Fan Fic and More

Ooh! Good ending to this chapter! I think Marana and Orlon are in deep deep trouble! The kind they aren't likely to survive!

Great chapter! I loved Spade's little morality talk to Cavitt and Cavitt's horror at being locked up in a civvie jail.

Spade's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you thought you were doing? So invading a private citizen's home without probable cause, finding no evidence to support your contention, threatening a child, assaulting a woman and holding her hostage, and ignoring your CO's orders constitutes 'protecting the American people'? I'd agree the people need protection, Colonel, but I think we differ on who they need protection from. And so will the magistrate when Emily Proctor shows up to testify with her injured face, along with all the witnesses to your little spree. If I were you, I wouldn't be looking forward to that hearing."

And Valenti must have enjoyed this...

"I'm not going anywhere," Cavitt insisted.

The Sheriff bent down, leaning closer to Cavitt. "Colonel, I can assure you that you will accompany us into my station. The only question is how. You can walk in under your own steam, or my deputy and I can haul your sorry ass out of this vehicle and drag you in in full view of anyone who wants to watch. It's entirely up to you. I'm in a generous mood this morning, so I'll give you one full minute to think it over."

Marana's eyes fluttered open; a moment later she blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw: Nothing. Nothing but white, an expanse of white that seemed to go on forever. She recalled what she'd heard about the room in which Jaddo had been held captive, and bolted upright in panic....

Hmmm... that actually might not have been such a bad idea. Though I suspect her real end will be much more permanent and terrifying.

"Remember that little chat you had with Athenor last year where he admitted having ordered the deaths of the Royal Four?" Amar continued. "I saved that transmission. As soon as you activated the communicator, it was sent directly to Khivar. So now he knows exactly who killed his precious Vilandra, not to mention who's working with the one who killed her. Oh, and I made certain to send it in your name so that Athenor will think you're the one who ratted him out. You just lost your sponsor. Congratulations."

Beautiful! Justice is sweet, even if it has to come from a ghost! 8) Or maybe especially because it comes from a ghost. Orlon had no idea he would be killed by Marana, yet unwittingly, he gets his revenge on her.

"I'd love to be there when Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever he plans to call himself gets there, assuming Khivar lets him live," Amar continued. "I'd love to see what he'd do to you. But I apparently can't be there, and I'm willing to bet you'll run. And that just won't do."

Amar walked closer until his face filled the imager. "So take this from the three of us," he said softly. "A parting gift from your victims." His face split in a wide smile. "Goodbye, Orlon."

The image froze, Amar's smile hanging in space above the communicator. "What does that mean?" Orlon growled.

"Oh, no," Marana whispered, all her earlier fears charging back. "We have to get out of here! Now!"

"Why?" Orlon demanded. "He's already ruined me! What else could he possibly do? If—"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

Hello to everyone reading!

Island Breeze wrote:Sheez! Just cause I miss a week or two you didn't have to shoot everybody, Kathy!

*dies laughing* It was a bit heavy on the guns, I admit. But then we do have a lot of military and law enforcement characters, and Marana is such a wimp, she'd need help. :P

I confess I have enormously enjoyed dispensing justice in these last chapters. Glad you're enjoying it too!






CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN


Three days later


June 15, 1950, 8 a.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station



"Breakfast time!" a voice called. Captain Richard Dodie looked up as Alan McMahon trundled into view, pushing the rolling cart bearing two trays along in front of him, the smell of scrambled eggs and coffee announcing his presence far better than his voice. Across the aisle, Colonel Cavitt sat stiffly on his bunk, arms crossed in front of his chest as he always did whenever any of the deputies appeared. "Who's first?" McMahon asked, stopping the cart directly between the two cells and looking back and forth from Dodie to Cavitt as though he didn't already know the answer to that question.

"I am," Dodie said, stepping back from the bars as McMahon unlocked the cell door.

"I brought you a fresh towel," McMahon said, fetching a towel and washcloth from the bottom of the cart after he'd carried the breakfast tray inside. "And some toothpaste. Couldn't get any smokes, though. Sheriff said no."

"That's okay," Dodie assured him. "I appreciate anything you can do."

"Hell, this is kinda fun," McMahon said cheerfully. "Don't usually get long term visitors here. Just the occasional drunk and disorderly, or the adolescent vandal tossed in overnight to think it over."

"Glad you're enjoying yourself," Dodie said dryly. "Although I must admit, I won't miss this hotel when the time comes to check out."

"What, you need something?" McMahon asked, sounding like a worried concierge. "Another blanket? More shaving cream?"

"No, no—I'm fine," Dodie assured him. "It's just that this is a jail, you know."

"That doesn't mean we can't be human," McMahon said. "You need something, you let me know, and I'll see if I can get it."

"Wonderful," came a sarcastic voice. "What I need is to not be incarcerated for merely doing my job of protecting the American people."

McMahon sighed deeply as he locked Dodie's cell door and unlocked Cavitt's. "Now, colonel," McMahon said in the tone one uses with a unruly child. "You and me—"

"You and I," Cavitt corrected impatiently. "You and I."

"Right, that's what I said; you and me, we've been over this," McMahon said as Cavitt rolled his eyes. "I'll try to get you whatever little creature comforts I can, but as to what put you here, well, I'm no legal expert."

"Really?" Cavitt deadpanned. "You certainly had me fooled."

"Well, no wonder—I've been a deputy for some time now," McMahon said modestly as Dodie smiled and Cavitt scowled. "Look, I've brought your breakfast and fresh towels, even a new razor. You're really lettin' yourself go, Colonel. You've got a hearing coming up Monday, and you'll want to look your best."

No he won't, Dodie thought as McMahon delivered the tray and supplies and relocked the cell. Cavitt ignored him, remaining on his bunk with his arms crossed, wearing three days worth of stubble and the same clothes in which he'd been jailed despite their having each been issued a second uniform and offered laundry services by the station. McMahon trundled the cart away after taking a few notes in a small notebook which he tucked back into his uniform pocket.

"It's not going to work," Dodie said after McMahon had left. "You know that, don't you?"

"A little specificity would be appreciated," Cavitt said flatly.

"The not bathing, not shaving, letting yourself go to pot. They're keeping notes about the way you're refusing to look after yourself. So when you step in front of the magistrate looking and smelling like a cow and trying to claim mistreatment, he's going to know it's all an act."

"They expect me to perform personal hygiene in full view of others?" Cavitt snapped. "I'm a commissioned officer in the United States Army, for God's sake! I shouldn't even be here!"

"I promised I wouldn't look," Dodie said innocently.

"Oh, shut up," Cavitt said darkly.

Dodie smiled as he unfolded the clean towel and peeled off his shirt. This was a jail, which meant a toilet and sink in full view, which meant that even the most private of functions became suddenly public. One could only hope one wasn't dumping a load on the can when someone walked back here, but such was life. Actually it was very much like enlisted Army life, and a whole lot less crowded. Of course Cavitt hadn't been enlisted for quite a while now and was an asshole to boot. Dodie had been horrified when Cavitt had first been brought in, expecting him to harangue him day and night. But Cavitt had elected sullen stoicism instead, and ultimately Dodie enjoyed watching him suffer, even if a large share of it was self-inflicted. Perhaps there was some justice in this world after all.

"You're awfully cheerful for someone who supposedly confessed to murder," Cavitt commented as Dodie began running water in the sink.

"At least I confessed," Dodie said pointedly.

"Oh, please. You're the one who left her there by the side of the road."

"And you're the one who said you'd call it in and didn't."

"Then why didn't you call it in yourself?" Cavitt demanded. "You could have."

"I should have," Dodie agreed, bending over the sink and splashing water on his face. "But I trusted you. Big mistake."

"Correction: The right thing to do," Cavitt insisted. "So you got the files back. Fine and dandy, but when I saw what she had, what she'd seen......do you really think she was going to keep quiet, even without evidence? Of course not. She would have shot her mouth off and compromised our entire operation, and I couldn't have that. So I made a judgment call. That was my job."

"So that's how you sleep at night," Dodie said, drying his face with the towel. "You destroy people, kill their careers, kill them, and write it all off to 'just doing your job'. Self-deception at its finest."

"What are you going on about?" Cavitt retorted. "I never killed anyone or destroyed anyone's career." He paused. "But you did."

Dodie marched angrily up to the cell door, which was as close as he could get to Cavitt. "You made me rat on Hal! You made me go after that reporter, told me I could kiss my commission goodbye if I didn't get those files back! You told me you'd get help for her even though you never intended to do anything of the sort! You are responsible for all of it!"

"Am I?" Cavitt said softly, walking up to his own cell door. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you agreed to expose Captain Carver. You decided how to pursue the retrieval of the files. You were so terrified you'd be fingered that you didn't call in the accident. I never made you do anything, captain. You decided to do it....and you could just as easily have decided not to. That's what Carver did. He stood his ground. He also paid the price for that, and I have to admire a man who's willing to accept the consequences of his actions, however misguided I may find them. But you....you made decisions, and now you wish to blame others. And that, my dear captain, is nothing less than pathetic. You want 'self-deception'? Go look in a mirror."

Dodie flushed scarlet. "Then you'll be joining me," he said furiously. "Do you really think that you can just wash your hands of it like Pontius Pilate? That you're an innocent because you delegated the dirty work?"

"I've never claimed 'innocence'," Cavitt said sharply. "Quite the contrary. I just gave you a reason for my decisions and made it clear that I stand behind them even now. What about you? If my orders were so objectionable, then why did you follow them? Do you stand behind your decisions now?"

"Hello again!" came a cheerful voice. A moment later Alan McMahon reappeared, smiling as always. "Well, look at that!" he exclaimed when he saw Dodie and Cavitt facing each other from their respective cells. "Glad to see you boys gettin' along."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Cavitt exclaimed in exasperation. "Do the world a favor and step in front of a speeding bus, would you?"

"Grumpy, grumpy," McMahon admonished, wagging a finger at Cavitt, who retreated back into his cell muttering something under his breath that was probably best not repeated. "Good news!" McMahon continued to Dodie. "The Sheriff wants to see you. You're coming with me."

Dodie pulled a shirt on and followed McMahon down the hallway and up the stairs, careful not to look at Cavitt as he left. He wanted to strangle that son of a bitch.....because he was right. Dodie could have refused to run Cavitt's errands, could have refused to tow the party line just like Hal had. So why hadn't he? Because I was the good little soldier, he thought sadly as McMahon led him through the station. The good little soldier who didn't question orders, didn't challenge command decisions, didn't use his own common sense to weigh what was asked of him on his own scale. It's not like he hadn't known something was rotten in New Mexico. He'd sent Betty that key in the hopes that she'd find out what was going on and spare himself the tornado he saw coming Carver's way. He'd sold out his own friend and then tried to make it right by getting him an honorable discharge. He'd left Betty there by the side of the road and asked someone else to call in the accident. He'd tried....but not hard enough.

"Good morning, captain," Sheriff Wilcox said when they arrived at his office. "Have a seat. Deputy, close the door."

"Sure thing," McMahon smiled, waving to Dodie before backing out of the room.

"Is that guy always so cheerful?" Dodie wondered out loud as he sat down in one of the chair's facing the desk.

"As long as he's well fed," Wilcox chuckled. "Congratulations, captain—you're being released."

Dodie blinked. "Released? But I confessed!"

"You mean you want to stay? Twenty-eight years on the job, and I thought I'd seen it all," Wilcox said dryly. "Guess I was wrong."

"But I did it," Dodie said, confused. "I mean, not on purpose. Well.....I was trying to get the files back on purpose, but I wasn't trying to kill her. But—"

Dodie stopped when Wilcox held up a hand. "I believe you, son," he said gently. "I know this is weighing on you, and I know you want some kind of redemption. But you won't find it here. There just isn't enough evidence to convict you, even with a confession. A first year law student could get you off on this one."

"But the damage report—"

"Reveals a damaged car," Wilcox said patiently. "It's certainly suggestive, but we can't prove anything because both cars are unavailable. And I'm afraid your word alone isn't enough to convict you without evidence, just like your word alone wouldn't be enough to convict anyone else without evidence."

Dodie's hands gripped the arms of the chair. "If there isn't enough evidence to convict me, then there's not enough to convict Cavitt either, is there?"

"There never was," Wilcox said. "Colonel Cavitt is up on charges of kidnapping a civilian woman plus a host of military charges, like insubordination and ignoring a direct order to name only two. We never had enough to go after him for Miss Osorio's death, and frankly, even if you'd come forward immediately, I'm not certain we would have had enough then. You would have wound up in jail, and he would have walked."

"He'll walk now," Dodie argued. "You just watch. He'll wiggle out of this somehow."

"There were numerous witnesses to the kidnapping," Wilcox said, "and the victim is pressing charges."

"He'll intimidate her," Dodie insisted. "He'll find a way to make her back down."

Wilcox broke into a laugh. "He'd have better luck trying to move the proverbial mountain. No, I assure you this victim will be there even if the trial is held on the moon. 'Intimidated' isn't in her vocabulary."

"But you'll let him go," Dodie persisted. "You won't be keeping him here either, will you?"

"The colonel was never meant to stay here indefinitely," Wilcox said. "He's here because his CO and I thought he could use a taste of his own medicine. As soon as his military hearing comes up on Monday, he'll be transferred back to the base."

"And then what?" Dodie asked. He rose from his chair, stuffing his hands in his pockets and pacing in front of the sheriff's desk. "He'll kill me," he said in an agitated voice. "You know that, don't you? If he gets the chance, he'll kill me, or at least ruin me. He'll go to my CO, he'll try to get me trashed the same way he tried to trash Carver." He paused, staring miserably out the window. "I should never have done his dirty work. I ruined two people's lives by just blindly doing what I was told, what I—"

"What you thought was right at the time," Wilcox broke in firmly. He sighed, eyeing Dodie closely. "I know you feel guilty, captain, and I'm not saying you shouldn't. You screwed up. We all have; welcome to the human race. You can't turn the clock back, so now you have to decide whether you'll use what's happened to make yourself a better person or allow it to destroy you. By confessing, by admitting what you did, you're well on your way to the former. Don't veer off track when you're doing so well."

When Dodie said nothing, Wilcox rose from his chair and joined him at the window. "I wouldn't worry about Colonel Cavitt, at least not in the short term. I'm willing to bet the colonel's going to be a good boy when we let him out of the corner, at least initially. Anything untoward that happens while his charges are pending will reflect very poorly on him, and he's smart enough to know that. But I agree that he could harm you in many ways from within the service, so my advice would be to consider a pre-emptive strike. General Ramey, Cavitt's CO, seems like a reasonable man. Go talk to him, and see what he has to say."

"Right," Dodie said disconsolately. "Maybe I will. Well....thank you, sheriff," he said as Wilcox opened the door to his office. "Would it be all right if I just left my other uniform downstairs? I really don't want to go back down there."

"Already got it," said a voice nearby.

Deputy Valenti was standing in the hallway just outside the sheriff's office, Dodie's folded uniform in his hands. "I figured you wouldn't want to get this yourself," he said. "Need a ride back to the base?"

"Yeah," Dodie admitted. "That would be nice. Thanks."

The sheriff waved them off and Dodie followed Valenti out to his cruiser. "Why are you doing this?" he asked as they both climbed into the car. "You don't even know me."

"Don't I?" Valenti said as he pulled out of the parking lot. "A few years ago, I found myself having to make the same decisions you wrestled with....and I almost did the wrong thing. I came so close.....if the proverbial wind had been blowing in even a slightly different direction, I might have found myself sitting right where you are now. So I'm afraid you're mistaken, captain. I know you all too well."



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


St. Brigit's Church




Brivari slid the bookcase aside and opened the door to the room where Jaddo was hidden. He was inside, seated on the cot, his left hand raised in front of him.....and it was an Antarian hand, a large, long-fingered, gray hand more than twice the size of his human right hand. He can shift, Brivari thought with relief. Five days had passed since Jaddo had last received the serum which blocked his abilities, and he seemed to be recovering as quickly this time as he had the last, when he'd gone almost a week without it and almost completely returned to normal. But we're not quite there, Brivari noted, eyeing the untouched coffee cup on the little table beside the cot. Two or three more days, and they would be.

"Is it getting easier?" Brivari asked, closing the door behind him.

"Much," Jaddo said with obvious satisfaction. "I can shift my extremities easily now, and at least half of my telekinesis has returned. And I don't have to hide it," he added in wonder, making his hand shrink to human form, then expand once more. "I will truly be myself again for the first time in years."

"Yes, you will," Brivari agreed. "But wait a couple of more days before trying to shift completely. Getting stuck halfway could be fatal."

"I certainly won't mind leaving this place," Jaddo said, glancing around the tiny room. "This is worse than my old cell, if that's possible."

"This was designed as a hiding place for 'Japanese'," Brivari explained, "a race which was rounded up and imprisoned when David Proctor's people were at war with them."

"A reasonable precaution," Jaddo said.

"David Proctor does not seem to think so," Brivari noted. "He finds it a shameful time in his people's history."

"Whatever for?" Jaddo asked.

"I didn't probe," Brivari admitted. "I had other things on my mind at the time." He paused. "I'm much more rested now, so I sent Malik out to gather some information. He reports that Emily Proctor is recovering and is 'pressing charges' against Cavitt, who has been incarcerated. Spade tells him that Pierce has not been seen since shortly before your escape, and no one seems to know where he is. All the roadblocks were recalled three days ago, but General Ramey is sparing no effort to find you."

"Of course he isn't," Jaddo murmured. "He can't afford to without jeopardizing his own position. Is his control of the compound still in contention?"

"Not according to Spade," Brivari answered. "Everyone is so embarrassed that they lost their prize the moment Ramey walked out the door that his rule is absolutely unchallenged. At the moment, the chief strategy he is employing are the images of your human face which are posted virtually everywhere. As soon as you can change your face, the humans, at least, will not be able to find you."

Jaddo stared at him a moment, then broke into a huge smile.....a smile which beamed from a completely different face. The shift was rather slow, but he accomplished it completely and with little difficulty, which was no small matter. Extremities were relatively easy to shift; the level of detail involved with shifting one's face was much higher. "That's wonderful, Jaddo," Brivari smiled. "Now you just need your abilities to return sufficiently so you can defend yourself should Orlon and Marana return."

"Do you really think that's likely? You said Orlon was all but dead."

"He was," Brivari agreed. "And Marana would be no threat by herself, although she could certainly give away the hybrids' location."

"A piece of information you neglected to tell me she had," Jaddo said pointedly.

"I've already explained that I did not want to worry you," Brivari said. "You had enough on your mind as it was. And Amar did make a rather cryptic comment about their not being able to contact home. Malik took it to mean that he'd destroyed the communicators."

"Amar could easily have been lying," Jaddo said.

"If he had been speaking to me, I would agree," Brivari said. "But he was speaking to Malik, so he may well have been telling the truth. Regardless, we will check Orlon's base and move the hybrids when you're able, which should be soon, from the looks of things." He rose from his chair. "Is there anything else you need right now?"

"Yes," Jaddo said, putting his hand through its paces again. "Where is Cavitt being held?"

"What difference does it make?" Brivari asked. "He is captive, just like you were."

Jaddo looked up, his eyes piercing Brivari. "I want to know where he's being held."

"Jaddo, it's much too early to think about taking revenge," Brivari said reasonably. "We have our Wards and the rogues to deal with before you can even begin to consider—"

"Is it that you don't know, or that you won't tell me?" Jaddo demanded. "Just like you neglected to tell me what Pierce did to the Healer?"

Brivari sighed heavily. "You didn't need to know. It would have only upset you—"

"Try 'infuriated' me," Jaddo corrected sharply.

"—at a time when I needed you calm and focused," Brivari finished. "I handled the situation. The Healer recovered completely."

"And Pierce walked away," Jaddo said tersely. "But Cavitt remains within reach. I don't care how long it takes me, I will make Pierce and Cavitt pay for what they did to both me and the Healer. Now, I will ask you again—where is he?"

"Jaddo—"

"Where is he?"

The two stared at each other in tense silence for a moment before Brivari answered. "He is being held in a civilian facility not far from here."

Jaddo's eyes widened. "He's not at the base?"

"No," Brivari said patiently, "but it would still be a huge mistake—"

"Then he's not surrounded by military guards," Jaddo breathed, ignoring Brivari. "No tranquilizer rifles, no x-rays, no means of identification. How long will he be there?"

"Only four more days," Brivari said. "Perhaps not long enough for you to—"

"I'll be ready," Jaddo said firmly, shrinking and expanding both hands now as though he could somehow exercise his way back to normal. "Four days should be more than enough."

"This is why I didn't tell you," Brivari said sharply. "I was afraid you would do just exactly what you're planning to do. I didn't break you out of the compound only to watch you be recaptured or killed!"

"I have no intention of being either," Jaddo said severely, "and I'd thank you to stop keeping things from me. I'm not a child."

"No, you're merely acting like one," Brivari retorted. "And while we're on the subject, how is that Amar's dust has disappeared from this room?"

"The holy man knocked the box over," Jaddo said casually. "He swept up the dust and disposed of it."

"Something you neglected to tell me," Brivari said pointedly.

"I saw no need. His dust was dumped in the trash. A fitting end for a rogue, don't you think? Or did you have something better in mind?"

Brivari stared at Jaddo for a long minute before leaving the room without answering his question. He had had something better in mind, but it didn't matter now.



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




Eagle Rock Military Base



Stephen Spade pushed the door open and strode inside, ignoring the protests from the nurse at the front desk who insisted he couldn't go back there. He found what he was looking for at the far end of the ward, writing on a patient's chart. Yvonne had been working full time in the infirmary since John's escape. She no longer had anything to do in the compound, and it was strange being there anyway; all the personnel were still there, but John wasn't, giving the place an odd feeling, like a movie set humming along without the lead actor. She settled the chart on its hook at the end of the bed, looked up, and spied him.

"Captain?" she said in surprise.

"Lieutenant White," Spade said formally, barely able to contain his excitement. "You'll be needing to pack soon."

