All Too Human, Shapeshifters, TEEN, Chapters 1-69

[Kathy W 2200]

Banner by Misha. Thanks a million, Misha!



TITLE: All Too Human, Book 4 in the Shapeshifters series.



SUMMARY: It's 1959, and a decade of exile finds the Warders (shapeshifters) restless 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 William 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.

Watch the formation of the Special Unit, see Courtney's rebel Skins in action, 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 All Too Human.


CAN YOU JUMP IN AT BOOK 4? : Yes! The next post contains a character guide and synopses of the first three books. That, along with what you know from the show, will give you enough background to start reading with Book 4.


AUTHOR: Kathy W


RATING: TEEN, for occasional language and very occasional implied sexual situations.


CATEGORY: Backstory/Prequel. No couples. Unless you consider Nasedo and Langley a couple.


PERSPECTIVE: Those responsible for making it happen—the shapeshifters.


SERIES SUMMARY: I’ve always been fascinated with what happened before the pod squad hatched, and I’ve had a million questions. Why don’t the hybrids remember more? Why was the Destiny Book in the library instead of in the pod chamber? Why did the Dupes wind up in a sewer in New York City? Why did both shapeshifters appear to abandon their charges after hiding them so well in the very beginning? Was Nasedo really working for the Skins? Why was Langley so unwilling to help Max? And so on and so forth.

This is the story from the viewpoint of the shapeshifters, my own little fantasy about what happened, why it happened, and what went wrong. It will probably wind up being six or seven separate stories, each a sequel to the other. They will closely track the show; my intention is not to rewrite Roswell, but to fill in some of the blanks. The story begins on the ship headed to Earth, and will likely end with Max’s encounter with Langley many years in the future.



SEQUEL TO:

And the Stars Fell From the Sky: First book in the series. Chronicles the shapeshifters journey to Earth and the creation of the hybrids. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... 6292#16292

Alien Sky: Second book in the series. Covers the aftermath of the crash and the capture of the two surviving shapeshifters. Written around and through the Roswell episode "Summer of '47". Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... c&start=10

Comes The Inquisitor: Third book in the series. Covers the period from 1947-1950 when one of the shapeshifters was held captive by the U.S. military. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... 61&start=0

This particular book covers a period of several months in 1959, including the filming of the movie "They Are Among Us" in Roswell. It begins nine years after Comes The Inquisitor ends.

In previous books the shifters have referred to each other by their Antarian names, and the question of which was Langley and which Nasedo was up in the air. That question is settled in this book.




DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Nothing anyone wants, anyway. :D I’m just borrowing these wonderful characters to amuse myself. And hopefully you.

Some of the events in this story are taken from Roswell episodes. In addition to characters from the show, there are also a few real people in this story. I know precisely none of these people, and am borrowing them strictly for this little tale.

[Kathy W 2200]

If you're new to this series, here's a Character Guide and Synopses of the first 3 books to get you started.


Pronunciation and Character Guide:

Aliens

Antarians:

Brivari—Zan’s Warder: “var” rhymes with “far”
Jaddo—Rath’s Warder: “a” as in “ah”, soft “J”
Valeris—Ava’s Warder, now dead: “ler” sounds like “lair”
Urza—Vilandra’s Warder, now dead: sounds like it looks
Covari—The name of the shapeshifters’ race: Rhymes with “Brivari”
Riall—Zan’s father: Ree-all
Argilians—The name of Khivar’s race: “g” is soft, like “j”
Malik, Amar—Two of the five shapeshifters who helped perfect the Argilian's (Skins) husks after they faked their own deaths and remained behind while on a mission to Earth. Malik is the only one still alive. Ma-lick ("a" as in apple), A-mar (rhymes with “far”)


Argilians (Skins):

Athenor—Khivar's second-in-command, known to his inner circle by the human name of "Nicholas". Now living in Malik's and Amar's former house in Copper Summit. Ordered the deaths of the Royal Four without Khivar's knowledge; killed Rath himself. Ath-eh-nore.
Greer: Athenor's second-in-command.
Walt and Ida Crawford: Athenor's real parents.
Vanessa Crawford: Athenor's lover, posing as his human sister. Will be Vanessa Whitaker in the future.
Courtney: Daughter of the leader of the rebel Argilians, those who want Rath on the throne.



Humans

Civilians:

Dee Proctor—First discovered the Antarians’ ship on Pohlman Ranch when she was 8 years old; now 20 and married to...
Anthony Evans: Dee's childhood friend, now husband
Philip Evans: Anthony and Dee's firstborn, now a toddler. Yes, Philip Evans from the show is a toddler!
David and Emily Proctor—Dee’s parents
Mac and Rose Brazel—The Proctor’s next door neighbors. Mac worked on Pohlman Ranch at the time of the crash. It was Mac who first brought the ship fragments that he and Dee found to the attention of authorities.
George Wilcox—Chaves County Sheriff (Roswell and the crash site are in Chaves county.)
James Valenti, Sr.—Roswell Sheriff
Andrea Valenti (Andi): Sheriff Valenti's wife
Jimmy Valenti: Sheriff Valenti's son, James Jr., our very own Valenti from the show
River Dog: A Mescalero Apache whose family helped hide Brivari.
Quanah: River Dog's father


The Army:

Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt—Formerly Captain Cavitt. Co-commander of the operation concerned with experimenting on/with the aliens. In charge of security and military intelligence. Now deceased.
Lieutenant Colonel (Dr.) Daniel Pierce—MD/Psychiatrist and co-commander of the operation concerned with experimenting on/with the aliens; in charge of the medical and psychological aspects. Future father of Special Unit Head Daniel Pierce.
(Former) Major Bernard Lewis—Army physician who advocated a "living autopsy" on the alien prisoner in order to study it without it turning to dust. Resigned from the Army rather than face a court martial and went to work for the FBI. Will be the first head of the Special Unit.
Lieutenant Stephen Spade—Was in command of the security detail at Eagle Rock. Assisted in the escape of the alien prisoner. Went AWOL in 1950 with Yvonne White.
Lieutenant (Nurse) Yvonne White—Assigned to assist in experimentation on the captive aliens. Assisted in the escape of the alien prisoner. Went AWOL in 1950 with Stephen Spade.
Captain Brian Thompson—Assisted in the escape of the alien prisoner in 1950 when he was a corporal. Now stationed at Eagle Rock.





AND THE STARS FELL FROM THE SKY




There has been a coup on Antar. The King's chief rival, Khivar, convinced the king's sister, Vilandra, that he would ask for her hand in marriage, causing her to lower the palace's defenses to allow him inside. But instead of a marriage proposal, Khivar appears with an army which takes down the unprepared capital city and kills the royal family.

Each member of the royal family is assigned a Warder, or bodyguard, from a race of shapeshifters known as "Covari". In the wake of the capital's fall, the Royal Warders flee the planet with the dead bodies of their Wards: The king, Zan, his wife, Ava, his sister, Vilandra, and his chief military officer and second-in-command, Rath. Also on board is a piece of experimental technology called the Granolith, which Antar was building secretly in defiance of a treaty which mandated the sharing of new technology with their sister planets. On board the ship, the Warders begin the attempt to resurrect their Wards by combining genetic material from their bodies with that of donors from a species on a distant planet called "Earth" for two reasons: Direct cloning produces too many errors in the copy, and the donor species possesses a powerful brain which will make their Wards incredibly powerful in their new incarnations. The result is 200 embryonic Antarian-human hybrids, or 50 sets of the Royal Four. A malfunction in their ship causes it to crash land on Earth, damaging the incubation chambers in which the hybrids are housed. The crash is witnessed by an 8 year-old girl named Dee Proctor, who thinks she saw a shooting star.



ALIEN SKY


(The events in Alien Sky are woven around and through the episode "Summer of '47".)

The Warders' ship crashes during a thunderstorm, hiding the event from all but an 8 year-old girl named Dee Proctor who happens to be looking out the window when it occurs. Thinking it to be a meteorite, she tells her next door neighbor, William "Mac" Brazel, that she thinks it fell on the grounds of Pohlman Ranch where he works. Mac agrees to let her accompany him to the ranch to look for her "meteorite".

On board the ship, the news is not good. The crash has seriously damaged not only the ship but the incubation pods in which the hybrids were housed, causing many to die. The Warders decide to hide both the remaining hybrids and the Granolith in a nearby abandoned experimentation chamber once used to conduct tests on human subjects. It needs to be enlarged, and the work begins.

Meanwhile, Dee has found her "meteorite"; she only sees it for a moment, and Mac doesn't see it at all as Valeris, Ava's Warder, is capable of shielding it from view with a mind warp. Mac finds several pieces of a strange metal which he collects and brings to Chaves County Sheriff George Wilcox, who calls the nearby Eagle Rock Military Base.

Dee befriends the aliens and discovers that she is capable of communicating with them via their telepathic speech. The Warders heal her after an encounter with a bully, and when the military locates the ship before all the hybrids are moved to their new hiding place, Dee convinces her father to help. Two sets of hybrids and two Warders are still on board when the Army arrives, along with Dee. Only Dee escapes. Urza (Vilandra's Warder) and Valeris (Ava's Warder) are killed, and the hybrids captured. The two remaining Warders, Brivari (Zan's Warder) and Jaddo (Rath's Warder) make plans to rescue them.

A Roswell deputy, one James Valenti, has seen some things that don't add up. He relentlessly pursues the Proctor family and tries to answer as many of the endless "alien calls" the sheriff's station receives in hopes of finding information on the real aliens, which he is sure exist.

Within the Army, Captain Sheridan Cavitt leads the hunt for the aliens, establishing a compound in an unused building on the grounds of Eagle Rock, while two of his subordinates, Private Stephen Spade and nurse Yvonne White, begin to question the way the situation is being handled. The two remaining Warders manage to rescue the captured hybrids with the unwitting help of one Captain Hal Carver, but Brivari is captured with the aid of tranquilizer darts. Jaddo is also hit by a dart and only barely escapes; it falls to the Proctor family to retrieve the hybrids and bring them back to their house for safekeeping.

When Jaddo revives, he hides the hybrids in the pod chamber and attempts to rescue Brivari. He fails, and winds up captured himself. The book ends with a new arrival at the Army base, one Major Daniel Pierce, a psychiatrist and neurologist assigned to study the aliens.




COMES THE INQUISITOR



Both surviving aliens have been captured by the military, but Brivari (Zan's Warder), manages to escape. Based on data gleaned during that escape, Dr. Pierce concocts a serum to suppress the remaining alien's (Jaddo, Rath's Warder) ability to shapeshift and the use of his powers, allowing the humans to keep him prisoner.

Both Nurse Yvonne White and Lieutenant Stephen Spade, who is in charge of the compound's security detail, agree to help Brivari free Jaddo. Yvonne allows Brivari to take her shape at various times during the day, enabling him to visit his colleague and search for a means of escape. Brivari encourages Jaddo to give the humans what they want, or at least appear to, so they will keep him alive, and after a series of confrontations with Dr. Pierce and Major Cavitt, he reluctantly complies.

