A murmur went up from the small crowd of housewives who had slithered closer to overhear. Things were always serious when one had to resort to calling one’s husband.

Essertine’s eyes were practically dancing. "Got caught up in the alien madness, did you?" she said to Valenti, who was blushing furiously. "Well, you’re not the only one, love. Lot’s of people were going a little crazy around then. Still are, in fact. But I rather doubt the Proctors are harboring Martians," she added, drawing titters from the onlookers.

"Have you come to your senses, or are you here to make some other wacky accusation against my young child?" Emily demanded.

Valenti glanced at the assembled faces, some curious, some apprehensive, then looked back at Emily, who locked her eyes on his and refused to so much as blink. She knew he knew what she was trying to do—she was trying to make him look unhinged, and given that he was a stranger here, she might very well pull it off. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he had two choices: Either call her a liar right here in front of people who knew her and didn’t know him from Adam....or fess up.

"Of course not," Valenti said, his tone conciliatory, his eyes acknowledging that she'd won this one. "That was just a big misunderstanding, Mrs. Proctor. Like Mrs. Chambers said, we were all a little on edge what with the initial reports from the ranch. I truly, truly apologize for upsetting you, and I hope we can start over again with a clean slate," he finished, extending his hand once more.

Oh, he’s good, Emily thought. The assembled onlookers were now swaying in the opposite direction, as onlookers were wont to do, murmuring encouraging words of support for Valenti’s heartfelt apology and awaiting her acceptance of same. Unless she wanted to appear a cad, she was stuck. And judging from the smile on his face, he knew it.

But no matter. Emily had accomplished her objective, which was to cast doubt on anything Valenti might say by raising the subject first. "I appreciate that, Deputy," Emily said, accepting his handshake. "I would be delighted to put that ugly episode behind us."

"I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Proctor," Valenti smiled with what sounded like sincerity, pumping her hand up and down. "Now let me get the rest of your bill for you. You’ve got quite a cart load there. Must have a lot of mouths to feed."

His tone was casual, but Emily’s heart skipped a beat all the same as Valenti handed a five dollar bill to Essertine, who rang up Emily’s order and handed the change back to Valenti, watching them both like a hawk the whole time. Emily had no doubt that Valenti had made the connection between her brimming cart and what he was after. She needed to make certain no one else made that connection either.

"Thank you so much, Deputy," Emily said pleasantly. "I was a bit short because my daughter’s having a birthday, and all the party necessities set me back a bit more than usual."

"A birthday!" Valenti said cheerfully. "How old will she be?"

"Nine," Emily answered, smiling through her gritted teeth.

"I’ll be sure to swing by and wish her a happy birthday," Valenti said.

Like hell you will, Emily thought darkly. Honestly, where did this nosy man get the idea that the universe owed him an explanation? Annoyed, she took a parting shot.

"I’m so glad we’ve put that frightening incident behind us," she said. "And I’m so grateful that we have nothing more to fear from…Deputy Martian."

Valenti’s face flushed as both Essertine and her customers broke into laughter.

"And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off," Emily said gaily. "Martians like their coffee, you know!"

More laughter. Valenti managed a small smile, but he shot Emily a look that she was surprised to find wasn't angry, just....wounded. That look bothered her all the way out to the parking lot, where she loaded her groceries into the trunk of her car, reflecting on the fact that by this time tomorrow at the latest, every single resident of Corona would have heard the "Deputy Martian" moniker courtesy of Essertine. And monikers had a way of sticking, deserved or no.

Climbing into the car, Emily put her head down on the steering wheel for a moment and cursed God for the times where it seemed that the only way to protect yourself was to tear someone else down.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



August 7, 1947, 1830 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base





Yvonne White flopped the magazine she’d been reading down on her chest and sighed. This was the third time she’d been through this month’s issue of Look, and there simply wasn’t anything else to read after devouring every single bit of it, right down to the publishing information on the first page. She threw a longing look toward the door, wishing she weren’t trapped in her quarters, wondering where the free alien was. He was overdue now, and she couldn’t wait to leave these four walls. It was truly amazing how perceptions changed.

When she had first been brought here, against her will and restricted to the basement floor, Yvonne had regarded this place as a prison. Then things had eased as she was allowed access to the first floor and was able to see daylight again for the first time in several days. Things had eased further when newspapers began appearing in the recreation room upstairs, none of them local, and with anything pertaining to aliens blacked out, but mostly intact. Just a week ago, a radio had shown up in the rec room which had become the focal point of "life" here, if that’s what one wanted to call it. Mail had begun to flow to those assigned here, and two different magazines that Yvonne had requested via the request box in the mailroom upstairs had appeared in her room. The lockdown continued, but the noose around the necks of everyone stationed here had loosened just a bit.

Then, just as Yvonne was beginning to feel slightly less claustrophobic, the reality of switching places with the free alien set in. They had determined that the safest times for him to assume her shape was at breakfast, before everything really got going for the day, and at dinner, when everything was winding down. She was always herself at lunchtime, and sometimes the alien appeared for only one of the other two meals. But today was a "twofer day" when he had appeared for breakfast and dinner, which meant that Yvonne was now facing her fourth hour of hiding in her quarters without much to do. The rest of the compound was looking very inviting, limited though it was, and she seriously sympathized with the captured alien who had lately begun climbing his own four walls.

Sitting up on her bed, Yvonne set the magazine on her bedside table and pondered anew what she was going to do about the captured alien’s increasing restlessness. Having experienced just a taste of what he was going through, she thought she knew the answer: He needed something to do. But so far, Dr. Pierce had resisted all her efforts to provide something, anything to occupy his time. She had suggested books, games, puzzles, all to no avail—every time she mentioned how fretful he was becoming, Pierce would just smile and turn down her requests. He actually seemed happy that the alien was dying of boredom. Was boring someone to death the new form of American torture?

The real mystery here was why the prisoner had so much time on his hands and nothing to do. No one had made a move toward him since the General’s visit. Except for herself and the nervous tech responsible for the daily injection of serum, no one had approached him in any way. At first Yvonne had not questioned this—the alien had obviously been weak and exhausted. But he had long since recovered his strength, and still Dr. Pierce did nothing, sitting for hours with Major Cavitt in the observation room as the prisoner prowled like a captured animal below, watching....waiting. But waiting for what?

Her own encounters with the alien had changed little. He was brusque, but basically polite. He had not made the mistake of ignoring her again after she had smashed the coffee cup, but neither had he attempted conversation, either spoken conversation or that strange telepathic speech they favored which Yvonne could hear but still could not use herself. Generally they ate in silence, exchanging perfunctory pleasantries at the beginning and end of each meal. Right after the General’s visit, this was about all the alien could handle, exhausted as he was from the events of that day. But as he recovered his strength, he began to grow restless and irritable, although he was noticeably calmer if he’d had a visit from the free alien at the previous meal.

The worst day had been when the free alien had failed to appear for either dinner the night before or breakfast that morning. Although Yvonne was secretly grateful not to be cooped up in her quarters, the effect on the prisoner had been so dramatic that she had felt guilty for feeling that way. He had been downright agitated, to the point where he had made the guards nervous—more nervous than usual, that is. Now, after spending more and more time in her quarters with little or nothing to do, Yvonne was more convinced than ever that she was doing the right thing by allowing the free alien to take her shape and visit his companion. Without visits from his friend, she was certain the prisoner would have lost his marbles by now, and it was her responsibility as his nurse to do everything in her power to keep that from happening. She just wished the mechanism for keeping that from happening didn’t involve losing her own marbles.

Standing up and stretching, Yvonne clicked off the bedside lamp and walked to her desk in the total darkness. The hallway outside was brightly lit so it was unlikely that light in her quarters would be noticed, but she had developed the habit of having only one light on at a time just to be on the safe side. It hadn't taken her long to learn her way around her quarters in the dark, and she found her desk without incident, clicking on the desk light as she sat down. Perhaps writing a letter would help to pass the time....although it was growing increasingly difficult to write letters home without disclosing where she was or what she was doing, not to mention all the questions she had to dodge about how she was enjoying the sights of London. So far she had managed to deflect those by going on and on about how busy she was, but that wouldn’t work forever. Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably as she pulled out paper and a pen, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten dinner. Why wasn’t he back yet?

She had no sooner set pen to paper when she paused. Had she just heard footsteps outside her door?

After a long, tense moment sitting rigid in her chair, she relaxed. No one else but her entered her quarters—no one ever had in all the hours she’d spent here. Few even came down here aside from authorized personnel currently on duty. It was the first floor that served as the visible face of the operation, with the mess hall, the recreation room, the mailroom, a laundry, offices, and most of the troop quarters with the exception of herself and the few others who were quartered on the basement level. Many of the people who visited the very normal looking floor above had no idea what was going on in the basement right beneath their feet. Word had been passed that this was a top secret operation, so no questions were asked about the incredibly tight security or the layers of secrecy. Why would they be? The Russians were out there, and Senator McCarthy was hunting for Communists; anyone could understand the need for top secret operations and secrecy.

There. She heard them again—stealthy footsteps, right outside her door this time. It couldn’t be the free alien—he was always completely silent, appearing out of nowhere without so much as a squeak, startling her nearly every time. Placing her pen noiselessly on the desk, Yvonne slowly stood up, careful not to let the chair scrape on the floor, and shot a glance toward the bathroom door only a few feet away. That was the designated refuge if anyone entered, although she’d never had to use it. She paused, poised for flight, hoping she was just imagining things.

Then the doorknob turned. Before the door could open, Yvonne clicked off her desk light and navigated to the bathroom in the total darkness, leaving the door ajar, peering out through the crack, her heart pounding.

The light from the hall showed a medical technician entering the room, one Corporal Brisson if she remembered rightly. He looked neither right nor left, but silently shut the door behind him and headed straight for the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the main room light. They know! Yvonne thought, looking frantically around the room for a place to hide. The best she could do was to get behind the door and hope he didn’t look there. Something had obviously happened if someone had been sent to look for her, so hiding probably wouldn’t help, but she scrambled behind the door anyway, willing herself to breathe silently.

Pressing her back against the cold basement wall, Yvonne watched the bathroom door swing open, stopping just inches from her nose. The light flicked on, glaring, brilliant, making her panic even more. Through the space where the hinges held the door to the wall, she saw Brisson enter, and she braced herself for discovery. It would take him only seconds to find her.

But Brisson didn’t come all the way into the bathroom, nor did he even look around. He headed straight for her bathroom wastebasket, visible just over the door's middle hinge, and emptied its contents into a bag he withdrew from his pocket. From the other pocket he produced a second bag filled with what looked like trash. Placing this in the just emptied wastebasket, he flicked off the light, headed for the door to her quarters, and was gone just as quickly as he had arrived. Total time elapsed—no more than thirty seconds.

Yvonne remained behind the door for several minutes after Brisson left, breathing heavily, trying to calm herself. When she finally ventured out, she cautiously checked her quarters to make sure no one was there, then returned to the bathroom and flipped on the light. Grabbing the wastebasket, she dumped out the contents on the bathroom counter and inspected it.

It was standard bathroom waste: Kleenex, dental floss, hair that appeared to be hers. Yvonne sifted through the pile, growing more confused by the moment. Everyone here cleaned their own quarters; that included emptying their own wastebaskets. And Brisson was no maid—he was one of Dr. Pierce’s favorite technicians, one of the very few who had access to all the various labs. Why would he be emptying her wastebasket? No—not emptying. Replacing. Replacing the contents, meaning he didn’t want her to know what was going on. And how long had this been going on? She’d been in this room when she shouldn’t be for at least a couple of hours each day for the past three weeks, and she’d never seen this happen before.

Puzzled, Yvonne replaced the trash in her wastebasket and turned out the light, her stomach growling loudly. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be hungry and stir crazy, now she was confused as well. Perhaps Stephen knew something about this. He wasn’t on the medical end of things, but he might have heard something. She’d ask him.

If she didn’t die of hunger first, she thought ruefully, as her stomach growled once more.




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



Holding his tray up for another slice of meatloaf, Lieutenant Spade glanced down the chow line to see Yvonne White about four people ahead of him, busily piling enough food on her tray to feed half the compound. Spade wasn’t surprised to see her here. Yvonne had long ago established that eating meals with the alien sometimes affected her appetite. For those meals when the free alien took her shape to visit his friend, this allowed her to visit the mess hall without inviting questions about why she would be eating the same meal twice. Lying certainly was a complicated business.

Eager to catch up with her, Spade skipped ahead, bypassing the mashed potatoes and jello and nodding to the soldiers he was passing. They nodded back; some of them actually smiled. Things had settled somewhat since that day almost three weeks ago when the alien had threatened to kill Private Walker. Spade had waited for several tense days, assuming the sword of Damocles was hanging over his head....but nothing happened. He hadn’t heard a word more from General Ramey, who had dismissed him in such a huff. And there had been absolutely no reaction from Major Cavitt, who behaved as though the whole incident in the prisoner’s room had never taken place. Some of the men had taken their lead from Cavitt, shrugging off the incident as Spade merely trying to set the record straight. A few had actually told him—privately—that they admired him for speaking out. And others still looked daggers at him whenever he walked by. A mixed bag, but better than it had been.

Spade hastily grabbed a dish of chocolate pudding from the desert shelf and hurried along, eager to catch up with Yvonne. By the time he reached the end of the line and went to find her, she was almost to the door. Was she going to eat in her quarters? He scurried along, tray in hand, and was just about to call to her when someone else beat him to it.

"Lieutenant," drawled a voice nearby. "Join us. Please."

Both Spade and Yvonne, who was several paces ahead of him, stopped and turned toward the voice. A nearby table held six soldiers, one of whom was Private Walker, the one who had issued the invitation. Damn. Walker had been downright nasty of late; no surprise, really, since he'd almost had his neck snapped with his CO’s blessing. Spade was grateful he'd had the foresight to make certain Walker would never pull guard duty on the alien again because his mood definitely wasn't improving.

Yvonne was staring levelly at Walker, who had plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "Please," Walker repeated, gesturing to an empty spot on the bench between two soldiers who had slid apart to create it. "We have a medical question for you."

Yvonne hesitated for just a moment before taking the proffered seat, accompanied by smirks from the soldiers. Something was afoot. Wonderful, Spade thought, heading for the table. Here he’d been looking forward to a nice, quiet meal, and now he’d get to play referee.

"Evening, gentlemen," Spade said pleasantly, coming abreast of the table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not, sir," Walker replied, his expression making it clear that he minded very much. Soldiers slid aside to make room for Spade, although with less gusto than they had for Yvonne, who was seated directly across from him. He risked their private sign—a very slow eye blink—and she returned the correct response. Nice to know it was actually her. Next to her sat Private Thompson, the one who had confided to Spade that he admired him for being willing to speak out, making at least one other civilized soldier here besides himself.

"So, Lieutenant," Walker began casually, "me and the guys had a question about your….patient."

More smirks. Yvonne responded only with raised eyebrows. Spade braced himself for the worst. Some of his men may have decided to cut him a pass, but tempers were still running hot toward the alien at the moment. Threatening to break a man’s neck tended to have that effect on people.

"We wanted to know…" Walker began, then paused as though choosing his words carefully. "Well, we know it looks like a man, but really isn’t, of course. So we were wondering if it has all the right parts…..to be male, you know."

Sniggers erupted around the table. Thompson rolled his eyes. Yvonne’s face remained expressionless.

"And we figured you’d know, you being its nurse and all," Walker continued with particularly unpleasant mirth in his eyes. "You’ve seen it buck naked. Did it get everything right? Is it missing anything? Down there, we mean. We already know it’s missing a conscience."

"Walker…." Spade began warningly.

"What?" Walker interrupted. "It’s just a question, sir. A simple, scientific question that the Lieutenant here can answer for us."

"I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Private," Spade said evenly. "Perhaps it would be better directed to Dr. Pierce."

"Hell, we just wanna know if it has a dick!" Treyborn squealed, as the other soldiers burst out laughing.

"And how big it is!" another one chimed in.

"And whether or not it pisses through it!" someone else added.

Guffaws all around, except for Spade and Thompson, who closed his eyes and shook his head sadly.

"You must have noticed, Lieutenant," Walker said coldly to Yvonne. "Just exactly how well hung is it?"

"Yeah, is it bigger than mine?" Treyborn chortled.

"Shit, Treyborn. A newborn baby’s got a pisser bigger’n yours," another soldier commented, to a scowl from Treyborn.

More laughter. Yvonne’s eyes bored into Walker’s, who was staring at her intently. "So, tell us," he said softly, as the laughter quieted so he could be heard. "You love it so much, I’m sure you’ve screwed it several times by now."

A shocked silence fell over the table like a wet blanket as the soldiers realized their fun had just turned ugly. Treyborn turned red as a beet.

"Shut up, Walker," Thompson said sharply. "I’m sorry, ma’am," he added to Yvonne. "We’re not all like that. Some of us actually know how to behave."

"Who are you tellin’ to ‘shut up’?" Walker demanded.

Spade rose to his feet and looked Walker directly in the eye. "Private, you’re out of line. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll eat alone in your quarters."

Walker attempted a contrite smile. "Don't misunderstand, sir...."

"Walk away."

"It was just a question, sir…."

"Walk away from this table. That’s an order."

"I didn’t mean to offend…."

"I said walk away!"

Walker glared at Spade. "Yes, sir," he said scornfully, as he picked up his tray and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him for emphasis. Heads turned in curiosity, then turned away again. Walker’s angry outbursts were becoming so common these days that they just weren’t news anymore. Spade sat down and cast a baleful eye on the remainder of the extremely nervous soldiers.

"Geez, Sir," Treyborn began, "we didn’t mean…"

"You're all dismissed."

"But…."

"Dismissed!"

With mumbles of "Sorry, ma’am" and a few other things Spade didn’t care to process, the soldiers drizzled away, some taking up seats at other tables, others leaving for their quarters, trays in hand. Thompson shot both Spade and Yvonne a sympathetic look before leaving.

"God, I’m sorry about that," Spade whispered to Yvonne after the last of the soldiers had left. She still hadn’t uttered a single syllable, which, come to think of it, might be the best way to handle crudeness like Walker’s. "Everyone’s really on edge since our friend in there acted up."

Still Yvonne said nothing, just sat there, regarding him levelly. "Let’s eat, shall we?" Spade said, picking up his fork. "Judging from the chow piled up there, I’d say you were hungry."

Yvonne picked up her own fork and began tucking into her tray. "So tell me, Lieutenant," she said slowly. "What exactly is a ‘dick’?"

Spade’s fork paused in mid-rise. "What?"

"I have no reference for that term in my database. Nor do I appear to have an appropriate translation for the term ‘screw’. My reference is to a cylindrical fastener made of metal, which I am quite certain is incorrect in this context."

Spade stared at her, open-mouthed, and for just a fleeting moment, her eyes went completely black.

"What the…? But….you…..!" Spade sputtered, his fork plopping to his tray with a clatter.

The alien’s borrowed eyebrows rose. "But I answered your silly little signal?"

"How did you know about that?" Spade hissed furiously, feeling like an idiot. Here he’d thought he’d been defending Yvonne’s honor, and it turned out to be not Yvonne, but a creature from outer space.

"I’ve known about that from the first time you used it," the alien replied calmly, shoveling food in earnest now. It was amazing how clearly it could talk with its mouth full. "I am observant. My life depends upon my being observant. It is not enough to merely take someone’s form—one would be spotted in short order if that’s all one did. Tell me…did you even suspect that I was not the Healer?"

Spade opened his mouth, and then closed it. No, he thought, chagrined. I didn’t. The alien was a dead ringer for Yvonne, and not just by way of looks. It had managed to copy her walk, her voice, her facial expressions. The only clue that it wasn’t her had been her silence; Yvonne would likely have responded to Walker’s impertinent questions.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Spade asked, changing the subject. "I’ve never seen you in here before. How is Yvonne going to eat if you’re eating now?"

"I have procured enough food for her," the alien noted, gesturing to the overfilled tray. "It has lately come to my attention that my presence is causing a drain on the currency of the allies who assist me."

"You mean that little girl and her family that rescued your children. Eating them out of house and home, are you?"

The alien flicked a slightly irritated glance toward Spade. "Movement around this compound is extremely difficult," it replied over a forkful of meatloaf. "I have to change my shape constantly, and that requires a great deal of energy."

"Which requires a great deal of food," Spade finished. He smiled faintly. "First the Army captures you, now it’s feeding you. I love irony." He picked up his fork and resumed eating. "Making any progress?"

"I have identified the places where the serum is stored," the alien said, still shoveling. "I still haven’t figured out the method used to decide which stock will be used on any given day, assuming there is one. The Healer has told me that my companion will need to miss approximately one week’s worth of doses before we can expect his abilities to return. Since the serum is tested before each daily dose, I will need to make hasty replacements for seven days in a row at least in order to free him. That will be difficult."

It certainly will be, Spade thought. If not downright impossible. For all that Spade hated Cavitt, he was no fool—Cavitt had this place buttoned up tight.

"In addition, I will need to neutralize the tranquilizers in your weapons," the alien continued. "Those are also tested once a day for potency. Fortunately I will not need to do that until I’m ready to move."

Spade sighed. "Does it really need to be this complicated? I know you can’t just blast in there without getting killed, but can’t you just destroy the serum? Or replace it? They can’t give him what they don’t have."

"Of course I could. I would need to do that several days in a row, the damage would become apparent within twenty-four hours, and what do you think would happen then?"

Spade looked away, picking at his carrots. The prisoner would be sedated again, that’s what would happen. Or worse. Cavitt would kill it himself rather than let it escape. "It’s just frustrating," Spade said glumly. "There are so many things you can do that we can’t. It seems like this shouldn’t be so hard."

"The obstacles in my path are not insurmountable. There are just too many of them for me to reach my goal easily. Even the strong can be outnumbered."

Two soldiers walked by, throwing narrow-eyed looks their way. One of them muttered something under his breath.

"Just as well I couldn’t hear that," Spade commented.

"He said, ‘Alien lovers’," the alien replied, digging into the mashed potatoes.

Spade watched the muttering soldiers leave, watched the resentful expressions they threw his way. "Doesn’t that bother you?" he asked. "Hearing them say things like that?"

"This is hardly the first time I have been regarded with fear and loathing," the alien answered calmly. "I am used to it." He glanced at the retreating soldiers. "I take it your men are angry about what happened with your General?"

"Only a few are actually angry," Spade said, mentally setting aside his question about why the alien was accustomed to being loathed. "Most of them are just scared. More like terrified."

"They should be. My companion is intimidating under the best of circumstances. I need not point out that these are not the best of circumstances."

"I don’t care how grumpy he is—he got Ramey’s attention," Spade said. "Ramey seems like a decent sort. He’s not like Pierce and Cavitt. I think he’ll at least try to do right by your friend."

"That was my impression as well," the alien said, "for the all the good it will do us."

"What do you mean? He’s a General! Yvonne and I, we’re on your side, but we’re not high up enough to really make a difference."

The alien looked at him gravely. "How many of your people do you think feel as your General does? He still has superiors to report to. As I said before, even the strong can be outnumbered—that holds for your people as well as mine."

True enough. Spade remembered how elated he'd felt when Ramey had believed him about Cavitt’s lying, then how deflated he'd felt only minutes later when he'd realized there was nothing Ramey could do about it. Even a two-star General had his limitations.

"I must be going," the alien said abruptly. "The Healer is no doubt getting hungry."

"So how often has this happened?" Spade asked, watching the alien pack up the tray. "How many other times have you made me think you were her?"

"Never," the alien replied shortly, "and I only did so now to illustrate a point—you must always behave as though this form is the Healer. No asking questions, no 'secret signals'; you must assume this shape is hers unless informed otherwise. My being discovered would not go well for either of us."

"But who would notice something like an eye blink?" Spade protested.

"You are forgetting something," the alien said sternly. "There are more than just human enemies out there, and they are every bit as observant as I am. I should know. I trained them myself."

Spade swallowed hard. He’d never thought of that. They hadn’t seen or heard anything of the other aliens since the second capture. And come to think of it, that was strange.

"Where do you think they are?" Spade asked, as the alien rose to leave. "Why haven’t they come back?"

The alien cast a sharp glance around the room. "Oh, they’ll be back," he said quietly. "Count on it."




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




Major Cavitt paced impatiently to and fro outside the base’s main building, briefcase in hand. "For the last time, where is my car?" he demanded of the hapless soldier standing nearby.

"I don’t know what could be keeping him, sir," the soldier replied. "Do you want me to call again?"

"No, I want my car," Cavitt said angrily.

"Here it is now, sir," the soldier said, gazing past Cavitt with a look of relief on his face.

A large vehicle drew abreast of them. The engine still running, a soldier hopped out of the driver’s seat and saluted smartly, holding the door for Cavitt.

"Your car, Major."

"It’s about time," Cavitt huffed. He climbed into the front seat and slammed the door behind him, wrenching the door out of the soldier’s hands in the process. The car roared off, leaving the two soldiers staring after it.

<Bit of a temper, hasn’t he?> Malik remarked, massaging his hand.

<Where have you been?> Amar demanded, rounding on him angrily. <Do you know how long I’ve been standing here with that dimwit?>

<Apparently long enough that you sound exactly like that dimwit,> Malik said dryly.

<Don’t change the subject!> Amar retorted. <What did you find? Are they still there?>

Malik sighed. <Yes, Amar. They still have them.>

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR



August 8, 1947, 11:30 a.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona





In the dim coolness of the lower basement level, Malik crouched beside the nearest tank, peering at its occupant. The figure it contained was curled in a fetal position, suspended in the gestational fluid, its hands balled into fists. They’re getting big, Malik noted approvingly. Their eyes were not yet open, but that was no surprise; that always came at the end, when emergence was imminent.

"It shouldn’t be long now," he murmured to the figure in the tank. "A few more months at most." He felt only slightly silly talking to it; at this state of development it could very likely hear, at least on some level. Besides, it was easier talking to these tanks these days then it was to talk to Amar, whose latest argument with the Leader was the reason for Malik’s presence here in the first place. One couldn’t hear anything outside the atmospheric chamber which protected the Argilian bioscientist from Earth's atmosphere, but there had been no need for sound; the silhouetted figures were clearly fighting—again. Even sitting with your back to that was depressing, so Malik had escaped down here, where all was peaceful.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs from the upper basement level. Times up, Malik thought wearily, as Amar strode into the room in his native form, looking oddly incongruent in a world of huge doorways, high tables, and tall stairs. Malik frowned; this was a disturbing breach of protocol, especially for Amar, who prided himself on being invisible. It was Covari practice when in disguise to maintain that disguise completely, reverting to native form only when absolutely necessary. In their case, "absolutely necessary’ meant sessions with the Leader, who refused to see them in any form but their native form for one very good reason—he would be unable to tell who was who if they approached in human form.

"Shift," Malik said shortly. "I know you’re upset," he continued when Amar predictably ignored him, "but when you let your anger get the better of you, you put us all in danger. Now shift and behave yourself, or I’m reporting you."

Amar let lose a telepathic expletive. But a moment later he was in human form, glaring at him.

"Let me guess," Malik said, before Amar had a chance to say a thing. "The Leader said 'no'."

"He’s crazy!" Amar exploded, smashing his tiny human hand against the nearest available tank. Its occupant flinched.

"Don’t do that!" Malik said reprovingly. "Throw your tantrums somewhere else—don’t take it out on them!"

"What difference does it make?" Amar said angrily. "They’re not aware of anything. Honestly, you fuss over these things like pets. Statistically speaking, a lot of them won’t live anyway. You shouldn’t get so attached."

"Statistically speaking, they can hear at this point. Although if the first thing I heard was you bitching, I’d most likely wish I couldn't," Malik said darkly, heading for the stairs to the upper basement level. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he didn’t want Amar near any of the tanks when it resumed.

Amar followed him up the steps, past the upper basement level and on up to the first floor of the house, pacing the kitchen floor in frustration as Malik rummaged in the refrigerator for sandwich fixings. "Lunch?" Malik asked, in a vain effort to forestall the eruption he knew was coming.

"I’m not hungry," Amar said shortly. He glanced at the sandwich in production on Malik’s plate. "Why do you put that red stuff all over everything? You can’t taste it."

Malik shrugged. "It looks nice. And the humans use it all the time. Helps me blend in."

"If you ask me, you’re doing way too much ‘blending in’," Amar complained. "One of those children was over here again today asking if you’d play that dumb hoop ball game with him. I thought you hated that."

"Basketball," Malik corrected. "It’s football that I find ridiculous. Basketball is much more challenging." He slapped the top layer of bread on his sandwich, the "red stuff" squishing out at the sides. "So—are you going to blow up and get it over with, or do you plan on ruining my entire meal?"

"I do not understand him!" Amar erupted, ignoring the sarcasm. "He finally lets us check on them, and what good does it do? We have them right where we want them, and he won’t let us go back there! What did you tell him?"

"The truth," Malik said, opening the refrigerator. "There's no way for us to get the Warders out of that compound. Hell, we couldn’t even get in the place. We both tried several different times, and it never worked."

"We could try the vents again—"

"They've sealed the vents, Amar. I already checked that. Your little stunt taught them that. "

"Then we’ll just have to replace someone!"

"How?" Malik asked, arranging his lunch on the kitchen table. "Everyone's confined to the compound except for the top brass, and given the security procedures we witnessed, that wouldn't work anyway."

" 'Top brass'?" Amar said, shaking his head in disbelief. " 'Bitching'? 'Hell'? The longer we stay here, the more you sound like them. And no, that's not a complement."

"Really?" Malik said in mock surprise. "Perhaps you should be more careful what you say. 'They' managed to devise a security system that is very difficult to infiltrate."

"But not impossible," Amar countered. "We can get in there, Malik. You know we can."

"But we can't get back out," Malik said pointedly. "Not with the Warders, maybe not even at all. We'd wind up captured just like they are. And even if we succeeded, we can't hold them."

"I've almost got the trithium device recalibrated," Amar countered. "It's much better than it was."

"Right," Malik said sarcastically. "That's why the last time you turned it on, it knocked out power to the atmospheric chamber, the houses on both sides of ours, and sent the Leader into a tizzy. Very covert, Amar. Very stealthy."

Amar leaned against the counter and fumed in silence for a moment as Malik tucked into his sandwich and waited for round two. There was always a round two to these "discussions", if not a round three and four.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be this close to nabbing them?" Amar said furiously. "They're practically gift-wrapped for us, and we can't get at them!"

Malik sighed. This argument was becoming tiresome. "Look, we know they have them. We know they're alive, because if they weren't, they would long ago have gone to dust and there would be no need for all that security. As far as The Leader is concerned, the humans have done our work for us. We can most likely safely leave them there until we have enough back-up to retrieve them." Which suits me just fine, Malik thought with satisfaction. It was the lesser of two evils, but the Warders were safer with the humans than they would be with their own people.

Grabbing a kitchen chair, Amar pulled it directly in front of Malik and sat down, facing backwards like those boys down at the Dairy Queen liked to do. For all of Amar's grousing about Malik picking up human speech and habits, he was doing the same. "Help me," Amar said intently, staring at Malik. "It'll be ages before anyone else gets here. Help me get to them before it's too late."

"Didn't we just go over this?"

"We need to find out where the hybrids are," Amar argued, "and only the Warders know that, right?"

Wrong. "We have years before the hybrids will be a problem," Malik said dismissively, remembering how he'd stood in the old laboratory chamber with the glowing sacs leaning against the wall.

"But what if the humans don't keep the Warders here? What if they move them? What if they already have? We don't even know if they're holding both of them in the same place!"

"Doesn't matter," Malik said. "As I've already pointed out at least a dozen times, there's nothing we can do about it anyway. Now beat it. You're spoiling my appetite."

"There must be a way to do this!" Amar insisted, ignoring him. "They can't have thought of everything—they're only humans."

"That's what's really killing you, isn't it?" Malik said sarcastically. "It's not just that the Warders are out of reach. That's bad enough, but to think that it's mere humans who stand in your way. Poor baby."

"Fine!" Amar exploded, pushing himself off the chair. "If you won't help me, I'll do it myself!" He blasted out of the kitchen toward the front door, with Malik in hot pursuit. "Amar," Malik warned, "don't do anything stupid!"

Amar ignored him, careening out the door, down the porch steps, and down the front walk. <Amar! Where are you going?> Malik called from the front porch, grateful that telepathic speech allowed them the luxury of private argument despite all the humans within earshot. Earth's huge sun was beating down on the street outside where children played, dogs romped, and adults sat lazily on their front porches fanning themselves, oblivious to the alien drama right in front of them.

Or maybe not. Malik froze as Amar turned around and began speaking—no, shouting—out loud in Antarian for the entire street to hear. Heads turned. Children playing ball in the middle of the road paused to look. Even the dogs seem to have stopped barking as Amar continued to spew what must sound very strange indeed to human ears.

And then he was gone, marching up the street to God knows where, a study in fury. Moron, Malik thought angrily, borrowing yet another human expression. Amar's increasing frustration at having the Royal Warders so close and yet so far was beginning to cause dangerous fallout, not to mention seriously impairing his judgment. He just couldn't see that even if he managed to get into the human's military compound, he'd never get back out with what he wanted, assuming he managed to get out at all.

"Something wrong, Carl?" called Mrs. Rahn from the porch next door, using his human pseudonym.

Malik sighed and pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "We just had an argument, that's all," he called across their two front yards. "No big deal."

"Sounded like a big deal," Mrs. Rahn observed. "Come up here and have a set," she added, patting the porch chair beside her. "I haven't seen you in a while."

Malik headed across the lawn toward the Rahn's tidy home, giving a smile and a shrug to the watching neighbors, all of whom returned his smile and went back to what they were doing. Four years ago when Malik and his fellow dissidents had arrived here after spending nearly a year on the run, most of those very same neighbors had shown up on their front porch with offers of assistance, gifts they called "housewarming presents", and massive amounts of strange food none of them had ever seen before. Their prompt arrival had roused the suspicions of all but Malik. It had been heartwarming to find people so kind. A large portion of Earth had been at war at that time, yet still they found the resources to welcome a group of total strangers. For Malik, a member of a race that was despised and feared on his own world, this instantaneous, unconditional acceptance was strange—and appealing.

"They don't really like you," Amar had warned at the time. "They're only being nice because they think we're like them. If they knew the truth, they would feel differently."

Perhaps, Malik thought, as he climbed the steps to the Rahn's wide, inviting front porch. Perhaps not. Not all humans were so narrow. Like the little girl and her family who had rescued the hybrids, or the soldier in the human compound who had tried—and failed—to help Jaddo.

"Tom's quite the hothead, isn't he?" Mrs. Rahn was saying, using Amar's human pseudonym as Malik took a seat on that wonderful porch swing of hers. Mrs. Rahn was a massive woman, with a smile to match and a heart just as large. "What was that he was saying? I've never heard anything like that before."

"He studies languages," Malik answered, shrugging. "I have no idea which one that was."

"Tom studies languages?" Mrs. Rahn said in disbelief. "Gracious, I didn't think he had the patience for that!"

Malik suppressed a smile. Amar had the patience of a hurricane—if that. "He's just temperamental. Pay him no mind."

"Hard not to, when he goes off on a tear like that," Mrs. Rahn observed. "So what were you arguing about?"

"Politics," Malik answered truthfully.

"Now, that's always good for causing arguments," Mrs. Rahn said, chuckling. "My Bill and I, we used to argue about politics constantly."

" 'Used to'?"

"We argued right up through the end of the war," Mrs. Rahn answered, nodding. "Then the war ended and we said, 'What are we doing, wasting our time complaining about all this?' War does that. Reorganizes your priorities. The war was over; no sense rehashing it. So we decided we just weren't going to discuss that anymore." She winked, and leaned closer. "Don't tell Bill," she whispered conspiratorially, "but I voted for Dewey instead of Roosevelt."

"Your secret's safe with me," Malik promised, smiling. He still hadn't gotten his head around the strange system of government that prevailed on this part of the planet, but he had to admit it seemed to work.

"How about some iced tea?" Mrs. Rahn asked.

"I'd love some."

As Mrs. Rahn bustled off into the house, Malik settled back into the swing, rocking it with his foot, watching the neighborhood children play. He knew that soon Mrs. Rahn would appear with a tall glass of that brown liquid humans seemed to enjoy so much both hot and cold, topped with a slice of that strange yellow fruit no one ever ate raw. He liked this world, with its friendly people and its large yellow sun. Maybe…..

Malik rocked the swing and pondered the thought. It wasn't the first time this had occurred to him, and he doubted it would be the last. War did indeed reorganize one's priorities.

When all this was over, he just might decide to stay here.




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




12:00 p.m.

Proctor residence


Kneeling beside her bed with her back to the door, Dee Proctor smiled as she laid her drawings out side by side. The afternoon sun blazed in the window, shining on the array of crayoned pictures as she searched for just the right ones. Today was her birthday; she was nine years old. And over there, right in front of the window, sat the best birthday present she had ever received: A telescope. Her parents had given it to her that morning before her father had left for work so she would have time to read the instruction book and learn how it worked before it got dark.

Dee looked up at the telescope that sat on its tripod by her open bedroom window, remembering how her father had told her that Brivari had "worked on" it, whatever that meant. It certainly looked perfectly normal. It was silver, gleaming and shiny, with a focus knob that worked just like the knob on Anthony's telescope and decorations on one side of the metal casing, a pretty pattern of dots on lines. She'd read the instruction book cover to cover, but she'd have to wait until it was dark before trying the various things it suggested. She had no idea what Brivari had done to it, so she'd have to ask when she saw him next...whenever that was. He came and went a lot nowadays, and they didn't see him very much.

Dee rearranged a couple of pictures, exchanging one for another. Her drawings of the last time she and Urza had been together in her dream were some of her most prized possessions, hidden between her mattress and her box spring along with her ship piece and the copies of the alien book. She had added a few since she had drawn the original set, as life had quieted somewhat and she had remembered additional details. She now had some two dozen pictures which told the story, beginning with that strange diamond Urza had used to start his ship and ending with the two of them sitting by Dimaras Rock, with the fireworks Dee had added to the dream bursting in the strange, reddish sky. Not so long ago she would have cried looking at these pictures. Now she mainly felt sadness and a sense of loss, a hole in her life that shouldn't be there. Maybe this was what Mama meant when she said it would get easier, but it would never really go away.

Pulling out three drawings, Dee gathered the others into a pile and laid the three out in front of her. These would be her first targets, if she could just figure out when they'd be visible from Earth: Saturn, with its huge rings, and Jupiter, with its many, many moons. Later, when she knew what she was doing, she would try to find the third one—the beautiful "V" shaped constellation, with Antar orbiting the star at its point. Dee had no idea if she would be able to see anything that far away through her telescope, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

<Good afternoon.>

In one smooth motion Dee swept all of her pictures under her pillow, stood up, turned around, and plopped on her bed. Brivari stood in the doorway, watching her with that measured stare he wore so often. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen her drawings? She'd never shown Brivari her pictures, or talked to him about the night Urza died. He'd probably be angry that Urza had shown her anything, and the last thing she wanted to do was add to his list of reasons for being angry with Urza.

<Happy birth date,> Brivari said, coming into her room. He hesitated, frowning. <Did I get that right?>

<It's happy birthday,> Dee corrected, smiling. <And thank you. For that too,> she added, nodding toward the telescope.

<Do you like it?> Brivari asked, sounding uncharacteristically pleased. <I did the best I could with the materials at hand. This shape isn't really optimal for this application, but I kept it to avoid suspicion. And your planet lacks certain elements, so I had to make some substitutions.>

<I'm sure it's way better than anything we have,> Dee assured him, not quite following all the big words. Sometimes it seemed like she needed a dictionary just to talk to these people.

<Have you tried it yet?>

<I can't until tonight.>

<Why wait for night?>

<Because I can't see anything when the sun's out.>

Brivari shook his head. <I forgot,> he said, reaching for the telescope and rubbing his hand along the casing. <Take a look.>

Mystified, Dee put her eye to the eyepiece—and gasped. The stars were brilliant against a totally black sky. She looked up toward where the telescope was pointing and saw nothing but blue sky.

<What did you do? What am I looking at?>

<You're looking at the stars that are there, but invisible because your sun's light is brighter,> Brivari explained. <This lever moves a solar filter which blocks the sun's light, a useful tool because many celestial objects are only visible during a planet's daytime rotation.>

Lever? He was pointing to the decorations on the telescope's casing, and as she touched them, imitating the motion of his hand a moment earlier, her mouth fell open. Those "dots" weren't decorations; they were levers which slid back and forth along the various lines, moving something inside the telescope, and so cleverly concealed they were virtually invisible unless you knew what to look for.

<What do these do?> she asked, moving the levers one by one.

<They place and remove objects which bend light,> Brivari explained. <I believe you call them 'lenses'.>

<Wow,> Dee said softly, returning her eye to the eyepiece. Anthony would love to see this. Too bad she couldn't show him.
<How do you know so much about telescopes? I thought you guarded a king.>

<I guarded two, actually,> Brivari answered, his voice adopting the faraway tone it usually did whenever he talked about home. <The king who died recently was the son of the first king I guarded, and he was a boy once. He liked to look at the stars too. Just like you do.>

<Did he ever look at Earth?>

<Probably. Your planet is very beautiful. Even from a great distance, it appears colorful—blue, white, and green. I would imagine many people on my world look at yours,> Brivari finished, as Dee tried to imagine a whole planet full of short, gray people looking through whatever they used for telescopes at Earth. Suddenly the universe didn't seem so large.

<Were you looking for something in particular?> Brivari asked. <Something from one of those drawings, perhaps?>

Dee kept her eye on the eyepiece. He saw them. His tone was casual, but she knew Brivari well enough to know that he was letting her know he'd seen. But maybe he hadn't seen as much as she thought. Most of the really obvious ones had been in a pile, and two of the three that had been in front of her were from her own solar system. It was probably all right to show him those. Granted, she'd drawn Jupiter with a lot more moons than had been discovered yet, but maybe he didn't know that.

<I wanted to find these two,> she answered, moving to the bed and pulling out the drawings of Jupiter and Saturn. <They're the biggest planets in our solar system, and the prettiest, I think. But I don't know where to look….or how to find them.>

Brivari took the drawings from her, holding one in each hand and gazing at the sky through her window. <I should be able to find this one now,> he said, indicating the drawing of Jupiter. <I remember this planet from our journey here—it has a huge storm on it.>

<Is that what the red spot is?> Dee asked excitedly. <That great big red spot? A storm?>

Brivari nodded, sitting down in the chair beside the telescope and beginning to adjust it. <Storms are common on gas giants like that one.> He began sweeping the telescope up, down, and sideways on its tripod as Dee sat on the bed, fidgeting and trying to be patient.

<So how's Jaddo?>

<Frustrated and bored,> Brivari answered, still searching.

<Have they hurt him?>

<The General who visited a short time ago has given orders that he not be harmed, and so far, his inferiors have obeyed those orders.>

<That's good,> Dee said. <I didn't think there was anyone like that in the Army.>

<Not all of your people let their fear rule them,> Brivari noted, looking up briefly from the telescope. <Fortunately this man is of high enough rank that he has some influence.>

Dee waited some more while Brivari continued searching the bright afternoon sky. <What was it like for you?> she asked after a moment. <When your people first figured out that there was life on other planets besides yours, I mean. Did they act the same way we are?>

<How did humans react when they first discovered fire?>

Dee blinked. <I don't know. That was ages and ages ago, way back with the cave men. People weren't even writing then. They were just drawing pictures.>

Brivari looked at her expectantly. Dee looked blank for a moment, then her face relaxed. <Oh. I get it.>

<Our discovery of life besides our own took place so far in our past that no records have survived of anyone's reactions," Brivari said. <I imagine we responded much the same way as your people have. All people simultaneously fear and crave novelty.> He stepped away from the telescope. <Here it is. Have a look.>

Dee slid into the chair, bending her head to the eyepiece....and momentarily stopped breathing. There was Jupiter, huge and glowing, with dozens of moons surrounding it, the red "eye" that she now knew was a massive storm swirling away. It was just like she remembered.

<It's beautiful,> she whispered. <Just like before.>

<Are you ever going to show me your other drawings?> Brivari asked quietly.

Dee didn't say anything for a long time. She kept her eye plastered to the eyepiece, her insides churning. So he had seen her pictures. Of course he had. Or maybe Jaddo had told him about them. It didn't matter now.

<I don't know,> she admitted, still looking into the telescope. <I wanted to remember it, not spoil it. And I didn't want to make you angrier than you already were. You're scary when you're mad.>

Silence. <Are you still mad at Urza?> Dee ventured after a moment.

A pause. <Somewhat.>

Dee glanced away from the telescope to find Brivari staring out the window as though lost in thought. He didn't look happy, but neither did he look angry. And he'd been honest. She wouldn't have believed him if he'd said he wasn't mad at all.

Slipping off the chair, Dee went to her bed and pulled out her drawings, arranging them side by side so they told the story of her last moments with Urza from start to finish. She added her pictures of Saturn and Jupiter where they belonged, then sat back and waited while Brivari examined them. He looked for a long time, studying each picture carefully, reminding Dee of an art contest she'd seen once where the judges had pored over every entry for what had seemed like forever.

<Was Urza angry with me?>

Dee's eyes widened in surprise. Having assumed he'd be critical, she'd been working up a list of counterarguments and a good head of steam to go with them, neither of which were needed now. <No. He wasn't angry with anyone. I was the one who was angry.>

<Because he was dying?>

<Because you left him there.>

Brivari's eyes flicked up. <You believe I abandoned him out of anger?>

Dee squirmed for a moment, unwilling to admit that thought had crossed her mind. <I know why you left him. He told me how important the babies were, and so did Jaddo. I get it....but you can't make me like it.>

<For what it's worth, I didn't like it either,> Brivari answered soberly, holding a drawing of Antar's three moons. <Tell me something—with all that you saw that night, why did you pick two planets from your own system to look at?>

<You mean I can see things further away?> Dee asked, relieved he wasn't mad and glad to change the subject.

<Of course.>

Hesitating for just a moment, Dee reached toward the bed and picked up her drawing of the "V" constellation. <What about this? Can I see this?>

Brivari stared at the drawing, his face inscrutable. Then he walked to the telescope and adjusted the levers, confidently pointing it without all the searching he'd had to do for Jupiter. He seemed to know right where he was going. After a good deal of tinkering he stepped back and motioned to the telescope without saying a word.

Dee peered in the eyepiece; at first she didn't see anything but a black sky with fuzzy stars. But after hunting for a moment, she found it. It was tiny, clearly very far away, probably straining the limits of even this magic telescope. But it was there, a perfect, glittering "V" of stars.

<Wow,> Dee breathed softly. <That's your home! I never thought I'd be able to see it from here, even with this! I mean, I can't actually see your planet, but I can see the star. It's the one at the point, right? I saw it before, but I wasn't really seeing it—it was just a dream. This is real. It's really there.>

Silence. After a moment Dee looked up to find Brivari staring out the window again, lost in thought.

<Don't you want to look too?>

Slowly, he shook his head.

<No.>



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



1225 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Seething with impatience, Jaddo paced the floor of his room, stopping now and then to throw curious looks at the door. She was late. The Healer always arrived promptly for the midday meal the humans referred to as "lunch", but today she was overdue. He had stood beside the door several times already, listening for anything happening outside; although the window in the door was kept covered, he was able to hear conversation just on the other side of the door quite plainly. But all was quiet, and as the minutes ticked by, Jaddo began to grow worried that something had happened. Without the Healer and the access she willingly gave Brivari, he was certain he would go mad.

Tired of pacing, Jaddo stretched out on the bed, glancing up at the observation room window. There was no one there today, which was odd. For the past several weeks a steady stream of military personnel, all of them male and all sporting uniforms with insignia of high rank, had paraded past the upstairs window day and night. Occasionally Jaddo would amuse himself by standing underneath the window and glowering at the assembled faces, most of which would draw back in alarm. Brivari had insisted he stop this practice, pointing out that Jaddo wasn't doing himself any favors by making himself look dangerous.

< 'Look' dangerous?> Jaddo had repeated bitterly. <Given that I can't shift or use my abilities, about all I am able to do is 'look' dangerous.>

It was strange, really. If someone had ever asked him to hazard a guess on what the worst part of captivity would be, Jaddo probably would have said "torture"—and he would have been wrong. In reality it was the relentless, mind-numbing boredom that threatened his sanity. The same four walls, day after day. The same three meals, day after day. Nothing to do, no one to see save for the male human who hastily administered that foul serum and just as hastily left, the Healer, and Brivari when he could manage it. Initially pleased with his conversation with the human General, it now appeared a hollow victory. True, he was no longer restrained, but no one approached him—he had been left so completely alone, and was so unprepared for that, that there were times he felt as though he would crack.

I'm not up to this, Jaddo thought despairingly, as he took another peek at the still silent door. This was a situation never faced by any of his race—not only captive in place, but captive in form. Not being able to shift was one of a Covari's worst nightmares. Yet all was not lost—the sites where the serum was injected healed over quickly, completely disappearing long before the next dose, which meant his shifting abilities were still there, at least on a subconscious level. And then Brivari had brought word that the mark was forming, that Zan had indeed returned, and Jaddo's spirits had soared. Perhaps he would survive this after all. He was still alive, Brivari was working to get him out, and they had a King. Everything would be all right.

If he could survive this tedium, that is. As the days had passed, Jaddo had found himself growing increasingly impatient and irritable. Visits with Brivari inevitably ended in argument, and he had begun looking forward to the Healer's visits more and more. He had to admit he had judged her wrongly at first; ever since she had thrown that cup against the wall, her strength and stubbornness had continued to surprise him. They barely spoke to each other, but Jaddo found her calm, silent presence comforting. She did not suffer from one of the most common failings of her gender, that being the tendency to prattle. Vilandra had been that way, regarding silence as an enemy that must be vanquished at all costs. Rath hadn't seemed to mind her constant chatter, but his Warder had not fared so well.

Jaddo's ears pricked; there was movement outside the door, and the low murmur of male voices. Most likely the Healer was having the usual difficulty with the soldiers stationed here, who seemed to despise her because she was kind to him. He sat up, watching the door expectantly. He was hungry, but he craved more than just food. He wanted companionship, to sit in comfortable silence with someone who would neither argue with nor admonish him. He would never have believed that could be so important.

A key turned in the lock. The door knob began to turn, and Jaddo climbed off the bed to greet the Healer. Perhaps he should work harder at perfecting her telepathic speech so he could speak privately to her, away from prying human ears. That might be a worthwhile endeavor, especially since it appeared Brivari would need even more time than previously expected to free him from this boredom.

Then the door swung open.

It was not the Healer; it was the human doctor. Jaddo glanced behind him to see if the Healer was with him, but only the requisite guards followed on the doctor's heels as the door closed behind him.

"Good afternoon," the doctor said pleasantly. "I thought it was time that you and I became acquainted."

So, Jaddo thought wearily. It begins.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


August 8, 1947, 1235 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




Jaddo eyed the human doctor suspiciously as the guards took up their posts on either side of the door. He was clothed in that garish white garment so many human healers seemed to prefer, and he carried nothing but a writing instrument and a recording device the healer had referred to as a "clipboard". He wore a pleasant, almost bland expression that was probably intended to be simultaneously disarming and friendly, but succeeded in being neither. True friendliness was never that calculated.

"Where is the Healer?" Jaddo demanded.

The doctor blinked. "Healer? Oh! You mean Lieutenant White?"

"You know perfectly well who I mean," Jaddo replied coldly.

" 'Healer'," the doctor murmured, ignoring Jaddo. "Interesting. Your command of our language is impressive, but you haven't yet picked up on the term 'nurse'."

"Where is she? What have you done with her?"

The doctor blinked again. " 'Done with her'? Why, I haven't 'done' anything with her. I've merely given Lieutenant White the afternoon off, that's all." He paused. "Why would you think I had 'done something' with her?"

"Why not?" Jaddo countered. "Humans killed two of their own and tried to blame us by planting false handprints on the bodies. I have no trouble at all believing that you would have her executed if it suited your purposes."

Jaddo watched in satisfaction as the doctor's eyebrows rose and the bland, friendly mask dropped. It was firmly back in place only a moment later, but no matter. He had surprised the doctor with information the doctor didn't think he had. Information was always the bargaining tool in contests such as these, and Jaddo had just won the first round.

"I assure you," the doctor said, pulling up a nearby chair and sitting down, "that I have done nothing either to or with Lieutenant White. I can also assure you that I am unaware of these 'false handprints' you speak of, and that execution is not a tool of the United States military. I am merely here to make your acquaintance, having allowed you a generous amount of time to recover from your various earlier ordeals. Please," he said, indicating a nearby chair. "Sit."

Jaddo stared at the proffered chair, then at the closed, guarded door. He would dearly love to snap the neck of this fool, and it was certainly within his power to do so. Unfortunately it might also be the last thing he ever did, an inconvenient fact which would definitely put a damper on the otherwise enormous satisfaction he'd feel. On the other hand, merely taking a seat like a good little prisoner went against every bone in his body.

After considering his limited options for a moment, Jaddo took hold of the indicated chair and pushed it directly in front of the doctor, seating himself so that their knees were inches apart. Intimidation was the intention, and he succeeded: The doctor's face twitched in alarm at this close proximity, but to his credit, he didn't back up. The guards swung their weapons around, but the doctor held up a placating hand.

"I don't know how things are done in your culture," the doctor said carefully, "although I would very much like to learn. But here, it is considered impolite to sit so close to another person unless it is absolutely necessary. Please back up."

"Proximity is normal for my people," Jaddo replied. "If it is not normal for yours, then you should back up. Or better yet, stay where you are. If you were being truthful about wanting to 'learn', that is."

The doctor stared at him, considering his options as Jaddo had done a moment earlier, clearly well aware of what was at stake here. Whoever capitulated first would be at a disadvantage. And Jaddo had no incentive to capitulate, while the doctor had plenty. Besides, what did they intend to do? Sedate him again? Given the crushing boredom of the past several days, sedation looked inviting.

Finally the doctor backed his chair away. The soldiers slowly lowered their weapons. Jaddo smiled slightly, making sure the doctor saw it.

"I do wish to learn," the doctor said smoothly, choosing to ignore the fact that he had just lost round two. "Which is precisely why I am here. We have a unique opportunity, you and I, to pave a path between our peoples, to…."

"…to masquerade incarceration as diplomacy," Jaddo finished bluntly. "I would hardly term being held prisoner a 'unique opportunity'."

"Please," the doctor said patiently. "You're not a prisoner here. You are a guest of the United States Government, and…"

"Do not insult my intelligence by referring to me as a 'guest'!" Jaddo snapped. "No exercise in semantics will change the fact that I am a prisoner and this is a prison!"

"Are you quite sure about that?" the doctor asked. "Have you ever seen one of our military prisons? This is a palace by comparison."

"So you expect gratitude that I have been drugged and incarcerated in an allegedly high quality prison?"

"No," the doctor replied simply. "I just wanted to make it clear that things could have been worse had more enlightened minds not prevailed."

Jaddo snorted softly. "No doubt you consider yourself one of those 'enlightened minds'. I would beg to differ."

The doctor hesitated for a moment as if unsure how to proceed, tapping his writing tool on his clipboard and eyeing Jaddo critically. Jaddo waited, returning the stare. He didn't fear silence, and he had, unfortunately, all the time in the world.

"Perhaps we should start over," the doctor suggested. "I didn't mean for this to turn into a confrontation. Allow me to introduce myself. I am…."

"….Pierce," Jaddo finished. "Rank, Major. Profession, doctor. You attained the rank of Major two years ago, much to the chagrin of your colleague named 'Cavitt'. You drive a blue vehicle known as a 'Ford', which is always parked on the left side of the main doorway. You arrive promptly at 7 a.m. each morning; your first stop is your office, your second, the viewing room above. Too much coffee makes you dyspeptic, your current pair of shoes run small, and the keys which operate your vehicle are housed in the left upper pocket of the conveyance you call a 'briefcase'. Oh, and one more thing," Jaddo finished with satisfaction. "This little recital of mine is making your skin crawl."

Pierce had listened in silence, managing to look only mildly interested at this list of personal information. Only his slightly widened eyes and the twitching of a finger gave away his true feelings. Jaddo yearned to go on, to wipe that bland look off the doctor's face, but he was less sure of his other facts. His hearing was excellent, but the door to his cell was heavy, and conversations were usually held several feet away. Best to stick with what he was certain of.

"Amazing," Pierce said at length. "I….How do you know all that?"

"I am observant," Jaddo replied. "My survival often depends upon my being observant. And what about you? Are you observant? What have you learned about me?"

"Well….we know your human appearance is false. You appear human on the outside, but your x-rays…that's a photograph of the inside of your body made by using…."

"I know what an x-ray is," Jaddo interrupted. "A shockingly primitive technology, but the best you have at your disposal given your limited state of development, I would imagine."

Pierce pursed his lips and tapped his writing instrument on his clipboard again. "As I was saying, your x-rays show decidedly non-human internal organs, and even your remarkably human-appearing exterior looks very different under a microscope—skin cells, hair and nail clippings, all completely foreign. Your physical strength is impressive, your wounds seems to heal in a remarkably short amount of time, I'm now willing to bet your hearing is superior to ours, and somewhere, somehow, you learned to like…..coffee."

"That's it?" Jaddo said incredulously. "X-rays, painfully obvious observations even a child could make, and beverage predilections?" He shook his head sadly. "Pitiful, even for an amateur such as yourself."

At long last, Pierce's carefully concocted pleasant expression faltered. A vein in his temple began to throb ever so faintly, probably so faintly he wasn't even aware of it yet. No doubt Brivari would be furious at this obvious—and successful—attempt to anger the human, but Jaddo hadn't enjoyed himself this much in weeks.

"You'll be glad to hear, I'm sure," Pierce was saying, in a somewhat less friendly tone, "that you will have the opportunity to correct my many and varied shortcomings."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I have a proposal for you, one that would be mutually beneficial to both of us."

" 'Mutually beneficial'?" Jaddo repeated. "Forgive my skepticism, but I sincerely doubt that."

"Then allow me to allay your doubts. I want to learn about you, Mr….. what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Jaddo said shortly. "Your General gave me a name. Use that."

"Ah. Yes. 'John Doe'. As I was saying, Mr. Doe, I want to learn about you and your people. I would like to conduct a series of tests, and in order to do that, I need your cooperation."

"What kind of 'tests'?" Jaddo asked suspiciously.

"All kinds. Social. Emotional. Physical. Psychological."

Jaddo's eyes glinted dangerously. "Your General promised I would not be harmed."

"And you shan't!" Pierce protested. "None of this will be harmful, I assure you. Heavens, if harming you was my goal, there are certainly far easier and more efficient ways to do that, don't you agree?"

Jaddo scowled, the implications of that last statement hanging in the air like smoke. "When General Ramey was here, you requested an audience with our president, did you not?" the doctor went on. "Cooperating with me would go a long way toward convincing those who advise him that meeting you would be…mutually beneficial."

"So this is what you call 'beneficial'? A hypothetical meeting that may never take place?"