Her eyes widened, then she grabbed his arm, uttered some soothing words to "Martha", the indignant nurse who had followed Spade inside, and pulled him through a set of doors into what looked like a small lab. Sergeant Brisson was there, bent over a microscope. "Are you serious?" she breathed. "Are we really leaving?"

"Ramey just gave orders to dismantle the compound this weekend," Spade reported as Brisson joined them, every bit as wide-eyed as Yvonne. "Everything and everyone goes, and I mean everything. He's ordered all written records of what went on there destroyed."

"Oh, my God," Yvonne whispered. "This weekend? That's only two days from now!"

"I'm not surprised," Brisson said. "They haven't found the prisoner, and at this point, they probably never will because he'll be able to change his face soon. And then there's Cavitt's hearing on Monday, and Major Lewis's hearing not long after. Ramey's probably afraid something's going to come out that will give away what's been going on here for the past three years."

"He's not the only one," Spade said. "The entire coalition made this decision. They don't want the president to find out what they've been hiding."

"But what about the ship?" Yvonne asked. "You can't hide something that big."

"Turns out that's been the cover all along," Spade explained. "The president knows about the ship; he just didn't know we had alien prisoners. Whenever questions have been posed about what's happening here, they've been pointing to the ship as the source of any rumors about alien prisoners, and Truman believed them."

"And if they destroy all the records, they can truly get away with all of this," Brisson said, shaking his head. "Incredible."

"So we're leaving," Yvonne repeated in wonder, as though she just couldn't believe it. "We're moving out of the compound."

"Everyone's being reassigned," Spade replied. "We'll move into barracks on the main base and be reassigned from there."

"And we'll all be threatened six ways to Sunday if we talk," Brisson added dryly.

"Even if someone talks, there won't be any evidence left," Spade pointed out. He paused a moment, looking at them both with a wide smile. "It's over, people. It's finally over."

"Thank God!" Yvonne exclaimed. "So where will you go, sergeant? Are you going to stay here, or ask to be reassigned?"

"I think I need a change of scenery, so I'll go for reassignment," Brisson said. "What about you?"

"I want to go to medical school," Yvonne answered.

"A lady doctor?" Brisson smiled. "You'd make a good one. What about you, captain?"

"I don't know," Spade admitted. "I'm still a little superstitious about making plans."

"Oh, come on, Stephen, it's over!" Yvonne said happily. "And not a moment too soon."

The door opened abruptly, and "Martha" glared at all of them. "Lieutenant, this is no place for visitors," she said severely, eyeing Spade as though she'd like to have him for lunch. "If you—"

"The captain was looking for me, and we were just leaving," Brisson interrupted smoothly. "Apologies—it was an emergency." Spade watched Yvonne give him a little wave as Brisson ushered him back through the ward with Martha close behind to make certain they didn't invade her space again.

"She doesn't scare me," Spade chuckled as Brisson steered him into the hallway. "I really didn't need a medic escort past the nasty nurse."

"That's not it," Brisson insisted as he pulled Spade into a nearby empty treatment room and closed the door. "We need to talk, and I didn't want to talk in front of the lieutenant. What about Pierce?"

"What about him?"

"Has anyone seen him? Has he contacted anyone?"

"Not that I know of," Spade said. "Ramey still has no idea where he is. Why?"

"I don't trust him, captain," Brisson answered. "If the compound truly is being dismantled, then you need to get Lieutenant White out of here right now."

"But....I thought you both destroyed all the alien reproductive cells," Spade said. "What could Pierce do to her now?"

"Nothing that I know of," Brisson admitted, "but I would feel a whole lot better if you got her out of here."

"Okay," Spade shrugged. "I'll talk to her about it, and once we're in barracks, maybe we can both resign our commissions and—"

"I don't mean next week," Brisson interrupted. "Get her out of here now."

"What—you mean today?" Spade said in astonishment. "You want me to spirit her off right this very minute?"

"You don't know how rabid Pierce was about what an excellent test subject the lieutenant made," Brisson argued. "I understand why he destroyed his own records so Lewis couldn't find them, and even why he skedaddled when the coalition took over. But what I can't understand is why he didn't come back right afterwards. That's just weird. It makes me think he has something else up his sleeve, a back-up plan, and that plan might very well include Lieutenant White. So I took the liberty of having these made up," he continued, withdrawing a plain white envelope from inside his lab coat. "Take them."

"What are they?" Spade asked.

"New identities for both of you," Brisson said. "Everything you'll need to become different people: Social Security cards, birth certificates, school records, and so on. It's all there. Everything I could find in each of your military files, just with new names. There's even a diploma and a transcript from the lieutenant's nursing school with her new name on it that she can use to apply to medical school."

"Where did you get these?" Spade asked.

"It doesn't matter," Brisson said. "I owe it to both of you."

"Look, I appreciate the effort, but I can't take those without talking to Yvonne first," Spade said. "This is huge, and I know she'll want to talk to you herself before she'd agree to—"

"Just take them," Brisson urged, holding out the envelope. "Keep them with you. I hope to God you don't have to use them, but I'd feel a lot better knowing you had them."

Spade shook his head. "No," he said firmly, going back out into the hall with a dismayed Brisson on his heels. "We need to talk about this first. If we're going undercover, that means we'd need a place to hide, we'd have to be careful about how we approached our families....that's a hornet's nest I didn't think we'd have to deal with now that the prisoner's gone."

"Believe me, I realize what an imposition this would be," Brisson said, trotting after Spade as he left the building. "I just don't think you realize the kind of danger the lieutenant might be in. He could come for her at any minute!"

"And do what with her?" Spade demanded. "If he—"

Spade stopped short; they had emerged at the back of the building which housed the infirmary, and in the distance, a group of men was walking through yet another back door into the building, two guards and a civilian. It was the civilian that had caught Spade's eye, a man in a dark overcoat, his hat pulled down, partly shading a face that was nevertheless familiar.

"Is that who I think it is?" Spade whispered as the trio disappeared into the building.

"Yes," Brisson breathed. "That was Pierce."

"What in blazes is he doing here now?" Spade demanded. "And why is he in civilian clothes?"

"I'm afraid to ask," Brisson said. "Forget him. Let's go get the lieutenant, and we'll all go back to the compound and inform the general that—captain! Wait!"

Brisson scrambled to catch up as Spade took off toward the far back door, determined to find out what Pierce was up to. When he reached the door, Pierce and the two guards were almost at the end of the hallway just inside, and he dimly heard Pierce say, "Split up. We need two stretchers; there should be some around here somewhere. We'll meet back in Room 116."

Room 116. The nearest room was 110; 116 should be close by. Pierce and company's footsteps died away as Spade crept quietly down the hall to Room 116, opened the door, and flipped on the light to find a wall full of square metal doors. It was a morgue.

"Captain!" Brisson gasped behind him, having finally caught up, "we shouldn't be in here! We need to get the lieutenant!"

"Trust me, that bastard won't touch her again, not if I have anything to say about it," Spade said darkly. "Besides, they're off getting stretchers; we have a few minutes. What's a morgue doing down here?"

"This is long term storage," Brisson expalined, "like if a soldier dies in the winter when the ground is frozen in various parts of the country and they have to wait to bury him. But what difference does it make? We should go now."

"What would Pierce want here?" Spade asked.

"Who cares?" Brisson said crossly. "We have bigger fish to fry! If—"

"Long term storage," Spade whispered, ignoring Brisson. "Two stretchers......"

A moment later, he was flinging open doors, not even stopping to think what he might find inside. What he found were coffin-sized boxes, sealed shut and bearing a name and date of death; the first was one "Spoto, Oliver, Pfc, 4/23/50". "What are you doing?" Brisson hissed. "Pierce is going to be back here any minute......."

Spade kept flinging doors open, moving methodically through each vertical row from bottom to top, then back down again, reading each name with a growing trepidation. It can't be, he thought as Brisson droned on beside him. It just can't be. Six doors later, he found out he was wrong.

"What?" Brisson demanded when Spade stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the name plate on the coffin inside the most recently opened door. "Do you know this 'Private West'? Who is he?"

Spade left West's door open and continued, fueled by a rage that grew with each opened door. Belmont was two rows down, just a level below West. "Captain, what is going on?" Brisson demanded. "Who are these people? Why—"

"Can we open these?" Spade interrupted.

Brisson stared at him. "Open what? The coffins? Not without a gas mask. These guys died in....whoa." He paused, gazing at the name plates. "They died in July of '47."

"I know," Spade said tersely. "I was there. Now, can anyone open these? Can anyone do an autopsy and find out how they died?"

"Sure," Brisson said, mystified. "But wasn't that determined back in '47?"

Spade slammed his fist against one of the closed doors, then leaned his head against it. "The night before the first alien was captured, West and Belmont were killed in their beds, supposedly by aliens," he said, his voice hoarse with anger. "Cavitt let me view them from a distance; they had silver handprints on their chests. I was so angry that I agreed to help capture the aliens. We caught the first one that night; I found him first, and when I did, I asked him why he'd murdered two people asleep in their beds. He said he hadn't. I went to the morgue and found the bodies....and the handprints were fake. Silver paint."

"Jesus," Brisson whispered. "That was before Pierce even got here, so it must have been—"

"Cavitt," Spade said furiously. "But I told Pierce about this, and he said he'd examined the bodies and found the fake handprints. He also said that when he went back to do more tests, the bodies had disappeared."

"A true statement," said a voice behind them. "What I didn't say was how they had disappeared."

Spade whirled around to find Pierce standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, casual as could be. "What are these doing here?" Spade demanded, feeling Brisson stiffen beside him. "You told me Cavitt took them!"

"I told you no such thing," Pierce said calmly, walking into the room. "I told you the truth—that the bodies were gone, and no one could tell me where they were. I left the rest blank, and allowed your own imagination to fill in those blanks."

"But why?" Spade persisted. "You could have autopsied them! You could have found out how they really died!"

"And I did," Pierce said. "They were poisoned, probably in their food and definitely by someone with medical knowledge. Which means the killer was likely one or both of the doctors who attended your viewing of the bodies, both of which were killed by aliens shortly thereafter."

"No," Spade said, shaking his head firmly. "There's more to it than that. Those doctors wouldn't have acted alone, and you wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to keep those autopsies and the bodies a secret unless you had a reason. Why?"

"It's very simple, captain," Pierce said. "Leverage."

" 'Leverage'?"

"I wasn't lying when I said that Colonel Cavitt couldn't be tied to these murders, if indeed they turned out to be murders," Pierce continued, walking closer as Brisson backed up until he bumped into the wall. "But the fact remains that these bodies would prompt some very uncomfortable questions. Uncomfortable enough to give me the upper hand, were they used judiciously."

Spade stared at Pierce, unable to believe his ears. "Do you mean to tell me that all this time, you've been using the bodies of my friends to blackmail Cavitt?"

" 'All this time'?" Pierce repeated, chuckling. "My goodness, no. Having leverage is very important, but even more important is knowing just the right moment to apply it. No, these sat here in obscurity until just recently when the shifting winds of command threatened my work. I made Sheridan aware of the fact that I had them in order to ensure his silence on a matter of importance to me."

Spade's throat tightened. "You mean Yvonne, don't you? You didn't want him to tell Lewis what you were up to."

Pierce's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed as they came to rest on a braced but defiant Brisson. "Sergeant," he said regretfully, "have you been leaking classified secrets? Are you letting your conscience get in the way of the work?"

"It's time someone did," Brisson said sharply. "And since you don't have one, that would have to be me."

"And me," Spade added grimly.

Pierce stumbled backwards as Spade lunged forward. "Don't," Brisson warned, struggling to hold Spade back. "Don't say another word. He can't know," he whispered, his back to Pierce. "He can't ever know what happened, or....." Or he'll know he succeeded, Spade finished, glaring at Pierce. If Pierce ever figured out that he'd actually managed to impregnate Yvonne with an alien-human hybrid, there would be no stopping him.

"Captain, please!" Pierce admonished, unaware of how close he'd come to discovering his own success. "Your paramour is unharmed, and your friends are dead and in no position to object to anything."

"I object!" Spade shouted as Brisson stepped between them once more. "You used Yvonne like a lab rat, you lied to me about my friends, and I—"

"Can prove none of it," Pierce said firmly. "You'll find no evidence of the former, and the latter involved private conversations between the two of us that I will, of course, deny ever having. Captain," he continued in a conciliatory tone when Spade flushed further, "don't bother. I'm much too good at this game to be caught. And so is Sheridan, for that matter. I wouldn't have gotten this far without your help."

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard!" Spade raged as Pierce backed up in alarm. "I'm going to lay out every sordid thing you've done right under Ramey's nose! And you're wrong—I do have evidence. I have these," he said, indicating the bodies, "and I have him."

Pierce's eyebrows rose. "I see. Well...." He sighed deeply, as though terribly disappointed. "It appears I was mistaken. I thought I'd destroyed all the evidence....but I missed one important piece." As he spoke, Pierce pulled his hand out of his pocket....

.....and shot Brisson in the chest at point blank range.

"No!" Spade shouted as Brisson fell backwards into the wall, a red stain spreading over his uniform, a red smear trailing behind as he slid down to the floor wearing a glassy expression. Spade heard Pierce's pounding footsteps running out of the building as he knelt beside Brisson, lowering him to the ground as he bunched up the lower end of Brisson's lab coat and used it to apply pressure to the wound. "Holy shit," Spade breathed, feeling his stomach turn as blood soaked the lab coat a dark, dangerous shade of red. "Oh my God....I'm going to go get help. There should be a phone nearby. I—"

Brisson reached up and grabbed Spade by the collar. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Get her. Get her away from him. Go."

"I can't just leave you here!" Spade exclaimed. "Yvonne is in public; she'll be fine for a few more minutes."

"No!" Brisson objected, causing a coughing fit that left him spitting up blood. "He's.....going for her. Doesn't know.....where she is. You do. Get there.....first." He let go of Spade's collar, his hand flopping on the unwounded side of his chest. "Take....papers. Run.....don't stop."

"But—" Spade began.

"Run!" Brisson hissed, the effort clearing costing him dearly. "Run while you.....have the chance. While she....has the chance."

Spade hesitated for a long moment before reaching into Brisson's coat pocket and plucking out the envelope of fake identification papers. "I'll send someone back for you," he promised. "And I'll get her away. Far away."

"Go!" Brisson whispered, his eyes closing. "Go!"

Spade flew into the hallway, which was deserted; the "long-term storage morgue" wasn't exactly in a well trafficked area. A moment later, he spotted the answer. "Thanks, Carver," he muttered, pulling the fire alarm just like Carver had the night the alien hybrids had been rescued. The bell clanged loudly as Spade bolted out of the building, heading back through the door from which he and Brisson had originally exited after talking to Yvonne, running down the hallways, dodging excited personnel as everyone scrambled to answer the alarm. Panting, he reached the ward where Yvonne was working and froze: Pierce was already there, talking calmly to that doorstop of a nurse, Martha, as though he hadn't just shot a man in cold blood. Now what? Spade thought frantically, unsure of how to get past Pierce without being seen.

"Stephen!" said a voice behind him. "What's going on? Is there a fire? Are—"

Yvonne never finished her sentence; Spade grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the nearest door, the stack of sheets she'd been holding spilling to the floor. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here," Spade said grimly. "Don't stop, don't look back—just run."



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


I'll post Chapter 148 next Sunday.

I can't believe Pierce is back... and he shot Brisson... with a witness. But obviously he thinks he'll get away with it.

Okay, I did smile at Cavitt's discomfiture with his cell life...

"Hello again!" came a cheerful voice. A moment later Alan McMahon reappeared, smiling as always. "Well, look at that!" he exclaimed when he saw Dodie and Cavitt facing each other from their respective cells. "Glad to see you boys gettin' along."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Cavitt exclaimed in exasperation. "Do the world a favor and step in front of a speeding bus, would you?"

"He'll walk now," Dodie argued. "You just watch. He'll wiggle out of this somehow."

"There were numerous witnesses to the kidnapping," Wilcox said, "and the victim is pressing charges."

"He'll intimidate her," Dodie insisted. "He'll find a way to make her back down."

Wilcox broke into a laugh. "He'd have better luck trying to move the proverbial mountain. No, I assure you this victim will be there even if the trial is held on the moon. 'Intimidated' isn't in her vocabulary."

True! Providing she gets the chance. And provided that Jaddo doesn't take care of the problem first. I think Jaddo is going to solve their Pierce problem. That should be a delightful scene!

"Try 'infuriated' me," Jaddo corrected sharply.

"—at a time when I needed you calm and focused," Brivari finished. "I handled the situation. The Healer recovered completely."

"And Pierce walked away," Jaddo said tersely. "But Cavitt remains within reach. I don't care how long it takes me, I will make Pierce and Cavitt pay for what they did to both me and the Healer. Now, I will ask you again—where is he?"

"Jaddo—"

"Where is he?"

The two stared at each other in tense silence for a moment before Brivari answered. "He is being held in a civilian facility not far from here."

Jaddo's eyes widened. "He's not at the base?"

Great chapter, Kathy!

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

Island Breeze wrote:Okay, I did smile at Cavitt's discomfiture with his cell life...

*Sigh* Cavitt. In a cell. Having to pee in full view of Dodie.

*Sigh*

*Smiles happily.*





CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-EIGHT


Three days later

June 18, 1950, 1700 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




General Ramey fed another clutch of papers into the shredder, cranking the handle as he did so, pushing harder as the shredder's teeth bit into the paper. There was surprisingly little written evidence of what had happened in the compound these past three years. Wary of discovery, the coalition had usually opted for discreetly worded phone calls and face-to-face meetings instead of a paper trail which could be followed. The military saw the compound as the home base for the men who studied and guarded the alien ship and the artifacts which had been removed from it, something everyone who was anyone knew about. Only a handful knew that one of those "artifacts" had been a living, breathing alien, hidden away in the basement behind layers of security so deep that alarm bells would go off in several quarters if anyone tried to penetrate them. But no one ever had; no one of any consequence had ever guessed what had really transpired here. Ironically it was the general public, with their endless tales about the government harboring alien prisoners, who had come closest to the truth. Still, a determined investigator would find some interesting tidbits in some of the supply requisitions and other paperwork left behind in the wake of the prisoner's escape, so it was best that all of them were destroyed.

And good riddance, Ramey thought as he reached for another stack of papers. The alien had been gone over a week now, long enough that the serum should have worn off, allowing him to change his shape and remain at large. Ramey's continuing misgivings about that escape were balanced by the enormous satisfaction of having prevented what he considered a cold-blooded murder and having brought some very ambitious men who did not have this country's best interests at heart to their knees, all while remaining in firm command of what was left of the compound with the coalition's blessing. General McMullen was deeply embarrassed that his own bad calls had resulted in the loss of the prisoner—or so it seemed—and had offered not a shred of resistance to Ramey's command. Major Lewis remained in custody on charges of battery against Lieutenant White and failure to follow the orders of a superior officer, and Lieutenant Colonel Cavitt would answer to a laundry list of charges at his hearing tomorrow. Ramey was confident that both Lewis and Cavitt would receive dishonorable discharges, so all that remained to mop up this mess was to reassign the personnel stationed here, close up the compound, and keep shredding.

"Sir?"

"There you are, Corporal," Ramey said to Thompson. "Right on time. I've been looking forward to this. Shall we?"

"Sir, you might want to wait on that," Thompson answered. "You wanted to be notified the moment Sergeant Brisson regained consciousness. The doctor says he's awake."

Five minutes later Ramey hurried into the infirmary on the basement level, eager to solve one of the last riddles on his list. One of the base doctors met him at the door; behind him stood one of the base nurses, assigned to Brisson around the clock. "How is he?" Ramey asked.

"Still extremely weak," the doctor answered. "He's lost a lot of blood."

"But he's awake, so that's good, right?"

"He's barely conscious," the doctor qualified. "Don't expect to get much out of him."

"Understood," Ramey said. "Leave us."

The doctor and nurse obediently stepped into the hall, leaving Thompson and Ramey alone. Brisson lay in bed looking anything but conscious, thick bandages swathing his chest, his skin as pale as the sheets he was lying on. "Sergeant?" Ramey said gently, laying a hand on Brisson's, alarmed at how cold it was. "Sergeant? Are you awake?"

Brisson's eyes fluttered open and stared at the ceiling, unfocused. "Sergeant Brisson?" Ramey tried again. "This is General Ramey. Can you hear me?"

Ramey's name seemed to pull Brisson back from wherever he was; he jerked slightly as though startled, then turned his head toward Ramey. "Where...." he croaked, then fell silent.

"Get him some water," Ramey instructed Thompson, who scurried out of the room. "You're in the infirmary in the compound, son," he continued to Brisson. "You were attacked. Shot in the chest. Can you tell us who did this to you?"

Thompson reappeared with a cup of water and a straw. Ramey sat on the edge of the Brisson's bed, holding the cup while Brisson took what appeared to be painful swallows of water. But it had the desired effect; Brisson's voice was much clearer when he spoke again.

"Spade," he rasped.

Ramey blinked; Thompson's eyes widened. "Are you saying Captain Spade is the one who shot you?" Ramey asked.

Brisson shook his head slightly. "No. Where.....Spade....."

Ramey and Thompson exchanged glances. "We don't know where Captain Spade is, sergeant. We were hoping you would. Here's what we do know: Three days ago on Thursday morning, Captain Spade was reported entering an infirmary ward where you and Lieutenant White were on duty. He left the ward with you just a few minutes later while Lieutenant White remained behind. Approximately twenty minutes later someone tripped the fire alarm on the bottom floor of Building 7353, near one of the morgues. You were found on the floor with a gunshot wound to the chest. No one has seen Captain Spade or Lieutenant White since then."

Brisson had listened to this recital in tense silence, one hand clutching his injured chest, the other wrapped around a fistful of sheet. As soon as Ramey finished, both hands relaxed and his eyes closed. "Sergeant, where are they?" Ramey pressed.

"Gone," Brisson whispered, smiling.

"We know they're gone," Ramey said patiently, "but gone where? You don't seem surprised they're gone. Do you know where they went?"

Brisson's head moved slowly from side to side. "No," he said, still smiling. "Just gone."