The first escape attempt is foiled by two other Covari (shapeshifters) living here on Earth in the Arizona town of Copper Summit, defectors from a previous expedition to Earth. Both are now working for the Argilians (Khivar's race), helping them construct a seal for the shells they are building which will allow them to survive in Earth's atmosphere. One, Amar, is a sworn enemy of the crown, and blames Zan and his father before him for breaking faith with the Covari race which helped him attain the throne. The other, Malik, shares Amar's concerns but is uncomfortable with Khivar's coup and the way he is behaving. In the absence of a body to prove Zan's death, Khivar is both unable to convince the people that the king is truly dead and unable to obtain the royal mark (royal seal) which identifies Antar's ruler. In order to distract his detractors, he flings accusations at neighboring worlds, accusing them of harboring the royals' bodies and the Granolith, among other things. The distrust Khivar sows destabilizes the five planets, causing a breakdown of diplomatic relations and periodic fighting between them.

The second escape attempt is foiled by the arrival of two more Covari and four hunters, who attack the base and attempt to capture both Warders. All Covari are capable of seeing the infrared spectrum, and all emit an infrared signature that makes them recognizable to others of their race. Hunters are Covari specially bred to lack this signature, making them invisible to other Covari. Besieged by his own kind, Brivari flees south of Roswell to a cave on the grounds of the Mescalero Indian Reservation, where he is befriended by a teenaged boy named River Dog and his family. In the wake of the aliens' attack, the Army constructs a more secure holding cell for Jaddo made of white tile.

The compound at Eagle Rock where Jaddo is held prisoner is led by a Major General Roger Ramey, a decent man at odds with those in the military who feel the alien is too much of a security risk and wish to have him killed and dissected, chief among them Major Sheridan Cavitt and Major Bernard Lewis (future first head of the Special Unit). Ramey introduces a new method of alien detection, that of an x-ray which reveals the aliens' very different bone structure no matter what form they take, and lays his career on the line to keep Jaddo alive. In return Jaddo willingly works with Ramey to provide the human military with tactical advantages, the first being a night vision device and the second being the repair of their ship, while Brivari takes down the hunters one by one. It is in the summer of 1949 when the last two hunters locate Brivari near River Dog's village and the events described in "The Balance" occur. In the wake of the sweat and Brivari's near fatal reaction to it, both remaining hunters are killed, River Dog learns of Brivari's extra-terrestrial origins, and the friendship between Brivari and River Dog's family is strengthened.

This is no shortage of people who claim to have been abducted by aliens, and by sheer chance, David Proctor meets one of them, a man by the name of Charles Dupree. Charles' story is quite a bit different from that of other abductees, but it rings true for David, who recognizes several details. The Proctors subsequently learn why the Antarians had been coming to Earth for years prior to the crash—to harness the power of the human brain in an effort to enhance their own race. Experiments were conducted in hidden experimentation chambers like the one which eventually became the pod chamber, and the subjects were always young children, young enough that parts of their brains had not atrophied from lack of use. This revelation angers Emily Proctor so much that she bars Brivari from their house, touching off a year-long feud with her daughter, Dee. Everyone eventually reconciles, largely by agreeing to disagree, and the Proctor family continues to be a source of support for the Warders. And Dee now has an accomplice, one Anthony Evans, who lives a few houses away. Anthony is instrumental in helping Dee out of several sticky alien situations, but Dee is reluctant to tell him everything that's going on for fear that doing so will put him in danger. Dee and Anthony will become Max and Isabel's paternal grandparents.

On other fronts, Yvonne White is on a mission to discover what happened to Betty Osorio. With her and Spade's determined digging plus the efforts of Deputy Jim Valenti, they locate Richard Dodie, who harbors a grudge against Cavitt, and Hal Carver, who is holed up south of Roswell and reveals the events which led to his resignation. Their suspicions that Cavitt is responsible for Betty's death cannot be proven, however, and further investigation is halted by a disaster. Dr. Pierce has discovered the aliens' reproductive cells and has been secretly attempting to impregnate Yvonne with an alien-human hybrid. When he succeeds, she nearly dies, and it takes Brivari and a healing stone to save her life. In the process, Brivari and Malik reach an understanding of a sort, and Malik decides to help Jaddo escape.

When repairs on the ship are nearly complete, the Warders contact home via the ship's communications equipment and speak with Larak, who warns them that Khivar's second-in command, Athenor (Nicholas), is on the way to Earth with a task force dedicated to hunting them down. Removing Jaddo from the compound becomes a necessity as he is a sitting duck while captive and without powers. Plans for his escape are coming along nicely when an engineer working on the aliens' ship accidentally activates the security system, which locks it, leaving it in the condition in which Max finds it in the episode Control. The ship cannot be opened without a particular power crystal (the key), and no one is able to find it. General Ramey's detractors blame the prisoner for this occurrence and take the opportunity to seize control of the compound and attempt to execute Jaddo. Brivari convinces Ramey to work with him, and Jaddo is successfully rescued in June of 1950. The remaining Covari pursue; all are killed except for Malik.

Jaddo kills Sheridan Cavitt in retaliation for his captivity, making it look like a suicide, and ushers General Ramey past an attempt to murder him on his way to Korea, where war has broken out. Dr. Pierce attempts to abduct Yvonne White and continue his hybrid experiments, but Spade flees with her to safety; Pierce continues his work in secrecy at a mental hospital, using the female inmates as incubators. Major Lewis resigns from the military to avoid a court martial. Richard Dodie pays a visit to Hal Carver to tell him that Cavitt is dead, keeping to himself the revelations that it was he who sent Betty the key to the morgue where the glowing sacs were being held, and he who ran her off the road on Cavitt's orders in order to retrieve the files Carver had given her. Anthony Evans becomes a full member of the "I Know An Alien" club, and Malik sells the house that belonged to him and his fellow defectors in Copper Summit. Unfortunately he doesn't see who buys it. It's Walt and Ida Crawford and their two children, Vanessa.....and Nicholas.

[Kathy W 2200]

All Too Human



CHAPTER ONE

June 16, 1959, 1:30 p.m.

Roswell, New Mexico



"We're almost there," Anthony said as the bus rumbled around a corner.

"I know," Dee said tonelessly, gazing out the window as Roswell's streets rolled by, familiar sights and sounds flooding back. She hadn't lived here in four years and, truthfully, she hadn't missed it. Compared to Albuquerque, Roswell was just so....pedestrian. This would be a long summer.

"Look," Anthony said, pointing out the window as the bus stopped at a red light. "They've got a UFO Center now. Bet that'll be fun."

"Oh, sure," Dee said dryly. "Loads."

"See?" Philip said, pointing.

Dee smiled as her son pressed his face against the window and stared at the winking lights on the UFO Center. He'd slept most of the way from Albuquerque, awakening only now as the bus had slowed and passengers had begun moving around, anticipating its arrival. Of course Roswell wouldn't look pedestrian to Philip. Everything was brand new and exciting when one was only twenty months old.

"Aren't they pretty?" Dee said as Philip banged his chubby fist on the window again and again, turning his head sideways as they passed to keep the lights in view as long as possible. "Pretty lights!"

"Light!" Philip echoed.

"We should go see the center sometime," Anthony said.

Dee's eyebrows rose. "You can't be serious."

"Sure I am," Anthony smiled. "Besides, Philip would like it. And it would get you away from the house for awhile."

And that, all by itself, is a reason to go just about anywhere, Dee thought privately as Philip began bouncing up and down on her lap, having sensed the excitement on the bus. She'd waited until the very last minute to take her parents up on their offer to spend the summer with them before she started law school in the fall. Anthony was looking forward to their stay here as he'd been hired to advise the town council on their plans to build an observatory, but Dee had no such job waiting for her. Ordinarily she'd be thrilled at the prospect of a large block of time with no homework, no exams, and nothing more pressing than playing hide-and-go-seek with Philip, but not when that large block of time would be spent under her mother's roof.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've arrived in Roswell, New Mexico," the bus driver's voice boomed as the bus pulled into the station and came to a halt. "Please exit the bus in an orderly fashion, and be sure to take all personal belongings with you. Your luggage will be unloaded from the back within a few minutes. Thank you for traveling with Greyhound."

"I still don't see why we didn't take your parents up on their offer to drive us down from Albuquerque," Anthony said as everyone on the bus stood up at the same time and the aisle promptly clogged. "We all could have fit in their back seat. It only would have been a few hours."

Which would have felt like a few years, Dee thought as she hoisted Philip onto her hip and waited for the crowd to clear. It certainly would have been more comfortable to travel in her parents' car. No waiting in bus stations, no noisy travelers waking up Philip just as she'd coaxed him to sleep, and the ability to stop anytime they wanted had made her parents' offer mighty tempting. But after enduring her mother's vocal disapproval for having a baby while still in college, Dee was loathe to act like she and Anthony couldn't manage on their own. The last thing she needed was to feel dependent on her parents, which is why this summer was proving to be difficult even before it started.

The crowd finally thinned and Anthony stepped into the aisle, letting Dee go ahead. She walked off the bus into a throng of travelers and the people waiting for them, the hot June sunshine and the familiar smell of desert permeating the air. The first thing she noticed was a giant green cardboard alien with a mechanical arm waving back and forth and a cheery "Welcome to Roswell, Home of the Aliens!" lettered beside the head. Here was something else she wasn't looking forward to, the national obsession with Roswell as an alien headquarters which produced all manner of nuttiness, even if the nuts were essentially correct. Fortunately she'd be staying in her hometown of Corona, northwest of Roswell and hopefully out of much of the fray.

"Dee!" a voice called. "Anthony! Over here!"

Dee braced herself as she saw her parents working their way through the crowd with Malik behind them. Her father looked his usual smiling self, Malik was waving, and her mother....her mother had her eyes on only one thing.

"He's so big!" Emily exclaimed delightedly, gazing at Philip as though she'd like to eat him for breakfast. "My goodness, he's huge! He was so tiny last time I saw him.....I just can't get over how fast they grow! Your bus is late; we've been here over an hour. I still don't see why we couldn't have driven you down, it would have been so much easier....may I?"

Emily had stopped mid-sentence and held out her arms to her grandson. Dee handed him over, grateful that her mother's infatuation with the baby had stilled her tongue because if she had continued in that vein, Dee certainly wouldn't have stilled her own. "How they got here doesn't matter," David said lightly, always the intercessor. "I'm just glad they're here. Did you have a good trip?"

"Yes, Daddy," Dee answered, giving her father a hug.

"Good to see you, Mr. Proctor," Anthony added.

"Good to see you too," David smiled. "Want some help with the luggage?"

David and Anthony migrated toward the end of the bus where the driver was just beginning to pile suitcases on the curb, while Emily wandered off with an excited Philip in her arms, pointing to everything in sight and naming it. "You still have your apartment in Roswell, right?" Dee asked Malik, the only one of the welcoming committee left.

"Sure," Malik said. "Why?"

"Because I might need to move in. After I strangle my mother, that is."

Malik broke into a wide smile. "I doubt you'll need to get that dramatic. She'll be so busy playing grandma that she won't have nearly enough time to play mom. I'll bet Philip's feet won't even touch the ground for awhile. Welcome home, by the way."

"We'll see how 'welcome' I am after a few days of butting heads with Mama," Dee said.

"So why'd you come back?" Malik asked. "You never have before, not for longer than a week."