"That would be a long term benefit," Pierce replied. "I would, of course, provide short term benefits." He swept his gaze around the room. "As I pointed out earlier, this room is a palace by military prison standards, but it does lack a certain something, as you've already pointed out." He smiled, back in control of the conversation as Jaddo seethed silently in front of him. "Work with me, and I will see to it that your circumstances improve. We'll get you furniture, better clothing, reading material about our world, perhaps even freedom of movement within the compound. Cooperate fully, and I can see you taking trips outside," he added expansively, as though that would be a real treat.

"And if I refuse?"

Pierce smiled indulgently and nodded. "You are, of course, free to refuse. I can't force you, nor would I even if I could—it would skew the results of the tests. If you prefer, I will see to it that you are left alone." He paused. "Completely alone."

"I am already completely alone," Jaddo noted, eyeing the doctor warily. What did he mean? Had Brivari been captured again?

"As a matter of fact, you're not," Pierce replied. "You've been enjoying the company of Lieutenant White. Enjoying it quite a bit, from what I've seen."

Jaddo was silent, his hands clenched into fists in his lap as he realized where Pierce was heading with all this. They were going to keep the Healer from him, which also meant he would not be able to see Brivari, at least not regularly. And maybe not at all.

"Of course, if you would prefer to be left alone, I'll respect your wishes," Pierce went on, sounding maddeningly earnest and sincere. "But you've been so restless of late, what with having nothing at all to do, that I thought you might rather enjoy some employment. Not to mention the fact that you seem to enjoy Lieutenant White's visits, to the point where you anticipate her arrival right to the minute, like you have some kind of internal clock."

Now it was Jaddo's turn to look surprised. "Perhaps I am not as unobservant as you thought," Pierce said softly. "So what will it be? Remain alone in this room with nothing to do and no one to talk to, or work with me and enjoy the many benefits that will come your way? It's your choice."

Some choice, Jaddo thought savagely. If the past few weeks had taught him anything, it was that isolation was a torture in its own right, a fact this manipulative human obviously knew only too well.

"I'll let you think about it," Pierce said, pushing his chair back and standing up. "If you decide to accept, just have the guards send for me. If not, nothing will change…except Lieutenant White's presence at mealtimes, of course. Because if you decline, that will mean you wish to be alone, and I will respect that decision."

It was all Jaddo could do not to leap from his chair and wipe that satisfied smile off the doctor's face. He glared at Pierce silently, struggling to find a counter thrust or at least a suitable retort, anything that would make his victory less enjoyable.

"There's no time limit on this, by the way," Pierce added as he headed for the door, the soldiers backing away as he approached. "Whenever you decide you are weary of this pointless existence, just let me know. I'll be here." He gave a brief nod. "Good afternoon, Mr. Doe."

"It must be difficult for you," Jaddo said suddenly.

Pierce stopped. "What must be difficult for me?"

"You want to see me change my shape," Jaddo replied, struggling to keep his voice even. "You want to study my more unusual abilities. But the means by which you hold me dictate that you can study neither. No matter how many 'tests' you do, you'll never get what you really want. How do you stand the frustration?"

Pierce was silent for a moment, whether considering his words or struggling for self control, it was hard to tell. Then he walked up to Jaddo and leaned over him, stopping just inches from his face while the soldiers hovered nervously in the background.

"It is regrettable that I won't be able to see some of your more....spectacular abilities," he said in a low voice. "But there's so much else to learn. That's all I want to do, Mr. Doe….to learn about you, to forge a bond between our peoples with shared knowledge."

"Just exactly how stupid do you think I am?" Jaddo hissed furiously. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"

"You don't really expect me to believe your presence here is an accident, do you?" the doctor replied coldly. "How stupid do you think I am?"

When Jaddo didn't answer, Pierce stood up. "But then I suppose it doesn't matter what either of us believes. My offer stands; you are free to accept it or reject it as you see fit, and you will not be harmed in any way regardless of your decision. And make no mistake, it will be your decision, Mr. Doe. What happens to you now is up to you."

Then Pierce left the room with the guards on his heels, and the door slammed shut, leaving Jaddo completely......alone.




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




1730 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Corporal Brisson entered the lab in a rush, panting. "Doctor Pierce?"

Pierce looked up from his microscope. "Oh, good, Brisson. You're here. You were going to show me the second stage samples."

Brisson swallowed, looking back toward the door as though something were chasing him. "Not now, sir. It's Lieutenant White. She's looking for you, and she's really upset."

Pierce consulted his watch. "Mmm. Yes," he murmured. "Dinner. Right on time."

"Doctor, you'd better do something," Brisson pressed urgently. "When I say upset, I mean really upset."

Pierce sighed. "Then you'd better bring her here so I can…."

The door behind Brisson flew open and Yvonne White entered the room, looking absolutely fit to be tied.

"Quick work, Corporal," Pierce said, smiling. "I'm impressed."

Brisson glanced back and forth from his inexplicably cheerful CO to the steaming Lieutenant, backing up as though afraid she might explode.

"What did you do to him?" Yvonne demanded furiously.

" 'Do' to 'him'?" Pierce repeated blankly. "Do you mean the prisoner? I didn't 'do' anything to it. It remains in its room, unmolested and unrestrained."

"They wouldn't let me take him dinner," Yvonne went on angrily. "You told me I just wasn't going in for lunch. But the guards wouldn't let me in, and they said they had orders to never let me in unless you said otherwise. Now, what is going on here?"

"Corporal, would you be so kind as to close the door?" Pierce asked Brisson, who skittered nervously behind the flaming Lieutenant to comply. "Have a seat, Lieutenant," Pierce continued pleasantly, indicating a nearby chair. Yvonne crossed her arms and remained standing, her mouth set in a hard line.

Pierce sighed, and flipped off the light on his microscope. "Very well, then—stand. I've given the creature a choice, Lieutenant. It can either cooperate with my research as we attempt to learn more about it, enjoying the benefits that come from such cooperation, or it can be left alone. Completely alone. No visits, no dinner partners, no chats. Not that I've noticed it chatting much anyway."

Yvonne's face had gone as white as her name. "Solitary confinement? You're forcing him into solitary confinement?"

"Heavens, no!" Pierce protested. "I'm not 'forcing' it to do anything! As I said, I offered it a choice, and I will respect whichever choice it makes. At the moment, it appears to have chosen solitude."

"You call that a 'choice'?!" Yvonne exclaimed, her voice rising. "Being a guinea pig or being completely isolated? What kind of 'choice' is that?"

" 'Guinea pig'?" Pierce echoed in a wounded tone. "Really, Lieutenant. You overdramatize. Guinea pigs are expendable creatures; the prisoner is not. As I explained to it at some length, I have no intention of harming it. I am genuinely interested in learning as much as possible about its species, and for that, I need its cooperation. I'm prepared to reward that cooperation generously, with a good deal more than just visits from you."

"And to punish the lack of cooperation just as generously, I'll bet," Yvonne said tightly. "May I remind you, Doctor, that General Ramey ordered…."

"I am well aware of the General's orders," Pierce said evenly, "and I have no intention of disobeying them. The General ordered that it be well treated. It will still receive food, clothing, shelter, and medical care at the expense of the American people regardless of its decision. If it wants more than that—say, companionship and entertainment—it will need to do something to earn that."

"You can't be serious," Yvonne said in disbelief. "You know how he's been climbing the walls lately. Now its only going to get worse!"

"Yes, I have noticed it's quite bored," the doctor said cheerfully. "Frankly, I'd have thought it would welcome the distraction of something to do. Anything to do."

Yvonne paused, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You did this on purpose," she said slowly. "All this time you've been saying that you were waiting for it to 'recover', but that wasn't it. You wanted him to climb the walls. To make this so-called 'choice' of yours look more inviting."

"Absolutely," Pierce said promptly.

"So you admit it?" Yvonne said, astonished. "Just like that?"

"Would you prefer that I lied?"

"You son of a bitch," Yvonne breathed. Behind her, Brisson gasped.

"You're overdramatizing again, Lieutenant," Pierce replied calmly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a junior officer had just sworn at him. "In order to make an intelligent choice, one must have a good grasp of available options. I'm simply giving it a taste of its options, namely solitude, which does not seem to suit it despite its bad temper, or company, which it seems to prefer."

"You manipulated this whole thing!" Yvonne said furiously.

Pierce fixed her with a serious stare. "Of course I did. Just like I manipulated you into the position of its advocate, for two reasons: We were far more likely to be successful establishing a rapport between our two species if it had a friend among us, and I feared for your career, what with you constantly defending it and ignoring all advice to be careful what you said. Making you its advocate placed you in a position where you were expected to defend it, where such behavior was your job, rendering complaints about such defense moot. You can thank me later," he added.

"Don't hold your breath!" Yvonne snapped. "You're not interested in my career, or 'establishing a rapport'. You've got your own agenda, and I'm willing to bet good money those lofty goals aren't on it."

Sighing, Pierce leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Are you aware how many others are trying to get their hands on the prisoner? Think about it: We have our first ever alien, a creature from another planet. There are people out there tripping over themselves to be the ones to study it, interrogate it. There was talk just a short time ago that it might not be staying here, that it might be shipped off elsewhere for others to do the job."

"Let me guess," Yvonne said in disgust. "We have you to thank for him still being here."

"Only partly," Pierce answered, ignoring her sarcasm. "It's part inertia, part success. Possession is still nine tenths of the law, even in the United States Military, and I successfully developed a way to hold it. That was enough for the moment, but soon it won't be. If we don't produce some evidence of progress, information we can pass along up the food chain, then that task—that privilege—will be awarded to others. At this point the Army has too much invested in this compound to move the prisoner right away, but they can easily install a different command staff. A command staff who may not be so willing to let the creature recover and give it choices. And who may not be so willing to overlook gross insubordination from a junior officer."

Pierce paused, letting this last bit sink in as Yvonne flushed scarlet.

"Now, I believe it's in the creature's best interests if Major Cavitt and I remain in command," Pierce went on. "Granted, the Major isn't going to win any popularity contests, but I can handle him. And I have no intention of harming it, Lieutenant. Even without the General's orders, harming it would serve no useful purpose. But if we're not able to show some evidence of progress, the next command staff might include another Major Cavitt with no checks and balances. Or even two Major Cavitt's. And you don't want that…do you?"

"I don't believe you care about him at all," Yvonne said angrily. "You just want to further your own interests."

"Naturally," Pierce said, chuckling. "That's what we're all trying to do. Me. You. The creature. Those who are clamoring to replace me. Everyone is trying to further their own interests. If you wish to find fault with me for that, I'm afraid you're going to have to find fault with the entire human race, not to mention at least one non-human. And since that's the case, perhaps you should expend your energy looking for the set of interests most compatible with the creature's own. I believe you will find that to be mine."

Pierce replaced his glasses and flipped the microscope light back on. "Your usual duties will continue while it considers my proposal…minus the meals you've been having with it, of course. I wouldn't fret if I were you; it'll see sense in short order, I imagine. I have the utmost respect for its intelligence, especially after our encounter today," he added dryly.

"Prove it."

Pierce looked up blankly. "Excuse me?"

"Prove you have the utmost respect for his intelligence, or any respect for him at all. Stop calling him 'it'."

"Why?"

"Because it's demeaning, that's why! Would any other prisoner be referred to as 'it'? Would you like to be called 'it'?"

"My gender is not in question," Pierce answered, nonplussed. "At least I don't think it is."

Brisson chuckled, only to be silenced by a glare from Yvonne. "I mean no disrespect, Lieutenant," Pierce assured her. " 'He' and 'she' connote gender. We have no idea if it's male or female, or some as yet undiscovered gender. I'm merely trying to be accurate."

"You know perfectly well this isn't about gender, or being accurate," Yvonne said. Her eyes no longer held that angry, desperate look of the past few minutes; she was on firm ground here, and she knew it. "This is about perception. In our society, 'it' is used to refer to things or animals, never people. By continually referring to him as 'it', you render him a non-person in the eyes of everyone who hears you say that."

Pierce stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. Yvonne took advantage of his discomfiture to walk closer and lean on the table at which he sat, looking him directly in the eye.

"So, tell me," Yvonne went on. "If you truly have the utmost respect for his intelligence as you claim, then why would you continue a practice that reduces him to the status of an object in the eyes of others?"

"If you are referring to the enmity with which the men regard the creature, I'm afraid I can't help you with that," Pierce replied, eyeing her warily. "You saw it threaten to snap Private Walker's neck; it, or one like it, killed several of their fellow soldiers. Mere words won't change their feelings."

"Words aren't 'mere'," Yvonne said firmly. "Words have power—and you know that. I have a theory," she continued, sliding onto the stool opposite Pierce, "that you really do view the prisoner as an 'it'. And that you're just hiding behind the gender question to mask your own disdain for him. And that you don't care if your use of such language furthers that viewpoint in others because you feel that way too. How am I doing? Am I warm?"

"That's ridiculous, Lieutenant," Pierce said flatly. "This is the third time you've resorted to overdramatization. My pronoun usage has no bearing on how I or others regard it."

"In that case, you shouldn't mind changing your pronoun usage," Yvonne said sweetly.

"But—"

"Consider it an official request from his advocate," Yvonne said. "You know, the position into which you admitted manipulating me?"

Pierce smiled faintly. "And I take it you wish to make me regret that?" He sighed heavily. "All right, Lieutenant, all right. If it will make you feel better—and understand, this is for you, because I don't believe for a moment that it….he cares one bit about this—then I will use the term 'he' in future when referring to the prisoner, however inaccurate that term may be. Although I can't speak for the men. Convincing them will be much more difficult."

"Reform starts at the top, doesn't it?" Yvonne asked. "At least that's what we're always told." She stood up. "Let me know when you can't wait any longer."

"Can't wait any longer for what?"

"I think you missed something while you were drawing up your plans, Doctor. The prisoner can hold out a lot longer than you can. You have people waiting for information. You're in a hurry...but he isn't. So it's entirely possible that you will hit the proverbial wall sooner than he will. If that happens, I'll be the only one he'll listen to....and you have only yourself to thank for that, since you were the one who went out of your way to make me his 'advocate'." Yvonne paused at the door. "Let me know when you need me to save your command."

Pierce watched in disbelief as the the door swung closed behind her. Brisson emerged from the corner, gaping. "What was that all about?"

"That was one hell of a perceptive woman," Pierce muttered, staring after Yvonne. "Interesting, isn't it? The very first thing each of them did was to accuse me of harming the other."

"Sir?"

"But no matter," Pierce said quickly, his face resuming its typical bland expression. "Under the circumstances, I felt it better to allow her one small victory. Remember that, Corporal. It often takes only a small, inconsequential concession to make someone happy. And we do so want to keep our Lieutenant White happy, don't we? Which reminds me….you were going to show me the second stage cultures before we were interrupted."

"Oh! Yes!" Brisson said, scurrying to the refrigerator and removing a set of slides. He handed them to Pierce, smiling. "I think you'll be very pleased, Doctor."

Pierce inspected each slide carefully before sitting back on his stool, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face. "Excellent work. Were you able to access the Lieutenant's quarters without difficulty?"

"Yes, sir," Brisson replied, his smile fading. "Although..."

"What? Is there a problem?"

"Well....I.....," Brisson faltered before continuing, "I guess I'm just uncomfortable....going through her things like that. Are you....sir, are you sure we should be doing this?"

"Scientific progress always involves areas of risk and ambiguity," Pierce answered soothingly. "I, for one, believe that's why scientific progress is often so slow. Relatively few are willing to go to the necessary lengths to truly advance scientific knowledge. Take Hitler's medical staff, for example. They had no boundaries, and they did great things. Some terrible things too, mind you, but the knowledge they gained.....we'll probably never see the likes of that again because no one else will be willing to do what's necessary to obtain it."

"Sir?" Brisson said, a horrified look on his face. "Did you......did you mean to.....do you realize that you just praised the Nazi doctors?"

Pierce chuckled as he packed up the slides. "Yes, I suppose I did. Don't worry, Brisson," he added. "I have no intention of turning into another Mengele. I was merely pointing out that the world did derive some good from what happened over there, that's all." He slipped the slides into a second refrigerator, locked the door, and pocketed the key. "I'm off to dinner. And don't you worry," he added, as he headed for the door to the lab. "You haven't done anything wrong. You merely retrieved what had been discarded, and that hasn't hurt the Lieutenant one bit."

"No, sir," Brisson whispered doubtfully, as the door swung closed behind Pierce. "Not yet."

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX




August 8, 1947, 1900 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Yvonne White entered her quarters, closing the door behind her and leaning her back against the door. That had to have been one of the most uncomfortable meals of her life. Until now she hadn't fully appreciated just how little she missed the mess hall. She spent little time there of late, what with her meals with the prisoner and her meals in her quarters, hand delivered by the free alien. The free alien had explained why he was eating at the base, but Yvonne hadn't bothered with the details. The hours in her quarters could be trying, but meal time was the one time she was perfectly content to be alone, delighted not to have to put up with the stares of the men, both the suggestive and the angry variety. Granted, not all the men were like that. Probably most of them weren't like that. But the few who were made life very uncomfortable in a place already uncomfortable for two reasons: She was the only woman, and the only person here who regularly spoke in defense of the prisoner.

Unfortunately, those who were so inclined to make life uncomfortable were having a field day with this latest development. Word had gotten around of Pierce's "choice", as he so euphemistically called it, and of the alien's lack of response. The soldiers, however, suffered no such lack of response, and their reactions ran the gamut. At one end of the spectrum was Private Treyborn. "Must be crazy, turnin' down the company of a woman who looks like that," she had overheard Treyborn saying. Apparently he hadn't realized she was standing so close to him; when his buddies tittered and pointed, he'd blushed bright red.

At the other end, unsurprisingly, was Private Walker, he of that recent nastiness in the mess hall. "If we're all really lucky, it'll rot in there without hurting anyone else," Walker had said coldly, perfectly well aware that Yvonne was within earshot and raising his voice just in case he'd miscalculated.

And so it went. She had sat by herself, as she usually did, because she had no friends here besides Stephen, and they still considered it unsafe to appear too chummy. All around her, voices murmured, talking about the alien, talking about her, talking about Ramey's orders that it be well treated. All around her, eyes drifted her way, only to flick aside when she attempted to catch the owner in the act. It was embarrassing, frustrating, and very bad for the digestion. She should have followed her first instinct to take her tray and head for her quarters, just as everyone had seen the free alien do many times lately, thinking it was her.

The "free alien". She still didn't know his name. What was she going to tell him? Removing her access to the prisoner meant removing his as well, although she had rejected the idea that Pierce actually knew that. If he even suspected what was really going on, he'd be trying to catch them in the act, not shut the whole thing down. Granted, this wouldn't hamper the free alien's quest to free his friend, but his absence would drive the prisoner up the wall. Which was pretty much where he was already, or darned close to it.

Yvonne sank onto her bed and pulled her shoes off, marvelling anew at how much she'd changed in just a few short weeks. She'd never paid much attention to politics. Filled with competitive, aggressive people, the Army was certainly home to a great deal of political manuevering. But hospitals functioned as barriers, holding back the lion's share of the thrust and parry which swirled around both her and the lives under her care. Now she found herself startled at how quickly she'd realized that Pierce had deliberately engineered this situation....and surprised at how angry that realization had made her. Spending time in the company of one who understood the complex machinations at work here and could recognize them on sight had been eye-opening; the free alien's political acumen was rubbing off on her, showing her things she would have missed earlier, things she might have been better off not knowing. She'd even caught herself using his speech patterns along with his formal, almost archaic language. And God knows she'd been angry enough today for both aliens, plus a few more besides.

The hardest part of all of this was Doctor Pierce. She'd been so angry with him—had she really called him a son of a bitch to his face?—but then he'd started making sense.....and that scared her. She was now more certain than ever that Stephen was right, that Pierce viewed the alien only as a test subject. That was disturbing....but what if that viewpoint was the best one to be had? Was it right to support a morally reprehensible position if it was the least of available evils? She'd seen the endless stream of visitors staring avidly through the observation room window; of course everyone would be scrambling for it, fighting over it, claiming it for their own. There could well be dozens of counter claimants out there in the wings, each one worse than the last. If Pierce's unwillingness to harm the alien stemmed only from his interest in him as a lab rat, at least he was unwilling to harm him. But was it worth supporting that twisted reasoning to achieve the desired result?

Rising from the bed, Yvonne walked into the bathroom and bent over the sink, splashing water on her face. She'd think about this tomorrow, after she'd had some sleep. Not that thinking about it would do much good in the long run. In the long run, it didn't seem to matter much what she thought, about this or anything else.

She reached for a towel, and her eyes fell upon the wastebasket.

Returning the damp towel to the rack, Yvonne picked up the wastebasket and set it on the bathroom counter. She hadn't given much thought to the mysterious visit from Corporal Brisson or what it could possibly mean. Now she dumped the contents of the basket onto the counter and sifted through it. Nothing looked out of place….but still. That whole incident had been so odd.

Odd, yes. But the real question was, had it been isolated?

Yvonne went back into her room and fished something out of the wastebasket by her desk, something no one else in the compound would have. Returning to the bathroom, she placed the torn stockings at the very bottom of the bathroom wastebasket, underneath all the rest of the waste where it wasn't visible. Brisson hadn't looked through her trash when he'd done his strange switcheroo, so perhaps she'd be able to tell if it happened again.

The faintest noise behind her made her turn. She already knew who it was. She'd become used to his near silent arrivals and departures. He always showed up after meals he hadn't been able to make just to find out if anything had happened. Usually nothing had.

<Hello,> he said, in that strange silent speech.

Reluctantly, Yvonne set the wastebasket down and turned to face him. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you."




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




August 9, 1947, 1:38 am.

Proctor residence




Sweating in his bed, clad only in a sleeveless undershirt and undershorts, David Proctor tossed violently as though the movement would shake the awful dream he was having. Images swam before his eyes, jumbling so chaotically they were barely recognizable. Many times he wished they weren't.

Christianson not quite making it up the fence, falling back as the others reached for him, into the hands of the waiting Japanese…. That particular nightmare was his own.

Dee lying on the ground, her little face covered in blood… Another nightmare that belonged to him. Shades of what might have been.

A man standing alone before a huge gate, the paltry number of soldiers behind him a mere drop in the ocean compared to the numbers on the other side…. That one was Jaddo's.

Bloody bodies being dragged frantically, their limbs bumping down stairways…. Both Brivari and Jaddo could claim that one.

A beautiful woman, whose face conjured an anger so profound it was almost paralyzing… Who owned this one? Brivari?

A young king, a beautiful woman at his side. They had just been married…

David stopped tossing. This was a happy memory, the sense of peace and contentment almost palpable. He tried to hang onto it, this small bit of joy, but the scene faded, replaced by…

…something he'd never seen before. Rock walls. Tables. Small figures on the tables. He moved closer to one of them, his dream eyes widening with shock as he recognized the face….that face….

David woke up suddenly, panting. Outside it was pouring, rain lashing the windows in sheets, thunder rumbling ominously. It took him a moment to realize he was sitting up in his bed with his wife beside him, staring at him with concern.

"Nightmares again?" Emily asked, rubbing his back.

He nodded, still trying to drag himself back to reality, catching the note of disappointment in her voice. His nightmares about the war had finally stopped.....until just recently.

"The war?" Emily prodded gently.

"Not really," David said. "Mostly their war."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her stiffen. Lightning flashed, with thunder following only seconds later. The storm was close.

"It's not fair," Emily whispered.

"What's not fair?"

"It was bad enough you having nightmares about our war. You don't deserve nightmares about theirs."

"It wasn't all about them," David said, swinging his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"Downstairs. I can never get back to sleep right away. Might as well walk a bit." Pushing himself groggily to his feet, David headed out of the room. He was always disoriented after one of these multi-person nightmares, and that last bit had been particularly disturbing.

"Check Dee's window, will you?" Emily called after him. "She probably left it wide open when she went to bed."

"Got it," David yawned, heading for Dee's room. She was sound asleep, curled in a tight little ball as rain practically poured in her window. David lowered the window till it was almost closed; it was already muggier than hell, and closing the windows was only going to make it worse, but that couldn't be helped. Her birthday gift sat on its tripod only inches from her bed, thankfully out of the path of the rain. Whatever Brivari had done to the admittedly cheap telescope they had bought her had kept Dee in her room the entire afternoon and into the evening, right up until the storm had started. He reached for her fan, adjusting it so that it blew directly on her, and stopped when he saw the look on her face.

Dee was smiling in her sleep, smiling the way a birthday girl should smile. David bent over her, marveling at how seeing your child asleep changed everything. They always looked younger when they were asleep….peaceful….vulnerable. For just a short time you could indulge the fantasies that your child was safe from any harm, that all problems would work themselves out, that you were the perfect parent. No wonder watching their children sleep was one of a parent's favorite activities.

Pulling Dee's door ajar, David padded downstairs, checking the windows, heading for the kitchen. Sure of his way even in the dark, he left the lights off and headed for the fridge. Some cold milk might do the trick.

"You are up late, David Proctor."

David whirled around, milk bottle in hand. Brivari was sitting at the kitchen table, silhouetted against the window as lightning flashed. He'd walked right by him and never even seen him. Even if he lived to be a hundred, David swore he'd never get used to these people simply appearing and disappearing. Emily was less likely to be startled, and Dee seemed to know Brivari was coming long before he actually arrived, but David's skill in this area definitely lagged behind the women in the family.

"I apologize for startling you," Brivari said, his voice floating out of the darkness. "That was not my intention."

"I know," David said, recovering and reaching for a glass. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"I was enjoying your electrical storm," Brivari said, his head turning toward the kitchen window as lightning flashed again. "It's much more beautiful in the dark, don't you think? Earth is such a tempestuous place. My world rarely sees such violent weather."

" 'Violent'?" David echoed, smiling. "You think this is 'violent'? This is nothing. Wait until you've seen a hurricane or a tornado."

David felt rather than saw Brivari's raised eyebrows. "Indeed?" He sighed. "Someday, perhaps, when things have…settled, I will have a chance to explore your world and enjoy it."

"Speaking of enjoying things, Dee was really enjoying her new telescope today," David said, pulling up a chair opposite Brivari. "She was up there all afternoon with it. Emily was getting worried she'd develop a permanent squint." He chuckled. "When Dee sets her mind to something, she just won't quit until the cows come home."

"Cows?"

"Just an expression," David explained. "I meant she's persistent. Or stubborn, if you prefer."

"Like her mother. And you," Brivari said, with a smile in his voice David could hear but not see. "Persistence is a valuable trait. Her persistence saved my life on more than one occasion."

And almost ended hers, David thought, thinking of the blood stained face in his dreams. "So," he said, anxious to chase away that image, "how is Jaddo?"

"Alone," Brivari replied. "They have cut off all human contact unless he agrees to participate in their 'research', as they so politely put it."

"Solitary confinement," David murmured. "The torture that leaves no marks." He frowned. "What kind of 'research'? Anything dangerous?"

"I doubt it. Another benefit to my escape is that it has dawned on your military that they have only one alien to play with. I doubt they'll damage him—not intentionally, anyway. And there's little he could tell them that they would be able to use. Most of the technology on our ship is outside the grasp of your race at its present stage of development. And it was a cargo ship, so it had no weapons." He sighed. "I've been expecting something like this ever since the General's visit. I told Jaddo to tell them anything, make things up, even, just to keep them busy so I can work with less chance of detection. He's just being stubborn."

"Or persistent," David pointed out, smiling faintly. He wished he could see the expression on Brivari's face, but he was still just a shadow silhouetted against the window.

"So why are you awake at this hour?" Brivari asked, changing the subject as he frequently did when someone had gained the upper hand.

"Bad dreams," David replied, staring at his milk glass.

"Dreams of your war?"

"Mostly dreams of yours."

Silence. "What did you see?" Brivari asked after a moment.

"Some of it I've seen before," David answered. "The bodies being dragged away. The guy at the gate with that pitiful little band of soldiers and a huge army on the other side. My own daughter, badly hurt."

"And some of it you....haven't seen before?"

David hesitated, wondering if Brivari would be willing to talk. He wasn't usually big on explanations. But here in the dark, with everyone else asleep and the thunder rumbling outside, perhaps things would be different.

"I don't know whose memory this is, but there was a beautiful woman that someone's very angry with."

"Vilandra," Brivari murmured.

"She was the one Urza guarded, wasn't she? The one Jaddo's soldier was going to marry? The one who messed everything up?"

No answer. "What I can't figure out," David continued, "is why I keep seeing her as so beautiful. I mean…I see her the way you usually look….which is very different from the way my people look…so why do I think she's beautiful in my dreams?"

"Because I did," Brivari said softly. "Everyone found Vilandra beautiful, and I was no exception."

"What exactly did she do?" David ventured, surprised that Brivari had actually answered him.

Brivari was silent for so long that David assumed he wasn't going to say anything. When he finally did speak, his voice was wistful and far away.

"Vilandra was the king's sister, the eldest child of the old king who brought peace to our world. She fell in love with her brother's greatest rival and wished to marry him, something her brother would understandably not allow."

"Zan," David whispered.

Brivari's silhouetted head turned in surprise, but he couldn't have been more surprised than David. "How do I know that?" he said wonderingly. "I don't know how I know, but I know the king's name is 'Zan'. And the rival's name is…." He stopped, thinking. "Nope. It's right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite get it."

"Khivar," Brivari answered, sounding faintly uneasy. David didn't blame him. He felt uneasy himself, having this information just pop into his head seemingly from nowhere.

"Vilandra believed Khivar loved her," Brivari continued, "and she helped him gain access to the palace so he could demand her hand in marriage, resulting in the wonderful things you see in your dreams."

"I take it he didn't really love her?"

A soft snort issued from across the table. "Judge for yourself. Khivar's people killed her and the rest of the royal family. Vilandra was a fool. Lovers usually are."

David swirled the milk in his glass, remembering. "You didn't feel that way about Zan's marriage."

The head turned to look at him again; the silence this time was longer and even more uneasy. David waited, wondering if perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. But the feelings he'd had when he'd seen the young king and his bride in his dream were really Brivari's feelings, and Brivari had not found that pair foolish at all.

"Zan did not choose a sworn enemy for a mate," Brivari said levelly, "and his marriage ensured the survival of his line and the peace that came with it…..or so I thought at the time," he added bitterly. "That is why I felt as I did."

Not entirely, David mused, keeping his thoughts to himself this time. Brivari's feelings for Zan and his wife were undoubtedly suffused with a sense of contentment and order, but there was more there as well, a sense of personal satisfaction he obviously didn't want to to discuss.

"I should go," Brivari said abruptly. "There will be a shift change at the base soon, and that is an opportune time to approach certain areas."

"I saw something else," David said quickly, before Brivari could leave. With all he'd revealed of what he'd seen, he still hadn't mentioned the most disturbing thing of all. "Did you….did you see any children at the base when you were there?"

"Children?" Brivari asked, puzzled. "No. Then again, I wasn't exactly in the best of health. Why? What did you see?"

"I saw a child, a human boy, on a table of some sort," David said slowly, wishing more than ever that he could see Brivari's face. "He looked unconscious."

David saw the shadowy head shake. "I don't recall seeing that."

"Really?" David asked carefully. "Because he was surrounded by your people."

"My people?"

"Yeah. You know…short gray people?"

"You have memories and impressions from both myself and Jaddo," Brivari said evenly, "not to mention many of your own. Perhaps they are all beginning to run together. Perhaps this is a manifestation of your concern for your own child when she was injured."

"Perhaps," David said slowly.

"I must be going," Brivari said, rising. "I have enjoyed our conversation as always, David Proctor."

And then he was gone, leaving David alone with his empty milk glass in the dark kitchen, pondering. He couldn't have mixed up the memory of the boy surrounded by aliens with the memory of his daughter being hurt. The boy hadn't been injured like Dee had been. She had been surrounded by what looked like humans, not by rock walls and aliens. And he hadn't told the whole story of the boy on the table because he wasn't absolutely certain he'd seen what he thought he'd seen. He would have to wait and see if the dream came again, and then he would look more closely.

David set his glass in the sink and slowly climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He slid into bed beside Emily and lay there wide awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Remembering the face of the child he'd seen on that table.

It was the face of the boy in the alien book. The boy who would be king.




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



2 a.m.

Copper Summit Arizona



The sky was inky black as Malik stepped out onto the porch for what seemed like the hundredth time and looked up and down the street. No moon tonight—and no Amar either. He still hadn't come returned after storming off in a huff, shouting in Antarian for all to hear. That could mean that he was off sulking somewhere or pulling pranks in town like he loved to do. Or it could mean that he'd headed north and gotten himself into more trouble that Malik even wanted to think about.

Movement caught his eye, something silent in the bushes. Seconds later a face peeked out, sniffing the air as it looked warily left and right before venturing up the porch steps to wrap around his legs.

"You're back," Malik murmured, smiling, as he bent down to stroke the furry creature humans called a "cat". Of all of Earth's plethora of animals, this particular one was his favorite. Back when all of them had first run, knowing nothing about Earth or its various cultures, they had been dismayed to discover that they needed currency to exist in any stable way. Having none, of course, they initially kept to the dark and seedy places where crime was rampant and no questions were asked. These creatures flourished there, and Malik had befriended several before he and his fellow dissidents had finally moved on after two of their number were lost to the crime they had to commit in order to survive.

Since then he had noticed that several humans kept such creatures as pets. Amar couldn't abide them, and this particular specimen was smart enough to know that, It could tell Amar from Malik regardless of form, which irritated the daylights out of Amar, but Malik enjoyed its company and its regal bearing. It was smart and cunning, with hearing nearly as sharp as a Covari's, yet affectionate too. As he stroked the thick, soft fur, he heard that odd little rumble in the back of the creature's throat that humans seemed to find so endearing.

"Hungry?" he asked, as the creature continued wrapping itself around his legs. It didn't appear to have a home, instead wandering from house to house, begging food and usually getting it. Tonight must be his turn.

"Back in a minute," he said, gently shooing the creature away from the door as he went inside and headed for the kitchen. Experience had taught him that these animals were carnivores, so he usually kept a supply of canned meat toward the back of the pantry where Amar wouldn't find it. The Leader most likely wouldn't care that he fed the creature as long as the work got done, but he'd never hear the end of it from Amar.

"Here you go," Malik said, reappearing on the porch with a dish of meat as the creature rumbled and wrapped. He set the dish down on the top porch step, then sat down beside it as it dug in, absentmindedly stroking it as he continued to look up and down the street.

"Where is he?" Malik asked the bundle of fur, whose eyes flicked upward briefly. "Tell me he hasn't gone and done something really stupid."

The animal stopped in mid chew, licked its chops, and regarded him gravely.

"You're right," Malik sighed. "This is Amar we're talking about. Of course he's gone and done something stupid."




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




0205 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




Private Treyborn turned as one of the double doors to the first floor of the compound opened and Lieutenant Spade poked his head into the entryway. Beyond him Treyborn could see the "indoor" guards, the ones who guarded the opposite side of the doors in front of which he now stood. This was the only entrance to the compound, consisting of two sets of double doors: The outer set which led outside the building, and the inner set a few feet beyond, with a small entryway between. There were always two guards in the entryway and two in the hallway just beyond the inner doors, with several more on call in a room just feet away. Major Cavitt didn't want guards to actually stand outside the doors because he felt it would look too conspicuous. And that was all right with Treyborn, given the storm going on out there tonight. The rain had turned into a torrent, with thunder crashing and lightning flaring. No, sir. Inside and inconspicuous was fine by him.

"Anything to report?" Spade asked Treyborn.

"No sir. I just arrived for my duty shift," Treyborn replied.

Spade swung his head around to the other "outside" guard standing opposite Treyborn. "Anything to report?" he repeated to a stony-faced Private Walker.

Treyborn shifted nervously from one foot to the other as Walker deliberately paused just as long as he thought he could and still get away with it before answering his superior. He was standing at an odd angle in the very corner of the entryway…no, leaning, not standing. Leaning against the wall. Weird.

"No sir. No dead aliens. Unfortunately."

"Walker, do you plan on being a flaming asshole for the rest of this mission?" Spade demanded.

"Yes sir, I do," Walker said flatly.

"Thanks for the heads up," Spade deadpanned. "I'll keep a fire extinguisher handy."

Treyborn chortled, then stopped abruptly when he saw the daggers in Walker's eyes. Spade left, closing the door behind him, and Walker turned on Treyborn.

"Look, it's bad enough that I've got alien monsters trying to strangle me, and our own people defending that…that thing down there!" Walker exploded. "I don't need my own buddies screwing me to the wall too!"

"Keep your voice down, Walker," Treyborn said, as the heads of the inside guards turned toward the windows in the double doors at the sound of Walker's shouting. "I'm not tryin' to screw you to anything. Hell, you ain't that good lookin'."

Treyborn smiled at his own joke, but Walker looked like one of those thunderclouds dumping rain on them. "You know what I mean," he growled. "Get off my case!"

"No one's on your case," Treyborn muttered. "It's you that's on everyone else's case. The way you act, anyone'd think it was us that tried to strangle you 'stead of that alien. Keep actin' like a pissant, and maybe someone'll try."

"Nice," Walker said sarcastically. "Knock on the door and ask one of the guards to get us a couple of towels to wipe up the water that's seeping in here."

"What water?" Treyborn asked, eyeing the dry floor.

Then Walker moved aside, and Treyborn gasped.

Tucked in the corner of the entryway behind Walker was a very small, very damp dog. It sat there, bedraggled and trembling, looking up at Treyborn with soulful eyes.

"What the….!" Treyborn began, but Walker was beside him with his hand clamped over his mouth before anything else came out.

"Shhhh! Walker whispered. "I found him outside. Showed up this evening. Started howling at the door when the rain started picking up just a little while ago, so I brought him in just before you got here. Isn't he beautiful?"

Privately, Treyborn thought the dog rather ugly—it was obviously a mutt, mostly likely from the shallow end of the gene pool. But it did look pathetic, trembling and whimpering in the puddle of water that had formed at its feet.

"Ask for the towels," Walker commanded, carefully removing his hand from Treyborn's mouth. "If I ask, it'll get back to Lieutenant Alien and he'll be suspicious. Just ask one of the indoor guards, and they'll have someone go get them."

"Walker, you can't keep that thing here!" Treyborn hissed. "It's against regulations! And besides, what if….." Treyborn cast a nervous glance down at the dog, which had added shivering to its repertoire. "What if it ain't a dog?" he whispered. "What if it's one of them?"

"Shit," Walker said derisively. "You crazy? The only thing we've seen those things look like is those weird gray things and us. They haven't turned into dogs."

"Just 'cos we haven't seen 'em turn into dogs doesn't mean they can't," Treyborn argued. "We know they can change their shape. It makes sense."

"It makes no sense," Walker argued. "As far as I'm concerned this dog is better than any alien monster any day. Besides, I'm only gonna keep him here while it's pouring. As soon as the rain stops, I'll send him back out. I'll bring some food next time I come just in case he comes back." He reached down and patted the dog on the head. "I always had a dog," he continued wistfully. "It'd be nice to have a dog here; it'd give us something to do. Something to take care of that actually deserves being taken care of."

But Treyborn was unconvinced. "I dunno….." he began, only to break off as the little dog began to growl at him menacingly, baring its teeth, what little dry fur it had standing on end.

"See? Now you got him mad!" Walker laughed, as Treyborn blanched. "Shit, Treyborn, don't look so scared. He's barely more than a puppy; he isn't gonna hurt you. He's sopping and he's cold—stop being a weanie and get the towels."

Treyborn hesitated for a moment before knocking on the inside doors, never taking his eyes off the dog. After a conversation with one of the inside guards, a stack of towels appeared minutes later. Walker toweled off the little dog in the corner, well out of range of the windows, then folded up some clean towels to make a bed, upon which the dog promptly curled.

"There. See?" Walker said. "That's no alien. Just a normal Earth dog. Man's best friend."

Walker settled down, becoming positively jovial after that. Treyborn spent the next hour casting wary glances at the little dog curled up fast asleep in the corner, but after awhile, when nothing happened, he grew bored with watching the dog. He and Walker turned to watching through the windows as the storm raged outside, alternately swapping jokes and insults. Guard duty was boring. Guard duty when you were already pretty much cut off from the outside world was even more boring.

Neither noticed that the dog's eyes had opened a crack, and it was watching them steadily.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


August 9, 1947, 11:00 a.m.

Proctor residence




Emily Proctor stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the living room with dismay. Of all the various chores associated with the all-American birthday party, this was the one she enjoyed the least. So naturally she had saved it for last, and now Dee's party was going to start in only one hour. Sixty measly minutes to blow up and hang four dozen balloons. What had she been thinking?

Sighing, Emily grabbed the first balloon, inflated it, and tied it off. She knew she'd probably be breathless and light-headed by the time she hit balloon number forty-eight and once again questioned her decision to make such a big deal out of this party, especially given the state of their finances. For some reason, Emily was feeling the passage of this milestone of Dee's very keenly. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her daughter very nearly hadn't made it to this milestone in the first place that had motivated her to throw caution—and good fiscal sense—to the winds. Which was why David was out back setting up the yard for lunch, a huge cake sat gleaming on the dining room table, and the living room was decorated within an inch of its life, that last inch being the four dozen balloons now in a limp pile on the couch, destined to be inflated and strung around the living room. Assuming she didn't pass out first, that is.

Emily took another balloon, inflated it, tied it off, and added it to the pile. Two down, forty-six to go.

"What are those?" a voice said behind her.

Turning around with a balloon to her lips, Emily found Brivari looking quizzically at the elaborately decorated living room and the brightly colored pile of balloons. She hadn't heard him coming, as usual, but she found that she was growing used to him appearing seemingly out of nowhere. As used to that as one could get, anyway.

"Balloons," Emily answered, pulling the balloon out of her mouth. "They're decorations."

"Ah. For the birthday festival."

"Birthday party," Emily corrected.

"What's the difference?"

Emily started to reply, then stopped. What was the difference between a festival and a party? "It's size, I guess. Parties are private events, and festivals are public. And they have a lot more people to do things like this," she added, putting the balloon back in her mouth and blowing.

Brivari picked up one of the inflated balloons and examined it closely. "This is just a colorful bag of gas," he remarked, squishing it between his hands.

"Tell me about it," Emily replied, laboriously tying off her balloon and adding "sore fingers" to her mental list of balloon inflation side effects. "It's the 'gas' part that gets me the most. I've got forty-five more to go, and less than an hour before the guests start arriving." She grabbed another balloon. "You wouldn't care to help, would you?"

Brivari picked up an uninflated balloon and watched her closely as she blew up another one. But he didn't put his balloon to his mouth. Instead, he held his hand over the open end and Emily watched, amazed, as his balloon inflated of its own accord. When he pulled his hand away, it was all neatly tied off. No sore fingers.

"Nice," Emily said approvingly. "You've got yourself a job." She pushed the pile of uninflated balloons toward Brivari. "You blow them up and tie them off, I'll attach them to the string, and we'll be done in no time."

Brivari obligingly started inflating while Emily began tying. It turned out he could inflate a good deal faster than she could tie, so in short order there was a pile of brightly colored orbs on the couch a couple of feet high.

"So these are considered….. 'decorations'?" Brivari asked, looking around the living room.

Emily smiled. The house must look very odd to him. "Yep. Humans are big on decorating for any kind of celebration. Do your people do the same type of thing for birthday parties?"

"We don't have 'birthday parties'."

"Oh," Emily said, reaching for another balloon. "Well, maybe not now, when you're an adult, but didn't you have some sort of celebrations on your birthday when you were a child?"

"I was never a child."

Emily looked up, surprised. Never a child? How could someone never have been a child? She knew there were children on Brivari's planet because of his references to the childhood of the king he guarded. And then an image flashed into her mind; an image of fetuses floating in sacs. Fetuses which were supposed to grow to adulthood before they were "born".

"So….that means that you were born the same way as those babies in the sacs," Emily said slowly, her balloons forgotten in her lap. When Brivari looked at her with one of his now famous inscrutable looks, she continued, "It makes sense, doesn't it? You die the same way as they do—well, not die exactly, but your bodies turn to dust in the same way. And they won't ever be children either because they're not supposed to come out until they're adults. So are your people grown in sacs the same way those babies are?"

"No," Brivari answered shortly, adding another inflated balloon to the top of the pile on the couch. "What is that particular food?" he asked, nodding toward the elaborate birthday cake on the dining room table. "I've never seen anything like that."

Emily smiled faintly as she resumed tying. It was so like him to just change the subject like that. Every time she got close to a piece of information about him, he backed away. One of these days she'd learn to just listen and keep her mouth shut instead of letting on whenever she managed to put two and two together. "That's a birthday cake," she answered, letting the subject of his lack of a childhood drop. "A special food for a birthday celebration. I probably overdid it—again. I guess I still can't really believe that everything isn't being rationed anymore."

"Rationed?"

"During the war there were several things that were rationed; there wasn't enough to go around, what with the factories going full tilt and having to feed the boys overseas, so we were only allowed a certain amount of certain things," Emily explained. "The flour and sugar you use to make a cake like that were hard to come by. People in our neighborhood pooled our ration coupons so that the older children could have birthday cakes, but there were never enough for the younger ones. I really missed not being able to make Dee a birthday cake. She was younger then, and she didn't seem to mind….but I minded."

"But these…. 'birthday cakes' were only prepared infrequently," Brivari said. "Weren't there other items that were 'rationed' that you would miss more?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it didn't always work out that way. Some of the daily things weren't missed much at all, while things like birthday cakes were missed the most." Emily shook her head. "What can I say? We humans are strange sometimes. Every time I smell chocolate cake wafting through the house, I feel grateful. Is that what brought you in here? I baked it yesterday, but the house still smells wonderful."

"I don't have a sense of smell," Brivari said, "so I will have to take your word for it."

For the second time in as many minutes, Emily stopped tying in surprise. "You can't smell? Oh—let me guess," she added, as Brivari gave her another of those looks. "You don't want to talk about it. Whenever I discover anything about you, you usually don't," she added, with a hint of teasing in her voice. "You're full of secrets."

Brivari smiled slightly. "And you are full of questions, Emily Proctor."

Flushing slightly, Emily returned to her tying. He was right—she was prying, and she had no business prying. Brivari rarely asked questions of his own, and revealed little about himself or his people unless he absolutely had to. So she was surprised again when, for once, he elaborated.

"But this is no secret, just something you probably hadn't noticed. None of my race has a sense of smell, or taste, for that matter."

"Why not?" Emily ventured, since he seemed willing to talk, about this subject at least.

"Because we change our shapes so often. There are certain senses and functions which never fully develop because the nerve pathways are constantly being interrupted by the shifting."

"What if you stopped shifting for awhile?"

Now it was his turn to look surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if shifting is what prevents these…. 'nerve pathways' from working, then it makes sense that not shifting might allow them to work," Emily reasoned. "Has anyone ever tried that?"

"Not to my knowledge," Brivari answered, the expression on his face suggesting he hadn't thought of that before. "For my people, not shifting is similar to your people not walking. I doubt there is anyone out there with the necessary self discipline to stop shifting altogether. It is what we are."

"Perhaps Jaddo will find out now that he can't shift," Emily said. "I mean, I hope you get him out of there long before he finds out," she added hastily, "but….well, it would be interesting to know if it worked."

"Yes," Brivari mused. "It would."

"Speaking of Jaddo, what's going on over there?" Emily asked. "David said something about him being put in solitary confinement. Is that why you're here now? We don't usually see you here at this hour."

"I do not have the access I once did now that Jaddo has decided to pick a fight with your military," Brivari said, obviously annoyed. "Were I there now, I might march into the commander's office and tell him they're welcome to keep him."

"You really can't blame him," Emily commented. "If I were being held prisoner, I wouldn't be happy about giving my captors anything they wanted. He's just being—"

"—incredibly, irascibly, infuriatingly stubborn?" Brivari finished for her. "What else is new. He complains that I am not moving fast enough, and then his behavior slows me down. He's driving me crazy."

"Just be grateful he's still around to drive you crazy," Emily said, with a glance toward a silver frame on a nearby table, the picture it contained turned away from the room. "I wouldn't have given you a nickel for his chances when I first found out he was captured."

When Brivari didn't answer, Emily looked up from her tying to see him staring at the picture frame she'd just looked at. As usual, these people didn't miss a thing.

"Did David Proctor manage to get back to sleep last night?" Brivari asked casually.

No, not really, Emily thought, feeling the old worries flood back. David had lain awake for quite some time after he'd come back to bed, while she had lain beside him pretending to be asleep. "Eventually," she answered, reaching for another balloon. Blue. Dee's favorite color. "It usually takes him some time to calm down after he has a nightmare."

"Does he have those often?"

Too often. "Not so much anymore."

"Is this an image of his sibling?" Brivari asked, picking up the nearby frame and turning it around. "The one your daughter named my companion for—'James', wasn't it?"

"Yes," Emily said briefly, not looking at the photograph.

"I see the resemblance," Brivari murmured, studying it closely. "I believe she said something about him taking his own life?"

Emily finished tying the last balloon and stared out the front window. It had been a full year ago, and she could still remember it like it was yesterday. One would think that after a year it would have faded, but the memory of standing in that hallway with David waiting for the manager to unlock the apartment, both knowing what had probably happened, was still fresh. And then the door was unlocked, and that smell…..that smell had frozen all three of them in the doorway, unable—or unwilling—to move.

"Yes, he did," Emily answered shortly.

"What happened?"

Closing her eyes, Emily steeled herself against thinking about what had happened. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to remember. She'd never told anyone what she found, not even David. Especially not David. She'd kicked herself a thousand times for walking into that apartment. She'd known James was dead, but she'd had no idea it would be that bad. Looking back on it, she should have just called an ambulance and let them deal with it, sparing herself nightmares of her own.

"You already know what happened," she said tersely, gathering up the now finished balloon string and reaching for a chair. "He died. What more is there to say?" Climbing onto the chair, she began pinning the string high on the wall, close to the ceiling. She couldn't see Brivari's face when he spoke again, and it was just as well he couldn't see hers.

"You fear the same fate will befall your mate."

"Look," Emily said crossly , "there are things you don't want to talk about—lots of things. This is something I don't want to talk about, okay?" Then she paused, embarrassed, as she realized the irony of what she'd just said. Only moments ago she had been asking questions of her own, perhaps unwittingly poking at dark places best left undisturbed just as he was now. She had no right to be angry with him when she was every bit as guilty of the same behavior.

"I apologize," Brivari said at once. "I have upset you. That was not my intention." He looked at the balloons she was hanging. "You appear to be nearly finished with your decorating. I will leave you to your festival."

"No—wait!" Emily said suddenly, but turned around to find him gone. Honestly, these people just evaporated into thin air. And now she'd gone and insulted him when he was the reason Dee was alive to celebrate her birthday in the first place. Sighing, Emily turned back to the balloon string and wondered once again if mind-reading was an alien power.

Because once again, Brivari had deftly put his finger right on the problem: One of her worst fears was that someday she would find in her own house exactly what she'd found in her brother-in-law's apartment.



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



12:15 p.m.




"Which one are you gonna open first?" Lena asked excitedly.

"I always go for the biggest one first," Peter said, with the customary tact of a ten year-old boy.

"I go for the smallest," Mary Laura ventured. "My mama once got a pair of diamond earrings in a teeny tiny box."

"Diamond earrings?" Peter scoffed. "Who'd want that?"

An argument ensued. Dee ignored them, surveying the pile heaped in front of her on the living room table with satisfaction. There were few things in life more exciting than a pile of birthday presents, and this was quite a pile. It certainly should be; her mother had invited the entire neighborhood to her birthday party, and a few other people besides. The house was beautifully decorated—it must have taken Mama forever to blow up all those balloons—and the cake on the dining room table was truly a work of art. Normally Dee wasn't fond of fussy parties, but this year she found she didn't mind. This year she was feeling as though she had earned every single minute of her nine years, and sharing that with the local universe didn't seem such a bad idea, even if it did mean she had to wear a dress.

As Dee and several of her guests eyed the towering pile of presents, she mentally pondered where she would start when the time came. It was considered bad manners to open gifts first at a party, a notion Dee found silly since every kid in the house including herself wanted to start with just exactly that. But certain social conventions were easier to live with than others, and this was definitely one of the easier ones to live with.

Unlike the social convention across the room, currently pulling Rachel's hair. Rachel shrieked and chased Ernie Hutton out into the backyard, nearly upsetting a table of party favors in the process. Dee's mother had insisted on inviting Ernie, claiming that they couldn't blame him for playing games similar to those that children all over were playing. Dee had noted that it was Ernie's insistence on shooting her that was the problem, not his stupid "capture the alien" game, but her mother had stood firm. So Ernie had been marched up the front walk by his nervous mother only minutes before and deposited at the front door with a "You be good, now!", delivered in a tone which suggested Mrs. Hutton had gotten wind of the bad blood between them. Ernie had responded by sticking his tongue out at her behind the birthday package in his hands, out of his mother's line of sight.

"Oh, don't worry Mrs. Hutton," Dee had said sweetly. "I'll make sure Ernie behaves himself."

At which point Ernie, alarmed, had scuttled inside and avoided her judiciously ever since. Perhaps he wasn't as dumb as she thought.

There. That one. That's the one she would start with when the magic moment came. It had been a close call between Rachel's present and Anthony's present. Anthony's was intriguing because she'd felt a power cord through the wrapping paper when he'd handed it to her. But Rachel's large box had air holes strategically placed around it, and it had just meowed.

"All right, everybody! Lunchtime! Everyone out in the backyard!" her Mama called to the thundering herd, which promptly began thundering toward the back porch and the yard beyond.

<An interesting custom,> announced a voice in her mind.

<What?> Dee asked. <The presents?>

<No. This game on the wall here, where you fasten a tail to a horse.>

<Donkey,> Dee corrected. <It's Pin the Tail on the Donkey.>

<Why would anyone want to stab a sharp object into the backside of a large, kicking animal?>

<You don't really pin a tail on a donkey,> Dee said patiently. <Donkey's have tails of their own. It's just a game.>

<Most games have their origins in reality. I don't see why this would even be considered a game. It's too easy.>

<Not when you're blindfolded and spun around so you can't see where you're going with that pin,> Dee pointed out.

<No, I suppose not. Then it would just be dangerous.>

Dee smiled and shook her head. She didn't bother trying to figure out where Brivari was—she knew she wouldn't find him. It would be just like him to hide and watch, as opposed to Urza, who would gladly have sampled every game here and the cake and ice cream besides, even if he couldn't taste it. He would have loved her birthday party every bit as much as he enjoyed their Fourth of July Festival. If he had lived he would likely be here right now, celebrating with her, and suddenly Dee missed him terribly.

<Urza would have loved to have come to my party,> she said quietly.

Several seconds passed before she heard a reply. <Yes. He would have,> Brivari answered just as quietly.

"Dee?"

Dee looked up to see Anthony staring at her quizzically. The art of carrying on two conversations simultaneously, one spoken, one not, was something she still hadn't mastered. Brivari, of course, would understand if she didn't answer him right away. Anthony only saw her sitting there staring into space, not realizing she was talking to someone else.

"Is anything wrong? You look upset. Don't you want to go out back with everyone else?" Anthony was asking.

"Sure I do," Dee said standing up. "I was just….missing someone who couldn't be here."

"You mean James?"

How did he know that? Dee thought in alarm. How did he know James's name? He couldn't…or maybe this wasn't Anthony. Maybe this was Brivari? Or one of those other aliens come back to cause trouble?"

"How do you know who I'm missing?" she demanded sharply.

Anthony's eyes widened. "Gee, I'm sorry," he said, abashed. "I heard my mother and your mother talking, and your mother said something about your Uncle James having died a while back….and then I saw that picture there turned around, and that man looks like your father…"

Anthony's voice trailed off as Dee mentally kicked herself. What had she been thinking? Of course he meant her Uncle James…and that picture had bothered her Mama ever since her uncle had died. She wasn't sure why. "I'm sorry, Anthony," Dee said. "I thought you meant….something else."

<Getting a little paranoid, are we?> rumbled a dry voice in her mind.

<Of course I am. I know you,> Dee shot back crossly. <Are you going to actually come to my party, or are you just going to hide and bug me all day?>

"Dee?" Anthony said tentatively.

"What?"

"You looked….far away again. And mad."

Dee sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad, I'm just......never mind. Let's go."

"Did you guess what was in my present? I made it myself," he said proudly, as they headed for the backyard.

"Something electric," Dee answered, smiling. "It has a power cord."

The doorbell rang, and her mother scooted in from the backyard to answer the door. "Run along you two," her Mama said as she whisked by them. "Probably late arrivals. Your father and Mac and Rose are out there dishing up the sandwiches."

The sound of the front door opening was followed by the sound of a man's voice. Then her Mama's voice. Then the front door closing. Anthony stopped, turned around, and frowned.

"What is it?" Dee asked.

Anthony paused for just a moment before backtracking through the house to the living room window behind the sofa, where he peeked out toward their front door. Dee followed, mystified. If it wasn't a late arriving party guest, it was probably just a neighbor dropping something off. Why was Anthony so interested?

Then Dee wedged behind the sofa and got a good look at the front porch. "What is he doing here?" she hissed under her breath.

"You know him?" Anthony asked, surprised. "Who is he?"

Dee's eyes flashed. "That's Deputy Valenti. He keeps coming around here and bothering us about…." She stopped, as Anthony stared at her. "…he keeps bothering us about something he thinks we did," she finished lamely.

Anthony nodded solemnly, as though he understood a good deal more than she had actually said. "Then this is bad."

"Why?"

"Because I know him," Anthony explained. "That's the guy who was watching you the day after you were out so late at night. The day I set off the firecrackers."



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




Emily Proctor's lips set in a thin line as she saw who was standing outside her door. First the grocery store yesterday, and now her front porch on the day of her daughter's birthday party. This man had enough nerve to stop a truck.

"Mornin', Mrs. Proctor," Deputy Valenti said courteously, removing his hat. "I just dropped by to wish your little girl a Happy Birthday."

"It's afternoon, actually," Emily replied frostily, "and like hell you did."

Valenti blinked. "Excuse me?"

Emily closed the front door behind her. David and Mac could handle the party goers while she handled this busybody. "You and I both know that you didn't 'drop by' just to deliver birthday wishes," she announced, arms crossed in front of her.

"I didn't?"

"No. You 'dropped by' because you were hoping I wouldn't cause a scene at my own daughter's party. And you're wrong about that, by the way."

Valenti pursed his lips and stared at the porch floor for a moment. "Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you've pegged me wrong?"

"No," Emily replied flatly. "It hasn't. But I'll try anyway. I thank you kindly for the birthday wishes, and I'll convey them to Dee. Good afternoon."

"Mrs. Proctor….."

"That meant goodbye," Emily said firmly, her hand on the doorknob. "Unless, of course, you didn't really drop by with just birthday wishes."

Valenti looked nonplussed, tapping his hat against his knee and scratching the back of his head. He had two choices: Admit his ulterior motive or leave empty-handed. Emily waited with her hand on the knob to see which it would be.

"All right," Valenti said finally. "I'm going to be straight with you. Which is something you've never been with me."