Stymied, Ramey glanced at Thompson, who looked every bit as confused as Ramey. "Sergeant, who shot you?" Ramey asked, trying a different tack. "The doctor says you were shot at point blank range, so you must have seen your attacker."

For a moment, Ramey thought Brisson had gone back to sleep; he lay unmoving, his eyes closed, seeming not to have heard. A second later, he answered the question.

"Pierce."

"Dr. Pierce shot you?" Ramey said in astonishment.

Brisson nodded, his eyes fluttering open again. "Found.....bodies.....found.....Spade......"

"You were in a room full of bodies," Ramey said, "so I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific. "Who found which bodies?"

But Brisson appeared to be spent; his head rolled sideways, and he didn't answer. Ramey sent Thompson for the doctor, who came hurrying back inside.

"That's enough for now," the doctor said. "He's exhausted."

"Will he be all right?" Ramey asked.

"Hard to say," the doctor replied. "His wound is severe. Was he able to tell you anything?"

"He certainly was," Ramey said in consternation. "He says that Lieutenant Colonel Pierce shot him."

"Good Lord," the doctor breathed.

"But no one's reported having seen Pierce since he disappeared," Ramey said. "So how could he get onto the base and shoot someone without anyone noticing?"

"Maybe in disguise," Thompson said slowly, consulting a sheaf of notes on a clipboard. "The head nurse at the infirmary did say that an unknown civilian man asked for Lieutenant White just before she was discovered missing."

"You think that might have been Pierce?" Ramey asked. "But wouldn't someone have recognized him?"

"They may not have," the doctor admitted. "Pierce spent little time in the infirmary, and civilian doctors often do some training there. He could have made a brief appearance as a civilian doctor with none the wiser. Did Sergeant Brisson happen to say why Pierce would have attacked him?"

"Something about finding bodies," Ramey said. "Corporal, when you examined the scene of the crime, did you find anything unusual about the bodies stored there?"

"Only that two of the crypt doors were open," Thompson said. "But the.....'contents' were undisturbed, so we just closed them."

"Which two crypts were open?" the doctor asked.

Thompson rifled through his notes again. "A Private West and a Private Belmont. Died July 9—"

"....1947," Ramey finished heavily.

"Do you know them, sir?" Thompson asked.

Unfortunately, Ramey thought, recalling that day three years ago when a naïve and very indignant Lieutenant Spade had accused then Major Cavitt of murdering two men and planting fake silver handprints to make it look like the fault of aliens, and how subsequent investigation revealed that the bodies had disappeared with unusual speed, supposedly cremated. Apparently not.

"Doctor, I want immediate autopsies on Privates West and Belmont," Ramey said. "Do them alone and do them here, in the compound. Bring the results directly to me, and make certain you discuss none of this with anyone."

"Yes, sir," the doctor said, mystified, as Ramey swept out of the room with Thompson on his heels, stopping only when they were a good ways away from the infirmary.

"Corporal, do you have any idea where Captain Spade and Lieutenant White went?"

Thompson swallowed. "No, sir, I don't."

"Has either one of them contacted you?"

"No, sir," Thompson repeated. "The last time I saw the captain was Thursday morning, in the briefing where you ordered the compound shut down."

"This doesn't make any sense," Ramey sighed. "If I've learned anything at all about Captain Spade, it's that he's not one to run from trouble. If he discovered what I think he did, he should have been chomping at the bit to tell me. Why would he run? Why would the lieutenant run?"

"Do you want me to list the captain and the lieutenant as AWOL, sir?" Thompson asked.

Ramey considered a moment before shaking his head. "No. Not yet. Not until I figure out what's going on. Brisson might be able to tell us more when he's had some more rest. Let's continue with our earlier task. I'm badly in need of some good news."

Thompson and Ramey continued down the main hall and into one of the smaller side hallways until they stopped in front of the prisoner's room. There was a gaping hole where the door to the observation room had been before it had been cut away when the prisoner's rescuers had sealed it. Thompson slid open the door to the cell and turned on the lights in both rooms; both were completely empty.

"Is everything gone?" Ramey asked, glancing inside the observation room.

"Yes, sir. All the recording devices are gone, and the tapes and film destroyed."

Ramey stepped inside the cell, the blinding white tile grating on his nerves like it always did. This room had been almost habitable when furnished; now it looked like an operating room, which was all Lewis had ever intended it to be.

"I hate this room," Ramey said, his foosteps echoing off the white walls. "I have a sneaking suspicion it mirrors the state of Major Lewis' mind: Colorless, cold, and empty."

"I'd have to agree with you there, sir," Thompson said quietly.

Ramey and Thompson walked back into the hallway, and Ramey watched as Thompson closed the cell, the door sliding seamlessly into the wall. "Seal these rooms," Ramey ordered. "Fill in the doorways with regular tile and have the grout reapplied to the entire wall so no one can tell there's anything at all behind this wall. Very few knew of its existence, and I understand the Army doesn't have an immediate use for this facility. With luck, everyone will just forget it's here."

"You think someone will try to use it, sir?" Thompson asked.

"I know someone would try to use it," Ramey corrected, "which is why it has to disappear. I don't ever want to see anyone locked up in that room again."



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


Copper Summit, Arizona




"What happened here?" Malik whispered.

Brivari said nothing as the two of them walked slowly into the hidden chamber in the basement of the house in Copper Summit. Two piles of dust lay on the floor in very suggestive shapes; nearby, a communicator sat atop a blackened workbench. Amar's workbench.

"I believe we have found Orlon and Marana," Brivari said as he squatted beside one pile of dust, its silhouetted "hand" outstretched as though the body had fallen suddenly to the floor.

"Amar said he'd rigged the communicator so they wouldn't be able to call home," Malik said, "but what could he have done to cause this? Some kind of booby trap when they tried to activate it?"

Brivari turned his attention to the communicator. "Ingenious," he murmured.

"What?" Malik demanded. "What'd he do?"

"Ionizing radiation," Brivari answered. "The holographic imager uses a form of ionizing radiation. Properly applied, ionizing radiation can destroy organic tissue while leaving non-organics largely intact."

"So he killed them without blowing up the entire house?"

"It would have had to have been a very limited, precisely defined blast to do this little physical damage," Brivari noted. "They would have had to have been very close to the communicator in order for it to work properly."

"And they would have been," Malik said, "because they would have been watching a hologram."

"Exactly," Brivari said. "As I said: Ingenious. Amar has outdone himself."

"Right," Malik sighed, inspecting the guts of the communicator. "I don't suppose there's any way to find out who they were contacting, is there? I'm only an engineer when it comes to simple human technology."

"The imager is destroyed, of course, but the rest is not," Brivari said. "Give me a moment."

Brivari worked on the communicator as Malik wandered around the room, avoiding things at every turn. Avoiding the piles of dust on the floor, one of which belonged to someone he used to consider a friend. Avoiding the lower level, with its memories of murdered emergents. Avoiding going back upstairs because he didn't want to face the memories he'd encounter up there. This house was not liveable for him anymore. There were too many shadows.

A crackling noise sounded from behind him. "I think I have at least partially restored audio," Brivari said. "Listen carefully; the quality will be poor, and I may not be able to replay it."

The crackling grew louder, then lessened to the level of background static. And barely audible over that static was a very familiar voice.

"Hello, Orlon."

Amar. Malik felt a lump in his throat as he realized that this was probably the last time he would hear Amar's voice. Funny how something one used to find so irritating could be missed so much.

"Since you've initiated a communication, I'm going to guess that I'm not with you. That's a safe bet, because if I were with you, I would have disabled this message myself before you discovered it. So now I'm left to wonder why I'm not there."

"He knew," Brivari said softly.

"I suppose it's possible that I've met with some kind of accident," Amar's voice continued as they listened hard, the crackling threatening to drown out every other word or so. "But I think it's far more likely that you double-crossed me. That's another safe bet because you lied to me about the emergents. As much as I hate Brivari, I know he didn't kill them—you did."

Malik glanced at Brivari, wondering how he would react to that bald statement. But Brivari's eyes were locked on the communicator, as though watching it would somehow make it more intelligible.

"And since I know you lied to me once, you could certainly lie to me again. If Marana and Malik didn't surprise Brivari trying to kill the emergents, they must have surprised you....and you killed them both, didn't you? You killed the only reason I agreed to work for the Argilians in the first place, the scientist who could have helped them, and the only friend I ever had. You bastard." Amar's voice paused before continuing. "So whatever you did to get rid of me. I still get the last word. I intend to make you very, very unhappy that you ever decided to tangle with me."

"I believe he accomplished his intention, and then some," Brivari murmured.

"Remember that little chat you had with Athenor last year, where he admitted having ordered the deaths of the Royal Four? I saved that transmission. As soon as you activated the communicator, it was sent directly to Khivar. So now he knows exactly who killed his precious Vilandra, not to mention who's working with the one who killed her. Oh, and I made certain to send it in your name so that Athenor will think you're the one who ratted him out. You just lost your sponsor. Congratulations."

Brivari broke into a wide smile. "Excellent," he said with satisfaction as Malik gaped at the communicator, wishing he could have been a fly on the wall back home to see what reaction that news had provoked on Antar.

"I'd love to be there when Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever he plans to call himself gets there, assuming Khivar lets him live. I'd love to see what he'd do to you. But I apparently can't be there, and I'm willing to bet you'll run anyway. And that just won't do. So take this from the three of us. A parting gift from your victims." Another pause. "Goodbye, Orlon."

Amar's voice stopped, replaced by static. Brivari waited a full minute before shutting off the communicator. "Once again, ingenious," he said, sounding downright impressed. "I could have thought of no better rebuke myself. Who is this 'Nicholas'?"

"That's apparently what Athenor intends to call himself when he arrives here," Malik explained. "He didn't want any Covari but Orlon to know his true identity, so he told Orlon in private what his human name would be."

"And now we know, assuming he still intends to use it," Brivari said. "And there is no need to move the hybrids. Marana never had the chance to transmit their location." He set the gutted communicator down. "We should check the lower level one more time."

Malik hesitated before following Brivari to the lower basement level, in no hurry to see that again. The room still looked like the furies had swept through, with every tank shattered and dried pools of gestational fluid everywhere.

"So I supposedly did all this," Brivari remarked as he picked his way through the mess. "I'd like to think I'd have been less dramatic."

"But you would have killed them if you'd found them, wouldn't you?" Malik asked.

"You know perfectly well that the crown has sole authority to produce our people," Brivari replied.

"That wasn't an answer."

Brivari paused, turning to face him. "Yes, I would have killed them. Although it would hardly have been necessary. Sabotage or no sabotage, it is highly unlikely that any of this small a cohort would have survived their first shift. I remember the days before Zan and his father. You don't." He turned away, resuming his trek through the room. "Not so much as a speck of dust," he continued. "I believe you are right—it must have been Amar who performed the dispersal. I can't imagine either Orlon or Marana bothering."

"He did care about these," Malik agreed. "Perhaps the only thing he really cared about."

"He cared about more than these," Brivari said.

"How would you know what Amar cared about?" Malik said sharply.

"I have eyes," Brivari answered levelly. "He cared about you."

Silence. Malik said nothing, didn't trust his voice to reply. "A pity what happened to Amar's dust," Brivari continued. "Jaddo tells me the priest disposed of it by accident."

"And why would you consider that a 'pity'? Wouldn't you find that a fitting end for a rogue?"

"I had planned to give it to you," Brivari replied.

"Me?" Malik echoed. "You would have given it to me, even knowing what I would do with it?"

"As the King's Warder, I cannot willingly participate in the dispersal of a traitor. But were that to happen without my knowledge....well.....then there would be nothing I could do about it, would there?"

Malik watched Brivari in shock as he continued to inspect the room. To have not one, but both Royal Warders grant Amar any kind of dispensation was nothing short of astounding. Did this charity mean they planned to keep him alive now that Jaddo had recovered, or did their largesse only apply to those who actually lost their lives while repaying their debt? Malik had originally intended to leave the very moment Jaddo was capable of defending himself....but something had held him back. Maybe it was the fear of being alone. Maybe it was hope, after watching Rath's famously testy Warder hand over a rogue's dust in apparent defiance of the King's Warder. Maybe it was prudence, just in case Orlon and Marana had survived. He had been watching both Warders carefully for any change in demeanor, any sign of what they intended to do with him, without success.

"I have finished," Brivari announced abruptly. Malik followed him up the stairs and out into the basement where he placed his hand on the wall after the door had rumbled closed behind them.

"What are you doing?" Malik asked.

"Sealing this wall," Brivari answered. "It is important that all traces of our presence here be extinguished and this house be occupied when the Argilians arrive, and now no human will ever find this chamber unless the dwelling is literally demolished. How does one go about the transfer of property in human society?"

"We need something called a 'real estate agent'," Malik replied as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. "Fortunately, the house is in my name, so I can sell it."

"Meaning?"

"The deed, the piece of paper which confers ownership, has my name on it...my human name, that is," Malik explained. "I'll need that to sell the house."

"Currency transactions are so cumbersome," Brivari sighed. "Very well, then—do whatever needs doing to transfer ownership. If—"

He stopped short, having swung open the front door to find a very startled Mrs. Rahn standing on the front porch. "Carl!" she exclaimed, looking back and forth from Malik to Brivari. "You're back! And.....I know you," she added, peering at Brivari. "You're the business associate who visited on Halloween a few years ago."

Malik suppressed a smile. Business associate? That was hardly an apt description of Brivari's purpose here that evening, but then he would have had to tell the neighbors something. Brivari, for his part, hadn't batted an eyelash. "I am indeed," he said courteously to Mrs. Rahn, giving her a slight bow. "And you are the gracious lady who offered me hospitality while I waited. Once again, I thank you."

"Oh, it was nothing," Mrs. Rahn said with a smile, flushing at the praise while Malik marveled at how Brivari had deftly deflected attention away from himself by flattering Mrs. Rahn. "We look out for each other here, and the children were worried. But Carl, where have you been? Tom came over a week ago with a very disturbing story—"

"Wait," Malik broke in. "Tom went to your house?"

"Why, yes. He said you'd be out of town for awhile, and asked me to pick up your newspapers and mail—I have them in my kitchen. And he said—" here Mrs. Rahn leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper "—he said that there'd been a death in the family, that someone had been murdered! Is that true?"

"Yes," Malik said, still reeling from the notion that Amar had not only voluntarily initiated contact with their neighbors, but had actually held a conversation and come up with an essentially factual ruse. " I'm afraid it is."

"Oh, how awful!" Mrs. Rahn exclaimed. "Did they catch whoever did it?"

"Yes, they did," Malik answered, thinking of the piles of dust lying on the floor downstairs

"I'm so glad to hear that," Mrs. Rahn said, patting his hand. "I'll bet your relative lived in a big city, didn't they? I tell you, it's scary in those cities these days," she continued without waiting for an answer. "That's why Bill and I stay out here, where everyone knows each other, and each other's business. I know that can be annoying at times, but it does mean that something awful like that could never happen here without someone knowing."

"Right," Malik nodded, wondering what Mrs. Rahn would think if she were to discover that an entire contingent of aliens had been murdered next door. "Well....it looks like Tom and I will be moving," he continued. "We'll need to sell the house. Any idea who we should talk to?"

"Moving?" Mrs. Rahn exclaimed. "Was that why someone was here last week? But there's no sign out."

"You saw someone here?"

"Last Monday morning," Mrs. Rahn nodded. "Two people in the living room. I thought you and Tom were back, so I brought over a pie, but no one answered."

"I'm sorry," Malik said smoothly. "We must have left by then. We were....getting the house ready to sell."

"The children will be so upset that you're leaving," Mrs. Rahn fussed. "And so will I, of course. You've been such a good neighbor. Even Tom seemed to be coming around. He was quite upset that day he visited, nowhere near as standoffish as he usually is. He was almost human. But," she continued, unaware of the irony of that last comment, "if that's what you've decided, then you'll need some help, of course. We were just about to have dinner—why don't you join us? There's a wonderful realtor two streets over, and Bill could help you spruce up the house a bit before showing it, and....where did you say you were moving?"

*Don't answer that,* Brivari ordered telepathically.

"We haven't decided yet," Malik answered, throwing Brivari an annoyed look. "We'll be....staying with relatives until we decide."

"That will save you the balancing act between selling one house and buying another," Mrs. Rahn said cheerfully. "Oh, here I am chattering away while you're probably starving, and we can talk about all this over dinner! Won't you join us, Mr....Mr....I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name?"

"I have business elsewhere, so I'm afraid I must decline yet another gracious invitation," Brivari answered. "A pity, because I hear your culinary skills are unsurpassed. Perhaps Carl could bring me a sample?"

"Oh, please!" Mrs. Rahn gushed, nonetheless obviously delighted. "I'm just a meat and potatoes cook. Nothing fancy. But of course I'd be happy to send some home with Carl. Shall we? Bill will be wondering if I've fallen off the face of the Earth."

"Why don't you go back and set his mind at ease," Malik suggested. "I'll be over in a few minutes."

*Such a talker,* Brivari observed as Mrs. Rahn trundled back to her house, *and such a good memory. I'd completely forgotten that some here had seen me in this form years ago.*

*Nice the way you got out of giving her a name,* Malik said dryly. *And it wasn't necessary to remind me that I shouldn't leave a trail of breadcrumbs for the Argilians to follow. Besides, I couldn't answer her anyway. I have no idea where I'm going, or if it's even worth making plans.* He paused, ultimately deciding to take the plunge and settle the issue once and for all. *Marana insisted you'd kill me just as soon as Jaddo recovered.*

Brivari gave him a level stare. *Since Jaddo was fully recovered yesterday, it would appear I am tardy....and I am never tardy.*

*Does this mean you believe me about how Zan and his father broke faith with us?* Malik pressed.

Brivari descended the porch steps, ignoring him. *What changed your mind?* Malik persisted, having decided that the only plausible answer was "yes". *What made you believe me?*

*I never said I believed you,* Brivari replied sharply. *You have an uncanny ability to gauge when to approach and when to hang back, Malik. That you're not using it now is something of a mystery to me.*

So you do believe me, Malik thought, careful to keep the triumph off his face. He was extremely curious about what could have changed the King's Warder's mind on such an explosive subject, but whatever had, Brivari obviously didn't want to talk about it. So be it; the fact that he believed was enough. *All right, then,* Malik said, returning to the previous subject. *I'll find a place in Roswell. I can probably earn a living there the same way I did here. Where are you and Jaddo going to live?*

*I am not sure. I doubt Jaddo has thought that far ahead yet. I know I haven't.*

*Where is Jaddo?* Malik asked. *I thought he was going to come with us today.*

Brivari sighed as though the answer to that question was a sore point. *I am unsure of that as well, although I have my suspicions. And as I mentioned earlier, if something were to happen without my knowledge....there is nothing I can do about it.*



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


7:30 p.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station



"Make it snappy," Sheriff Wilcox said, unlocking Cavitt's cell door. "Visiting hours ended half an hour ago."

"I know—I'm sorry," Major Allen said. "But the Colonel does have a very important hearing tomorrow, and as his defense attorney, it's imperative that we be prepared."

"Don't see why you couldn't 'prepare' before 7 p.m." Wilcox observed.

"Don't worry, sheriff," Cavitt said in a steely tone. "After tomorrow, I'll no longer be here to annoy you."

"Colonel, your very existence annoys me," Wilcox said casually. "Fifteen minutes," he added to Major Allen, locking the cell door behind him. "No more."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Allen said as Wilcox walked off.

"Why do you suck up to that idiot every single time you're here?" Cavitt demanded.

"I thought I made it clear that the sheriff will be testifying at your hearing, colonel," Allen retorted. "He'll be speaking not only to the events of the night of June 9, but your demeanor while you've been here. Baiting him is a very bad idea." Allen slapped his briefcase down on the cot and snapped the latches open. "At least you took my advice and cleaned yourself up. The sheriff has meticulous records of your refusing personal hygiene, and you want to present yourself as a polished, professional military officer, not a sullen, disheveled—"

"I believe you've made your point," Cavitt interrupted. "Fortunately, we don't have time for sermons. What did you learn?"

Allen sat down on the cot, while Cavitt remained standing. "Your magistrate will be Judge Price, a man renowned for both his adherence to the letter of the law and his fairness."

"Fairness to whom?" Cavitt asked.

Allen blinked. "To everyone, colonel. To all parties involved. That's what 'fairness' means."

"You're my defense attorney, not my dictionary," Cavitt said severely. "What does this mean for my case?"

"Good news and bad," Allen admitted. "The good news is that most of the charges against you don't have enough evidence to support them. The bad news is that the ones that do will stick like glue. One doesn't weasel around Judge Price. So—I propose the following strategy. Regarding the matter of the reporter, deny everything. Your name isn't connected with that event in any way save for the word of Captain Dodie. The prosecution will trot him out to tell his story as a character assassination, but there isn't a shred of evidence to connect you to anything he'll say concerning her death. So as far as you know, you never told him to retrieve anything from the reporter and Dodie never informed you of any accident. It's his word against yours."

"Understood," Cavitt said.

"Regarding Mrs. Proctor's injuries, no one saw you strike her, so there's no way to prove it was you who caused them. Once again, deny doing it. Mrs. Proctor will say otherwise, of course, but it will be her word against yours. For all anyone knows, her own husband could have beat her."

"Excellent," Cavitt commented.

"Regarding the bodies of Privates West and Belmont, their autopsies revealed they had both been poisoned. Both also bore a strange mark on their chests, a handprint formed from silver paint. Both men were under your command, but both death certificates were signed by a physician now deceased. Again, deny any knowledge you may have or anything beyond what is on those death certificates."

"What about Captain Spade?" Cavitt asked. "Have you heard anything about his testimony?"

Major Allen hesitated. "In a manner of speaking. The captain won't be testifying."

Cavitt's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? Why not?"

"I was informed only today that Captain Spade has been AWOL for the past week, ever since surprising Dr. Pierce at the base. And he's not the only one—a Lieutenant...." Allen grabbed a folder and leafed throught it "....White is also AWOL, having disappeared at the same time. Their whereabouts, along with Dr. Pierce's, are unknown."