Dee sighed, having gone over this a million times in her own mind. "We're trying to save some money. The money you gave us from the sale of your house easily covered tuition for both Anthony and me until we got married and had to move out of college housing. And then we had Philip, and I'm going to law school, and Anthony decided he needs a masters in physics, and Mama and Daddy invited us last month when they came to graduation, and there's no one else to stay with since Anthony's parents have moved to Texas, and....well.....I decided it was at least worth a try. If it doesn't work, I'll ring your doorbell. So how are you?"

"Good," Malik answered, stepping aside as more luggage was piled on the curb. "Business is good; something always needs fixing, and human technology is easy to fix. At this stage of your development, anyway."

*And what about Brivari and Jaddo?* Dee asked, switching to telepathic speech as passengers wandered by, probably wondering why two people were facing each other without saying anything....anything audible, that is. * Did either of them hear a word I said last Christmas?*

Malik hesitated. *No, I'm afraid not.*

Dee's mouth dropped open. *Do you mean to tell me they're both still skulking around like they're being chased? Good Lord, how long has it been?*

*I know, I know,* Malik said. *But they both went through a hell of a time. It may take a while for that to wear off."

*Nine years?* Dee said skeptically. *If it hasn't worn off in nine years, it's not going to.*

*It might,* Malik countered. *Jaddo is obsessed with finding Pierce, which is why he spends so much time at the base. He'll succeed eventually, and when he does, we'll know if that will be enough to let him move on with his life.*

*And what about Brivari? Is he still living in that cave?*

*No, but he does visit that place a lot,* Malik answered. *He has allies there, you know, allies every bit as strong as your family.*

*And what about the rest of the time?*

*He stays with me, stays with your folks, stays.....well, I'm not sure. It's hard for them,* Malik continued when Dee rolled her eyes in disgust. *They're Royal Warders—they're used to guarding their Wards. There's not much guarding to be done with those Wards hidden away, so the Warders don't know what to do with themselves. They have a long time to wait, and they're almost completely at loose ends.*

*I guess that's good, in a way,* Dee allowed. *I suppose having too little to do is better than having people chasing you. Has anything happened? At the base, maybe, or with your people? Is that why they're both still so twitchy?*

*Jaddo hasn't heard anything from the base, and none of us have seen or heard anything of our enemies,* Malik answered. *If they did actually make it here, they're lying very low. Of course they wouldn't be able to recognize us, and from what we've heard, we wouldn't be able to recognize them either, so that stand-off could continue right up until the royals emerge.*

*Assuming their Warders haven't gone nuts by then,* Dee muttered, unable to believe that both still hadn't seen fit to settle down and develop something of a life for themselves.

*You're welcome to keep working on them,* Malik said. *There's a golden opportunity coming.*

*Like what?* Dee asked curiously just as Anthony and David appeared with the luggage and stroller.

*Haven't you heard?* Malik smiled. *Roswell's about to go Hollywood.*




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station



"So I'll need Main Street completely shut down for two full days for shooting, and I mean completely. As in no shops open, no traffic, hell, even the traffic lights waltzing on my command. You're going to have to block every single side street, sheriff, because I can't have some stray passerby blundering into my frame. I'll let you know a day or so ahead of time. And—"

Seated at his desk, one hand propping up his chin, Sheriff Jim Valenti suddenly regained consciousness. "A day ahead of time? You want downtown Roswell to roll up its sidewalks for two full days on only one day's notice? Look, Mr. Seinfeld—"

"Steinfeld. Morton Steinfeld. And yes, I do."

"Well, forget it, Mr. Steinfeld," Valenti said firmly. "You can't shut down every business on Main Street for two full days. You can't even shut them down for one day on only a day's notice. People make their living off those businesses, you know."

"Right!" Steinfeld said triumphantly, waving his smelly cigar for emphasis as Valenti's nose wrinkled. "The very same people who like to go to the movies, which is how I make my living."

"I can safely say I don't care how you make your living," Valenti said crossly. "I'm not shutting Main Street down for two days, and that's final. Pick a side street."

"But it can't be a side street!" Steinfeld protested. "I'm striving for authenticity here!"

"And what exactly does 'authenticity' have to do with Main Street?"

"Sheriff, Sheriff, Sheriff!" Steinfeld said sorrowfully. "Everyone knows the aliens chased the population of Roswell down Main Street while they ran for their lives, screaming for help! I mean to reenact that heart-stopping moment on film, and I need the Main Street to do it!"

" 'Chased the population'....Jesus Christ Almighty, where'd you get a ridiculous idea like that?" Valenti demanded.

"And where do you get off calling that ridiculous?" Steinfeld challenged. "Were you here when the aliens landed?"

As a matter of fact, I was, Valenti thought wearily, leaning back in his chair as Steinfeld held forth about all the supposed witnesses to the citizens of Roswell being chased by aliens down Main Street in the summer of '47. Witnesses that no doubt included those who had made countless calls reporting supposed alien sightings, alien abductions, or alien anything that deputies from both the Roswell and Chaves County station had answered for years, although Roswell had borne the brunt of it for the past decade or so, having been declared the de facto alien Mecca by popular consensus. Which is precisely why this pompous, balding, chain smoking, Hollywood B movie producer was strutting around in Valenti's office acting like he owned the town.

"When the town council voted to allow me to film my movie in Roswell, they assured me I'd have full support," Steinfeld was saying, "and that was a wise decision, if I do say so myself. Do you realize how much business I'm bringing into this town? We'll be hiring dozens of people as extras, we'll need lodging for the cast and crew, laundry services, catering—the list is endless! And every dollar of that goes into Roswell's economy. Surely you can understand that's worth shutting down Main Street for a couple of days."

"What I understand, Mr. Steinfeld, is that parts of Roswell's economy stand to gain from you filming here, while others don't," Valenti replied impatiently. "And my duty is to all of the citizens of this town, not just those fortunate enough to benefit from your august presence. For example, there's a physician and a lawyer who have offices on Main Street. How is it going to 'help' them if their patients and clients can't reach them for two full days with basically no warning?"

"Well....I....." Steinfeld paused, struggling to come up with a rejoinder. "Look, sheriff, the town council won't like it if you're less than helpful," he warned. "Like it or not, I will shoot my movie here and I will shoot on Main Street, and if you're smart, you'll cooperate. And if you don't, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Valenti interrupted, rising from his chair as the director backed up a step. "I'll have you know that I don't take kindly to threats," he continued darkly when Steinfeld didn't reply. "I don't care if the town council voted to kiss your ass, they also voted me Sheriff of Roswell long before you showed up. You don't take that tone with me in my office, or I swear to God, I'll point the aliens in your direction and make sure I'm too busy to answer the phone. Now, you park that oversized mouth of yours in that chair and ponder how you're going to finish that sentence, and when I come back, we'll see just how smart you are. And put that stogie out. It stinks."

Eyes wide, Morton Steinfeld obediently sank into a chair, his face nearly as ashen as the cigar he stabbed into an ashtray. Valenti stepped outside his office and closed the door with a bang that made the director give a very satisfying jump. He knew he was being ornery, but he couldn't help it—this guy just set his teeth on edge.

"Sir?"

"Hanson!" Valenti exclaimed as his ranking deputy appeared. "What is it? Has there been an accident? An emergency? A phone call? Anything to get me away from this moron."

"Driving you nuts, huh, sir?" Hanson said sympathetically. "What's he want now?"

"He wants to close off all of Main Street for two full days, shut everything down, close all the shops, the whole nine yards."

"Wow," Hanson said. "But....you do know that the town council is all excited about the revenue his movie will bring into town, don't you?"

"Don't think he hasn't reminded me of that at least a dozen times in as many minutes," Valenti said irritably. "I don't care if the guy is dropping bucket loads of cash from airplanes, I will not have him closing down my town!"

"But do you really think people would mind, sir?" Hanson asked. "I mean...it's a movie. A real Hollywood movie! Everyone I've talked to is all excited about it. They can hardly believe that Roswell got picked for a Hollywood movie."

"It's a movie about aliens, Hanson, so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why they want to shoot it in Roswell," Valenti said.

"But you've got to admit it's exciting, sir," Hanson argued. "The whole town will turn out to watch. My son can hardly wait. And a lot of local businesses stand to make a good buck looking after everyone who—"

"So I've heard," Valenti interrupted impatiently, "and you know perfectly well that for every local business that profits from this nonsense, there'll be another that's hurt by it. Jesus, Hanson, whose side are you on?"

Hanson flushed. "Your side, sir. Of course. It's just that....well, I.....well, Mr. Steinfeld is......"

"Is what?" Valenti demanded.

Hanson swallowed. "Casting people from Roswell as extras in his movie."

"I heard," Valenti said. "So?"

"Well.....I thought....I thought maybe I could.....you know....be in....I mean, try out for......" Hanson stopped, his face on fire.

Valenti's eyes widened. "Do you mean to tell me that just when the whole town is about to fall apart, just when I need every single deputy I have and more besides, that you want to run off and pretend to be chased down Main Street by aliens? If you do that, you'd better like it a whole lot, because that's all you'll be doing!"

"Yes, sir," Hanson stammered. "Sorry, sir. It was just....never mind. I—"

"Am I interrupting something?" an amused voice asked.

Valenti whirled around to find his wife standing behind him looking sympathetically at Hanson. "Ma'am," Hanson said, nodding toward Andi and beating a hasty retreat before Valenti could protest.

"You know, I already had dinner planned for tonight," Andi said dryly, "and 'fillet of deputy' wasn't on the menu."

Valenti sighed deeply and hooked his hands behind his head. "Okay, so maybe I came on a little strong—"

" 'Maybe'?" Andi echoed, her eyebrows grazing her hairline.

"Okay, so I did come on a little strong," Valenti allowed.

"A 'little'?"

"Can't you cut a sheriff a break?" Valenti complained.

Andi smiled as she reached out to straighten his badge. "Nope. As the wife of said sheriff, I feel obligated to point out that the entire town is really looking forward to the movie being filmed here, even with all the attendant inconveniences. So even though you see this as nothing more than a pain in the neck, the least you could do is try to be a bit more accommodating. Oh, and try not to chew your favorite deputy out in the middle of a hallway where just anybody can wander by and hear you."

"You're not just anybody," Valenti murmured, pulling her closer.

"No, I'm not," Andi agreed. "I'm your own personal, walking, talking, kick in the pants. Now, what's so bad about Hanson taking a once in a lifetime opportunity? When is he going to get another chance to act in a real Hollywood movie?"

"I need my deputies," Valenti insisted, "now more than ever."

"Why not borrow some from your friend, Sheriff Wilcox?" Andi suggested. "Didn't he borrow you from Roswell back when all the alien stuff hit in the forties?"

"I suppose I could give George a call," Valenti said grudgingly. "But this idiot producer wants to shut down Main Street for two whole days with almost no notice, and that's just not going to work."

"So what would work?" Andi asked.

"One day," Valenti said after a moment's thought. "One day with a week's notice."

"Then go tell him he can have one day with a week's notice, and that's that."

"Just like that?" Valenti asked.

"Just like that."

"I wish it were that easy," Valenti said. "This is the biggest thing that's happened since they made me sheriff, and I don't want to screw it up."

"You won't," Andi promised. "You're the sheriff."