" 'Straight'?" Emily echoed. "Like you were 'straight' with everyone in Chambers' yesterday, when you acted like you'd never met me? You were lying through your teeth, Deputy."

"Mrs. Proctor, you and I both know that I wasn't the only one lying through my teeth yesterday in that store."



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



Anthony watched as Dee's eyes grew round as saucers. "That's who was watching us? That's the guy you set the firecrackers off on?"

"That's him," Anthony nodded. "I recognized his voice. Hard not to, when he dragged me by my ear into my house, yelling the whole way."

Dee leaned back against the sofa, a look of shock on her face. "You said he had binoculars, right? And he'd been watching us for quite awhile?"

"All morning," Anthony nodded. "I asked him why, and he got mad."

"And what exactly did he claim he was doing?" came a deadly calm voice behind Anthony.

Anthony turned around in surprise; he hadn't heard anyone walk up behind him. Mr. Langley was standing there, the Proctor relative—or friend—who claimed to know so much about telescopes. He was looking out the window, his eyes fastened intently on the two figures on the front porch. He still looked completely normal, and Anthony once again felt embarrassed that he had ever entertained the ridiculous notions that had been running through his head the last time they'd met.

"Hi, Mr. Langley," Anthony said. "I didn't know you were here."

"You know him?" Dee asked, astonished.

"Your young friend and I have already met," Mr. Langley said in that same formal way of talking he'd used before.

"Yeah, I came over with a catalog of telescopes that your father wanted to see," Anthony interjected, wondering why Dee looked so completely and utterly flabbergasted. "You were at church, but Mr. Langley was here. You did get a telescope for your birthday, didn't you?" he added hastily, wondering if he'd just ruined a birthday surprise.

But Dee didn't seem to be listening. Her face had that glassy, far away look he'd seen before, just before everyone left for the backyard, and she was staring at Mr. Langley like she was….annoyed. Anthony looked back at Mr. Langley, who was still staring out the window.

"She did," Mr. Langley finally answered for her, when Dee didn't say anything.

"Neat!" Anthony said. "When can I see it?"

"Later," Dee said shortly, clambering out from behind the sofa. "I'm going out there."

"No!" Anthony said suddenly, grabbing her arm. "That'll only make it worse."

"Why?" Dee demanded.

"Look, just let your mother handle this," Anthony said, not exactly certain why he felt so strongly about this, but certain just the same. "If Valenti thinks something is….going on here, the fewer people he gets to talk to, the better. I've seen your mother. She can handle him."

"No way am I leaving her alone out there!" Dee erupted, showing herself with just that one sentence to be every bit her mother's daughter. Anthony opened his mouth to protest further, but Mr. Langley beat him to it.

"The child is right," he said firmly, in a voice that brooked no argument. "Your mother is perfectly capable of dealing with the enforcer. You should return to your guests and leave this to those who have experience with these situations."

Anthony looked back and forth from one to the other. Mr. Langley and Dee were both staring at each other now, and Dee looked absolutely furious. And what had he called Valenti? An "enforcer"? That was weird.

Dee pulled her arm out of Anthony's grasp, and for a moment he thought she was going to head for the front door. Instead she muttered, "I'm going to get my father," and stalked off toward the backyard.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," Mr. Langley said, unperturbed by Dee's temper. "What did this enforcer claim he was doing when he was watching this house?"

"He told me he was birdwatching," Anthony said slowly.

"But you did not believe him?"

"Well…." Anthony paused, remembering. "He had binoculars, and he was looking at the exact same spot every single time. I suppose there could have been a bird sitting on a branch, but he was staring right at Dee's house….and they were going somewhere in the car……and it was the day after they were out all night……"

Anthony stopped, realizing that Mr. Langley had turned his attention from the scene on the front porch to him.....and it suddenly dawned on him that he didn't really know who this man was. What if he wasn't a friend? What if he was a policeman in disguise? Or a soldier from the Army sent to spy on the Proctors? Maybe he wasn't who he said he was. Maybe he shouldn't be telling this man any of this.

" 'Out all night'?" Mr. Langley repeated. "And how would you know that?"

Anthony opened his mouth to answer, then closed it just in time. It was difficult to resist answering Mr. Langley's questions; he had the air of someone who was accustomed to both asking questions and receiving prompt answers. Suddenly very uncomfortable, Anthony shook his head. "I really don't know if I should be talking to you," he said, hoping Mr. Langley wasn't going to get mad, because he had the impression this man could get very mad indeed. "This is really the Proctor's business. You should talk to them if you want to know anything."

Mr. Langley stared at him silently, expressionlessly, for so long that Anthony was certain he was in trouble. He was mentally rehearsing apologies for spoiling Dee's party when Mr. Langley finally spoke.

"You are discreet," he said approvingly. "And observant. Both admirable qualities."

Anthony blinked. "Observant?"

"Your observations led you to question the reason given for the enforcer's behavior. And you correctly deduced the identity of the man in that image," Mr. Langley added, with a nod toward the photograph of Dee's uncle, "along with the fact that it was facing away from the rest of the room. Many would have missed that, if not most."

Anthony was about to ask what on Earth that had to do with anything and why he kept calling Valenti an "enforcer" when Dee reappeared from the back of the house. "Daddy and Mac are coming," she said with satisfaction, like she had just sicced a dog on a robber. "That'll fix him." She began to resume her post by the window, but Mr. Langley stopped her.

"Return to your festival," he said. "I will make certain things proceed as they should."

More staring—more silence. Anthony looked back and forth from Dee to Mr. Langley in consternation. Why did they keep doing that? Why did they keep stopping and staring at each other in total silence? It didn't make any sense.

"Your parents will return when they are finished," Mr. Langley continued. "They will be able to tell you what happened later. Return to your celebration." It was not a request.

"C'mon, Anthony," Dee said crossly, grabbing his hand. "We'll let the grown-ups do this. Never mind that grown-ups are the ones who messed everything up in the first place," she added darkly, throwing a glare toward Mr. Langley, who ignored her.

Messed up what? Anthony wondered as Dee pulled him toward the backyard, more confused than ever and, unlike Dee, happy to leave said mess to the grown-ups. Whatever was going on here, it was definitely out of his league.




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



"So," Emily said, eyebrows arched. "That's the reason you're here. To stand on my front porch during my daughter's birthday party and call me a liar. You have an odd notion of just what exactly constitutes a social call, Deputy."

Valenti never took his eyes off Emily; God, she was good. Most people exhibited at least some telltale signs when they were lying: Refusing to make eye contact, nervous tics, something. The woman in front of him wasn't giving anything away, and he found himself impressed in spite of himself. She could probably take up a life of crime and get away with it.

But she hadn't; he was sure of that now. He had spent an entire month in the Chaves County Sheriff's Department, and a very quiet month it had been. Oh, there were still plenty of reports of alien sightings pouring in, at least a dozen every day, and Sheriff Wilcox dutifully dispatched deputies to investigate every single one of them. Some of those calls were from people who were genuinely frightened, but a fair percentage were from the merely paranoid, or just plain nutcases. Or pranks. He could understand now why Wilcox's deputies were exhausted and frustrated—certainly the same thing was happening in Roswell, but Sheriff Hemming only had Roswell to contend with, not the entire county.
Citing the perfectly valid reason that he wanted to give Corona's deputies a break, Valenti had answered as many of those calls as he could, and had quietly sifted through the reports of the ones he couldn't. Not a one of them smelled real. The trail of whatever he had chased into St. Bridgit's church back in mid-July ended right there. Whatever had gotten away had gone to ground.

So Valenti had kept his eyes and ears open, watching carefully for robberies, vandalism, anything that would point him in the right direction…but there was nothing. Whatever he'd been chasing had been alive and presumably needed food, which it didn't appear to be obtaining by theft. And that likely meant that someone—or some ones—was helping it.

Which brought him to the Proctors. Careful, discreet inquiries had allowed him to build a mental portrait of the Proctors, and the results were not what he had expected. The Proctors were well respected members of their tiny community, not at all the types who would be harboring fugitives from this planet or any other. The daughter was known as a tomboy, and the father had voluntarily served in the war, a great sacrifice given that his only child had been so young at the time. His wife was noted for her strong personality and sharp tongue, attributes secretly admired by most of the women in Corona. So sterling was the Proctor's reputation that Valenti had finally reached the conclusion that they simply didn't realize what they'd gotten themselves mixed up in.

He had also reached the conclusion that if he was ever going to get to the truth, the path to that truth lay through Emily Proctor. More than one of Corona's residents had jokingly suggested that the Army had sent the wrong Proctor overseas. "Should'a sent her," one man had confided with a chuckle. "Minute Hitler saw her comin', he'd a bugged out." Watching her now, steady, defiant, completely unyielding, Valenti was beginning to think that man had a point. This was the nut he had to crack.

"Mrs. Proctor," Valenti began, twirling his hat in his hand, "we got off on the wrong foot. And that was my fault—I take full responsibility. I was wrong to come at you the way I did. I'm a big enough man to admit when I'm wrong. I was wrong to approach you the way I did last month. I do apologize."

Valenti waited, watching for any sign of softening from Emily. But she was silent, her expression exactly the same as before, so he continued.

"I was wrong about the way I approached you, but I wasn't wrong about why. I know an alien ship crashed on Pohlman Ranch. I know I saw your daughter jump from the craft and run up to three men on a nearby hill, who I now know were George Wilcox, Mac Brazel, and your husband. I know that sneaker I had was hers. And I know Wilcox is protecting your secret."

"If you 'know' so much, then why do keep coming back to us?" Emily asked coolly. "Take what you 'know' to the authorities, if you're so certain."

"I know even more," Valenti went on. "I know the aliens look very much like the sketch in the newspaper. I believe that came from the Army base, from someone who dealt with them. I know they can make themselves look different somehow. I know one of them escaped from the base last month—I chased it to St. Bridgit's church. And I have a hunch that's not the only alien out there."

"Is there a point to this recital?" Emily interrupted. "Because if there is, feel free to come to it."

"All right. On the night of July 11th, you and your husband and daughter left this house in the middle of the night, proceeded to Warner's Creek, and pulled something out of a culvert under one of the bridges. Something that someone apparently wanted you to find, because when I tried to catch you in the act, I was stopped.....by an alien."

There! It was just a flicker, something most would have missed, but for just a fraction of a second, Valenti saw a flare of surprise in those steely eyes. She'd had no idea he knew about that. Valenti waited to see what she would do—accuse him of spying on her, which was basically admitting he was right? Say he was right, but his reasoning was wrong? Deny the whole thing?

None of the above. Emily didn't respond at all, which, when Valenti thought about, was probably the best choice under the circumstances.

"Now, I don't have anything that could pass as proof of any of this," Valenti continued. "No witnesses, no photographs, nothing. It's just your word against mine. And that's okay, because I'm not after you, or your husband, or your daughter, Mrs. Proctor. I don't think you're trying to do anything wrong. Everyone here in Corona thinks very highly of you and your family. You don't strike me as the type to try and subvert the American government, and I know you would never willingly put your child in danger. I think you're trying to do the right thing, trying to help, and you just don't have any idea the danger you're in. I think that maybe, without realizing it, you've bitten off more than you can chew. Maybe you don't see that yet, but you will. Which is why I'm here."

Valenti paused for breath. Emily remained silent. He took that as a good sign and ploughed on.

"I'm here today to make clear all that I know, and to promise you that when it goes bad—and it surely will at some point—I will be here to help you. I know Sheriff Wilcox knows about this, but there'll come a day when only one ally won't be enough. And when that day comes, I want you to feel free to call on me. I already know the basics, so you won't have to convince me, or waste time filling me in. I'm here to serve and protect. I mean that. When the time comes to protect you from what you've gotten yourselves mixed up with, I'll do my job, no questions asked. I just wanted you to know that. And in the meantime, if you want to continue the fiction that none of this is real, I won't argue with you." Valenti held out his hand. "Truce?"

Emily's eyes flicked down toward his hand as though she thought it would perhaps turn into a snake. "Will that be all, Deputy, or do you have more fairy tales that will keep me from my own daughter's birthday party?"

Valenti dropped his hand and smiled ruefully. He hadn't really expected anything better, but at least she'd heard him out. That was something. Someday this was all going to blow up in her face, and when it did, he wanted to be the one she came to. He was willing to bet good money that when the time came, she would be the one to make that decision.

"Of course not, Mrs. Proctor," Valenti replied, replacing his hat on his head. "I won't delay you any longer. I just wanted to make certain we were on the same page. Good day, and Happy Birthday to Dee," he added, beating a hasty exit for his car just as David Proctor and Mac Brazel rounded the corner of the house, heading toward them.

Valenti started his car and looked out the window toward the three figures on the Proctor's front porch. Brazel and Proctor were peppering Emily with questions, but Emily wasn't listening. She was staring at him with a troubled expression on her face, and her eyes never left his car as he drove away.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


August 9, 1947, 2:00 p.m.

Proctor residence



"Open it!"

Anthony's face was shining as he handed Dee his present; he was so excited he was practically panting like a puppy. Dee accepted the package with a smile, once again feeling the power cord just under the bright wrapping paper. All around lay the considerable litter of paper from her other gifts—all her other gifts, because Anthony had insisted she open his last, saying something about having to take it down in the basement after it was opened.

The two dozen or so partygoers leaned forward in expectation. There had already been a good deal of excitement over two of the gifts. The first was Rachel's kitten, a tiny, striped grey tabby now being passed from hand to hand so often that its four little paws had yet to touch the floor. Thank goodness it didn't seem to be the type of cat who liked to hide under the bed. And then there was Mac's gift, which initially had left everyone puzzled.

"A hammer?" Mary Laura had asked quizzically, peering over everyone else's heads to see inside the just-opened box.

"A saw?" Peter had said, with unmistakable envy. The tools were brand new and shiny, and made no sense until Mac explained.

"You've always wanted a tree house," he piped up from behind the children. "I was going to just build you one, but I figured you'd like to help. Pick your tree, and I'll teach you how to draw plans and build it."

"Oh, Mac," Dee had said, plopping the box down on the sofa beside her, where it was instantly set upon by every boy in the room, and running to give Mac a crushing hug. "Thank you! That's wonderful! We can spend the rest of the summer doing that!"

"It'll take longer than that," Mac warned. "Probably into fall. It'll be a big job. But," he whispered in her ear so only she could hear, "I thought you might need something to take your mind off….everything that's been going on."

Good idea, Dee had thought, hugging him again. Every time she tried to put "everything" out of her mind, something like Deputy Valenti showing up would happen. Valenti had left without any apparent problem, but her Mama wouldn't say what he'd wanted. "Never you mind," Emily had said, steering Dee back to her party. "Just enjoy your party and leave him to us."

"Which tree are you going to pick?" Rachel had asked, with a doubtful glance toward the tools. The girls would love the tree house, but probably none of them wanted to actually help build it. The boys, on the other hand, were practically drooling. And Anthony had smiled broadly, no doubt thinking exactly what she was thinking: Once her tree house was finished, they could use the same plans to build one in that wonderful tree in his backyard with the stout branch which led right to his window. Unfortunately, Ernie Hutton, who had behaved himself with effort for the rest of the party, intercepted that look and went to town with it.

"Awww, DeeDee and Anthony are gonna make the tree house!" he singsonged, as every head turned his way. "Anthony and DeeDee, sittin' in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes ouch!"

"That will be quite enough, young man," Emily had said firmly, with a death grip on his shoulder. "Behave." And Ernie had sunk into a sullen silence, contenting himself with making smooching motions behind everyone's backs.

Now Dee carefully unwrapped Anthony's present, taking her time with it. It was the last of the vast pile, and she wanted to make it last as long as possible. Her audience, however, didn't share that perception. They hovered over her, clucking impatiently until the paper finally fell away to reveal an odd pair of objects: A large wooden bowl, painted black and studded with holes, and what looked like the base of a lamp, with a bulb and a cord, but no cover for the bulb. Everyone stared in silence for several seconds before Anthony answered the question in everyone's mind.

"It's a planetarium."

When this announcement was met with confused silence, he elaborated, "You turn on the light, and the light shines through the holes in the bowl onto the ceiling and makes the patterns of the constellations."

"Neat!" Dee exclaimed. "Now I see why it goes in the basement. Let's go!"

She hopped off the couch and made a beeline for the basement door, Anthony and the rest of the partygoers close behind. Once downstairs, Dee turned on the one bare bulb overhead, pulled a small table into the middle of the room, set the planetarium in the middle of it, and snaked the cord toward an outlet. Everyone assembled around the table, some casting nervous glances around the dark basement as Anthony reached for the bulb on the ceiling.

"Plug it in, and then I'll turn this off," he told her. "Everybody look at the ceiling!" Dee inserted the plug, the light bulb under the black bowl glowed, and Anthony turned off the ceiling bulb.

Suddenly there was a sharp *pop*, a sizzling sound, and the basement was plunged into darkness. Mary Laura gave a muffled scream, and Emily could be heard over the excited babble of voices. "Calm down, everyone. I'm going to turn the light on."

The light flicked on, making everyone blink. Anthony's face was stricken as he inspected his present, the others crowding around. The light bulb had shattered, and the socket was blackened.

"Let me get another bulb," Emily suggested, skipping up the stairs behind them.

"It looks like the whole socket blew," Anthony said despondently. "Maybe it was the wrong voltage or something. It was really pretty when I tested it," he added wistfully.

"Neat, Evans," a sarcastic voice said from the back of the crowd. "We all came down here to watch you blow up the stars!"

Ernie Hutton tittered at his own joke, and several of the children smiled in spite of themselves. Never one to neglect an audience, Ernie seized the moment. "I know!" he said excitedly. "It was the aliens who did it! I bet you've got their home planet on that doohickey, and they didn't want all of us to know!"

More laughing. Anthony was too crestfallen over his failed gift to spit back.

<Such a disagreeable child,> commented a voice in Dee's head.

<Tell me about it,> Dee grumbled silently, scowling at Ernie. <Now do you see why I said he was an idiot?>

<I never disputed your diagnosis.>

"Don't let Evans anywhere near the sun!" Ernie was chortling. "He'll blow that up too!" More laughter. "Hey, maybe that was the 'spaceship' out on the ranch. It was Evans blowing something up!"

<Don't,> warned the voice in Dee's head as her hands began to twitch. <I am not familiar with human birthdate customs, but I would warrant brawling isn't one of them. Don't spoil your own festival.>

<Party,> Dee corrected crossly, <and I think this numbskull has pretty much spoiled it already.>

<Nonsense,> Brivari said calmly. <There is a better way to handle charming individuals like this. Your mother is returning. Insert the new lamp and activate it.>

<But Anthony said….>

<Do it,> Brivari insisted.

As if on cue Emily appeared, bulb in hand. "Now there," she said brightly, as Ernie wisely shushed at her approach. "Let's try this one."

"Thank you, Mrs. Proctor, but it won't work," Anthony said sadly. "More than just the bulb is ruined."

"Try it anyway," Dee suggested.

Anthony shook his head. "I know it won't work."

"I think it will," Dee insisted.

"I built this," Anthony said somewhat peevishly. "I know what will work and what won't."

Emily hovered, bulb in hand, uncertain of whether to press the issue. Dee understood Anthony's reluctance; he already felt foolish in front of the entire neighborhood, and he didn't want to compound that by failing a second time. And as she couldn't exactly stand here and explain that there was an alien lurking nearby who could make his planetarium work, Dee plucked the bulb out of her mother's hands, screwed it into the base, and turned it on.

To everyone but Dee's astonishment, the bulb burst to life. Emily smiled and turned off the ceiling light. Gasps of surprise filled the room as the stars projected on the ceiling blazed brilliantly, glowing much more brightly than one would expect from an ordinary light bulb.

Smiling broadly, Dee stared at the twinkling stars on her basement ceiling, listening to the oohs and aahs of her party guests. The light from the "stars" was so bright that she could see people's faces. Anthony's jaw had dropped; Ernie Hutton was scowling to beat the band. Dee watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Ernie slunk to the back of the group, thoroughly put out that Anthony's present was not only working, but working spectacularly. She slipped closer to Anthony and leaned her head in toward his.

"It's beautiful, Anthony. Thank you so much."

"But….but…it doesn't look like this!" he protested in a whisper. "Your mother got a regular bulb, just like I had, and it was nowhere near this bright last night. There's no way this could happen!"

Dee shrugged slightly. "You can figure out why it's so bright later. Let's just enjoy it." <Thanks, Brivari,> Dee added silently.

No answer. But five "stars" on the ceiling from three different constellations began to glow just a little brighter, making the shape of a "V".





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


3 p.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona



"Carl! Throw the ball!"

Malik paused with the basketball in his hands as the neighborhood boys stood looking at one another, wondering why he was hesitating. He had joined the children for a game of basketball to take his mind off Amar's continuing absence, but now he spotted him in the distance, walking up the street toward the house, the faint infrared signature surrounding his shape a dead giveaway that that shape was no human.

Swinging around, Malik sent the basketball soaring through the air. It dropped neatly through the hoop to a chorus of cheers. "I have to go," Malik/Carl announced to his disappointed fans. "Thanks for the game."

One of the boys glanced toward the house. "You and Tom had a fight, didn't you?" he asked, watching Tom—Amar—climb the front porch steps. "I heard him yelling yesterday. What was he saying, anyway?"

"He was just angry," Malik said, smoothly deflecting the conversation away from the fact that Amar had shouted in Antarian for all the neighborhood to hear. "I should go see if he feels better."

"Why?" one of the children muttered. "He's always angry anyway."

Malik smiled slightly as he tossed the basketball to one of the children. Amar disliked children even more than he disliked cats, and the feeling was generally mutual.

The boys resumed their game as Malik waved goodbye and headed for the house, using his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face as he walked. Earth's summer heat at this latitude had taken some getting used to when he had first arrived, and playing basketball under the huge yellow sun didn't help. But he had been badly in need of a distraction, and he found basketball an interesting challenge, what with the bouncing, turning, and throwing required. Much different than football, where one merely grabbed the ball and ran. Boring.

He found Amar in the kitchen making a sandwich. "Where the hell have you been?" Malik demanded.

"Out," Amar answered shortly.

"Got that right," Malik retorted. "Since yesterday afternoon."

"Doesn't look like you missed me much," Amar observed, "what with you off playing some stupid game."

"I spent a good deal of time trying to explain your absence to the Leader, and I'm not sure I succeeded."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you were looking for a new source of materials."

"Quite true," Amar said approvingly. "This world is so backwards, it's getting harder and harder to find much of anything."

"You and I both know you weren't out looking for materials."

"We do?" Amar plopped his sandwich on a plate, which Malik promptly snatched out of his hands.

"Don't bullshit me, Amar," Malik said severely. "You went over there, didn't you? To Roswell. You disobeyed the Leader's orders, ignored all common sense and went there, didn't you? Didn't you?"

" 'Bullshit'? Listen to you," Amar said, shaking his head in disgust. "You sound like them. You look like them. Why are you such a mess, anyway?" he added, staring at Malik's sweaty shirt. "You don't have to be."

"They'd notice if I didn't sweat," Malik said impatiently. "And quit changing the subject!"

"Heavens, we wouldn't want them to think you're different, now would we?" Amar asked sarcastically, reaching for the plate. Malik moved his hand back further.

"Answer me, or I'll go to the Leader and tell him I covered for you."

"That would get you in trouble too.

"I don't care," Malik said flatly.

Amar sighed. "Okay—I did go to Roswell. There. Happy? Can I have my food now?"

Malik stared as Amar snatched his plate back, amazed that he'd actually gotten a confession in anything under thirty minutes. "Well?" he demanded. "You went there—and what happened? I take it you didn't get captured, or we wouldn't be having this charming conversation right now."

"Obviously," Amar said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're still stuck with me."

"What happened?" Malik repeated.

"Nothing happened," Amar said between mouthfuls. "You were right—it's impossible to get in, get to them, and get them out without being captured ourselves. We'll have to wait for help."

Malik's eyes narrowed. It was unusual for Amar to make peace with common sense so quickly. Amar must have realized this because his expression turned earnest, and the sarcasm disappeared from his voice.

"Look, I know it was stupid to go there. But I had to know if there was any way, any way at all. We're so close....it's so hard to be this close and not be able to get to them. Now that I've gotten a good long look at the place, I know I'll just have to live with it. Believe me, I don't want to be captured. I saw the shape they were in, and I'd die first before I let myself wind up like that. And thanks for covering for me," he added as Malik stared at him suspiciously. "I really appreciate it. If it's any consolation, there's one good thing that did come out of this little trip—I found a new source of raw material on the way home. I brought some back; if it works, I'll go get more. I should bring that to the Leader and let him know I'm back."

Malik watched as Amar calmly put his plate in the sink and left the kitchen as though the entire matter were settled. And it was…..wasn't it? Wasn't it better this way, letting Amar have a good look around and realizing that there was nothing that only the two of them could accomplish? He might calm down now, might actually gain some perspective by the time assistance arrived.

Standing in front of the sink, Malik pondered this for several minutes before shaking his head.

"Nope," he muttered under his breath. "That was too easy."



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



8:30 p.m.

Proctor residence



David Proctor joined his wife on the back porch steps, sitting down beside her in the warm evening breeze as she watched Dee and Mac debating the merits of various trees as platforms for treehouses while Dee's new kitten gamboled about their feet. The air was sultry, the cicadas were buzzing, and to the west the sun was beginning to set just a little earlier than it had been, reminding everyone that autumn was coming.

"You throw one hell of a party," David said, smiling.

"We survived," Emily said dryly. She had her chin resting on her drawn up knees, a favorite position of Dee's. "Now just give me a month to clean up the house."

David shrugged. "They had a good time. I don't think Dee's ever had a big party like that. She enjoyed it."

"She had it coming. It's just too bad I had to have a reminder of that right in the middle of everything."

"Don't let Valenti get to you," David said. "He still doesn't have anything, or else he wouldn't be standing on our front porch making nice."

"He has more than you know," Emily said quietly.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I didn't want to go into everything with Mac standing there," Emily explained. "He's been through so much already, what with the Army basically kidnapping him and all." She turned to look at David, who was watching her closely. "Valenti saw us the night we got the pods, David. He followed us to the creek and saw us putting them in the car."

"Are you sure?" David asked, frowning.

"I'm sure. There were too many details. He got the date right, the name of the creek right, and the fact that they were in a culvert. I guess we didn't cover our tracks as well as we thought we did."

David digested this in silence for a moment. "Well…we knew he was watching us."

"He wasn't just watching us—he was following us," Emily corrected. "There's a difference."

"If he saw us, then why didn't he stop us?"

"That's the really frightening part," Emily said, hugging her legs as though she were cold. "He wasn't the only one following us. He said…..he said an alien stopped him from intervening. An alien who didn't want him to interfere with whatever we were doing."

"And what makes him think he saw an alien?"

"I don't know," Emily said impatiently. "I couldn't exactly ask him what it looked like without tipping my hand that I knew what he was talking about, now could I?"

"No, I suppose not," David sighed. "I guess it makes sense. That other alien did show up here the very next day. Perhaps that's how they knew the pods were here."

"That's what bothers me," Emily said earnestly, shifting on the step to face her husband directly. "We're being watched David, followed—and not just by our own people. Here we are, all worried about the Army, and there's this whole other faction out there watching us just as avidly. We left to get those pods in the middle of the night—the middle of the night—and already we know a nosy Sheriff's deputy and an alien were on our tail, and we had no idea. Who else is watching us?" she asked, glancing around as if she expected people to start popping out of the bushes. "How can we know? I had no idea we were leading a parade when we left that night. It's just….creepy to think about it. I feel like there's this giant bulls eye painted on our house...on us. On all of us."

David put his arm around his wife and pulled her close, rubbing her back in silence for a long moment before speaking again.

"Do you want me to ask Brivari to leave?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know," Emily anguished, returning to her chin-on-the-knees position. "I'm willing to help them, I really am. I just don't like being a target."

"If we help them, we are a target," David said gently. "I'm afraid the one goes with the other."

"I know, I know," Emily sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I sound like a whiner. Valenti just really floored me when he told me that, and I think he saw it too."

"He still doesn't have anything on us," David reminded her. "That's precisely why he's coming to us directly. He has no evidence."

"And what about the other aliens?" Emily asked. "As if it's not bad enough to have humans watching our every move, now we find out aliens are watching our every move."

"There was only one human watching us," David reminded her, squeezing her shoulder, "and he's not getting anywhere. And there was only one alien, who didn't hurt us, who helped us from the sounds of things. No one's seen or heard from the other aliens in almost a month. I doubt they even know Brivari's here, or they would have shown up by now. They probably think he's still captive."

"But they'll figure it out," Emily said faintly, hugging her knees. "Eventually, they'll figure it out. They figured it out before."

"It's not us they're after," David reminded her.

"Maybe not. But we could easily get caught in the crossfire."

"I know how that goes," David murmured.

"David," Emily said slowly, "what if Valenti's right? What if we have bitten off more than we can chew?"

David rubbed his wife's back a bit more before answering. "Then we'll cross that bridge the same way we cross all the other bridges in life—if and when we come to it."



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



August 10, 1947, 0300 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



"Hey, Treyborn! Treyborn!"

Private Treyborn stirred from his waking stupor to glance in Private Walker's direction. There were many people who didn't understand how horses could sleep standing up until they'd had the experience of guard duty, hours on end spent standing, sitting, or walking in the same place. While it was against regulations to actually sleep on guard duty, most soldiers learned to get mighty close while still doing a passable imitation of wakefulness. Kind of like he used to do in English class.

"What is it?" Treyborn asked.

"It's back!" Walker said jubilantly.

"What's back?"

"The dog! Look!"

Treyborn walked to the window in the nearest of the double doors and peered out. Brilliant lights flooded the area outside the doors, but he saw nothing until swung his eyes downward. The little mutt was there, up on his hind legs with his front paws on the doors, his big sad eyes begging for admittance.

"I scarfed some food from dinner," Walker grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some bits of Army mystery meat wrapped in a napkin. "I had a feeling he'd be back." His hand reached for the door handle, but Treyborn's got there first.

"You're not gonna let that thing in again, are you?"

" 'Thing'?" Walker echoed. "I think you got your 'things' mixed up. The 'thing' is in there," he said severely, gesturing back toward the compound, "kept all nice and cushy and well fed by the good ol' US of A. The dog, on the other hand, is out there in the middle of the night, and it's hungry. And far more deserving of food, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Treyborn said, keeping his hand firmly on the handle. "No one asked either one of us anything. We're here to do our jobs, and our job is to guard this here entrance and not let anyone or anything in unless they got papers. You see any papers on that dog?"

"You've gotta be kidding me," Walker muttered. "Let go of the door, Treyborn."

"The Lieutenant won't like this," Treyborn warned, stubbornly clinging to the door.

Walker's eyes hardened. "What do I care what that shit of a Lieutenant likes?" he asked coldly. "That thing in there had me in a headlock. It was going to break my neck! And what does Lieutenant Alien do? Argue for my life? Hell, no! He stands there and tells the General that we attacked them, that we're to blame…."

"He didn't say nothin' about who was to blame!" Treyborn interrupted. "He's the only one left who saw what happened, that's all, and….."

"….and whose fault is that?" Walker interrupted. "I'll tell you whose—it's the aliens' fault, because they killed everyone else who saw what happened. It doesn't matter who shot first. Those monsters have killed almost a dozen of our guys!"

"And we killed two of theirs," Treyborn reminded him.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Walker demanded.

"Just through I'd throw that in there, seeing as how you're keepin' score an' all," Treyborn muttered.

"Oh, I'm keeping score all right," Walker said sourly. "I'm keeping track of which side everyone's on. I already know the General and Spade and the nurse are on the wrong side. But Cavitt's not. He's on the right side!"

"And he's gonna kick your backside if he finds out you're lettin' a dog in here," Treyborn pointed out. "If you're worried about 'sides', you'd best not get on the Major's bad side. He'll have a fit if he finds out we let anything bigger'n a beetle in here!"

"And what about you?" Walker continued, ignoring him. "Are you on the wrong side?"

"Shit, Walker, this isn't about 'sides'!" Treyborn objected. 'It's about doin' our jobs! Whatever that job is, whether it's lookin' after the alien like the nurse, or tellin' what really happened like Spade. Or keeping this damned door shut, like you and I are supposed to!"

"It's just a dog!" Walker argued, slapping the door for emphasis, causing the dog outside to jump back in alarm. "It's just a hungry little dog! What harm could it do to let it in, just in the entryway here, and give it something to eat?"

Walker's mien had shifted from angry to pleading, and Treyborn felt himself beginning to waver. He wasn't the type to stand up to people, especially not pushy people like Walker. But when it came to pushy, Cavitt trumped Walker any day, and Treyborn did not want to get in hot water with Cavitt.

"Look, Walker, I don't care about the dog. It's just that I don't want my ass whipped by Cavitt. Maybe you don't mind, but I do. And the minute Cavitt finds out about this, he'll….."

"He won't find out," Walker interrupted firmly. "How would he? He's gone at this hour. Anyone who checks on us just pokes their head in a little ways, so they won't see it. We could just let in it for our shift, let it sleep in the corner, and I'll chuck it out before our shift is up. No one'll know."

Treyborn hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob.

"C'mon, Treyborn," Walker pleaded, "I'm bored. They won't let us out of the compound, and there's nothing to do around here. This'll break things up a little bit. Hell, didn't you have a dog when you were a kid?"

Treyborn glanced out the window; he couldn't hear through the door, but it looked like the little dog was whining pitifully. It was awfully boring around here. And despite his earlier misgivings, the dog hadn't done anything weird last night. If it were alien, it should've done something weird. This place was probably just creeping him out.

"All right," Treyborn said grudgingly, stepping away from the door. Walker happily cracked the door open, and the dog bounded inside.

"Don't let it bark!" Treyborn hissed, hastily closing the door.

"It won't bark," Walker said confidently, petting the pup as its tail wagged so hard it was practically invisible. "You know how to keep a secret, don't'ya boy?"

The dog wagged enthusiastically and nuzzled Walker's hand, not making a sound. Treyborn relaxed a bit, and watched as Walker pulled the napkin out of his pocket and spread it on the floor in the corner, furthest from view of the inner doors. Lapping sounds followed.

"See? It's barely more than a puppy," Walker crooned, petting the dog as it ate.

"Get back up here!" Treyborn insisted. "If they look through the window and don't see both of us, they'll be suspicious!"

To Treyborn's surprise, Walker shrugged and resumed his post, turning to gaze fondly at the munching dog behind him every few seconds or so. Maybe the dog wasn't such a bad idea after all if it made Walker a little easier to live with.

Then Treyborn's eyes fell upon the dog. It was still eating, but it glanced up at him, and the expression in its eyes for just that split second was…..

Treyborn jerked his eyes away in surprise, then sneaked another peek at the dog; it was busy licking the now empty napkin, not looking at either of them. He turned his eyes back to the door, mentally chastising himself for being so silly. He was just being paranoid. Overreacting. Dogs only thought about whether they were hungry, or bored, or needed to pee. Dogs didn't have expressions.

Which was just as well, since the only word he could have used to describe the expression he thought he'd just seen in the dog's eyes was "triumphant".

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


August 10, 1947, 1625 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




Silence.

Jaddo was accustomed to seeing silence as a benefit, the way humans did when they tacked the word "blessed" in front, or used the phrase "silence is golden". He usually preferred silence to conversation, idle or not, and solitude to company. So he was unprepared when the usually friendly silence rose up as an enemy, threatening to drive him mad.

The human doctor had been as good as his sadistic word—save for daily visits from a single individual to administer the hated serum, Jaddo had been left completely, utterly alone. Three times a day, the door opened and a tray of food was pushed in on the floor. No one entered—only hands were seen, and then the door closed. The window in the door had always been covered, and it remained so. No faces appeared in the windowed room toward the ceiling. For one who had spent his life avoiding the company of others, not always successfully, the growing realization that he actually needed the company of others was startling…and disturbing.

Mere solitude was not the only enemy. Other changes had been made, none of them profound by themselves, but all contributing to his misery. Food arrived erratically, and it was always exactly the same. Coffee was conspicuously absent. He had emerged from the hated "shower" one day to find the table and chairs missing from his room; now there was only a bed. The glaring lights were left on at all times. This, plus the erratic arrival of the unchanging food made it very difficult to gauge the time of day or how much time had passed. Even Jaddo's excellent inner clock could not function without at least a few guideposts. He was losing track of time, had nothing to do and no one to talk to, no where to sit, even, besides the bed. The prospect of this continuing indefinitely was truly frightening. He was losing the battle in this battle of wills.

Now, sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up, his back against the wall, his head buried in his arms, Jaddo finally began to genuinely consider the doctor's proposal. When this nightmare had first begun—two days ago? Three? Four?—he had been so angry that he had briefly considered breaking the neck of the man who entered to administer the serum. Only the knowledge that escape would be impossible in a sedated state kept him from doing that. He had also considered feigning illness, ultimately deciding that the stillness required to pull off that subterfuge would be worse than his current situation and would ultimately net him nothing. And what of Brivari? His lack of access would seriously jeopardize any attempt at escape. Not to mention the fact that he must be furious by now after all the times he had admonished Jaddo to "keep them busy". No doubt he would get an earful about that once this finally ended.

If it ended. That was the key question now. Acceding to the human doctor's demands went against every nerve in Jaddo's body. He'd had a great deal of time to think recently—more than enough—and if he played his hand right, he might be able to extract some advantages from this situation which would make the bitter pill of giving the doctor what he wanted easier to swallow, make it more of an exchange as opposed to a capitulation.

Jaddo straightened up, glancing across the bright, empty, silent room toward the door. The door itself had never been an obstacle; this room had not been constructed as a cell. The obstacle was the human soldiers on the other side, all armed with tranquilizer guns and far too numerous to avoid even if he were able to shift or use his abilities. But the door….perhaps he should make it clear just how little of an obstacle that was.

Striding purposefully to the door, Jaddo balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it through the window, sending glass flying everywhere. Ripping aside the covering that usually blocked his view of the hallway outside, Jaddo peered through the opening to find several soldiers, the closest crouching with their arms over their heads to avoid the glass, the furthest scrambling for their weapons, every single face a mask of terror.

"Summon the one you call 'Pierce'," Jaddo announced. "I wish to speak with him."

It took a full thirty seconds before those witless human soldiers regained their senses and obeyed his instructions. Orders were barked to dispatch messengers, to sweep up the mess, and to keep their weapons trained on him. Ignoring the blood running down his arm, Jaddo backed away from the window and stood facing the door, arms crossed in front of him, waiting. He knew it would not be long, and he still had a card to play.




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



Dr. Pierce scurried along the hallway, slowing when he came to the prisoner's room. The breathless and near hysterical soldier who had reported to him not two minutes ago was right: The window in the door was gone, completely shattered. Pierce stepped gingerly around the glass on the floor, wondering if this latest development could be used as an excuse to upgrade the facilities. Both he and Cavitt had been pushing to build a more secure cell for the prisoner, but the Pentagon had been coy; they weren't certain the prisoner would remain here, so they were reluctant to allocate funds, which served as yet another reminder that their positions as Commanders of this operation were tenuous at best. They needed to produce tangible, useful data by the time Ramey returned in early September, or they might not get another chance.

But it looked like the odds had just turned in their favor. Pierce gazed through the empty window frame to see the prisoner standing stock still, facing the door, his right arm covered in blood. He appeared calm, even bored, but Pierce knew better. Pierce had stood in the darkness of the observation room, always keeping far enough away from the window that he would not be seen—it was important that the sensory deprivation be as complete as possible—and watched as the alien had begun to crack. And here they were, barely forty-eight hours after delivering his ultimatum, and already the alien was prepared to talk. That was faster than Pierce had dared to hope…thank goodness. Cavitt had been climbing the walls.

"Has it—he—tried to escape?" Pierce asked a nearby soldier, silently regretting that he'd ever promised Lieutenant White that he'd stop referring to the prisoner as "it".

"No, sir," the soldier replied, casting nervous glances at the still, haughty form of the alien. "Just smashed the window and told us to go get you. Cut its hand to shreds in the process. Idiot," he muttered under his breath.

Oh, no, Pierce thought, peering through the window. This one was many things, but an idiot wasn't one of them. He would enjoy getting inside this one's head like he had enjoyed no other.

"Open the door," Pierce ordered the soldier, "and wait out here."

"But…."

"I will go in alone, Private," Pierce said firmly. "Is that clear?"

The soldier gave Pierce a look that made it clear that he, too, had now earned the title of idiot, and unlocked the door. Pierce stepped inside, the now relatively useless door closing behind him. The alien said nothing, merely stood there, staring at him.

"Interesting," Pierce said, with a nod toward the door. "A little overdramatic, don't you think?"

"On the contrary," the alien replied. "I believe it had the desired effect."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Pierce answered. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, suddenly feeling the lack of a chair. "So," he said pleasantly. "Have you had enough yet?"

"I am prepared to accept your proposal on a trial basis," the alien answered.

Pierce smiled at the implication. "A trial basis, you say? Well, I suppose you could always stop cooperating and return to your….blissful solitude."

"I have two conditions."

Pierce blinked. "You have….you have conditions? You have conditions?"

"Do you wish to hear them or not?"

"By all means!" Pierce said expansively, smiling. This should be good. "And what are your…. 'conditions'?"

"First, before I will begin cooperating with you, you will bring the Healer to me."

"Why?"

"I wish to ascertain that she is, in fact, still here. Or even alive, for that matter."

"Alive? Why wouldn't she be alive?"

The temperature of the alien's voice dropped several degrees. "You would do anything to get what you want. Including murder, if that were necessary."

Pierce's eyebrows rose. "You have a low opinion of humans, don't you?"

"Correction. I have a low opinion of you."

Pierce felt his jaw twitch in spite of himself. Don't fall for it, he chastised himself severely. It's trying to rile you. And succeeding. "I see," Pierce said slowly. "I made it clear that Lieutenant White would reappear if and only if you agreed to cooperate with me. I'll need to have some evidence of that cooperation beyond mere words before I'll allow her to return because….well, you see, I have a rather low opinion of you. Or of your trustworthiness, at any rate."

"My second condition is that the Healer be allowed access to this room at any time, not just at mealtimes," the alien continued, ignoring Pierce. "If and only if these conditions are met will I consent to a trial period of cooperation."

"You can't be serious!" Pierce exclaimed, dumbfounded. "My dear Mr. Doe, you are in no position to be setting 'conditions'! Lieutenant White's mere reappearance is contingent upon your cooperation; actually increasing her visits will require a good deal more. Now if you'll excuse me, I've had just about enough of this nonsense."

"You're going to lose me. You know that, don't you?"

Pierce paused. "Lose you?"

"Do you really think I don't know what's going on out there?" the alien asked softly, a small, maddeningly satisfied smile on its face. "I am the first being from another planet anyone on your world has ever seen. The list of those vying for your position must be very long indeed. And if you are not successful…if you do not produce information for those above you, others will take your place."

The alien took a step closer. "I offer you the opportunity to keep that place. And all I ask in return is something well within your power to give. Are you really willing to jeopardize your position so lightly? What will your General say when he returns and discovers I have offered my cooperation in exchange for so small a thing and you refused? He will not be pleased."

"Perhaps not," Pierce said, struggling to keep his voice level. It was right on all counts, and it obviously knew that. "But the General won't be returning for a good long while. You won't last that long. We both know that. The only reason we're having this conversation is because you can't stand the isolation any longer. So perhaps you'd best think that over carefully before deciding to wait out the General. And while you're at it, spare a thought for whoever might take my place. I'm an angel compared to some others out there. Others at the top of that list."

To Pierce's dismay, this speech had no effect on the alien, who was obviously, annoyingly, smiling now. "Oh, I have no intention of waiting for the General's arrival," it said smoothly. "If you are disinclined to grant my conditions, I will merely take my proposal to your colleague….what's his name? Cavitt?"

Pierce felt the color drain from his face. He knew without asking exactly where this was going—it was a brilliant move, a hard thrust to one of his weakest spots. Accordingly, both his admiration and his hatred for the creature in front of him rose.

"I am willing to bet that the one named 'Cavitt' will have a different view of this entirely," the alien said in a conversational tone. "Just imagine how pleased he will be if he is the one to secure my cooperation at so small a price. Imagine how that will elevate him in the eyes of your superiors. I could offer to cooperate with him and only him," it continued, warming to its subject. "Under ordinary circumstances, he might object to that. But then these aren't ordinary circumstances….are they?"

"Do you have any idea how much you would lose if Cavitt becomes your keeper?" Pierce demanded, desperate for some leverage. "You'd be downright idiotic to ally yourself with him! I am a doctor, a 'healer', as you say, just like the Lieutenant. You are far more likely to receive better treatment at my hands than his!"

The alien's eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was low and hard. "You are no 'healer'. I know what you are. You like to use people, to own them, and you hide your fetish behind the mantle of a title which is merely a sham, a socially acceptable excuse for you to behave in socially unacceptable ways. You are not interested in 'learning' about me—you are interested in bending me to your will. And I promise you, that will not happen. Not if I have to sit alone in this room for the rest of my miserable life."

The alien stopped, glaring at him, while Pierce tried not to wither under that fierce gaze. He didn't doubt for a moment that it was telling the truth—it would take its chances with Cavitt just to spite him. And Cavitt would gladly accept its 'conditions'; hell, Cavitt would lock Lieutenant White in here with it if that would get him what he wanted. Sheridan lacked subtlety, lacked the patience to selectively grant and deny what it wanted most to attain cooperation. And the laurels he would gain by going to the brass with whatever it told him….Pierce was getting nauseous just thinking about it.

"You have until the next meal," the alien announced with finality, "whenever you decide that is. If the meal does not arrive with the Healer, I will assume you have declined my conditions, and I will offer them instead to your colleague."

"Now that you've told me that, just exactly how do you expect to gain access to the Major?" Pierce asked, desperate for a parting shot. "I can always order the men to come for me even if you ask for Cavitt."

The alien smiled condescendingly. "Don't be a fool. You wouldn't be able to keep that up for long. Cavitt would hear about my spurned request in short order, and then how would he react? Your men know the answer to that question; they will bring him if I ask because they fear him far more than they fear you."

"As should you," Pierce hissed urgently, finally letting his temper slip. "I'm telling you, throwing in your lot with Cavitt would be a huge mistake!"

"A mistake for you, absolutely," the alien agreed. "Since you feel so strongly about that, shall I assume that you have acquiesced to my conditions?"

And Pierce may have done just that if he hadn't looked up, hadn't seen the look of supreme satisfaction on the alien's face. It had him between a rock and a hard place, and it knew it. Here he'd thought it had been cracking these past two days, alone in this silent room, and it had just effectively turned the tables, using his own weaknesses against him. Impressive.

And infuriating. Turning on his heel, Pierce marched to the door and banged on it, causing a flurry of activity outside as the soldiers scrambled to unlock it. "Doctor?" one of the soldiers asked as the door swung open. "Are you all right?"

Pierce swung his gaze back and forth from the quizzical soldiers to the alien, who remained standing with arms crossed, facing the door. Only now it wore a satisfied smile, the kind of smile one sees on the face of a cat who knows the days of the bird it watches are numbered.

"Lock this door," Pierce ordered tersely. "And if it comes within three feet of it—shoot it!"




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




8:50 p.m.

Proctor residence


"So Mama wouldn't tell me anything else," Dee finished. "I guess Valenti didn't actually do anything; he just talked to her and left. Still, it's creepy thinking he was watching us like that. Have you ever seen him since then?" She paused. "Anthony?"

"What?" Anthony who had been gazing at the sky with a far off look in his eyes, came back to reality with a start. "Oh....no, I haven't. Haven't seen him anywhere in the neighborhood. But that doesn't surprise me—he wouldn't want to remind everyone that he was acting like a peeping tom."

Dee and Anthony were sitting on the Proctor's back porch steps, watching the darkness fall. Dee had been relating what she had learned about the altercation her mother had had with Deputy Valenti, who they now knew was the man Anthony suspected had been watching the Proctor's house with binoculars that day several weeks ago when Anthony had distracted him with firecrackers and flat tires. But Anthony had been doing a great deal of thinking since the birthday party yesterday, and he had decided that Valenti might not be the Proctor's worst problem.

"Tell me if you see him around again," Dee was saying, hands clasped around her knees, rocking slightly. "Anywhere around. I want to know what he's up to."

"I'm not sure Valenti is the one you should be worried about," Anthony said slowly.

Dee stopped rocking. "What do you mean? Is someone else watching us?"

Anthony hesitated. He was treading on thin ice here, but he just had a feeling….and his father had always told him to pay attention to his feelings, what he called "gut instincts". His instincts were very firm on this one. "How long have you known this Mr. Langley?" he asked.

"Awhile."

"When did he get here?"

"Last month."

"Before or after the crash?"

"Well….after," Dee answered, watching him curiously. "Why?"

Aha! "I knew it!" Anthony said triumphantly. Score one for gut instincts.

"You knew what?" Dee asked, confused.

Anthony shifted sideways on the step to face her. "There are too many things that just don't fit, Dee. Mr. Langley asked me all sorts of questions yesterday. I slipped and said something about you being out late the night before I caught Valenti watching you, and he wanted to know how I knew that. He asked lots of other questions too, and I told him he'd have to talk to your parents. And the day I came to drop off the telescope catalog, he asked me if I believed in aliens. Now, what do you think of all that?"

"Anthony," Dee said gently, "everyone is asking everyone if they believe in aliens. And he was probably just worried about Mama out there alone with Valenti."

"Not worried enough to go out there like Mr. Brazel and your father did," Anthony pointed out. "Think about it—doesn't it seem weird that this guy just shows up right around the time the crash happened? What if he's not who he says he is? What if he's here to spy on all of you, to find out what you know and get you in trouble? Maybe that's why he didn't want Valenti to see him. Maybe they're working together. Or maybe they're working against each other, and he doesn't want Valenti to know he's here!"

"I'll bet he doesn't," Dee murmured under her breath.

Anthony blinked. "What?"

"Nothing. Look, we know Mr. … Langley. He's a friend, not a stranger. How could he be spying on us if he's a friend?"

"I don't know," Anthony said peevishly, his argument beginning to crumble. "Maybe they got to him! Maybe they paid him to find out something, or…or threatened him, or….and that's another thing," he added, suddenly remembering something. "He said he was a relative. But your father said he was a friend of the family."

"He's a very close friend of the family," Dee explained.

"That's what your father said, but that doesn't explain why Mr. Langley called himself a relative," Anthony pressed. "Even close friends don't try to pass themselves off as relatives."

Dee shook her head. "Anthony, I don't…."

"I know he's not who he says he is!" Anthony burst out, drawing another wide-eyed look from Dee. "I don't know how I know that…I just do. Something weird is going on, and I think he's the one you all ought to be careful with."

Anthony stopped, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. He'd probably just made a complete fool of himself. Maybe it was a good idea to pay attention to your instincts, but not actually say anything about them. He glanced miserably over at Dee, waiting for her to laugh at him and tell him what a fool he was.

"I think I should go get my telescope," Dee said suddenly.

"Your…..your telescope?"

"Yeah," Dee said firmly. "I think this is a really good time to show you my telescope."

Anthony's mouth dropped open as Dee stood up and retreated into the house, shooing her still unnamed kitten back into the house as she closed the porch door behind her. What on earth did telescopes have to do with Mr. Langley and Deputy Valenti? Besides, he wasn't in a hurry to use Dee's telescope. He'd only gotten a glimpse of it through her bedroom doorway, but that glimpse had been enough to tell him that it wasn't a very good one, not much more than a spyglass, really. He hadn't said anything because he hadn't wanted to hurt Dee's feelings about her present, and he'd been relieved to arrive here tonight and find she didn't have it set up already. That was odd, when he thought about it—one would think she would have wanted to use her birthday present—but its absence meant he was able to skirt the issue of its poor quality just a little while longer. And that Mr. Langley said he knew about telescopes, Anthony remembered darkly. Another lie.

Dee reappeared behind him, holding the telescope in both hands like it was heavy. She set it down on the ground and spent a moment aiming it at the thin sliver of moon visible in the sky, while Anthony sat beside her trying to think of something diplomatic to say. Nothing came to mind.

At length Dee looked up. "Go ahead," she said. "Look."

Time for brutal honesty. "Dee, I don't know how to say this nicely, so I'll just say it straight out," Anthony began. "You're not going to be able to see much of anything with that telescope."

"Why don't you have a look," Dee suggested, ignoring him.

"Look, I know it's your birthday present, and I don't want to make you feel bad, but…well….that's an awful telescope," Anthony said, feeling mutinous. "It's the cheapest one they make—and no disrespect to your father, or anything, because I know how expensive they are. The only reason mine is pretty good is because all of my grandparents and a bunch of aunts and uncles helped pay for it."

"Just take a look," Dee said patiently.

Reluctantly, Anthony put his eye to the end of the telescope and saw exactly what he expected to: A fuzzy, thin, crescent moon. These cheapies didn't focus very well either.

"Okay, now let me look again," Dee said.

Anthony pulled away and watched Dee staring through the telescope, her hands cupped around the lower portion. What was she doing? "Now look," she instructed, pulling away.

"Dee…"

"Look."

Sighing, Anthony looked again…and was instantly confused. What was he looking at? A dusty, barren gray landscape….a big, dish-shaped depression in the ground….she must have aimed it wrong. But it was pointing at the sky—what could he possibly be looking at in the sky that was dusty and gray?

Anthony pulled his eye away and stared, confused, at the cheap little telescope. "This is even worse than I thought," he said slowly. "I have no idea what you focused it on, but…"

"I focused it on the moon, Anthony," Dee said.

"But that's not the moon," Anthony protested. "It's…."

"….the surface of the moon," Dee finished, looking at him expectantly.

It took Anthony a full minute of gaping and looking, each in turn, before he finally found his voice again. "But…that's not possible! You can't see the surface like that except with the biggest telescopes, like the one at Mount Palomar! Telescopes work by gathering light, and in order to gather this much light, this thing would have to be huge, and have much better lenses, and…."

Anthony stopped because Dee wasn't reacting to his telescope primer. She was just sitting there saying absolutely nothing, eyeing him expectantly. Like she was waiting. Waiting for him to figure it out.

"You know about telescopes?"

"A bit."

Anthony sat back on the porch steps, bumping into the railing. The conversation he'd had with Mr. Langley suddenly made a whole lot more sense.

"The bigger the lenses, the more light it can gather, and the more you can see."

"Yes, I can see why you would think that."

"Oh my God," Anthony whispered. How could he have been so stupid? But actually, he hadn't been stupid—he'd suspected right from the beginning, and dismissed the thought as nonsense.

"I….I….." Anthony tried to say something, and gave up. His throat wasn't working. Although judging from the thumping in his chest, his heart was working just fine.

"I just wanted you to know we don't have to worry about….you know," Dee said cryptically.

Speechless, Anthony nodded, mentally shifting the new pieces of the puzzle. Did Dee mean that Mr. Langley was an….an….an alien? But how could he be? Aliens wouldn't look human, would they? What were the odds that another species on another planet would look just like ours? Or maybe…maybe humans had left Earth a long time ago and gone somewhere else. Maybe that explained the Anasazi, that Indian tribe that had just up and disappeared. Maybe they went to another planet! Or…maybe Mr. Langley wasn't an alien himself—maybe he just knew the aliens. Or worked with them, kind of like it seemed the Proctors were doing. Maybe…."

Overcome by 'maybe's', Anthony opened his mouth to launch into a torrent of questions and checked himself just in time. "I said I wouldn't ask," he said, desperately regretting having made that promise.

"You didn't," Dee replied.

"And you said you couldn't tell," Anthony reminded her, wondering if her lapse would earn him one of his own.

"I didn't. I'm just showing you my birthday present."

Anthony stared at her, amazed that she could sound so innocent. She was right, of course. She hadn't said a word about Mr. Langley, or aliens, or the crash. She'd just shown him her telescope and let him put it all together. He wasn't even certain he'd put it together right, but he'd put enough together that he no longer needed to worry there was a spy in the Proctor's house.

"Um…shouldn't we put this away?" Anthony asked nervously.

"Why?"

"Well…what if someone finds out?" Anthony said, glancing worriedly around the now dark backyard.

"Finds out what?" Dee asked. "This is just an ordinary telescope."

Ordinary looking, not ordinary, Anthony thought silently, realizing there was nothing on the outside to suggest that there was anything the least bit extraordinary about this telescope. The fact that it was such a cheap one only added to that impression. Whoever had altered this had hidden what it could do very, very well.

"Can we see Jupiter tonight?" Dee asked casually.

Anthony had to think a minute before nodding. Normally he would have been able to answer a question like that immediately, but his brain was a little flustered at the moment.

"So…wanna see all the moons?" Dee asked.

"Can….can this do that?" Anthony whispered, still unable to shake the impression that someone might be watching them.

Dee nodded quickly, eyes shining, and for a moment Anthony realized how hard this must be for her. She had this wonderful telescope, but she couldn't show it to just anybody. Now she looked every bit the birthday girl who wanted to show off her present to the one person she could safely share it with…and the one person who could really appreciate its worth. And moons? Hadn't she said before that Jupiter had lots of moons? Was he really about to pass up a chance to see that?

"You find Jupiter for me," Dee was saying, "and then I'll show you the moons. Deal?"

Anthony looked around the dark backyard. There was no one else here—it was just him and Dee and a cheap little telescope that looked like thousands of cheap little telescopes all over the country. All over the world, perhaps.

He sat forward eagerly on the step. "Deal!"



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



2130 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Yvonne approached the prisoner's room, balancing the tray filled with food, not really believing this was going to work. Only a half hour ago she had received a visit from Lieutenant Spade, and what he'd told her sounded too good to be true, especially in light of the altercation earlier today between the alien and Doctor Pierce. Supposedly the few men who had witnessed that had been ordered to keep quiet, so of course the entire compound knew about it. Details were sketchy and hotly debated, but there was general consensus on two points: The alien had broken the window in the door and demanded to see Pierce, and Pierce had left that interview hopping mad.

"What happened?" Yvonne had asked Stephen when he slipped into her quarters a short time ago. She'd already heard bits and pieces, and feared the worst. If Pierce was as angry as he was reported to be, that could mean only one thing—the alien had turned down his "offer", which meant that Pierce and Cavitt wouldn't have much to present to the General when he returned in just a few short weeks, and they might lose the prisoner all together.

"You're not going to believe this," Spade had answered after closing the door behind him, "but I've been ordered to tell you that you're to have dinner with the prisoner."

"What?" Yvonne exclaimed. "But…but that must mean he gave in! Then why is Pierce so angry?"

"I'm working on that one," Spade had said. "None of my guys overheard what Pierce and our 'guest' said to each other, but they did say that Pierce was furious when he left. And get this; not only are you eating with the prisoner again, but we're to give you twenty-four hour access to him."

"You mean I can go in there any time?" Yvonne had asked, wide-eyed.

"Yup," Spade nodded. "Day or night."

Day or night, Yvonne echoed silently. That meant the free alien now had practically unfettered access to his friend. "What on earth would have made Pierce agree to something like that?" she had asked in disbelief. "Have you seen him? Did he say anything?"