Cavitt sat down on the end of the cot furthest from Allen. "A pity," he murmured. "Such a promising officer with such misplaced priorities. But this is good news, right? He won't be available to testify."

"True," Allen allowed, "but remember Spade was accompanied by one Deputy James Valenti. Valenti will be testifying, and supposedly saw everything Spade saw. Corporal Walker has agreed to testify that you bribed him to conceal your whereabouts in exchange for the court-martial against him being dropped. And you ignored the guards at the base entry checkpoint, both of whom will testify against you, not to mention—"

"Yes, yes, I get the point," Cavitt interrupted. "There are too many witnesses to silence. So what do I do?"

Allen removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Sir, I realize the Army is sitting on something here. A soldier went AWOL the night of June 9, supposedly with the intent to turn over some extremely sensitive information to the communists, but I can find precisely nothing about the identity of this soldier. I have no idea what these weird silver handprints mean, or why I reach dead ends within just a few steps of any road I go down. But given what little I do know and the number of witnesses, my advice would be to claim that you ignored General Ramey's orders because you believed a foothold situation was underway at the base, and that command had been compromised by communist sympathizers."

"I didn't say that in my deposition," Cavitt noted.

"I know," Allen said, "but that deposition was given immediately after you recovered from sedation. You could say that you still weren't sure whether or not command had been compromised. Having subsequently learned that it was not, you are now ready to ammend your earlier statement."

"And the judge will buy that?"

Allen sighed. "I'm not sure. But it's the only viable excuse I can think of. How else to explain why you ignored your CO's orders several times in rapid succession? No judge will be willing to overlook that, but we might be able to throw enough doubt on the subject that the judge will look to the prosecution for further background, background I don't think anyone will be willing to provide because it will entail airing what appears to be unbelievably dirty laundry that goes far up the chain of command. Absent supporting evidence, the judge may well be willing to go easier on you. Maybe even—and this is a big 'maybe'—let you off with minimal jail time."

" 'Minimal'?" Cavitt echoed. "What do you mean, 'minimal'?"

"A year, maybe two," Allen replied. "If you're lucky."

"Lucky?" Cavitt exclaimed angrily. "Lucky? How is being locked up for two years 'lucky'? You're supposed to get me out of jail, not sit back and shrug that's there's no way to avoid it!"

"Look, colonel, I'm doing the best I can!" Allen retorted. "But as I said, there's no denying that you willfully disobeyed orders. And even if command doesn't want to come clean about what those orders were regarding, the fact remains that you did disobey orders, and there is a penalty for that."

"What's the point of all this 'denying' if I wind up in jail anyway?" Cavitt snapped.

"I'm not a magician," Allen said impatiently, tossing the folder he was holding down on his briefcase. "I can't make your transgressions—or your sentence—disappear. The best I can do is get it reduced as much as possible. But if that's not good enough for you, if you'd rather not hear any more from me, I'll just be on my way, and tomorrow we can watch the chips fall where they may."

Cavitt hesitated a moment, glaring at Allen. "Continue," he said sullenly.

"All right, then," Allen said. "Besides 'denying', you'll have to be very careful to present yourself properly. Go in there with the attitude you just showed me, and Price will slap you in jail so fast, your clusters will be waving in the breeze. When it's your turn on the stand, I recommend you make a formal apology to General Ramey, the Army, hell, everyone and their mother, and present yourself as a patriot who was trying to combat what you feared was infiltration of the base. Point out that you've been ordered not to elaborate, putting the burden of elaboration on command. Stress that in this day and age, we can't afford to take chances with situations like that. Make everyone's fear of the communists work for you. Do you think you can do that?"

"Of course I can do that," Cavitt said impatiently. "I wouldn't have gotten this far if I didn't know how to lie."

"So I noticed," Allen said dryly. "I'll be back tomorrow at 0700 sharp. Wear your dress uniform. Oh, and—"

"Time's up," called Sheriff Wilcox, reappearing outside the cell and unlocking it.

"We're not finished," Cavitt said tersely.

"Oh, yes you are," Wilcox assured him. "Good night, Major Allen."

Allen hesitated for just a moment before nodding reluctantly and gathering up his things. "I'll be back at 0700 tomorrow morning to collect the colonel," he told Wilcox.

"I can't wait," Wilcox smiled. "Really. I can't."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Cavitt demanded as Wilcox relocked the cell. "Abusing me must be one of your fondest dreams. Tell me, what will you do to amuse yourself when I'm gone, sheriff?"

Wilcox raised his eyebrows. "Jesus Christ Almighty. And just when I thought you couldn't be a bigger pompous ass than you already are. FYI, colonel? The day will never come when you're important enough to be anywhere near one of my 'fondest dreams'. Don't flatter yourself."

Cavitt snorted as Wilcox stalked off, shaking his head in disbelief. A full week of this nonsense had been almost unbearable. What with that crybaby Dodie, that Deputy McMahon with the IQ of a squirrel, and that insufferably smug sheriff, it was a wonder he hadn't lost his mind. And now the icing on the cake was the certain knowledge that he was going to jail no matter what. And here he'd only been trying to rid the country of a dangerous creature who posed a threat to every man, women, and child out there. Some thanks this was.

"Idiots, all of them," Cavitt muttered as he began unbuttoning his shirt. He'd best get to bed early; he needed to be sharp for tomorrow. He turned around, only to find Wilcox standing outside his cell, arms crossed, staring at him.

"Forget something, sheriff?" Cavitt said. "Did you think of another witty retort on your way back upstairs?"

Wilcox said nothing, just continued to stare at him with a piercing gaze that was most uncomfortable. "If you have something to say, say it," Cavitt snapped. "I'm getting ready for bed. Unless, of course, you'd like to amuse yourself by watching me undress?"

"Why not?" Wilcox said. "You amused yourself watching me."

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Cavitt said in exasperation. "I've never watched you do anything but get in my way, and that certainly wasn't by choice."

When Wilcox didn't answer, Cavitt strode furiously up to the bars. "Get out!" he barked. "How dare you taunt me like this! How—"

Cavitt's voice died in his throat as the sheriff suddenly began to....shrink. His head grew, his fingers lengthened, his skin turned a mottled gray, and in a matter of only seconds, an alien stood just outside the cell door, staring at him with those black, depthless eyes devoid of pupils, of expression, of thought, even. Seconds after that the gray creature had disappeared, this time shooting up in height, the head shrinking, the face melting into a set of very familiar features.

"Good evening, colonel," the prisoner said calmly.

Cavitt stumbled backwards, putting as much room between himself and the cell door as possible, his mouth working silently. "It appears we have exchanged places," the alien continued, giving the cell door a rattle as it inspected the lock. "How very...ironic."

Cavitt flattened himself against the wall as panic constricted his breathing. The stairway out of the cellblock was short, leading directly to the main office which was staffed around the clock. Someone should hear him—they always had before. "Guards!" he bellowed, finally finding his voice . "Guards! Sheriff! Help! Intruder! In—"

"Oh, shut up," the alien said casually. "Do you really think I didn't take the precaution of making certain we couldn't be heard?"

"What did you do?" Cavitt demanded in a ragged voice. "Kill everyone? That's why you're here, isn't it—to kill us all!"

"Don't be ridiculous," the alien said coldly. "I have nothing against the humans upstairs, or the rest of your world, for that matter. I have a score to settle with only two people: You, and Dr. Pierce. The latter is unfortunately unavailable at the moment. But no matter. I'll find him. No one can hide from me forever."

"Pierce did far more to you than I ever did!" Cavitt insisted. "You should be going after him first!"

"Believe it or not, I concur," the alien said, "disturbing as it is to agree with the likes of you. However, one works with what one has. Besides, I'm here to give you something you've always wanted."

" 'Always wanted'?" Cavitt echoed sharply. "What? What have I always wanted?"

"Why, a demonstration of my abilities, of course, all of which you inconveniently blocked. One I've already shown you," it added, melting into something unrecognizable with sickening slowness as Cavitt averted his eyes in disgust. "But there's more. So much more."

A squeak pulled Cavitt's eyes back to the cell door. The lock was turning even though there was no key in it, even though the alien, appearing human once more, wasn't even touching it. A moment later the door swung open of its own accord, and Cavitt lunged forward in a desperate bid for escape, only to be thrown back against the wall by an invisible force which held him there, cutting off his breath as his feet dangled a foot off the floor.

"This is your lucky day, Cavitt," the alien said softly as it walked into his cell. "I'm here to show you everything I can do. And I'm going to use you as a demonstration tool."



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


I'll post Chapter 149 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!









CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-NINE




One week later

June 25, 1950, 1600 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



"How did it go, sergeant?" General Ramey asked. "I'm sorry I was delayed; I had an important phone call."

"No harm done, sir," Sergeant Keyser replied. "And it went as well as I expected. Meaning that it didn't. Go well, that is."

"None of them worked?"

"No, sir," Keyser sighed. "Not one."

Ramey nodded, taking a seat beside Keyser, whose very posture defined the word "despondent". In front of them loomed the alien ship, largely repaired but inaccessible. The hangar was relatively quiet, most of the technicians and engineers having been dismissed a couple of weeks ago because there was nothing more to be done. Or hadn't been until two days ago, when General McMullen had suddenly produced several of the missing alien crystals which powered the ship, raising everyone's hopes that work on the ship might continue.

"How many crystals did General McMullen 'find'?" Ramey asked, his tone making it clear that he didn't believe for a moment that McMullen hadn't known where they were all along.

Keyser snorted. " 'Found', my ass. Oh—sorry, sir," he added hastily as Ramey smiled faintly. "It's just that you and I both know they were tucked away in his closet the whole time. About two dozen, most of them power crystals. None of them were anything like Mr. Doe described, although we tried them anyway. Or at least we tried to try them," he amended. "We really had no idea what to do with them now that the ship is sealed. We crawled all over it looking for an insertion point or some way to use them, but we didn't find a thing."

"I know you did your best, sergeant," Ramey said gently.

"Sure I did," Keyser said bitterly. "I'm the reason the ship is locked in the first place. I caused this whole mess."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ramey said. "McMullen and his cadre were just waiting for an excuse to do exactly what they did, and they would have found one with or without you. What happened may have happened later, but I guarantee you it would still have happened."

"I guess so," Keyser answered doubtfully. He paused, staring at the saucer in front of them. "I wish you could have seen it, sir. All lit up like a Christmas tree, that swirly symbol on the side glowing so brightly it hurt to look at it. It was beautiful."

"It still is," Ramey said. "And without you, it would never have come this far."

"And because of me, it won't go any further," Keyser said. "Maybe that's better. Look what happened when I mucked around with something I didn't understand. If that were to happen again, something worse may happen, and there won't be any alien around to explain how we screwed up."

"It does appear we've come to the end of this particular road," Ramey agreed. "Which is why the president has ordered the ship handed over to the Air Force. He feels we've done all we can with it, and now it's time for some fresh eyes. And don't worry, son," he added as Keyser appeared about to self-combust. "I've gotten you an assignment as the Army liaison to the team that will be working on it. I understand that several of the techs who helped rebuild the ship are on that team, so you'll be seeing some familiar faces. How's that sound?"

"Wonderful, sir! Thank you, sir!" Keyser said enthusiastically. "It won't be the same without Mr. Doe, but I'll do my very best to come up with something."

"I know you will," Ramey assured him.

"There hasn't been any word on Mr. Doe, has there, sir?"

"No. He's gone. And between you and me and the fence post....Godspeed."

"I agree, sir," Keyser said quietly. "I hope he makes it back home. But I'm afraid others don't share that opinion."

Ramey chuckled. "I've been in the extreme minority on this subject from the very beginning, and that's long since ceased to bother me."

"Maybe it should, sir," Keyser said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice. "I heard some things today when General McMullen was here. I think he blames you for Colonel Cavitt's death."

"Colonel Cavitt committed suicide in his cell," Ramey said calmly. "The only one to blame for the colonel's death is the colonel."

"Are we sure it was suicide, sir?" Keyser asked skeptically. "Colonel Cavitt never struck me as the type to just chuck it all when the going got rough."

"I'm not sure the going had ever been that rough for the colonel," Ramey noted. "But we've already answered this question, sergeant. The County Sheriff did everything right; he treated the colonel's death as a homicide until he'd completed his investigation. He blocked off the crime scene, dusted for prints, interviewed everyone in the station, gave the Army full access. No one found anything the least bit suspicious: No extraneous fingerprints, no forced entry, no marks on the body, no evidence of alien involvement. The colonel was alone in his locked cell when he hung himself from the light fixture, shortly after his defense attorney said he flew into a rage when told he'd definitely be getting jail time for insubordination at the very least. I'm afraid there's no mystery as to how or why the colonel died."

"I believe you, sir," Keyser said. "But I'm not sure General McMullen does. And given the way he is....what he's capable of....I just think you should be on your guard, that's all."

"I'm sure the general is very disappointed," Ramey said. "His coup failed, while his two closest subordinates behaved atrociously and wound up on trial on a host of charges. But I predict his disgrace will fade into the background soon because we'll both have other problems on our hands."

"Sir?"

Ramey hesitated, glancing around the hangar to make certain they were alone before continuing. "I tell you this in confidence, sergeant. That important phone call I mentioned was from the president. North Korea has invaded South Korea."

"Oh, my God!" Keyser breathed. "When?"

"In the wee small hours this morning. President Truman is in the process of deciding how or if we should respond. But given that it's not in the best interests of the United States to see all of Korea fall to the communists, there will be some kind of a response, and everyone's petty jealousies will have to wait. Including General McMullen's."

"Yes, sir," Keyser agreed. "And if—wait. Isn't that Corporal Thompson?"

It was indeed Corporal Thompson, hurrying across the hangar, barely even glancing at the huge alien saucer to his left. "Sir," he greeted Ramey, "I was told I'd find you here. It's Sergeant Brisson."

"Has he regained consciousness?" Ramey asked eagerly, rising to his feet. "Has he been able to tell us anything more?"

"Uh....no, sir. He's....he's dead, sir. He passed away twenty minutes ago."

"Jesus," Keyser whispered as Ramey sank back down, stunned. Brisson had been largely unconscious since that brief episode a week ago when he'd been able to give some details of what had happened to him, but the doctor had been cautiously optimistic, saying he just needed time to recover. Apparently not.

"This is what Pierce wanted, wasn't it?" Ramey said, shaking his head slowly. "He destroyed his records so no one would know what he was doing, and he shot Brisson to silence him....and it worked. Have we heard anything at all about Pierce's whereabouts?"

"No, sir," Thompson said. "Also nothing about Captain Spade or Lieutenant White, although they're still not listed as AWOL, so no one's officially looking for them."

"Have their families heard from them yet?" Ramey asked.

"No, sir," Thompson said. "As far as I can tell, they've just dropped off the map."



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



Adirondack Mountains,

Upstate New York




"Pull over right here."

"You sure?" the truck driver asked skeptically. "This officially qualifies as the middle of nowhere."

"I'm sure. Pull over."

The driver reluctantly pulled his battered old pickup to the side of the road and waited while they climbed out. "I'll be coming back this way later tonight," the driver said, leaning out the window. "You can wait for me here if you change your mind."

"We won't, but thanks for the ride," Spade said.

"Yes, thank you," Yvonne added.

"Sure thing," the driver answered. The truck pulled away, leaving Spade and Yvonne alone on the side of the mountain road.

"He thinks we're crazy," Spade remarked.

"Maybe we are," Yvonne said. "Are you sure this is the right place? It doesn't look like a soul lives here but the wildlife."

"This is it," Spade nodded. "We came up here every summer when I was a kid. I know this place by heart."

"Okay," Yvonne said, hoisting her bag further up her shoulder. "Which way?"

Spade surveyed the lonely road, the tall trees waving in the summer breeze, inhaled the smell of the nearby lake. Memories he thought with amazement. He'd been eighteen the last time he was here, the last family vacation his family had managed to drag him on, and even though he hadn't set eyes on the place in nearly a decade, he still knew every curve of the road, every bend in the path. He couldn't remember what he'd had for breakfast last Tuesday, but he remembered this like it was yesterday. "This way," he said confidently.

What followed was a ten minute hike through the woods on a trail only Spade could see, the last leg of a journey where they had crossed the country any way they could via bus, train, or their own two feet. Fortunately both of them had kept bank accounts in Roswell, the contents of which had been emptied just before they'd left and used to finance their trek east. Otherwise they had nothing but what they'd purchased on the trip and whatever they'd had with them at the time they had fled. Spade had no idea what kind of a reception they'd receive where they were going, but he knew they were both tired of sleeping on busses and train station benches, tired of worrying everywhere they went, knowing that both the Army and Pierce would be looking for them. It was a nerve-racking existence that both were eager to put behind them.

Assuming we can, Spade thought as they emerged into a clearing which housed a two story cabin. The flowers around the cabin were in full summer bloom just as they always were, and the hot June sun carried a promise of the type of humidity neither of them were used to in the deserts of New Mexico. But even the humid New York summers were tempered up here in the mountains, bearable even at their worst. It wasn't the weather which had made him dread summer vacations here, but the occupant of that cabin up ahead.

"Looks rustic," Yvonne said, coming to a halt beside him.

"It is," Spade admitted. "No central heat, no electricity unless he fires up the generator, no running water except the pump in the kitchen. He has a truck that gets him into town, assuming he's still driving. Summer's are fine; it's the winters that are the problem."

"How old did you say he was?"

"Ninety-two last January."

"Wow," Yvonne murmured. "How does he survive the winter?"

"People in the area are spread out, but very close knit," Spade said, walking across the clearing, Yvonne following. "The neighbors split wood for his wood stoves and bring him supplies when the weather gets bad." They climbed the porch stairs, and Spade raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. "I should warn you, he's not the nicest of people. Don't take anything he says personally."

"I'm a nurse, remember?" Yvonne said. "I've heard just about everything. From two different species."

Spade smiled and knocked on the door. "Are you sure he's still here?" Yvonne asked when no one answered.

"I know he is," Spade said. "The last letter from my mother mentioned that they still hadn't had any luck getting him to move." He knocked again, louder this time. A moment later shuffling footsteps were heard inside along with low level grumbling.

"Just a minute!" a scratchy voice boomed. "Now, who in blazes could that be," the voice continued in a lower, albeit audible register. "Don' get visitors. Must be some dingbat with a broken car again."

Spade felt his face growing warm as Yvonne's eyebrows rose in amusement. A second later, the front door opened to reveal a stooped, elderly man with a full head of white hair and two eyes that burned so brightly, they might have belonged to a twenty year-old. He peered at the two of them blankly for a moment, then broke into a wide smile.

"Stevie!" he cried. "Where've you been, boy? Haven't seen you in ages!"

"Hi, Grandpa," Spade said, watching Yvonne stifle a laugh as she mouthed, "Stevie?" "It's good to see you."

"Like hell it is!" his grandfather said cheerfully. "You always hated this place! So what are you doin' here now?"

Blunt as ever, Spade thought. "I've brought a friend, Grandpa," he said. "Yvonne, this is my Grandfather, Theodore Spade. Grandpa, this is Miss Yvonne White."

Grandpa Spade seemed to notice Yvonne for the first time, and those bright eyes flew open wider. "Well, well!" he crowed appreciatively, taking the hand she offered and pumping it up and down enthusiastically. "What a looker you've got yourself, Stevie! Been a long time since such a lovely woman graced this house. Not since your Grandma passed. Nice to make your acquaintance, miss. Very nice, indeed."

"Thank you," Yvonne said, still having trouble holding in her laughter. "I'm very glad to meet you."

"Oh, same here, same here," Grandpa assured her. "You must be someone very special for my grumpy grandson to bring you up here when he never liked comin' here in the first place."

"Can we go inside, Grandpa?" Spade said hastily. "We have something we'd like to ask you."

"Good Lord, where are my manners," Grandpa fussed, throwing the door open wider and motioning to Yvonne. "Come in, young lady, come in, and brighten an old man's humble home."

"Thank you," Yvonne smiled as Spade rolled his eyes. His grandfather always had an eye for the ladies. "Do you live here alone, Mr. Spade?" Yvonne asked as she looked around the first floor of the cabin, which was surprisingly cozy given its rustic exterior and neat as a pin.

" 'Mr. Spade'?" Grandpa echoed. "My goodness, call me 'Grandpa'. 'Mr. Spade' makes me sound old," he added with a devilish grin. "Yes, Miss, I live here alone. That's the way I like it, real simple, real quiet."

"It's quite a ways from civilization," Yvonne commented.

"Nonsense," Grandpa scoffed. "Nearest town's only ten miles down the mountain." He smiled when she looked surprised. "Ten miles is plenty close enough for me, Miss. Little too close sometimes. I go into town, and everyone's yakking and yammering, staring at those new squawk boxes like they're comatose. What do they call'em? Not radios...the ones with the pictures."

"Televisions?" Yvonne offered.

"Right, televisions!" Grandpa said. "Lord, those things will be the death of us all. Make people stupid, they do, and believe me, people are stupid enough to begin with. They don't need help gettin' stupider."

"Grandpa, remember we had something to ask you?" Spade broke in before his grandfather could go off on a tear, the general stupidity of the human race being one of his favorite subjects. "We'd like to know if we can stay here for a while."

"Stay here?" Grandpa echoed. "What for? You hate this place."

"We're in some trouble," Spade explained. "We need to lay low for awhile."

"What kind of trouble?" Grandpa demanded, looking Yvonne up and down. "You didn't get her pregnant, did you?"

"No, Grandpa," Spade said with exasperation as Yvonne stifled yet another laugh. "Miss White and I are both Army officers, and this has to do with our last posting."

"Your mama did say something about you making officer," Grandpa nodded. "What are you now? A lieutenant?"

"I'm a lieutenant," Yvonne said. "Stephen is a captain."

"Captain?" Grandpa exclaimed. "Captain Stevie! Well, how about that! So where've they got you now?"

Spade glanced at Yvonne, who nodded. "We were both in Roswell, New Mexico."

Grandpa's eyes widened. "Ah," he said knowingly. "With the aliens. No wonder you're on the run."

"We're not running from aliens," Yvonne assured him.