She leaned in and kissed him then, and it took precisely two seconds for the catcalls to start from the main office, with whistles and cries of "WooHoo!" followed by applause when she finally pulled away. "You know you're bad for my image, don't you?" Valenti whispered.

"Awful," Andi agreed with a smile. "I need to go get Jimmy. He's out looking at the patrol cars; you know eight year-olds. We just stopped in to say 'hi'. Now, go show that producer who's boss, and stop fretting."

Valenti watched appreciatively as his wife walked away, her lithe figure accentuated by the wide sweep of her skirt. He wasn't her only admirer, and several heads quickly turned away when they saw him noting this fact. But he wasn't sore; he was a lucky man, with a beautiful, brainy wife anyone would hanker after. Look all you want, guys, but hands off, he thought. She's mine.

"Mr. Steinfeld," Valenti said when he opened his office door, "I've—"

"I'm sorry, sheriff," Steinfeld said abruptly, popping nervously out of his chair. "I was presumptuous. Roswell will be going out of its way for us, and I should return the favor. After all, there is literally nowhere else on Earth I could shoot this movie. So you just tell me when and how long I can have Main Street, and I'll work around that."

"Well....thank you," Valenti said slowly, making a mental note that Steinfeld's bark was far worse than his bite. "That's mighty accommodating of you. You can have it for a full day, and I'll need at least a week's notice."

"Done!" Steinfeld said. "And call me Morty. May I call you Jim? No, of course not," he added hurriedly when he saw the look on Valenti's face. "Not professional, of course not. Well, sheriff, I'll just be off and not waste any more of your valuable time, but....there was one more thing."

"What's that?" Valenti asked, knowing this had been too easy.

"Morty's" eyes darted left and right as though checking for eavesdroppers. "A minute ago, when you said you'd point the aliens in my direction, did you....would you.....sheriff, do you know any aliens? Did you see something back in '47 that would give the lie to that that ridiculous weather balloon story?"

Did I see something? Valenti repeated silently as Steinfeld waited breathlessly for an answer. He'd seen a little girl jump out of a crashed spaceship and run away, unseen by a throng of soldiers around her. He's seen glowing, pulsing lumps in the back of a truck. He'd seen the imprint of a huge, long-fingered hand in soft dirt, and a dead alien collapse into a pile of ash. And he'd gone on a long ride with an Army officer on a night in 1950 when something had escaped from the nearby military base, something no one had seen hide nor hair of since. Which was good news, he supposed, but there wasn't a day that went by when it didn't cross his mind that at least one of Roswell's residents might not be human.

"No," Valenti answered as Steinfeld's face fell. "The only thing I saw were a bunch of frightened, confused people who didn't know what to believe after the Army changed its story."

"Darn," Steinfeld said disconsolately. "I was so hoping you'd actually seen an alien."

"Well, you know what they say, Mr. Steinfeld," Valenti replied as he sat down at his desk. "Be careful what you wish for."



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



Copper Summit, Arizona




"That's the last of it," Bill Rahn said, puffing up the stairs to the second floor. "I certainly won't miss this staircase. Damned thing is so steep, you need oxygen to climb it." He paused at the top, puffing. "Helen? Helen, where are you?"

"In here," came a muffled voice.

Bill sighed and headed for one of the bedrooms, the smallest one under the eaves near the front of the house. His wife stood just inside the doorway, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, her massive shoulders heaving. "Now, Helen," he said uncomfortably. "Don't go all misty eyed on me. We both agreed this house is too much for us at our age. We'll be much better off in Tucson. Our new town house is only one floor, and—"

"Oh, I know, I know," Helen broke in, shaking her head. "But it's so hard leaving, Bill! Do you realize that I rocked all four of our babies in this room? The cradle was always against that wall because it was the warmest spot."

"I remember," Bill said. "Our bed was right on the other side, and they were always hollering. Come on, let's go."

"In a minute," Helen said crossly. "We've lived here forty-five years, and I'm not going to have you rushing me out!"

"Fine," Bill sighed. "Suit yourself. I'll go commune with the luggage while you kiss the house goodbye."

Men, Helen thought sourly as Bill trundled down the stairs. How could he just walk away with nary a look back? How could he not be moved by the memory of voices that had once filled these halls, the sticky handprints on walls long painted over, or the window ledge where their youngest daughter had always lined up her stuffed animals? Everywhere she walked a flood of memories followed, carrying with it a lifetime of joy, sorrow, and ultimately, contentment. Raising her children and building a home had been one of Helen's greatest joys. In some sense, this house was one of her children too, in a way it never had been for Bill. Bill had been a good father and a good provider, but work had been his life, with the house merely a way station before going back to work. Perhaps that was the difference; this house and everything that had happened in it was her work, her castle. Whoever had said a man's home was his castle had been mistaken.

Sniffling, Helen moved to her and Bill's bedroom for a last look. Their new place was quite small, so they were leaving some furniture behind, to the delight of the nice father and daughter who had bought the house. It had been a comfort to see it sold to someone who could love it as much as she had, and that had softened some of the sadness she felt at parting with some of the larger furnishings. Like that huge, ugly-as-sin lamp which they had only tolerated because it had been a gift from their eldest son when he was about eight or so. She picked it up now, wrinkling her brow at the huge base, turning it over to look at the underside....and froze. Lettered on the bottom in shaky cursive handwriting were the words, "To Mama and Papa with love, Richard".

That does it, Helen thought fiercely, tugging the plug out of the socket. Ugly or not, this lamp was coming with them. And to think that she'd almost left it behind! She rolled the cord into a neat bundle and was just about to leave when she spied movement on the second floor of the house next door. Curious, she bent over and peered out the window at her next door neighbor's house. The Crawfords were acceptable neighbors, she supposed. Walt and Ida seemed like respectable people, and their daughter was tolerable, although she seemed rather aloof. But that son of theirs, that Nicholas, was the most rude, patronizing little twerp Helen had ever met. If any of her boys had ever dared talk back to her the way Nicholas mouthed off to Ida, she'd have boxed his ears so soundly he would never have given a second thought to a second attempt. Unfortunately Nicholas' attitude didn't stop with his mother. Many times he'd taken the same tone with Helen, usually when he was asking one of his endless questions about Carl and Tom. He seemed very interested in the two who had lived in that house before his family.....very interested......

Helen gasped, what she saw in the bedroom window across the way pulling her back to the present. Why, Nicholas and his sister were....kissing! Passionately! On the mouth! And on the.....

"Oh, my stars!" Helen exclaimed, jerking upright. Why that little.... A minute later she had marched downstairs and out the front door, barging right past her confused husband and out to the car. How revolting! Previously reluctant to leave, now she couldn't get out of here fast enough.

"Are you off then?" a voice said just after she'd slammed the car door.

Ida Crawford was approaching, smiling as always, a steaming pie in her hands. "I made something for you to take with you," she said. "You can keep the dish. Just a little something to remember us by."

"I seriously doubt I shall have any difficulty remembering you," Helen burst out, her usual veneer of civility stripped away by what she'd just seen through that upstairs window.

Ida's smile faltered. "Why, Helen, what's wrong? Have I done something to offend you?"

She looked so genuinely befuddled that Helen relented a bit. "God knows, Ida, that I would never tell another woman how to raise her children, but that boy of yours....do you have any idea what he's doing up there?"

"Why....no," Ida answered uncertainly, her gaze straying toward the second floor of her house. "Whatever's wrong?"

Helen leaned out the car window, glancing left and right as though afraid of being overheard. "He's up there with your daughter as we speak, and they're.....they're....." Helen paused, at a loss for the proper words for that which simply wasn't spoken of. "They're necking," she finished, feeling her face growing warm at the mere memory. "And don't take that to mean that they're stopping at the neck!"

"Oh, dear," Ida said, flustered, the pie wavering in her hands.

"Now, I know that boy likely has issues because of his height, but this is simply unacceptable behavior," Helen continued sternly. "This is incest, Ida! That boy needs help! Not to mention what his poor sister must be going through, being set on by her own brother!"

"All ready to go?" Bill asked, having locked the house and joined Ida beside the car. "Ida, why do you look so upset?"

"It's all right, Bill," Ida said, dredging up a smile. "Helen was just apprising me of a....situation, that's all. Here," she continued, handing him the pie. "Best of luck in your new home, have a safe trip, and be sure to write. And thank you, Helen, for having the courage to tell me what you saw."

"You're most welcome, Ida," Helen said, feeling vaguely like she needed a bath. "I know it's not spoken of in polite company, but if anyone gets wind of this, it will spread through town like wildfire, and your family could be ostracized. You've been good neighbors these past several years, and I wouldn't want that to happen to you."

"Of course not. Well....goodbye," Ida said, and promptly fled back into her house.

"What in tarnation was that all about?" Bill demanded.

"Never mind," Helen said grimly. "Just drive. The sooner I get away from here, the better."



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



"Do you think she saw us?" Vanessa giggled, gazing out the bedroom window.

"Who cares?" Nicholas said lazily, tugging her back onto the bed with him. "She's a busybody, that one. Always in everyone else's business, but she doesn't seem to know a thing about where those Covari scum went when they left."

"You didn't really expect them to leave a forwarding address, did you?" Vanessa said dryly.

"No, but I expected the busybody to know anyway," Nicholas replied. "She knows everything else; why wouldn't she know the one thing I want to know?"

"What good would knowing do?" Vanessa reasoned. "Two were dead when we got here, and if the other two live, I'm sure they're long gone, as long gone as the Warders and those infernal royals."

"Don't remind me," Nicholas said darkly.

"We have more operatives coming off the ship every day," Vanessa said soothingly. "Eventually we'll be able to deploy spies all over this planet. We'll find them, and when we do, we'll return in triumph with the king's tiny human head on a platter. And then Khivar will forgive you and restore you to your rightful place as his second in command. It won't be long now."

It hadn't better be, Nicholas thought sourly. Nine years—it had been nine years of tedious waiting, with not so much as a peep from either a Warder or a hybrid. Nine years of fruitless searching, nine years of wearing this child-sized husk, Khivar's punishment for ordering the execution of the royals against Khivar's wishes. Or rather, most of the royals; Nicholas hadn't wanted Vilandra dead, had even issued specific orders that she be left alive. But the faction within Khivar's ranks that despised Khivar's infatuation with the Antarian princess had seen an opportunity and used it to rid themselves of her. He could respect that—heaven knew he'd taken advantage of the chaos that day to rid himself of Rath—but the deaths of all the royals had resulted in their Warders snatching the bodies and running, leaving Khivar in a precarious position because he could not produce the body of the dead king, take the royal mark, and legitimately ascend the throne. Now Khivar sat on the proverbial bottom step of the dais, gazing at the still empty throne with a fury that needed a target. And had found one just as soon as that traitorous Covari, Orlon, had ratted Nicholas out to Khivar.

The ensuing uproar had not been pleasant. Khivar had a copy of one of Nicholas' transmissions to Orlon, so there was no whitewashing anything being said in one's own voice. Through it all Nicholas had stoically insisted that he had never ordered Vilandra's death, and had only ordered the deaths of the King and Queen to make certain the much loved, idiotic boy monarch would not become a focal point for the people following Khivar's ascension, or, worse yet, freed by rebels. Whether Khivar had believed him or not was unclear, but his punishment was not; Nicholas had been condemned to wear a child's husk originally meant for another member of their expedition. Virtually everyone under his command towered over him.