"He gave me the new orders," Spade replied. "He didn't seem angry. A little clipped, maybe, a little short, but not angry. He didn't say anything about what happened, but it must have been a doozy. I imagine the alien'll tell you."

Yvonne shook her head. "Don't bet on it. He's civil, but he barely speaks to me. You'll probably find out what happened before I do."

And so Yvonne had headed for the kitchen to pick up dinner, hopeful that things would now get back to normal, or whatever passed for normal in her weird existence. This was the second bit of good news she'd received today, the first being that her bathroom wastebasket remained unmolested, the pair of stockings she'd hidden at the bottom still firmly in place. She still had no idea what Corporal Brisson had been doing in her quarters, but whatever it was, it appeared to have been a fluke. She hadn't even bothered mentioning it to Stephen.

Now she reached the prisoner's room, noting the brand new glass in the window frame of the door. According to Stephen, there had been some debate about whether or not to replace the window or just board up the door entirely. The window had won, although Yvonne noticed that the guards were now stationed across from the door instead of standing on either side of it. Looking at the closest of those guards now, Yvonne was relieved to see Private Thompson. Even if this was all just some nasty hoax from Pierce, at least there would be one kind soul here.

"Evening, ma'am," Thompson said, eyeing her tray. "I imagine you'll be wanting the table and chairs back?"

Oh, yes. She'd heard about that. The removal of the furniture, the never changing food, lights on all the time. Pierce definitely wouldn't win any awards for subtlety.

"I would, thank you," Yvonne answered. Thompson sent a couple of guards off to fetch the furniture, and unlocked the door. Yvonne slipped inside, two wary guards following her as always. The alien, who had been lying on the bed, sat up immediately when he saw her. His right arm was badly scratched. It was clear from the look on his face that until this moment, he hadn't realized that he'd won.

"Good evening," he said out loud.

Yvonne stared. He had never addressed her first. He'd always responded to a greeting from her, but never initiated one....and he actually sounded like he meant it.

"Good evening," she replied in surprise, glancing down at the brimming tray. "I was told to bring you dinner. I…."

Her voice trailed off. He wasn't looking at the food—he was looking at her. Why was he staring at her like that?

The two guards bearing the furniture entered the room, and Yvonne pointed to the far corner, affording herself some measure of protection from the hazards of responding to someone no one else could hear. Not that that had really been a problem; the alien spoke so little that distance from the guards was hardly necessary. She glanced up at the observation room window and was surprised to find it empty. That was odd. Usually there were at least a few people up there watching when anyone interacted with the prisoner.

Setting the tray down on the table, Yvonne, took a seat. "I brought you some coffee," she said, slipping into her usual attempt at conversation. "I heard you hadn't had any in a while."

<Thank you.>

First a greeting, now gratitude? Maybe they ought to lock this guy up by himself more often. It definitely seemed to improve his disposition.

<I am glad to see you.>

Well, of course he was. Her presence here meant he would be able to resume his visits with his friend. "I'm sure you're eager for things to go back the way they were," she replied, using the low tone she always used to minimize how much the guards overheard.

<You misunderstand. I am glad to see you.>

Yvonne froze in amazement for a moment, then set the pot down with a thump. "Where is all this coming from?"

<All what?>

"The whole time I've been here you've barely roused yourself to put two whole sentences together," Yvonne said with more than a touch of irritation in her voice. "You wouldn't even acknowledge my presence until I broke something."

<Yes. I remember that,> the alien said, pouring himself another cup of coffee, the first one apparently being gone—already. <That was an impressive move. And a surprising one.>

"I gather I didn't impress you enough that you considered me worthy of conversation," Yvonne remarked dryly.

The alien sighed. <I am glad to see you because I am glad it was you who came first. My companion will be furious with me, and I am not looking forward to that confrontation.>

"Furious about what?"

<He will be angry that I did not give in sooner to Pierce's demands.>

"So you did give in to his demands?"

<Yes. In exchange for your full access to me.> He started eating, reminding Yvonne that thought speech was especially useful at mealtime—one could continue a conversation without talking with one's mouth full. <My companion will say I should have bargained from the beginning. I know him.>

"He's wrong," Yvonne said, shaking her head firmly. "Pierce would never have bargained with you when this first came up. He needed to know that you were willing to accept isolation before he would take any counterproposal seriously."

<Try telling that to my companion.>

"All right," Yvonne answered. "I will."

<That was a rhetorical statement. Arguing with him is pointless.>

"Maybe not. I know Pierce—I spend more time with him than either of you. I would think my opinion would count for something."

<I doubt it.>

"I'll be seeing your friend before he comes here," Yvonne said. "Perhaps if I mention to him that letting Pierce fret for a couple of days was a good idea…."

<Do not speak of it to my companion.>

Yvonne put her fork down, her food forgotten. "And since when do you tell me who to speak to and what to say?" she asked indignantly. Wonderful. Their first conversation, and it was turning into a confrontation.

<What unhappy twist of fate has decreed that everyone should argue with me?> the alien grumbled.

"Everyone argues with you?" Yvonne repeated skeptically. "Are you sure you don't have that backwards? It seems more likely that you argue with everyone else."

<I think I liked you better when you were silent,> the alien said acerbically.

Yvonne thought about that for a moment. "No you don't. You like to argue. It's how you converse."

Alien and nurse stared at one another, the alien with surprise, the nurse with certainty. She wasn't sure exactly where that little revelation had come from, but she was willing to bet very good money that she was right. This one was just disagreeable by nature. No wonder he didn't like being alone—that meant there was no one to fight with.

<Are all human women this contrary?> the alien said peevishly.

"I don't know," Yvonne replied with amusement, sure of her footing now. "I'm not acquainted with 'all human women'. And I would describe myself as 'stubborn', not 'contrary'."

<There's a difference?>

"Absolutely. Stubborn means you just hold your ground. Contrary means you're actively opposing someone."

<Like you're doing now?>

Annoyed, Yvonne set her fork down with a clack. "You know, I think I liked you better when you were silent."

<No you don't.>

Yvonne looked up in surprise. He was smiling ever so slightly, so slightly that anyone else might have missed it. But she didn't miss it, nor did she miss the fact that he was right.

My goodness, but things were going to get interesting now.




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



August 11, 1947, 0230 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Private Lomonaco cocked his head toward the double doors that he and Private LaBella were guarding. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" LaBella answered in a bored tone.

"A sort of scuffling noise," Lomonaco said, staring at the doors, "like something scratching on the door."

"Didn't hear a thing. Never do around this place," LaBella yawned.

"There! Did you hear it that time?"

"I haven't heard a damned thing since I went on duty 'cept my stomach grumbling," LaBella grumbled. "Maybe Treyborn and Walker are playing tricks on you."

Good point. Walker and Treyborn were guarding the outer set of doors just on the other side of this set, and Walker had been an incredible pain in the ass recently, blaming all and sundry for his encounter with the alien weeks before. This was probably another of his little diversions. Carefully, Lomonaco eased his hand onto the door handle, preparing to pull it open quickly and surprise whoever was obviously just on the other side. He put a finger to his lips when LaBella looked at him curiously; LaBella shrugged and looked away.

In one swift movement, Lomonaco yanked the door open and stuck his head through the opening.

At first, he was confused. Both Treyborn and Walker had jumped a foot when the door had flown open unexpectedly, but neither of them were near the door. Treyborn's face, however, wore the unmistakable stamp of guilt while Walker looked defiant, as usual. Something was definitely up.

Up his leg, to be exact. Something nuzzled his leg, and now it was Lomonaco's turn to jump a foot. He yelped, stepping backward right on top of LaBella's left foot, who uttered an expletive.

Four heads peered at the floor. At Lomonaco's feet was a dog, a puppy, really, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, looking like it had just found its long lost master.

"What…..how….?" Lomonaco sputtered.

"It was Walker," Treyborn cut in hurriedly, drawing a murderous look from Walker. "It's a stray that's been coming around, and he's been feeding it and letting it stay in the entryway here."

"Shit, could you confess any faster?" Walker said to Treyborn in disgust. "It's only here for the few hours I'm on duty," he added, bending down to pat the dog's head. It licked his hand, its tail wagging harder. "It was pouring the first night it showed up, and the poor thing was starving."

Lomonaco opened his mouth to say something, but LaBella beat him to it. "Look at the big boy!" LaBella crooned, his sore foot forgotten. "Such a big boy!" He scratched the top of the dog's head, and the tail wagged so hard it became a blur.

"He's not doing any harm," Walker went on, as Lomonaco looked uncertainly from one face to the other. "It's kinda nice to have him here. He's good company. You know what they say—man's best friend. Treyborn here thought it was an alien," he added, as Treyborn flushed.

"They don't do animals, do they?" Lomonaco asked.

"Hell, no," Walker answered, chuckling. "Treyborn just thinks everything he sees is a little green man in disguise. Even little dogs."

"They ain't green, moron," Treyborn muttered.

"Ain't you just the cutest little alien I've ever seen?" LaBella singsonged to the pup, as everyone but Treyborn laughed. "I gotta admit it's an ugly dog, but not as ugly as those aliens. What'dya think, Lomonaco?"

Lomonaco looked down at the outrageously happy pooch, and he had to admit there was some serious heart string-tugging going on here. It was a rather ugly little bugger, but its happy expression tended to downplay its lack of attractiveness. Hesitantly, he reached down to pet the dog and was rewarded with another storm of tail wagging and hand licking.

"We just keep it here in the entry," Walker said in a coaxing tone, "and I bring a little food every night, in case he shows up. There's no brass around at this hour, just Spade, and we can avoid him." He paused. "You're not gonna report this….are you?"

"Hell, no!" LaBella said enthusiastically. "I love dogs. Had one ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper."

"And what about you?" Walker asked Lomonaco, who hadn't answered. "Are you going to snitch?"

Lomonaco hesitated. It was a violation of security procedures, but still.....they weren't really letting it inside, were they? And it would be fun to have a dog. Shouldn't be a problem, as long as it stayed in the entryway.

"We can try it," Lomonaco decided, as Walker visibly relaxed, "as long as it minds us and doesn't raise a ruckus. But we have to keep this quiet. If Cavitt found out....well, let's just say I don't even want to think about what would happen to us if Cavitt found out."

"He won't find out," LaBella said confidently, scratching the pup's belly. "I sure as hell ain't tellin'!"

"Zipped lips won't help if he gets loose," Lomonaco said, tugging LaBella's arm as noises drifted out of the nearby guard room. "I know you want to play with him, but we need to close these doors."

The dog, however, seemed to have other ideas. Just as Lomonaco began to close the inner door, the dog suddenly lunged for it, whacking its nose on the edge of the door in the process. It yelped and whined, pawing at its nose, while the soldiers laughed.

"Now, where do you think you're going?" Lomonaco asked in a parental tone, as Treyborn pulled the dog away from the door.

"There you have it," Walker said, grinning. "I bet it's really an alien trying to get inside, right Treyborn?"

And Treyborn scowled as the rest of them broke into laughter.



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


End of Part 3

[Kathy W 2200]

PART FOUR—CONFRONTATION




CHAPTER THIRTY


Three weeks later

September 3, 1947, 0830 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



"Refresh my memory—what is the purpose of this useless exercise?"

Dr. Pierce sighed and set the cardboard card down in his lap. "We've already been over this, haven't we? I know your memory isn't that poor."

"And I know that you are not stupid enough to actually place value on this idiocy," the alien retorted. "I must have misunderstood the explanation. Indulge me."

"This is a test that measures your emotional and intellectual functioning," Pierce repeated with exaggerated patience. "Now—what does this look like to you?" he continued, pushing the cardboard card across the table in the alien's direction.

The alien sighed impatiently and glanced at the card. "It looks like splattered liquid."

Sitting behind Dr. Pierce, Yvonne White bit her lip to suppress a smile as Pierce momentarily closed his eyes. What the alien didn't know is that the card he was looking at was Plate I of the famous—or perhaps she should say infamous—Rorschach Inkblot Test. The image on the card was one of the ten inkblots in the test; "splattered liquid" was an apt description.

"Of course it looks like 'splattered liquid'," Pierce said, attempting to sound calm. "It's an inkblot. The point is…."

"An inkblot?" the alien repeated with disbelief.

"….to see what you think that inkblot resembles," Pierce finished.

"Why?"

Pierce rolled his eyes heavenward as though praying for strength. "I told you—what you see in these inkblots says something about your personality and emotional functioning."

"It's more likely to say something about the 'emotional functioning' of the fool who came up with this. Nothing good, I might add."

This time Yvonne had to bite a little harder to keep from laughing out loud. Her own research into Rorschach's test had led her to the same conclusion; despite the number of psychologists who placed great stock in it, she found it to be little more than sanctioned superstition. What's more, she strongly believed Pierce felt the same way. But the psychiatric colleagues Pierce would be reporting to would expect this test to be administered, so he had little choice in the matter.

"Just take the card and tell me what it resembles—other than an inkblot, that is," Pierce said wearily. "Indulge me."

The alien sighed again and pulled the card toward him, staring at it. After a moment he flipped the image upside down, as Pierce blinked and Yvonne once more fought back a smile. While many of the inkblots were easier to "interpret" when inverted, test givers were forbidden to suggest this to test subjects, nor were they allowed to give anything other than a noncommittal "do as you like" answer if the test subject asked permission to turn the card upside down. The alien, of course, hadn't bothered to ask permission before flipping the card over. Frankly, that was a greater indicator of his personality than what he thought the inkblot looked like.

Having tired of viewing the image upside down, the alien turned it sideways. This time Yvonne was unable to suppress a giggle, earning herself a stern look from Dr. Pierce. She looked away, her hand over her mouth, remembering only too well how Rorschach viewed those who turned his precious inkblots sideways.

As they waited for the alien to come up with some sort of answer, Yvonne watched Dr. Pierce consulting his stopwatch. Responses to the inkblot test were always timed, and anything and everything the subject said was duly recorded, although she couldn't see how anything the alien saw in those images could be relevant when measured against a human subject's response. What if he said the blot looked like a relative of his? Or an alien animal? She had already voiced all these reservations to Dr. Pierce, who had listened patiently and hadn't precisely disagreed with her, but had merely pointed out that since they had no baseline for alien reactions to tests of these nature, they needed to establish one.

The seconds ticked by. If a human subject had taken this long to respond, they'd probably have been written off as psychotic by now, but Pierce made no move to hurry the process. Indeed, Dr. Pierce had exhibited nothing but stellar behavior of late. He had accepted the fact that he had been out-manipulated by the alien with remarkably good grace, and kept his word: Yvonne—along with what everyone thought was Yvonne—had round-the-clock access to the prisoner. This had made her life easier, as the free alien made at least some of his visits in the late evening or early morning when she was asleep, meaning that she no longer had to while away quite so many unproductive hours in her quarters. And those unproductive hours had largely dried up of late as she had immersed herself in textbooks about psychiatry and psychology, having pointed out to Dr. Pierce that she had never worked in the field before. He had promptly supplied her with a mound of reading material which she had pursued with interest, ultimately reaching the conclusion that much of the practice of psychiatry was no more than intuition and plain old common sense, along with a hefty doses of smoke and mirrors. Not to mention inkblots.

Pierce had also kept his word about not harming the prisoner, beginning slowly with simple physical tests of strength, agility, and visual and auditory acuity. The alien excelled in all of these areas; it was Yvonne's opinion that he secretly enjoyed showing off his superior skills. He'd certainly provided a good deal of entertainment for the soldiers. Word of how much weight he could bench press and similar statistics was the talk of the compound, and Stephen had noted that in-cell guard duty was now a coveted position. Whoever was in the room at the time the tests were being administered got to watch and report back to his fellow soldiers, thus earning a bit of fame in the process. Now that Pierce had moved along to psychiatric tests, they would probably have less interesting things to report.

"This resembles a land mass as seen from outer space," the alien announced, tossing the card back toward Pierce.

Pierce's pen hovered over his clipboard, uncertain of what to write. "Land mass as seen from outer space" was definitely not on the list of approved interpretations for Plate I. Which was unsurprising, given that no one on Earth had ever been in outer space to begin with.

"Are you sure?" Pierce asked. "Do you see anything else, like….like a butterfly, or a moth perhaps?"

The alien eyed him steadily. "I will grant that I am unfamiliar with this so-called 'test', and deeply grateful to be so, but I would imagine that you are not supposed to dictate my answers."

"I wasn't 'dictating'," Pierce protested crossly. "I was merely….suggesting."

"Oh, I see," the alien said with mock seriousness. " 'Suggesting' is it? Very well then, I reject your suggestion. I still maintain it resembles a land mass as seen from space. And since none of your backward species has ever been in space, I defy you to challenge me in any meaningful way."

"Let's move along, shall we?" Pierce said with that false pleasantness he substituted for bad temper. He retrieved Plate I and gestured to Yvonne, who handed him Plate II, a black, red and gray blot. "What do you see in this image?" Pierce asked, pushing Plate II across the table.

"Two figures facing each other," the alien replied promptly, "no doubt locked in an endless administration of this foolish 'test'."

Very good, Yvonne thought. Test subjects were indeed supposed to see two figures in Plate II; if they didn't, it was taken as a sign of trouble relating to people. Pierce, visibly relieved to have heard something familiar, scribbled on his clipboard.

"But then again, I could be wrong," the alien commented, flipping the image over. "From this angle, it more closely resembles one's brain after being subjected to this nonsense on a regular basis. Yours, perhaps?"

Pierce's pencil paused in midair as Yvonne lost the battle and laughed out loud. He scowled at her, and snatched the Plate from the smiling alien.

<One of the few times I make a worthy joke, and Valeris is not here to witness it. Naturally.>

Yvonne stopped laughing as the mental voice rang through her head. Valeris. An alien name, the first she'd heard since Urza had told her his name. After all this time, she still did not know the names of either the free alien or the prisoner. Pierce addressed him as "Mr. Doe", and had dutifully used the pronoun "him", although no one else had picked up on that. She addressed him as "John".

"Is there some particular reason you're being this ornery?" Pierce was asking with exasperation. "You weren't this contrary for the other tests."

"The other tests made sense; this makes none," the alien said firmly. "My strength and senses are of obvious interest to you, but this….this is completely useless. What do you intend to learn? I'll wager human subjects can't agree on what these images represent, and I have seen things no human has ever seen. How can you ever hope to evaluate my responses without a point of comparison?"

Yvonne's eyebrows rose as Pierce threw her a grumpy look. That had been her argument exactly.

"Perhaps we should continue another day," Pierce said, starting to pack up his things. "You should save your strength, Mr. Doe. Major Cavitt will be by later for the first time, and I daresay you'll find him less accommodating."

"Have you run out of reasons to keep him away any longer?" the alien asked with amusement.

Pierce slapped a pile of inkblots on the table. "I will have you know that I 'kept him away' so that we might establish a rapport without his interference, so that we may…."

"Oh, spare me," the alien interrupted. "If you have learned nothing more from me in these last weeks, you should have learned that I am not stupid." He leaned in toward Pierce. "You kept him away because it amused you to do so."

Pierce stared at the alien for a moment before resuming his packing. "Somehow I doubt you'll be this sarcastic after Cavitt has taken a pass at you," he said darkly.

The alien leaned back in his chair. "I am not sarcastic, merely observant. Besides, I have enjoyed watching him fume up there," he added, glancing up at the observation room window, "as have you. You know perfectly well your reasons for keeping him from me have little to do with concern for my welfare."

Yvonne looked down at the notes in her lap, carefully keeping her expression neutral. She wasn't supposed to know about what had transpired between Pierce and the prisoner—no one was. According to the alien, that had been part of the deal when Pierce had capitulated, that no one else learn that he'd been effectively backed into a corner. The alien had told her the story, of course, as he could talk to her privately, and Yvonne had passed it on to Stephen, who had been duly impressed. Pierce had likely kept Cavitt away because he feared the prisoner would make good on his threat and ally himself with Cavitt.

"I hope these past few weeks have made it clear that I keep my word, Mr. Doe," Pierce said, watching the alien closely, "and that you are much better off when I'm leading the parade. Keep that in mind, and don't do anything you'll regret later."

"I'm looking forward to the Major's visit," the alien replied with satisfaction. "If I find tormenting him to be only half as much fun as you do, then I shall consider my time well spent."



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



Franklin Delano Roosevelt School

Corona, New Mexico



Closing the top of her desk, Dee Proctor ran both hands over the freshly polished lid and smiled. The fragrance of the wood polish used on the desks each fall was one of her favorite parts of the first day of school, right up there with the brand new notebooks and freshly sharpened pencils now neatly arrayed on top. Granted she had to wear dresses to school, but even that inconvenience paled before the promise of a new classroom, new books, and a new year. The morning sun poured in the windows and excited chatter filled the room as Dee and her classmates awaited the arrival of their new teacher. And it was a new teacher, not last year's fourth grade teacher, Miss Strobel. Which was just as well, to Dee's way of thinking. Miss Strobel had a been a tiny, wizened old lady with shriveled hands, a shriveled mouth that looked as though she sucked lemons all the time, and a disposition to match. She would not be missed.

This year's fourth grade class had been led to their assigned seats by Miss Wilson, the school secretary, who had bade them wait quietly until their new teacher arrived. Everyone was seated alphabetically, as usual, which meant that Anthony, being an "E", was further away from Dee than she would have liked. Fortunately, both of them were a healthy distance from the "H's", namely Ernie Hutton, who had greeted Dee that morning by sticking out his tongue and making kissy-kissy noises. It was Mary Laura Grady who had drawn the proverbial short straw to find herself seated directly in front of Ernie, who had promptly pulled her hair. Mary Laura had responded by spinning around and planting a sharp slap on Ernie's hand with sufficient velocity to make him think twice about trying that again. Mary Laura was a bookworm, but she was no pushover.

Seated next to a window in the furthest row from the door, Dee looked out to see the older children filing in to the other side of the building where the high school was. It still seemed strange seeing all the big boys at school. When she had first started kindergarten, the war was on, and all the bigger boys had been drafted, along with most of the men in town. All students from seventh grade on had been dismissed early so they could help out with the jobs those missing men usually did, making the school empty and quiet in the afternoons. Last year had been the first year things had been back to normal, and Dee had relished the added numbers and noise. She enjoyed school every year, but this year she had been particularly keen to see it start, hoping, perhaps, that it would take her mind off everything that had happened this summer.

That hope had been shaken badly when she had first arrived at school that morning, walking by the very spot where Denny Miltnor had attacked her two months ago. She hadn't been near the school since that night, and her eyes were drawn against their will to the wall Denny had pushed her up against, and the ground below where he had banged her head, over and over. She remembered her conversation and fight with Denny vividly, but only dimly remembered Urza as a coyote soaring through the air and pulling Denny off of her, burying his coyote teeth in Denny's throat. Denny's sidekick, and most likely the new head of Miltnor's gang, had caught her eye while she was walking in and scowled at her. So she wasn't the only one remembering Denny this morning, even if she was the only one who knew how he'd died.

But then she had glanced up at the woods behind the school, the same woods where she had awakened to find three strange men standing over her, each holding a glowing stone with which she was now all too familiar. Her memory of that first meeting with Valeris was a good one, if bittersweet. If there were ghosts here, at least not all of them were bad.

"Good morning, class," a voice rang out, as Miss Wilson entered the room.

"Good morning Miss Wilson," the class chanted, rising to their feet beside their desks as they always did when an adult entered the classroom.

"I'd like you to meet your new teacher, Mr. Peter," Miss Wilson said, beaming at the classroom doorway. A tall, thin man with dark hair entered carrying a stack of supplies topped by an attendance book.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly to the startled fourth graders. "You may be seated." He nodded to Miss Wilson, who returned his nod and left the room.

Dee slid into her seat, eyes riveted to the front of the room. A male teacher? She'd never seen a male teacher. Men were always principals, like Mr. Kagen, or vice principals, like Mr. Ray. Every single teacher she'd ever seen had been female, and judging from the expressions on her classmates' faces, it was the same for them too.

"I'm delighted to meet all of you," Mr. Peter said as he arranged his things on his desk, "and I'm looking forward to working with you this year."

Mary Laura's hand shot up, and Mr. Peter acknowledged it. "Shouldn't 'Peter' be your first name?" she asked. Mary Laura was the type who always wanted everything to be just right.

"Actually, 'Peter' is my last name," Mr. Peter replied, turning around and writing his last name in big block letters on the chalkboard. "My first name is Thomas."

Mary Laura looked faintly put out, as though this information conflicted with her orderly view of the universe, but persevered nonetheless. "I didn't know boys could be teachers," she said, drawing gasps from some of the more reticent types.

But Mr. Peter didn't appear to take umbrage at her comment. "Of course boys can be teachers," he said evenly. "In colleges, male teachers are the norm, and female teachers are rare."

"That's because women aren't smart enough to teach college," Ernie Hutton announced matter-of-factly, drawing dark looks from every female in the room and titters from some of the boys. Anthony rolled his eyes.

"Interesting, Mr.,er….."—Mr. Peter consulted the seating chart in his attendance book—"…Mr. Hutton. But incorrect. There is no reason why both men and women can't teach in any school, any grade. It's just tradition, I'm afraid, and one that I am proud to break. It has nothing to do with intelligence."

"It might if Ernie tried to become a teacher," Dee commented.

Ernie looked daggers at her as the class broke into laughter, and Mr. Peter consulted his seating chart again. "I'll reserve judgment on that, Miss Proctor," he said diplomatically. "Fourth grade is much too early to be making a commitment to any profession."

Privately, Dee thought there weren't many professions out there for chronic pains like Ernie, but she kept quiet. As Mr. Peter set his chalk down, a knock sounded at the door. It was Miss Wilson again; Mr. Peter gave a her a slight wave and turned to face the class.

"We have a new student this year," he told the class, "and I'd like all of you to welcome her."

Every head in the room swung curiously toward the door, Dee's included. Corona was such a small town that any newcomers were spotted immediately, and she wasn't aware of any new people in town, never mind new people who had children the right age for fourth grade. Even if they'd moved in only yesterday, Mrs. Chambers would have seen to it that the whole town knew. Dee glanced at the faces of her classmates, but they all appeared as blank and expectant as her own.

"Come in, come in," Mr. Peter coaxed, smiling encouragingly at the doorway. "Don't be afraid." A small figure stepped through the door, hesitant and trembling. Dee's mouth dropped open.

The girl was an Indian.

Dee had never seen an Indian up close before. They lived on the reservation south of town, going to their own schools and keeping to themselves. They were considered weird, dirty, and just plain untrustworthy; it was likely that no one around here would hire an Indian for any job other than the most menial. She'd always been a little afraid of Indians, staring at the few she'd seen and wondering if all the tales she'd heard were true.

The classroom was silent, everyone shocked and staring. The Indian girl didn't budge, and finally Miss Wilson ushered her over to Mr. Peter, keeping her hands firmly on the girl's shoulders as though afraid she would run away. The girl flinched as Mr. Peter took her hand.

"This is Bright Sun," Mr. Peter said to his shocked students. "She'll be joining us for the next few months while her father has a job nearby. I'm certain you will all do your utmost to welcome her."

Looking around at her classmates, Dee wasn't at all certain they would do anything of the sort. Bright Sun's eyes remained glued to the floor. She was quite small, dressed in a simple cotton dress very much like Dee's, white ankle socks, and brown shoes that looked like they had seen better days. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid, and around her neck was a beautiful necklace made of bright stones.

"What kind of a name is 'Bright Sun'?" Peter asked incredulously, as heads around him bobbed in agreement. Dee threw him an irritated look. If he thought "Bright Sun" was a weird name, what would he think of "Brivari", or "Urza"?

"I think it's a beautiful name," Dee said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Peter shrugged.

Mr. Peter got that look in his eyes that grown-ups always did when a light bulb had gone off in their heads. He ushered Bright Sun over to Dee's row and pointed to the empty desk behind her.

"This will be your desk," he said kindly, as Bright Sun slid silently into her seat. "If you need to ask a question, just raise your hand."

"Maybe she could ask you why she's got such a weird name," Ernie Hutton offered.

"That will do, Mr. Hutton," Mr. Peter said firmly, as titters erupted around the classroom. "Since you're so full of energy this morning, perhaps you would be so kind as to pass out the arithmetic workbooks on my desk and do the first problem on page one at the board."

More titters, now on Ernie's behalf, who rose from his seat with a scowl and headed toward the towering pile of arithmetic workbooks. Dee swung around in her seat toward Bright Sun, who was sitting with her head bowed, hands clasped in her lap.

"Hi."

Bright Sun didn't answer, or even look up.

"My name is Dee." Still no answer.

"Just ignore Ernie," Dee continued. "He's a pain. None of us can stand him."

Silence.

"I do think your name is pretty," Dee said sincerely. "And so is your necklace. Where did you get it?"

This time Bright Sun looked up tentatively, and seeing Dee's earnest expression, opened her mouth to speak. But she never did, her eyes swinging across the aisle. Dee followed her gaze to find everyone in the next row staring. Actually, everyone in the room was staring, and the expressions on their faces chilled Dee to the core. She'd seen that look before, a look of fear and sheer disgust. Only that time it had been directed at a gray figure with a big head and huge eyes who wouldn't have hurt them if only they'd left him alone.

Dee looked back and forth with dismay from Bright Sun, who had dropped her eyes again, to the wary expressions of her classmates. This was no different than what had happened to the aliens...other than that it was worse. At least the aliens were a different species. Bright Sun was human, as human as anyone here.

If this was how people reacted to other humans who were a little bit different, what hope was there for the aliens?




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



Eagle Rock Military Base




Corporal Brisson closed the door of the safe and spun the knob to lock it, holding the vial of serum in his hand. This was such a tedious process, and he was so tired of it. And it seemed so unnecessary now. Weeks had gone by without so much as the slightest sign of the escaped alien. Given the shape it had been in, Brisson was willing to bet it had died long ago, which meant that it had turned to dust long ago, and it was likely no one would ever find it. All this checking and rechecking was such a waste of time.

Sighing, Brisson headed for his workbench, only to pause halfway there. What if he didn't test the serum? Who would know? He could just enter in the log book that he'd tested it, that the test was positive, and leave it at that. Was there any way Dr. Pierce could find out? He didn't think so, but he could be wrong about that; Dr. Pierce was awfully wily. If Pierce found out he hadn't tested every last dose, there would be hell to pay.

Brisson hesitated for a good long while before finally reaching a decision. He wouldn't test this dose, and he'd see what happened. If Pierce caught on, then he'd claim a clerical error and be forewarned.

Grabbing a syringe from a nearby drawer, Brisson headed for the door. On the way he passed the Petri dishes with the cell clusters, a dozen of them shining under the warming lamps. Some of them weren't progressing, but others were dividing nicely. It looked like this might be possible after all, and Brisson smiled as he left the lab.

When they succeeded, his name was going to go down in history.



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





As the door closed behind the human, Brivari materialized from the gloom of a corner. So, he thought with satisfaction, they're getting careless. So much time had passed without seeing any sign of another alien that the human soldiers were beginning to relax the stringent security procedures that Brivari had found so vexing for so long. At long last there was some light at the end of the tunnel.

Moving to the safe, Brivari held his hand over the locking mechanism and opened it without difficulty, revealing its contents: Rows of tubes filled with amber-colored liquid, the serum which suppressed both Jaddo's powers and his ability to shift. It was ironic, really, that these tiny tubes of liquid were all that stood between Jaddo and freedom. The serum was locked in several different places inside the compound, the main base, and, he suspected, off the base as well. Finding the multiple storage locations had taken a maddeningly long time; movement in the rest of the base was relatively easy, but movement inside the compound was very difficult. Attempts to follow the human who had just left, the one usually responsible for the serum, were problematic; not only would a stranger have been spotted immediately, but even a familiar face that was not where it should be under the strict scheduling would have raised questions.

And then it got worse. Even if he could manage to replace all the stores of serum with something visually equivalent and appropriately innocuous, there was the problem of the daily testing. The serum was faithfully tested for authenticity immediately before each use; any tampering would be detected. Unless the frequency of testing was reduced, he would have to make a switch after it was tested, but before it was administered for seven days in a row, as the Healer had been quite clear that Jaddo must avoid the serum for at least one week before he could hope to have full use of his powers. The tranquilizer darts in the human soldiers' rifles would have to be neutralized as well, but fortunately, that was an easier task. Darts were tested before replacement, which occurred once a week. It would be easy to reach those with Spade's help.

Sighing, Brivari closed the door of the safe and leaned his head against it. This would be so much easier if Valeris were still alive. He would have been able to concoct something they could have passed off as the serum without so much as batting a human eyelash. But Valeris was dead, and Brivari no scientist. He could easily make a visual replica of the serum, but finding something that would pass the humans' tests was more difficult—he'd tried. And failed. Had he access to the lab in the ship, he might have been able to come up with something, but the risk of discovery was too great. No sense in both of them being captured. They would simply have to wait, and hope that the strict security procedures would ease even more as time went by and there were no signs of pursuit.

Thankfully, it looked as though that time was finally coming. Today marked the first day that the human responsible for testing the serum hadn't performed the test. That meant the humans were feeling more confident since Jaddo had finally seen sense and agreed to at least appear to cooperate, just as Brivari had predicted. Maybe someday Jaddo would learn to listen to him. Although it was hard to argue with the concession Jaddo had won from the human doctor; the round-the-clock access granted the Healer had been a huge boon.

Brivari made for the door, heading for the lab across the hallway which he knew was empty at this time of day. Hopefully, the fact that the serum had not been tested today would go unnoticed, and the human responsible for testing it would grow more lax. But while he waited for that to happen, he would continue to seek a substance that would pass the humans' test, and the best place to do that was in the humans' lab.

On the way out, Brivari passed the Petri dishes and paused briefly to inspect them. But only briefly. He knew what they were trying to do, and he knew they would not succeed.



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



12:30 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School




"It's too bad we're on opposite sides of the room," Anthony was saying, as he and Dee headed outside for the playground at recess, having just eaten their lunches in their classroom.

"We'll just have to pass notes," Dee commented, dodging a group of children running pell mell for the great outdoors.

"All the way across the room?" Anthony said doubtfully.

"Sure. We did it all the time last year."

"Wanna sky watch tonight?" Anthony asked.

"Can't. It's a school night tonight, remember?"

"Oh. That's right," Anthony answered, as Dee smiled at his crestfallen look. They'd both had a great deal of fun with Brivari's magic telescope, even though half the time they had no idea what they were looking at. It still functioned as a normal telescope unless one knew where the levers were, so her parents didn't suspect that Anthony knew what it could do, and Dee had given him strict instructions not to tell. They'd spent every clear night for the rest of the summer gazing at the heavens; it was going to be very hard for both of them to restrict that to weekends now that school had started.

They reached the edge of the playground, and Dee instantly knew something was up. Ernie Hutton and a bunch of his cronies were chasing someone, while a knot of girls including Rachel and Mary Laura stood off to one side, conferring in whispers. "What's going on?" Dee asked as she walked up to them.

"Don't tell me Ernie's still playing his 'capture the alien' game," Anthony groaned.

"Probably," Dee said caustically. "He's got plenty of targets." And he certainly did, the playground being filled with children from first grade all the way up through sixth. She couldn't see exactly who Ernie and company where chasing this time, but it was probably some terrified little first grader.

Rachel reached out and pulled Dee into the huddle of girls. "We're not sure if we should do something," she said in a low voice, glancing toward all the chasing going on in the middle of the playground. "What do you think?"

Dee was about to ask what she was talking about when the crowd parted for a moment, and the object of Ernie's "game" became visible. Bright Sun was in the middle of a circle of boys who were closing in on her fast, chanting, "Get the alien! Get the alien!", the necklace she wore rising and falling rapidly as she spun first one way, then another, wild-eyed and panting.

"Oh, no," Anthony whispered.

"Why, that…..that creep!" Dee sputtered. "Of course we should do something! At least when he picked on me, he was picking on someone his own size—he'd make two of her!"

"But…" Mary Laura began, then stopped, biting her lip.

"But what?" Dee demanded, hands on hips in a spitting image of her mother.

"But…she's just an Indian," Mary Laura ventured.

Dee stared unbelievingly at the faces of the other girls, most of whom at least had the grace to look sheepish. Did they really intend to do nothing just because Bright Sun was an Indian?

"How can someone so smart be so dumb?" Dee said tartly to Mary Laura, who blinked; she wasn't used to being personally attacked. "What if that were me in that circle? It was me earlier this summer, and I don't remember you all having a committee meeting about whether or not to 'do something'!"

"But we know you," Rachel protested. "She's a stranger."

"What if she wasn't an Indian?" Anthony asked. "Would anyone be asking if we should do something if she was like us?"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. "Why are you looking at us like that?" Mary Laura protested to Anthony and Dee. "It's not like we're the ones doing it to her."

"If you stand here and don't do anything, you're no better than the ones doing it!" Dee replied angrily.

More silence. Finally Mary Laura conceded the moral point. "Fine. I'll go get a teacher."

"Good," Dee answered. "In the meantime, we have to get her out of there. They'll have her for lunch by the time a teacher gets here." All heads swiveled toward Bright Sun, still panicking in the midst of the circle of boys that had slowed their advance—they were enjoying their fun too much to have it end prematurely.

"We can't just go charging in there!" Mary Laura protested. "There are sixth grade boys in that crowd!"

"She's right," Anthony said to Dee. "We should go get a teacher."

"You get a teacher," Dee said crossly. "And I'm going to get in their way."

"Dee, wait!" Anthony called, but she was already marching across the playground, scowling. She was sick and tired of watching innocent people get picked on for no better reason than that they existed. She hadn't been able to do much against the Army, but this wasn't the Army she was dealing with this time.

"Leave her alone!" Dee said angrily, shoving her way through the circle of boys and planting herself in front of Bright Sun, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. The collapsing circle of boys hesitated; sure of strength in numbers, they hadn't been expecting opposition. Then it dawned on them that only one person dared oppose them. Granted, that person was a dead ringer for a Valkyrie at the moment, but spirits lifted all the same.

"Aw, git off, Proctor," Ernie Hutton called. "We're not after you this time."

"Sure you aren't" Dee replied sarcastically. "I suppose it's safer to pick on someone only half your size. That way you might actually win."

Laughter arose from the circle, as Ernie frowned. Behind her, Dee felt Bright Sun press into her back as though trying to melt out of sight.

"This ain't your fight," one of bigger boys said. "Butt out."

The temperature of Dee's already hot temper suddenly rose. How many times had someone said to her, "It's not your fight"? Why, oh why, was everyone always trying to tell her what was and wasn't her fight'? "I'm making it my fight," she said firmly. "If you want her, you'll have to go through me first."

The bigger boy shrugged. "Okay. If you say so." He started forward, and Dee braced herself.

But he never got there. Two more figures came charging through the crowd, and the ring of boys hesitated again as Anthony and Rachel joined Dee in the middle, forming a tight ring around Bright Sun. Rachel looked absolutely terrified, but she was there, God bless her.

"Someone already went for a teacher," Anthony said reasonably. "Unless all of you want to get in really big trouble, you should back off."

Heads swiveled. "I don't see no teacher," someone muttered.

"I knew you were a pain, Proctor," Ernie was saying, shaking his head, "but even I didn't think you'd be stickin' up for a filthy Indian."

Behind her, Dee felt Bright Sun stiffen. "She's not filthy," Dee answered coldly. "She's cleaner than you are on a good day. Take that back."

Ernie folded his arms across his chest and took a step closer. "Why don't you make me take it back?" he said, grinning triumphantly. "What'dya gonna do? Sock me in the schoolyard?"

"Don't," Anthony whispered in Dee's ear.

"Take it back!" Dee ordered, desperately hoping he wouldn't. She dearly wanted to pound this little thug straight into the ground like a tent peg, and any excuse would do.

"Nothin' you can do about it," Ernie said confidently. "You wouldn't dare."

"Mr. Peter is coming!" Rachel said helpfully.

"Dee, don't," Anthony repeated. "Mr. Peter is coming, and he'll take care of it. Dee? Dee!"



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


Proctor residence



"I'm so glad to hear that everything calmed down at last," Emily Proctor said, as she poured a cup of tea for Rose Brazel. Rose had joined her for lunch on this, the first day of relative peace and quiet now that the neighborhood children were back in school. "You've had quite a summer."

"So have you, dear," Rose said with feeling, reaching across to pat Emily's hand. Rose wasn't quite old enough to be Emily's mother, but she was old enough to be her big sister, and she often filled that role. "I'm so glad it's over. They only followed us for a couple of weeks after they let Mac go, but it was so unnerving! Do you know I think they were in the house while we were out? Nothing was missing, but I found things out of place, enough things that I'm certain someone was in there searching."

Emily set the teapot down suddenly, lest she drop it. Someone had been searching the Brazel's house? That was blatantly illegal, not to mention frightening, and once again Emily felt exposed…vulnerable….pursued, even though it wasn't her house that had been violated. But it just as easily could have been, she thought, mentally noting that what the military was searching for had been so close. They'd had no idea how close they'd been. She did, and it was enough to give her the shivers on this still-warm autumn morning.

"But that's all over with now," Rose was saying, stirring sugar in her tea. "Thank goodness! No more talk of little green men, or whatever Mac said. Honestly, him and his big mouth!" She sipped her tea. "I'll bet you're glad to be done with all of it too, aren't you?"

Emily just smiled and nodded, choking on the irony. Oh, they weren't anywhere near done with it, but she and David didn't speak of these things to the Brazels. Mac knew they were still involved with the aliens, but he'd made it clear he didn't want details. And why would he? He'd been locked up for a week at the Army base, and followed like a criminal for weeks afterward. She knew he sympathized, or at the very least didn't like the way the Army had behaved, but she couldn't blame him for wanting to wash his hands of the whole thing. The last few weeks had been blissfully calm, but there were still moments when she would have dearly loved to do the same.

"So, the tree house is coming along well, don't you think?" Emily asked, switching to a safer, less emotional subject. "I understand Dee insisted on a rope ladder she can pull up to keep undesirables out."

Rose laughed. "Not only that, but she wants to build another tree house over in that Evans boy's yard and string one of those tin can telephones between them. She'll have to cross three backyards to do it; Mac and I told her it was all right with us, but she'll have to get permission from the Macks and the Rothmans."

"Oh, I'm sure she will," Emily answered, smiling, as she set the dirty dishes from lunch into soapy water in the sink.

The telephone rang. "Let me get that for you, dear," Rose said, bustling over to the telephone. "Proctor residence."

A pause. "One moment, I'll get her. It's Mr. Kagen from the school," Rose called to Emily.

Kagen? That was the school principal. Emily dried her hands on a towel and took the phone from Rose, wondering what on earth the school principal wanted on the first day of school. "Yes? This is Mrs. Proctor. What can I do for you, Mr. Kagen?"

Rose resumed her seat at the kitchen table and picked up her teacup, only to nearly drop it when Emily exploded behind her.

"She did what?!"

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


September 3, 1947, 1:30 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School




Emily Proctor emerged from Principal Kagen's office and closed the door behind her, leaning against it momentarily for support. It was odd, really. Being sent to the principal's office was the most feared punishment one could imagine when she was in school; the mere sight of the heavy wooden door and the benches outside just waiting for unfortunate miscreants had been enough to send her stomach into knots when she was a schoolgirl. And now….well, now the prospect of a visit to the principal filled her with every bit as much dread as it ever had, even though she was a grown woman with a child of her own.

Make that a sullen child of her own. Dee sat on one of the benches, bolt upright, arms crossed, her face set in stone. Across from her sat—no, perched—Wilma Hutton, Ernie Hutton's mother. Wilma tottered on the edge of the bench as though she might fly at any moment, staring at that heavy wooden door with the imposing plaque which read, "Richard Kagen, Principal", her stomach no doubt lurching just like Emily's, and for the same reason. Several feet away, the school secretary threw a sympathetic look in their direction as she stopped typing to answer a ringing telephone.

"I'm terribly sorry about this, Emily," Wilma said, tearing her eyes away from the door for a moment. "Ernie should know better than to hit a girl."

Emily blinked. Apparently Wilma hadn't seen her son yet. Emily had, and she knew very well that Ernie had gotten the worst of it. Dee had a few scratches, a torn dress, and some scuffed shoes, but Ernie was sporting a shiner that would be blooming for days.

"I'm sure we'll sort it all out," Emily said diplomatically. "Mr. Kagen asked me to send you in now."

Blanching, Wilma clutched her purse to her ample bosom like a shield and stiffly rose to her feet. She made it to the door before coming to a dead stop, as though her feet simply would not carry her any further. Emily helpfully opened the door for her.

"Thank you," Wilma whispered gratefully, before disappearing inside, wearing an expression one might wear to the gallows. Sighing, Emily closed the door and turned her attention to her fuming daughter.

"Before you start," Dee said in a low voice, beating her to the punch, "just tell me one thing—did he tell you what Ernie and the others were doing to Bright Sun?"

"Yes, he did," Emily replied evenly, sitting down beside Dee. "And I want you to know that I'm proud of you for standing up for her, and for encouraging others to stand up for her. That was the right thing to do."

"But?" Dee asked, knowing full well there was a 'but' bringing up the rear of the praise.

"But....punching Ernie was the wrong thing to do."

"Mama…!"

"Don't 'Mama' me," Emily said firmly. "You simply can't go around hitting everyone you disagree with. That is unacceptable behavior and I won't have it. Is that clear?"

"But Mama….!"

"I said, is that clear?"

"You haven't even let me…"

"No, I haven't. And I'm not going to until you assure me that I've made myself perfectly clear. Now….are we clear?"

Dee stared sullenly at the floor. "We're clear."

"Good," Emily said, sliding back onto the bench and setting her purse down. This was undoubtedly going to take awhile, so she might as well be comfortable. "All right. Have at it."

Emily listened in silence for the next ten minutes as Dee poured out her side of the story, from the comments upon Bright Sun's arrival to the fight in the school yard. "There weren't any teachers around," Dee finished passionately. "Mary Laura went for a teacher, but we had to do something! You should have seen them, Mama, all those big boys around that tiny little girl."

"But Mr. Peter was on his way—why didn't you wait? He was literally only feet away when you and Ernie started fighting," Emily protested, mentally noting that Mr. Peter's quick intervention had likely saved Ernie Hutton yet another shiner.

"Ernie started it," Dee said sourly. "What was I supposed to do?"

"There's some disagreement about that," Emily said, eyeing Dee closely, "although Mr. Peter says he didn't see who started it, and Mr. Kagen has decided there's no way of knowing."

Dee stared mutely at the floor, her silence more eloquent than anything she could say.

"Well," Emily continued, unable to prove what she knew had happened, "you should know that Mr. Kagen has decided that two teachers will be outside during recess every day now, not just inside the building looking out the windows. You won't need to play vigilante again."

"Unless they do it again," Dee said.

"If they do it again, you do everything you did today minus the fighting. One of you should get an adult while the rest of you stand up to whoever's causing the problem. You were doing fine until you hit him," Emily added gently. "That's where you crossed the line and lowered yourself to Ernie's level. And I know you're better than that." She paused. "You didn't change his mind, you know. Ernie doesn't feel any differently than he did before. That's why hitting doesn't work."

"Then why did we just have a war?" Dee demanded. "A war that Daddy volunteered for? A war that worked?"

Emily rolled her eyes heavenward and wished for just a split second that she didn't have a child who could see through every parental and societal platitude. A child who argued with her every single time on grounds Emily found difficult to counter. Just once, she wished she had a child who said, "Yes, Mama" and was quiet.

"It took a long time for us to get into the war," Emily said, weighing her words carefully. "War—or hitting—should be a last resort, something you do when nothing, and I mean nothing, else has worked."

"Some of the newspapers said we waited too long to do something about Hitler," Dee announced crossly. "They said if someone had stood up to him earlier, he wouldn't have become as strong as he did."

"This is different," Emily insisted, annoyed at Dee's reference to all those newspapers she'd fished out of the trash, and further annoyed because, privately, Emily shared the opinion that stepping on Hitler earlier would have been prudent. "You're a child, Dee, much as you don't like to admit it. And so is Ernie. You should have let the grown-ups here handle the situation."

"You mean like they 'handled' it this summer?" Dee asked sarcastically.

The door to Mr. Kagen's office opened and Wilma Hutton emerged, huffing with indignation. Emily braced herself for what she knew was coming now that Wilma had learned what shape her boy was in.

"Well, I never!" Wilma exclaimed, coming over to Emily. "Of all the nonsense! I had no idea all this fuss was over an Indian!"

Emily's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"What was he thinking letting that little redskin into this school?" Wilma continued. "Of course there's always trouble when they're around! And then to blame my Ernie and your Dee for what could have been avoided in the first place by sending the two of them right back to the reservation where they belong!"

" 'Two of them'?" Emily repeated blankly.

"Her brother is here," Wilma said darkly. "You mark my words, there'll be trouble from him too before the week is out. Those Indians are always trouble."

Emily sat, stunned, unwilling to believe what she was hearing. She could feel her daughter's hot little gaze, and when she turned her head, Dee's eyes were boring holes in her, as if to say, "Well, Mama?"

"Wilma," Emily began slowly, "Mr. Kagen did tell you that Ernie and several other boys were terrorizing Bright Sun…didn't he?"

" 'Bright Sun'," Wilma repeated derisively. "Honestly, can't they give their brats proper Christian names?"

"I think it's a beautiful name," Dee spoke up, ignoring Emily's warning look.

"Yes, well, you would dear," Wilma said placatingly, patting her hand, not seeming to notice that Dee pulled her hand away as though she'd just touched acid. "You're too young to know better. You'll learn, dear, you'll learn. And these fools here will learn too, I daresay," she added, glaring in the direction of Mr. Kagen's office. "They brought this on themselves."

"I think perhaps Ernie and the others picking on a little girl half their size had something to do with it too," Emily suggested.

"That wasn't a girl, it was an Indian," Wilma clarified. "Whenever you try to mix those types with normal people, those normal people are bound to react just like my Ernie did."

"Then I guess you think I'm not normal," Dee announced tartly, as Emily threw her yet another warning look.

"Of course you are dear," Wilma soothed, trying to pat Dee's hand again and missing as Dee pulled away in time. "You're just young and misguided. I'm getting the parents together to discuss this," she continued, looking at Emily. "I'm assuming you'll attend?"

"Count on it," Emily answered, still absolutely thunderstruck.

"Good," Wilma said firmly. "We'll have this sorted out in no time. I'm off to see Ernie now. I'll let you know when the meeting is." She bustled off, with Dee and Emily staring after her, the former smoldering, the latter speechless.

"I'm really glad Mrs. Hutton wasn't one of those grown-ups I was supposed to go to to 'handle the situation'," Dee said, her eyebrows raised.

Emily stood up, her cheeks burning. She'd never have pegged quivery Wilma Hutton as a racist. Poisonous hatred certainly had an amazing effect on timid people. Not to mention a frightening one.

"You're not going to let her get away with this, are you?" Dee demanded when Emily didn't answer.

"Look, young lady," Emily said severely, her ire rising. "I know you're still angry about what happened last summer, but I didn't behave that way. Your father didn't behave that way. Mac didn't behave that way. Sheriff Wilcox didn't behave that way. Father O'Neill didn't behave that way. I am sick and tired of taking the brunt of your anger for things I never even did! You have no business acting like all adults are alike when you know better, just like no one else should decide what you're like based on Ernie Hutton."

Dee stared at her in shock for a moment before looking down at her hands, her cheeks pink.

"Now, I will do my level best to head her off at the pass," Emily continued, with a nod toward the swinging door through which Wilma Hutton had just exited with all her self-righteous indignation. "Just because I didn't haul off and sock her doesn't mean I'm going to sit back and do nothing. You know me better than that."

"I'm sorry, Mama," Dee whispered.

"Go back to your class," Emily said, somewhat mollified now that she'd vented. "I'll see you late today because both you and Ernie are staying after school for fighting. And mind you behave yourself," she added sternly. "I do not want to hear that you argued with your teacher, or pleaded your case, or were contrary in any way. You were out of line, and you will take your punishment graciously, whatever it is. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Mama," Dee whispered, staring at her shoes.

Emily looked down at her crestfallen daughter, feeling suddenly ashamed. Dee had been through so much this summer, it was a wonder she was still sane. They should thank their lucky stars if all that was left from everything that had happened was some slightly misplaced anger. "Go on," Emily said, more gently this time, "and try not to let this spoil your entire first day of school."

"You should have seen the way they looked at her," Dee whispered, still staring at the floor. "They looked at Bright Sun just like the soldiers looked at Urza, like she made them sick, or something. And she's human, just like they are." She looked up at Emily. "They never had a chance, did they?"

No. "We'll talk about this later," Emily said, not needing a translation for "they", and not bothering to point out that this latest incident was hardly the worst of the more recent examples of man's inhumanity to man. "Right now, you need to finish school."

"Yes, Mama."

Dee trudged off looking uncharacteristically defeated. Watching her go, Emily suddenly realized she'd gotten what she'd wished for: A quiet child who said "Yes, Mama". And she didn't like it at all.




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



Eagle Rock Military Base




"Look," Yvonne said with exaggerated patience, "just tell him something. Anything. Just so it's finished and the record shows that you cooperated."

" 'Cooperated' with inkblots?" the alien—'John'—said in disbelief. "I have no intention of lending credence to this nonsense." He paused and studied her closely. "You do realize it's nonsense, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Yvonne said impatiently, pushing her lunch tray away and reaching for the coffee pot. This was her third cup, and by the time they were finished, she'd probably need a fourth. "This isn't about what I think about the test, or what you think about the test, or what anyone thinks about the test—it's about whether or not you do what's asked of you."

Whoops. John's eyebrows shot skyward, and Yvonne instantly regretted saying that. "Doing what was asked of him" wasn't this one's strong point even among friends on a good day, and now he was definitely not among friends, and it was never a good day. Granted, life was better now that he was no longer sequestered and actually had something to do for part of the day. But Dr. Pierce only came two or three times a day, with the rest of John's time spent in this room with absolutely nothing to do, and all attempts to persuade Pierce to provide some sort of diversion had so far fallen on deaf ears.

Yvonne had spent the past half hour trying to convince John to go along with Dr. Pierce's ridiculous tests without success, but that was no reason to give up. If she approached the subject from the right angle, he might eventually listen to her. Not right away, of course; at first he'd bluster and carry on and pretend to dismiss her. But experience had taught her that, oftimes, a short while after an altercation such as this, John would change his behavior, in spite of all his grousing. Since that evening when he'd managed to trump Dr. Pierce, she and John and established something at least vaguely resembling a relationship. A prickly relationship, perhaps, but then she strongly suspected that was the only kind of relationship he had with anyone.

"You agreed to try anything that wasn't dangerous," Yvonne reminded him, backtracking. "This is merely silly, not dangerous. You can't claim it's harmful, so what reason would you give for refusing to do it?"

"Try stupidity," John replied severely. "As in, I'm not."

"Neither am I," Yvonne answered testily, beginning to lose her temper. God knows that was easy enough to do with this one. "And I'll say it once again because you didn't seem to catch it the first time, this isn't about the stupidity of the test. Dr. Pierce doesn't think any more of that test than you do, but the people above him, the ones who will decide whether or not he keeps his job here, expect him to administer that test. Ergo he has to administer it, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter. Are you with me so far, or do I need to slow down?"

John's eyes flicked upward at the sarcasm in her voice, but Yvonne didn't care. She'd learned long ago that this individual responded to sarcasm, and anger, and annoyance, and all those emotions that most people found off-putting, not inspiring. Sometimes the only way to get his attention was to literally get mad.

And that was certainly the case these last few days. Things had calmed immediately after John and Pierce had struck their "deal", and John had been basically cooperative with the initial round of tests of physical strength, visual acuity, and other things of that nature. But when the tests had changed recently to the psychological variety, John had turned grumpy once more, and the timing couldn't be worse. General Ramey would be here in two days, this time with an entourage who wanted to see a docile, compliant prisoner. Fat chance.

"Pierce's superiors are his problem," John said flatly. "I will leave him to deal with them as he sees fit."

"No, they're your problem too," Yvonne argued. "If those superiors aren't kept happy, Pierce goes away."

"And that would be a bad thing?"

Yvonne sat back in her chair and sighed. She didn't trust Pierce as far as she could throw him, but she had to admit he'd kept his side of the bargain. And having caught snatches of conversation from the parade of people who desperately wanted to be in Pierce's shoes, she was convinced, for the moment anyway, that Pierce might be right—there were plenty out there worse than him.

"If you won't cooperate, the least you can do is stop turning the cards sideways," Yvonne said, glancing sideways to make certain the guards were still over by the door, well out of earshot. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but only look at them right side up—the way they're handed to you—or upside down."

John looked up from his meal in astonishment. "Why? If they want to know what people 'see', why not turn them any way you like?"

"Turning them sideways means you're brain damaged," Yvonne announced, smiling.

The resulting look on John's face was priceless. "The only brain damage is in the fool who invented that idiotic 'test', and all other fools who believe it actually means something," he said irritably.

Yvonne rolled her eyes. "Would it kill you to just look at the rest of the plates and answer the questions?"

"It might."

Annoyed, Yvonne plunked her coffee cup down on the table. "Then you should definitely take the test so you'll drop dead and put us all out of our misery."

John gave her that famous severe look which meant he was seriously annoyed, but Yvonne ignored him. He loved it when she fought back. It was almost as if he fed off other people's anger and irritation. Or maybe he just enjoyed arguing. Whatever the reason, he thrived on hearing the very things that most people would find insulting.

"General Ramey's coming back in two days," Yvonne began, playing her very last card. "And…"

"I've heard," John said shortly. "Endlessly. Pierce has plenty to present to his superior."

"This time it's different," Yvonne insisted, leaning forward, her arms on the table. "Last time no one really expected anything of Cavitt or Pierce in terms of information because they'd only just caught you and found a way to hang onto you. But now expectations are a lot higher. You need to make Pierce look good, and give Cavitt something to chew on when you see him later."

<Oh, for heaven's sake!> John erupted, reverting to "mind speech" and dropping his fork with a clatter. <I am sick to death of everyone telling me to 'give them what they want'!> He paused, glowering. <Did my companion put you up to this?>

"No!" Yvonne protested. "I just meant that…."

<As if it isn't bad enough to have to listen to this nonsense from him, now I have to listen to it from you!>

"Look, buster," Yvonne hissed quietly, losing her temper at last, "I'm trying to get you out of here. I'm trying to get me out of here. I'm stuck here just like you are…"

<Really? Are you confined to one room with nothing to do?>

"You bet I am," Yvonne snapped. "Every single time your friend is here, I'm trapped in my room so people don't see two of us!"

<Tell him that it is not necessary to send you with the exact same message he brings every time he's here!> John snapped back. <I don't need to hear it from both of you!>

"I'd say you do," Yvonne said grimly. "Has it ever occurred to you that two different people reaching the same conclusion might mean that we're right?"

John went off on a tear with another torrent of abuse while Yvonne struggled to control her temper. He knew perfectly well she couldn't respond in kind because she couldn't speak silently—a similar outburst from her would be all too audible to the guards. So she was essentially forced to sit there and listen while he threw his tantrums, which were unfortunately becoming more frequent of late. That was not surprising—he still had absolutely nothing to do between tests except restlessly prowl his room or sleep—but that sure as hell wasn't her fault.