" 'Course you're not," Grandpa said. "You're runnin' from humans." He smiled sagely when both Spade and Yvonne exchanged startled glances. "Don't look so surprised. Why do you think I'm up here all by myself? I know what goes on down there. That's why I'm up here."

"And we need to be up here, Grandpa," Spade said "where there's no phone, no road signs, no way to even find the house unless you know where it is. We need to disappear for awhile, and when we leave, we can't go back as ourselves."

Grandpa's eyebrows rose. "You really are in a spot of trouble, aren't you, Stevie? Does your mama know where you are?"

"Nobody in either of our families knows where we are," Yvonne answered, "and I'm afraid it's going to have to stay that way, for a little while at least. If we tell them where we are, we might not be around long enough to tell them anything else."

Grandpa was silent, looking back and forth from one to the other, and for a moment, Spade thought that maybe his grandfather wasn't up for all this cloak and dagger stuff. Maybe they shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have burdened this very old man with their problems. Then Grandpa reached out and took Spade's hand, squeezing it hard like he used to when Spade was a boy and hated it. "You've been having a rough time of it, have you now, Stevie?" he said, his eyes watering slightly, his voice lacking its usual patina of sarcasm.

"Yes, Grandpa," Spade said quietly. "Yvonne and I both have been having quite a rough time of it."

"Just tell me one thing," Grandpa said. "Did you giv'em hell?"

Spade smiled faintly. "I think I can honestly say that both of us gave them all kinds of hell."

Grandpa's face suddenly split in a wide grin. "Good for you!" he thundered, pulling Spade into another fierce hug, something else he'd always hated but didn't mind now. "You both stay here as long as you like. Be nice to have some decent company for a change. 'Specially company that looks like that," he added, smiling at Yvonne. "Did you want one bedroom or two?"

"Two, please," Yvonne said, flushing. "Or I can sleep on the couch, or the floor, or—"

"Don't be silly," Grandpa admonished. "You'll sleep where and with whom you like. And don't blush like that," he ordered sternly. "When you get to my age, you realize all the roads you didn't go down because of everyone else's stupid rules. Take my advice and make your own rules. Now—where are your things? Did you leave your car down by the front road or the back road?"

"We don't have a car," Spade said. "We hitched rides all the way here. And we don't have anything but what we're carrying because we had to leave in a hurry. But we do have our own money, so we can pay our own way, and we'll both be happy to help out around here."

"You cook?" Grandpa asked Yvonne.

"Yes, I do," she said, bemused. "Do you eat?"

Grandpa burst out laughing. "I like her," he said, nudging Spade. "Good sense of humor. And it'll be good to have some home cookin' for a change. I'm a jack of many trades, but cookin' isn't one of them. You two make yourselves comfortable while I open up the bedrooms. Haven't been used in years, not since Stevie was little." He bustled off, climbing the nearby staircase with surprising ease, and Yvonne shook her head in amazement.

"Ninety-two," she murmured. "I hope I'm in that good shape when I'm that age. What's all this about you hating to come up here when you were young?"

Spade glanced upstairs as the sounds of windows creaking open floated down from the second floor. "It's not this place I hated," he said in a low voice. "I actually loved this place. I had the run of the mountain when I was little. It's glorious here in summer; the hunting's good, and the streams are full of fish. It was him I couldn't stand," he added, glancing toward the second floor. "He was always so blunt, he was embarrassing. He'd say the damnedest things in front of anyone and didn't care. And I never understood why, not until I thought my own life was pretty much forfeit for going against Cavitt in the very beginning. That's when I realized that my grandfather probably thought he wasn't going to live much longer anyway, so he said what he wanted, did what he wanted, and didn't care how others reacted. I finally figured him out....and I was certain I wouldn't live long enough to tell him. But I did," he added softly. "We all did."

Yvonne dropped her eyes. "Not quite all of us."

Spade hesitated, uncertain of whether to open this particular door. Sergeant Brisson's fate was a sore subject with Yvonne, so sore that she had refused to discuss it even once since they'd left Roswell. "You don't know that Brisson's dead," he said gently. "He was alive when I left him, and you know people would have come running for that fire alarm I set off."

"I'm a nurse, Stephen," Yvonne said soberly. "I don't care if the entire 8th battalion came running—there's no way to fix a wound like the one you described to me."

"Maybe I described it wrong," Spade said.

Yvonne gave him a wan smile. "I doubt it." She was quiet for a moment, staring off into space. "Do you think anyone told Ramey why we left?"

Spade shook his head. "Only Brisson and Thompson know, they have no proof, especially without us there, and saying anything will only implicate themselves, assuming anyone believes them in the first place. I'm betting they keep quiet."

"Then what happens to Ramey?" Yvonne asked. "Two of his people went AWOL, and he has no idea why."

"I don't know," Stephen admitted. "I only know that I'd be more worried about what would happen to you if we'd stayed."

Yvonne sighed, sinking down in a nearby chair and opening her bag. "I can't believe this is all I have left of 'me'," she said, pulling out a hairbrush, a manila envelope, a small photograph album, and a wallet complete with a driver's license and Social Security card bearing a name she could no longer use. "I'm not even sure it's wise to keep some of this."

"At least you have something," Stephen said. "All I have is this." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and added it to the pile in front of Yvonne.

" 'To the American People'," she read, puzzled. "Wait—this is the letter Ramey gave you to hide the first time they tried to execute John, isn't it?"

"I've carried it with me ever since," Spade said. "Didn't seem safe to leave anywhere, even my quarters."

"We should burn that," Yvonne said, setting it aside. "It could be used against the General if anyone ever found it."

"Keep the ID," Spade advised, plucking her wallet out of the pile. "We don't know what's going to happen, so it might come in handy someday. What's this?" he added, picking up the manila envelope.

"I was going to mail that the day we left," she said, breaking the seal. "It's a picture the Proctor's daughter drew after John's ship crashed."

"What is it?" Spade asked, looking at the dots arranged in the shape of the letter "V".

"A constellation," Yvonne explained. "The star at the point is their sun. I was supposed to give it to John, but I forgot, so I was going to mail it back to her, figuring she'd see him before I would. And now I can't get it to either of them."

"We were a little busy," Spade said, sitting down beside her. "I don't think she'd mind if you kept it. Maybe you'll see her again someday."

"Yeah. Maybe," Yvonne said quietly, tucking the picture back inside the envelope. "I'm really sorry you wound up here because of me, Stephen. You lost everything. You didn't even have a purse to bring with you."

Spade put his arm around her, pulling her closer. "Remember when Treyborn was killed and I was cleaning out his room? I meant what I said about all our stuff being useless. Stuff is just that—stuff. There's a Sears and Roebuck catalog on that table over there with everything from clothes to guns to furniture to houses. We'll get new stuff."

"I know," Yvonne said, settling into the crook of his arm. "But still, I'm pretty sure this wasn't what you had in mind. I know you said you weren't making plans—"

"I lied."

Yvonne twisted in his arms to look at him. "You mean you were making plans? Great. Now I've ruined those too."

"Aren't you going to ask me what my plans were?" Spade asked.

"Does it matter?" Yvonne fretted. "Whatever they were, I know they didn't include being holed up in the middle of nowhere with an irascible grandparent and no clear idea of what's going to happen next."

Spade pulled her closer. "Ask me what my plans were," he whispered.

He felt her heave a defeated sigh before saying, "What were your plans?"

"To be with you," Spade said softly. "Wherever that was, wherever that turned out to be. Even Alaska, Antarctica, or Harvard Med School. Even holed up in the middle of nowhere with an irascible grandfather and no clear idea of what's going to happen next. Wherever you went, that's where I was going. So don't worry about me," he continued, brushing her hair out of her eyes, kissing her forehead. "I got exactly what I wanted."




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


Eagle Rock Military Base




Corporal Thompson walked down the hallway of the compound, his boots echoing with every step. The place was empty, everyone having been reassigned, and the doorway to the basement was unguarded. It felt weird just walking through without having to step on an x-ray machine or answer security questions, weirder still passing guard rooms devoid of guards, quarters missing occupants, and an empty armory. The place felt like a tomb—cold, silent, and lifeless.

Well.....not completely lifeless. Faint voices wafted down the basement hallway, hopefully the last voices this place would hear. Thompson rounded a corner to find LaBella and Oster applying the finishing touches to the wall grout surrounding what used to be the door to the prisoner's room.

"All done," LaBella announced when he saw Thompson. "What do you think?"

Thompson inspected the wall from several angles with a critical eye before passing judgment. "Perfect. I know right where both doors were, and even I can't see them."

"I gotta tell you, I was glad to hear that Ramey ordered this room sealed," Oster commented. "I hated it. Gave me the willies."

"With any luck, it'll never give anyone the willies again," Thompson said. He paused, looking around the hallway. "Are you sure you're the only ones down here?"

"Yeah. Why?" Oster asked.

Thompson hesitated a moment before shaking his head. "Nothing. Let's clean up and get out of here. We're the last to leave."

"Good," LaBella said, wiping his hands on a rag as Oster piled up tools. "I have a new posting in Pennsylvania that I can't wait to get to. Actually, I don't care where it is just as long as it isn't here. This place is nuttier than ever now that the alien's gone, what with Pierce murdering Brisson, Cavitt committing suicide, and Captain Spade and Lieutenant White flying the coop. I mean, everyone knew they were sweet on each other, but I never expected that."

Thompson said nothing as Oster and LaBella packed up their things. He was the last person here who knew why the captain and the lieutenant would have fled the way they did. He'd meant to discuss this with Brisson when he recovered; Brisson's death earlier today had left him in a quandary about what to do. Should he tell Ramey what had happened, the whole sordid story about Pierce's quest for a human who was part alien, or should he keep quiet? Ultimately he'd kept his mouth shut if for no other reason than he was the only witness left to those events, which would no doubt sound so fantastic as to be unbelievable. Besides, what good would telling do? Pierce had vanished, the captain and the lieutenant had vanished, Brisson was dead. Spilling the ugly details would change none of that. The best he could do at this point was to encourage Ramey to continue to hold back on listing the captain and lieutenant as AWOL. Any delay would give them more time to get further away before the Army formally started looking for them.

"Do you know what they're going to do with this place?" LaBella asked as the three of them headed back to the first floor.

"There are no immediate plans to use the compound for anything," Thompson answered. "It was empty before the aliens were captured, and I imagine it will stay empty now that they're gone. I have orders to lock the main door behind us and turn the keys over to General Ramey."

"What'd you do with all the captain's stuff?" Oster asked, eyeing the door to Spade's former quarters as they passed.

"Put it in storage," Thompson said, "along with the lieutenant's."

"Imagine leaving so fast that you just leave everything you own behind," LaBella said, shaking his head. "I'm not sure I even want to know what that's all about."

The three of them walked through the main doorway into the blazing June sunshine, the long narrow entranceway having been demolished. Thompson locked the doors, threaded a chain through the door handles, and added a padlock. Just as he snapped the lock shut, he looked through the window in the door and paused.

"What?" LaBella asked.

Thompson blinked, then shook his head. "Nothing. Let's go."

"Let's," Oster agreed.

"Goodbye, and good riddance," LaBella added.

Oster and LaBella chattered all the way back to the main building, but Thompson was silent. He'd had the most curious feeling downstairs in the compound and just now when he was locking the door. Like they weren't alone. Like they were being watched.



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



Jaddo stood before his former cell, gazing at the wall which held its doorway. The place was empty, Thompson having just left with the last of the compound's complement of guards. It was interesting how Thompson had sensed his presence, much the same way Keyser had once sensed Brivari's without realizing it. He would have liked to approach Thompson directly, but that was inadvisable; the less their allies knew of them at this point, the better.

"I cannot for the life of me understand why you would want to return here," said a voice behind him.

"Indulge me, Brivari," Jaddo said. "I've never seen this place from this angle. I was always blindfolded."

"I have seen it many times," Brivari said, walking toward him, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall in a very satisfying way. "I have no precise definition for 'the willies', but I think it safe to say that I am having the same reaction as those human soldiers. I don't like this place. Let's go."

"You don't like this place?" Jaddo said sharply. "I was captive here, not you."

"Every single time I set foot in this building, I risked capture," Brivari said just as sharply, "and don't you ever forget that. You are not the only one who suffered....and I am not the only one repulsed by this place. I notice you haven't re-entered your cell. You could, you know. Don't you want to go back inside just one more time?"

Jaddo's jaw tightened, his heart racing as he thought of what lay on the other side of that wall. "No," he whispered.

Brivari was silent for a moment. "You're still in shock, Jaddo," he said, his voice softening. "You are free and physically recovered, but the trauma you experienced here will linger much longer. Don't let it rule you. We came here for information. Pierce reappeared only briefly to execute his assistant before vanishing again. No one knows where he is."

"So I heard," Jaddo said, still staring at the wall which held the doorway to his cell.

"Spade and the Healer are also gone, and no one knows where."

"Hopefully far from here," Jaddo commented.

"And it appears Cavitt has taken his own life," Brivari added, watching Jaddo closely.

"Has he now?" Jaddo said coldly. "Imagine that."

Brivari sighed. "At least you had the good sense to make it look like a suicide."

"Of course I did," Jaddo said impatiently. "I'm not stupid. One hint of our presence, and this place would be up and running again in no time."

"Which is precisely why I urged you to wait," Brivari said pointedly. "We could easily have discovered Pierce's and Cavitt's respective locations and dealt with them later at a time and place of our choosing, when no one would have considered alien involvement in their deaths."

"It wasn't seriously considered because I left no trace," Jaddo argued. "And for me, it was worth the risk. He was helpless," he added with grim satisfaction. "Helpless, and terrified, and oh so alone. It was....." He paused, as if searching for the right word. "....exhilarating."

"I'm sure it was," Brivari said, "and you'll get no argument from me that he richly deserved it. I just don't want us compromised in the process....and I notice that all that 'exhilaration' doesn't seem to have afforded you any peace."

"Because I'm not done yet," Jaddo said. "One of my tormentors has slipped through my fingers. But I'll find him," he added with certainty. "I will find him, if it's the last thing I do."

"I hope for our Wards' sake it is not the last thing you do," Brivari said. "We have another duty far more important than this, one denied both of us for many years. We must look forward. This place is empty, your cell sealed. It is time to leave it behind."

"Wait." Jaddo raised his hand to the wall, and a crackling sound filled the hallway as the grout between the tiles melted and fused. "The humans tried, but it was not quite good enough. Now they'll have to literally break down the wall to get back in there."

"Hopefully, no one will ever try," Brivari said. "Shall we?"

Twenty minutes later, they stood on the windswept rock formation that housed the pod chamber for the first time in years. Jaddo hesitated, eager, yet reluctant to enter, afraid of what they might find.

"Would you like the honors?" Brivari asked.

"No," Jaddo whispered. "Wait," he added as Brivari revealed the handprint. "What will we do if they haven't survived?"

"One thing at a time, Jaddo," Brivari said gently. "One thing at a time." He pressed his hand to the handprint, and as the door rumbled open, Jaddo closed his eyes, ashamed of his fear. If the hybrids had perished, then all this was for naught: His captivity, Urza's and Valeris' deaths, everything they'd been through since their ship had crashed. Without their Wards, it was all meaningless.

"Something is glowing," Brivari reported. "At least some survived."

Jaddo opened his eyes; something was glowing, glowing so brightly that it was visible even from outside. They entered eagerly now, and the dim glow they'd seen from the door became brighter with every step they took until its source came into view: Three glowing sets of pods, their combined light filling the chamber, each pod containing a hybrid much larger then when they'd last seen them.

"Look at them!" Brivari exclaimed, kneeling beside the nearest pod. "They're huge compared to when I last saw them!"

And they were. Previously tiny and curled in fetal positions, the hybrids now resembled very small human children, stretched full length, with full heads of hair and more purposeful movements. Jaddo watched Ava brush a strand of hair from her face, watched Rath turn as if sleeping, much the way he used to. Brivari gently poked the sac of nearest Zan hybrid, sending ripples of fluid through it, causing the hybrid inside to twitch.

"Jaddo....look," Brivari whispered.

Jaddo bent over the sac, peering inside. Every time the Zan hybrid moved, a pattern of glowing dots became clearly visible on his forehead: The royal mark.

"They survived," Brivari said with satisfaction, surveying the rest of the pods. "Three sets, well hidden and thriving."

"In spite of everything that's happened," Jaddo murmured.

"In spite of everyone's attempt to stop us," Brivari added.

"Aren't they a bit on the small side for three year-old human children?" Jaddo asked.

"I don't know," Brivari admitted. "I have no experience with human children this young. And to be fair, we have no experience with this particular type of hybrid, so the growth estimates were just that—estimates. They're healthy and much larger than they used to be, so I'm not concerned.

"What did Pierce's hybrid look like?" Jaddo asked.

"Like what it was," Brivari answered. "A mistake. It emerged already dead, and I disposed of it." He paused. "We'll find him, Jaddo. Let everything settle down here, let the humans turn their attention to other things, and then I promise you, Pierce will never bother anyone again."




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



Somewhere in the United States





Pierce closed the chart he'd been reading and tossed it on his desk in disgust, only to jump as two more charts were plopped in front of him. "These are the last two that meet your criteria," Dr. Burke announced.

"Don't you knock?" Pierce asked in mock annoyance.

"You're welcome," Burke said dryly, "and don't you know how to close the door when you want privacy?"

Pierce smiled faintly. "Sorry. I guess I'm used to the deference afforded a Lieutenant Colonel."

"Welcome to the world most of us have to live in," Burke said, taking a seat. "And now that you mention it, your former world is most anxious to have you back. They're mounting quite a search for you."

"Of course they are," Pierce said calmly, "especially with their prisoner gone and Colonel Cavitt having done himself in. Something of a surprise, that. He was many things, most notably a pain in the ass, but I never pegged him as a quitter. Have you notified our German colleague that I'm here?"

"I did," Burke confirmed, "but it will be a couple of weeks before he can visit. If he were discovered, he'd be charged with war crimes in no time, so he has to be very careful. Just like you'll need to be now that you've chosen the life of a fugitive." He paused, watching Pierce closely. "You had quite a cushy set up with the Army, Daniel, with access to the very best equipment and the finest minds in the international community. You know we're committed to hiding you for as long as you want to stay here, but are you quite sure you want to stay here?"

"Positive," Pierce answered. "I tried for three years with only one brief success to my name, and I'm convinced my work was compromised by all the theatrics I had to endure just to get anything done. Conscience is a wonderful thing, but not when it impedes progress, a point lost on my late, lamented assistant. Here I can work openly in the light of day, with the full support of colleagues who spend more of their time looking forward instead of locking themselves into endless ethics discussions which go nowhere and accomplish nothing."

"You'll find none of that here," Burke assured him. "All of our patients are wards of the state, so we think of this as their giving something back to the state. And I know I speak for the entire board when I say that you have our full support, not to mention our gratitude for the chance to work with such a visionary scientist. Our main goal is to push the boundaries of science as far as possible, and we know you share that goal. Although even the most radical of us had no idea what was in those vials you asked us to store three years ago," he added, chuckling. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you," Pierce smiled, "and please convey to the board how fortunate I feel to be working with those willing to do whatever's necessary so that the work may continue. Although I must confess disappointment in the test subjects available," he added, frowning at the pile of charts on his desk. "Is this really the best you can do?"

"We're a mental institution," Burke reminded him, "so I seriously doubt any of our patients will measure up to your initial subject. It's a shame that she slipped through your fingers."

"Indeed," Pierce sighed. "But I'll keep looking, although the more time that goes by, the less reliable the data I've already collected on her will be. Such a shame," he continued sadly. "Subject #1 was everything anyone could want in the mother of a new race: Young. Strong. Intelligent. These....." he indicated the pile of charts on his desk with a dismissive wave "....these are just depressing."

"I realize we'll never produce a subject to equal your first," Burke admitted, "but what we lack in quality, we make up for in quantity. There are nineteen charts on your desk, Daniel. That's nineteen uteri at your disposal any time you want them. What you failed to achieve with one perfect subject may very well be achieved with a larger sampling. You already tried it the other way, and it didn't work. Don't you think it's time for a new approach?"

Pierce was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping on his desk. "You're right," he said finally. "When can I start?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Burke smiled, plucking a chart from Pierce's desk. "Right this way."

Burke led Pierce down the hall outside his office and up two flights of stairs. "We have only one patient available today, with two more tomorrow," he explained as they emerged into a second floor hallway. "Your insistence that all medications be stopped for a full week prior to the first insemination was a tough pill to swallow, if you'll pardon the pun. We can barely control some of these people on meds. Are you sure that's non-negotiable?"

"Absolutely," Pierce said firmly. "I can't take the chance of any medications affecting the pregnancy. I had no control over that with my first subject, and I intend to correct that this time around. For all I know, the sedative I was forced to use is what compromised her pregnancy."

"You know you're not in line with current scientific thinking, don't you? Most scientists agree that the placenta filters out just about everything."

"Then I disagree with most scientists," Pierce replied. "And I should point out that we may not even be dealing with a placenta. We're talking about an alien-human pregnancy, and I have no idea what form that will take. Stop thinking so conventionally."

"Sorry," Burke said as he came to a halt before a locked door. "Habit." He peered through the small window in the door. "There she is. Subject #2. No match for Subject #1, I'm sure, but she'll do."

"Diagnosis?" Pierce asked, gazing through the window at the still form huddled on the floor in a far corner of the room.

"Severe psychosis of unknown origin," Burke said. "Patient is a 22 year-old female who has been hearing voices since childhood. She was first admitted when she was 15, and her parents stopped visiting three years ago, after which they stopped paying the bills and dropped off the map. Her menses are regular and thoroughly tracked in her chart. I can have restraints and half a dozen orderlies here in five minutes. How soon would you like to begin?"

A slow smile spread across Pierce's face. "In five minutes."




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


I'll post Chapter 150 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!








CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY


June 26, 1950, 3:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




As Brivari approached Quanah's house, it was immediately apparent from the crowds that some sort of celebration was in progress, and he hung back, unwilling to intrude on a private event. But Grey Wolf, River Dog's younger brother, spotted him and came running over, grabbing his hand. "I was right! Come see!" Grey Wolf crowed as he pulled Brivari into the house, abandoning him just inside the front door without saying what he'd been right about. River Dog was across the room chatting animatedly with a large group of young people, Quanah and the medicine man, Itza-chu, were deep in conversation, and River Dog's mother and grandparents were attempting to corral his excited younger siblings as Brivari scanned the room in search of some clue as to what the occasion was, without success.

"Nasedo!" River Dog detached himself from the throng and hurried over, trailed by a young female with long dark hair. "I am glad to see you," the youth said, his arm around the female. "This is Nalin. We are to be married."

Gazing at the young couple standing before him, Brivari was reminded for just a moment of another young couple on their engagement day not so long ago. Zan had not been much older by Antarian standards than River Dog was now, and Ava about the same as his bride-to-be. "So that's what your brother was 'right' about," he said, smiling broadly. "Congratulations! I wish you both a long and happy life."

"Thank you," River Dog said as his future wife smiled shyly . "Nalin and I would like you to attend the ceremony."

"I would be honored," Brivari said, "but I am a visitor here. Would that be appropriate?"

"Of course it would," said Quanah, who had appeared beside his son with Itza-chu behind him. "We have considered you a member of the family for nearly a year now. The ceremony will not be complete without your presence." He glanced at Itza-chu, who gave the customary curt nod he always gave concerning anything regarding Brivari.

"Then I thank you, and I will be there," Brivari assured them.

"Excellent!" Quanah said. "Let's leave the young ones to their celebrating and go outside where we can talk. It has been several weeks since we've seen you."

River Dog and his bride-to-be returned to their guests as Brivari followed Quanah out the back door. It was much quieter here, the sounds of celebration pleasantly muffled, the sun warm in the sky. The forest that had been his home these past years rose in the distance, and it suddenly occurred to Brivari that he need no longer live there, that the days of hiding from his own kind were over, at least for now. Where would he go? He hadn't given the idea so much as a moment's thought so consumed had he been with everything else.

"I am glad to see that all is well between you and the man who came looking for you," Quanah commented.

"What makes you think that?" Brivari asked curiously.

"I have known you for years now, Nasedo, and have seen you in many different circumstances.....but never have I seen you at peace. Until today."

Brivari smiled faintly, having forgotten just how astute Quanah could be. Peace. Such a strange concept after three years of strife which had begun on another world and would hopefully end on this one, but Brivari realized Quanah was right: He was relaxed in a way he had not been for quite some time. The hybrids were safely hidden and thriving, Jaddo was free, their enemies gone. This was the first true peace he had known since the crash.

"I am more at peace today than I have been for a long time," Brivari agreed, "although I have no idea how long it will last."

"None of us do," Quanah observed, "which is why we should thoroughly enjoy it while we have it, be it long or short. Will you still be living here?"

"I don't know," Brivari admitted. "I no longer have need of the cave, but I confess I haven't given much thought as to where I will live."

"Wherever that is, know that you are always welcome here," Quanah said sincerely. "And I'm glad to hear that you plan to attend the wedding ceremony."

"Are you certain my attendance would be appropriate?" Brivari asked. "There are still some who object to my presence. I wouldn't want controversy to ruin your son's special day."

Quanah was quiet for a moment. "Do you remember the night the skinwalkers came for you?"

"Vividly. Why?"

"My eldest would not be here today if you had not helped me rescue him, so I can think of nothing more 'appropriate' than your attendance at his wedding," Quanah answered. "Those who disagree are welcome to stay home. Rest assured none will."

"Does your grandfather still speak with my kinsman?" Brivari asked.

"My grandfather has not seen your kinsman since you visited," Quanah reported. "It appears that he said what he needed to say, and moved on."

Or was never there to begin with, Brivari added privately, keeping his opinion to himself. He had finally accepted that he would never know the truth about whether he had actually communicated with Valeris that night he had suffered the disastrous effects of peyote in the sweat lodge, but if Quanah still thought he communicated with his dead grandfather, so be it.

"I know you told me that your meeting with your kinsman did not go well," Quanah continued, "but I have long thought that what really troubles you is that you don't know whether to consider the experience fact or fancy."

"I was ill," Brivari said diplomatically. "Very ill. And my kinsman told me nothing I did not already know or suspect to be true. Under the circumstances, I have to consider the possibility that my 'meeting' was nothing more than the product of illness and longing."

To Brivari's surprise, Quanah didn't argue. "That could be," he admitted. "But let me ask you this: Did you learn anything from your encounter? Did it settle any questions in your mind, set your path, or affect the decisions you've made since then in any way?"

Brivari didn't answer immediately, staring off into the woods. "Yes," he said finally. "Greatly."

"In that case, although you may never know whether you really spoke with your kinsman, I would argue that it makes no difference," Quanah said. "If what you heard—or thought you heard—produced results in this world, then the reality of the encounter itself is irrelevant. Perhaps your kinsman helped you unravel certain problems, or perhaps you took what you knew and unraveled them yourself. Either way, the outcome is the same."

"Perhaps," Brivari murmured, privately noting that he was more than willing to leave the question of what exactly had happened to him that night up in the air. The notion that the drug had induced a hallucination made perfect sense. The notion that it was actually possible to speak with the dead opened up much more vexing issues that he'd prefer to not deal with, especially now, when so many other vexing issues had finally been laid to rest.

"So we have two reasons to celebrate," Quanah continued, "both my son's wedding and your recent good fortune. And here come the revelers," he added as partygoers began spilling into the yard, having apparently run out of room in the house. "I fear I will have a headache before the day is through."

"How old is that child?" Brivari asked, spotting a young male about the same size as the hybrids, stumbling around on legs so shaky that he careened into Quanah and looked up at him with a toothy grin.

"Noche has just passed his first birthday," Quanah answered, tousling the tots hair with a smile.

"Are there any three year-olds around?" Brivari asked.

"Over there," Quanah answered, pointing to a group of much taller, far more developed children. "I'm looking forward to grandchildren, Nasedo. Even my youngest has begun to resemble a young woman more than a child. I miss the days when they smiled all the time and never talked back," he added with a chuckle. "I plan to enjoy that brief period enormously, then send them home with their parents when it's over."

Brivari returned Quanah's smile, but a tendril of unease crept over him as he gazed at the older children. The hybrids are small, he thought worriedly. After three years gestation they should be approximately the size of human three year-olds, but all of them looked far more like the year-old child at his feet. Had something gone wrong? More importantly, was there anything they could do about it if it had?

A moment later, Brivari pushed the thought away. Antarian-human hybrids had never been attempted before, and the growth rates of hybrids always differed from that of both sources of genetic material. They were on new ground here, and estimates, as he had told Jaddo, were just estimates. There was cause for nothing here but celebration, and he had no intention of letting unfounded worries about the future interfere with his hard-earned peace.




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




Eagle Rock Military Base





"Afternoon, Harriet," General Ramey said as he entered what served as his office at Eagle Rock. "Any messages?"

"Two," answered Cavitt's former secretary, who was working for Ramey until another post could be found for her. "The first concerns Major Lewis."

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Ramey muttered, taking the piece of paper Harriet handed him and reading her meticulous handwriting. "He agreed to resign his commission in exchange for the Army dropping all charges? The weasel."

"Scuttlebutt on the base is that he has a job offer," Harriet said. "From the FBI, of all places."

"Really?" Ramey said in mock surprise. "Not the CIA or Senator McCarthy's personal staff?"

"He's not after communists; he's after aliens," Harriet observed. "The word is that the FBI wants something to set it apart from the CIA, something that Lewis is uniquely qualified to provide. Like an employee who's had contact with live aliens."

"Like a butcher," Ramey muttered, shaking his head in disgust as he crumpled up the message and threw it in the trash. Harriet was right, of course; she usually was, having acquired an impressive acumen during her military childhood and career. The FBI would give Lewis free reign in its bid to outdo the CIA, and the thought of what that would mean to anyone unfortunate enough to get in Lewis' way was enough to give him nightmares. "What was the second message? Something better than this, I hope."

Harriet bit her lip. "I'm not sure. The President called."

Five minutes later, Ramey leaned heavily back in his chair and closed his eyes with the telephone receiver to his ear. "Yes, Mr. President. I understand. Of course we have to respond. We can't let Seoul fall to the North. Yes....this evening. I see. I'll be there, sir. I'll leave within the hour. Thank you, sir," Ramey finished before hanging up the phone.

"What's wrong?"

Harriet stood in the doorway to his office, her eyes wide with concern. "I'll need a driver in about forty-five minutes," Ramey said. "I'll be flying to Washington to meet with President Truman, and from there to Korea to determine the needs of the Republic of South Korea. In the meantime, General McArthur has been authorized to fire upon any North Korean military targets."

"Good Lord," Harriet whispered. "Another war."

"That's what it looks like," Ramey sighed, rising to his feet. "I expected the President to authorize supplies and ammunition, but I wasn't expecting him to supply troops so quickly."

"Oh, dear," Harriet said. "So much for your retirement."

"I'm afraid that's a long way off now," Ramey said. "Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire. First aliens, now another war." He came around the desk and took Harriet's hands in his own. "I want you to know how much I appreciate your invaluable assistance these past two weeks. Your support made the difficult task of closing down the compound much easier, and I won't forget it. I will personally see to it that you have any posting you want even if I have to call from Korea."

"Thank you, sir," Harriet said gratefully. "It was the least I could do after discovering what Colonel Cavitt had been up to all those years—"

"Don't," Ramey interrupted firmly. "None of us knew the extent of his mischief, myself included. I don't hold you responsible for his behavior, and you shouldn't either. Now, is there anything I need to finish up before I go?"

Harriet hesitated. "There is one thing," she said reluctantly. "I was waiting on it, but since you're leaving....."

A few minutes later, Ramey headed back to his quarters to pack with a heavy heart. He'd been stalling on the formal posting of Captain Spade and Lieutenant White as absent without leave. Despite the almost total lack of information about the reasons for their abrupt flight, Ramey couldn't shake the feeling that those reasons were good reasons. Spade was tough as nails, and Lieutenant White was no shrinking violet herself, so to have both of them just disappear like that was odd to say the least. But the image Ramey could not get out of his mind was that of Sergeant Brisson, mortally wounded, yet smiling when he'd learned that the captain and the lieutenant were gone. Brisson's lack of surprise and sheer satisfaction when informed they were missing told Ramey that they had very good reasons for leaving the way they did. The longer he delayed posting them AWOL, the longer they had to run, to hide from whatever it was they were running from. Harriet must have sensed this because after he'd rebuffed her initial inquiry on the subject, she hadn't raised it again until now. His procrastination had bought them a little over a week. He could only hope it had been enough.

Reaching his quarters, Ramey unlocked the door and closed it behind him. He had very little to pack; several uniforms, toiletries, a few personal belongings. One learned to travel light in the military. He hadn't traveled since the war had ended five years ago, and to be perfectly honest, he wasn't looking forward to it. Scotch, he thought, reaching into the cabinet in the tiny kitchenette for a glass and the bottle. In his opinion, Scotch was the perfect accompaniment to any war.

"Good afternoon, General," a familiar voice said behind him.

Ramey whirled around, and what he saw made the glass he'd just poured crash to the floor. The prisoner was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, one arm flung casually along the back, looking exactly as he had while captive. Glancing at the mess, he held up a hand, palm outward; Ramey flinched, only to watch, goggle-eyed, as the shards of the glass he'd just broken reassembled themselves before his very eyes until a perfectly intact glass of Scotch was sitting on the floor at his feet.

Trembling, Ramey bent down and picked up the glass, which bore no sign of having just been broken. Jesus. He'd never seen the aliens' powers in action, had only heard of them through eyewitnesses or written reports. And while he had never doubted the authenticity of those accounts, seeing for yourself was definitely another matter altogether.

"I apologize—I didn't mean to startle you," the alien said. "I thought you'd see me when you came in, but you appear quite....preoccupied."

"How did you get in here?" Ramey asked breathlessly. "The door was locked."

The alien's eyes flicked to the repaired glass of Scotch, and Ramey immediately felt foolish: of course a locked door would present no obstacle to one who could reassemble a broken glass without touching it. "We need to talk," the alien announced. "I assure you, your life depends on it."

Ramey felt his mouth go completely dry as memories of silver handprints and scorched bodies filled his head. "So you're here to kill me?"

The alien's eyebrows rose. "Is that what you think of me? That I would kill you after all you've done for me?"

"Why else would you be here?" Ramey asked.

"To warn you," the alien said. "I'm not here to kill you, general....but someone is. Look out the window."

Thoroughly confused, Ramey walked to the window and pulled the curtain back slightly. "Do you see the car waiting by the front door?" the alien asked.

"Of course," Ramey answered. "I asked for a driver to take me to my plane."

"I assure you that particular driver has no intention of taking you to your 'plane', or anywhere else you'd like to go. Get in that car, and you won't leave it alive."

Ramey stared at the alien in disbelief. "Are you saying that someone is trying to assassinate me?"

"Not just trying—planning," the alien clarified. "Planning very carefully, I might add."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"You forget I guarded the equivalent of a general on my world. Protecting him was my job. This is what I do."

"And unsuccessfully, I might add," Ramey said. "If what you told me is true, your general is dead, and I'd really rather not join him."

The alien's face clouded, and Ramey mentally kicked himself for being so blunt. What was he thinking? Insulting one of the most powerful and dangerous creatures he'd ever encountered was a bad idea under the best of circumstances.

"You are correct, of course," the alien said quietly as Ramey closed his eyes in relief. "My Ward is dead, and I blame myself. It was my job to prevent that, and I failed. And I knew—I knew what he was walking into, having seen for myself, and still, against my better judgment, I let him walk alone."

"Why?" Ramey asked, his curiosity getting the better of his fear.

"Because he ordered me to. He ordered me to remain behind. An order I now desperately wish I had ignored, as you can well imagine."

The alien's voice was heavy with regret, the kind of regret one carries for a lifetime. Ramey slowly sank into a chair, his racing heart beginning to slow as he realized that he hadn't made a huge mistake by assisting with the alien's escape, hadn't signed his own death warrant in the process. "You can't blame yourself for obeying a direct order," he said gently.

The alien smiled faintly. "Spoken like a true general. But enough about my world; yours is the current problem. I gather you're going somewhere?"

"Washington," Ramey replied, setting down the glass of Scotch, no longer willing to drink it. "Our capital city. War has broken out on the other side of the globe, and my country has decided to aid one of the sides in the conflict."

"More war?" the alien mused. "But then given the situation on my own world, I hardly have a pulpit from which to preach. But I digress. You'll need to find another way to reach this 'Washington'."

"You still haven't said why you think someone is trying to assassinate me," Ramey noted.

"I have talents uniquely suited to gathering information," the alien answered. "For example, I can look like anyone." Ramey's stomach lurched as the alien's features appeared to melt and reform, and suddenly Captain Spade was sitting across from him. "Anyone at all. Including the man who's trying to kill you."

Ramey braced himself for the change this time and found it less upsetting....until the alien's features settled into a very familiar face. "General McMullen?" Ramey exclaimed. "General McMullen is trying to kill me? But that can't be right—George McMullen is in the dog house. That means his peers are angry with him," he clarified when the alien looked blank. "He took the compound by force against their wishes and promptly lost you, not to mention that two of his men wound up on trial for their behavior. Naturally he doesn't know about my role in this, but—"

"But he suspects," the alien said, his face having returned to its former familiar shape. "He can't prove it, but he believes you are responsible for his disgrace....and for that matter, he's right. The others of your group don't agree, of course, but he plans to make it look like an accident. You may not have considered the potential for retribution for your role in my escape, but I have. I have been here since the moment I could shift because I suspected something like this would happen. Unfortunately I was right."

Ramey rose from his chair and returned to the window, pulling the curtain aside. He wasn't familiar with the driver in the car below, but that meant nothing; not being stationed here, he didn't have a regular driver. "All right," he said heavily. "I'll call the MP's and have the driver questioned."

"On what grounds? That your former prisoner dropped in and tipped you off?"

"I'll think of something," Ramey said.

"And then what? There's no way your 'MP's' can divine a man's intentions. Suppose they clear him?"

"Then I'll get another driver," Ramey insisted.

"Who will arrive with the same marching orders," the alien argued. "General McMullen is paying someone to send these requests his way."

"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, Mr. Doe, but this is my problem. You should go. It's dangerous for you to be here. I didn't risk everything I had and a lot I didn't just to see you recaptured. Thanks for the intel, but I'll handle it from here."

The alien regarded him in silence for a moment before rising to his feet. "I seem to recall another general who ordered me to back away, and we both know what happened then," he said softly. "I have no intention of repeating that mistake. If I allow you to leave unprotected, there will be an attempt on your life, and I will not let that happen."

Ramey sighed and looked out the window again. "What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you pack your things as you normally would, and leave the rest to me."

Ramey spent the next fifteen minutes packing his few things as he turned the situation over and over in his mind. Sergeant Keyser had also warned him to beware of McMullen, and he'd brushed it off as mere sour grapes. But was it really such a stretch for McMullen to stoop to murder when he'd recruited two officers who'd done—or tried to do—the same? Still, it was a markedly uncomfortable feeling to be putting his own life in the hands of one of his former prisoners, so Ramey was relieved when he appeared with his suitcase to find the alien looking exactly like a base soldier, complete with a uniform and a corporal's rank insignia. He's going to drive me himself, Ramey thought as the alien took the suitcase and held the door open for him, trailing behind like any driver would. Ramey headed for the back door of the building, planning to take a different car, but the alien went in the other direction, going out the front door and walking straight toward the supposedly murderous driver with Ramey hurrying behind in alarm.

"What are you doing?" Ramey demanded. "Are you going to kill him?"

"That would not be my first choice," the alien answered calmly.

Before Ramey could reply, the alien reached the car and tapped on the window, which the driver rolled down. "Change of plans," the alien said crisply. "I'm to drive the general. Keep it to yourself. And don't worry," he added as the driver looked at him suspiciously. "You'll still be paid."

Ramey's jaw clenched as that last sentence seemed to settle it for the driver, who climbed out of the car, saluted Ramey, and walked off. "Now do you believe me?" the alien murmured as he held the back door open so Ramey could climb in.

"Incredible," Ramey muttered in disgust. "Is there anyone left with any integrity?"

"Plenty, actually," the alien said as he started the car. "McMullen had quite a time finding willing helpers."

"That's a comfort," Ramey said dryly. "Wait—the air field is that way."

"It would not be wise for you to board any form of transportation that originates from this base," the alien answered as he drove toward the main gate. "There is another base in the area, and I imagine there must be officers from that branch of your military who are also going to 'Washington'."

"Walker Air Force Base is sending representatives," Ramey agreed, "but—"

"Excellent. You can leave from there."

"You don't even know where it is," Ramey protested.

"Of course I do. You'll be there in twenty minutes."

Ramey sat back, bewildered, as the alien cleared the main gate and hit the open road at a good clip, driving as though he'd been doing it all his life. He'd been in plenty of bizarre situations in his long career, but this one took the cake. Five minutes passed in silence before the alien spoke again.

"Sergeant Keyser is now stationed at the 'Air Force' base, is he not?"

"Is there anything you don't know?" Ramey asked in consternation.

"Very little," the alien answered.

"Really? Then do you know why Dr. Pierce, Captain Spade, and Lieutenant White are all missing?"

There was a long pause from the front seat before the alien answered.

"Yes."

Something about the tone of that "yes" made Ramey uneasy. "Is it something bad?"

"Yes."

"As bad as what happened to you?"

"Worse."

Worse? Ramey's mind boggled at the thought of what could be worse than what the alien had endured. "What is it?" he asked heavily. "What happened?"

Ramey saw the alien glance in the rear view mirror. "I question whether you need to burden yourself with that answer. What happened is over, it was not your fault, and no one was harmed in the end. You are leaving the area, you have another war to fight, and having had some experience with regret, I would venture that having a regret that large to carry with you would be unwise."

"Perhaps," Ramey said. "But will you tell me if I want to know?"

Another long pause. "Yes."

The desert outside the car window raced by as Ramey stood on the edge of a mental precipice, wanting, but not wanting to know. The debate consumed him the rest of the way to Walker, where the alien pulled up to the guard house and offered a perfectly plausible excuse as to why Ramey preferred to travel to Washington on an Air Force jet. They were cleared immediately and directed to a hangar, where the alien parked the car and opened Ramey's door for him. Ramey climbed out, still torn, knowing this might be his last chance. As soon as they parted, the decision had been made.

"Your luggage, sir," the alien said, retrieving Ramey's bag from the trunk and placing it at his feet. The two men faced one another for a long minute, the former prisoner and the man responsible for his three years of captivity.

"I don't suppose you'd consider coming to Korea with me, would you?" Ramey asked. "I could certainly use your skills."

"It's a tempting offer," the alien said, "but others have first claim on those skills. I'm afraid I must remain here. Best of luck with your war."

"And you with yours," Ramey said.

An airman appeared to take Ramey's suitcase. "Right this way, general," the airman said.

Ramey followed, having deliberately allowed the clock to run out. That long career of his had taught him that there were some things best left unknown, especially if the knowing would compromise your current situation. He glanced back on his way into the hangar; the alien was still standing by the car, watching him, and he remained at that post until Ramey was out of sight.




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




Chaves County Sheriff's Station




"Jim!" Sheriff Wilcox called from his office as Valenti walked by, having just arrived for his shift. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Valenti said. "What's up?"

"Close the door, and have a seat," Wilcox said.

Warily, Valenti complied. He'd been in the hot seat in the sheriff's office often enough to know that closing the door meant something big; whether that was "good big" or "bad big" in this case remained to be seen. "What's up?" he repeated.

"Good news," Wilcox smiled. "You're going home."

Valenti blinked. "Sir?"

"Back to the Roswell station," Wilcox clarified. "Tonight will be your last shift here."

"Oh," Valenti said, uncertain of how to respond. "Is there....did I....sir, have I done something wrong?"