Initially, he hadn't seen how this constituted punishment. They all needed husks to protect themselves from Earth's harsh environment, and the smaller husks were actually more prized as they were closer to their race's true size, thus requiring less time to get used to. But there was more, and it wasn't until they'd left for Earth that the full measure of Khivar's punishment became apparent. Khivar had sent along both of Nicholas' overbearing parents to keep an eye on him, and to make matters worse, they were assigned to pose as his parents Earth side. His lover, who used the human name Vanessa, had been assigned the role of his sister, something Nicholas was most unhappy about when he learned that human siblings did not engage in connubial adventures. And the final stab, not to mention the most petty of all to Nicholas' way of thinking, was the sabotage of his new husk. Husks were true life forms, grown from human genetic material purloined from the Antarians' visits here in their efforts to harness the riches of the human brain for their own ends. There was a direct link between the husk and an Argilian's brain, allowing them to feel the sensations relayed by the human nerves in the husk, including sight, sound, pressure, temperature, pain....and pleasure. Yes, humans had a most interesting method of mating, a method Nicholas could hardly wait to try, only to discover that those particular nerve pathways in his husk had been destroyed. So while Vanessa was capable of enjoying the full range of sensation from all those delightfully sensitive human places, Nicholas didn't feel a thing. The Argilians' equivalent of the human Lothario had been essentially emasculated.

The only thing that made any of this bearable was the notion that it wouldn't last long. They would reach Earth, hook up with their almost useless but still needed Covari slaves, capture the Warders and the hybrids, and return home, where he could shed his husk and be himself again. No such luck. Nine years later they were still here, still painstakingly educating their people on their ship, some of whom they'd hoped never to have to send into the field. Nine years later he still had to put up with his parents watching his every move, still had to pretend his lover was his sister, still had to watch enviously as his subordinates enjoyed the full use of their husks. To say that he was anxious to get out of here would be a gross understatement.

"What are you thinking?" Vanessa whispered in his ear.

"Nothing you'd like to hear," Nicholas grumbled.

"Come on," she coaxed. "Think about happier things. Like this."

She slipped her blouse aside, revealing those wonderfully soft protrusions human females sported on their chests. They were called "mammary glands" if he remembered his training rightly. Something to do with feeding human young. But feeding young was the last thing on his mind as....

.....he found himself flat on his back on the floor, his mother standing over him with a look like grim death.

"After all I've done for you, all I've given you, this is how you repay me?" she spat. "By blowing our cover?"

"What the hell are you doing?" Nicholas sputtered as Vanessa scurried backwards on the bed.

"Knocking some sense into that little head of yours," Ida growled. "You know perfectly well that human siblings don't carry on the way you two just were, so don't you dare let me catch you doing it anywhere a human could see! Like a human just did, I might add. Helen Rahn was scandalized."

"Who cares?" Nicholas said impatiently, pushing himself to his feet. "She just left, didn't she? Besides, it might do the old biddy good to—"

"Don't take that tone with me," Ida interrupted severely. "After everything we've gone through because you failed, I will not have you failing again!"

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Nicholas thundered. "I am Athenor, second in command only to Khivar himself! You do not speak to me that way—"

Slap! Vanessa's eyes widened as Nicholas sat down abruptly on the bed, one hand to his cheek as Ida hovered over both like a fury. "Now you listen to me," she ordered. "If you'd done what I told you, we wouldn't be here right now. If you'd just killed the king and let the others live, Khivar would be Antar's rightful monarch, and we would be at his side as we should be. But you couldn't stop with just Zan, could you? You had to kill them all, kill Ava, kill Rath, kill—"

"I did not order Vilandra's death!" Nicholas exclaimed. "Jesus, how many times do I have to say that?"

"Don't take the human Lord's name in vain," Ida commanded. "People don't like it. And I know you didn't order her death; the point is you should have realized others would try to kill her, and prevented it. If you want to rule, you need to learn to anticipate. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Nicholas glared at her in silence, rubbing his sore face. Or rather, the husk's sore face; his own face was safely hidden beneath layers of human tissue which was unfortunately responsive to pain. Very responsive.

"Don't let me catch you two carrying on like this again unless you're in a closed room with the windows covered," Ida ordered. "And for that matter, don't let me catch you like this again period. It looks....weird."

"Gee, Mom, you sound almost human," Nicholas said sarcastically.

"Don't provoke me," Ida advised severely. "And you," she continued to Vanessa, "don't lead him astray or I'll have you out of that pretty little husk and back on the ship before you can blink. I bred my boy to rule, and rule he shall, even if he is too stupid for words sometimes. Now, pull yourselves together. The Rahns have left, and Greer just put out a call. They'll be here shortly."

"We've been on this rock way too long if my mother is starting to develop human mores...or any mores, for that matter," Nicholas said angrily to Vanessa after Ida swept out of the room. "Time to step up the search. We need everyone off the ship and out looking for those blasted Warders. I want to go home."



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



Copper Summit, one hour later




"It's all yours!" the real estate agent chirped cheerfully as she pulled the car into the driveway. "The previous owners left today, so it's yours a day early!"

"Thank you," the man in the front passenger seat said politely. "I appreciate you letting us know. We're very anxious to move in."

"I'm sure you are," the real estate lady agreed. "And what about you, dear?" she asked the man's young daughter seated in the back. "Are you all excited about your new house?"

"Absolutely," the girl answered tonelessly.

The car stopped and everyone piled out, the agent talking non-stop about what a fine house it was, so well cared for, etc., etc. The girl squinted in the sunlight which was still too bright and climbed out of the back seat on legs that still seemed too long, even after eight years. She'd just closed the car door when a boy appeared to her right, his husk wearing a smile every bit as fake as the smile he'd worn back home.

"Hello, Courtney," Nicholas said pleasantly. "Welcome to your new home."



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


I'll post Chapter 2 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading, and welcome to any new readers!





CHAPTER TWO


June 16, 1959, 2:30 p.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona




Amazing, Courtney thought, looking down on Khivar's second-in-command. The mighty Athenor didn't look so mighty when he was several inches shorter. The last time she'd been this close to him, neither of them had been wearing a husk. She'd hadn't been looking forward to being in such close proximity after all these years, but the difference in height almost made it worth it. Almost.

"So how do you like your new house?" Nicholas asked, standing much too close to her. "Right next door to mine."

"Such an honor," Courtney said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "You really shouldn't have taken time out of your busy schedule to greet us, Nicholas. Really. You shouldn't have." She took a step forward and stumbled on a stone in the driveway, grabbing the car for support.

Nicholas' eyebrows rose. "Can't walk straight?"

"Of course I can," Courtney said impatiently. "I've worn this husk for years now."

Nicholas leaned in even closer. "And what a pretty little husk it is. I picked it out for you myself."

Catching a glimpse of her father, Courtney bit back a sharp retort. Being around Nicholas for even a short time still made her skin crawl. Both of them.

"But how could I let one of my best operatives move in without a personal welcome?" Nicholas continued, mercifully backing away and throwing an arm around her father's shoulders, or trying to, anyway; Courtney's father towered over her, not to mention his master. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Michael!"

"Thank you, sir," Michael said sincerely.

"That's 'Nicholas'," Nicholas reminded him. "Never call me 'sir'. It'll sound weird to humans."

"Remember, Papa, he just looks like a little boy to humans," Courtney said sweetly.

"Another family is moving in on Sunset Avenue," Courtney's father said hastily, throwing her yet another warning glance as Nicholas' expression darkened, "and the word is you've ordered everyone into the field. Is that true?"

"Absolutely," Nicholas answered. "We've been waiting for the Warders to slip up and give themselves away for years now, and that's gotten us nowhere. Time to get more aggressive. I want off this rock."

"I understand that, s—Nicholas," Michael answered, "but I'm concerned about those of us who aren't quite ready. Some of the husks matured only recently, and their recipients haven't had much time to get used to them—"

"So they'll just have to get used to them faster," Nicholas interrupted. "Everyone's finished their training, and we own a third of the houses in this town now, along with various properties around the globe. All of them can expect visitors in the next couple of weeks, including you. I'll send crutches."

"Such compassion," Courtney deadpanned.

"I'm compassionate," Nicholas insisted. "Why else do you think I made sure that every operative had at least one family member with them for this mission? I knew we could be here a while, and separation from one's loved ones is a real trial."

"And I'm grateful that I was allowed to bring my daughter along," Michael assured him.

"Gee, I thought the idea was that if anyone turned against you, you could threaten their relatives to make them tow the line," Courtney said innocently.

Now it was Michael's expression which darkened, but Nicholas broke into a wide smile. " 'Tow the line'? Someone's been listening in vocabulary class. Very good, Courtney. You were always a quick study."

"I'm sure she's just joking," Michael said, his eyes boring into his daughter's.

"Why would she be joking?" Nicholas asked. "She's right; having family members around could prove useful. There were a group of dissidents who tried mighty hard to put Rath on the throne. They infiltrated the very top layers of Khivar's command; hard to believe, but I even found a few among my own troops. Who knows if we found them all?"

"Filthy traitors," Michael scowled.

"Exactly," Nicholas agreed. "And very good at what they do, which is why Greer and I screened everyone very carefully for this mission. But just in case I missed something, perhaps their relatives will rat them out."

"I can't imagine you missing anything, s—Nicholas," Michael said as Courtney resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"That's my man," Nicholas smiled. "Enjoy your new house," he added as he began walking back to his own, his gaze lingering on Courtney. "I'll be over later to help you.....move in."

Michael put his arm around his daughter as he waved goodbye, the fingers digging into her arm a silent message that she should do the same; she obliged readily, always glad to see Nicholas leave. He had barely disappeared into his house when her father steered her up the driveway, hissing in her ear.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to provoke him? This isn't like home, where he was far away and out of earshot. Now he's right next door, so we mustn't be careless."

"What's wrong, Papa? Afraid I'm going to 'rat you out'?"

Michael ushered her through the doorway into the house, which smelled strongly of the humans' favorite cleaning solution, ammonia. "I just don't want to see you hurt," he said gently. "We're right where we want to be now, off the ship and freer than we've ever been, but I had no idea he was going to move us in right next door."

"Athenor's good and faithful servant," Courtney said dryly.

"Don't use his real name," her father said sternly. "We never use our real names. Never. Even with each other. If we slip back into our old habits, we'll reveal ourselves."

"Isn't that why we came here?" Courtney asked. "To reveal ourselves?"

Her father sighed heavily. "Yes. But only to the right people. And first we have to find those people. Now that we're in the field, that should be a lot easier. Ignore Nicholas, and keep your eyes on the prize."

Assuming we live to claim it, Courtney thought as her father planted a kiss on her forehead and headed back out to the car for their belongings. What would Khivar's right-hand man think if he were to learn that her father, one of his most trusted operatives, was none other than the leader of the dissidents he'd just spoken of? Dissidents whose sole reason for being here was to find and protect the four reincarnations of Antar's fallen royal house. And in order to do that, they needed to find the one who warded the member of the Royal Four they felt most suited to rule. Which meant revealing themselves to one of the most despised races on their planet.