<If you ever have an original thought, be sure and let me know,> John finished sarcastically. <If all you intend to do is quote him, be silent and go back to throwing things.>

That was too much. <Oh, will you stop it!> Yvonne exploded silently. <And if I were you, I'd be careful what I asked for, because the next time I throw something, I'll be aiming straight for you!>

John's eyes widened. Yvonne stopped, realizing even before he spoke what had happened. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she knew—that time her thoughts had hit the intended target. "How did I do that?" she whispered, hoping the guards hadn't noticed anything amiss. Fortunately, most of the guards had long ago grown bored of watching them eat, and pretty much ignored them until they got up from the table.

<Interesting,> John murmured, giving her an appraising look. <It took you longer. Much longer. Perhaps because you're an adult.>

Longer than what? Longer than who? But it wasn't working this time; it didn't…. 'sound' the same, if one could put it that way, didn't feel the same. She wasn't sure how she'd pulled it off, but she did know whether or not she was successful.

<It won't work all the time at first,> John said levelly, his fit of temper forgotten. <You're using a part of your brain you haven't used before; it will take some time to learn to control it.>

"Any chance we can get you to do that?"

<Do what?>

"Use a part of your brain you haven't used before? The part where you listen to people who are trying to help you and stop making them wish they'd never bothered in the first place?"

The ghost of a smile played across John's lips. No one else would have taken that twist of the mouth as a smile, but she knew him better than he'd like to admit. He did have a sense of humor, albeit one dry as the Sahara on a hot summer day during a drought, but it was there nonetheless.

"So…how long do I have to wait until I can rip into you the way you rip into me?" she asked, finding that she was actually looking forward to that.

<I'm not sure; I'm not familiar with awakening the brains of lesser species,> he replied, ignoring her raised eyebrows. <But as I recall, it has something to do with strong emotions, at least at first.>

"Strong emotions?"

<Anger. Fear. These tend to start the process in the first place. Eventually you will become fluent.>

"Well," Yvonne said brightly, picking up her fork again. "If anger helps me learn, given the way you've been acting, I should be an old pro by the end of the week."

Another severe look. Yvonne ignored this one too as she tucked into the last of her lunch. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she did get the impression he'd heard and understood her argument about cooperating. Denied their prey for weeks now, the vultures were circling closer.

She desperately hoped he wasn't so pig-headed that he couldn't see that.




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



3:00 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School



As her classmates gathered up their belongings in preparation to go home for the day, Dee Proctor sat glumly at her desk, awaiting her fate. The afternoon had been mercifully quiet. When she had arrived at her classroom after the bout with the principal and her mother, reactions from her classmates had run the gamut from Rachel's and Anthony's sympathetic glances to Mary Laura's smug "I told you so" looks. Most simply looked baffled, as though they couldn't fathom why she would risk a trip to the principal's office over an Indian. The Indian in question hadn't even looked up when Dee had entered, her head bent over her workbook, slowly filling in the blanks. So much for gratitude.

Ernie had appeared some thirty minutes after Dee, sporting a black eye that could boast half of his nose in its territory. His furious scowl didn't do anything to improve his appearance, and the gasps that greeted him did nothing to improve the scowl. Mr. Peter had shushed the class and gone straight back to business, but it was hard to miss the smothered smiles thrown his way, or the admiring glances thrown hers, mainly from the boys. Whatever the reason, Ernie Hutton had gone and gotten himself whupped by a girl. In the jungles of the schoolyard, that was equivalent to being tarred and feathered, and Dee had returned to her spelling worksheet well satisfied that at least something good had come of this whole debacle.

Mr. Peter dismissed the class and everyone except Dee and Ernie began filing out. Dee glanced over at Ernie, who was still scowling furiously, his arms crossed tightly in front of him, but he wasn't looking her way. Then her view was blocked by a short form with dark braided hair. Bright Sun stared at the floor as she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Aren't you coming?"

"I have to stay after school," Dee answered shortly.

Now Bright Sun did look up, her dark eyes wide with alarm. "Because….because of me?"

She looked so startled that Dee decided she really hadn't known that Dee had gotten in trouble for defending her. "No," Dee answered. "Because….because of me. I….I shouldn't have hit him. Or so they tell me," she added, not at all convinced this was the case.

Bright Sun pondered this in silence for a moment. "What will they do to you?" she finally asked in that same, whispery voice. "Will they….will they beat you?"

"No!" Dee answered quickly. "Nothing like that. Mr. Peter'll probably make me write out 'I will not fight in school' a hundred times, or something like that. That's all." And give me a hand cramp that'll last the rest of the week, she added silently. At least she thought that's what would happen. Dee had never had to stay after school before, never mind been sent to the principal's office, so her understanding of what awaited those unfortunates who found themselves in that position was a bit fuzzy.

Bright Sun hesitated a moment, then dropped her eyes and headed for the door. She was the last one out, and Mr. Peter shut the door behind her, returned to his desk, sitting on the front edge and looking at Dee and Ernie.

"Both of you are being punished for fighting during recess," Mr. Peter began in a level tone, "and as I am your teacher, I have been given the responsibility of setting your punishment. I should point out that if either of you makes the mistake of fighting again, the punishment will increase. Such behavior is not acceptable; there are better ways to settle our differences. Do you both understand this?"

"Yes, sir," Dee answered tonelessly.

Ernie took a bit longer. "Yes, sir," he finally said, barely audible.

"I've given this a good deal of thought," Mr. Peter continued, "and I've decided it would be better to…."

A knock on the door interrupted him. Better to what? Dee thought, as he went to answer the door. What was he going to do? Make them spend the night there? Kick them out of school? Make them—oh God, not that—make them shake hands and apologize? Dee decided right then and there that if Mr. Peter was stupid enough to try that, she'd rather be thrown out of school.

The door opened, and Dee was surprised to see Bright Sun just outside. But Mr. Peter wasn't talking to Bright Sun; he was talking to someone next to her, just around the corner of the doorjamb and out of Dee's range of vision. Someone as tall as Mr. Peter judging from where Mr. Peter was looking. Dee craned her neck trying to tell what was going on, as did Ernie, but she couldn't see a thing. A voice floated in, an unhappy male voice, and finally Mr. Peter stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Left alone in the classroom, Ernie and Dee glowered briefly at each other before looking away. Ernie didn't have much to look at, but Dee was in the row by the windows, so she could look out. And when she did her heart soared, for just outside were Anthony and Rachel, smiling at her. They waved and set their book bags down on the ground, leaning against the school wall. Dee smiled and waved back; she knew they'd be there when she got through, and that made things a little better.

The door opened again, and Mr. Peter came back inside. Dee peered through the door as he swung it closed behind him, but she could see no one in the hall now. Bright Sun and whoever had been with her had left. "As I was saying," Mr. Peter said, continuing right where he had left off, "I decided it would be better to try something other than the usual punishment for infractions of this nature. Something to get you thinking about what you did and why. After all, the goal of punishment is to teach, is it not?"

Neither Dee nor Ernie answered, but Dee sat forward in her seat, intrigued now. She'd never heard anyone refer to "punishment" and "teaching" in the same sentence. Whatever could he be talking about?

"I'm going to give each of you a paper with a quotation on it," Mr. Peter continued, "and I want each of you to think hard about how that quotation applies to what happened at recess today. You're to write me an essay of at least four paragraphs. You may leave when you are finished, but I will need to approve your work before I will dismiss you. And I will be passing these along to the principal and showing them to your parents."

Mr. Peter then placed a sheet of paper first on Ernie's desk, then on Dee's. Dee read her quotation in silence.



The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Edmund Burke



Stunned, Dee read it four times before glancing over at Ernie, wondering if his paper said the same thing. She couldn't see his paper from this distance, but whatever it said, he was scowling even worse than before. She glanced up at Mr. Peter, who was watching her closely, and suddenly, he smiled.

Dee looked back down at her paper, a lump forming in her throat. Whoever this Mr. Burke was, he was a drop-dead genius, because "doing nothing" was exactly how evil triumphed. "Doing nothing" was how Hitler had risen to power, how little Indian girls were terrorized, how aliens were pursued like animals even though they hadn't attacked anyone. She had done something today…a bit too much something, but done something nonetheless. And now she had a chance to speak her piece. That was worth a hand cramp, and she pulled out her pencil and eagerly set to work.

Twenty minutes and two pages later, she carried her essay to Mr. Peter's desk. On the way she glanced at Ernie's paper; only about four or five lines of shaky cursive were visible. He would be here for awhile yet.

Mr. Peter took a long time reading her essay, and when he was done, he set her papers down and smiled. "Very nice, Miss Proctor. You are free to go now."

Dee gathered up her book bag and headed for the door, with Ernie looking daggers at her as she passed. She ignored him; Anthony and Rachel would be waiting for her, and she couldn't wait to tell them all about Mr. Peter's notion of "punishment". She pulled the classroom door closed behind her and ran smack into Bright Sun, who was waiting just around the corner.

She wasn't the only one waiting. Beside her was an Indian boy, a teenager from the look of him, tall, with black hair like Bright Sun's, only his was flowing about his shoulders. His eyes were dark, his expression serious. And Bright Sun was actually smiling at her. She looked much different now that she wasn't surrounded by a crowd of disapproving people; more relaxed, more confident. "Are you all right?" she asked Dee, her voice a bit clearer than earlier.

"I….sure," Dee answered, still in shock. "Have you…both…been out here the whole time?"

"Yes," Bright Sun answered gravely.

"But….why? Who is this?" Dee asked, staring at the huge Indian boy.

"This is my brother," Bright Sun answered. "River Dog."

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO




September 3, 1947, 3:45 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School




Dee stared at the tall Indian boy uncertainly, while Bright Sun stood placidly at his side. "Uh…hello," Dee ventured. He didn't reply, but merely stared at her intently, unsmiling.

"My brother is very grateful for what you did for me today," Bright Sun announced. "And so am I," she added shyly.

Grateful? He didn't look grateful. He still hadn't said a word or acknowledged her greeting; the disapproving stares of her classmates had been easier to take than this Indian boy's steady, intense gaze.

"It was nothing," Dee said dismissively, deciding not to spend any more time trying to puzzle these people out. Anthony and Rachel were waiting for her.

"It was not nothing," River Dog said suddenly, his deep voice making Dee jump. "You were punished for protecting my sister."

"Well…not really," Dee said, feeling her face getting hot. The only thing she hated worse than crying in front of people was admitting she'd screwed up. "I wasn't punished for protecting Bright Sun. I was punished for hitting Ernie."

"If you had not defended her, he would have hurt my sister," River Dog said with finality.

Dee sighed. She would dearly love to believe that because that would make Ernie's black eye more than justified, but she knew Ernie too well. "I don't think so," she said reluctantly. "Ernie's a coward, and the teacher was almost there. I just got really mad, that's all."

"You defended my sister," River Dog continued, ignoring her mea culpa, "and I came here to take your punishment in your place. But your teacher would not let me."

Good. Especially since the "punishment" had turned out to be well worth doing. "That was really nice of you," Dee said carefully, "but it's not your fault I hit him. And since it didn't work, then why did you stay?"

"We stayed to honor your sacrifice," Bright Sun said, her high voice contrasting with her brother's deep one.

Sacrifice? What sacrifice? Dee felt momentarily embarrassed as she realized how seriously Bright Sun and River Dog were taking all this. It certainly hadn't turned out to be much of a sacrifice for her. True, she'd gotten a talking to from Mr. Kagen and her Mama, and Daddy would probably have his say tonight. But one also had to factor in that wonderful, whopping black eye Ernie was sporting courtesy of her, and how good it had felt to write that "punishment" essay.

"Look," Dee said, "you're making this into a bigger deal than it is. I think those boys were beastly, and I'm glad I could help, but I wouldn't call staying after school for a few minutes a 'sacrifice'. I haven't sacrificed anything."

"Not yet, perhaps," River Dog replied seriously. "But you will."

He gave a her a very slight nod, then turned and took Bright Sun's hand. Bright Sun smiled and waved as they walked away, leaving Dee standing there absolutely thunderstruck. What did he mean, 'You will'? She 'will' what? Was something awful going to happen to her now that she'd stood up for an Indian? What could possibly happen to her that would be worse than what had happened when she'd stood up for aliens?

Still puzzling, Dee headed for the front door and around the building, where Anthony and Rachel were eagerly waiting for her.

"We saw you leave!" Rachel said excitedly. "You weren't there very long at all. Ernie's still in there. He looks furious!"

"What did Mr. Peter have you write?" Anthony wanted to know.

"Yes, what did he do to you?" Rachel asked, practically hopping from one foot to another, as Dee smiled. Being in trouble did tend to confer a certain celebrity.

The three talked all the way off the school grounds and into town, heading for their street. Anthony and Rachel were very intrigued by Mr. Peter's notion of "punishment". "That was a good quote," Rachel commented as they neared Corona's main street. "I'll have to remember that one."

"Did you see what was on Ernie's paper?" Anthony asked curiously.

Dee shook her head. "Nope. He's too far back in the row for me to see his papers."

"I'd sure like to know if Mr. Peter gave him the same quote," Anthony said thoughtfully. "I'll bet he didn't."

Talk then turned to whether or not Ernie would have actually thrown the first punch had Dee not….well, beaten him to the punch. Dee was surprised to find her friends on different sides of this issue than she would have expected.

"I don't think he would have," Anthony argued. "There were too many witnesses, and he would have gotten in too much trouble."

"You're assuming he thinks before he acts," Rachel noted. "Ernie's a coward when he's by himself, but he wasn't by himself—he had all those other boys with him, and a lot of them were older. I really thought he was going to hit you," she added to Dee. "That's why I called out that Mr. Peter was coming. That was for him, not you."

They had come abreast of Chambers' Grocery Store and stopped to admire the window. The crowds of tourists had thinned somewhat now that summer was over, but spaceships were still doing brisk business in Corona, and Mrs. Chambers's alien head cookies remained hot sellers. It really was an uncanny resemblance; for a long time, Dee had avoided even looking at those cookies because they reminded her of Valeris when she had left him, and Urza when they had watched the fireworks on Antar in her dream. But now she could look at them without feeling that nasty lump rising in her throat. Instead, she felt....empty. Like there was a hole in her life. Not a good feeling, surely, but better than it had been.

"Dee?" Rachel asked. "Is something wrong?"

With a start, Dee realized she'd had her nose pressed to the window, staring at the cookies. She shook her head and Rachel skipped onward, but Anthony was giving her one of "those" looks, where she felt like he was reading her mind. And so what? She would love to tell him the truth, if only that wouldn't mean that he would be in danger too. It had been dangerous enough just telling him about her telescope...dangerous, and wonderful.

"Let's go this way," Rachel called, heading down an alley between the five and dime and the laundromat. If they climbed the little hill behind the dumpsters in the back and cut across a few back yards, they'd shave about ten minutes off their walk. Dee hurried along behind Rachel, eager to get home to her tree house and her kitten, whom she'd named "Cleopatra" for her tendency, shared by all cats, to behave like the fabled queen of the Nile. Anthony brought up the rear.

They were almost to the end of the alley when they appeared.

Boys. Big boys. Teenaged boys, lots of them, coming from behind the buildings just ahead, slipping out from behind junk in the alley, hopping down from fire escapes overhead. Rachel, Dee, and Anthony stopped, turning in circles, finding themselves surrounded on all sides; ultimately they wound up back to back in a circle, just like they'd been at recess.

"This looks familiar," Anthony muttered.

"What do they want?" Rachel whispered. Her arm was touching Dee's, and Dee could feel her trembling.

"None of these boys were on the playground today," Anthony murmured on her other side. And he was right—these boys were high school age, too big to have been out with Dee's class. Had they gotten wind of what happened? Is this what River Dog had meant about sacrifices?

The boys had stopped advancing; they stood silently, staring at them. One of them stepped forward; Dee studied his face, and suddenly it clicked—this was the boy who had scowled at her this morning on the way into school.

"I know you," Dee said suddenly. "You were one of Denny's friends.

"Very good," the lead boy said approvingly. "You know, Denny always thought you were stupid, Proctor, but I never did. I think you're smart. Smart enough to know what really happened to Denny."

He took a step closer, and the others followed suit. "And you're not leaving here until you tell me."




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



Anthony looked back and forth from Rachel to Dee in confusion. Who was this "Denny" person, and what had happened to him? And why did this teenage thug think Dee knew something about that?

All the gang members had closed in, leaving the children in a tight huddle in the middle. "What happened to Denny?" the lead thug demanded, only feet away from Dee now. "I know you know something, something you haven't told."

"Who's Denny?" Anthony whispered to Rachel, who was looking every bit as confused as he was.

"You already know what happened to Denny," Rachel said, addressing the lead thug. "Everyone knows. He got drunk at the Fourth of July festival, and then that coyote got him."

"No!" lead thug snapped, as every other thug head swiveled from side to side in unison, "that's not what happened! He wasn't that drunk, and…."

"So he was drunk," Anthony interjected. He was immediately rewarded with a fist only inches from his nose.

"Shut up!" lead thug shouted, as Anthony dutifully complied. "That's not the point! The point is, we were all at the festival when we saw you," he said, stabbing at Dee with his forefinger. "You were with that freaky guy, and Denny wanted to settle the score."

"Freaky guy?" Rachel repeated. "What freaky guy?"

"She knows who I mean," lead thug said with conviction, his arms crossed in front of him, staring at Dee.

Anthony twisted his head around to look at Dee, realizing for the first time in the past several minutes that she hadn't said anything since this Denny person's name had come up. And that was weird—Dee wasn't the silent type. She was staring at the lead thug now, looking him straight in the eye but still saying nothing, and suddenly, Anthony knew why: She did know who the thug was talking about, and for some reason, she didn't want to say so.

"Dee was with me at the festival," Rachel protested. "There wasn't any 'freaky guy'."

"Shut it!" lead thug shouted, making them all jump. "Proctor was there with the freak who attacked us at the parade. The one who threw Denny against a wall and held him there, up in the air—without touching him."

Uh-oh. Rachel still looked perplexed, but it suddenly occurred to Anthony why Dee was so silent. The Fourth of July. Right before the ship was discovered, assuming a ship had been discovered. Which sounded like a good assumption right about now.

"We saw you with the freak," lead thug went on. "Saw you playing darts. Saw you on the Ferris wheel. Saw you buying cotton candy. How touching," he added in a singsong voice. "And then when they turned the lights out for the fireworks, Denny went looking for you to settle with the freak….and we never saw him again."

Anthony watched Dee out of the corner of his eye; she was still silent, her eyes a bit wider than before. They'd been following her at that festival, and she hadn't even known. Had this Denny seen something he shouldn't have? Is this what happened to people who saw something they shouldn't? But then why was Dee still alive?

"You know what happened," lead thug said flatly to Dee. "What happened? Answer me!" he shouted, giving her a shove which would have knocked her flat if Anthony and Rachel hadn't been behind her, keeping her from tumbling.

"I said, answer me!" lead thug shouted again, raising his hands for another push. But Dee was ready for him this time, and she pushed back, hard. He was a lot bigger than she was; she didn't even manage to throw him off balance, but boy, did she ever surprise him. He gaped at her, as though watching a fly suddenly fight back.

"You're just like him!" Dee said through clenched teeth. "You threaten people, and shove them around when you don't get what you want! What's next? Are you going to smash my head into the ground too?"

"Too"? Anthony glanced at Rachel, who looked positively flabbergasted. The lead thug had a grim smile on his face, a smile of vindication.

"I knew you knew something," he grated. "I knew it. That freak killed him, didn't he. Didn't he?"

Up at the opening of the alley, a sheriff's patrol car slid slowly by, and Anthony's heart leaped. Come back! he thought fiercely, as though thoughts could fly. Come back before Dee says something that'll get her in a whole lotta trouble!

Miraculously, it did. The sheriff's cruiser backed up till it was blocking the alley, and two deputies climbed out. "Hey!" one of them called. Every head jerked up in unison.

"Osborn, is that you?" the other deputy called.

Five seconds later every thug but one was gone, disappearing out the back of the alley like water down a very wide drain. Only the lead thug was left, staring at Dee with grim determination while she stared back with pure hatred. He'd heard at least some of what he wanted to hear, and that was apparently worth risking a brush with the law.

The deputies had started down the alley, and as they drew closer, Anthony's heart sank. He didn't know the first one, but he knew the second all too well. What were the odds? Chaves County wasn't huge, but it wasn't tiny either. What were the odds that on this day, in this town, in this spot, this particular deputy would show up? The worst possible deputy to hear the tales this thug wanted to tell?

"Miss Proctor. Miss Cavuto. Mr. Evans," Deputy Valenti said, with a slight emphasis on Anthony's name. No doubt he remembered those firecrackers and flat tires all too well. "Is there a problem?"



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


Author's Note:

From White Room :

Pierce: "Delta, Colorado, 1962, Agent Lewis, the first head of this Special Unit was found dead. His internal organs had reached a temperature of 180 degrees Fahrenheit. A silver handprint was found on his chest."



Eagle Rock Military Base



Yvonne White opened the door to the observation room and silently slipped inside. Cavitt's meeting with the alien loomed, as evidenced by the boxes of artifacts being stacked outside John's door, no doubt soon to be paraded in front of him and explanations demanded. She was fairly certain none would be forthcoming, and she was very uneasy about the outcome of that. As much as John would hate to admit it, he and Major Cavitt were an awful lot alike: Both were short-tempered, egotistical, impatient pieces of work. She'd seen little of Cavitt in the last month, busy as she'd been with Dr. Pierce's tests and reading up on psychiatry, and that had suited her just fine. But Stephen had to deal with Cavitt on a regular basis, and he had told her how Cavitt was seething at the way Pierce was keeping him away from the alien. And now the General was due day after tomorrow, and Yvonne was very much afraid Cavitt was going to demand a level of cooperation that John, being John, simply wasn't going to give him on such short notice, if ever.

Noiselessly climbing the stairs, Yvonne saw the silhouette of a dark head against the light from the window. So Pierce was already here, ready to watch as his colleague usually did whenever their positions were reversed. Cavitt had practically lived in this room, watching Pierce interact with the prisoner he hadn't been allowed to come near since Ramey's last visit.

"Hello, doctor," Yvonne said, coming abreast of Pierce.

The chair swung around. "Lieutenant," an unfamiliar voice said. "How opportune. I've been wanting to speak with you."

Yvonne stared, seeing the face clearly for the first time, recognizing it. She'd seen this face many times looking down from this very window, usually with Major Cavitt's face right beside it. Prior to this, she hadn't paid a whole lot of attention; dozens of people, all of them high-ranking officers, flocked to this room to stare at the captured prize below. She'd never met any of them, as they tended to be briefed upstairs on the "public floor", and then they were in here while she was down with John. But she knew they were there, knew her every move was being watched. Thank goodness they couldn't hear anything.

The man in the chair shifted forward slightly, and now she could see the oak leaves on his shoulders. "Sir," she said, saluting automatically.

"At ease, Lieutenant," the Major said, indicating the chair next to him. "Please. Have a seat."

Yvonne sat carefully on the edge of the chair, wondering who this man was and why he wanted to talk to her. She could see him better now that her eyes had adjusted. He looked to be about mid-thirties, with dark eyes and a small smile that for some reason made her blood run cold.

"I am Major Lewis," he announced casually. "Dr. Lewis, actually, although I prefer Major."

Interesting, Yvonne thought. The exact opposite of Pierce, who preferred the title "Doctor" to "Major". "What specialty, sir?" she asked politely, a typical first question upon meeting a physician.

"Surgery," he answered.

"Surgery?" Yvonne repeated.

"That surprises you?"

"Well….I would think a surgeon would be looking at reports and x-rays," Yvonne replied, "not sitting up here."

"Oh, I've looked at those. Several times." The Major reached over and pulled a rolling trolley toward him equipped with a coffee pot, hot water kettle, teabags, milk, sugar, and assorted other foodstuffs placed here for those who came to stare through the windows. "Would you like some?" he asked, pouring hot water over a tea bag.

"No, thank you sir," Yvonne replied faintly, watching him dunk his teabag up and down.

"As I was saying, I looked at all the reports," Major Lewis continued. "Practically memorized them. Fascinating creatures. Fascinating. Especially the way they self-destruct after death. Very handy, that. For them, I mean," he added, with a smile Yvonne found not the least bit reassuring. "Makes killing them in order to study them unhelpful, which is also handy for them, I imagine. It certainly makes our job one hell of a lot harder."

Dunk Dunk. The teabag continued its rhythmic rise and fall as Yvonne felt a cold hand squeeze her heart. "Our job"—what could he mean by that? More to the point, what could a surgeon mean by that? The answer that came to mind was not pleasant, and she felt her stomach turn at the incongruity of what she suspected and what she saw before her: A well-groomed officer with a pleasant expression and neatly manicured fingernails making a perfectly civilized cup of tea, offering her a seat, a beverage, speaking to her politely—all things that he, as a senior officer, didn't have to do.

"You said you wanted to talk to me, sir?" Yvonne ventured, every nerve in her body on guard now.

"Absolutely." The teabag retreated to a waste can, its work done. "I've been watching you for quite some time now. You spend a great deal of time with the creature—you eat with it, talk with it, visit it at all hours. You're a brave woman, Lieutenant. Exceptionally brave."

"Not really," Yvonne replied, mentally thanking Dr. Pierce for maneuvering her into the position that allowed her to use the excuse she was about to use. "I was ordered to befriend him, to get to know him better. To provide a bridge between him and everyone else here. I'm simply following orders."

"Yes, yes, I remember reading about that too," Lewis answered, plunking sugar cubes into his tea. "But as I recall, you outdid yourself defending it before you were given that assignment." He paused. "Why is that?"

"As I told Major Cavitt," Yvonne said, hoping her voice wasn't shaking, "we are making history here. And history will judge us by how we conduct ourselves. I only mean to make certain our conduct is above reproach."

"You told Sheridan that?" Lewis asked, surprised, as Yvonne noted the use of the first name. He chuckled. "I should like to have seen his face. But no matter….you're right, I suppose. So tell me, Lieutenant," he went on, settling back in his chair with his teacup, "why is it you always sit in the far corner of the room when you eat with it?"

He noticed? "The men don't like being close to the prisoner," Yvonne answered. "They feel they have more time to shoot if they're further away from him." That was true, as far as it went. What she didn't add was that Stephen had helpfully spread this notion amongst his men to give her and John some breathing room to talk privately.

"Safer for them, I suppose, but not safer for you," Lewis mused. "But that does make it hard for them to overhear what you're saying, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," Yvonne answered, her heart racing. "You'd have to ask them."

"I do very much mind not being able to hear anything up here," Lewis continued. "This was an operating theater, you understand; this room was only designed for people to observe surgery. The new cell will be much better equipped."

Yvonne blinked. "New…..cell, sir?"

"Didn't Major Cavitt tell you?" Lewis asked, sipping his tea. "We're building a new cell, with an observation area attached. Two rooms, actually, side by side, with one way glass so we can see it, but it can't see us. And microphones, of course, so we can hear everything too."

He was watching her closely, and Yvonne was careful to keep her face blank. Did he suspect that she was helping John? It certainly sounded that way. This new "cell" Lewis was talking about wouldn't cramp the free alien's style while he was taking her form, but it would certainly cramp hers—she wouldn't be able to say anything at all but what it would be overheard. Perhaps she'd better work on that telepathic speech.

"So, what do you talk about with the creature?" Lewis was saying. "I notice you do a great deal of talking, and it does very little. Whatever are you saying?"

"I've been telling him what Dr. Pierce plans to do next, trying to win his cooperation," Yvonne answered, which was once again true, as far as it went.

"Ah. Yes. The 'tests'," Lewis said, smiling, placing a particularly derisive emphasis on the word 'tests'. "So what is dear Dr. Pierce planning to do next? Tell it to draw pictures? Teach it the hokey pokey?"

As much as she shared Dr. Lewis's poor opinion of many of psychiatry's practices, Yvonne felt her temper rising. It was none of his business what Pierce or anyone else was planning to do next, and he knew it.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss Dr. Pierce's work," she said coolly, rising to her feet. "You should consult him directly. Permission to return to my duties, sir?"

"Permission denied," Lewis replied pleasantly. "Resume your seat, Lieutenant. Are you sure you won't have some?" he added, gesturing toward the teapot once more.

Yvonne shook her head as she stiffly retook her seat, not bothering to hide the distaste on her face.

"You are loyal," Lewis said approvingly. "I appreciate that. And I'll keep that in mind when the time comes for me to take Dr. Pierce's place. Your experience with the creature will come in handy, and I imagine you'll want to see your mission through to the end."

Yvonne's throat went so dry she could barely speak. "Take….Dr. Pierce's place, sir?"

"Oh, not right away," Lewis allowed. "But when the time comes that we've gotten all we can get from it, then the time will have come for a…..well, let's just say a different approach. I believe that time will arrive sooner than anyone thinks."

Jesus. She'd told John the stakes were higher this time, but even she hadn't expected this. Eventually, yes, but not now. Not this soon.

"But….Major Cavitt hasn't even spoken to him yet," Yvonne protested. "He may…."

"He will learn little or nothing," Lewis said firmly. "Come now, Lieutenant. You've spent a good deal more time down there than I have up here, and even from here I can see what kind of a disposition that thing has. It won't volunteer a damned thing, and Pierce's barbells and butterfly pictures won't keep people amused for long. Don't get me wrong," he added hastily, "I respect the fact that Dr. Pierce found a way to hold it. Amazing, really. The pinnacle of his career. Too bad he'll never be able to publish it. But the means by which we hold it are also the reason we'll never be able to fully study all those magical things I've heard it can do. And I'm convinced it won't willingly tell us anything about the abilities we've suppressed." He sighed dramatically. "I'd give my eyeteeth to be able to see them do what I've heard they can do. I understand you've seen some of it?"

"A little," Yvonne lied through her teeth. "Only when the first one escaped."

Lewis nodded sadly, as though a great opportunity had been lost. "A pity. But this is the only one we have left, so we'll just have to milk it for all it's worth."

"But you can't kill him," Yvonne protested. "His body will just…."

"Disintegrate. Yes, I mentioned that before," Lewis said patiently. "We'll have to keep it alive; conscious enough to speak, to respond to….incentives," he added with that small smile. "I suggested as much to Major Cavitt when this whole charade began, but Major Pierce managed to dazzle everyone with his psychology mumbo jumbo."

Yvonne's hands clenched in her lap. "General Ramey must have felt Dr. Pierce's approach was valid."

"Ramey," Lewis scoffed, shaking his head. "A soft-hearted fool. He'll figure out his mistake soon enough when he doesn't get anything of value."

"He's a highly decorated two-star General, sir," Yvonne pointed out. "I doubt either the Germans or the Japanese saw him the way you do."

"Oh, of course not," Lewis agreed. "Neither did the brass. Ramey was always big on the good treatment of prisoners, and that thrilled the bureaucrats—made us look good. It also severely cut down on the amount of information we were able to extract from the prisoners. I doubt they'll make that mistake twice."

"So," Yvonne said in a hard voice, "you object to the humane treatment of prisoners, sir?"

Lewis smiled into his teacup for a moment before setting it down. "You still sympathize with it, don't you? I respect that, Lieutenant. Given the profession you've chosen, I understand your compassion."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've chosen the same profession you have," Yvonne pointed out. "Haven't I?"

"No, not really," Lewis answered. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but I'm also a soldier. You are merely a nurse. You tend the sick, nothing more. I tend the wounded, but I also assess threat. And that thing down there is a threat. I don't know how you sit so close to it so much of the time. You do realize it could kill you any time it chose to, don't you?"

"With respect, sir…so could you. Perhaps I should put some distance between us?"

Lewis shook his head regretfully and leaned in toward her, causing her to instinctively draw back. "I realize it looks human, Lieutenant. I notice you refer to it as 'him' even though the x-rays, which I'm sure you've seen, indicate it is definitely not a 'him', or a 'her', or anything we've ever seen before. But you should be careful. It may look human in every respect, but it isn't. You shouldn't make the mistake of comparing our two species because there is no comparison. Appearances can be very deceiving, and that thing is a perfect example."

He sat back in his chair, glancing down at the room below. "We'll talk again soon, I'm sure. I'll need all the help you can give me when it's my turn at bat. That shouldn't be long. Dismissed."

He remained in his seat, indicating that he did not expect a salute, and Yvonne rose gratefully and headed for the door. He sounded so sure of himself, so certain that he'd be in Pierce's shoes soon that she was seized with a sudden urge to run to Pierce and warn him, despite her misgivings about his methods. But Pierce probably already knew all about this; he'd said there were others out there gunning for his job who were much worse than he was, and here was the proof.

But Lewis was right about one thing. Most likely he didn't realize, as he sat there with his neatly manicured nails, impeccable uniform, and civilized mien, that John wasn't the only perfect example of just how deceiving appearances could be.




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



Downtown Corona




The six of them stood at the base of the alley, staring at each other: Two deputies, three children, and one thug. Anthony noticed that Rachel had relaxed now that the rest of the gang had left and rescue was close at hand, but Dee hadn't. She was still locked in a fighting stance with the one referred to as "Osborn", and Deputy Valenti's eyes shifted from Dee to the thug, and back again.

"Same old, same old, huh Osborn?" the other deputy said in a conversational tone. His name tag read "Woods".

"Who is he?" Valenti asked, indicating Osborn.

"This here is Trey Osborn," Woods replied, "now the likely head of Corona's resident rabble rousers, vandals, and petty thieves. They're noted for picking pockets, breaking windows, and shaking down the little ones for their milk money. Although they usually do that before lunch," he noted. "Gettin' a head start on tomorrow, Trey?"

"She knows something," Trey said, holding his ground and pointing at Dee. "About Denny."

"Oh, good Lord," Woods muttered with a heavy sigh, his eyes rising skyward as though praying for strength. "Haven't we been over this at least a hundred times?"

"He didn't die the way you think he did!" Trey insisted.

"Oh, yes he did," Woods said. "Drunk and mauled. That about covers it."

"No, it doesn't cover it!" Trey said hotly. "She knows—ask her!"

"Who's he talking about?" Valenti asked, his eyes glinting at the reference to Dee.

"Dennis Miltnor," Woods answered, shaking his head. "You might remember that one; your name was on the report. He was the coyote death the day after Independence Day."

"And she knows more than she's telling!" Trey repeated, apparently hoping that if you said something often enough, someone would believe you. "She was there!"

Anthony waited for it, waited for Valenti to light into Dee, demanding to know what the thug was talking about. Dee was apparently expecting the same thing because he felt her tense, even though he wasn't quite touching her. Rachel just looked baffled.

But Valenti didn't do that. Instead, his face fell as if his private hopes had been dashed. "I do remember that one, son," Valenti said to Trey, "and your friend was mauled. The coroner confirmed the bite marks were coyote, and he also confirmed your friend was drunk."

"But that doesn't make sense!" Trey exploded, forgetting Dee and advancing on the deputies, who didn't move a muscle. "See, we were all at the festival, Denny and us, and she was there too"—he pointed to Dee—"and Denny went looking for her, and then he never came back!"

"Right," Woods said patiently, as though he were talking to a simpleton, "because apparently he left the grounds after he left you."

"No, he didn't!" Trey objected. "I know he didn't!"

"Did you see him after he supposedly left to find Miss Proctor?" Valenti asked.

Trey stopped, mouth open and working, but no sound coming out.

"If you didn't see him after he left you, then how do you know he didn't leave the grounds?" Valenti asked sensibly.

Trey shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of inconvenient facts. "Look, she was there…"

"Of course she was there!" Woods snapped irritably. "What is that supposed to prove? The whole damned town was there! Everybody in Corona goes to that festival unless they're sick, or too old, or out of town. So Dee was there, I was there, you were there, Denny was there, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker were there—everyone was there."

"But the freak was there too!" Trey said triumphantly. "And I bet he wanted to finish what he started earlier!"

"What freak?" Valenti asked sharply, as Anthony's heart rate tripled again.

"He means Bill Chambers's handyman," Woods said wearily. "I've heard all this before."

"Why are you calling the handyman a 'freak'?" Valenti asked Trey, who opened his mouth to answer as Anthony's heart sank to his toes. Here it comes, he thought. It was all going to get repeated right here, right in front of Valenti. Everything Dee wouldn't want Valenti to hear.

"He…" Trey began.

"He apparently interfered with an annual Corona tradition," Woods interrupted, as Anthony practically sagged into Rachel with relief. "Miltnor's gang always filched food from the food stalls during the parade, and I guess they decided to go right to the source this time, namely the truck that Bill's handyman was driving that was delivering the food. And I gather that handyman didn't know what a big shot Miltnor thought he was, and drove him off. That right, Dee?"

Valenti's head swung around sharply. "You were there?"

Dee nodded slightly, so slightly Anthony would have missed it if he hadn't been looking right at her. She still hadn't so much as opened her mouth since the thugs had appeared.

"Bill and a bunch of others showed up right after the altercation, and Miltnor was fine," Woods continued. "Not a scratch on'im. All that handyman did was hurt his pride."

"But that's not true!" Trey protested. "He held him……"

"Look, son, you're just going to have to accept the fact that Denny went and did something stupid…and not for the first time, I might add," Woods said, cutting off Trey once again. "He went to the festival, got himself drunk, and then he must have wandered off and tangled with a coyote."

"That freak did something to him," Trey muttered sullenly. "I know it."

This time it was Valenti who shook his head, once again with a tinge of regret as though he'd hoped he'd found something more exciting. "Nope. There were no signs of foul play. No signs of anything but coyote bite marks. I'm afraid only Denny is to blame for Denny's death."

"Nobody listens to me!" Trey muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "They wouldn't even let me make a statement!"

"Of course we didn't," Woods said sharply. "You came to us two weeks after he died with all these wild tales, no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. What the hell took you so long?"

"I didn't put it all together until then," Trey mumbled.

"Well, I can believe that," Woods said dryly. "Look, I'm sorry about Denny, but…"

"No you're not," Trey said darkly. "Nobody is." He shoved past the deputies and headed up the alley, toward the main road, slamming his fists on the sheriff's cruiser as he walked past it.

"Whose fault is that?" Woods murmured. He sighed, and shook his head. "Honestly, these punks think they're invulnerable."

Valenti nodded in agreement, and Anthony cautiously allowed himself to start breathing again. Nothing had been said within Valenti's earshot about anything weird, and Valenti himself had admitted that this Denny person had died from a coyote, not from anything strange. Hopefully Rachel would just write it all off to the thugs telling tales. For his own part, he seriously suspected they weren't.

"C'mon kids," Deputy Woods was saying. "Into the car. I'll give you a ride home."

"Great!" Rachel enthused, bolting for the cruiser. But Anthony hesitated, and so did Dee; neither of them wanted to get into a car with Valenti. Fortunately, he solved that problem for them.

"I'll hang around on foot," Valenti said to Woods, "just to make sure that bunch isn't pulling anything else. Swing by and pick me up after you've dropped the children off, will you?"

"Good idea," Woods agreed, herding the three of them toward the car.

"We'll be keeping an eye out to make sure this doesn't happen again," Valenti assured them all, but only Rachel looked relieved. Anthony couldn't deny that the deputies had been helpful, but the notion of Valenti "keeping an eye out" was disturbing, to say the least. He caught Dee's eye as she walked toward the cruiser, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.

The last thing they saw as the cruiser pulled away was Valenti waving goodbye to them, and for some reason, Anthony found that sight disturbing.



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



Trey Osborn shuffled down Corona's main street, scowling and looking for the cowards who'd deserted him when those asinine deputies had shown up. His buddies only cared about Denny when it was convenient—the minute it became inconvenient, they booked. He planned to beat the crap out of a few of them to drive home the point that caring about other members of the gang took precedence over cutting and running. Denny hadn't been any fairy godmother, but he was loyal; had it been anyone else who'd died, Denny'd have stuck by them till he figured out who did it. And that's just what Trey planned to do. Just because Denny was poor and ornery and got in trouble sometimes didn't give anyone the right to murder him.

Hanging a left, Trey headed down a different alley. He'd only taken three steps before hands grabbed him, shoving him up against the stone wall in a gesture eerily reminiscent of that freaky handyman shoving Denny against the wall. Was he back? Trey had been looking for the freak ever since Denny had died, but he hadn't seen him anywhere—the guy had simply vanished. Had he come back to finish off the rest of them so they wouldn't tell what he'd done?

But there were hands on Trey's shoulders, unlike the handyman, who hadn't ever touched Denny, and the hands belonged to Deputy Valenti. "Lemme go!" Trey barked, struggling to free himself. "I didn't do nothin'! I never touched those little twerps!"

"Shut up and listen to me!" Valenti hissed, pinning him against the wall. Trey stopped struggling, panting. Valenti relaxed his grip somewhat.

"Now, Mr. Osborn, I believe that every citizen has the right to file a report when they feel they've seen something that isn't right," Valenti said, looking Trey directly in the eyes. "So right here, right now, I'm going to take your report about what happened the day of the festival and that night when Denny was killed. Are you prepared to give me that report, Mr. Osborn?"

Trey's eyes widened, first with shock, then with vindication. Finally. Finally, someone was going to listen to him. Finally, something would be done about that handyman.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


September 3, 1947, 1630 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




Footsteps.

Jaddo lay on the bed in his cell, one arm over his eyes, listening to the footsteps. There were approximately seven or eight separate pairs of footsteps heading toward this room, all but one wearing the same type of footwear. Over the past several weeks, with hours spent alone here with nothing to do, Jaddo had grown quite adept at identifying footsteps. Different types of footwear and different gaits made different patterns that his excellent Covari hearing could differentiate.

For example, there were three types of footwear worn in this compound. Most of the soldiers wore boots, with thick, heavy soles that echoed with a hollow thud. Differentiating these was the most difficult because there were so many. The high-ranking officers wore thin, hard-soled shoes that slapped noisily on the flooring material. Usually this meant Pierce or Cavitt, or one of the endless stream of visiting officers that paraded past the window in the observation room above.

And then there was the footwear worn by only one here, the soft-soled shoes the Healer wore. Hearing that sound meant either she or Brivari in her form was on their way. In the early days Jaddo had been able to discern the Healer from Brivari by the differences in gait, but Brivari had been working on that after Jaddo had mentioned it in conversation. Not that any of the humans would have noticed—Brivari's approximation of the Healer's gait was certainly close enough to pass visual muster—but the ability to fool another Covari was much more difficult, and considered a matter of pride. Brivari's improved "Healer's gait" was much harder to detect than the real thing, but there was still one tiny glitch that gave it away. He hadn't told Brivari that yet, of course. When one was as bereft of amusements as Jaddo was, one guarded them cautiously.

The footsteps came closer. Jaddo listened carefully, feeling the vibrations in the floor. Six—no, seven—different people, all but one wearing boots. He directed his senses to the odd one out, and smiled at his discovery: Thin, hard-soled shoes, brand news ones based on a comparison with previous pairs, that made an arrogant slap on the floor as they advanced. There was a slight hesitation in the gait that hadn't been there before, but that was probably due to the newness of the footwear. Pierce's gait was much quieter, more confident, so this could only mean one thing: It was Cavitt who approached, with a small army in tow from the sounds of it. The day's amusement could begin.

Jaddo sat up when he heard voices just outside his door, and the locks rattle as they were thrust aside. The door opened and two soldiers entered the room. Ignoring Jaddo, they moved to the rectangular table in the corner where he ate his meals and pulled it to the center of the room, turning it lengthwise and setting one chair at either end. Then the nearest soldier turned to Jaddo and raised his weapon.

"Sit!" he ordered.

Well. This was different. At least Pierce had some manners. Still, it was only to be expected, and it really didn't matter because Jaddo was looking forward to this encounter so much. True, Pierce was fun to bait, but he had more self-control than Cavitt. Cavitt had the quicker temper, and that made him more fun.

So Jaddo obligingly rose from the bed and took a seat in the chair. The soldier brandishing the weapon continued to keep it trained on him, while the second soldier disappeared into the hallway. Moments later Major Cavitt entered followed by five soldiers, the one who had just left and four more. Two remained by the door, while the other four took up positions around the table, roughly one at each corner, but far enough away that it would be a stretch for him to reach them. How brave, Jaddo thought derisively. Pierce never entered with more than the requisite two guards who always remained by the door, and he had no qualms about sitting near Jaddo. His colleague was a coward.

Cavitt completely ignored him, setting a stack of papers a foot thick on the opposite end of the table and snapping his fingers toward the door. What…..more soldiers? But these were toting boxes which they arrayed on the table and floor around Cavitt, and Jaddo could see they contained artifacts from the ship. Most of it was twisted metal and other debris, but there were occasional exceptions; he saw some eating utensils in one box, what looked like a piece of the navigation console in another, and in yet a third, a communicator, rolling on top of the rest of the contents, tantalizingly close. Unfortunately he wouldn't be able to summon even the low level of energy necessary to activate the communicator because of that damned serum, and besides, there was one Brivari could use in the pod chamber if need be. Eventually the hybrids would need both, but that was far in the future. There would be plenty of time to retrieve the one in the box.

Cavitt took a seat at the far end of the table, still studiously ignoring him. Jaddo watched as he rifled through his papers, organizing them into little stacks, and removed several objects from the boxes and set them on the table. He and Brivari had already discussed what would happen when this time came. They had both agreed there was little danger here due to the humans' low level of technology and the damage their ship had sustained. Even were he to give them genuine information about technology or materials they currently did not possess, it was highly unlikely they'd be able to use that knowledge any time soon. Jaddo fully intended to string this out as long as possible, at first denying information, then dribbling out bits of it and watching the humans struggle to make some kind of sense of it. Such an approach served the purposes of providing Brivari with more time and Jaddo with more amusement. God knows he had little enough of that these days.

"So," Jaddo said, breaking the silence first. "I see Pierce let you off your leash. That must be a relief for you."

Cavitt's eyes flicked upward as he continued to organize his belongings, but he said nothing. Overhead two faces loomed in the observation room window: Pierce's and one other, one Jaddo had seen many times before, but never met. Pierce looked worried, the other……hungry.

"I see you have new shoes," Jaddo observed, planning to astound Cavitt with personal information just as he had Pierce. "I gather your feet hurt."

He was rewarded with only the slightest twitch of the jaw; a disappointment, really, given previous wildly successful attempts to annoy. Cavitt did look at him now, though, sitting bolt upright in his chair and folding his hands on the table in front of him.

"Let me save us both some time," Cavitt said, his voice calm and steely. "I am Major Sheridan Cavitt, the officer in charge of gathering intelligence for this operation. I owe my latest promotion to you and yours, and extend my gratitude. I drive a black vehicle, parked one space to the west of the front door to this compound, I carry my keys in my pocket, not my briefcase, and I arrive between 6 and 6:30 each morning. My shoes fit well, thank you, and it is milk, not coffee, which make me dyspeptic. Have I left anything out?"

Jaddo's eyebrows rose. So his recital of Pierce's personal information had reached this one's ears, and he was ready. That was too bad, but not of great consequence. There were still myriad ways to annoy this man, and he intended to avail himself of as many as possible before telling him a blessed thing.

"Now let me tell you something you might not be aware of," Cavitt continued, in that same calm, ice cold tone. "I am your interrogator; you are my prisoner. I do not pretend to be your doctor, like Pierce, or your friend, like General Ramey. I have no interest in 'learning about your people', 'establishing a rapport', or any other such nonsense. I want to know who you are, why you're here, and what you were planning to do to the people of this planet when we so fortuitously stopped you. And you are going to tell me what I want to know. Here. Now. Is that clear?"

"And if I refuse?" Jaddo asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his tone.

"Then I will order my men to shoot," Cavitt replied promptly. He nodded to the soldier on his left, and the four surrounding the table raised their weapons as one and pointed them straight at Jaddo.

"Those are tranquilizer weapons," Jaddo noted casually. "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

"Perhaps now would be a good time to remind you that General Ramey is due here the day after tomorrow," Cavitt replied, still in complete—and annoying—control of his temper. "One dart will put you out for approximately 24 hours; surely your 'superior' race is capable of doing the math for more than one dart. If you are unconscious, you will not be able to plead your case to the General. Others will have to speak on your behalf." He paused. "Is that your preference?" he added softly. "One never can tell how well one will be represented…..can one?"

Why, that little…… Jaddo's hand clenched under the table, where Cavitt wouldn't see it. This little twit was proving to be a bigger pain then expected.

"Perhaps now would be a good time for me to remind you that if you sedate me, you learn nothing," Jaddo said, matching Cavitt's cold tone. "Sedate me, and you lose."

"Agreed. But if you are refusing to answer my questions, I am 'losing' anyway. Sedating you will not make the situation any worse from my perspective. And sedating you will prevent anyone else from obtaining information from you. If I don't profit from your being conscious, I will see to it that no one else does either. Including you."

"Your General would be most unhappy to find me unconscious when he gets here," Jaddo said, finding it a real effort to keep his own temper. Here he'd been looking forward to making Cavitt lose his, and now he was struggling with his own. "Do you really want to risk the displeasure of your commanding officer?"

"General Ramey has forbidden me to deny you food, water, shelter, or medical care," Cavitt replied. "He has forbidden me to harm you, or threaten to harm you. Sedating you is not harmful. It is the one thing I am allowed to do, and I always use any means at my disposal to get what I want. As do you, I would imagine."

Silence descended as Jaddo discreetly fumed. Much as he hated to admit it, Cavitt was right; if he were sedated when the General showed up, things would look very bad for him indeed. Cavitt would be able to make up all sorts of wild stories about being threatened or attacked just like he'd done with Valeris, and there would be no one to contradict him except these six soldiers, all of whom likely wouldn't dare speak against their commander.

Cavitt waited patiently, his hands still folded neatly on the table in front of him, his expression blank. No…not quite blank. Now there was just the tiniest flicker of something downright infuriating—triumph. He'd outmaneuvered Jaddo, and he knew it.

But he wasn't going to win that easily, not if Jaddo could help it. "I don't speak with people who are pointing weapons at me," Jaddo said. "Tell them to lower their weapons, or I say nothing."

Cavitt broke into a smile, as though he had been expecting this. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not Ramey. I am in command here, and I say what happens."

"Then shoot," Jaddo said, shrugging. "Throw away your first chance to learn what you want to know without having ever asked a single question."

"Ready," Cavitt ordered, his expression hardening. Jaddo said nothing. The soldiers shifted slightly.

"Aim!" Cavitt ordered.

"They're already aiming, you idiot," Jaddo said sarcastically. "They've been aiming for the past three minutes. You could have skipped the drama and just said 'fire'." He leaned forward in his chair. "You're not going to shoot, and you know it. Imagine having nothing to present to the General but me, unconscious, when Pierce has reams of data I've given him willingly. How will that look?" He turned to the nearest soldier. "Why wait? Go ahead—shoot!"

The soldier's eyes flicked back and forth from Jaddo to Cavitt, who was now visibly scowling. Good. If he had accomplished nothing else, at least he'd managed to wipe that look of triumph off his face.

"Stand down," Cavitt ordered grimly.

Jaddo secretly relaxed, allowing himself the same expression of satisfaction that Cavitt had recently been wearing. He'd won round one, but he'd had to actually work for it.

Perhaps this wasn't going to be as much fun as he'd hoped.



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



Chambers Grocery

Corona, New Mexico




Deputy Valenti entered Chamber's Grocery, dingling the little bell at the top of the door as it closed. Bill was at the counter, and Valenti breathed a sigh of relief; the last thing he needed was to get Essertine's mouth flapping about the subject at hand.

"Afternoon, Deputy!" Bill called, as he waved goodbye to another customer.

"Jim," Valenti said, extending his hand. "Call me Jim."

"All right then, Jim," Bill answered, accepting the handshake. "How's things down at the station? You're still on loan from Roswell, so I take it our boys still need help?"

"Bunch of 'em quit," Valenti said, leaning against the counter. "Folks are still pretty worked up, seeing an alien around every corner. I must admit it does get tiresome."

"I'll bet," Bill said sympathetically. "So what brings you in? Need something?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Valenti said, tapping his hat in his hand. "I'd like to know what you remember about the handyman you hired last Fourth of July. The one who supposedly attacked Denny Miltnor."

"Hmph!" Bill snorted. "About time somebody did. I was mighty appreciative that he kept those thieves away from my merchandise, I can tell you that. Even if I never did see him again."

"You never saw him again? I thought he was new."

"He was new. Started that morning. Came late—found'em out with the truck, sittin' in the cab as though he expected the food to just sprout legs and load itself." He chuckled. "Not too bright, some of these guys, you know."

"So he started that day, worked that morning, and then…what? Quit?"

"Nope," Bill said, shaking his head. "Disappeared. Never saw him again."

"Really?" Valenti said in surprise. "Isn't that odd?"

"Wish it were. Handymen come and go like flies around here. Half of'em never show up for work in the first place, and half of those that do disappear without saying a word. It's not unusual, just damned aggravating."

"Can you tell me what he looked like?"

"About five foot nine or ten, brown hair, mid-thirties."

"Got a name?"

"Maybe," Bill said doubtfully, glancing toward the back room. "Essie holds on to a lot of junk for months back in the office. She might have the scrap of paper that I wrote his name down on back there somewhere. I could look if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," Valenti said, smiling. "So this handyman showed up late, and then what?"

"Loaded up the truck and took it downtown, like I asked him to. Dee Proctor went with him to show him the way."

Did she now? Valenti thought with satisfaction. "And what happened downtown?"

"Well, bunch of us heard a commotion, and some of Miltnor's gang came charging up, saying Denny was being attacked. So we went running, and we come around the corner to find Miltnor up against a wall holding his throat, with the rest of his gang and the handyman and Dee just standing there, staring at him."

"He held out his hand, and I felt like somebody punched me in the stomach," Trey Osborn had said. "Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on the ground. Nobody went near him after that."

"So the handyman was choking Miltnor?"

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Wasn't even near him."

"How close?"

"Ten yards—maybe fifteen."

"He raised his hand, and Denny flew back and hit the wall. And then he kept his hand out, and Denny just hung there, flat against the wall, his feet dangling, acting like he was choking. But the freak never touched him!"

"Was Miltnor okay?"

"Sure he was," Bill said with disgust. "Not a scratch on'im. He sure as hell got off better than I usually do; they steal me blind every Fourth and get away with it because no one ever sees'em."

"What about his friends?" Valenti said, careful to sound casual. "Any of them hurt?"

"Nah. They all went on about the handyman attacking all of them without touchin'em, or some such rot. Nobody paid any attention. These are classic bullies, Jim; they go around threatening everybody and their mother, and the minute anyone stands up to them, they cry foul. They were just mad somebody actually beat'em back, that's all."

"Anybody ask Dee Proctor what happened?"

"Sure we did. She said Miltnor and company tried to steal food from the truck, and the handyman stopped them."

"Did she say how?"

Bill thought for a minute. "No….no, she didn't. And nobody asked, because as I said, there wasn't a scratch on'em. No bloody noses, or bruises, or anything."

"But you said Miltnor was holding his throat. Were there any marks on his throat?"

"Not that I could see," Bill said, sighing. "What difference does it make? This is the first time in years that lot haven't robbed me. I don't care what the handyman did, just so long as he did it!"

"So then what happened?"

Bill shrugged. "I gave him a dollar. Told him he could come back and load up a couple of boxes of food because Dee said he was hungry."

Valenti blinked in surprise. "A whole dollar? And two boxes of food? That's mighty generous of you, Bill."

"Well, he did me a mighty good turn."

"How did the girl know he was hungry?"

"I don't know," Bill said, thinking. "He didn't talk much, that handyman. Didn't even squeak before he left for the parade, and didn't say much even after the Miltnor incident. Dee did most of the talking for him. Said he was shy."

"And how would she know that if she'd never met him before?"

"Eh, lots of people are more comfortable around kids than adults," Bill said dismissively. "I think those two just hit it off, that's all."

I'll bet they did, Valenti thought. "So you say you never saw the handyman again?"

"Nope."

"Did he steal anything?"

"Nope."

"Threaten anybody?"

"Only Miltnor, and he had it coming."

"Right. Anything unusual about him at all?"

Bill thought for a minute. "Well, he showed up for work in a suit. Can you believe it—a suit! But then he had overalls on down at the parade, so he must have had a change of clothes with him. And he didn't talk much…I mentioned that already, but that's nothing."

"You said he did say something after the dust-up with Miltnor. What'd he say?"

"That Mitnor had threatened the girl. And that he'd never laid a hand on them. And…."

"And what?"

"Well, it was odd, the way he put it," Bill said slowly. "He said, 'I protect. That's what I do'."

Valenti felt his blood run cold. "I protect." What did the handyman protect? Nothing on this planet, he was sure of that.

"I know where you're going with this, Jim," Bill said suddenly.

"Oh? Where's that?"

Glancing around to make certain no customers were close by, Bill leaned over the counter. "It's okay," he said, winking at Valenti. "We've all been there. I think just about everyone in town has had at least one time where they looked at a stranger and asked themselves the same question. You're not the only one....Deputy Martian."

Valenti plastered a smile on his face and struggled to keep it there. Damn that Emily Proctor! Thanks to her deliberately uttering that nickname in front of Bill's wife, it had begun to make the rounds around town. He hadn't heard it much yet, but he'd heard it enough to know that any attempt he made to prove that what he knew had crashed on that ranch actually existed would be met with titters and grins. He really had to hand it to Emily, however reluctantly—she knew how to fight dirty.

"I've been in your shoes," Bill continued, smiling. "Wondered the same thing myself for awhile. Now that handyman was a little strange, I'll grant you, but he looked just like you and me; he wasn't an alien. I've had far stranger, believe me. And even if he was an alien….well, then, I say fine. He did good by me. I'd hire him back in an instant. If that's what the aliens are like, I'll roll out the Welcome Wagon."

"I don't think he's an alien, Bill," Valenti said, smiling indulgently. "I just got an earful from one of Miltnor's friends who think the handyman had something to do with his death, and I'm trying to catch up, that's all."

"Denny's death?" Bill snorted. "He was killed by a coyote, and he was falling-down drunk to boot! And the handyman had human teeth, not coyote teeth, and I'd imagine the coroner can tell the difference. I'm afraid whoever told you that has been on the sauce."

"Probably. Thanks for your time," Valenti said, plopping his hat back on his head and extending his hand. "Oh, and just so we can close this for good, I be much obliged if you could get me that handyman's name. I'd like to look him up and ask him a few questions."

"Will do," Bill said, pumping his hand before turning his attention to a customer.

Valenti walked out into the late afternoon heat, his mind rolling through the bucket load of information he'd just received. "And the handyman had human teeth, not coyote teeth, and I'd imagine the coroner can tell the difference." Very true. But it had been a coyote who had stopped him the night he'd tried to find out what the Proctors were dragging out of that culvert on Warner's Creek. Did that mean they could look like animals? Or maybe they had some control over animals, some way to make them do their bidding? Could it be a coincidence that there were two incidents of what appeared to be alien activity closely associated with coyotes? Despite Bill's level of comfort with his "handyman", his story and Osborn's matched at all they key points. Shoving people to the ground without touching them wasn't normal, nor was that thing he'd seen in his back seat when he'd looked in his rear view mirror that night at Warner's Creek.