"Hell, no," Wilcox replied with a chuckle. "You and several other deputies were loaned to me by Sheriff Hemming back in '47 right after the crash when the county was in an uproar, and I mightily appreciated the help. But in the last three years, the focus has shifted to Roswell, mostly because they've invited it with those alien-themed bed & breakfasts and that Crash Festival. Roswell has become a UFO nut's Mecca, so Hemming now has the same problem I did back in '47—too many calls and not enough deputies. The county at large has quieted down a good deal, so I don't see as it's right to keep all of you around any longer."

Valenti said nothing, not at all certain how he felt about this. It was true that Roswell's needs had swelled while the county's had shrunk. It was also true that most of the deputies who had so gleefully called him "Deputy Martian" had probably forgotten all about that. And Roswell was his home station, he lived mere minutes away from it, and he knew the town like the back of his hand. Still, it seemed like a demotion. Corona was where the real alien action was, and Corona was in Chaves County.

"There's something else," Wilcox continued. "Just between you and me, Sheriff Hemming is planning to retire in the near future. Since I've had most of his people rotate through my station, he asked my opinion on which of his deputies would make the best successor.....and I told him I thought you would be the best man for the job."

"I.....oh, my," Valenti said, stunned. "Really, sir? I haven't been on the job as long as some of those other guys."

"Maybe not," Wilcox allowed. "But you've got a nose like a bloodhound's, and you've had your trial by fire with Cavitt. A little grooming, and you'll be ready."

Valenti's face clouded at the mention of Cavitt, and Wilcox's sharp eyes narrowed. "You're not still beating yourself up about Cavitt's death, are you? He took his own life. That's no one's fault but his own."

"You think I blame myself for Cavitt's death?"

"Sure," Wilcox said. "Have been ever since we found him."

Valenti hesitated, glancing back at the closed office door. "Sir, can I tell you something in confidence?"

"Shoot."

"I'm not the least bit upset that Cavitt's dead, sir," Valenti said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm pissed because he never stood trial for the shit he pulled. He was a waste of a human being and an even bigger waste of an officer. And I'm wondering if feeling that way disqualifies me as a candidate for sheriff of anything."

"My call is that feeling that way qualifies you as a human being, which is definitely a prerequisite for sheriff," Wilcox said. "Do you seriously think I felt any differently about him?"

"Really?"

"Jim, you don't have to shelve your emotions to be a sheriff, or a deputy for that matter. You just have to make certain those emotions don't affect the way you do your job. We gave Cavitt every single thing he had coming under the law, no questions asked. There's no law that says we had to like him, or that we can't find him to be a waste of a human being."

"If you say so, sir," Valenti said doubtfully, unconvinced.

Wilcox sat back in his chair and regarded Valenti in silence for a moment. "When you first came here, you knew how to investigate, but you didn't know what to do with what you'd discovered," he noted. "You were a just a quivering ball of self-righteous indignation on two legs, certain that shouting the 'truth' to all and sundry was the only way to go. You've learned a lot in the three years you've been here. You've learned that your first duty is to the people you've sworn to protect, not the truth, or the military, or the government. You've learned that the truth can be misused. You already had excellent investigational skills; what you developed here was something much harder to learn—judgment. Hell, you've got Emily Proctor singing your praises. How likely was that to happen?"

"Not very," Valenti admitted with a faint smile.

"Now if you don't want this, say the word and I'll pass it along," Wilcox continued. "But it's my personal opinion that you'd not only make a mighty good sheriff, you'd make a mighty good Roswell sheriff. In Roswell, you'd have a passel of alien nonsense to deal with; having seen the real thing will give you a perspective almost everyone else would lack. And given that I'm not planning on retiring any time soon, I sure wouldn't mind having a man I know and have worked with at the helm in Roswell."

"Not to mention a man whose ass you've kicked many times," Valenti added dryly.

Wilcox smiled broadly. "That too. What'dya say?"

Valenti hesitated only a moment before breaking into a smile as broad as the sheriff's. "I'd say thank you, sir, and I look forward to a long and happy association with you."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Wilcox said with satisfaction, shaking Valenti's hand vigorously. "Now, mum's the word on this for the moment. Hemming doesn't want it known just yet that he's backing for the door."

"Understood," Valenti said. "And sir.......thank you," he added. "Thank you for everything you've taught me, even if I hated your guts while you were doing it."

"My pleasure," Wilcox replied. "Even if you started out as a pain in the ass kind of pupil."

"Right," Valenti smiled. "Well....back to work."

Wilcox settled back in his chair as Valenti headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "One more thing, sir. Just between you and me....I don't think Cavitt killed himself."

Wilcox blinked. "What?"

"It just wasn't something he would do," Valenti said. "He wasn't the type to give up."

"He also wasn't the type to get caught," Wilcox noted. "Cavitt had never been caught like he was caught here, Jim, and you had a large hand in that. I can see that pushing a man over the edge."

"Not Cavitt," Valenti said, shaking his head. "Not him."

"We didn't find a shred of evidence that pointed to anything other than suicide," Wilcox said. "We let the Army crawl all over this place, and they didn't find a single thing that made them draw any different conclusions. Cavitt's defense attorney told us Cavitt was furious when told he'd definitely get jail time, and he was found dead just a few hours later. I'm not having any trouble connecting the dots here."

"I know," Valenti admitted. "And I can't argue with that, which is why I never mentioned this earlier. Call it intuition, or that bloodhound's nose you mentioned earlier, but I don't think he killed himself."

"Then what did?" Wilcox asked, bewildered.

"I don't know," Valenti allowed. "And I have the sneaking suspicion that maybe we'll all be better off if we never find out."



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


Book 3 comes to an end next week with Chapter 151, posted next Sunday.

Ah.....it's very refreshing to type "Complete" instead of a date in the thread header. :mrgreen:

This is it, folks, last chapter. I'm deeply grateful to all who felt this story worthy of their time. Thank you so much! {{{{Hugs}}}}








CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY ONE


Five days later

July 1, 1950, 5:00 p.m.

Alamogordo, New Mexico



Captain Richard Dodie pulled over to the curb, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the car, squinting at the note in his hand for confirmation, hoping he was wrong. He wasn't. It turned out that 155 Joseph Avenue was little more than a trash heap, not that it was any different than any other house on the street. The entire neighborhood was depressing, each house sporting the worn down look that betrayed not only lack of money, but lack of interest. Garbage pick-up seemed none too regular, the houses were numbered out of sequence as though by one who'd had too much to drink, and it looked like someone had played a game of mailbox baseball last night. So this is what happens when you stick your neck out for the truth, Dodie thought sadly. Not that his own effort to cover up that same truth hadn't cost him dearly, but at least his standards hadn't sunk quite as low as Hal's. This was hard to look at.

He almost hadn't. Immediately after Valenti had given him a ride back to the base when he'd been released from jail, Dodie had sought out Spade and asked where Hal was living. And Spade, it turned out, wasn't very eager to pass that information along.

"Why do you want to know?" Spade had asked, his eyes narrowing when Dodie didn't answer. "Oh, shit, Dodie, you're not going to confess or something, are you? That's just selfish."

"Why is that selfish?" Dodie had asked.

"Because you'd only be doing it to make yourself feel better," Spade had said. "It wouldn't make Carver feel better, or bring Betty back, or serve any purpose whatsoever but to unburden your guilty conscience. Carver already suspects Cavitt was responsible for what happened to Betty, and he's basically right. Leave it at that."

"I can't," Dodie had answered miserably.

"Do it anyway," Spade had insisted. "Besides, you said yourself that if Hal ever finds out what you did, he'll kill you. He may not be in the best of shape, but he's plenty capable of doing that."

But Dodie had persisted, and fifteen minutes later, he'd managed to wrangle the address out of Spade. Good thing, too, because later that day, Spade had disappeared. Dodie wasn't clear on the details which were being sat on by the brass, but word was there was some kind of shooting, a man had died, and Spade had gone AWOL in the company of a nurse. Whether that fantastic story was true or not Dodie didn't know, but he did know that, whatever the reason, Spade had vanished. So he'd never learned how much time Dodie had spent fretting over what he'd said about approaching Hal, ultimately deciding Spade was right.....only to change his mind when circumstances demanded it. Visiting Hal was no longer an option. It had become a necessity.

Now Dodie crossed the yard and climbed the creaky steps to the front porch, wrinkling his nose as he passed open garbage cans along the way. The doorbell hung useless from the wall, so he knocked instead, a full three sets increasing in volume each time before anyone responded.

"Just a goddamned minute!" someone shouted on the other side of the door, which must have been mighty thin in order to transmit sound that readily. "Jesus Christ Almighty, what's so all fired important that—"

The door was wrenched open to reveal an extremely unkempt man with at least three days of chin stubble and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Well, it's about time!" he exclaimed angrily. "You're two weeks late!"

"Excuse me?" Dodie said blankly.

"I've been callin' and callin', and I keep gettin' told the number's been shut off!" the man continued. "I ain't been paid in two weeks!"

"Sir, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm looking for a man who was living at this address as of a year ago, a Harold Carver. Is he still here?"

" 'Course he is!" the man said irritably. "I've called in like clockwork every single week, and the Army's never missed a payment until now. I woulda told you if he'd left—that's what you pay me for, or used to anyways. Now, where's my money?"

Ah—Cavitt's Carver detection system, Dodie thought. The landlord had obviously mistaken his uniform for evidence that he was here on Cavitt's bidding. "Your money's right here," he said, pulling out his wallet and handing over a twenty dollar bill. "And I regret to inform you that your services will no longer be needed. That will be your last payment, regardless of whether Carver stays or leaves."

"Wow!" the man replied, holding the bill up to the light as though unconvinced it was real. "Two month's pay! Well, it's too bad it's over, but it was easy money. This one lasted longer than most. Carver's upstairs, first door on the left."

The man withdrew to a side room where Dodie got a glimpse of a spoon sticking out of a can as he passed by. Some dinner, he thought as he climbed the dark staircase and stood facing the first door on the left, suddenly losing his nerve. He hadn't seen Hal in three years, not since that awful day when he'd talked him into resigning. No white picket fences for me, pal, he thought sadly, remembering Hal's last words to him before he'd stormed out. Just a whole lot of regrets. And if he couldn't summon the nerve to do what he'd come to do, he'd have one more regret on that list. Bracing himself, Dodie knocked on the door.

Footsteps sounded inside. "Who is it?" a gruff voice called.

Dodie opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't. "I said who is it?" the voice demanded again.

"It's....it's Richie, Hal," Dodie said, embarrassed at the way his voice caught. "I need to talk to you."

Silence. Dodie stood facing the closed door, suddenly cold even though it was a sweltering July day. Until now he'd been certain that getting Hal to talk to him wouldn't be a problem; keeping Hal from killing him would be the hard part. What would he do if Hal wouldn't talk to him? Talk through the door? Slip a note underneath? Hal had to be told one way or the other, and he had to be told now, today. Spade was gone, and Dodie wasn't going to get another chance.

"Hal, please," Dodie tried again. "I know you're mad at me. I—"

"I've got nothing to say to you," came the voice from the other side of the door, a study in barely suppressed rage. "I said everything I had to say to you last time we 'talked'."

"But—"

"How dare you come here?" Hal demanded. "How did you even get this address? Did Spade and that nurse give it to you? Because if they did, I swear to God I'll knock both their heads together—"

"Cavitt's dead," Dodie said abruptly.

A full minute passed before Hal spoke again. "Dead? How?"

"He killed himself," Dodie said. "And Spade told me that he was tailing you, so you needed to know that. He's gone, Hal. He can't follow you now. You can go home."

The door snapped open so quickly that Dodie jumped, the two inches of space revealing a haunted set of eyes that only vaguely resembled the man who had been Dodie's best friend. But the fire was still there, the defiance that had always defined Hal Carver, that endless resistance to any attempt to make him conform, make him heel, make him sit up and roll over on command. Maybe that defiance was what had kept him alive these past few years in spite of Cavitt's harassment. Carver wouldn't have wanted to let Cavitt win, no matter what.

"Why are you here and not Spade?" Hal asked suspiciously.

"Because Spade is gone," Dodie answered. "Something happened at the base a couple of weeks ago. I'm not sure what, but whatever it was, Spade went AWOL, and word is that nurse went with him. No one's seen or heard from him since. He doesn't even know that Cavitt committed suicide. Too bad; I'll bet he'd sleep better wherever he is if he knew."

Hal opened the door another few inches, and Dodie tried not to stare at the worn, unmended clothing, the greasy hair, the smell of whiskey. "You're looking good, Richie," Hal remarked, looking Dodie up and down. "Nice and spiffy, but still a captain, I see. Those white picket fences been good to you?"

"There never were any white picket fences," Dodie said quietly. "For either of us, it seems."

Hal's eyebrows rose, but he didn't answer. "Look, I know you don't want to talk to me," Dodie said. "I just wanted you to know that Cavitt can't hurt you anymore, and since Spade wasn't around to tell you, I—"

"Whatever happened to those glowing things we saw in the back of the truck that night?" Hal interrupted.

"I...I don't know," Dodie admitted. "I never heard anything more about them."

"Nothing?" Hal persisted.

"Nothing," Dodie repeated. "But then I wouldn't have. I walked away from Cavitt's good graces right after you left."

More silence. Hal eyed him as through trying to decide whether to believe him or kill him, and Dodie decided to leave before he reached a decision. "Okay....well....I told you what you needed to know, so I'll be going. Good luck."

"Why don't you come back tomorrow?" Hal said. "Give me a chance to clean the place up a bit, and—"

"Sorry, but I can't," Dodie said.

"Why not?"

"Because I have orders," Dodie answered. "This is my last night stateside. Tomorrow morning I ship out to Korea."

Hal stared at him a moment in shock. "Korea? That stinks."

"Yeah, it does," Dodie agreed. "But it's my job."

"It used to be my job too," Hal said.

Dodie looked away. "I know."

A good deal of the fight and all of the suspicion disappeared from Hal's eyes. "I wish I was going with you."

"I wish you were too," Dodie admitted. "Guess I'll have to find myself a new wing man."

"You're full of it, Richie. You were always my wing man."

To Dodie's astonishment, Hal stepped back and opened the door all the way. "C'mon in."

"You sure?" Dodie said skeptically.

"Sure I'm sure. It's the least I can do for my former wing man before he goes up without me. And maybe while you're here, you can tell me what happened to those white picket fences. I think you already know what happened to mine."

"Promise you won't kill me?" Dodie asked doubtfully.

"Hell, no," Hal said blandly. "But if I do, I promise I'll make quicker work of it than the North Koreans would. And I've got some Zagnuts."

A slow smile spread across Dodie's face. "You and your candy," he said as he stepped inside.




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



Proctor residence




"Isn't dinner ready yet?" Dee asked her mother, who had just opened the oven door to check the roast.

"Almost," Emily answered. "About ten more minutes. Did you set the table yet?"

"No. And I don't see why it's taking so long," Dee complained. "Why don't you let Jaddo cook it?"

"I have offered—and been turned down—several times," Jaddo noted.

"That's right," Emily confirmed, "and should you offer again, you'll be turned down again. Dee, go finish setting the table or we won't have anything to eat with. Look," she continued as both Jaddo and Dee began to protest, "I understand you just got all those whiz bang powers back and you want to play with them, but you'll have to pick another target. I'm the cook, and the roast is going to be cooked my way. Now scram, both of you."

Jaddo looked away in annoyance as Dee left to "set the table" and Brivari and Malik exchanged amused glances. Jaddo was indeed using his abilities for everything he could think of and a lot more besides. Having been without them for so long, he seemed to have a need to use them constantly for the slightest little thing, as if to convince himself they were really there. He had lost little in the way of skill, but his body was having to re-acclimate to the fatigue and hunger that the use of power usually produced, and Brivari had had quite a time getting him to slow down, to work back to his former strength in stages. Malik saw this as a natural reaction to having lost his abilities for so long, and it was....but Brivari knew it was more than that. Jaddo's constant shifting and use of his abilities to do simple things like opening doors masked a set of deep-seated fears: That his powers would never return, or that if they did, he would be compromised in some way. Hopefully the first fear would be laid to rest soon; the second, unfortunately, might never be, or at least not for quite some time.

*If you'd like to speed things along, why don't you make the coffee?* Brivari suggested to Jaddo. *I notice you're drinking coffee again.*

*We've drunk coffee since we arrived on this world,* Jaddo answered dismissively.

*I have,* Brivari said slowly, *but you haven't. You stopped for a time. Why is that?*

*I wasn't aware I needed a reason,* Jaddo replied.

*Oh, there was a reason,* Brivari answered. *And you know what it is. The only way to conquer a fear is to face it, and it's time you faced this one.*

*Speak plainly, or be quiet,* Jaddo said impatiently .

*You held the same shape for nearly three years. Did you develop any other senses besides taste?*

Silence. Brivari watched Malik's eyes widen before he looked away, studiously ignoring them even though they were not speaking privately and he could hear every word. Malik was very adept at social cues both Antarian and human, having an innate understanding of when to involve himself and when to step aside, but ignoring this particular revelation would be difficult. Brivari had said nothing on this subject prior to this, having not been certain himself of how—or if—Jaddo would recover. Now that question was settled, it was time to drag some things out into the open.

*You think I developed a sense of taste?* Jaddo said incredulously. *Where did you get that ridiculous notion?*

*From the Healer, who detailed how you were rejecting not only coffee, but other food as well, all strong tasting according to her.*

*Nonsense,* Jaddo said sharply.

*Are you saying the Healer was lying?* Brivari asked.

More silence. The subject of the Healer's fate was a sore one for Jaddo. It appeared Spade had led her to safety after Pierce's brief reappearance at the base, but there was no way to confirm that as neither the Healer nor Pierce had been found. *She was mistaken,* Jaddo said. *The development of senses in our species is the product of old age or illness, an aberration I would think you wouldn't wish on me.*

*I'm not wishing anything on you, Jaddo—I'm merely observing,* Brivari said calmly. *The elderly and infirm are said to develop senses precisely because they can no longer shift. I don't believe there's ever been a case of a young, healthy subject who remained in one form as long as you did. Aren't you even the least bit curious about what happened to you?*

Jaddo's eyes hardened. *No,* he said flatly. *And don't ever refer to me as a 'subject' again.*

Emily looked up in surprise as Jaddo left the room abruptly just as the coffee pot began to bubble. "Is he really that upset about the roast?"

"No," Brivari sighed. "I'm afraid that was my fault."

Emily glanced after Jaddo with concern. "How's he doing?" she asked quietly.

"Physically, he has recovered," Brivari answered. "His mental state is another matter."

"Let's just say he's a bit testier than usual," Malik offered.

"That's a frightening thought," Emily said dryly. "But seriously, he was a captive for three years. It's going to take a lot longer than three weeks to get over that."

Dee breezed into the room for more silverware, planting a kiss on her mother's cheek as she left. "You and your daughter appear to have reconciled," Brivari noted.

"We've agreed to disagree," Emily said as she turned off the oven. "There are certain subjects we just don't discuss....and it would be wise for us to do the same."

Brivari nodded in acknowledgement, privately noting that Emily Proctor wasn't the only one avoiding divisive subjects. Be his encounter with Valeris real or not, he now largely believed Malik's assertion about why he and the others had run....but admitting that to a rogue was just too painful. "Perhaps this would be a good time to bring up that little matter we were talking about earlier?" Brivari said to Malik, eager to change the subject.

"Would you like the honors?" Malik asked.

"Not at all," Brivari said. "It was your idea, and I'm sure you'll explain it much better than I would."

"This isn't more bad news, is it?" Emily asked warily.

"Far from it," Malik smiled. "We sold my house, the one Amar and I and the others were living in, and....well.....we'd like you and your family to have half the money."

Emily blinked. "What?

David appeared in the basement doorway. "Here's an extra dining room chair," he said, pausing when he saw the look on his wife's face. "What's wrong?"

"They want to give us half the price of a house," Emily said in disbelief.

"We sold my house," Malik explained as David looked at him in astonishment. "I'm going to keep half to set myself up in Roswell and start a repair business similar to the one I had earlier, but the three of us, Brivari, Jaddo, and me, agreed that your family should have the other half."

"It is the least we can do, considering all you have done for us," Brivari added.

David set the chair down slowly. "That's very generous," he said, every bit as surprised as his wife. "Do I want to know how you came by the money for a house in the first place?"

"Probably not," Malik admitted. "But that was years ago. And your daughter wants to go to college, doesn't she? I hear that's very expensive. Half the house is about $7,000. That's enough to send Dee to college and have a good deal left over for retirement."

"Good Lord," Emily breathed, her eyes wide. "Seven thousand? That's enough to send the entire neighborhood to college!"

"It certainly is," David agreed.

"Do that, if you want to," Malik said. "It's yours to use as you like."

Brivari watched with interest as the Proctors exchanged glances, obviously tempted but uncomfortable at what was apparently considered a sizeable amount of currency. Once again, Malik's facility with human culture and language had proven useful. For all the time he'd spent here, Brivari still did not understand the nuances of the value of currency on this world, not to mention the full meaning of the concepts of "college" and "retirement". Malik's affinity to the human world would be an enormous advantage to them as they began the long wait for their Wards' hybrids to mature. Trusting him had been a risk well worth taking.

"You're not trying to buy me off, are you?" Emily asked dryly.

"I do hope I don't appear that foolish," Brivari replied. "Nothing I can say, do, or give you will appease your anger at what my people did or settle the differences between us. And as currency has little value on my world, I confess I don't quite grasp the magnitude of the sum in question. But Malik seemed quite certain you would find it useful, and frankly I can think of no other way to repay you for your kindness to us, kindness extended in spite of our differences. An alliance which holds in the face of disagreement is the very strongest kind. The king could have asked for no better allies than all of you."

"Well....thank you," David said, as Emily looked distinctly uncomfortable. "But you did save Dee's life, you know. I'd call that a 'repayment' of the highest order."

"And what you have done for us since then calls for additional 'repayment'," Brivari said. "So if you have a use for it, please accept this with the king's thanks."

"I don't know anyone who doesn't have a use for seven thousand dollars," Emily said in amazement. "I wonder if the king will ever realize just how much you set him back."

The doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" Dee called from the dining room. "Is dinner ready yet? I'm starving!"

"The roast!" Emily exclaimed, hurrying to the oven. "Look at me, all agog over a pile of money while the food is burning."

*You did well,* Brivari said privately to Malik as David carried the extra chair into the dining room. *Some day you'll have to explain to me exactly what a 'check' is.*

Malik smiled. *Given how long you're going to be here, I imagine I'll have to explain a good deal more than that.*




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



Anthony Evans knocked on the Proctor's front door, glancing at his watch as he did so. He was due home for dinner, but he could stretch it a bit, which should give him and Dee enough time to make plans for this weekend when all their friends would be attending the Crash Festival in Roswell. Unsurprisingly, Dee was as uninterested in attending this year as she had been last year, and so was he. Mrs. Chambers' stuffed alien dolls had made quite the splash, and word was that the "crash" planned for this year's festival was bigger and even more elaborate, which Anthony interpreted to mean "gorier". Best to stay away. Having seen real alien emergencies, he found he had no stomach for fake ones.

The door opened. "Anthony!" Dee exclaimed. "Wow, what timing! We were just having dinner."

"Oh geez, I'm sorry," Anthony said. "I thought you ate later on Saturdays."

"We usually do, but not today," Dee said. "We have plans for tonight. And they're here. All of them."

"Oh," Anthony said blankly. "Then I'll come back."

"No, no silly," Dee said, pulling him inside. "Now's the perfect time for you to meet them."

Meet them? Anthony's eyes widened in alarm as the door closed behind him with a clang like a prison cell. Meet the aliens? All of them? Good Lord, but he wasn't ready for that. "Uh....no thanks," he said hastily. "Maybe some other time."

"I don't know another time when they'll all be here," Dee countered, practical as ever as she tugged him into the living room.

"I don't want to interrupt your dinner—" Anthony began.

"We haven't started eating yet."

"—and I'm sure you mother would mind—"

"Of course she wouldn't. You've been over a million times since everything happened, and she hasn't said a thing, has she?"

"Well....no, but.....okay, maybe they'll mind," Anthony said, coming right to the point as he edged for the door.

"I don't care if they mind or not," she declared. "You're my friend, and you're part of the reason Malik didn't get killed and Mama got rescued. They're just going to have to live with that."

And what if they don't want to "live with that"? Anthony thought wildly, only to have that distressing thought cut off by another voice.

"Good afternoon."

Anthony's heart almost stopped as Mr. Langley appeared, wearing his more familiar "Mr. Langley" face instead of the one he'd sported the last time Anthony had seen him when he'd been straddling a man and trying to kill him with a smoking hand. Dee, for her part, obviously didn't share Anthony's terror; planting herself firmly beside him, she clasped his clammy hand in her own and adopted her trademark defiant look. "This is Anthony Evans," she said. "He was at the church."

Anthony, who had been desperately hoping that Mr. Langley had suddenly developed alien amnesia, felt his knees go weak. Yes, of course he'd been at the church, but he certainly wouldn't have brought that up in his first sentence, or brought it up at all, for that matter. "Uh.....hi," Anthony said, his voice more closely resembling a croak because his throat was so dry.

The kitchen door swung open and Dee's mother appeared. "Dee, who was at the—oh, hello, Anthony!" she amended when she saw him, her eyes moving from Mr. Langley and back to Anthony with what he could have sworn was sympathy. "We were just sitting down to eat. Won't you join us?"

"Yeah, have dinner with us!" Dee exclaimed excitedly. "I'll go set another place!"

"And tell your father to fetch another chair from the basement," Emily called after her as she took off.

"Oh....no, Mrs. Proctor," Anthony said, shaking his head vigorously from side to side as he backed up. "I....I didn't realize you were eating earlier today....you really don't have to...."

"Well, of course I don't 'have to'," Mrs. Proctor said. "I want to. And it's the least we can do after everything you've done for us," she added, with a pointed glance at Mr. Langley. "I'll just ring up your parents and ask if it's all right with them."

Mrs. Proctor retreated to the little hallway between the front door and the kitchen and picked up the phone. Even though she was still visible, she may as well have been in Siberia as far as Anthony was concerned. An awkward silence ensued as Mrs. Proctor chatted with his mother, further sounds of chatter drifted from the Proctor's dining room, and Mr. Langley looked him up and down. At least that's what he assumed Mr. Langley was doing; he was much too busy staring at the floor to double check.

"I do remember you," Mr. Langley said at length. "You are the child with whom I discussed telescopes."

Telescopes? Anthony, who had frozen in terror as soon as Mr. Langley opened his mouth, almost collapsed in relief; he'd been certain Mr. Langley had been about to remember how he'd charged up that church aisle after Dee as she shouted at the top of her lungs, interrupting an alien assassination attempt, or how he'd pulled that gun out of sight in the hopes that no one else would get the bright idea of firing it. "Right," Anthony said, adjusting his gaze upward just the tiniest bit. "We talked about a telescope for Dee's birthday present. And I probably sounded like an idiot with all that business about how they gathered light and...." He trailed off, certain he was sounding like an idiot again.

"Not at all," Mr. Langley said. "You can only know as much as your world knows. Those who suspect more are frequently ostracized. Like Galileo, for example."

Anthony looked up in surprise. "You know about Galileo?"

"A bit," Mr. Langley said. "Fascinating man. But then visionaries usually are."

"There!" Mrs. Proctor said, coming back into the living room. "Your mother doesn't mind a bit if you stay, so let's sit down before everything gets cold."

Mrs. Proctor steered Anthony into the dining room and pointed out a seat between—thank God—Dee and her father. Seated at the head of the table, Mr. Proctor looked pleased and not the least bit surprised to see him there, Dee was beaming as she patted the chair next to her, while Mrs. Proctor took a seat across from Anthony and shot him an encouraging smile. Anthony risked a glance around the table as he slid into his seat, noting the younger, friendlier looking alien who had been distraught over the death of his friend, wearing the same face as he had at the church; the alien smiled and waved now, making Anthony feel even better. Mr. Langley sat down next to Mrs. Proctor, and Anthony found himself growing curious about what else Mr. Langley knew about telescopes, Galileo's insistence that Earth was not the center of the universe and his subsequent excommunication by the pope, or any other subject, for that matter. Imagine getting an alien perspective on Earth's history. Imagine finding out that what was now held as true....wasn't. Maybe now that he was in the "alien club", so to speak, Mr. Langley would actually be willing to talk to him about these things. Just thinking of what he could learn was exciting, and Anthony relaxed enough to take a better look around the table, only to find a third alien sitting next to Mr. Langley giving him a hard stare.

"Who is this?" the third alien demanded.

Anthony's eyes jerked back down to the table in terror. This must be the one he'd never seen, the one who had just escaped. The one who obviously didn't share the collective opinion that Anthony belonged here.

" 'This' is Anthony," Dee answered firmly. "He's my friend, and one of the reasons you're still alive."

"Deanna," Mrs. Proctor said warningly.

"She is right," Mr. Langley said calmly, more to his companion than anyone else. "Unbeknownst to us until just recently, the boy has been very helpful for the past several years."

"Nice to see you again under better circumstances," added the younger alien, leaning around Dee. "I'm Carl, by the way."

"Hi," Anthony said, beginning to breathe again.

"And I am—" Mr. Langley began.

"Mr. Langley," Anthony finished. "Or...well....that's what Mr. Proctor told me back when we were talking about telescopes."

" 'Mr. Langley' it is, then," the alien replied, as Mr. Proctor looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. "And this is...." He paused, looking at his grumpy companion.

"What?" the grumpy companion asked.

"What do you want the boy to call you?" Mr. Langley asked patiently.

The grumpy alien adopted an expression that made it clear that he'd prefer Anthony not call him anything, and Anthony was perfectly happy to go along with that. But after a moment he answered curtly, "Nasedo."

Nasedo? That sounded vaguely Indian, and there were several blank expressions around the table with the exception of Mr. Langley, who just raised his eyebrows. "Inventive," he remarked dryly. "Shall we eat?"

The meal commenced and chatter began. Anthony passed dishes back and forth, politely taking some of everything including the sweet potatoes, which he hated. The alien who had called himself "Nasedo" said little and completely ignored him, which suited Anthony just fine. Carl asked a lot of questions about life in Roswell, where he apparently intended to start some kind of business. Inquiries were made of Mr. Langley as to where he intended to live, and he replied that he didn't know. Mr. Proctor asked Carl for help fixing some noise or other in his car, and Dee asked Mr. Langley if he would personally explain to Anthony some of the inner workings of the telescope he'd given her; to Anthony's great delight, he replied that he would. He'd had a million questions about that telescope ever since he'd learned what it could do, but Dee wasn't a technical kind of person .

"I thought of something just now when the phone rang," Mrs. Proctor said suddenly. "This is the first time, the very first time since you arrived here that no one is chasing you."

Silence. Anthony shrank back in his chair as all three aliens exchanged glances. "Not at the moment, at least," Nasedo said, speaking for the first time since his introduction. "That may change."

"True," Mr. Langley agreed. "But that is no reason not to enjoy the moment while we have it."

"Do you think there will be any repercussions because Khivar's people failed in their mission?" Mr. Proctor asked. "Is he likely to take it out on everyone back home?"

"No," Carl answered, "or not right away, at least. He's not in a position to admit his failure."

"And having already destabilized our entire region of space, he'll have to be careful not to go too far," Mr. Langley noted. "Rule number one for those who wish to rule is to not destroy that which one wishes to rule."

"Do you really think he's capable of that kind of restraint?" Mrs. Proctor asked skeptically.

Chatter now turned to "Khivar's" disposition and fitness to rule. Anthony listened in fascination, finding it hard to remember to eat. An elbow nudged him; Dee was smiling at him, the days of him not asking and her not telling seeming very far away as everyone spoke openly right in front of him. Who would have thought the day would come when he'd be sitting at a table with three people from another planet listening to a discussion about alien politics? For a boy who had always looked to the stars and wondered what was out there, it just didn't get any better than this.



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



Copper Summit, Arizona




Helen Rahn had just cleared the dinner dishes when she heard a car outside her kitchen window. She peered through the curtains, watching Copper Summit's one and only real estate agent climb out of the driver's seat. The realtor had been showing Tom and Carl's house for the past two weeks, parading one prospective buyer after another through it. Some had looked promising, like the newly married couple or the pair of elderly sisters, while others had her praying they wouldn't move there, like the family with eight unruly children or the nasty middle-aged man whose bad temper reminded her of Tom. This latest bunch who piled out of the car behind the agent appeared to be in the former category, a set of parents with two children, an older teenage girl and a somewhat younger boy. And that was good, because as Mrs. Rahn watched, the agent took down the "For Sale" sign in front of the house and shook the father's hand. They had a sale.

Mrs. Rahn bustled around the kitchen, pulling off her apron and taking the extra pie she'd baked for the church social off the shelf. She could always make another, and it was more important that she greet her new neighbors as soon as possible. "Hello!" she called as she hurried across her front yard. "I'm Helen Rahn; my husband Bill and I live just next door. Welcome to the neighborhood."

"Why, thank you!" the woman answered, accepting the pie and taking a deep sniff. "Apple—my favorite. You're too kind."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Rahn said firmly. "I'm delighted to have such a lovely family as neighbors. When will you be moving in?"

"As soon as possible," the woman answered. "We've had such a long trip that it will be nice to settle down."

"Oh? Where are you from?" Mrs. Rahn asked.

"Far away," the woman smiled. "Very far away. Everyone, say hello to our new neighbor."

The father and the daughter greeted her cordially, but the boy ignored them, standing apart from the group, staring fixedly at the house. "I said, say hello to our new neighbor," the mother said firmly to her son.

The son turned to look at her, and for just a moment, Mrs. Rahn was taken aback. He was quite short, with dark hair and piercing dark eyes that held a level of disdain that would have earned him a stern rebuke from any self-respecting parent. But his mother merely made an annoyed sound and waved her hand dismissively. "Teenagers," she said. "Always off in their own world."

"Of course," Mrs. Rahn said uncertainly, hoping she hadn't inherited a set of unruly older children. "And where do you work, Mr.....I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

"Goodness, where are my manners!" the woman exclaimed. "We're the Crawfords. I'm Ida, this is my husband, Walt, my daughter, Vanessa....and that," she added nodding toward the dark-eyed, disdainful boy," is my son, Nicholas."






THE END


To be continued in All Too Human.




It's 1959, and a decade of exile finds the Warders restless, Pierce still at large, and the hybrids growing more slowly than expected. In Roswell, Sheriff Jim Valenti is bracing himself as the town goes Hollywood—"They Are Among Us" is about to start filming, meaning more tourists—and more trouble—than usual. One new arrival is a man named James Atherton. Another is a young woman named Courtney.....but she hasn't come for the movie. She's come to find someone who doesn't want to be found. And when she finds him, two opposing sides collide with ramifications that reach decades into the future.

Learn what deal "Nasedo" made and why he made it, how the Destiny Book wound up in the library, why River Dog was entrusted with a painting on a cave wall, and how a set of pods landed in a New York City sewer in Book 4 of the Shapeshifters Series, All Too Human, debuting Sunday, October 14.

Re Ch 148:

I'm finally back. The end!? It can't be! But, he-he, it is wrapping up nicely! I loved Amar's revenge.

Brivari turned his attention to the communicator. "Ingenious," he murmured.

"What?" Malik demanded. "What'd he do?"

"Ionizing radiation," Brivari answered. "The holographic imager uses a form of ionizing radiation. Properly applied, ionizing radiation can destroy organic tissue while leaving non-organics largely intact."

"So he killed them without blowing up the entire house?"

"It would have had to have been a very limited, precisely defined blast to do this little physical damage," Brivari noted. "They would have had to have been very close to the communicator in order for it to work properly."

"And they would have been," Malik said, "because they would have been watching a hologram."

"Exactly," Brivari said. "As I said: Ingenious. Amar has outdone himself."

And I loved Brivari's reply here:

He paused, ultimately deciding to take the plunge and settle the issue once and for all. *Marana insisted you'd kill me just as soon as Jaddo recovered.*

Brivari gave him a level stare. *Since Jaddo was fully recovered yesterday, it would appear I am tardy....and I am never tardy.*

Then Cavitt and the lawyer. Is it any wonder lawyers have bad reputations?

"Good news and bad," Allen admitted. "The good news is that most of the charges against you don't have enough evidence to support them. The bad news is that the ones that do will stick like glue. One doesn't weasel around Judge Price. So—I propose the following strategy. Regarding the matter of the reporter, deny everything. Your name isn't connected with that event in any way save for the word of Captain Dodie. The prosecution will trot him out to tell his story as a character assassination, but there isn't a shred of evidence to connect you to anything he'll say concerning her death. So as far as you know, you never told him to retrieve anything from the reporter and Dodie never informed you of any accident. It's his word against yours."

"Understood," Cavitt said.

"Regarding Mrs. Proctor's injuries, no one saw you strike her, so there's no way to prove it was you who caused them. Once again, deny doing it. Mrs. Proctor will say otherwise, of course, but it will be her word against yours. For all anyone knows, her own husband could have beat her."

And Cavitt's reply...

Do you think you can do that?"

"Of course I can do that," Cavitt said impatiently. "I wouldn't have gotten this far if I didn't know how to lie."

"So I noticed," Allen said dryly.

But the last part of this chapter was the best. I have to say, I didn't see it coming, even though I expected it to eventually, in some way or another. But it caught me by surprise. Cavitt's in big trouble... and he knows it! His weasel lawyer won't be able to save him from this!

"Forget something, sheriff?" Cavitt said. "Did you think of another witty retort on your way back upstairs?"

Wilcox said nothing, just continued to stare at him with a piercing gaze that was most uncomfortable. "If you have something to say, say it," Cavitt snapped. "I'm getting ready for bed. Unless, of course, you'd like to amuse yourself by watching me undress?"

"Why not?" Wilcox said. "You amused yourself watching me."

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Cavitt said in exasperation. "I've never watched you do anything but get in my way, and that certainly wasn't by choice."

When Wilcox didn't answer, Cavitt strode furiously up to the bars. "Get out!" he barked. "How dare you taunt me like this! How—"

Cavitt's voice died in his throat as the sheriff suddenly began to....shrink. His head grew, his fingers lengthened, his skin turned a mottled gray, and in a matter of only seconds, an alien stood just outside the cell door, staring at him with those black, depthless eyes devoid of pupils, of expression, of thought, even. Seconds after that the gray creature had disappeared, this time shooting up in height, the head shrinking, the face melting into a set of very familiar features.

"Good evening, colonel," the prisoner said calmly.

Uh, good evening and goodbye!

Okay, there are lawyers among my closest relatives, so I shouldn't wish to besmirch all lawyers alike, but did you hear about the lawyer who died after leaving instructions that his money, art, and all his worldly possessions of value be placed in the attic so he could pick them up as he departed? After he died, his wife couldn't bear the suspense and peeked into the attic. All the items were still there.
"I knew I should have put them in the basement!" she said.

Chapter 149 feedback:

Well, well, well. Pierce is still at it... with a different crew. Figures! I'm looking forward to Jaddo finding him!

But backtracking a bit...

"And it appears Cavitt has taken his own life," Brivari added, watching Jaddo closely.

"Has he now?" Jaddo said coldly. "Imagine that."

Brivari sighed. "At least you had the good sense to make it look like a suicide."

"Of course I did," Jaddo said impatiently. "I'm not stupid. One hint of our presence, and this place would be up and running again in no time."

"Which is precisely why I urged you to wait," Brivari said pointedly. "We could easily have discovered Pierce's and Cavitt's respective locations and dealt with them later at a time and place of our choosing, when no one would have considered alien involvement in their deaths."

"It wasn't seriously considered because I left no trace," Jaddo argued. "And for me, it was worth the risk. He was helpless," he added with grim satisfaction. "Helpless, and terrified, and oh so alone. It was....." He paused, as if searching for the right word. "....exhilarating."

HeHe! So justly merited!

It was nice seeing Spade tell Yvonne that he wanted to be with her. And Grandpa Spade is a real card! He'll keep them on their toes!

Spade pulled her closer. "Ask me what my plans were," he whispered.

He felt her heave a defeated sigh before saying, "What were your plans?"

"To be with you," Spade said softly. "Wherever that was, wherever that turned out to be. Even Alaska, Antarctica, or Harvard Med School. Even holed up in the middle of nowhere with an irascible grandfather and no clear idea of what's going to happen next. Wherever you went, that's where I was going. So don't worry about me," he continued, brushing her hair out of her eyes, kissing her forehead. "I got exactly what I wanted."

Great chapter! The last one, too!

Chapter 150 - Another great chapter! (As if that were any surprise!)

The reunion with Quanah was great. I love Quanah's logic and wisdom.

Wherever that is, know that you are always welcome here," Quanah said sincerely. "And I'm glad to hear that you plan to attend the wedding ceremony."

"Are you certain my attendance would be appropriate?" Brivari asked. "There are still some who object to my presence. I wouldn't want controversy to ruin your son's special day."

Quanah was quiet for a moment. "Do you remember the night the skinwalkers came for you?"

"Vividly. Why?"

"My eldest would not be here today if you had not helped me rescue him, so I can think of nothing more 'appropriate' than your attendance at his wedding," Quanah answered. "Those who disagree are welcome to stay home. Rest assured none will."

And you caught me off guard again! I definitely was not expecting Jaddo to make a reappearance before General Ramey. But it was a great part! I loved the whole bit where he convinces Ramey of the plot against him then takes over as his driver... and their parting words. How very appropropriate after Ramey saved his life for Jaddo to return the favor!

"Why else would you be here?" Ramey asked.

"To warn you," the alien said. "I'm not here to kill you, general....but someone is. Look out the window."

Thoroughly confused, Ramey walked to the window and pulled the curtain back slightly. "Do you see the car waiting by the front door?" the alien asked.

"Of course," Ramey answered. "I asked for a driver to take me to my plane."

"I assure you that particular driver has no intention of taking you to your 'plane', or anywhere else you'd like to go. Get in that car, and you won't leave it alive."

Ramey stared at the alien in disbelief. "Are you saying that someone is trying to assassinate me?"

"It would not be wise for you to board any form of transportation that originates from this base," the alien answered as he drove toward the main gate. "There is another base in the area, and I imagine there must be officers from that branch of your military who are also going to 'Washington'."

"Walker Air Force Base is sending representatives," Ramey agreed, "but—"

"Excellent. You can leave from there."

"You don't even know where it is," Ramey protested.

"Of course I do. You'll be there in twenty minutes."

Whoo! Great ending, Kathy! What better way to end this part than with all the aliens having dinner at the Proctors, and with Anthony there!

And about that $7,000. It sure went a lot further in those days!

"Good Lord," Emily breathed, her eyes wide. "Seven thousand? That's enough to send the entire neighborhood to college!"

I was almost surprised that Malik was able to get Emily to accept it. But he did do some fancy talking. So did Brivari!

"You're not trying to buy me off, are you?" Emily asked dryly.

"I do hope I don't appear that foolish," Brivari replied. "Nothing I can say, do, or give you will appease your anger at what my people did or settle the differences between us. And as currency has little value on my world, I confess I don't quite grasp the magnitude of the sum in question. But Malik seemed quite certain you would find it useful, and frankly I can think of no other way to repay you for your kindness to us, kindness extended in spite of our differences. An alliance which holds in the face of disagreement is the very strongest kind. The king could have asked for no better allies than all of you."

"Well....thank you," David said, as Emily looked distinctly uncomfortable. "But you did save Dee's life, you know. I'd call that a 'repayment' of the highest order."

"And what you have done for us since then calls for additional 'repayment'," Brivari said. "So if you have a use for it, please accept this with the king's thanks."

And now Nicholas is here. And Pierce is still on the loose. Well, you gave us some interesting things to look forward to in the next book! I've always wondered how the dupes wound up in the NY sewers!

Great story!

Thanks, Gerry! And thanks for sticking with this all the way through. I really value your insights, and I know how much time it takes to not only read, but write the wonderful feedback you give. {{{Hugs!}}}}