Courtney wrapped her arms around herself and shivered in spite of the heat as her father began piling luggage on the front porch. Shapeshifters. The very thought of them made her blood run cold. Everyone loathed Covari, and she was no exception. And these weren't just any Covari, but Royal Warders, the most feared and hated of all. To think her father, her own father, would have to meet with them, talk with them, parlay with them. How could he possibly survive that? It almost made her.....

No, she rebuked herself sternly. That wasn't fair. After everything they'd been through, everything her movement, her people, her entire world had been through, it was selfish of her to secretly wish that her father would fail.




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



Proctor residence




"I think your mother planned for the baby to sleep in the guest room," Malik said as Dee plopped Philip's little suitcase on the bed in her old bedroom. "She thought you and Anthony would sleep in here."

"No way," Dee said firmly. "I have enough trouble convincing my mother I'm an adult now without the specter of me sleeping in my childhood bed. Philip sleeps in here, and Anthony and I will sleep in the guest room."

"Suit yourself," Malik shrugged. "I'll move the crib."

Dee knelt on the window bench and gazed out the window the way she used to when she was younger. Below her David and Anthony were emptying the car while Emily was regaling the Brazel's with the grandson she'd gotten so mad about, swinging him on her hip and smiling broadly as though she hadn't acted like the world was coming to an end when Dee had told her she was pregnant. Philip had enjoyed his grandmother's undivided attention while he sat on her lap on the way home from Roswell, and Dee hadn't minded. She and Anthony had traded the holding of a sweaty toddler all the way from Albuquerque, so having her lap to herself for a while wasn't such a bad idea.

"All set," Malik said behind her, unfolding the crib and settling the mattress inside. "Was this your crib?"

"Yes," Dee answered, still looking out the window. "Mama and Daddy kept it in the attic all these years, along with all my baby clothes, baby toys, baby everything."

"That would explain the huge pile in the guest room," Malik smiled. He joined her at the window, glancing down at her parents below. "You've got a good view from up here," he commented. "The angle is just right so you can see way off into the distance instead of just looking into the house next door."

"I know. That's how I saw the ship crash."

Malik stared at her in surprise. "You did? I didn't know that."

She nodded, her eyes far away, back on that night in '47 when she'd watched a thunderstorm from this very spot. "It was raining that night, pouring, lots of thunder and lightning. And I saw this bright flash come down from the sky toward the ground, and heard this huge clap of thunder. Daddy thought it was a meteor, but the next day Mac and I went looking....and that's when I found the ship."

"So that's why nobody noticed," Malik said. "I knew it came down in the middle of the ranch, but I was surprised that no one seemed to hear anything. It must have just been passed off as more thunder."

Dee's eyes strayed toward the bed, and a moment later she was digging beneath the mattress. "I wonder if they're still here?" she murmured as her hand felt around between the mattress and box spring. "I know I left them here.....there they are." She pulled out a pile of crayon drawings and laid them out on the bed end to end as Malik knelt beside her. "My adventure in '47," she said. "These first ones are when Urza and Valeris were hurt when the Army found them. And these are from when Urza came to me in a dream when he was dying and showed me what your world looked like."

"Our moons," Malik murmured, holding up a drawing of three orangey moons against a reddish sky. "And this.....this is Dimaras Rock, a favorite place of the king's. They say he met his wife there."

"I had a picture of the 'V' constellation too, but I gave it to the nurse from the base," Dee said, pointing to a gap in the narrative.

"And you say Urza showed you all this in a dream?" Malik asked. "I had no idea he could do that. But these are such accurate representations that it couldn't be anything else. It almost makes me....."

"Homesick?" Dee offered.

Malik hesitated a moment. "A little," he admitted. "I've been here so long....sometimes I forget what I left behind."

"Do you ever want to go back?"

"No," Malik answered, shaking his head. "I mean, I'd love to see home again, but not the way I know it would be now. Covari aren't just second-class citizens; we're not even citizens."

Voices echoed up the stairway, David's, Anthony's, and a moment later, Emily's. Dee gathered up the drawings, trying to imagine what it was like to be less than a second-class citizen. The court-ordered integration of the schools in Little Rock, which Little Rock was fighting to this day, had provided a startling example of what second-class citizenship looked like. Her experiences with both aliens and Indians had propelled her toward law school because she wanted to be one of those who fought to erase any prejudice enshrined in law.

"Anthony's getting the rest of the luggage," David said when Dee and Malik appeared from the second floor. "Everything okay?"

"We were just...reminiscing," Dee answered. "Anthony and I are in the guest room, and Malik set the crib up in my old room."

"But I thought you'd want to sleep in your old room!" Emily protested with Philip on her hip.

"Well, I don't," Dee said evenly.

"But—" her mother began.

"That's fine," David broke in. "I'll put your bags in the guest room. It doesn't matter which room they sleep in," he added when Emily started to protest again. "What matters is that they're here, right?"

Not to Mama, Dee thought sourly as she watched her mother sigh in obvious exasperation. What matters to her is that she's running things. But a moment later, Emily's attention had returned to her now favorite subject: Her grandson. "Are you thirsty?" she asked the grinning toddler. "I'll bet you are! Grandma will get you some juice."

"Juice!" Philip agreed enthusiastically.

"Water," Dee corrected.

"Oh, don't be silly," Emily said, heading into the kitchen. "I always gave you juice when you were this age."

Dee stared after her mother in amazement for a moment before following her into the kitchen, where Emily was busily pouring a bottle of apple juice as Philip toddled around the kitchen floor. "Mother, I said water," Dee insisted. "And he drinks out of a cup now, not a bottle."

"You still had a bottle at this age," Emily replied calmly. "Lots of babies do."

"This one doesn't," Dee said firmly. "I'm his mother, and I say he gets water."

"Don't make such a fuss, Dee; it's just a bottle of juice. There you go," Emily said to Philip, who held out his hand eagerly for the bottle only to have it snatched away by his mother, causing him to promptly burst into tears.

"Now look what you've done!" Emily admonished. "You've gone and made him cry over a simple little thing like juice!"

"No, you've gone and made him cry over a not-so-simple little thing like the fact that I am his mother, and I make the decisions about what he eats and when!" Dee snapped. "How dare you ignore me like that? We both know what would happen if someone ignored you like that."

Dee walked to the sink, unscrewed the bottle cap, unceremoniously dumped the contents down the drain....and discovered she had an audience. Malik, David, and Anthony were all gathered in the kitchen doorway, and her mother looked like someone had slapped her.

"Let's get something straight right now," Dee said tersely as she picked up her still whimpering toddler. "Philip is my son, Mama. My son. Not yours, mine. And if you can't accept that, I'll just get on a bus right back to Albuquerque, money or no money."

Dee left through the side door, walking around to the back of the house and setting Philip down in the back yard so he could wander around. She'd worked so hard teaching him to take a cup, and now that good old grandma had just offered him a bottle, there would be hell to pay. And to make matters worse, she'd wound up looking like the bad guy, taking away something her son wanted.

"Was that really necessary?"

Dee turned around to find that Anthony had followed her outside, with Malik a polite distance behind him. "Why don't you ask Mama that?" she said crossly. "She started it."

"We haven't even been in the house an hour yet," Anthony said gently. "I knew this might be difficult, but—"

"But you hadn't counted on just how much my mother loves to run things? She was giving him a bottle, Anthony! She can't do that!"

"I agree," Anthony said patiently, "but you can say that without getting all mad, can't you?"

"I did say that," Dee protested, "and she completely ignored me! Honestly, I think I'm going to join Brivari and Jaddo in their cave for the rest of the summer. Where are they, anyway?" she asked Malik. "I could sure use some advice from an alien warlord right about now."

"Why?" Malik asked. "You're doing so well on your own." He smiled faintly when she glowered at him. "The Warders should be back later tonight. They had something important to attend to."




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




Trinity Cemetery,

New York City




"How much longer are we going to be out here?" Janet grumbled. "It's boiling!"

"Shh," Bernice whispered. "This is Marie's friend, and we offered to come."

" 'Friend'?" Janet muttered. "I should have 'friends' like these."

Standing between them, Marie felt rather than saw Bernice throw Janet a withering look. Her eyes were locked on the ceremony, several yards away, partially obscured by the crowd in front of them. It had been so difficult to decide where to stand. Too close and she would be noticed; too far away, and the same thing could happen. Being noticed wasn't something she'd had to worry about for nearly a decade now; having to do so again was disquieting.

"Let us lift up our eyes unto the Lord," the minister was saying, "and ask Him to take Roger Allan Ramey into His eternal presence...."

"What's a three-star general doing in a New York cemetery?" Janet asked. "Shouldn't he be at Arlington?"

"He wanted to be buried near his family," Marie murmured. "He was like that."

"How did you know him? Were you in the military?"

Marie hesitated a moment. "No. He was a friend of the family."

"So your family is here today too?" Janet asked.

He wanted to be, Marie thought silently. They had long since abandoned the notion that they couldn't be seen together in public, but being seen together at Ramey's funeral had seemed imprudent. Better safe than sorry.

"They're out of town," Marie answered. "Which is why it was so important that I be here today to represent them. Now shush."

Janet obediently fell silent as the minister continued with the service. Very few had turned out for the burial of Lieutenant General Ramey, most likely due to the fact that he was being interred in a family plot. According to Marie's military contact, there had been a military memorial service earlier in the month which had been attended by all sorts of people she wouldn't have wanted to see, plus a few she would love to see but couldn't afford to. Being able to attend Ramey's burial in safe anonymity was a blessing she had never expected.

"Amen," the minister intoned, having finished his prayer.

"Amen," murmured the onlookers.

Everyone began to file slowly past the coffin, paying their last respects. Marie scanned the small crowd carefully for familiar faces before joining the line toward the back, grateful that the family had not stayed to greet the guests and ask questions which would put her in an awkward position. The line moved briskly, and Marie soon found herself at the head of it, laying the single rose she'd brought with her on top of the coffin as hot tears welled in her eyes. Ramey had been 69 and only a few years retired when a stroke had felled him. And she'd gone to great pains to make sure that it had been a stroke, breaking all kinds of confidentiality laws and pulling every string she could find to be certain that foul play hadn't been involved.

"You were a credit to the Army and the American people," she whispered to the coffin. "A man who stood by his principles even when it cost you, and a much needed light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel. Rest in peace, sir. You've earned it."

As Marie turned away from the coffin, she noticed a man standing across from it at some distance, watching her intently. He was nicely dressed but unfamiliar, and his stare made her extremely uncomfortable. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked toward her friends who were waiting at a respectful distance, and when she reached them, he was still there. Damn. "Let's go," she said to Janet and Bernice, walking quickly toward the cemetery entrance. "I'll pay for the cab."

"No way," Bernice protested. "This one's on us. You're the only doctor I know who gives nurses the time of day."

"Resident," Marie corrected. "And I used to be a nurse, so if the day comes that I don't listen to a nurse, you have my permission to slap me."

"Third year resident," Janet clarified. "Almost an attending, and an inspiration to us all. And I'll be glad to. Slap you, that is."

"Try not to look forward to it too much," Marie said, scanning the cemetary one more time. But there was no sign of the man who had been watching her as they left, or when they hailed a cab. A few minutes later they were sailing down Riverside Drive, back to Columbia Medical Center where all of them worked, and when they arrived with no sign of pursuit, Marie had relaxed. By the time she was approaching the tiny room which served as her office on the fourth floor of the one of the buildings, she'd forgotten all about it.