A sheriff's cruiser rounded the corner and stopped, as Tom Woods leaned out the window and waved. Valenti waved back and climbed in the passenger side, never letting on what he'd been up to. The last thing he needed right now was one more person calling him "Deputy Martian."



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



Eagle Rock Military Base




Cavitt laced his fingers together, elbows propped on the table. "Let's begin again, shall we?"

Groaning inwardly, Jaddo rolled his eyes. "By all means, lets, since you didn't get it the first twenty times. I understand you're slow."

"State your name," Cavitt demanded, ignoring him.

They'd been at this for the past several hours, the same questions in the same order, over and over and over again. These were inevitably followed by a procession of items from the various boxes which Jaddo was ordered to identify. Ironically, everything he had thus far been asked to identify wasn't identifiable per se; the items currently on the table were merely pieces, either of the ship or of the various command consoles on the bridge, information which Jaddo did not currently feel disposed to give. He meant to see to it that Cavitt would have to work for his precious information.

Not that Jaddo wasn't 'working' also. Apparently Cavitt felt that if he repeated the same questions often enough, Jaddo would eventually answer just to shut him up, and he had to admit the idea had merit. He'd thought being alone in one room was tedium beyond belief, but he was wrong: This was worse. Right about now, even one of those inkblots would look fascinating.

"Your name," Cavitt repeated. That was always question number one.

"Your General gave me a name. Use that."

"No, your real name."

"Irrelevant."

"What is the name of your home planet?" This was always question number two.

"Equally irrelevant," Jaddo said irritably. "Honestly, do humans always ask such stupid questions? What does it matter to you what my planet is called? You haven't even learned to leave your own planet, much less reach anyone else's. My planet's name is every bit as useless to you as my own."

"I will sit here all day and all night if I have to, but you will tell me the name of your home planet!" Cavitt said angrily.

"Incredible," Jaddo deadpanned, "that you, of all people, would be put in charge of gathering intelligence. I gather possessing intelligence of your own is not a prerequisite for the position?"

"Why did you come here?" Cavitt demanded, moving along to question number three as his face turned a gratifying shade of red.

"We didn't 'come here'. Our ship crashed."

"No."

Jaddo blinked. This hadn't been part of the script. " 'No'? No what? Our ship didn't crash? Surely even your minimal visual acuity couldn't have missed the damage to our ship."

"You came here deliberately, and I demand to know why!" Cavitt shouted.

The soldier nearest him flinched slightly, so slightly no one else had likely noticed it. Jaddo stared across the table at his nemesis, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. Cavitt was beginning to lose his temper. He had held onto it well so far, so well that Jaddo had come dangerously close to losing his own. But now Cavitt's perceived lack of success was beginning to wear at him, and the cracks were beginning to show. Perhaps he'd be able to have some fun after all.

"And on what do you base this assumption?" Jaddo asked.

"You emptied your ship," Cavitt announced. "Why would you do that if you came here by accident?" He leaned in closer. "Where did you put the weapons?"

"I told you, we didn't have any weapons," Jaddo repeated for the umpteenth time. "It's a cargo ship."

"Then where's the cargo?"

"Already delivered. We had cargo, we delivered it, and now the ship is empty," Jaddo said sarcastically. "Do try to keep up."

"Delivered where?"

"A place as inaccessible to you as my home planet."

Cavitt sat back in his chair and stared for a moment. "Not all of it was 'delivered'," he said finally.

"Meaning?"

Cavitt removed a photograph from one of the piles of papers in front of him and handed it to the nearest soldier, who passed it to the soldier nearest Jaddo, who handed it to him, pulling his hand back quickly as Jaddo's reached out to take it.

"A dead body. Fascinating," Jaddo said in a bored tone. "So now every dead human you run across is my fault?"

"That's not just any dead human," Cavitt said stonily. "That one died in a most unusual way. He appeared to have, for lack of a better term, spontaneously combusted. No one could figure it out. Until, that is, you and yours chose to kill several soldiers in the same manner."

Jaddo was silent, waiting. They had killed only one before being discovered, so he knew where this was going.

"This man was a truck driver," Cavitt continued. "His truck was stolen three days before the discovery of your ship, along with its contents; he was killed and his body hidden in a dumpster. The next night another truck was stolen, along with the goods inside. That driver was killed too."

Liar, Jaddo thought sourly. Only the first driver had been killed; the goods had been removed unharmed and the trucks returned before sun-up. But saying so would incriminate himself, and Cavitt knew it.

"Are you suggesting we've hidden two trucks on our ship?" Jaddo asked. "I should think even you would have found them by now." Cavitt's jaw gave another gratifying twitch. "Theft is common on your planet," Jaddo continued. "It sounds like these men were killed for their possessions. None of their possessions could have been found on our ship because we didn't take them, so what does this have to do with us?"

"Do you know what I think?" Cavitt asked.

"Frankly, I doubt you waste much time on that particular endeavor," Jaddo replied blandly.

"I think," Cavitt continued, still keeping a grip on his temper although his temple had begun to throb in an encouraging fashion, "that you came here on purpose. You've been coming here for years. Reports of ships similar to yours have been piling up for at least the last decade, along with eyewitness accounts of people who say they've been abducted and experimented on. You know so much about us, our language, our dress, our customs because you've been studying us for years. Yes, your ship crashed, but that was your fault—you are here because you meant to be here. You emptied your ship of whatever you brought here and hid it somewhere."

"I see," Jaddo said, eyebrows raised. "Since you seem to be enjoying this little tale you've concocted, I can't wait to hear the ending. What is it, exactly, that we're supposed to be hiding?"

"You know," Cavitt continued. "What we found on your ship, what we used as bait the night the first one was captured. What you stole and have no doubt hidden somewhere close by. You hadn't time to move them far."

The hybrids. Cavitt's eyes were boring into him as Jaddo carefully kept his expression blank. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said calmly.

"You do!" Cavitt exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair and banging his fist on the table, startling everyone in the room except Jaddo. "Where did you put them?"

"Where did I put what?"

"Don't play games with me!" Cavitt shouted, now officially enraged. "You have them! You've hidden them! Why? When will they be born?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Jaddo replied, as the soldiers in the room cast nervous glances at one another.

"That's how you're planning to invade us, isn't it?" Cavitt said with grim satisfaction, nodding his head as if to convince himself. "They'll look like us, so we won't be able to tell. You probably have hundreds—no, thousands—of them out there somewhere, and they'll infiltrate the population and take us over before we even know what's happening!"

Interesting, Jaddo mused. He and Brivari had often wondered why no one had mentioned the hybrids, and here was another example; for all his bluster, Cavitt was stopping just short of saying exactly what they'd found. He hasn't told anyone, Jaddo realized with satisfaction. Cavitt had lost one of the most important things they'd captured, and he didn't want anyone to know. But he knew—he knew there were at least eight human-appearing fetuses out there floating in alien sacs, and in his narrow little mind, this constituted an invasion.

"So it's invasion you fear," Jaddo said, "so much so that you're actually inventing methods by which we could accomplish this? Let me tell you something, you blithering idiot. If my people had any interest in 'invading' this pathetic world of yours, we wouldn't need to 'infiltrate the population', or hide amongst you, or employ any other such stealthy measures. Tactics such as those are only called for when one is facing a superior enemy."

Cavitt promptly turned purple. Excellent. The fun was finally beginning.

"No, if my people decided to 'invade', they would crush you swiftly and decisively. If you keep up this nonsense, when the times comes that they find me here, they may decide to do just that....and you would be helpless to resist."

"Why you……!" Bolting from his seat, Cavitt traversed the length of the table with amazing speed for a human and grabbed Jaddo by the front of his shirt, pulling them nose to nose with each other. The soldiers reached for their weapons in alarm, but Jaddo didn't bother to struggle—Cavitt's grip was weak by Covari standards, and besides, the contest was over. In the battle to see who was capable of holding their temper the longest, there was now a clear winner. And a clear loser.

"Well, well," Jaddo said softly, smiling because he knew it would infuriate Cavitt more. "So there is something capable of prying you from your safe little seat over there, at a safe distance, surrounded by your guards, afraid to even pass me a piece of paper. Imagine that."

"Where….are…..they?" Cavitt ground out.

"Careful, there, Major," Jaddo said. "You wouldn't want to muss your uniform."

"Where are they?" Cavitt shouted. The guards had paused with their hands on their weapons, having not yet received an order to draw them.

"Where are what?" Jaddo asked innocently. He couldn't believe his good fortune. He had expected Cavitt to get mad and storm out; actually being attacked was better than he could have hoped for.

"You know what," Cavitt whispered furiously. "Answer me!"

He looked so pathetic that Jaddo decided to give him something. Not much, mind you, but a little something. A parting gift. Leaning in closer until their heads were nearly touching, he whispered, "Somewhere you'll never find them."

Cavitt's face contorted. Shoving Jaddo violently back into the chair, he released his grip and stepped back, breathing hard.

"Answer me, or I'll tell the men to fire."

"Do that, and you only hurt yourself," Jaddo replied.

"Negative. You haven't given me a damned thing anyway."

"I answered your questions, Major," Jaddo said levelly. "I just didn't give you the answers you wanted to hear."

"Ready!" Cavitt said firmly.

There was an awkward pause as the guards in the room exchanged glances.

"I said ready!" Cavitt shouted.

Four guns rose in unison, the eyes of those wielding them round as platters.

"You're going to shoot me while I'm just sitting here?" Jaddo said calmly, not believing for a moment that Cavitt was actually going to go through with it.

"Aim!" Cavitt ordered.

Jaddo shook his head regretfully. "I doubt your General will be pleased."

"I'll give you one more chance to answer me," Cavitt said, his voice quivering with rage. "Where did you hide them?"

"Hide what?"

Cavitt's expression changed to one of satisfaction.

"Fire!"

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


September 3, 1947, 2030 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Doctor Pierce strode through Cavitt's outer office, oblivious to the secretary who practically catapulted out of her seat to stop him. "You can't see him—he's in a meeting!" she said frantically, trying to reach the door before he did.

She failed. Ignoring her, Pierce flung the office door open to reveal Cavitt sitting at his desk, rifling through paperwork, completely alone.

"A 'meeting'?" Pierce said sarcastically, as the secretary flushed scarlet. "For your information, a 'meeting' requires more than one person, Sheridan. Talking to yourself doesn't count."

"Never mind, Harriet," Cavitt said, addressing the flustered secretary. "You tried." Harriet left as Cavitt glanced down at his watch. "Fifty minutes," he mused. "I expected you sooner. You're losing your touch."

Pierce slammed the door of the office and advanced on Cavitt, leaning his hands on his desk. "What were you thinking, knocking it out like that!" Then he straightened up, sighing. "A stupid question, I'll admit. Obviously you weren't thinking."

"On the contrary," Cavitt said, setting down his pen, "I'm thinking quite clearly. You have deliberately kept me away from the prisoner ever since your arrival here. 'It's too weak' was the first excuse, followed by 'I'm trying to establish trust'. Rubbish! When you do finally allow me access, you do so less than forty-eight hours before General Ramey's return, leaving me little leeway to deal with a hostile and arrogant subject. I'm afraid you're the one with the problem, Daniel."

Pierce sighed impatiently. "And you're the one with the memory problem. Ramey gave us specific orders that….."

"……..that it not be denied food, water, or medical care," Cavitt said firmly, "and that it not be harmed. I have done none of those things. I have followed his orders to the letter, using the one means at my disposal for influencing its behavior—the threat of sedation. Apparently it isn't very bright."

"Apparently it is," Pierce said dryly. "It managed to make you lose your temper."

"I did not lose my temper," Cavitt said irritably. "I merely presented it with a choice, just like you did: Cooperate, or pay the price. That price was made very clear. If you don't like the choice it made, you'll have to take that up with it yourself."

"That's just the point—I can't. Nobody can 'take up' anything with it because it can't talk—it's unconscious. Which, since you seem to need clarification, means that it is of no use to you or anyone else!"

" It wasn't answering my questions, so it was of no use to me anyway."

"Damn it, Sheridan! If you—"

"Oh, stop it!" Cavitt exploded, losing his temper so quickly that Pierce took a step backward. "You have reams of information, such as it is, to present day after tomorrow, and I have nothing! I have an alien ship in a hangar, and I know next to nothing about it! I have a country breathing down my neck wanting to know how that ship is powered, what weapons it possesses, what it's made of—and I can't answer them! And if I don't answer them, someone else will. I need answers, and I will get them any way I can!"

"I see," Pierce said sarcastically. "You need answers, so of course you rendered it unconscious in order to get those answers. Very smart of you. Very smart."

"It needed to see I meant business," Cavitt said shortly.

"Did you ever think of asking me? For all your disdain, I have established something of a relationship with it; Lieutenant White has had even more success. Why didn't you let us give it a try?"

Cavitt gave Pierce a pitying look. "And have to rely on you for the information that keeps me in this chair? You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

Pierce sighed. "I thought we were working toward a common goal. You agreed to be patient….."

"We are, and I am," Cavitt interrupted. "I assume you are still pursuing our 'common goal', which you know perfectly well does not require the prisoner to be conscious. I have not hounded you for details or quick success, nor have I harried Lieutenant White. And I went further. I waited for your 'permission' to interrogate the subject. I did not file complaints. I did not phone the General. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Considering that Ramey gave me the authority to decide when it was fit for interrogation……no. It doesn't. That wasn't 'patience', that was anticipation of failure."

"I don't have time for word games," Cavitt said, returning to his papers. "I have to find a way to make this meager 'evidence', and I use the term loosely, into something that will save my position. Run along and pose the prisoner nicely for our guests. That's all they'll be seeing of it."

"That's why you shot it, isn't it?" Pierce demanded. "You don't want it able to speak for itself. Or able to contradict you about your little 'meeting'."

"I didn't 'shoot' it, I 'sedated' it, and I already told you why," Cavitt said coldly. "That it can't carry on about it's supposedly benign intentions is merely a fringe benefit. Now if you'll excuse me, we both have work to do. Surely you must have some inkblots to organize?"

Fuming, Pierce flung open the office door and stalked out, not bothering to close it behind him. He wasn't going to get anywhere with Cavitt, and the damage was done, at any rate. There was nothing to be gained from an unconscious subject, either from a medical or a military viewpoint. He'd have to go directly to Ramey in order to keep this from happening again.

"Daniel! There you are!" called a voice as Pierce neared the outer office door.

Pierce turned to find Major Lewis sitting on the sofa in Cavitt's outer office, wearing his customary fake smile.

"What are you doing here, Bernard?"

"You ran out on me so fast," Lewis complained, rising to his feet. "I tried to join you, to see if I could lend a hand, of course, but the guards wouldn't let me in."

"Of course they wouldn't," Pierce said impatiently. "It'll be a cold day somewhere before I let you anywhere near the prisoner." He paused. "You put him up to this, didn't you?"

"Who? Sheridan?" Lewis asked innocently. "Gracious, I didn't have to 'put him up' to anything. Sheridan knows what needs to be done. It's you who have a problem with the necessities of life, Daniel. Do you know what your problem is?"

"Something tells me I'm about to be informed," Pierce sighed.

"Your problem is that the minute you became a doctor, you stopped thinking like a soldier," Lewis concluded, shaking his head sadly. "Most regrettable."

"And your problem is that despite your medical degree, you never started thinking like a doctor," Pierce retorted. "I'd rather perish than have you 'practice' medicine on me. Emphasis on the word 'practice'."

Lewis shrugged casually. "We merely see our roles differently. But not so differently as first appearances may suggest," he added, leaning in closer. "What do you have that I don't?"

"That's a very long list," Pierce said darkly.

"I've been after Sheridan from the beginning to help me oust you," Lewis continued, ignoring him. "Oh, I admit it," he added convivially. "I want your job. I want it badly. I know Sheridan and I see eye to eye on how things should be done here. But he won't do it; there's something he wants from you, something he thinks only you can give him."

Pierce was silent, glaring at Lewis. Cavitt knew the gist of what they were trying to do—he could spill the beans to Lewis any time he chose to. That he had not done so meant he still had an investment in their little project, that he felt Pierce was his best means of achieving the goal. For the moment, at least.

"Now, that can't be of course," Lewis went on. "There's nothing you can do that I can't. I just need to find out what you're up to, and then I can convince Sheridan that I can give him what he wants…and do it better."

"Is that why you're lurking around here like a vulture?" Pierce demanded. "Fine. Sit around and wait for your big moment. Grow moss if you want to. I have work to do."

"Of course you do," Lewis called pleasantly as Pierce headed for the door. "But I'm a patient man, Daniel. You know that. Eventually I'll get what I want. It's only a matter of time."



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



Yvonne leaned against the door to her quarters, the bag holding her laundry still warm against her back. She knew he was in there. Almost forty-five minutes had passed since Stephen had found her upstairs where she'd been doing her laundry in a vain attempt to siphon off the nervous energy that kept building as the hours ticked by and Cavitt had not emerged from John's room. She certainly hadn't expected things to go well, but she'd never expected this. And now she had the unenviable task of telling the free alien what had happened. This might be just a one time thing, a burst of temper on Cavitt's part. But if Cavitt were allowed to use sedation as an interrogation technique, the job of freeing John had just become a whole lot harder.

Reluctantly, Yvonne opened the door and slipped into her room. He was sitting in the chair in the far corner, leafing through one of her books about the Rorschach test.

<I'm afraid I must concur with my colleague,> he said, staring at one of the plates. <This is absolute nonsense.> He turned the plate sideways, causing Yvonne to smile in spite of herself.

<What?>

"Turning the plates sideways is supposedly indicative of brain damage," Yvonne told him as she set her down her laundry bag.

His eyebrows rose. <Really? I should think it would be indicative of an attempt to make sense of the nonsensical.>

"That's basically what John said when I told him that," Yvonne said, sitting down on the bed, grateful to have something other than sedated aliens to talk about for the moment. "I told him what many people see in some of the plates and suggested he use those responses, but he wasn't very amenable."

<He's rarely amenable to much anyway,> the alien observed casually, as though long used to the other's grumpiness. <Besides, it would be dangerous for him to give typical human responses.>

"Why?"

<Your superiors would no doubt find such familiarity with your world to be threatening. They would take that to mean that we are planning to invade, or something like that.>

Now, why hadn't she thought of that? If John had given the standard response to Plate #5, for example, which was either a bat or a butterfly, then people would want to know how he knew what a bat or a butterfly was. He was probably much better off giving offbeat answers; he was, after all, another species. Still, he could have just pointed all this out to her instead of getting crabby and contrary.

<I have good news,> the alien continued, turning the page to the next plate. <The technician responsible for testing the serum has become lax of late. Hopefully this will continue. The less frequently they test, the more often I will be able to replace it with something inert. My colleague's deliverance may be close at hand.>

Not if Cavitt is allowed to keep doing what he just did, Yvonne thought glumly. The whole point of replacing the serum was to let John's powers re-emerge so that he could assist in his own escape. Obviously he couldn't do that if he were unconscious.

<I should be going,> the alien announced, setting the book down. <No doubt my companion will have plenty to say about his encounter with your Major Cavitt.> He glanced at the clock on the wall. <Given the hour, he's probably hungry too. Hungry and angry. A lovely combination.> He sighed and shook his head. <Are you sure you don't want to go instead?>

He sounded so genuinely hopeful that Yvonne almost laughed. The alien never complained about his frequent visits to his friend, although he often expressed annoyance with his behavior. It hadn't occurred to her that he might dread the visits, although it certainly made sense. John could try the patience of a saint.

"I'm afraid neither of us is going," Yvonne said, staring at the floor. "Something happened."

<Is he dead?> the alien asked sharply.

"No," she answered hurriedly, "but…."

<Injured?>

"Not really…"

< 'Not really'? What does 'not really' mean?>

"I meant….."

<He went and did something stupid, didn't he?> the alien said in exasperation. <I knew it,> he fumed before she reply. <Just as I start getting close to freeing him, he went and fouled it all up, didn't he? I swear sometimes it would be easier to just leave him here! What did he do?>

<You sound just like him,> Yvonne thought wearily. <Perhaps you're more alike than you'd like to admit.>

The alien's eyes widened as Yvonne realized in horror that her unspoken thought had just gone sailing into the other's mind. She felt it leave, heard again the distinction between an ordinary thought and a…..no, not an unspoken thought. A spoken unspoken thought. An apparently uncontrollable spoken unspoken thought.

"I didn't....I mean....I didn't mean for that to reach you," she said, flushing. "I'm sorry."

<Don't be,> he said gravely. <Having you fluent in telepathic speech would be enormously helpful. But my prior experience with humans and telepathic speech suggests that its onset is driven by emotion. Chiefly fear.>

He took a step closer. <Tell me what happened.>




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




Dr. Pierce stood in the doorway of the prisoner's room, a half-empty glass of Scotch in one hand, the bottle containing the remainder in the other. "We may as well leave this open," he said to the nearest of the guards outside the door. "Air the place out a little." He sighed, staring at the prone form of the unconscious alien. "God knows we have nothing to lock in at the moment."

The guard nodded, throwing a suspicious glance toward the bottle of Scotch, which Pierce ignored. He had just finished his second phone call to General Ramey in the past hour, and given how well that had gone, he was of the considered opinion that Scotch should be elevated to the status of a food group.

Corporal Brisson, busy collecting various samples from the prisoner, looked up from his work and read his face without Pierce having to utter a word. "Bad news?"

"Take plenty of samples, Corporal," Pierce answered disconsolately. "This might be the last chance we get for awhile. And make sure you get the….."

"I've already harvested several cc's and stored them in liquid nitrogen, sir," Brisson said, nodding toward the liquid nitrogen container nearby. "We should be set for a couple of years."

"Good. We'll be able to continue that, at least."

"I take it the General wouldn't change his mind?" Brisson asked, eyeing the Scotch just like the guard had.

"He would not," Pierce said, walking further into the room, "and he made it clear that he could not change his mind even were he inclined to do so. Which he isn't."

"But he must know what's going to happen," Brisson protested. "They're not going to get what they want with the prisoner unconscious."

"Ramey knows that," Pierce said, "but the rest of them either don't, or don't care. They blame me for the total lack of military intelligence that will be quite evident day after tomorrow."

"You?" Brisson repeated. "Why you? You didn't shoot the prisoner."

"Apparently they find the Major's burst of temper easier to understand than my keeping the prisoner from him for so long, despite all of my attempts to explain why," Pierce said darkly. "My ground-breaking work on the psyche of another species is too much for their tiny little minds to contemplate. And how could I ever have expected otherwise? We're dealing with military men, not people with brains. Do you know they've given Major Lewis permission to get 'up to speed' on this operation, as they put it? That's why he's been hanging around here. The ranks of those who want me replaced are growing."

"I believe I pointed out that keeping Cavitt at bay for so long was a risk—sir," Brisson added hastily when he saw the look on Pierce's face.

"A negligible risk," Pierce retorted. "This was all supposed to be over by the time Ramey arrived, hopefully with a pile of intelligence to hand him which made the ends justify the means—or at least the prospect of such an outcome." He stared at the unconscious prisoner. "It wasn't supposed to go this way."

"Well…In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say you succeeded," Brisson said. "Perhaps a bit too well."

"Oh, yes," Pierce said sarcastically, "I was stunningly successful. So successful that I failed."

"How did you fail?" called a sharp voice behind him.

Pierce whirled around, weaving every so slightly, to find Lieutenant White standing in the doorway, her brown eyes hard. Damn, but that woman was quiet sometimes! Or perhaps the Scotch had dulled his ears. "Lieutenant," he said, attempting a smile. "Come in. I was wondering when you were going to show up." And dreading it, Pierce thought. Now he'd have to add one angry, self-righteous nurse to the list of things he had to deal with today.

Lieutenant White walked toward the bed, eyeing the prisoner intently. "What happened here?" she demanded.

"What happened here, Lieutenant, is that Major Cavitt got trigger happy," Pierce replied, sinking into a nearby chair. "No surprise there. Four darts, even though one has proven effective in the past. Apparently the Major can't count. No surprise there either. We'll be lucky if it—I mean 'he'—wakes up by Sunday."

"Was the Major attacked?"

"No," Pierce answered, chuckling slightly. "I'm afraid Major Cavitt's neck remains regrettably unbroken. You'd hear no complaints from me if that were not the case."

"He would only be replaced by another," Lieutenant White replied, "perhaps worse. If the prisoner didn't attack anyone, then why was he sedated?"

"He was sedated because Major Cavitt didn't like the answers he was getting. His solution to this problem was to knock the prisoner out cold."

"That makes no sense. Now he will get no answers of any kind."

"Logic is not always the guiding force of Major Cavitt's personality," Pierce noted, swirling his Scotch in his glass and wondering idly why she wasn't angry yet. This cool self-collectedness was unlike her.

"Did you inform your General what happened?"

" 'My' General?" Pierce said with amusement. "Unless I'm much mistaken, Lieutenant, he is every bit as much your General as mine."

"Whatever," Lieutenant White said impatiently. "This would appear to be a direct violation of his orders. Does he know?"

"Yes, he knows," Pierce sighed. "And he is in agreement. Sedation was only to be used if the prisoner became violent, which he did not, a fact I can attest to as I was watching the entire time."

"Then this will not be allowed to happen again, correct?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Pierce replied, attempting to stand up and thinking better of it. Two glasses of Scotch in ten minutes was too much.

"What is wrong with you?" Lieutenant White asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I, my dear, am drunk," Pierce replied pleasantly, raising his glass in a mock toast.

"Drunk?"

"Yes, drunk. Soused. Sloshed. Smashed. Well-lubricated. Use whatever euphemism you want."

"This is not a good time to become inebriated," she said coldly.

"On the contrary, this is the perfect time to become inebriated," Pierce protested affably. "It's always annoying when stunning success becomes dismal failure." He sighed. "Sometimes, Lieutenant, I am just too damned smart for my own good, if I do say so myself."

She stared at him for a moment with that arch look which she sometimes used, the one that gave him the distinctly uncomfortable impression that she was reading his mind. Lieutenant White was a puzzle; at times she seemed unassuming and relatively naïve; at other times she displayed a keenness of insight he normally associated with top military officers.

As she did now. "This is your doing, isn't it?" she said flatly.

"My doing?" Pierce repeated blankly. "I assure you, my dear, I had no intention of rendering the prisoner unconscious. That was Major Cavitt's brilliant idea." He leaned forward, reaching for the bottle of Scotch, only to have it pulled from his grasp by Lieutenant White and held at arm's length.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," she announced, holding the bottle aloft.

"It isn't? I do?"

"You kept Major Cavitt from the prisoner on purpose," she said, her eyes boring into him like drill bits. "Not just for your own pleasure, although I'm sure you derived a good deal of that from the exercise. You know Cavitt's temper—he was likely to lose it in any case, but with the added frustration of being kept away so long, and let loose at the last minute before being expected to report, you were hoping he'd misbehave. Badly enough that you could use it against him."

Pierce blinked. Sometimes the woman was so perceptive it was downright disturbing. "Close, but no cigar, Lieutenant," he said pleasantly. "Now give me my Scotch." He reached for the bottle, only to have it moved further away.

"Answer me," Lieutenant White demanded.

Pierce eyed her warily, keeping one eye on the hovering Scotch. It probably wouldn't hurt to explain, at least up to a point. It was all over now anyway. "Very well then. You're half right—I was hoping Major Cavitt would do something stupid, which, based on his previous behavior, was not at all a vain hope. And he obliged me, with behavior so ineffably stupid that it redefines the word."

"And?" she prompted.

"The idea was that Major Cavitt would behave badly, the prisoner would become angry with him, and then....and then I would step in with a proposal for our friend here which would virtually guarantee he need never deal with Major Cavitt again. That proposal, I'm sorry to say, requires him to be conscious….and cooperative. Cooperation was always going to be hard to come by, but now I'm afraid it's impossible, consciousness being a prerequisite to cooperation, even for aliens."

"So," Lieutenant White said coldly, "your attempt to manipulate matters ended with the Major behaving more badly than even you had anticipated, and now you can't make your 'proposal' until the prisoner reawakens. Why is this a problem?"

Pierce shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately I underestimated the relative impatience of those in command and the pressure they would bring to bear on General Ramey."

"Explain."

"Then do I get my Scotch back?"

"Explain."

Pierce sighed. "My keeping Cavitt from the prisoner resulted in no military information being funneled upward. I was expecting that, counting on it even. I figured I had two months at least before the fur began to fly. Unfortunately, I miscalculated. Badly. The pressure on the General has led him to a decision which makes that"—he pointed to the still hovering bottle of Scotch in her hand—"quite soothing at the moment."

"What decision?" Lieutenant White asked, still holding the Scotch hostage.

"General Ramey has agreed that Major Cavitt can't just go around shooting the prisoner any time he likes, but he has also agreed that incentives can be applied if he refuses to cooperate. Therefore, the General has authorized the use of solitary confinement as a means of motivation."

"The very same tactic you used," Lieutenant White reminded him.

"Yes. Quite," Pierce answered soberly. "Hoisted by my own petard. In theory, Ramey sees this being used only if the prisoner refuses to speak at all, but in practice we both know what's going to happen. Unless Major Cavitt hears what he wants, which most likely involves something about an invading fleet of spaceships hiding behind the moon and powering up their ray guns, he will slap the prisoner into solitary, which means that no one will have access to him—including you. And judging by his previous reaction to that technique and the frequency with which Major Cavitt will apply it now that he's been given free rein, someone's neck will no doubt be broken in short order, in which case the Major will be free to sedate the prisoner, rendering him even more useless. This cycle will repeat itself until those who contend the alien was too dangerous to keep in the first place finally win the day and have him executed."

"That must not be allowed to happen," Lieutenant White said firmly. She stared at the prisoner for a moment, then turned her attention back to Pierce. "Revive him, make your 'proposal', and I will see to it that he accepts."

Pierce smiled indulgently. "But I never told you what my proposal was, Lieutenant."

The Lieutenant's eyebrows rose. "You are undoubtedly one of the more conniving people I've met, Doctor, but you really do need to work on your transparency. I divined your intentions several minutes ago. Revive him, and I will do the rest."

"Lieutenant, are you sure it isn't you who's been hitting the Scotch?" Pierce asked incredulously. "I'm not sure I can revive him in time. I only have experience with the use of sedatives on these creatures, not stimulants. I could kill him if I proceed too hastily."

"This species requires at least twice as much sedative as humans do. Might they not also require twice as much stimulant?"

"Quite possibly," Pierce allowed, "but there's no way to know for certain. And that's only half the battle. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I am able to revive him in time. Then what? It would likely have taken me days to get the point across—you'll have hours, if not minutes, and that's best case. I'm afraid you overestimate your affect on him, Lieutenant. Granted, he has responded better to you than to anyone else, and I'm grateful for your assistance, but he barely speaks to you. He barely speaks to anyone. How do you……."

Lieutenant White abruptly leaned forward, her hands resting on the arms of his chair, her nose only inches from his. "We need to attack Major Cavitt now," she said, her eyes turning to flint. "There may never be a better time. He has just made an obvious error in judgment, and we should exploit that to its fullest. If we should fail, and the prisoner is not revived by the time the General arrives, he is likely dead anyway—or as good as. At the very least, you will lose control of him. Is that what you want? What have you got to lose by trying?"

Pierce stared at her in astonishment. Crazy as it seemed, she had a point: Although few in the upper echelons were likely to spare any tears for an alien, especially a belligerent one like this, Cavitt had seriously overstepped his bounds. If he were able to revive it……if she were able to win its cooperation in less time than it would have taken him…..oh, that would be sweet. And if she failed? Well, if she failed, at least he would be no worse off than he was now.

"You surprise me, Lieutenant," Pierce said, setting down his empty glass. "There are times you appear every bit as 'conniving' as you claim I am."

"As I have previously noted, you know very little about me," she said coolly. "Will you require my assistance in reviving him?"

"Yes....but not immediately. I need to do some research first, look over my notes, make some calculations. I'll call you when I'm ready."

"Make it soon," she warned, and turned and walked out the door. A long minute passed before Pierce spoke again.

"Corporal," he said to a stunned Brisson, "what just happened?"

"I….I'm not sure," Brisson said uncertainly. "But if we can wake it up in time, she just might pull it off. She did manage to get it to eat after we captured it, and it does seem to enjoy her company."

"As much as it enjoys anything," Pierce said dryly. "I can't figure her out. Sometimes she is so quiet, and just now she sounded….." He stopped, searching for the right word. "She sounded predatory."

"Well, she is very protective of it," Brisson noted, staring at the prone figure of the alien, which looked far more friendly now that it was out cold. "Perhaps we're looking at a kind of……mother instinct?"

"I don't care what the hell it is as long as it works," Pierce announced, rising to his feet, suddenly sober. "Finish what you're doing, then join me."

"Yes, doctor," Brisson answered, looking wistfully at the door through which Lieutenant White had just left. "It really is too bad we're going to lose her."

Pierce stopped. "Lose her?"

Brisson dropped his eyes back to his work and didn't answer.

"Corporal, we have no evidence that what we are attempting will harm Lieutenant White. And you've seen for yourself that she can be a hard-nosed, practical scientist. Extremely hard nosed. I'm sure she would approve."

"Of course, doctor," Brisson answered, sounding unconvinced.

"You have been collecting the data, haven't you?"

"Yes, doctor," Brisson said, avoiding Pierce's gaze. "I found an easier way. Lieutenant White keeps careful notes on the calendar in her desk."

"Excellent," Pierce said. He paused. "You're not going soft on me, are you Brisson?"

"Of course not, Doctor."

"Good. One can't be soft in times like these. I'll be in the lab, finishing my—damn!" he exclaimed, looking around, empty glass in hand.

"What is it?" Brisson asked.

"She took my Scotch!"



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



Lieutenant Spade grabbed a mug off the shelf, poured himself a cup of coffee, and headed for the table furthest from the door. Thankfully the mess hall was quieter than the recreation room, which was currently jammed with jubilant soldiers, thrilled that their commander had finally "shown the alien who was boss". And here he'd thought everyone had acquired a bit of perspective in the past few weeks. Even Walker had become somewhat less belligerent, with the emphasis on the word "somewhat". But apparently that new calm had been deceptive, masking a deep-seated resentment that was now bubbling to the surface.

The irony was that most of the sources of that resentment had little to do with the alien himself. Spade had grown more and more uneasy as the days had ticked by and Cavitt had shown no sign of loosening the leash around the men's necks. The lockdown continued; no one but Cavitt, Pierce, and a handful of others were allowed outside, never mind off the base, and everyone's mail was still censored, their families still convinced they were elsewhere. Most of the men merely rotated through guard duty with nothing but the meager pursuits available in the rec room to amuse themselves when off duty. They had taken to blaming the alien for their predicament because he was a safe target; the real source of their misery, that being Major Cavitt's iron hand and perpetual distrust of his own men, went unnoticed. Cavitt did have a point that minimizing the number of personnel allowed in and out of the compound would minimize the chances of an alien slipping inside, but Spade knew that wasn't the real reason for the lockdown; if it were, then no one would be allowed out. No, what Cavitt was also afraid of was that someone would talk or go AWOL, and he intended to see that didn't happen.

Another roar of merriment erupted from the rec room, and Spade was once again grateful that he'd managed to get to Yvonne first, before she was treated to the whooping and hollering and general rejoicing which would have announced events to her otherwise. She hadn't been able to have dinner with the alien as usual because he was locked up with Cavitt, so she'd been doing her laundry in the laundry room a few doors down when he'd caught up with her, closing the door behind him and locking it so they could talk privately. Being seen together too often was problematic. Both he and Yvonne were regarded resentfully by many of the men, who felt they had too much sympathy for the alien, so it didn't help if people constantly saw the two of them together. It was hard not having anyone to talk to, but whenever he was feeling lonely, he reminded himself that it was worse for her: At least he wasn't the only man here.

Locking the laundry room door had bought them about ten minutes before someone else had appeared, at which time Spade had cut their conversation short and headed here, looking for coffee and a little peace. Of course he could always go to his quarters, but those four walls were looking mighty close these days. His men weren't the only ones feeling claustrophobic.

"Sir?"

Spade set his cup down and resisted the urge to sigh. So much for peace. Now he'd be peppered with questions about why he wasn't celebrating along with everyone else. So he was pleasantly surprised to find Private Thompson standing there holding a tray of dinner, the same Thompson who had gone out of his way to complement him for speaking up about the alien who had surrendered.

"May I join you, sir?"

"Sure. Have a seat," Spade said, indicating the chair across from him. "I'm surprised you're not enjoying the festivities in the other room."

Thompson's eyes flicked up. "I don't feel much like celebrating, sir."

"Neither do I," Spade admitted. "But I'd wager we're in the minority."

Thompson began cutting his meat, then abruptly set his utensils down. "I guess I don't feel much like eating either, sir."

Spade gave him a measuring stare. He didn't know Thompson well, but he'd always seemed the decent sort, the type who would hear you out before passing judgment. He was also one of the guards Cavitt had taken with him into the interrogation, so he was likely one of the guards who had shot the prisoner. No wonder he looked disturbed.

"Something on your mind, Private?"

Thompson hesitated, as if weighing a decision. "Sir," he said finally, "can I asked you something?"

"Of course."

"What are the odds that I'd be able to get transferred out of here?"

"How low can you count in negative numbers?"

Thompson's shoulders sagged a bit, but he didn't look too surprised. "I was afraid of that," he said quietly. "In that case……" He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and silently handed it to Spade, who skimmed it briefly.

"This is a letter of resignation."

"Yes, sir."

"Thompson……"

"I can resign, sir," Thompson interrupted. "My tour of duty ends in three weeks."

Spade read more of the letter, shaking his head as he did so. It was full of very good reasons why Thompson felt the Army wasn't handling the whole alien business properly. Very good reasons that would probably make him wind up like West and Belmont.

"I can't accept this," Spade, pushing it back across the table.

"But…you have to!" Thompson insisted. "There's no draft now, sir, and my tour is up. The Army can't hold me unless we're in a combat situation, and we haven't declared war on these people. Which is just as well, because I'm pretty sure we'd lose."

"The usual rules won't apply in this situation," Spade said with certainty.

Thompson stared at him blankly for a moment, still not comprehending the quicksand he'd stumbled into. Finally he leaned forward and blurted, "Sir, I can't do this anymore! Today I was ordered to fire on a prisoner not because it was threatening anyone or trying to escape, but just because Major Cavitt didn't like the answers he was getting! That's an illegal order. And you should hear what else is going on. I overheard Major Cavitt and Major Lewis talking the other day, and the things they were saying…." Thompson swallowed hard, and shook his head. "Let's just say that Lewis's middle name must be 'Mengele'. We have a right to protect ourselves, but we don't have a right to act like the Nazis did. The Geneva Convention…….."

"Doesn't apply here," Spade interrupted, having already gone down this path. "The Convention draws a line between enemy combatants and civilians and tries to protect both. No one's going to buy the alien being a civilian, and he doesn't fit the criteria for an enemy combatant either—he wasn't wearing a uniform or fighting with any known military force. There aren't any rules for this situation."

"No rules?" Thompson said faintly, his expression one of a man who suddenly finds himself adrift in a rowboat in the middle of the Atlantic. "What does that mean, sir?"

"What that means is that those who feel hemmed in by Geneva, like Major Lewis and Major Cavitt, will have a field day," Spade said grimly. "Unless someone reins them in. I think General Ramey will try; he seems like a good man. But he won't be able to use Geneva to justify it because nobody's going to believe Geneva applies to aliens."

"I do, sir."

"So do I," Spade allowed. "But nobody cares about our opinions, Private. There aren't any rules out there for aliens, just like there aren't any rules for soldiers guarding them that the brass won't be willing to ignore."

"That's where you're wrong," Thompson said firmly. "Maybe the Geneva Conventions don't apply in this case, but there's been no change in the Army's rules. The Army has to follow its own regulations regarding its own men. If you won't accept my resignation, I'll take it directly to Major Cavitt."

"No!" Spade said suddenly, glancing quickly around. There was no one else in the mess hall, but that could change at any moment. "Don't take it to Cavitt. That's the worst thing you could do."

"Why not? I'm just following procedure by turning it in first to my immediate superior. He's the one who would ultimately rubber stamp it."

"Oh, he'll rubber stamp it, all right," Spade said darkly, his voice so low he was practically whispering. "But not the way you think. Don't do it, Thompson. It's not safe."

"Safe?" Thompson repeated, lowering his voice to match Spade's. "What are you talking about? Oh," he said suddenly, his eyes widening. "I get it. You're afraid that they'll come after me. The aliens," he clarified in a whisper. "Like they went after Private West and that other guy."

Spade hesitated. How much should he tell him? The last thing he wanted was for someone else to die because of all this nonsense, and he was very much afraid that's exactly what would happen if Cavitt got wind of this. Oh, he wouldn't go the fake handprint route again—he'd already used that once. No, this time it would be an unfortunate accident. Or a court martial on some trumped up charge to make certain Thompson got put away for good.

Thompson was staring at him, waiting for an answer. He had no idea what he was dealing with, and why would he? Everyone else thought that West and Belmont had been murdered by aliens out of revenge; there was no reason to think differently. Perhaps it was time to change that. Of all the soldiers stationed here, Thompson was the most likely to give him a fair hearing. And it would be wonderful to have someone else on their side, another set of eyes, ears, and willing hands. But the depth of Spade and Yvonne's involvement was so great that he had to be very careful; reveal too much to the wrong set of ears, and it would be he or Yvonne or both who would pay for it.

"Aliens didn't kill West and Belmont," Spade said quietly.

Thompson looked confused. "Sir?"

"You heard me. I said aliens didn't kill West and Belmont."

"But…..the handprints….."

"Were fake. Silver paint. I touched them myself."

"But….." Thompson's face almost contorted, he was working so hard to process this new information. "…..if aliens didn't kill them…….who did?"

"I'm not sure," Spade admitted. "All I know is that they were killed by someone who wanted it to look like aliens were responsible. Think, Private. Who around here would want to make the aliens look more threatening?"

Spade fell silent, nursing his coffee. Thompson's uneaten tray of food lay cold and forgotten as the implications of this question slowly sank in. Spade remembered how he'd felt the night he'd touched the cold bodies of his friends, how the paint had come off on his hand and he hadn't wanted to believe it, had rebelled against believing it. It would be harder for Thompson—he didn't have the proof staring him in the face.

"Sir," Thompson whispered, with a furtive look toward the door, "do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"I have every idea what I'm saying, Private. They didn't let me in the room with the bodies when they showed them to me through the morgue window, but Cavitt was in there, along with the two doctors who worked on the two dead aliens. They must have known it was paint. I figured that out myself in thirty seconds flat when I snuck into the morgue and looked at the bodies up close."

"But…but why?" Thompson asked. "Why….why murder two of our own people when the aliens had already killed several anyway? What possible good would that do?"

"It made me cooperate," Spade said, feeling the heat rise in his face the way it always did when he was reminded of the fact that all of them were in this debacle because of him. "Their deaths convinced me to help Cavitt lay a trap for the aliens. And Cavitt had another problem—I was out there telling a very different version of what happened inside that ship, and I wasn't backing down. That alien surrendered, Private….surrendered. I saw it. West saw it. He was bawling like a baby when he realized what he'd done. He might've talked had he lived, despite that fake confession Cavitt got him to sign. And that's not what Cavitt wanted. He didn't want a surrendering alien, he wanted a dangerous alien. He wanted to make them look worse than they are."

As if on cue, a loud cheer wafted through the door, coming from the rec room where people were still celebrating the alien being shot. "And it worked," Spade concluded softly, nodding toward the door.

Thompson fell silent again, staring in the direction of the sounds of merriment, elbows propped on the table, his hands furiously clasping and unclasping. "Okay, so you think…..he did it," Thompson said, unwilling to actually say Cavitt's name out loud. "Did you tell anyone what you found?"

"The only one to tell was the very person I suspected of arranging it in the first place," Spade said. "And now the bodies are gone, and the two doctors died the night the first alien was captured. The only one left is Cavitt."

"The doctors are dead because aliens killed them, sir," Thompson pointed out.

"The doctors are dead because we took things that didn't belong to us," Spade said firmly, "even though we were never under attack, never threatened in any way. I was there when we found the ship—we struck first. And when that alien tried to surrender to me, he wound up dead anyway, accused of attacking me, and that's not what happened. Can you blame them for what they've done? Would we have done any different were we in their shoes? They're people. They may be different than us, but they're still people. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that. Or maybe some of us never figured it out in the first place."

"Whoa! Wait a minute," Thompson protested. "I don't like what's going on here any more than you do, and if what you say is true about…..him…..then that's the most despicable thing I've ever heard, and he should pay for that. But calling those things 'people'? Like us? That's a leap I'm not willing to make. What if Cavitt's right? What if they are preparing to attack us?"

Spade sighed and set down his now empty coffee cup. "In that case, we're screwed. You said it yourself—we couldn't win a conflict with these people. They're way more advanced than we are. If they're planning to attack us, our only hope is to win them over, to make friends of them. How do you think we're doing?"

Thompson didn't answer. He looked away, out the window, his hands still fidgeting. After a minute or two, Spade pushed the letter across the table.

"I won't accept this," he said firmly. "I won't sign your death warrant. Whoever killed West and Belmont is probably still out there, and if they were willing to kill once, it's a good bet they'd kill again. You submit this resignation and you'll leave, all right—feet first. If you want to go over my head, I can't stop you, but I won't have the consequences on my conscience."

Swallowing hard, Thompson reached across the table and picked up the letter. He started to rise, then sat down again, staring at Spade.

"There's more, isn't there sir."

"More?"

"Yeah....more. Like what really happened the night the aliens kidnapped you. And what made you suspect that aliens didn't kill West and Belmont. And…." Thompson hesitated, as if unsure how far to go. "And why you ordered us to hold our fire when the first one escaped."

Spade regarded him levelly, mentally approving of the speed with which Thompson had put it all together despite his shock. It would be wonderful to have him on their side. But Thompson was in a dangerous place right now; he could easily tip either way, and Spade had no proof to aid in tipping him in the right direction. It was too soon to say more.

"I think you're heard enough for one night, Private," Spade said. "If the time comes when you want to hear more, let me know."

"All right," Thompson said, nodding slowly. "I'll keep that in mind, sir." He nodded to Spade and left the room wordlessly, his food still untouched, the sounds of cheers from the rec room wreathing his exit. And Spade watched him go, wondering if instead of signing Thompson's death warrant, he'd just signed his own.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


September 3, 1947, 11:30 p.m.

Proctor residence



Lights. Stone walls. Two boys lay on what looked like tables, the near one familiar, the far one's face obscured. Too far away. Too close to the edge of memory.

David Proctor twitched in his sleep, moving his head from side to side. The dreams came nightly now, the memories that Jaddo and Brivari had unwittingly poured into his head unspooling like film. Up until about two weeks ago, he'd seen a little bit further almost every night. Then he had seemed to reach the limits of what he'd been given, and had taken instead to looking for details in the now familiar scenes that played over and over in his head. His own dreams of the war and his brother had been shoved aside by these, something for which David was grateful. He found himself fascinated, feeling almost voyeuristic as he watched the lives of others on another world unfold before his eyes. It was a big improvement over his reactions to his own dreams, which tended to leave him wide awake in a cold sweat. Not that the images he was seeing were pleasant—with one notable exception, most of them weren't. But they weren't from his life or his world, so David found himself able to watch with more detachment than he could muster when he watched Christianson try to make it over that fence once more....and fail.

Every night the parade started; the order varied, but the scenes rarely did. Jaddo's nightmare of the gate with the lone figure standing in front of it. Cavitt's face hovering over his own. The wedding scene, with the bride and groom in alien form looking inexplicably beautiful given the fact that David privately considered that form distasteful. But he was feeling what Brivari had been feeling at that moment, and every time he saw the wedding, the feelings of peace and contentment were overpowering. That had been one of the most satisfying moments of Brivari's life.

Two more scenes were familiar, one of which he dreaded, the other he looked forward to eagerly. The first was the sight of his daughter lying on the ground, covered in blood. As time had gone by, David had seen more and more of this particular memory, and the more he saw, the worse it became. Now he could see the misshapen back of her head where Miltnor had fractured her skull and the blood which covered her all the way to her waist. He'd long ago seen all he wished to see of that horrifying sight, and now when it came, he tried not to look, to push the dream in the direction in which he wanted it to go, past that particular sight and onto the one that intrigued him the most—the two little boys in the rock chamber, both wearing familiar faces.

The nearest of the two was the clearest, and the one he had identified first as the face of Brivari's risen king. The second boy had remained obscure for awhile, but eventually his face had cleared to reveal what David had suspected—it was the second boy, the one who would be Jaddo's risen General. Both appeared asleep, silent and still, their eyes closed....and they were surrounded by alien figures.

Too many alien figures—at last count, there were eight, twice as many as had been on the ship. At first David had assumed this scene was not a memory, but a dream, perhaps the Warders' own longing for the babies in the sacs to mature. But then he had remembered that the babies were supposed to be "born" fully grown; these young faces looked no older than seven, and were dead ringers for the etchings of the two boys as children in the alien book. Who were the other aliens? Did this mean more were coming, perhaps to awaken the babies in the sacs before they matured? Or perhaps they had to remove them from the sacs at some point and then reinsert them, perhaps because of growth?

Suddenly the eyes of the furthest boy, the one would be the General, flew open. Disoriented, he looked around frantically for a few seconds, squinting against the light overhead until his eyes fell on the nearest alien.

And he screamed.

It was a scream of sheer, abject terror, and it sent David bolting straight upright, drenched in a sudden sweat. Outside the window the stars twinkled innocently; the clock on the bedside table read 11:35 p.m. Beside him Emily lay asleep, no doubt exhausted from her own trying first day of school. David took a moment to steady himself before carefully climbing out of bed and walking to the window, breathing in the night air, trying to climb out of his dream.

That had never happened before. Neither boy had ever awakened, much less cried out. What did it mean? This thought, this scene belonged to either Brivari or Jaddo; did this mean they were afraid of what would happen when the babies were removed from their pods? Or if this was a memory, then what David was seeing was something that had already happened. But who were those children? What were the aliens doing to them?

I think it means that they look human, but they're really Antarian, Dee had said. David and Emily had wondered how the aliens knew how to create a baby that looked human, but they had spent more of their time in awe of the fact that the babies were supposed to be recreations of the aliens' fallen royalty, that they were basically being resurrected. Now, with the boy's scream still ringing in his ears, David had an uncomfortable idea forming in his mind, one that he'd rather not think about.

Grabbing a robe from his closet, David headed downstairs. He wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep right away anyway, so he might as well walk a bit. On the way downstairs he passed Dee's room and noticed the door was open; peeking inside, he found the bed empty. He wasn't the only one doing some night wandering.

He found her on the back porch, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs, staring out the window, the moonless night making her just a silhouette. Cleo, the kitten Rachel had given her for her birthday, was curled in her lap, a small, circular, purring blob of darkness. "Cleo" was short for "Cleopatra", a concession from Dee who had wanted to name her kitten "Vilandra". Having been relatively certain that Brivari would not approve of a cat being named after one of Antar's royal family, David and Emily had persuaded Dee to pick a more earthly royal name. A royal name was certainly fitting. Like most cats, Cleo often appeared the spitting image of the Queen of the Nile.

Dee glanced up, surprised and a little guilty, when he set a glass of milk on the table beside her and settled into a chair next to her with his own glass. Cleo promptly climbed off Dee's lap and stuck her furry little face into Dee's milk glass.

"You're up late," David said.

"So are you," Dee noted, pulling Cleo out of her milk glass.

"I couldn't sleep," David said truthfully.

"Neither could I."

Both were silent for a moment. He knew she'd had a rotten first day of school, and they'd already gone round and round on the issue of punching Ernie Hutton. No point in bringing that up again.

"Did Mama tell you that Anthony stopped by after supper?" David asked.

"Yeah. I didn't want to talk to anybody." A pause. "I heard Deputy Woods downstairs after I went to bed."

"He wanted to make sure you were okay, and that your Mama and I knew what happened when those boys went after you in the alley today," David said. "He didn't tell us anything you hadn't already."

"That's because he didn't hear all of it," Dee said in a low voice, staring at her hands. "Which is good, I suppose, because that means Deputy Valenti didn't hear all of it either."

"All of what?" David asked gently.

Dee stared into space for a moment before speaking. "Trey accused me of knowing how Denny died. Which I do," she added, her voice sounding like something was caught in her throat. "And he thinks the 'handyman' killed Denny because they saw Urza and me together at the festival, and Denny followed us. And never came back." She paused. "And he's right about that too."

"I figured Denny had to have been following you," David said. "I'm not surprised. Urza humiliated him in front of his friends. That must have been mighty hard for a bully like Denny to swallow."

Dee was quiet for a long time. David sat in silence, drinking his milk and wondering where this was going. Cleo resumed her assault on the milk glass, sticking her face so far down this time that her feline shoulders bumped into the rim of the glass.

"He didn't come back because of me," Dee finally whispered.

"Because of you?" David echoed in surprise. "You…you don't….Dee, you don't really think you're responsible for Denny's death, do you?"

"I did exactly what I did today," she said, still whispering. "I hit first. Denny said he was going to tell, and I didn't want him to, and I just….jumped on him. Just like I hit Ernie today even though we'd already stopped him and there was teacher coming. It was the same thing."

No it wasn't! David started to say, but caught himself. Part of the problem with having a smart, resourceful, stubborn-as-an-ox child was that child's tendency to blame herself for everything that didn't turn out the way she wanted, as though she had complete control over everything and had merely shirked her duties. The concept of certain things being out of one's control didn't sit well with people like Dee…or people like her mother, for that matter. Neither did emotional outbursts. Any reply that wasn't perfectly logical would be rejected outright.

"Dee, you told me that you hit Ernie today because you were mad. You said you knew a teacher was coming, but you just socked him because you wanted to. Right?"

Her eyes flicked up, annoyed, as if to say they'd already been over this. And over this.

"Now, what were you thinking when you went after Denny? Were you mad, or were you frightened?"

"I was scared," she said, pulling her knees up under her chin. "He was going to tell, and somebody probably would've listened."

"Were you trying to hurt him?"

"No! I was trying to stop him! I couldn't have hurt him anyway—he was huge."

"Exactly," David said patiently. "Denny could have brushed you off like a fly…but he didn't. He attacked you, and he hurt you so badly you almost died. He didn't have to do that—he decided to do that. That was his choice, and it was a bad one."

"But he had to make that choice because of me," Dee insisted. "I still started it."

"No, he started it by following you and threatening you," David said firmly. "And like you said, you couldn't have hurt him. He could have walked away, but instead, he….." David closed his eyes, remembering the image of his battered daughter lying on the ground. "How much do you remember about what Denny did?"

"Not much," Dee answered, hugging her legs. "I knocked him over, and then he got on top of me and started banging my head into the ground, over and over. It hurt," she added, as David winced. "I couldn't see very well, but I did see the coyote pull him off me…..and then the next thing I remember is waking up in the woods with the three others standing over me holding the healing stones. And my head hurt. A lot."

"Well, I know what you looked like after Denny got through with you," David said. "And as far as I'm concerned, he got exactly what he had coming to him."

Dee looked up in surprise. "How would you know what I looked like?"

"It's one of their memories. Either Brivari's or Jaddo's…Brivari's, I think. I see you lying there on the ground, all….." David stopped, figuring it was probably better not to provide all the gory details.

"What? What did I look like?" Dee asked in horrified fascination. "I remember I had blood all over me. Valeris had to clean it up before I could go back to the festival."

Good Lord, David thought. There he'd sat, chatting with neighbors, praising the fireworks, having no idea that only yards away, his only child's head was being rammed into the ground with enough force to fracture her skull. He'd collected her from Rachel's family no more than an hour after the fireworks ended, never having an inkling that she'd almost died just a short while ago. Dozens of times he had tried to recall something about her that night, something that he had missed, something on the way home, or when they'd tucked her in that should have tipped him off that something monumental had taken place right under his nose….but he couldn't think of a thing other than that she'd been quieter than usual. Small wonder.

"Never mind the details," David said, his voice husky. "You were hurt—badly hurt, and Denny's to blame for that. Don't you ever think for a minute that you're responsible for what happened to him—he brought it on himself."

Dee considered that in silence for a moment while David waited to see if his argument would be accepted. It was. "I know," she conceded, "but it was hard not to feel responsible when I was standing there looking at someone who….who was sorry he was dead. I didn't expect that. I mean, Denny was so mean to everyone….I never expected to see someone who actually missed him."

David stared out the nearest window. "I guess everyone deserves to have someone miss them," he said quietly. "Even people like Denny."

Dee gave him one of her famous how-far-are-you-going-to-take-this looks. "Even someone like Hitler?"

"Yeah," David answered, although this one hurt. "Even him. I'm not sure there's ever been anyone so bad, so completely unredeemable, that no one anywhere would be sorry when they died. I'm not sure I'd like it any other way."

"If you say so," Dee said doubtfully. But her voice had lifted, and so had what he could see of her expression. What he'd said had apparently done some good.

"Off to bed," David said, picking up the empty milk glasses as Cleo sat to one side, washing. "Tomorrow's another day."

"Whoopee," Dee said gloomily, climbing out of the chair.

"Cheer up—one more day and then it's Friday," David said, smiling. "Then you get a weekend. Just don't sock anybody."

"I know, I know," she said peevishly. " 'There are other ways to get your point across', and so on, and so forth."

"I'm sure you'll be able to think of some," David said solemnly. They headed through the dining room and into the kitchen, aiming for the back stairs when David remembered his dream.

"Dee, I had a question about those babies in the sacs. You said they were alien, right?"

"Half alien and half human," she said, turning around.

David froze in mid-step. "Half…….half human? But…I thought you said they just looked human."

"They will look human," she answered, cocking her head to one side, looking faintly silly as she stood barefooted in her pajamas in the middle of the dark kitchen. "I asked Urza about that while we were on his planet."

On his planet. It was a measure of just how bizarre life had become in the Proctor household that such a statement didn't even make him blink. "And?"

"He said they were 'hybrids', half human and half Antarian, and that they would look like us. And Valeris told me that the people they guarded had died, and that he had…what was the word? Oh, yeah, that he had 'recreated' them. And that after they were born, they'd go back and fix everything. That's all I know." She studied him as closely as she could in the dark. "Why? Did you see something else?"

"Not really," David lied. "I've just been wondering, and I keep forgetting to ask you. Go on up to bed."

"Aren't you coming?"

"Sure. I need to rinse the glasses out, or they'll smell by morning."

He kissed her lightly on the head and she tripped up the stairs, unable to see him as he gripped the edge of the sink hard. Half human….that phrase implied those babies were more than just human-looking. That implied.....

Something furry wrapped around his right ankle, making him jump. Cleo took another pass, bumping her head into his leg as she went by, her tail in the air, hoping for more milk.

"So, Cleo," David murmured as he rinsed out the empty milk glasses. "Where the hell did the human half come from?"




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


September 4, 1947, 1 a.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona




Malik stirred in his sleep and cracked an eyelid. Something had awakened him, but he wasn't sure what. He listened for a minute, taking in the night sounds coming in the open window and the noises an older structure makes that are noticeable when all is quiet. Hearing nothing, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Minutes later he heard it again. Once more, whatever it was hovered at the edge of consciousness, and once more, he had missed it. Annoyed, Malik sat up and yawned, grabbing the clock of his bedside table. What could be waking him up at one o'clock in the morning? He really didn't need this; he'd had busy day. People seemed to wait until the season known as "summer" had ended, and their children had returned to those institutions of learning known as "schools" to bother calling a handyman for certain chores or repairs. He'd been running around all day, and he'd be running around all day for the next month, most likely. Middle-of-the-night rambles were not welcome right about now.

There. The sound came again, so faint it was a wonder it had awakened him in the first place. Especially given that he was on the second floor of the house, and the sound in question was a communication signal coming from the basement. He'd been dreading the day when the news came that reinforcements to aid in the capture of the Royal Covari were coming. None of the communications for the past month had mentioned that—a fact which was giving Amar heartburn—but still, Malik had tensed every time the signal had sounded. Must be he was hypersensitive to it.

No matter, he thought, lying back down. Amar had said he'd be working late, which was typical for Amar, so he could get the news. If that news included visitors being on the way, Malik would hear about it soon enough. There was no value in knowing sooner.

Five minutes later, after hearing the signal two more times, Malik climbed out of bed and headed for the basement, wondering why Amar wasn't answering. He usually tripped over himself to get to the console when a message came in. Yawning, Malik trooped downstairs and through the basement, pressing his hand to the silver handprint on the stone wall. The door slid shut behind him and he looked around, puzzled.

The galaxy symbol on the communications console was indeed flashing, glowing blue in the darkness—but where was Amar? The atmospheric chamber was dark and silent, even The Leader apparently having succumbed to sleep. He wouldn't be able to hear any sounds from outside the chamber, and he had his own private communicator—this message was not for him. Malik searched the room, then headed down to the lower level, walking amongst the dimly illuminated tanks with their sleeping occupants, finding no one.

Returning to the upper level, Malik sat down at the workbench to wait for the next signal, puzzling over Amar's absence. Where could he be? By day Amar worked on the seal, which was tantalizing close to being finished, but by night he was usually knee deep in work on his generator device, the one which shut down the Royal Covari's powers. All attempts to rein in the dampening field it generated had so far proven unsuccessful; his last effort had still knocked out power to everything in the house, plus several surrounding houses, albeit one less than last time. The Leader had not been amused; several experiments he'd been running had been ruined, and Amar had spent a long time in the atmospheric chamber getting an earful. Had he decided to test it elsewhere? No, it was sitting there on the workbench. Perhaps he'd needed something else?

The signal sounded again. There was nothing for it; good news or bad, he would have to answer this one himself. Reluctantly, Malik held his hand over the glowing symbol. It changed to white, indicating that a link had been established, and Malik withdrew his hand, waiting for the holographic beam to engage.

When it did, rising toward the ceiling in a shaft of light, it coalesced into the form of their usual contact on Antar—Orlon, the one who had led the opposition to the Covari aligning with Zan's father all those years ago while Brivari worked to make that alliance happen....and ultimately succeeded.

"Greetings, Orlon," Malik said, before the other could speak. "I have good news. The Leader and Amar have nearly perfected the seal. They should be finished soon."

"That is good news," Orlon said gravely, "but I'm afraid my news is less sanguine."

Malik leaned forward on his stool. "What happened?"




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


0155 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




"Damn! Where is it?" Walker muttered, staring out the window at the dark fall night.

"Maybe it's not comin' tonight," Treyborn said casually.

"It hasn't been here for two nights now," Walker complained, sounding like a kid denied ice cream for too long. "Do you think it got hurt?"

"Nah. It's a stray," Treyborn replied. "Comes and goes as it wants, that's all."

"But we fed it," Walker said, apparently mystified as to why this didn't settle everything.

Treyborn shrugged. "Maybe it found somewhere else to eat."

"Out here? In the middle of nowhere? Where else is it gonna eat out here?" Walker demanded.

Treyborn ignored him. He'd learned a long time ago that if Walker didn't get a visit from the little dog while on the graveyard shift, he was miserable. Not that he was any Mr. Congeniality on a good day. "Shit, Walker, why're you so pissy?" Treyborn asked. "Cavitt had the alien shot today. That should'a made you happy."

Walker broke into a broad smile. "Oh, it did, it did. In a way. I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, when it's out cold, it can't 'enjoy' its captivity, now can it?"

"You're a mean bastard, you know that?"

"Guilty as charged," Walker grinned.

Scratches sounded at the door. Walker eagerly peered through the window before opening the door a crack. The little dog slipped through the opening and pranced around both of them, tongue out, tail wagging.

Treyborn reached down and scratched the pup behind the ears. Despite his early misgivings, he'd grown fond of the mutt, as had everyone else. It hadn't sprouted antennae or left glowing silver paw prints or turned into anything else, and its company sure made it easier to pass the time. Over the past month, word had slowly spread from one soldier to another until all the men knew, while still being careful to leave Lieutenant Spade out of the loop. Treyborn often wondered if Spade had noticed the lack of grumbling over assignments to this door; everyone loved this post now because of the dog.

Walker was busy petting the dog, still nameless due to a serious lack of consensus, when the inner door opened and their replacements slipped inside: Private LaBella, followed by Private Lomonaco.

"Oh good—he's back!" LaBella said happily.

"Oh, no you don't!" Walker complained. "He just got here! I haven't had two minutes with him!"

"You're off duty now," LaBella pointed out. "What'dya gonna do—hang around here?"

Walker shifted his eyes toward the door. "I was heading to the kitchen to hook a snack. I'll take him with me, get him something to eat, then bring him back here. Treyborn'll come with me, right Treyborn?"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Thus far the puppy had always been contained within the entryway between the outer and inner doors. At first, even that had seemed rebellious—to everyone but Walker, that is—but they had long since grown used to the dog's presence and adept at hiding him when the necessity arose, which it hadn't in awhile.

But not so adept that anyone but Walker was comfortable actually bringing him inside. "The kitchen's a ways away," Treyborn said doubtfully. "Someone's bound to see us."

"It would be nice to have somewhere to play with him," LaBella said wistfully. "Spade doesn't stop by much, the brass isn't here at night, most everyone's asleep…maybe we could throw a ball around in the rec room?"

"And have him barkin' and wakin' up the universe?" Treyborn said incredulously. "Jesus. And they call me slow."

"He won't bark, will you boy?" Walker crooned to the puppy as it licked his face.

"Shit, Walker. It don't speak English," Treyborn muttered.

"Let's try it," LaBella said, his voice tight with excitement. "Walker, go clue everyone in, then you and Treyborn take him to the kitchen and see how he behaves. If he raises a ruckus, we'll have to pitch him out."

Three heads bobbed eagerly in agreement, with Treyborn the lone holdout. "I don't know," he said hesitantly. "Cavitt's in a mood. He didn't get anything out of the alien today, but if he finds out about this, I'll bet he'll get somethin' out of us."

"Cavitt's long gone," Walker said impatiently, "and if anything goes wrong, all of us'll just have to come up with a story. Here—you hold him, Treyborn, while I tell everyone else what we're doing."

The dog sat placidly in Treyborn's arms, tail wagging madly. He wasn't there long, however, before LaBella demanded a turn, then Lomonaco, passing the dog around the way women do babies. The pup hadn't made it back to Treyborn when Walker returned.

"All set!" he said grinning. "Scaredy-cats just want us to leave the lights off in the kitchen in case Lieutenant Alien walks by. Let's go."

Reluctantly, Treyborn followed Walker through the inside doors, the inside set of guards grinning from ear to ear as the little dog pattered along behind. It was clear within ten seconds that this wasn't going to work; the pup's sharp nails clattered on the tile floor, sounding abnormally loud at this late hour. Walker scooped up the dog and tucked him under his arm, marching toward the kitchen. The hallway was long, the kitchen about two-thirds of the way down; that, combined with the bright lights left on around the clock made for one hell of a long, nervous walk. In the distance, the guards at the doors to the basement stairway waved, obviously having been clued in by Walker. Not another soul was around, but Treyborn still sighed with relief when they reached the kitchen without incident.

"Leave the light off!" Walker hissed, as Treyborn reached for the switch.

"Then how're we supposed to see anything?" Treyborn complained, squinting into the darkness broken only by moonlight from the windows.

"Here…use this." Walker set the dog down and opened the refrigerator door, causing a small swath of light to split the darkness. "Get a plate," he ordered. "I'll try to scrounge up some leftover meatloaf."

Treyborn obediently went in search of a plate as Walker rummaged through the fridge, the dog waiting expectantly at his feet. A minute later, Walker called, "I can't find anything. I'm going to check in the Officer's Mess next door. Watch the dog; don't let it get out."

"Okay," Treyborn said, keeping an eye on the dog until Walker had left before resuming his search. He finally located what appeared to be a clean plate and headed back to the center of the kitchen.

The dog was gone.

"Here boy!" Treyborn whispered, whistling softly. He searched the entire back kitchen area as best he could in the light from the fridge, then headed for the seating area.

It wasn't there either. Beginning to panic, Treyborn retraced his steps without success. Walker would be back any minute after raiding Cavitt's and Pierce's private dining room, and what would he tell him? Where the hell could the dog have gone? The doors to the outside hallway were much too heavy for a puppy to open. He searched for a few more minutes, stopping to listen carefully every now and then, and finally decided he needed to risk turning on the light.

Treyborn flinched and squinted as the brilliant overhead lights came on, flooding all the dark nooks and crannies. He waited for several breathless seconds, expecting someone to come running to investigate, but heard nothing. Relaxing a bit, he conducted another futile search—the dog was nowhere to be found.

"Treyborn!" hissed a voice.

Treyborn jumped a mile, whirling around to see Walker glaring at him as he flipped off the light, plunging them into darkness yet again. "Have you lost your mind? This room's glowing like a freakin' lighthouse! What are you doing?!"

"The dog's gone," Treyborn stuttered. "I can't find it, and I……"

"It's right there," Walker interrupted, pointing.

Treyborn turned around to find the pup sitting in the entrance to the kitchen, illuminated by the light from the still open fridge, tail wagging, looking like he'd been there all along.

"But…but…I checked everywhere…and that's why I turned on the light, because I couldn't find him…."

"Jesus H. Christ, he was probably just under something," Walker said irritably. "He can't get through these doors, so what were you doing out in the hallway?"

"Hallway?" Treyborn repeated blankly. "I wasn't in the hallway."

"Yes you were…I saw you," Walker said, heading for the kitchen. "Just a minute ago as I was heading back. You ducked and ran back in here when you saw me."

"What? Walker, I was not in the hallway!" Treyborn said peevishly. "I was in here trying to find the damned dog. You must have seen someone else."

"No one else is that short," Walker chuckled. "Now let's feed the poor thing. Gimme the plate."

"I was not in the hallway," Treyborn muttered, ignoring him.

"Fine," Walker said in exasperation. "You weren't in the hallway. Maybe you've got an evil twin following you around."

"Or maybe it's an alien," Treyborn blurted out before he could stop himself, instantly regretting that.

"Oh, not that again!" Walker exclaimed. "Honestly, Treyborn, you're dumber than dirt! Why would an alien want to look like you, of all people? An alien would look like someone important, someone who could order us around, like Pierce or Cavitt, not some hick from Iowa who's afraid of a little dog. Now gimme the plate!"

Wordlessly, Treyborn handed over the plate and watched as the dog eagerly jumped up on the table, driving Walker nuts as he tried to empty bits of what looked like steak onto the plate. "Easy there, boy," Walker smiled, holding the salivating pup back. "It's all yours in just a second. Won't the brass be surprised when their lunch is missing tomorrow. But you and I both know it's going to a better place, don't we?"

Treyborn said nothing as Walker continued crooning, looking back and forth from the now eagerly chewing puppy to the heavy double doors that led to the hallway, the hallway he knew he hadn't been in when Walker had supposedly seen him. For the first time in weeks, that insistent prickle of doubt was back.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


September 4, 1947, 12:30 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School



It was the whispering Dee had noticed first. The whispering and the staring.

Standing outside the school doors, waiting for them to open, she had thought at first that it was just her classmates doing it, preoccupied as she was with once again being so close to the spot where Denny had died. Her stomach wasn't clutching the way it had yesterday; her talk with her father last night had left her feeling much better. "That was his choice, and it was a bad one." Her father was right—Denny hadn't needed to attack her the way he did in order to fend her off. Still, it was hard not to feel just a little responsible for the fact that there was one less person in Corona because of something she had been directly involved in....and it didn't help that she wasn't exactly sorry Denny was gone. Was it all right not to mind someone's death if they were a bad person? How bad did they have to be before that was okay? Back on the Fourth of July, Dee had been worried that Urza would kill Denny and relieved when he hadn't. So why was there a part of her now that didn't mind Denny being dead, and another part that went cold at the very thought of it?

Lost in thought, Dee decided that it was probably okay not to miss someone who was bad. Even if her father was right about everyone deserving to be missed by someone, that someone didn't have to be her. But it seemed proper, somehow, to mind the fact that someone was dead, to acknowledge that there was a hole in life that hadn't been there before.

Then someone had jostled her arm as they walked by, pulling her back to the present. And that's when she realized that it wasn't only her classmates whispering and staring at her, some furtively, some not so. She would have expected that given what happened yesterday, just like she fully expected the huge scowl on Ernie Hutton's face that complemented his black eye perfectly. No, it wasn't just her classmates—it was the rest of the school as well. Younger, older....everyone seemed to be casting glances in her direction, followed by low muttering that she couldn't make out. Was she just imagining this, or was it really happening?

Anthony put that thought to rest. "Just ignore them," he murmured in her ear as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. "They don't know what they're talking about."

Mary Laura was more blunt. "It's because of what you did with that Indian girl," she announced. "Everyone thinks you're nuts."

"Everyone thought she was cool yesterday because she popped Ernie," Rachel pointed out.

"I'm not sure everyone realized why you popped Ernie," Mary Laura said archly. "Now they do."

Well, good for them, Dee thought sourly. She glared at the crowd, causing several heads turned in her direction to abruptly turn the other way. Following their gaze to the new focal point, Dee saw the source of all this angst: Several yards away, Bright Sun stood with River Dog on the extreme edges of the crowd. She looked even tinier than usual next to her tall older brother, her long black hair braided just like yesterday, that beautiful necklace still around her neck. Both stood impassively, seemingly oblivious to the attention they were drawing. Then River Dog's gaze found hers, and for a moment, their eyes locked.

We stay to honor your sacrifice.

I haven't sacrificed anything.

You will.

Is this what he had meant? Stares and whispers? Big deal. She'd seen her friends die in a hail of bullets; stares and whispers were nothing compared to that.

And then the doors had opened and everyone had trooped into school. Bright Sun, smiling shyly at her, had slipped into her seat behind Dee. Preoccupied with the morning routine of announcements, the Pledge of Allegiance, and the collection of homework, Dee had forgotten all about people's behavior until lunchtime, when the meaning of River Dog's words became clearer.

Dee, Rachel, and Anthony had ushered Bright Sun onto the playground and carefully scanned it for trouble. None was in sight; there were several teachers milling around, and no one was paying attention to Bright Sun. Make that any attention—everyone seemed to be ignoring her completely. This was so welcome after the events of yesterday that Dee didn't question it. Yet.

The four of them joined one of the lines to play Four Square, explaining the simple rules of the game to Bright Sun as they waited their turns. Anthony went in first, followed by Rachel, followed by Dee. And then Anthony missed the ball and got out. It was Bright Sun's turn. Hesitantly, she stepped forward into the square.

But the fourth square holder, a fifth grader named Susan, tucked the ball under her arm. "She can't play," Susan announced, staring at Bright Sun.

"Why not?" Dee demanded.

"Because I said so," Susan said firmly, still holding the ball hostage.

"No one made you boss," Dee said flatly.

"She can't play," Susan repeated forcefully, as if repetition equaled fact. "You can't make me play with someone I don't want to play with."

"If you don't want to play with her, you can always go somewhere else," Anthony said calmly. "I want to play with her, and so does Dee." He turned to Rachel. "What about you?"

There were dozens of children on that playground and the noise was deafening, but one could have heard a pin drop within the confines of that four square board. Rachel looked like a deer caught in the headlights, her eyes darting from Anthony's expectant face, to Dee's suspicious one, to the stony faces of Susan and the rest of the waiting children.

"Rachel?" Dee prompted.

"See? Rachel doesn't want to play with her either," Susan declared.

"I didn't say that," Rachel said quickly, staring at the ground.

"Rachel!" Dee said sharply.

"It's all right," said a small, soft voice, so quiet one almost had to strain to hear it. Bright Sun's big dark eyes held no anger, merely resignation. She was probably used to this kind of treatment, and a spark of fury flared in Dee that anyone should have to get used to this kind of treatment.

"No, it's not all right!" Dee said crossly. "You don't own the playground, or the ball, Susan! If you don't want to play with her, go get your own ball and your own square!"

"Fine." Susan threw the ball to Dee with such force that it might have knocked her over had Dee not been ready for it, and stalked off, followed by every single child in line. A few feet away, Susan stopped and turned around.

"Rachel? Are you coming? Or are you going to play with that filthy little redskin too?"

"Bright Sun is cleaner than you are, and Rachel's staying here," Dee said firmly. "We'll make our own square."

"Don't ever try to play with any of us again," Susan warned.

"What makes you think I'd want to?" Dee shot back.

And then, incredibly, Rachel started moving. Still staring at the ground, unwilling to look Dee in the eye, she began slowly edging toward the crowd of exiting children.

"Where are you going?" Dee hissed at her.

"Dee, I….I'm sorry. I can't," Rachel whispered. "My parents……they told me not to get involved."

"Then why did you walk out with us in the first place?"

"That was before this happened!" Rachel protested, still whispering. "I didn't expect it to go this far!"

"What difference does that make?" Dee demanded furiously.

"All the difference," Rachel said miserably. "Look, maybe you don't mind if everyone stares at you, and calls you names, and doesn't want to be with you. But….but I do."

" 'Everyone' isn't doing that," Dee pointed out. "Bright Sun isn't. Anthony isn't. And you aren't. Unless you plan to start, that is."

"Of course not!" Rachel protested. "It's just….well…..Mama and Daddy told me to stay out of it," she said desperately. "People are talking, Dee, and they're afraid it's going to get ugly!"

"Rachel," Dee said, controlling her temper with difficulty, "these idiots won't even throw a ball to Bright Sun just because she looks a little different. It's already ugly."

"You haven't heard what I've heard," Rachel insisted. "And it's only going to get worse. I'm…..I'm scared," she confessed.

Scared? Dee thought scornfully. Rachel was scared? What did she know about what it meant to be "scared"? Had she ever been trapped on an alien ship with soldiers breathing down her neck? Had she listened to nasty aliens threatening to kill her family? Had she grabbed her friends by the ankles and pulled them away in an effort to keep them alive? Rachel didn't know the first thing about being "scared".

"I'm sorry, Dee," Rachel whispered, backing away. "I just can't. Don't hate me."

"Coward," Dee announced, loud enough for all to hear.

Rachel blanched, flinching as though she'd been struck. Then she turned and joined the retreating children, her shoulders sagging, Susan's triumphant face bobbing beside her.

"Let her go," Anthony said quietly, as Dee started after her.

"What?!" Dee exploded, rounding on him. "You're just going to take that?"

"I don't see what else we can do," Anthony answered, taking his glasses off and wiping them on his shirt. "We can't make her stay. Look, we don't have a square anymore, so let's do something else. Why don't we swing?"

Dee stared at him open-mouthed. She couldn't believe it. They were just going to accept it, just give up and go do something else. "You go swing," she said furiously. "I'm not doing anything with anybody who's willing to give in so easily."

"We didn't give in," Anthony pointed out. "We didn't leave with them."

"But…..!"

"It's all right," Bright Sun broke in again in that tiny, whispery voice. "I like swings."

"Fine! Go be quitters!" And Dee had stalked off to the edge of the playground and flung herself under a tree. Now, to her right, Anthony and Bright Sun swung on a couple of swings, the rest of which had been promptly vacated as soon as Bright Sun arrived. To her left, Susan and that traitorous Rachel were playing four square on a different square with a new ball as a long line of children lined up for a turn. Rachel looked miserable even from this distance, but Dee's eyes still burned when she looked at her. "Traitor," she muttered.

<If I were you,> Brivari's voice rang in her mind, <I wouldn't throw that word around.>

Startled, Dee jerked her head upward, but she couldn't tell where he was. Mind speech was maddeningly difficult to pinpoint. <What are you doing here?> she said crossly. <And where are you, anyway?>

<I find human problems to be a distraction from my own, and my location is irrelevant,> he answered. <Why are these people ostracized?>

<They're Indians,> Dee answered, giving up on trying to find him. <Everyone hates Indians.>

<What abilities do they possess that the rest of you do not?>

<None. At least I don't think so. They just…..look different.>

There was a long pause. <Their appearance does not differ appreciably from your own,> Brivari announced after a moment.

Dee sighed in exasperation. <They look different, they dress different, they talk different. They're just……different.>

<Odd.>

<What's odd?>

<That someone would be excluded on such a flimsy basis. Where I come from, prejudice is predicated upon superior abilities, powers one race or person has that another does not. My race, for example, can change their shapes; we are the only race who can. Some races are stronger, others more telepathic. Superior abilities engender fear. What reason is there to fear these 'Indians'?>

<There isn't any. What made you think people made sense?> Dee asked irritably. <If you'd like an example, just look at Rachel, cowering in front of a tiny little girl.>

<Your companion is frightened,> Brivari observed.

<Frightened?> Dee echoed disdainfully. <I'll show her frightened! Is anybody shooting at her? Are any of her friends dead or dying or captured? She has no idea what 'frightened' means.>

<Exactly,> Brivari said calmly. <She has not had your experiences, thus cannot be judged by them. You are viewing this situation through a very different lens.>

<She doesn't need 'experiences' to tell her that she shouldn't be refusing to play with someone just because they look a little different,> Dee grumbled.

<You are missing the point. Your companion had no objection to keeping company with the one you defend. Her objection was to being ostracized by her peers.>

<Who cares what people like that think? I don't.>

<You are unusual,> Brivari noted. <Most people place great stock in the opinions of others. Ostracism is one of the harshest punishments a society can impose—I should know. Judging from what I've been hearing, I fear it may go beyond that.>

Dee went cold, the hard bark of the tree pressing into her back. You haven't heard what I've heard, Rachel had said. And it's only going to get worse. <What have you been hearing?> she demanded. <How long have you been up there eavesdropping, anyway?>

<Long enough. You should be careful, Dee Proctor. Hatred towards these people runs deep.>

<I'm not scared,> Dee said staunchly.

<I know,> Brivari said gravely. <That is what worries me. I would rest easier were I to see some of your companion's fear in your eyes.>

<You just told me Rachel was scared about the others not talking to her,> Dee reminded him. <I'm not afraid of that. I don't want to talk to people like that anyway. And I don't want anything to do with Rachel either.>

<So you plan to ostracize your friend? Isn't that the same tactic you just objected to when applied to the Indian child?>

Dee's face burned. God, but he was infuriating sometimes! No wonder he could drive her mother nuts. Then the bell rang, sparing her the necessity of answering. She stood up and brushed herself off. <I have to go in now. Enjoy your eavesdropping.>

Brivari was silent as she marched off toward the school. She still had no idea where he was, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way back to the building where she got into the unusually quiet line to go inside, ignoring Bright Sun's dark eyes, Anthony's questioning look, Rachel's miserable expression, and everyone else's sidelong stares. No doubt everyone knew what had happened by now. News traveled fast on a playground. Is this what Rachel and Brivari were going on about? Was this silence what he had wanted her to be frightened of, what Rachel had abandoned her best friend over? Big deal, Dee thought darkly, glaring at all and sundry. It would take a lot more than a little silence or even a whole lot of silence to scare her.




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



1 p.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona



"Where have you been?" Malik demanded, as Amar sauntered up the front porch steps, a bundle tucked under his arm.

"Nice to see you too," Amar said dryly. "I've found more raw material. We're still having problems perfecting the seal, and this stuff might just do the trick."

"What time did you leave last night?"

"I didn't look. Does it matter?"

"It does when you're missing at one o'clock in the morning. You've been gone at least twelve hours."

"Really?" Amar looked surprised. "Took longer than I thought."

"All night and all morning?"

"Look, I didn't look at the clock before I left," Amar said testily. "You know night time is the best time for scavenging. What, are you my keeper now?"

"No. Just the bearer of bad news that you missed because you were out….doing whatever it was you were doing."

Amar flung the front door open. "I told you, I was looking for material. I'm sorry I didn't leave a note. If the Leader's angry, he won't be when he see this," he added, indicating the bundle under his arm. "Now get off my back. Don't you have a refrigerator to fix, or something?"

"Khivar attacked Larak."

Amar paused in the doorway. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

After a moment of stunned silence, Amar grabbed Malik's arm and hauled him inside, closing the door behind them. "Why?" he demanded.

"Do you want the official explanation, or the real one?"

"There's a difference?"

"There always is when the subject is politics," Malik said dryly.

"Tell me what happened!" Amar insisted.

Malik sighed. "Khivar is accusing Larak of harboring whatever technology they think Zan was working on before he died. When Larak denied it, Khivar attacked his capital city."

Amar digested this in silence, dropping his burden on the kitchen table. "That could be," he said slowly. "Larak was a good friend of Zan's. Zan could very well have hidden his toy with him."

"This has nothing to do with 'toys', real or imagined," Malik said impatiently. "Khivar is trying to redirect everyone's attention by fabricating a common enemy. He's trying to silence Larak because Larak has been calling loudly for Khivar to produce either the Royals or their Warders, or admit that Zan might one day return. His world participated in the project, so Larak would know that even if Zan is dead, he is unlikely to stay that way."

"Well, Khivar can't just let Larak go around running off at the mouth, now can he?" Amar said. "The last thing Khivar needs is some myth or other about a returning king."

"Too late," Malik said, shaking his head. "We already sent word back that at least some hybrids had been created, and that has apparently leaked, backing up Larak's claims. The myth has already begun."

"Then it has to be stopped," Amar argued, picking up his parcel again and heading for the basement. "Honestly, I don't know why you're so upset. It's quite possible that Larak is hiding something, and if we manage to shut him up in the process, so much the better."

"Sure," Malik said sarcastically. "Take a world in shambles, deprived of a beloved leader, unwilling to accept his usurper, and make enemies of our neighbors, plunging everyone into a useless war. Sounds like a good plan to me."

"He's only going after Larak, and with good reason," Amar argued.

"It's only Larak now, but just wait," Malik said softly. "When Khivar doesn't find what he's looking for, he won't stop there. Kathana, Sero, and Hanar will be next."

"Look—has war been declared?" Amar demanded.

"No," Malik admitted. "Not yet."

"And maybe not ever," Amar said. "Where'd you get this 'sky is falling' bit, anyway? Khivar is just following up on a logical lead, that's all."

"I'm glad you feel that way. Because our back up—your back up—isn't coming."

Amar paused halfway down the basement stairs. "What?"

"They can't spare anyone," Malik continued. "That's what Orlon told me. They can't spare a ship, and they can't spare enough Covari to make a difference."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Amar protested, flabbergasted. "We know where the Warders are now! By the time the Argilians get here, they could be anywhere!"

"They can't risk losing us," Malik said. "They know we can't handle the Warders on our own. And they can afford to wait; the hybrids won't emerge for years yet. We're to do nothing unless and until things change."

Amar's face contorted with frustration. "But I have the trithium device! I……"

"And it still doesn't work," Malik pointed out. "We can't use that for any length of time without giving away our position. You're going to have to let them go, Amar. There's no other way, not while Khivar's out playing warlord. But since you approve of that behavior, I would imagine this isn't hard for you to accept."

Amar swore loudly and started down the basement stairs again.

"Don't do it," Malik called after him.

Amar paused at the bottom, turning to look up at him. "Don't do what?"

"You know perfectly well what."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Amar said, turning away again.

"Do you really think I don't know what you're up to?" Malik asked. "You do realize that I can't get you out of there if they capture you, don't you?"

Amar stopped, his back still turned.

"And no one else is coming," Malik added, "not in the near future at least. Don't do it, Amar. It's not worth it."

Amar paused for only a moment longer before stalking away without answering.



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



3:05 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School


The note was waiting for her in her desk when Dee opened it to retrieve what she'd need that night for homework. At first she thought it was an apology from Rachel, but when she opened it behind the curtain of her open desktop, she recognized the spidery, uncertain cursive handwriting.

Thank you for playing with me.

Dee swallowed, refolded the note, and tucked it into her book bag. She hadn't played with Bright Sun today, not really. Instead she'd spent most of recess sitting under a tree and grumping at an alien. In retrospect, she had to admit that Anthony's reaction had been more productive; her sulk hadn't changed Rachel's mind, or anyone else's for that matter. She might have had a better chance of changing a few minds if she'd actually played with Bright Sun and let everyone see her enjoying it. She'd just felt so angry, so betrayed…..for the first time, she had an inkling of how angry Brivari had been with Urza and why he'd felt that way. It was just infuriating to have her best friend turn on her for such a stupid reason.

Rachel, for her part, had been gratifyingly miserable for the rest of the afternoon. She'd sat at her desk, head bowed, stealing furtive glances in Dee's direction, who ignored her. Several notes bearing Rachel's handwriting had arrived at Dee's desk via the usual hand-to-hand express route common to all classrooms, and Dee had sent every single one back unopened. Bright Sun must have snuck her note into Dee's desk while Dee was doing arithmetic problems at the blackboard; she was gone now, having left with River Dog who had been waiting faithfully outside the classroom door when the bell rang.

"Can I talk to you?"

Dee lowered the top of her desk to find Rachel standing a few feet away, her eyes on her shoes, her book bag clutched to her chest as though she feared someone would attempt theft. Everyone else had left except for Anthony, who lingered discreetly by the door.

"Oh, now you want to talk to me?" Dee said coldly. "About what?"

"Look, I know you're mad...." Rachel said in a rush.

"Brilliant," Dee muttered.

"…and I don't like the way Susan and the others were acting any more than you do, but—"

"Then why'd you go along with it?" demanded Dee.

"I….I…" Rachel stammered, her face turning bright red. "I'm not strong like you, Dee. I can't take it like you do when people call me names and—"

"You don't like being called names? How do you think Bright Sun feels? She's called names all the time."

"I know," Rachel said, anguished, "and it's not right, but—"

"But you're not going to do anything about it," Dee said accusingly.

"I didn't call her names," Rachel pointed out, a portion of her anguish turning to ire. "I didn't say anything about her at all!"

"You didn't have to."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't you get it?" Dee asked, exasperated. "You left with them! Remember that saying Mr. Peter gave me yesterday, about evil winning when good people do nothing? Well, you did worse than nothing. You went along with it, like it was right. Like it was okay. Why would you do that if you didn't agree with them?"

"You haven't been listening, Dee. You haven't heard the awful things they're saying!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't listen either," Dee said flatly, slamming her book bag on her desk and stuffing books inside. "Maybe you shouldn't care so much what stupid, nasty people think. Maybe you should care more about what your best friend thinks. You did yesterday."

"I know," Rachel said miserably, "and I've been paying for that all day today. The Bright Sun part, not the other part about Denny. I don't know what all that was about. I didn't even see Denny at the festival. And we were together the whole….wait." Rachel stopped, thinking, as Dee's throat constricted. "You said you were going back to your parents after I got sick on the Ferris Wheel, but then they were looking for you after the fireworks. Where were you all that time?"

Silence. Rachel's eyes widened. "You did see him, didn't you?"

"I didn't say that," Dee said quickly.

"You didn't have to," Rachel whispered.

Rachel stared at her, stunned. Behind her, Anthony's ears had pricked. No, Dee never had explained her absence that night because she had no idea how to explain it. And she was saved from explaining it this time by one of the last people she ever wanted to be indebted to.

"There you are," Susan announced to Rachel as she marched into the room. Susan was one of those people who marched everywhere.

"Yeah, here she is," Dee said sarcastically. "Consorting with the enemy."

"Actually, I was looking for you," Susan said coolly. "I just heard about the meeting tonight, and based on whose side you're on, I was wondering if you were coming."

"What meeting?"

"The meeting our parents are having about what to do about these Indians," Susan replied.

"I don't know anything about any meeting, and if that's what it's about, I'm certainly not going," Dee said irritably, rising from her desk and pushing past Susan and Rachel. She dimly remembered Ernie's mother saying something about organizing a meeting, and her own mother saying she'd try to head her off. Guess it didn't work.

"I would think you would be going," Susan said, "since your mother set it up."

Dee stopped in her tracks and turned. "My mother set it up?"

"I thought that might surprise you," Susan said, enjoying Dee's shock. "I wonder what she'll think of her daughter hanging around filthy Indians."

Furious, Dee stormed out of the classroom with three people on her heels. Her own mother? How could she? This couldn't be right. Why would her mother, who had nursed injured aliens back to health, have anything against Bright Sun and her brother?

"Dee, wait!" Rachel called. "I'll walk home with you!"

"What makes you think I want to walk home with you?" Dee retorted, turning around and glaring at her. "You walked away from me today. Now let's see how you like it."

Ignoring Rachel's stricken face, Dee continued walking. Behind her she heard Anthony telling Rachel that he'd walk home with her. Great…just great, Dee thought sourly. Now she could add Anthony to her ever-growing list of people who'd betrayed her, a list which now apparently included her own mother.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


September 4, 1947, 7:00 p.m.

St. Bridgit's Church, Corona, New Mexico



A breeze from a nearby open window sent the candle flames dancing, but Dee Proctor, sitting sullenly in a church pew, never noticed. She sat erect, the hard wood of the pew pressing into her back, her legs crossed, her arms folded so tightly it was hard to breathe. She wanted to make it extremely clear to anyone who laid eyes on her that she completely, utterly, totally disagreed with what was going on here. Her father sat impassively beside her; her mother was up front, talking quietly with that nasty Wilma Hutton as people filed in and took seats in the pews. Corona was a small town, but just about every family from school was represented, which meant the place was filling up fast. Rachel's family was there, looking every bit as nervous as Rachel had claimed feeling earlier. Rachel herself hung her head, staring at the floor; apparently Anthony's offer to walk home with her hadn't cheered her up. Anthony's family was there, looking pleasantly unhappy. And Susan's family was there, with Susan casting "I told you so" glances in Dee's direction approximately every two minutes, which Dee studiously ignored.

By the time Dee had arrived home that afternoon, she had managed to convince herself that Susan had to have gotten it wrong: It couldn't be Dee's mother who had set up this awful meeting for the purpose of "doing something" about Bright Sun and River Dog. Her mother had tended injured aliens. Her mother had dragged sacs containing alien babies out of culverts and lugged them home. Her mother had climbed rocks in the middle of the desert to hide said sacs. Her mother had also fought tooth and nail with both aliens, but she hadn't let their differences stand in the way of what was right.

All of which contributed to Dee's blast of anger when she'd discovered that Susan had been right: Emily had indeed agreed to assist Ernie's snotty mother in setting up this meeting. And as if that weren't bad enough, it had been Emily who had insisted on holding the meeting at St. Bridgit's. "Oh, great. Just great," Dee had said sarcastically. "Maybe God will bless us as we try to pick on a couple of people a little different from us. Haven't you been listening in church, Mama? That's why they went after Jesus!"

And Emily had taken her by the shoulders, pushed her into a chair, and sat down facing her. "I know what you're thinking," her mother had said carefully, "and I know what this looks like. But it's not what it looks like. You know me, Dee—you know how I feel about things like this. I've proven it to you time and again. So trust me now. I know what I'm doing."

"What does that mean?" Dee had demanded.

"I can't tell you more now," Emily had insisted. "You're just going to have to trust me."

"Well, I don't," Dee had retorted. "I think this is exactly what it looks like, and I'm ashamed to be your daughter!"

Her mother had paled somewhat at this announcement, but when she spoke, her voice was still steady. "And what makes you so certain this is what it looks like? I have different methods than you, young lady. I don't run around smacking people because, frankly, that doesn't work. There are other ways to get one's point across. Pipe down, watch, and learn."

"Learn what? How to give 'aid and comfort to the enemy'?"

Emily's lips had set in a thin line. "I'm so glad to be reminded that you disobeyed us and read the newspapers, and further glad to see you've seen fit to give me the benefit of the doubt," she said coolly. "God knows I've earned it." And then she had walked away without another word, leaving Dee feeling faintly guilty…and very curious. Why would her mother say the meeting 'wasn't what it looked like'? What did she have planned? She was certainly perfectly capable of giving these people their just desserts. So Dee had piped down, watching both parents carefully and listening closely to see what was up. Neither dropped a single clue, however, and upon reaching the church, nothing looked the least bit unusual. So Dee had decided her earlier suspicions had been correct and commenced her angry sulk. She'd been in this stiff, tight position for so long now that her arms were beginning to cramp.

Up on the altar, Emily and Mrs. Hutton separated, Emily sitting down in the lector's chair, Mrs. Hutton heading for the lectern. Mrs. Hutton was looking a good deal taller than usual; she walked with a spring in her step, exuding a presence she hadn't had before. Watching this short, dumpy, completely unimposing woman strut with complete confidence, Dee suddenly figured something out. The first time Dee had seen a picture of Hitler, she had been surprised to find him quite short and silly looking, with that black hair and ridiculous mustache. Shouldn't the most evil man on Earth be taller? Or bigger? Or more scary looking? Or at least not as funny looking? It must not be about what they looked like; it must be about how they carried themselves, about the conviction that permeated the very air around them that they were right. That cloud of self-righteousness surrounded Wilma Hutton now as she strode to the lectern, and Dee could see how easy it would be to be misled by it. Unfortunately, it appeared that hate made you powerful.

"Good evening everyone," Mrs. Hutton began, as the throng murmured a response while Dee clamped her mouth firmly shut. "Thank you all for coming out this evening so that we may find the best way to rectify this distressing situation."

More murmurs. Heads nodded. The only thing distressing about this situation is that you're up there talking and my parents aren't doing anything about it, Dee thought sourly.

"Mr. Kagen assures me that these……'people'," Mrs. Hutton continued, in a tone which made it very clear that the individuals in question did not really merit that status, "are only here through the end of the year, when their father's current job ends. At that point they will return to their reservation where they belong. I say that's not soon enough. Something must be done."

Dee watched her mother closely throughout this infuriating speech. Emily was sitting calmly, not murmuring in assent as so many others were, but not looking the least bit perturbed either. So much for this not being "what it looked like".

"But before we begin, I would like to ask Father O'Neill to open with a prayer."

Dee's mouth dropped open as the priest emerged from the sacristy with his habitual pleasant expression firmly in place. What was this? But…but Father O'Neill had helped them! He'd never said a single word about the alien he'd helped, never asked them anything, never snitched….how could he possibly be joining this mob?

"I don't believe this!" Dee muttered, drawing a warning nudge from her father. She scowled up at him and fell silent again.

Father O'Neill crossed the altar to the lectern, nodding to her traitorous mother as he passed. Wonderful. Another turncoat to add to the list. And now everyone would think God was smiling on this charming little endeavor. Dee began to feel physically ill.

"I welcome you to God's house," Father O'Neill said, as Dee had black thoughts about this being a good time for lightening to strike the building. "Mrs. Hutton has asked me to open these proceedings with prayer, an appropriate step to take when seeking the Lord's guidance." Mrs. Hutton beamed. Dee snorted. Her father nudged her again, harder this time. "And the good Lord has called something to my attention," the priest continued. "Today marks the fifth anniversary of the day Corona received the body of the first of our own to fall in the war against evil. Adam Balkner's funeral was held on this day, September 4, 1942, in this church, before this altar. I find it fitting that before we begin, we remember the sacrifices made by young Adam and, indeed, all of our honored dead."

Heads bowed and hands clasped. This was familiar territory. Prayers for the soldiers, both dead and alive, and the families who anxiously awaited news of their fate or mourned their loss had been a staple of life almost as long as Dee could remember. Her mother had never been a regular churchgoer, not even when her father had been gone, but one needn't have attended church to encounter prayers for the troops; they were everywhere. In school. On the radio. At every single public function. Even the stars people placed in their windows, showing the number and fate of the men in that household claimed by the war were silent prayers in and of themselves. Dee dutifully bowed her head, grateful that she now had a reason to stare at the floor instead of having to look at all these hypocrites. They had just fought a war against a man who hated anyone different—and here they all were, gathered in a church for the express purpose of doing exactly the same thing. The irony was literally painful.

"Heavenly Father," Father O'Neill intoned, "before we focus our attention on worldly affairs, let us first turn our minds to that day five years ago when young Adam Balkner's body was returned to the citizens of Corona, the first of our sons to fall in the battle against tyranny. A tyranny so pervasive that it engulfed the better part of a continent. A tyranny so arrogant that it claimed superiority over all who differed, and the right to decide who lived and who died. A tyranny so evil that it sought to wipe a race from the face of this Earth. A tyranny that claimed the lives of the sons, husbands, fathers, and brothers of many nations, who rose as one when duty called."

Dee felt her eyelids sliding closed. She'd heard this soliloquy, or one of its many variants, millions of times before. Next, Father would pray for the glorious dead, followed by the glorious wounded, with the glorious living bringing up the rear. That had always seemed backwards to her. Shouldn't they start by praying for those who had lived? Weren't those people more important than those who had died? She had always wondered why the survivors were at the bottom of the heap, as though there was something inherently wrong about their having survived.

"That tyranny claimed your blessing on its actions," Father O'Neill continued, "but we know better. When Our Lord Jesus Christ took human form and walked among us, He set an example for how He expected us to live. This example informs our opinions, guides our steps, and lights the dark places of the human soul."

Dee's eyelids flew open. Well, this was different. She couldn't remember anything like this in any of the prayers for the soldiers. And the phrasing "took human form" was downright creepy in light of everything that had happened in the past few months. Perhaps God was some kind of shapeshifter, appearing one way in one place and a different way in another? Cautiously she lifted her head and looked around, but every head was still bowed in pious silence.

"Did Jesus keep to those of his own kind?" Father O'Neill asked. "No, He did not! Did He scorn those that society scorned? No, He did not! Did He associate only with the wealthy, the privileged, the ruling class? No, He did not! Our Lord welcomed saints and sinners, men and women, Jew, Gentile, Samaritan and pagan. He kept company with prostitutes, tax collectors, and Canaanites, those that society shunned. He ministered to the poor, the blind, the lame, the beggars, the lepers, all those who, through no fault of their own, were cast out by their fellow man."

A cough echoed across the sanctuary. It was followed by another, then another. Staring at the floor, Dee slowly became aware that the tenor of the silence had changed. Where before it had been reverent, now it was…..uneasy. Dee raised her head again and looked around; several people were shifting uncomfortably in their pews even though they'd only been sitting still for a few seconds. Still others were casting sideways looks at one another, or up toward the altar at Father O'Neill. Was it possible? Was it at all possible that they would recognize their own two-faced behavior? Probably not, Dee thought sadly. Or even if they did, they'd be too scared to say anything.

"Our Lord left no doubt as to what awaited those who spurned His example," Father O'Neill went on. " 'Judge not, lest ye be judged', and 'let he who is without sin cast the first stone'." And let us not forget His admonition, 'whatsoever ye do for these, the least of my brethren, ye do for me'. Surely we can infer that Jesus did not mean that statement to refer only to acts of charity."

The coughing increased, accompanied by shifting and shuffling. Several people were now staring at the priest, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The atmosphere in the church was oppressive.

"So we know what awaits the tyranny which the world struck down," Father O'Neill continued, returning to familiar topics, "at the cost of millions of lives. Tonight we remember our glorious dead, of whom Adam Balkner was the first....but sadly, not the last. They fought the good fight. They finished the race. They kept the faith. And now it is our task to keep that faith, to continue that fight....because the fight never ends. Tyranny rears its ugly head in many different ways, in places where one would never expect to encounter it. The devil wears diverse faces, many of them benign and comely. We who remain must be ever vigilant against tyranny, whatever form it takes, whatever face it wears, so the lives that were lost will not have been lost in vain. Amen."

Silence. Complete, utter silence. Where was the answering "Amen"? Dee looked up to find nearly everyone in the church staring blankly with shocked, guilty faces. Up on the altar, Father O'Neill took a seat beside her mother, whose face was composed and calm. Not so Wilma Hutton. She looked as though she had just been slapped.

A minute ticked by, then another. Dee glanced up at her father. His expression mirrored her mother's: Calm, composed…..waiting. But waiting for what? Had they known this was going to happen? But how could they have? And what good was it going to do anyway?

A rustling sound made her turn her head, made everyone turn their heads. Mr. Morgan had risen to his feet, Mrs. Morgan still seated beside him. He leaned on the pew in front of him for support as the rest of the assemblage waited in respectful silence. If the Balkner family had been the first to lose a son to the war, the Morgan family held the dubious distinction of having lost the most. Corona was a small town, and small towns kept very good statistics.

"Four of my five boys went off to fight for freedom," Mr. Morgan began in a halting voice. "And I buried all four—all four of them—because of behavior like this." His eyes swept the pews as he spoke, every guilty face riveted on his, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger….angrier. "This is how it started over there, you know. In churches, just like this one. With people feelin' all full of themselves, thinkin' that God was on their side as they stepped on anyone they didn't like. And people saying something had to be done, and so on and so forth. This is how it started. And nobody knew where it would lead." He paused. "Now we know."

The silence in the church was so profound you could have heard a pin drop. Mrs. Hutton's eyes were as wide as her huge earrings.

"Now, if these Indians cause trouble, that's one thing," Mr. Morgan continued. "But they haven't. It seems to me that we're the ones causin' trouble. And I'll have you know I'll have no part of it. We feel like we're spittin' on our boys' graves." He paused, glancing down at his wife, who was openly weeping, before sweeping his angry gaze over the pews again. "You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

Then Mr. Morgan took Mrs. Morgan's hand and, together, they shuffled past the rest of the people in their pew and began marching down the aisle. Dee found herself fighting a practically irresistible urge to stand up and cheer until she remembered that Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were just one family. If there was one thing she'd learned from the past two days, it was that people traveled in packs like wolves, afraid to stand out from the crowd. Reluctantly, she turned her head back toward the altar, hoping against hope that Mr. Morgan's words would at least put a damper on the subsequent proceedings.

More noise behind her made her turn around again. The Morgans were far down the main aisle, almost to the front door……and about half a dozen more families had risen to their feet and begun to follow them. That was amazing…but still not enough.

But then the unthinkable happened. More people stood up, then more, and more, and as Dee watched in astonishment, they headed for the exits in the Morgan's wake. Her heart swelled with pride when she saw Anthony's family among those leaving, and Dee hopefully turned to her father to see if they would be joining the exodus. But her father was staring straight ahead toward her mother, who was watching those leaving with only casual interest. Neither of them budged.

More people stood up. And more. The line slowed as the number of people leaving exceeded the capacity of the doorway. Rachel's family was one of the last to go. Rachel was staring at the floor, her favorite thing to stare at these days; her parents' eyes were anxiously darting left and right. They're scared, Dee realized with a start. Scared enough that they had waited until they were clearly in the majority before joining the throng.

The church was nearly empty now, with the end of the line almost to the door and only a few families left in the pews. Susan's family was among them, appearing highly displeased with this unexpected turn of events and looking hopefully toward Wilma Hutton for support. But none was forthcoming. Mrs. Hutton had literally deflated. She was back to being her short, dumpy self, and when she finally left the altar, she scuttled like she always had before, all traces of her earlier confidence having evaporated. She skittered down the side aisle, heading for a different door, and her family hastened to join her, Ernie scowling at Dee's broad grin as they passed. Mrs. Hutton's capitulation was the final nail in the coffin; within seconds, the hold-out families had stalked out, leaving Dee and her parents alone in the church with Father O'Neill.

Finally, finally, her parents moved. Both stood up, and her father headed out of the pew and up to the altar with Dee hurrying to keep pace.

"Thank you, Father," Emily said pleasantly. "You outdid yourself."

"I did my best, Mrs. Proctor," Father O'Neill said modestly.

It took a moment for Dee to process these two sentences. "You mean…..did you……you did that prayer on purpose, didn't you!"

"I always pray with purpose, child," Father O'Neill said gravely. "I am the Lord's humble servant, and a willing instrument of His peace. And if our Heavenly Father should see fit to clarify certain things using me as His mouthpiece, so be it." Father O'Neill inclined his head slightly with these last words, then looked up…and winked at her.

Dee slowly turned to look at her mother, who was smiling, to her father, whose arms were crossed in the "Well, young lady?" pose more common to her mother, and back to the priest, who was now positively beaming. They'd planned this. That's why her mother had insisted the meeting be held in church—she had pulled Father O'Neill in on the deal, and she knew it would all hit everyone a lot harder if people were sitting in the same church which had buried many of the dead, being addressed by the same man who had officiated at those funerals. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

"And the Morgans?" Dee asked, still grappling with what she'd just figured out. "Did you know they were going to do that?"

"Mr. Morgan made it clear that he didn't support this," Emily said, "so I prevailed upon him to….say a few words. His timing was impeccable, don't you think?"

"And don't you think you owe your mother an apology?" her father added.

For the second time in two days, Dee found herself standing in front her mother feeling like an absolute fool. "I'm sorry, Mama," she said sincerely. "But you have to admit it looked bad."

"I meant an apology without a qualifier," her father said pointedly.

"It's all right," Emily said gently, slipping her arm around Dee. "She's right—it did look bad. If it's any consolation, I never meant for you to find out in school. I didn't expect word to travel so fast."

"But why didn't you tell me what you were trying to do?" Dee asked.

"Because I didn't want anyone to have even an inkling that I was up to something," Emily answered. "And I had no idea we'd be this successful. I hoped enough people would leave to take the wind out of their sails, but I never expected the boat to capsize. Father O'Neill was very effective," she added to the still beaming priest.

"It was my pleasure," Father O'Neill said. "And now if you'll excuse me," he added, nodding to each of them in turn, "I must be going. Good evening."

Dee looked around the empty church as the priest walked away. "So it's over," she said happily. "Right?"

"No," her father said gently. "It's never over."

"But....everyone left!"

"But not all of them left willingly," Emily pointed out. "People don't change that fast. Oh, they probably won't try anything this organized again, but there are other ways to make their feelings known. We won the battle, Dee, but we didn't win the war."

"Those who were invested in this aren't going to be happy," her father added. "Do us a favor and lay low for a few days, okay kiddo? No walking home alone, no short cuts down alleys, no fracases in the school yard. Give everyone a chance to simmer down."

Something pricked Dee's mind…she'd heard similar things today, from two different people: "You haven't heard what I've heard," from Rachel, and "Judging from what I've been hearing, I fear it may go beyond that," from Brivari. She had passed off the first as Rachel's cowardice and the second as Brivari's attempt to frighten her. But now her own father was saying the same type of thing, and she began to feel uneasy.

"Do you really think someone would do something really bad?" Dee asked. "How could they? They lost tonight, Daddy. They must know that."

"Of course they do," her father said soberly. "And that will make them madder than ever. They might try something now that they wouldn't have tried before."

Her father's words bothered Dee, but only for a moment. Glancing back at the empty church as her parents ushered her toward the side door nearest the parking lot, she felt nothing except pure, unadulterated triumph. Perhaps her parents were right; perhaps they'd only won a battle, not the war. But damn, it felt good to win a battle now and then. Score one for the good guys.




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



2115 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



"Grandmother's maiden name?"

"Hartigan," Yvonne White answered wearily.

The guard nodded and opened one of the double doors to the basement stairway. Yvonne headed down the stairs, stopping where two more guards were stationed at the doors which actually led into the basement hallway.

"Good evening, Lieutenant," one of them said courteously. "How many children does your cousin Anne currently have?"

Two, Yvonne was about to say, when she stopped herself just in time. Anne had just had another, a baby girl born in mid-August. Would they know about that already? Should she use the "old" number or the "new" number?

"Three," she answered, hoping the Army was up on things. She wasn't quite certain what would happen to someone who failed to answer a security question correctly. To her knowledge, no one ever had, and she certainly didn't want to be the first.

"Correct," the guard answered, opening the door. Yvonne tried to hide her relief as she walked through into the basement hallway. Cavitt's mania about being invaded by more aliens was such that the list of the security questions was growing longer and wider, hence the inquiry about her cousin. Someday, someone was going to slip up.

Heading down the hallway toward John's room, Yvonne rubbed her aching neck and yawned. God, she was exhausted. She'd been up most of last night and all day today, snatching sleep where she could as Pierce worked feverishly to awaken John without killing him in the process. Yvonne had been ready to strangle Pierce when the free alien had told her how his attempt to manipulate the situation had brought about the mess in which they now found themselves, but the free alien had advised against it. "He will work better and faster if you're not standing there glowering at him," he had told her. "Besides, what's done is done. My companion and I will settle with Pierce once this is over, you can be very sure of that."

So Yvonne had held her tongue, albeit with difficulty, and pressured Pierce to try larger doses of stimulants which the free alien had felt certain his friend could safely withstand. So far he'd been right—John did not appear to be in any danger from the large doses he'd been receiving. But he was still very much unconscious, and in order for Pierce's plan to work, he needed to be not only conscious, but coherent. That would be a tall order. General Ramey was due in less than twelve hours.

Passing a side hallway, Yvonne paused as she saw bundles littering the floor. Sounds of construction drifted up the hall; curious, she went to investigate. Soldiers were at work in one of the rooms, and as she peered through the open doorway, she saw that they were tearing out the wall between the room they were in and the one next to it. The ceiling had been removed, revealing wooden beams with brand new wires strung across them. What was going on here?

And then she saw the huge pane of glass leaning against the wall, and recalled Major Lewis's words: "We're building a new cell, with an observation area attached. Two rooms, actually, side by side, with one way glass so we can see it, but it can't see us. And microphones, of course, so we can hear everything too."

Slipping closer to the doorway, Yvonne watched the soldiers tear out another hunk of wall. This was worlds away from the old operating theater with the observation window far above near the ceiling. Now her observers would be on the same level, only feet away, and the wires, which were undoubtedly for the microphones, meant that they'd be able to hear everything. No more hiding in the corner and speaking quietly. She'd better work on that telepathic speech.

The soldiers continued their tasks, talking and laughing with each other, oblivious to their audience. They looked happier than Yvonne had seen anyone here in a long time, probably because they had something, anything to do besides standing around all day asking people ridiculous questions. She turned away, nearly knocking over a box in the process, and as she bent down to straighten it, the top of the box opened, revealing something that made her stare. Curious once more, she carefully opened another box, then another, then still another. All contained exactly the same thing: White tile.

And not just any white tile—bright white tile, blinding white, a white that made your eyes hurt to look at it. Judging from the number of boxes, it appeared the entire room was going to be blazing with this brilliant, sterile, white tile. Granted, the old operating room in which John was currently held was also tiled, but it was a more muted, grayish tone, not this awful white. It reminded her of a brand new operating room. Or a laboratory. Or a morgue. Let's hope it takes them a good long while to build this, she thought as she closed the boxes she had opened and hurried down the hall.

As she came abreast of the door to John's room, the two guards outside stepped aside. She didn't recognize the one on the right, but on the left was Private Thompson, the one who had jumped to her defense when Walker had gotten nasty in the mess hall, never realizing he was talking to an alien instead of her. "Ma'am," Thompson said, "if you don't mind my asking…..are you all right?"

Yvonne dropped her eyes in embarrassment. Most likely she looked a mess; very little sleep and no shower since yesterday morning could do that to you. "I'm fine, Private," she answered, attempting a smile. "I'm just very tired, that's all. Thank you for asking," she added sincerely.

"Can I get you anything?" Thompson asked. "Something to eat, maybe?"

"The Lieutenant has already dined," said a smooth voice behind her.

Yvonne whirled around to find Major Lewis standing there, impeccably dressed and groomed as usual, and wearing that same disturbing little smile he usually sported.

"Major Lewis," she said, surprised, catching a look of distaste on Thompson's face out of the corner of her eye. "I'm afraid there's not much to observe tonight, Major. The alien is still unconscious…."

"Yes, I know," Lewis replied. "Which is precisely why I'm here. General Ramey's superiors have seen fit to give me wider latitude than I previously enjoyed. I'm here to examine the prisoner."

Yvonne's heart practically stopped. Examine the prisoner? She glanced down, noting the black bag in Lewis's one hand and the bag of specimen bottles in the other. He wasn't just going to examine John, he was going to take samples. A lot of samples judging from the number of bottles in that bag.

"I assure you I won't do any permanent damage to it, Lieutenant," Lewis said with a touch of amusement in his voice. "My latitude has not widened to that degree. Yet," he added, as he stepped sideways, meaning to walk around her.

Without conscious thought, Yvonne sidestepped with him, keeping herself squarely between Lewis and the door. "Does Dr. Pierce know you're here, sir?" she asked.

"Dr. Pierce is irrelevant," Lewis replied. "As I said, it was General Ramey's superiors who gave me permission to proceed. Step aside."

"May I see your orders, sir?" Yvonne said, knowing he neither had nor needed them, stalling for time.

"I don't have written orders," Lewis said impatiently. "These orders were delivered by phone, and you know perfectly well I have twenty-four hours to present written orders."

"I'm sorry, sir," Yvonne said, keeping pace with Lewis as he sidestepped again, "but Dr. Pierce issued orders not to let anyone besides himself, myself, and Corporal Brisson into this room. I need to speak with Dr. Pierce before I can allow you to enter."

Lewis's eyes hardened into twin steel balls, and Yvonne resisted the urge to back up. What are you doing? she asked herself desperately. Pierce had left the building for a short while, which probably explained Lewis's timing, and while she had no idea where Major Cavitt was, she had no doubt he would let Lewis inside in a heartbeat. There was no way she could hold him off all by herself.

"Dr. Pierce is not currently in the compound, as you well know," Lewis answered, in a steely tone which matched his eyes. "For the third time, Lieutenant, General Ramey's superiors have given me permission to examine the prisoner. Not to mention the fact that I am a Major, you are a Lieutenant, and you," he added to the two guards, "are both Privates. I outrank all present by a mile. Now, step aside."

With a sinking heart, Yvonne heard the guard on her right move sideways, away from the door. Of course they weren't going to mess with this insufferable, intimidating officer. That was the smart thing to do. If they let him in and that turned out to be the wrong move, they would be excused because he outranked them. On the other hand, if they didn't let him in and that turned out to be the wrong move, things could go much worse.

Worse? she thought to herself, swallowing a laugh. How could things get any worse? Everyone referred to John as "the prisoner", but the truth was they were all virtual prisoners in this place. And John was currently unconscious and completely vulnerable. He was a pain in the ass sometimes, but he didn't deserve what Lewis was planning for him.