"How was lunch, Dr. Johnson?" asked Claire, one of the secretaries in the pool which served the residents.

"Good," Marie said briefly, sidestepping the questions that would inevitably accompany an announcement that she'd just attended a funeral. Setting her bag down on the floor, she sat down in her chair and eyed the latest additions to the two stacks which never disappeared from her desk, the stack of mail and the stack of charts. She smiled when she saw the return address on the top letter in the mail stack, but charts meant patients, and as patients were always more interesting than mail, she started with those. A few minutes later, a soft knock made her look up.

"Dr. Fenton stopped by," Claire announced. "He has a patient he wants to refer to you."

"Fenton?" Marie repeated in surprise. "You mean I'll-never-work-with-a-woman-doctor-if-you-put-a-gun-to-my-head Fenton?"

"That's the one. The chart's in your pile."

Marie thumbed through the stack. "I don't think so; I recognize all these names. Do you remember his patient's name?"

"Not offhand. I told him to leave the chart on your desk," Claire added with an exasperated sigh, "but maybe he couldn't bring himself to enter a woman's office. Let me check my desk."

She disappeared as Marie smiled and went back to her charts. Being a woman doctor was hard enough even when one entered a so-called "soft" specialty like pediatrics, but in neurology it was even harder. Of course Columbia was no stranger to woman doctors; their own Virginia Apgar had helped establish anesthesiology as a specialty in its own right and invented the famous Apgar score in 1952, a way of evaluating a newborn baby's health at birth. Dr. Apgar was on sabbatical now, and there were rumors she wouldn't be returning to private practice. But her legacy lived on; she had blasted a hole in the thick wall of male dominance surrounding the practice of medicine through which a few determined women like Marie had managed to crawl, even if there were days when it didn't seem that way.

"Yvonne....."

Marie's head jerked up to find Claire standing in the doorway, peering at a chart in consternation. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Claire said. "You asked what Fenton's patient's name was and I can't pronounce the last name. Looks Polish, or something. But her first name's Yvonne. Very old fashioned. Haven't heard that one in a while."

Claire dropped the chart on the desk and left the office as Marie sank back in her chair, her heart pounding so hard she was surprised Claire hadn't heard it. In all the years that she had been "Marie", she had never had trouble responding to her new name; "Marie" was her middle name, so getting used to that had been trivial. What had not been trivial, however, was learning not to react to her real name. Fortunately Yvonne was not a common name, so she rarely ran into it. The few times she had, she'd practically had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep from yelling "that's me!".

Stephen had it easier. Sergeant Brisson had obviously put a lot of thought into their pseudonyms, and the effort had paid off. "Stephen" had simply been misspelled as "Steven", and his last name changed to "Johnson", a very common surname and possibly an homage to the alien who had saved her life when Dr. Pierce had managed to impregnate her with an alien-human hybrid. Yvonne had become Marie, her middle name, and her last name had changed to Smith, a practically untraceable surname given the millions of Americans who sported it. But untraceable surnames hadn't stopped them from laying low for a full year at Stephen's grandfather's cabin in the mountains of upstate New York, nursing him through his final days and venturing out with great trepidation when it seemed the coast was clear. The first time they'd presented their fake birth certificates was to get their marriage license, and they'd been so nervous, they could barely stand it. The clerk had smiled indulgently, no doubt mistaking their agitation for pre-wedding jitters, but the birth certificates had sailed through without a hitch. So had the fake transcripts when she'd applied to Columbia Medical School in 1952. She'd graduated in '56 with a medical degree and begun her residency that June, about the same time that Stephen, having worked his way up through the ranks with his own experience and fake credentials, became head of security at the medical center. Despite their worries, neither of them had ever felt so much as a whiff of pursuit. As far as the Army was concerned, Captain Stephen Spade and Lieutenant Yvonne White had gone AWOL in June of 1950 and never been found.

Marie rose and walked to the tiny window, looking down on the sidewalks below. Her office might be little more than a closet, but at least it had a window; any source of natural light in the gray of a New York winter was welcome. Getting used to the seasonal extremes in this part of the country had been difficult, but the hardest part of their exile was the care that had to be taken when approaching their families. Contacting them without arousing suspicion had been tricky; coming up with a suitable explanation as to why they'd gone AWOL had been even trickier. Written communication had been simpler; the top letter on her mail stack was from her mother, a missive to "Dr. Johnson" that likely bore no outward resemblance to a mother-daughter letter but still contained all kinds of news from home. Face to face meetings were risky and rare; she and Stephen had seen their families only a handful of times since they'd run, and each time the happiness of holding their loved ones had been overshadowed by fear of pursuit. But there had been no pursuit for nine years, so perhaps it was safe to be a bit bolder now. Ramey's death seemed like the end of an era, a door closing. Granted, Pierce was probably still out there, but she'd heard nothing about him.

Or anyone else, she thought, her eyes straying from the window to the framed picture hanging beside it, a piece of black construction paper with five white crayon dots in the shape of a "V". She had never heard from the aliens again, never learned what became of them. Reluctant to give herself away by returning the drawing to the child who had made it, she had kept it, first at home, then hung on her office wall. Neither she nor Stephen had ever seen this particular symbol in all their years at Eagle Rock, so it was doubtful anyone knew what it meant. Still, Stephen had objected to her bringing it to work just like he'd objected to her going to work. He'd insisted that laying low was the best option, and woman doctors were so rare that laying low was practically impossible. But Marie had been unwilling to let what had happened to her during her three years at the compound rule the rest of her life, so she'd gone ahead with her plans over Stephen's misgivings, with him taking a job with university security to keep an eye on things. Thankfully there'd been nothing to keep an eye on; no one had guessed that Steven Johnson and his wife weren't who they said they were.

Shaking off her reverie, Marie resumed her seat and paged through the chart of Dr. Fenton's patient, Yvonne what's-her-name. The irony was that most of what had gotten her started here had come from Pierce, either from what he'd taught her during John's captivity or from the research she'd taken from him right after he'd almost killed her. Fearful of the pages she'd ripped from Pierce's notes being discovered in her quarters, she had carried them with her in the large tote bag which had served as her purse at the time, so she'd had them with her when she and Stephen had fled. Those notes had directly contributed to several highly regarded papers she'd written, winning her not only good grades, but the accolades of an often reluctant male faculty. Technically those accolades were based on stolen research, but she didn't dwell on it. As far as she was concerned, she couldn't take enough from Pierce to make up for what he'd taken from her.

"Dr. Johnson?"

Claire was back. "What is it?" Marie asked.

"There's a gentleman here to see you."

"A doctor?"

"I don't think so."

Marie's heart skipped a beat. "Military?"

"No. No uniform." She paused. "He says he knows you."

"What's his name?"

Claire shook her head. "He won't say. All he'll say is that he used to work with you."

Marie's heart was pounding again, just like it had been moments ago when she'd heard her real name spoken aloud. This was not good, especially coming on the heels of Ramey's funeral. "Get rid of him," she told Claire. "Tell him he needs to make an appointment. And—"

Too late. A man had appeared behind Claire, and Marie realized with horror that it was the man from the cemetery, the one who had been staring at her across Ramey's coffin. "Good afternoon, doctor," he said evenly.

"I....I'm sorry," Marie stammered. "Have we met?"

"We certainly have," the man assured her, slipping past Claire into Marie's office. "Although it was a very long time ago."

Claire looked helplessly at Marie, who was desperately trying to keep calm. She and Stephen had planned for this moment, had rehearsed it many, many times. Still, she hadn't felt cornered like this in nearly a decade, and it was a most unpleasant sensation, even if it was familiar. "Claire, has my husband called back yet?" Marie asked in a brittle voice.

"What? No," Claire answered, mystified.

"Then could you call him please? It's very important that he stop by as soon as possible."

Claire's eyes flicked back and forth from Marie to the man waiting calmly behind her. "Right," she said slowly. "I'll get right on that."

Marie struggled mightily to maintain her composure as Claire scurried off. Claire was smart; she'd figure it out. Assuming I'm still here when Stephen gets here, she thought in despair, turning around to find the man deep in contemplation of the crayon "V" drawing. Of all the diplomas, photographs, and whatnot on her walls, he'd zeroed in on that immediately. Who? she thought desperately. Someone from the Army? One of Pierce's minions? Whoever it was, she had no intention of going quietly, and to that end, she moved to the desk and slipped her letter opener into her hand. It wasn't much, but something was better than nothing.

"I'm afraid I don't remember having met you," Marie said, every nerve on edge. "What was your name again?"

She braced herself as the man turned around.....and gasped when she saw his face. A face he hadn't been wearing only moments ago. A face that was very familiar.

*Good afternoon, lieutenant,* John said. *I can't tell you how good it is to see you again after all these years.*





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


I'll post Chapter 3 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER THREE


June 16, 1959, 3:45 p.m.

Columbia Medical Center, New York City





Marie's eyes widened as she realized who was standing in her office, looking exactly the same as he had years ago save for the suit. A moment later he didn't, his features sliding back into those of the man she'd seen earlier at the cemetery. No wonder he'd been staring at her, and thank God he hadn't approached her. Her resulting shock could have attracted attention.

*John?* Marie said as she hastily closed her office door, telepathic speech coming easily even though she hadn't used it in years. *Is that really you? Or.....I should probably call you Jaddo now. But—* She stopped, suddenly realizing there was no way to know if this was indeed the alien she'd spent three years with. What if it wasn't? What if one of the enemy aliens had succeeded where the Army had failed?

*The last time I saw you,* the man said, *you were sprawled on the floor of my cell, having just been slapped by Major Lewis. Corporal Thompson escorted you from the room. I regret that I was unable to defend you. Had I done so...* He paused, his voice having tightened with anger *....had I done so, Major Lewis would have died where he stood.*

Marie sank back on the desk with relief. *It is you. I....I'm sorry. It just occurred to me that it might not be, that—*

*Don't apologize,* John said firmly. *You were quite right to confirm my identity. It's good to see you are still vigilant.*

*We haven't had to be for a quite awhile now,* Marie said, not at all enjoying the familiar wave of fear that had washed over her at the thought of being discovered. *But never mind about me; what about you? How—* She stopped short. How are you? didn't seem to cover it, especially after three years of captivity, several near death experiences, and nine years of exile. And that was just on his side of things.

*I am well, thank you,* John said, once again answering her unspoken question. *You appear to have prospered,* he added, inspecting one of her diplomas.

*I'm a doctor now. I guess you could say I became a real healer.*

*Believe me when I say you were always the only real healer in the compound.*

Marie flushed. *Yes...well....is Brivari still....I mean, is he....*

*Alive? Yes. Here? No. We both attended the general's military memorial service, and he felt one funeral was enough for him.*

*What about the rest of you?*

*Malik survived; the rest did not,* John answered. *We've seen nothing of any other enemies since my escape, and the military gave up pursuit almost immediately due to the convenient onset of another war. For the moment, we have no hunters.*

*Good,* Marie said, privately noting that the Korean war had certainly started at an advantageous time, diverting the military's attention from their escaped prisoner. Her only regret was that she hadn't been available to help; the Army could certainly have used more nurses overseas.