"I'm sorry, sir," Yvonne said firmly, sidestepping with Lewis again as his eyes flashed angrily. "But with all due respect, my orders were very clear, and Dr. Pierce is my commanding officer—not you. I can't let you in there without his permission."

Lewis stepped closer to her, so close she could smell his tea-scented breath. "I'm only going to say this once, Lieutenant, so I recommend you listen closely. One more word out of you, and two very unfortunate, and may I add, very unnecessary things will happen. First, I will have you forcibly removed from this doorway. Second, I will have you court-martialed for insubordination and failure to comply with the orders of a superior officer. Have I made myself quite clear?"

"I'm sorry, Major," Yvonne said, past caring what the price for this little rebellion would be. "My orders are clear. I can't let you in there."

"Guards," Lewis said coldly, "remove the Lieutenant and confine her to her quarters."

Silence. For the briefest of moments, Yvonne entertained the wild hope that the guards would actually agree with her and stop Lewis in his tracks. The sound of a rifle being cocked dashed that slim hope; the guards had apparently taken sides in this debate, and she couldn't really blame them. And allowing herself to be sedated at this point would be counterproductive; she couldn't advocate for anyone while she was out cold. Dropping her eyes, she stepped aside.

But the look on Lewis's face was one of complete and utter shock, not the triumph she was expecting. Confused, Yvonne twisted around to find Private Thompson aiming his rifle at…..no, not her. At Lewis.

"Just exactly what do you think you're doing?" Lewis demanded in astonishment.

"My job, sir," Thompson answered calmly.

"Your job, soldier, is to obey the orders of your superior officers. And I am ordering you to lower that weapon!"

"I can't do that, sir," Thompson answered firmly. "My standing orders are to allow only Dr. Pierce, Lieutenant White, and Corporal Brisson access to this room, and to fire upon anyone else who attempts to gain access without authorization. Standing orders from my commanding officer take precedence over all others, with the exception of emergency situations. And as we are not under attack, this does not qualify as an emergency situation. Until you have written orders from a superior officer to countermand those of Dr. Pierce, I cannot allow you to enter."

"Perhaps we should consult Major Cavitt about this insubordination," Lewis said warningly.

"The Major's left for the night, sir," Thompson answered. "By the time you find him, Dr. Pierce will be back."

"God damn it, move!" Lewis exploded.

"No, sir," Thompson said flatly.

Yvonne stared in disbelief as Thompson held his rifle steady, pointed directly at Lewis's left shoulder. The other guard's hands gripped his own rifle very hard as his eyes darted between Lewis and Thompson, trying to decide what to do.

"Private," Lewis said through clenched teeth, "if you fire on a superior officer, you'll be put away for so long, you'll never see the light of day again! You don't really expect me to believe you'll do that…do you?"

"I would never presume to tell you what to believe, sir," Thompson said evenly. "But if I may, the question you should be asking yourself is, do you want to be conscious when the General arrives tomorrow?"

Lewis's face went purple. "Shoot him!" he snapped, turning to the second guard, who remained frozen with indecision.

"That won't help you, sir," Thompson said, his rifle still inches from Lewis. "Even if he shoots me, I can still shoot you before I go down."

His temples throbbing, Lewis looked from one face to the other in turn, from Thompson, to Yvonne, to the second guard who still hadn't mustered the wherewithal to aim at anyone, and back to Thompson.

"You wouldn't dare!" Lewis hissed.

"Try me," Thompson whispered.

Yvonne watched, holding her breath, seeing Lewis's eyes move to the gun pointed at him only inches away. There was enough sedative in that syringe to knock him out well past Ramey's visit, and the odds were good he knew that.

Apparently he did, because he was backing up. "If it's the last thing I do," Lewis raged, "I will see to it that every last one of you pays for this!" Then he marched away, his loud, angry footsteps echoing down the corridor. Thompson kept his rifle cocked until he'd disappeared around the far corner.

"Jesus, Thompson," the second guard gasped, "do you realize what you just did?"

"Thank you, Private," Yvonne said gratefully, allowing herself to breathe for the first time in several minutes. "He would have….."

"I know what he would have done, Ma'am," Thompson broke in, with a meaningful look at his fellow guard. "That's why I stopped him."

"But why?" the other guard demanded. "That thing in there ain't even human!"

Thompson resumed his position to the left of the door. "No, it isn't," he agreed. "But I am."



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



Valenti residence, 9:30 p.m.

Roswell, New Mexico



"Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Valentine," Deputy Valenti said, cradling the phone against his shoulder. "I really appreciate it. What's that? Well….yes, now that you mention it, it is interesting that our names are so similar. You're right…only a two letter difference. Imagine that. No, no, there's no trouble. No trouble at all. I'm sure you have a fine employee there in Mr. Spoto. Just wanted to clarify a few things from my end, that's all. Right. You take care. Thanks again."

Valenti set the phone down quickly before Mrs. Valentine could think of something else to chatter about and sank into a nearby chair, tapping his pencil against his notepad. After a moment, he stopped and raised his hand to eye level, his eyes widening—his hand was shaking. Literally shaking. But then, this was the closest he'd come to actually proving his theory. No wonder.

The chatterbox on the phone had been one Mrs. Seymour Valentine, proprietress of a bakery out west in Santa Rita. Mrs. Valentine was also the employer of one Samuel Spoto, the very same Samuel Spoto who had been hired by Chambers Grocery as a handyman, to start work on the fourth of July. Trouble was, Sam Spoto never made it to Corona on the Fourth. He'd gotten a better offer from Mrs. Valentine and stayed behind in Santa Rita without bothering to let the Chambers know he wasn't coming. Now wasn't that interesting.

After his conversation with Bill Chambers, Bill's wife Essertine had phoned with all due speed, dutifully reciting the name and phone number of the handyman who'd been in their employ last Fourth of July, and breathlessly inquiring if there was a problem, i.e. if there was anything worth gossiping about. Valenti had hastened to assure her that he was just double-checking a few things and that he'd be sure to let her know if he turned up anything untoward. He'd called the number and spoken with one very nervous Samuel Spoto who had assumed he was in big trouble for stiffing the Chambers. Promising that was not the case, Valenti had managed to drag out of Spoto the name of his employer, the chatty Mrs. Valentine, and promptly phoned her for verification, which she readily provided. Sam Spoto had been in Santa Rita on the Fourth of July, working for her. He'd never set foot in Corona in his life.

So that left Valenti with a singular question, the very question responsible for his shaking hands—who had shown up at Chambers Grocery on the Fourth of July and hauled Bill Chambers' wares down to the parade? And protected said wares from one town bully by the name of Dennis Miltnor, allegedly slamming him against the wall and holding him off the ground without laying a hand on him? And disappeared right after the parade, never to be seen again?

Since talking to Bill, Valenti had had the chance to make a few more discreet inquiries around town. Several people remembered the handyman, describing him pretty much the same way Bill had: Mid-thirties, brown hair, average height. No, he hadn't looked or acted strangely. Yes, he'd spoken English perfectly. No, they hadn't felt threatened by him, or found him odd in any way. Several praised him, delighted that Miltnor had gotten his comeuppance. Not a single witness had noticed anything the least bit unusual about him.

No….not every witness. There was still one witness with whom Valenti had not spoken, the very witness most likely to have the answers to his questions. The one who had volunteered to show the 'handyman' the way downtown, who had ridden back with him after the confrontation with Miltnor. The most important witness of all.

Valenti dropped his pencil on the table and sat back in his chair. Yes….it was definitely time. Time to have a chat with young Miss Proctor.

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


September 5, 1947, 0710 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




"Lieutenant?"

Yvonne stirred, feeling every muscle in her body cramp. The voice sounded very far away.

"Lieutenant?" the voice said again.

Slowly, Yvonne opened her eyes. For a moment she thought her vision had blurred. But then she realized it was only Corporal Brisson holding a steaming cup of coffee near her face.

"What time is it?" she mumbled sleepily.

"0710," Brisson replied. "Sorry to wake you, but the General will be here shortly. I thought you might want to shower and change your clothes."

The General. Instantly, Yvonne was wide awake. Sitting up so quickly she nearly knocked the cup from Brisson's hands, she found herself in one of the chairs in John's room, her entire body stiff and complaining. Her left shoulder was numb; she must have fallen asleep slumped against the wall. She certainly felt like it.

"Has there been any change?" she asked, knowing even as she spoke what the answer was.

"No," Brisson said sadly, looking over at John's prone form. "We've been at it all night, but I'm afraid it's still not conscious."

"When did I fall asleep?" she asked, momentarily disoriented. "And where's Dr. Pierce? Did Major Lewis come back?"

"Easy, Lieutenant," Brisson said gently, pressing the cup of coffee into her hands. "You only fell asleep about an hour ago, and Dr. Pierce didn't see any point in waking you. He just went up to his office for a few minutes, but he's still in the compound. Lewis won't try anything again while he's here. Don't you remember how angry Dr. Pierce was?"

Oh yes, Yvonne thought, sipping the coffee, everything coming back now. Pierce had been absolutely furious when he had returned almost an hour after Lewis had tried to bully his way into John's room, so furious that it had taken the combined efforts of Brisson and herself to remind him that they had more pressing issues to consider. Pierce had been ready to stalk out, find Lewis, and have it out with him; it was Brisson who had pointed out that a far more effective rebuke would be to wake the prisoner. "If you're successful," Brisson had said, "we might be able to keep both Major Cavitt and Major Lewis away." That prospect had galvanized Pierce, and the three of them had worked all night, taking turns dozing…..but no luck. John's EEG was encouraging, but he still wasn't conscious.

Rising from her chair, Yvonne paused a moment to steady herself before walking over to John's side. "He's not going to wake up in time, is he?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"What's going to happen now?"

"Nothing good," Brisson answered soberly.

Yvonne's throat constricted. "Do you think Pierce will be reassigned?" she asked. It was hard to believe that bothered her. Not so long ago she'd been ready to strangle him, and he had cautioned her that she—and John—could do worse. He'd been right.

Brisson shook his head. "Dr. Pierce is engaged in some….research that Ramey wants continued, so he'll still be here. But I don't know how much access he'll have to the prisoner."

"Research?" Yvonne swung her head around toward Brisson, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable. "What kind of research?"

"Nothing important," he said dismissively. "Just a few ideas he had, some things he's trying. That's all."

Research. Yvonne knew there were certain places in the main lab accessible only to Pierce and Brisson: One of the refrigerators, a few cabinets, one of the liquid nitrogen tanks. Considering the number of Army personnel given tours, she supposed that made sense. Still, she'd always been curious. What was Pierce hiding that he didn't want his colleagues to see?

"I'll clean up in here while you're gone," Brisson was saying, looking around the admittedly messy room strewn with medical supplies, textbooks, and trays of half eaten food that were starting to smell. "I'm sure we'll have visitors upstairs," he added, looking up at the now empty observation room window, "and there might be a regime change."

"Do you think Major Lewis was telling the truth about being given 'wider latitude'?" Yvonne asked.

"Probably. A number of the brass blame Dr. Pierce for there being no military intelligence available, so I imagine Ramey would have had to appease them at least a little by giving Lewis a longer leash."

"Then I have to make a decision," Yvonne said in a hollow voice.

"A decision?" Brisson echoed. "No, I don't think so. We'll both still be assigned here. We just might be working with another doctor."

"There are certain things I won't do, Corporal."

Brisson was silent for a moment before moving to stand on the opposite side of John's bed. "Look, I know you care for this…creature," he said gently, "and that's admirable. Really, it is. But orders are orders. And at the end of the day, Lieutenant, it's not worth risking your career—or your freedom, if they court-martial you—for this. It's not human."

Now where have I heard that before? Yvonne thought wearily. Honestly, were she and Stephen the only people here who saw value in life—any life? Why was that value always restricted to human life? Why did similarity supposedly confer so much worth? The Nazis were human, but their behavior had been far less humane than that of these aliens.

"No, he's not human. But I am," Yvonne said, echoing Private Thompson. "As I once said to Major Cavitt, 'human' isn't just about the physical characteristics of this species versus ours—it's about how we act, how we behave, what we believe is important. I won't participate in what Major Lewis has in mind precisely because I'm human. I joined the Army to help people, and this doesn't fit the definition."

"You also joined so you could travel," Brisson said as he stacked up the food trays. "You especially wanted to see Europe, didn't you?"

Yvonne looked up at him in surprise. "How did you know that?"

Brisson's face froze. He started at her a moment, started to speak, stopped, started again, and stopped again. "I....I must have heard it somewhere," he stuttered. "I'm not sure where."

You couldn't have 'heard it somewhere', Yvonne thought to herself, her uneasiness growing. She'd never told that to anyone here, never had a long enough or casual enough conversation with anyone in this compound where such a subject would come up, save for Stephen. And she hadn't told him that either.

"But where could you have…." she began.

That's as far as she got. Something twitched against her hand, the hand that was resting on the bed. Looking down, Brisson following her gaze, Yvonne's eyes widened as she saw John's fingers moving, brushing hers in the process. Then his head flipped from one side to the other, and his eyes fluttered open.

"It's awake!" Brisson exclaimed. "I'll get Dr. Pierce!"

"No!" Yvonne said suddenly, scurrying to cut him off. "I'll get him. Just in case Lewis comes back," she added hurriedly. "You're in a better position to fend him off then I would be."

"But…"

But Yvonne had already knocked on the door, the guards had opened it, and she was flying out, ignoring Brisson's protests. Granted, her reason had been sketchy, but there was a method to the madness.

There was someone else besides Pierce who needed to be notified.



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



0850 hours




General Roger Ramey checked his watch. "What time do you have, Sergeant?"

"0850, sir. Do you want to go in now?"

"I said we'd start at 0900, and 0900 it will be," Ramey replied. "Never let it be said I didn't give them every last second to clean up the mess they've made before I started banging heads together."

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant answered. "Would you like more coffee, sir?"

"No, thank you, Sergeant," Ramey sighed, staring at the various folders strewn about the back seat of his car, parked near the main base so as not to draw attention. "I'm wired enough as it is."

"Very good, sir."

Ramey gazed out the car window at the desert sun, fierce even though it was September. Autumn came late to the desert, or at the very least, came differently. The desert's version of autumn was all the summer many places ever had. Nearly half an hour had gone by since he'd arrived at the base madder than a hornet and unhappy with his orders; the ensuing thirty minutes sitting in a dark car in the blazing New Mexico sun had done little to alter his mood. Neither had the records he'd just been examining, ostensibly to kill the time...but that wasn't the real reason. You're afraid you missed something, he said to himself. You always will be.

After Lieutenant Spade's accusations and the captive alien's subsequent—and apparently unwitting—corroboration of those accusations, Ramey had been over the files concerning the deaths of Privates West and Belmont dozens of times, combing every entry, every signature, every photograph, every document—everything. And everything was in order. There was nothing the least bit unusual about any of it, never mind murderous. Careful examination of the photographs using a magnifying glass had yielded no results; he was unable to see any differences between the "fake" silver handprints and the "real" prints on the bodies of the other unfortunate victims. The only way to settle this was unfortunately impossible as both families had requested immediate cremation of their sons' bodies. Nothing unusual about that either; cremation was in line with their religious beliefs and all the paper work was there, from signed requests from the families themselves to orders from the mortuaries. There was simply nothing here to suggest foul play, at least not of the human variety.

So if that was the case, why did he keep coming back to the files, drawn to them as a moth to a flame? Why did he keep poring over them, sifting through contents he'd now learned by heart? Everything was in order; it always was, every single time he looked. He should find that comforting...but for some reason, he didn't. Instead of feeling relieved, he was suspicious. Suspicious of the fact that, had murder actually been committed, the ones who perpetrated it would have been certain to leave the paperwork neat and orderly, just as it was now. Suspicious of what could possibly have motivated a young, newly-minted Lieutenant already in trouble with his CO to make such an outrageous claim...unless it were true. Suspicious of why the alien prisoner had selected those two photographs as examples of men they did not kill while freely admitting to the other deaths.

And suspicious of the level of complicity involved, Ramey thought soberly as he started at the signatures of the two doctors on the death certificates. If West and Belmont had not died at alien hands, those doctors must have known. It was not at all clear that Major Cavitt would have noticed the handprints were false, but the doctors must have....and they were unlikely to have acted alone. Who gave the order? Cavitt? Someone else? And who gave that person the order? How high did this go?

"Sir? It's almost 0900," the Sergeant called from the front seat.

Ramey snapped out of his reverie. "Proceed to the compound," he ordered, gathering up the files as the car slowly moved forward. He'd leave these with Cavitt's helpful secretary to avoid having to hand them over to Cavitt himself and admit he'd found nothing. That would be galling....because he knew something was wrong. He couldn't prove it, but he could feel it in his gut, and at the end of the day, Roger Ramey put more stock in his gut then in any pile of orderly papers. Papers could be doctored. Apparently even doctors could be doctored—but guts never lied.

"It's only just 0900," the Sergeant noted as they pulled up alongside the compound. "Would you like to give them a few more minutes, sir?"

"No," Ramey answered. "Time's up. Let's go."



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



"Well, well. Look what we have here."

The voice was familiar, irritatingly so. Slowly, Jaddo opened his eyes. Three faces swam in front of him, dark silhouettes against the brilliant overhead lights.

"Perhaps he can't hear us," a new voice said.

"Perhaps not," the first voice agreed.

"Give him a minute," said another new voice. "He'll be fine."

Moving carefully, experimentally, Jaddo twitched his hands, his feet, then his arms and legs. Every muscle in his human shape complained, stiff from lack of use. What was he doing here? Why was he on this table, groggy and stiff, with three heads looming over him?

And then he remembered—Cavitt. That cowardly excuse for a human had entered his room with a veritable army, questioned him for hours, and then—he shot me, Jaddo remembered suddenly, dimly recalling his slide to the floor. He shot me!

He moved again, trying to push himself to his elbows and failing. The faces moved back slightly revealing Pierce, the human helper who usually administered the serum, and the Healer. Or what the other two thought was the Healer.

"How are you feeling?" Pierce asked.

" 'How am I feeling'?" Jaddo repeated in disbelief, his voice thick from a dry throat and an uncooperative tongue. "Even you, with your atrociously underused imagination, shouldn't have to ask me how I'm 'feeling'. How do you think I'm feeling?"

To Jaddo's intense disgust, Pierce broke into a wide smile. "He's all right," he said dryly to the human helper beside him, whose face still wore a worried expression. "Sounds just like he always does."

<Do me an enormous favor and kill him for me, will you?> Jaddo said irritably to Brivari, raising a hand to his aching head. <Right here, right now, so I can watch.>

<I'd love to,> Brivari said sincerely, <but unfortunately, we need him.>

<Oh, spare me!> Jaddo exclaimed, slapping his hand down on the bed, making the other two jump slightly. <Don't tell me he's been filling your head with that 'I am your savior' nonsense! He probably paid Cavitt to shoot me!>

<You're not far off on that one,> Brivari said grimly, <but things have changed in the past two days.>

< 'Two days'? How long was I out?>

<Approximately thirty-eight hours. It is now the day of the General's visit.>

"We need to have a little chat, you and I," Pierce was saying, as he pulled up a chair and sat down in it backwards, his arms resting on the back. "About Major Cavitt."

"He shot me," Jaddo said sourly, raising a hand to his head once again.

"Yes, he did," Pierce said evenly. "I believe I warned you about him, did I not?"

<As did I,> Brivari commented, <for all the good it did me.>

"I believe I pointed out that he would never agree to work with you," Pierce continued, "would never advocate for you in any way. I made it very clear that your best bet was to cooperate with me, that I have no wish to harm you, but only wish to study you. Hopefully I will not hear any more nonsense about throwing in your lot with Cavitt now that you see clearly just exactly what that would mean."

<Hopefully,> Brivari muttered, <but don't count on it.>

"Oh, shut up, both of you!" Jaddo exploded. "Honestly! I can barely see straight, and you're both yammering on!"

Pierce blinked and looked at the helper, both confused, as Jaddo belatedly realized that neither of them realized anyone else had been speaking.

"Maybe it's not completely awake yet?" ventured the helper worriedly.

"Maybe not," Pierce said, "but we can't wait. Now, you listen to me," he said firmly to Jaddo. "You're on the edge of a cliff, my friend, about to be pushed off. I might be able to pull you back from the brink, but I need your complete cooperation. No games. No tantrums. No bursts of attitude. We don't have time for that. You don't have time for that. Unless you want to fall into some very unsavory hands, you will work with me. You will do exactly what I say. And if we're both very, very lucky, we just might come out of this better off than we were before. Have I made myself clear?"

Jaddo swung his eyes up to Brivari. <Tell me it's not really that bad.>

<I'm afraid it is,> he answered gravely. <Do it, Jaddo. It's the only way out now.>



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



0905 hours




Ramey strode down the hallway of the compound, his aide traveling in his wake. He'd already returned the records on West and Belmont and mentally moved along to the next unpleasant task on the list for today, one that made him no happier than the first. He wasn't looking forward to this. Every bone in his body was screaming that it shouldn't be this way, but orders were orders. If only the so-called "officers" he'd so unwisely placed in charge here weren't behaving like children in a sandbox, perhaps this unfortunate turn of events would not have come to pass. They were going to catch hell for this, he'd see to that.

Sweeping into the briefing room, the glower on his face matching his current disposition, Ramey stalked to the head of the table in silence. "Sit!" he barked at the two figures who had jumped to their feet.

Wait…..two figures?

"Where is Dr. Pierce?" Ramey demanded of Majors Cavitt and Lewis, who both hurriedly took their seats while casting meaningful glances at one another.

"Apparently Dr. Pierce had more important things to attend to then answering your summons to this briefing," Major Lewis replied.

Ramey fixed a hard stare on Lewis, so hard that Lewis had the presence of mind to shrink further back into his seat. "I didn't ask for a critique on the reasons for the doctor's absence," Ramey said coldly. "I asked where the doctor was. You do understand the difference between the two queries, do you not, Major?"

"Of course, sir. My apologies," Major Lewis said smoothly, his burning eyes making it clear he meant no such thing.

"In future, you will restrict yourself to answering my questions rather than inventing your own lest you be dismissed from this briefing. You may be the Pentagon's current darling, but this isn't the Pentagon. This is my turf. Have I made myself clear, Major?"

"Quite, sir," Lewis replied, his hands twitching on his lap.

"And now, gentlemen," Ramey began, "and believe me, I use the term loosely, just—"

The door flew open and Dr. Pierce entered, flustered, his arms full of papers. "I apologize for my tardiness, sir," Pierce said hurriedly, "but I believe you'll want to hear….."

"Sit down," Ramey ordered.

"But I've just discovered…."

"Sit!" Ramey roared as Pierce scurried to a chair, small smiles playing on the lips of Cavitt and Lewis as they stared carefully at their laps. "Jesus H. Christ! Do I have to say everything twice?"

Silently, Pierce took a seat, noticing for the first time the individual seated across from him. "If I may, sir—what is he doing here?"

"Major Lewis's presence is germane to this briefing," Ramey said shortly.

"You might want to inform your staff," Lewis said pointedly to Pierce, "before they decide to threaten me with loaded weapons again."

"You had no business trying to bully your way in there," Pierce retorted. "I'm only sorry that guard didn't fire!"

"Enough!" Ramey thundered. "Why is it that whenever I'm in a room with you people, I feel like I've taken a wrong turn and ended up in the third grade lunchroom? On second thought, that's an insult to third graders everywhere. They know how to behave."

All three officers lapsed into sullen silence. Ramey let his comments sink in a moment before continuing. "Now….where was I? Oh, yes. Just exactly what the hell do you idiots think you're doing?"

Three blank faces blinked at him, then at each other. No one spoke for a moment.

"Perhaps," Dr. Pierce ventured after a moment, "you could be more specific, sir?"

"Oh, I'll be specific," Ramey growled. "I'll be so specific, you'll wish I hadn't. You," he began, pointing an accusing finger at Major Cavitt, who went white as a sheet. "You shot it! What the hell were you thinking? We wanted information, Major! Information. How are we going to get information from an unconscious prisoner? I'm not entirely certain all your cylinders are firing!"

Major Cavitt colored. "Sir, it was Doctor Pierce who kept me away for…."

"And don't even think of blaming your immature, knee-jerk reaction on Dr. Pierce!" Ramey spat. "I know he denied you access until the last minute—and I'll get to that in a moment," he added darkly to Pierce—"but that's no excuse for your unwillingness or inability to control yourself!"

Cavitt's color darkened further as Ramey rounded on Pierce. "And you!," he continued, his voice rising. "What were you thinking when you denied Major Cavitt access to the prisoner for so long? I gave you the responsibility of making the decision as to when it was fit for interrogation, and then you proceed to perform weeks of medical tests with nary an interrogation in sight! What do I have to bring back to my superiors? Nothing, that's what!"

"With all due respect, that is not accurate, sir," Pierce objected. "I passed along the results of all my tests, both medical and psychological, and…"

"Yes, yes, I read them," Ramey said impatiently. "And what did I learn? It's stronger than we are. It can see better. Hear better. Move faster. Unfortunately, doctor, you shot yourself in the foot. The results of your tests outline a formidable enemy, and that's just in its current state, unable to change its shape or do any of the hocus pocus everyone tells me it's capable of doing. You made it look even more dangerous than it already did, which makes the higher-ups even more antsy for military intelligence, not less!"

Pierce fell silent as Lewis smiled at his hands folded decorously in his lap.

"And you," Ramey said softly to Lewis, his voice dropping, becoming more menacing with each descending decibel. "How dare you go to my superiors behind my back and try to undermine my command?"

Lewis's smile faded. "I was merely pointing out some irregularities that I felt it was my duty to bring to the attention of—"

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" Ramey interrupted, ignoring him. "And how do you think that behavior will help you now that you're under the very command you tried so hard to sabotage?"

"Did I hear you right, sir?" Pierce broke in. "He is now under your command?"

"Yes, Doctor, I'm afraid you did," Ramey said. "My superiors want you to remain on this operation, but only in a psychiatric capacity. They want the medical end of things turned over to Major Lewis."

Pierce stared at Lewis in disbelief, the latter apparently having recovered his smile. "But sir!" Pierce objected. "If Major Lewis is given medical control of the prisoner, there won't be any prisoner left to interrogate!"

"He's been severely reined in," Ramey said, as Lewis 's smile faded again, "but I doubt that will be the Major's biggest problem. No, I would imagine his biggest problem would be his attitude." Ramey glared at Lewis and leaned forward in his seat. "I'll have you know, Major, that I don't appreciate people who go behind my back. Snakes like you undermine the very fabric this Army is made of. Consider yourself informed that I'll be watching every move you make, every piss you take, every finger you shake. And the minute you get even the least bit snotty with me, I'll have you locked up for insubordination so fast, you won't know what hit you. I expect you'll last all of two weeks, if that."

Lewis was now the same color Cavitt had been only moments before, his jaw twitching.

"Major Cavitt," Ramey continued, ignoring the slow burn Lewis was doing, "you are in charge of interrogating the prisoner. You will not, I repeat not attack it unless it attacks you first. You are authorized to use solitary confinement and withdrawal of privileges to motivate it to cooperate, but for no more than a week at a time. Watch your step, Major. One more outburst like this last one, and you'll never see it again."

Cavitt gave a slight nod, his face set.

"And Doctor Pierce," Ramey said, turning his attention to Pierce, who looked surprisingly cool for just having been seriously demoted. "I put you here because I wanted a different perspective on this entire situation. I strongly suspect these people are not our enemy. I realize I'm in the minority on that," he added, meeting Cavitt's narrowed eyes, "but nevertheless, I am in command of this operation. And while I remain in command, I will see to it that we do not create an enemy where there previously wasn't one."

Ramey paused, staring at Cavitt, who held the gaze only for a moment before averting his eyes.

"You've spent a lot of time with the creature, Doctor," Ramey continued, "and you've apparently established a certain rapport with it, as has your nurse. I've successfully made the case to my superiors that your combined experience with it renders both of you invaluable. Any assistance either of you can offer to gain its cooperation will be greatly appreciated."

"Then you will be pleased, I'm sure, to hear what I have just learned from the creature," Dr. Pierce said smoothly. "I have here the answer to one of Major Cavitt's questions. Should I give this to you, sir, or to the Major directly?"

Ramey blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The creature is awake, sir," Pierce said.

" 'Awake'?" Ramey echoed. "How can it be awake? I thought you said it wouldn't be awake!" he said accusingly to Major Lewis, who looked absolutely thunderstruck.

"Well….it can't be awake, sir!" Lewis protested. "Given the dosage of sedative it received, there's no possible way it could be conscious this quickly. Unless, of course, the good doctor has used massive and unsafe doses of stimulants!"

"Massive for a human, but not for the creature," Pierce replied, looking extremely pleased with himself. "This is where that 'experience' you mentioned comes in, sir. Because of my extensive experience with the creature's physiology, which Major Lewis regrettably lacks, it occurred to me that since it tolerates large doses of sedatives, it might also tolerate large doses of stimulants. It is now conscious…and very angry," he added meaningfully. "It's not happy with the way it was treated by Major Cavitt."

"Not 'happy'?" Cavitt said incredulously. "Not happy? And why should we give a rat's ass whether or not it's happy?"

"Because of this, Major," Pierce said, holding up a sheet of paper from the top of his pile. "Let this be a lesson to all who need it that one catches more flies with honey. I asked it politely, and it has provided an answer, one of those answers you were so desperate to find that you knocked it out cold."

Here Pierce paused for effect, holding the paper aloft, every eye in the room ping-ponging between him and the paper.

"I have here the location of its home planet."

[Kathy W 2200]

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE



September 5, 1947, 1430 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



"Gentlemen, this is Corporal Keyser, newly arrived from Washington," General Ramey announced, pointing out a chair to the confused looking soldier who stood in the doorway to the briefing room. "Have a seat right here, Corporal."

"An enlisted man?" Cavitt muttered.

"Corporal Keyser is fresh from Harvard, where he majored in physics and astronomy," Ramey said pointedly. "Keep your eye on the ball, Major."

A very young, very nervous Corporal Keyser slowly took a seat, glancing around the briefing room as he did so at the officers arrayed around the table. "I'm sorry, sir, but Colonel Avery wasn't completely clear about what you needed me for," Keyser said hesitantly, tugging at his dress uniform. "What is this all about?"

"It's about this, son," Ramey said, pushing a piece of paper toward Keyser. "What do you make of this?"

Keyser donned a pair of glasses. "It appears to be a set of galactic coordinates," he said after studying the paper for a moment.

"And can you tell us where those coordinates would lead us?" Major Cavitt asked.

"Sure." Keyser set his briefcase on the table and pulled out charts, pencils, and various measurement tools. "It'll just take me a few minutes."

He set to work, spreading his things out across the table, oblivious to the rancor practically dripping down the walls of the room. Ramey sat back in his chair and waited, studying each of his officers in turn. The fracas which had ensued when Pierce had triumphantly held up his paper which supposedly disclosed much sought after information had been downright unseemly; both Lewis and Cavitt had lunged at it while Pierce held it just out of their reach with a look of supreme satisfaction.

"SIT!" Ramey had thundered, leaping to his feet, ready to wrestle both of them to the ground if need be.

Their faces burning, Lewis and Cavitt had resumed their seats, neither taking their eyes off the hovering paper.

"Let me see that," Ramey had demanded, holding his hand out for the paper and squinting at the stream of numbers it contained after Pierce delivered it. "What is this? What does it mean?"

"Those are spatial coordinates," Pierce answered. "The location of the alien's home planet in space. It said we should be able to decipher them given the current level of our science."

"And it volunteered this information?" Ramey said doubtfully, peering at Pierce over the top of the paper. "Why?"

"Because it realizes what lies in store for it should Major Cavitt be allowed to continue his 'visits'," Pierce said sarcastically. "And it trusts me, General, as much as it trusts anyone. I have, as you have already mentioned, established a rapport with it. Our association has had its ups and downs, but I've certainly never attacked it, nor treated it with the utter disdain typical of Major Cavitt. But.....there is a price."

Ramey had sighed and set the paper down. "I can't let it go, Doctor. You know that."

"Of course not," Pierce replied. "It knows that. It's not stupid. Its price is very reasonable, something you are quite capable of delivering." He paused for effect. "It is willing to speak to me and only me. Majors Cavitt and Lewis are to have no access to it. Myself and my staff will be its sole liaisons."

Both Cavitt and Lewis had instantly erupted in protest, shouting at Pierce, shouting at the General, shouting at each other. Ramey ignored them, alternately staring at the paper in front of him and Dr. Pierce, who was obviously enjoying his colleagues' collective tantrum. Oh, he's good, Ramey thought. He's very good. With this one bit of information, Doctor Pierce had single handedly tipped the scales back in his direction. If this worked, Pierce would have what both he and Cavitt had always coveted—sole access to the prisoner. And he, Ramey, would have the intelligence he so desperately needed to keep his command.

Assuming this was valid, that is. First things first.

"Silence!" Ramey had roared, slamming his fist on the table. "I want someone down here as fast as possible to verify whether or not these figures mean anything. If they do—then we'll go from there."

That had been five hours ago. Now, as the minutes ticked by with Keyser bent over his charts, Ramey watched the expressions on the other's faces. Pierce appeared calm, while Cavitt and Lewis wore identical scowls. If Pierce succeeded where Cavitt had failed, it would validate Pierce's psychological approach to dealing with the creature, and Ramey's decision to seek that in the first place.

"Okay, let's see what we've got," Keyser said finally. "Just one more vector, and…..wait." He frowned. "That can't be right."

"I knew it!" Cavitt burst out, making Keyser jump. "They're fake! Of course they're fake! It's just trying to save its own skin!"

"Quiet, Major," Ramey warned. He turned to the flustered Keyser. "Are the coordinates genuine, Corporal?"

"Oh, yeah, sure…sir," he added hastily, as an afterthought. "These are real coordinates. See, here's the zero coordinate; every set of coordinates has to have a frame of reference, which includes a stationary point, or an assumed stationary point, from which all other coordinates are measured. Usually that's the center of the frame of reference. For example, the zero coordinate for our own solar system would be our sun. Granted, the sun isn't stationary within our galaxy, but it appears stationary within our own solar system, so it serves as….."

Keyser stopped, staring at the blank faces surrounding him, suddenly aware he'd lost everyone. "Okay," he said, trying again, "see this mark here?" He pointed to the paper. "This is the zero coordinate for this frame of reference; in this case, the galaxy. So the zero coordinate for our galaxy is the center, known as the galactic center. So these coordinates lead to something in our own galaxy."

"How do you know the galaxy in question is ours?" Ramey queried.

"Because whoever wrote this also included the galactic coordinates for Earth, and those are correct," Keyser said. "Whoever did this knows their stuff."

Cavitt's face darkened; Pierce smiled. "But you said something wasn't right," Cavitt pressed. "What's not right?"

"Well, we haven't mapped the entire galaxy yet," Keyser explained, "and these coordinates lead somewhere we know nothing about. A number of astronomers have theorized that the Milky Way has an arm in this region, more like a little finger sticking out, but no one's been able to prove it. And that's what's wrong—we don't know what's in this region of space, or even if it's really part of our own galaxy, so no one could have precise coordinates for anything in it."

Ramey and Pierce exchanged glances; Cavitt and Lewis exchanged more scowls. A minute went by where no one spoke.

"We'd better tell him, sir," Pierce said finally.

"Absolutely not," Cavitt said firmly.

"I believe it pointed this out to you, did it not?" Pierce said to Cavitt. "That the information you were demanding was something we wouldn't know what to do with?" He turned to Ramey. "If we want to know more, they'll have to work together," he said, with a nod toward Keyser.

Keyser was looking back and forth from Pierce to Cavitt in utter confusion. Ramey hesitated only a moment before reaching a decision.

"Corporal," he said gravely, folding his hands in front of him on the table, "what I'm about to tell you is the most highly classified information any branch of the American military possesses—or any military, for that matter," he added. "Spill this to anyone, and you'll be facing a firing squad. Are we clear?"

Keyser paled. "Crystalline, sir."

"Good. Now—the coordinates you have there were given to us by an alien."

"An….alien, sir?" Keyser repeated. "Oh! You mean….I knew it!" he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. "All that spaceship stuff? That was really just a cover, wasn't it? You lot have had a Russian here all along! But……where did this come from?" he asked, indicating the paper, frowning suddenly. "This must be a hoax. The Russian space program is nowhere near capable of producing this level of information, so they couldn't possibly….."

But Ramey held up his hand for silence. "No, son," he said gently. "Not an alien as in a non-American. A space alien. A being from another planet. These are supposedly the coordinates for its home world."

A full minute passed before Corporal Keyser found his voice. "Another….planet?" he echoed, his eyes wide, his hands gripping the arms of his chair hard. "Oh. I see. Okay. Well…actually, that makes a lot more sense."

"Really?" Pierce asked. "How?"

"Well….assuming this…. 'alien' can travel through space…..so does this mean the part about the spaceship is real?"

"You were saying, son?" Ramey prodded.

"Right. Okay. Assuming these….people can travel from one planet to another, they must have much more advanced technology than we do, and far more sophisticated mapping systems. So they would know about parts of the galaxy that we knew nothing about. So instead of being a hoax, these coordinates are probably real. And…" He paused, his eyes shining. "And we may have just proven not only the existence of that theoretical arm of the Milky Way, but that someone actually lives there!"

"What else could you do to make it clearer exactly where these coordinates would lead us?" Ramey asked, ignoring Keyser's enthusiasm.

"Um…let's see. I guess it would be helpful if it…he? She? The alien," he said finally, dispensing with pronouns completely, "could draw us a picture of what…it think the galaxy looks like," he finished, resorting to a pronoun after all. "For example, I could show....it a map of the galaxy as we know it, and….it could finish it, or correct it, or whatever. And mark where….its planet is."

"Do you have one of these maps?"

"Yes, sir. Right here, sir." Keyser pulled out a folded piece of paper and unfolded it to a large rectangle on the table.

"Is it awake now, Doctor?" Ramey asked.

"It's groggy," Pierce answered with an accusing look at Cavitt, "but it can work for short periods of time."

"Good. Take Corporal Keyser down and have him show his map to the prisoner."

"What?" Keyser said in alarm. "Who? Me? Oh, no sir," he said, shaking his head so vigorously his glasses slid down his nose. "I mean, take the map by all means, but I really don't need to….it isn't necessary for me to….I….." He stopped, panic etched on every feature.

"It's all right, Corporal," Pierce said gently. "I understand what you want it to do. I'll explain what you're after and return the map to you when it's finished."

"Oh, thank you sir," Keyser said, practically collapsing with relief. He folded up the map and held it out toward Pierce, only to pull it back when both Pierce and Cavitt reached for it.

"I should make the delivery," Cavitt announced to Ramey. "I asked the location of its home planet. This opportunity is a direct result of my interrogation, and I should be allowed to complete it."

"You must be joking!" Pierce exclaimed incredulously. "The only 'direct result of your interrogation' was an unconscious prisoner incapable of completing maps—or doing anything else, for that matter," he added darkly. "This 'opportunity' is a 'direct result' of my rapport with the prisoner, established over a period of many weeks and..."

"The fact remains," Cavitt interrupted, "that none of this would have happened if I hadn't asked the question in the first place!"

"But it didn't answer you—it answered me," Pierce said angrily. "Washington doesn't want questions, it wants answers! And I am the one who produced the answer!"

"Quiet!" Ramey snapped. Pierce and Cavitt fell silent, both glowering, while Keyser held the map protectively against his chest, eyes darting back and forth between the bickering officers with alarm.

"The whole point of having Corporal Keyser make the delivery was to keep this situation neutral," Ramey said, eyeing both Pierce and Cavitt with undisguised disgust. "But if the Corporal is not comfortable with that assignment"—Corporal Keyser first nodded then shook his head as though undecided as to which movement would make his unease more plain—"then he can deliver it to Lieutenant White, and she can make explanations to the prisoner. Gather what you need," Ramey said to Keyser, who still seemed on the verge of panic. "Don't fret, son," he added more gently when he saw the look on Keyser's face. "You won't actually be seeing the prisoner. The nurse will come out of the room to speak with you. I need you to make the explanations because you're the ranking expert on astronomy here."

"With all due respect, sir—no," Corporal Keyser said, appearing not the least bit reassured by the General's words. "I'm not the ranking expert on astronomy here." He pointed to the paper holding the coordinates. "Whoever wrote that is the ranking expert on astronomy, both here and anywhere else on Earth."




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



2:55 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School


Dee Proctor stuffed her books into her bookbag, smiling with satisfaction. She waved goodbye to Bright Sun, who shyly waved back before heading out to the hall to meet her brother. Across the room, Anthony glanced over at Dee and smiled as he finished packing up his own books. It was no wonder they were all smiling—this had been a good day. A very good day.

Granted, it hadn't necessarily looked that way first thing in the morning. An uneasy silence had hung over the students that morning when they had gathered outside the school's door, waiting for the day to start. This time the stares and whispers had been directed only at River Dog and Bright Sun, who stood off to one side waiting patiently, oblivious as usual to the attention they generated. Rachel had quietly joined Anthony and Dee, whispering, "No one knows what to do. Their parents were all upset about this, and now they're just confused."

And Dee had snorted softly, disdainful of those who always needed to be told what to do. She'd never suffered from that problem herself. Quite the opposite. But Rachel had taken her noise of disgust as directed at her and slunk away, and Dee had felt badly because of something her father had said this morning.

"You're mad at Rachel, aren't you?" her father had asked at breakfast.

"She's a traitor," Dee had said sourly. "And a coward. She wouldn't play with us yesterday because she was afraid of what people would say. She should try getting shot at, and then she wouldn't be so afraid of something like that."

Her parents had exchanged glances, which meant she was in for a lecture. Sighing, Dee had tipped an extra spoonful of sugar onto her cereal, figuring she was going to need it.

"Not everyone is as strong as you are," her father had said gently, "and you can't expect them to be. They have to find their own way. And Rachel's never been 'shot at'; you're judging her reaction by things she's never experienced."

"That's what Brivari said."

"What does Brivari have to do with this?" her mother had asked.

"He was at recess yesterday. He said that social ostri....ostrizi....."

"Ostracism?" her mother suggested.

"Yeah," Dee answered. "That. He said that was one of the worst punishments a society could impose, and that I was viewing the situation through a different lens than Rachel was."

Dee continued to munch her cereal, not realizing for a minute or two that her parents hadn't responded. When she looked up, milk dripping down her chin, they were both staring at her in shock.

"Well," her mother had said finally. "What more is there to say? I'm afraid the alien said it all."

And then her mother had started to laugh, and her father, and finally Dee had joined in, all three Proctors dying of laughter around the breakfast table. If anyone had seen them, they would have thought they were nuts. Of course, if anyone had heard what Dee had said about an alien going on about social punishments, they would have found them to be twice as nuts. Such was life in her family.

"But Anthony walked home with Rachel," Dee said with disapproval after they'd all regained their wits. "He shouldn't have done that. That makes it look like he agrees with her."

"But he didn't refuse to play with Bright Sun, so it was clear to anybody looking that he didn't agree with her," her father had pointed out. "I think Anthony agrees with you, but sympathizes with Rachel."

"He didn't say that," Dee said crossly.

"Of course not," her father replied. "When you're in that mood, you're impossible to talk to. Best to just keep your distance until you cool off. Believe me, I know," he added, with a meaningful look at her mother, who'd swatted him with whatever section of the morning paper she was reading at the time.

And Dee had thought about what he'd said—the same thing Brivari had said—all the way to school, and by the time she got there, she'd reluctantly decided they were both right. She'd had things happen to her that had happened to no one else on the planet. Of course she was looking at this differently. And of course Rachel wasn't able to see it that way. The frustrating part was that Dee knew that Rachel didn't see anything wrong with Bright Sun, or with talking to her or playing with her. Rachel was just afraid of what other people would say, and that struck Dee as completely stupid. In her opinion, it was a very bad idea to care so much what other people thought.

But then the bell had rung, and everyone had charged in. Spelling was boring, and Dee's mind wandered, reflecting on her mother's brilliant maneuvering the night before. It was clear from just the little bit of conversation she'd heard already that no one had connected her mother to what had happened last night. They all seemed to think Father O'Neill's prayer was spontaneous and unsolicited, and Dee marveled anew at her mother's ability to shut down last night's meeting without appearing to be the one who did so. Perhaps she could try something like that. Perhaps…..

And then Dee got an idea. A perfectly wonderful idea. So wonderful that it consumed the rest of spelling and most of math, where she fortunately wasn't called on because she was deep in planning. She reviewed her plans during writing, made final adjustments while eating her lunch, and headed out to the playground, where she made a solemn announcement.

"I have a new game."

Instantly, a small crowd surrounded her. New games were highly prized; if the new game became a favorite, its maker received high marks in the school hierarchy.

Surrounded by a rapt audience, Dee proceeded to outline the rules for her new game. She'd spent all morning concocting it; it had to be good, good enough to overcome what she knew would be the biggest hurdle of all. She never mentioned it out loud, of course, but one of the rules of her new game was that anyone could play. And that meant Bright Sun could play, so whoever wanted to try the wonderful new game would need to be willing to play with Bright Sun.

It worked. Bright Sun looked nervous when Dee called for the first group to try, but when Anthony moved up and Dee gave her an encouraging nod, she stepped forward. At first a few others stepped back when they realized they'd be playing with an Indian. But the lure of a new game was so powerful, and the game Dee had come up with so appealing that most didn't hang back for long. By the end of recess almost the entire class was playing, and no one seemed to care that Bright Sun was running around with them. Only a few hung back, notably Ernie, and Susan, and….Rachel. Rachel, who watched them longingly but couldn't quite bring herself to join.

The mood in the classroom was markedly different after recess. People started smiling at Bright Sun, talking to her, passing her papers without trying to pretend she wasn't there. Dee had smiled behind her history textbook, musing again on her mother's brilliance. This technique was easier and much more effective than getting mad and storming around. Not to mention much better for the digestion.

Dee stuffed the last of her books into her bookbag and zipped it closed. Just as she was getting to her feet, Bright Sun appeared, her dark eyes wide.

"Something's wrong," she whispered.

"What's wrong?" Dee asked.

Bright Sun cast a glance toward the hallway. "It's River Dog. He's not here."



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


Eagle Rock Military Base



Every muscle complaining, Jaddo slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes still closed against the glaring lights. He'd fallen asleep shortly after giving Antar's coordinates to Pierce, who had beamed and assured him he'd made the right decision. We'll see about that, Jaddo had thought sourly, but he didn't have the energy to argue the point. The sedative had left him groggy and dizzy, while the stimulants used to waken him had left him jittery. Couple that with almost two days of no food, and he was left feeling simultaneously woozy, jumpy, and weak. It was not a pleasant combination.

Moving carefully, Jaddo swung his legs around so he was sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes still closed. He'd been so out of it earlier that he hadn't even been able to render Antar's coordinates in terms any human could understand. Fortunately Brivari had done his homework, translating their own far superior system of navigation into the human's laughably simple one. If he hadn't been there, giving Jaddo the answers via telepathic speech, Jaddo dutifully repeating them to Pierce who wrote them down with a hand shaking from excitement, he didn't know what he would have done. And now Brivari had left, unwilling to even so much as wait in the Healer's quarters given the heightened security during the General's visit. If the humans decided they wanted anything else from him before nightfall, Jaddo was on his own.

Hot steam reached his face. He opened his eyes a bit to find a cup hovering in mid-air by his left side—coffee. Staring at the cup, he was reminded of the day that seemed a lifetime ago when Urza had placed a cup of jero on the floor by his feet when he'd been so exhausted from tunneling out the pod chamber, and proceeded to display more insight than Jaddo had thought him capable of. Urza had been awfully annoying sometimes—most times, actually—but Jaddo would give a good deal to have the hand that now held the cup of coffee belong to Urza instead of the Healer, who no doubt held it now. He took the cup eagerly, making a mental note to someday tell the Healer how much he appreciated her efforts on his behalf. Someday.

Then he looked up and saw the Healer asleep, her head cradled in her arms on the table only feet away, and he turned sharply to find a male human beside him.

Dumbfounded, Jaddo stared at his new benefactor. He wore the insignia of a Private, the very bottom of the human military heap, and a name tag inscribed "Thompson". His face wore a look of alarm, but Jaddo noted with approval that he had not retreated. He was poised for flight, but he held his ground as both he and Jaddo stared at each other, waiting.

"Why did you give me this?" Jaddo demanded.

"You…..you looked like….like you weren't feeling well," the soldier stammered. "And you like coffee, right?"

Jaddo's eyes narrowed suspiciously. None of the human soldiers had ever spoken to him, much less made an offering. This was a first.

"Why would you care how I feel?"

"I had to have surgery once," the soldier answered. "They knocked me out….pretty much like you were knocked out. I felt like hell when I woke up, and they wouldn't let me have coffee. Guess this is my way of getting back at them."

Jaddo listened to this recital in silence, staring at the soldier's face. Wait.....that face. That face was familiar.

"I've seen you before," Jaddo said suddenly. "Where have I seen you before?"



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



Thompson froze. He hadn't stopped to think that the alien might recognize him as one of the four who'd pulled the trigger two days ago. He hadn't stopped to think about anything; he'd been contemplating this move since his conversation with Lieutenant Spade yesterday about his impending resignation, and when the alien had begun to stir, he'd swallowed his fear and put his plan into action quickly, before he lost his nerve. He was the only guard, and Lieutenant White was asleep. There might never be another opportunity.

So he'd poured a cup of coffee from the fresh pot that had arrived only a half hour ago along with new questions for the alien to answer and held it out without considering the consequences. It had been easier than he'd thought it would be; it looked so human, especially now when it was weak…..it was so easy, so very easy, to forget that this was no human he was dealing with.

Although that point was likely to be made quite forcefully if the alien identified him. Thompson realized with a shock that he was in a very compromising position. He was all alone, the other inside guard having been deemed unnecessary, and extra personnel being needed for the General's visit. He was close enough for the alien to grab, his rifle wasn't aimed, and even though yelling for help would wake Lieutenant White and bring the guards outside the door running, that still wouldn't keep the alien from breaking his neck.

"I'm sure you've seen me," Thompson said, hoping his voice sounded more calm than he felt. "I've sure you've seen most of the people around here plenty of times."

The alien continued to scrutinize him closely, obviously suspecting that mere casual familiarity wasn't the issue here, and Thompson forced himself to return its hard stare. It wouldn't do to appear weak or uncertain in front of a personality like this; these types tended to eat the reticent for lunch. But that gaze…..Good Lord. That gaze should have been able to drill a hole in the wall. His courage nearly spent, Thompson was all ready to just confess and get it over with when the alien abruptly turned away, his eyes falling on the folded paper that had been delivered by that shaky Corporal who had appeared on the verge of collapse. It lay on the table only inches from Lieutenant White's hand.

"What is this?" the alien asked sharply.

Thompson breathed a silent sigh of relief, grateful to no longer be the center of attention. "That's something General Ramey wanted you to look at," he replied. "I'll wake the Lieutenant, and she can tell you…."

"No," the alien interrupted. "She is exhausted. Let her rest. You can tell me what they want."

Thompson blinked. Concern? For the Lieutenant? That was a shock. Then it dawned on him what else the alien had said.

"Me? No, they….they didn't explain it to me," Thompson protested. "I……"

"You were standing by the door and no doubt heard every single word they were saying," the alien said testily. "You do have ears, don't you? Simply repeat what you heard."

"Well….I did hear some of it, but….that doesn't mean I understood it," Thompson said, feeling exceptionally foolish. "I'm a soldier, not an astronomer……"

"You don't need to understand it. Just repeat what you heard, and leave the understanding part to me."

Its tone was bitter and patronizing, and Thompson wondered, not for the first time, how Lieutenant White stood this thing. Did it act like this all the time? He'd spent most of his time outside the room, but word was it was irascible and insulting even on a good day. And this wasn't a good day. Still, he had his own agenda to consider, and Lieutenant White remaining asleep had been part of that. And he wasn't dead yet. That was something.

"Okay," Thompson said, reaching for the paper and unfolding it. "I gather that you gave them….directions to someplace in….outer space that they can't find. So……"

"The coordinates to my planet," the alien interrupted. "I told him they wouldn't know what to do with them even if I gave it to them. I told him that."

"I don't think being able to 'do something' with them is the point," Thompson ventured.

The alien turned eyes of steel on him again. "Then enlighten me, human. What exactly is the point?"

A spark of annoyance flared in Thompson. "My name is 'Thompson'," he said firmly. "Private Thomson. And the point is not what we can do with the information, but whether or not you're willing to give it to us."

This time the alien stared at him for so long that Thompson was certain he'd be pushing up daisies by supper time. He forced himself to hold its gaze, more convinced than ever that a show of strength, even if only strength of conviction, was vitally important. It worked. After an interminable amount of time, the alien looked away. "Let me see that," it demanded, setting its cup down on the table beside the bed.

Thompson handed over the folded piece of paper and watched as the alien unfolded it. "What is it?" he asked, peering at the paper.

"It appears to be a map of the galaxy," the alien replied. "Or what might pass for such a map in this exceptionally primitive place."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense. They wanted you to add onto it, sort of. Draw in the rest. I think."

"Good heavens," the alien muttered. "There's so little here, I'll have to simplify it."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate anything you can tell them."

"Oh, I'm sure," the alien replied sarcastically. "Even if I only illustrate for them the depths of their ignorance."

That spark of annoyance flared again. "If you think we're so ignorant," Thompson said coolly, "then you're in the perfect position to make it clear to us just how little we know."

The alien fixed him with that drill bit stare again, but it didn't bother Thompson as much this time. He'd noticed something: When you fought back, the alien backed off.

"As you wish," the alien said coldly. "Hand me that writing implement."

Thompson fetched the pencil from the nearby table and handed it to the alien, who snatched it unceremoniously. "You're welcome," Thompson said dryly.

The alien favored him with yet another glare before flipping the paper over to the blank side and beginning to sketch. After a moment, it looked up at Thompson, who was watching with interest.

"Do you mind if I watch?"

"I don't care what you do," was the curt response.

It sketched for several minutes, a whirling cloud taking shape on the paper. It marked the location of Earth, the location of its own planet, which Thompson noted remained unnamed, and lastly drew a box around a small section of the drawing.

"What's that?"

"That is the area of the galaxy marked on the other side. The area you humans know about."

Thompson's eyes widened. The alien hadn't been kidding; according to the drawing, the galaxy was a whole lot bigger than anyone knew.

The alien folded up the drawing and handed it over. "Here. That should keep them busy, for a few minutes at least." It sank down on the bed, its eyes closed, obviously exhausted from even this small bit of exertion.

Thompson looked at the paper in his hand, began to walk away....and stopped. He hadn't asked his question yet, and he'd come so far. Before he could open his mouth, the alien's eyes opened, fixing him that familiar stare he found himself growing accustomed to.

"I know perfectly well you did not offer me that coffee out of the goodness of your heart. What do you want?"

"I want….." Thompson paused, and looked away. It was much easier to talk to when you looked away. "I want to know why you went out of your way to murder two soldiers in their beds."

"What are you talking about? I murdered no one in their beds. Why would I….." The alien broke off for a moment. "This is about the two with the false handprints, isn't it?"

"If you didn't do it, how do you know about it?" Thompson asked suspiciously.

"Your General showed me photographs of those we had killed. I identified two that we had clearly not killed. The handprints in the photos were false."

"But how….."

"I do not know 'how'," the alien interrupted irritably, "nor do I care. It is not my concern." It paused. "Although I would imagine it is yours."

The alien closed its eyes again, the conversation clearly over. Thompson stood in the middle of the room, dazed, a sleeping human on one side and a sleeping alien on the other, the map limp in his hands. Spade was right. Which meant the aliens had not killed for either revenge or sport, and that there was a murderer loose on the base—a human murderer, judging by the human doctors who had looked the other way when confronted with obviously false handprints.

Thompson walked to the door and knocked on it, handing over the reworked map of the galaxy to one of the outside guards. Resuming his post after the door had closed, he stared in troubled silence at the sleeping forms in front of him, wondering now more than ever if he was on the right side.



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




Franklin Delano Roosevelt School



"He's not here?" Dee echoed, looking toward the door. River Dog always met Bright Sun at the end of the day, waiting for her outside their classroom door.

"No. And he should be," Bright Sun answered in her tiny voice, now laced with worry.

Dee shouldered her book bag and walked out into the hall, Bright Sun trailing behind. A number of children were milling around; Anthony was waiting for her, leaning against the wall. "Have you seen River Dog?" Dee asked him.

"Nope," Anthony answered. "Why?"

"He's not here," Bright Sun said worriedly. "He's always here by now."

"Let's look outside," Dee suggested.

They trooped outside, but River Dog wasn't out there either, nor did they seem him in the throng of departing students. "I'll check in the office," Anthony offered, heading back inside.

Bright Sun looked more nervous than Dee had ever seen her, even on her first day of school. "What will we do if we can't find him?" she fretted.

"Don't worry," Dee soothed her. "Maybe he's just late. Maybe he's on his way here right now. Let's wait a bit, and if he doesn't show up, we'll go over to the high school and find him."

"Don't," said a voice behind her.

Dee spun around to find Rachel standing there, looking scared the way she usually did these days. "Why not?"

"Just don't, that's all," Rachel said earnestly, her voice shaking a little.

Dee stared at her a moment, her father's warnings ringing in her head. "I said why not? You must be saying that for a reason."

"Just don't," Rachel repeated, sounding like a broken record. "Promise me you won't go off looking for him." She paused, waiting for an answer. "Promise me!"

"If you don't want me to look for him, then you have to give me a reason," Dee said crossly. "You being scared isn't good enough. You're scared of everything these days. Even new games."

Rachel flushed, but held her ground. "Just don't go looking for him by yourself," she pleaded. "Get Mr. Kagen to go." She looked around furtively, eyes darting left and right. "I can't say anymore," she whispered, hurrying away with her books clutched to her chest.

Anthony reappeared. "The office doesn't have any messages or know anything about where River Dog is," he reported. "They told me to go check at the high school just in case he's in detention."

Dee felt herself relax. Detention. Yes, that was probably it. River Dog had probably gotten tired of being treated like dirt, gotten into a scrape with someone, and landed in detention. Rachel was just being paranoid.

"So are we going?" Anthony asked.

Dee looked at the high school building looming in the near distance, an uneasy feeling creeping over her. "Just don't go looking for him by yourself," Rachel had pleaded. "No walking home alone, no short cuts down alleys, no fracases in the school yard." her father had said.

Well, I won't be alone, Dee reasoned, trying to reconcile what she wanted with what her gut—and others—were telling her. She'd have Anthony and Bright Sun with her. And just to be on the safe side…..

"Let's walk through the school," Dee suggested, suddenly finding that she didn't want to find trouble—or have trouble find her—while she was outside and further from help. "We can go through the gym over to the high school."

Anthony shrugged, and headed back inside, Bright Sun following with Dee on her heels. She turned just before she went inside; Rachel's retreating form was just visible in the distance, and as Dee watched, Rachel slowed, turned around, and stared at her.

Dee glanced at her for only a moment before following the other two inside.