*And what of the captain?* John asked.

*Steven works here too,* Marie said. *He's head of security. We married years ago.*

*Of course you did,* John said, as though that were obvious. *You did an excellent job altering your appearance, lieutenant. It took me a minute to discern if it was really you.*

* 'A' minute? Doesn't sound like I did such a good job."

John smiled faintly, taking a seat on the corner of her desk. *For one whose life revolves around visual subterfuge, a minute is a very long time indeed. Was it difficult for you to adjust?*

Very, Marie thought, passing a hand over her very short, very dark hair. She'd braced herself when she'd had it cut and colored, certain it would be awful, but unable to think of any other way of drastically changing her appearance except for the dark eyeglasses she wore. *It was a while before I could recognize myself in a mirror,* she admitted. *Was it hard for you when you could finally change your shape again?*

John's eyes drifted away and he didn't answer, giving her the distinct impression she'd touched a very raw nerve. How much of him was still whole after what had happened? Granted, there were plenty of prisoners who had been held captive much longer than three years. But John had been captive in body as well as place, unable to do what his kind took for granted: Change his shape. He had once likened that to her being unable to walk, and she couldn't help but wonder how she would have fared if she'd been held captive in a wheelchair for three years. Was it even possible to emerge from such an experience unscathed?

*I have an idea,* Marie suggested gently. *Why don't we go for a walk?*

John's eyes returned to hers. *A walk?*

*Yes, a walk. We were always stuck in one room. We never had a chance to take a walk together. It's a nice day out. Would you like to see some of the university?*

Five minutes later the two of them stepped from the relative cool of Marie's building into the hot New York sunshine. Claire hadn't managed to reach Steven, so Marie had told her to direct him to the grassy lawn that served as a courtyard between buildings, hoping he'd be able to catch up with them. They walked for several minutes in silence punctuated by the noise of traffic and the general din of a large city.

*So what should I call you now?* Marie asked at length.

*What you always have,* John answered, *although I imagine the same can't be said for you.*

*I'm 'Marie' now. That was my middle name: Yvonne Marie White.*

* 'Middle name'?* John echoed. "Gracious, I thought having two names was confusing. Does everyone have three?*

*Most people do.*

*Whatever for?*

Marie smiled; he certainly sounded like the same old John, impatient with anything he considered excessive and impractical. *It's tradition, I think. Our first names tell who we are, our last names tell who our parents were, and our middle names...well, I don't really know where those came from.*

*Obviously from one who had too much time on their hands,* John said dryly. *And what is the captain's pseudonym?*

*He's still Steven, just spelled with a 'v' instead of a 'ph'. And our last name is a very common name, making it harder to trace.*

*Good thinking,* John said.

*Sergeant Brisson's thinking,* Marie clarified. *He made up a full set of papers with our false names for both Steven and me. Without those, we'd still be in hiding.* She paused, an old regret creeping back. *Without those, Brisson might still be alive.*

*It was my understanding that Pierce killed Brisson over more than mere false identification.*

*I know,* Marie sighed. *I just meant that he was so bent on keeping me away from Pierce that he wound up in the line of fire.*

*You blame yourself for his death?*

*Of course I do,* Marie said, annoyed as always at John's way of coming right to the point. *If it weren't for me, he wouldn't be dead.*

*Correction—if it weren't for Pierce, he wouldn't be dead. My Ward died in an attempt to protect his king. Is his death the king's fault, or the fault of the usurper who attacked?*

*You can pretty it up any way you want, and I'll still feel responsible,* Marie argued.

*And you shouldn't,* John countered. *Those of us responsible for the protection of others accept death as a possible outcome. Captain Spade did. So did General Ramey.*

*How did you know the general had passed away?* Marie asked, eager to change the subject.

* 'Passed away'?* John repeated. *What an interesting euphemism. But to answer your question, I spend a great deal of time at the base.*

*Why would you want to go back there?*

*Because I'm looking for someone, lieutenant, someone who has so far escaped me.* He paused. *Do you know where he is?*

Marie stiffened slightly, needing no clarification as to whom John was referring. *No. I haven't heard anything about Pierce since we ran.*

*Nor have I,* John said. *Your 'country' is quite large, and I have only managed to canvass about a third of it so far.*

*Why are you looking for Pierce?* Marie asked uncomfortably.

*Why do you think?*

Marie stopped abruptly, certain that a long held suspicion was about to be confirmed. *You killed Cavitt didn't you? Oh, I know it was supposed to be a suicide,* she continued when John raised his eyebrows, *but you and I both know Cavitt would never kill himself. He was much too arrogant to think he'd fail. It was you, wasn't it?*

*I would dearly love to take credit for the Colonel's death,* John answered, *but I can't. I did go to his cell that night for the express purpose of killing him, but I'm afraid the colonel's heart simply couldn't take it. He died of fright much too quickly for my taste.*

Marie blinked. *Are you kidding?*

*I wish I were,* John said bluntly. *Although I enjoyed his terror, Cavitt deserved much worse than he got, and I intend to see that Pierce doesn't enjoy a similar reprieve. Do you have any idea how I would locate him?*

*Why would you think I would know how to locate him?*

*Because I note from the testimonial on your wall that you have studied the same substrate of healing as Pierce,* John answered. * 'Neurology', I believe it's called. I am also given to understand that there are few 'neurologists', so it stands to reason that one could locate another without too much difficulty.*

*So you want me to find him for you so you can kill him?*

*Of course.*

*John, I can't do that!* Marie exclaimed.

*Why not?*

*Because....because it's like sending a hit man. Like hiring someone to do him in.*

*Are you saying you would object to his death?*

*I object to anyone's death,* Marie said.

*Even if they pose a threat not only to yourself, but to others? Pierce nearly killed you, and you know perfectly well he's likely out there as we speak doing to others exactly what he did to you.*

*He can't,* Marie countered. *Brisson and I destroyed the cells, remember?*

*That will not stop him, and you know it,* John pressed. *Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't sleep better at night knowing he was no longer a threat to you or anyone else.*

Marie felt John's eyes boring into her as she kept her gaze on the ground. *Of course I would sleep better,* she admitted. *Who wouldn't? But if I were to find him and send someone to kill him, I'd be acting just like he did.*

*Nonsense,* John scoffed. *There is no possible way that the removal of an dangerous enemy compares to the systematic abuse both Pierce and Cavitt practiced. There is no shame in protecting oneself.*

*You're not 'protecting yourself',* Marie pointed out. *This is revenge, pure and simple.*

*And there is no shame in taking revenge on one who has tortured you, or in deriving pleasure from it, for that matter. Pierce and Cavitt certainly enjoyed themselves enormously at my expense.*

*Which brings me back to my original point,* Marie argued. *It does us no good to become that which we hate.*

*But it does us plenty of good to remove a monster,* John countered. *What possible good would come from keeping Pierce alive to inflict himself on others?*

What indeed? Marie thought, privately agreeing with John....and feeling guilty for doing so. Pierce was a menace, there was no denying that. But to simply take his life, to act like that was her decision to make....how was that any different from the way Pierce had used her, used John, used anyone with whom he had come into contact? She had been a nurse and was now a doctor; her instinct and responsibility was to repair, not destroy. As much as she'd love to know Pierce was no longer a threat, she didn't want the responsibility that came from actually participating in the taking of a life. She'd rejoice more than anyone if he were to be hit by a bus, but to actually steer that bus.....

*I apologize,* John said softly, breaking into her thoughts. *I've upset you, and that's not what I came for.*

*No,* Marie sighed. *You came to find Pierce.*

*And to see you again,* he added. *The one does not invalidate the other.*

They stood facing each other in the middle of the campus lawn for several long seconds before John spoke again. *It was good to see you again, lieutenant. I'm glad to learn that you and the captain are prospering, and I'm certain Brivari will be also.*

*It was good to see you too,* Marie said sincerely. *We always wondered what happened to you.*

*Perhaps I can return sometime and see the captain,* John continued. *And you can show me around 'New York'. It's quite a sight, though a bit loud for my tastes. Tell me, is there an 'Old York'?*

*No,* Marie laughed. *Well....I guess so. 'New' York was named after the city of York in another country called England."

*Ah. That makes more sense than some of the other place names I've come upon.* He paused, looking out over the campus. *If you should ever need to reach me, you can do so by contacting the family of the child who made that drawing which hangs on your wall. Just in case you ever come across any information you think I might find....useful.*

Marie's face clouded. *Right,* she said quietly. *Just in case.*

John nodded. *Goodbye, lieutenant. And good luck.*

*You too,* Marie whispered, watching him walk away, wondering where he was going next. Probably looking for Pierce, she thought sadly. He'd spent nine years scouring the country for him and hadn't found him. That told her that Pierce had gone very far underground indeed. Still, the national pool of neurologists was very small. If she really wanted to....if she put her mind to it.....

No, she thought fiercely, pushing the thought away. She and John had disagreed on many subjects; this was just one more. She wasn't like that. She wasn't going to let revenge consume her. Let him hunt all he wanted, and leave her out of it.

"Yvonne?"

For the second time that day, Marie froze in terror at the sound of her real name, dark thoughts of Pierce filling her head. But it was only Steven, looking concerned when he saw the look on her face. "Don't call me that!" she admonished. "I told you never to call me that in public!"

"I'd hardly call this 'public'," Steven said. "We're all alone in the middle of a huge lawn."

"Still, I....just don't call me that," she finished in a whisper. "Just don't. Not ever. Not even in private."

"Okay," he said soothingly. "I'm sorry. Why are you so upset? I got here as fast as I could, but....is this about that guy you were talking to? Who was that?"

Marie looked off into the distance where John was only just visible. "You're not going to believe this."




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



5:00 p.m.

Proctor residence




"Can I help with dinner?" Dee asked, coming into the kitchen.

"No," Emily said shortly, her knife flying through the onion. "I can handle it."

"Well, how about if I set the table?"

"Already done."

Dee hesitated in the doorway, uncertain of how or whether to continue. Emily had been short and sullen for the rest of the afternoon after Dee had gotten angry about the bottle of juice she'd tried to give Philip, avoiding conversation and answering questions in clipped tones. Anthony had prevailed upon Dee to make a gesture of conciliation while Philip was napping by offering to help with dinner, but it seemed that was going nowhere.

"Is that a pot roast?" Dee asked, cracking open the oven door.

"Close the oven, Deanna," her mother ordered. "It won't cook evenly if the temperature keeps going up and down."

"Always does when I cook it," Dee observed.

"Have you ever cooked a pot roast? You're up there in that apartment, trying to go to school and raise a child. When would you cook?"

Dee straightened up, taking a moment to restructure what would have been a sharp retort. "This might surprise you, Mama, but Anthony and Philip and I actually eat in Albuquerque. Real food, that is, not just macaroni and cheese or Spam. And I'm not 'trying' to go to school and raise a child, I am going to school and raising a child. Why does that bother you so much?"

"Because it's not right," Emily said. "Women in my day didn't go to school when they had children, or even have a job. Our children were our job."

"Except during the war," Dee reminded her, "when lots of women went to work to the do the jobs men couldn't do because they were overseas. And lo and behold, the country didn't fall apart."

"Many of those women were delighted to be back home after the war ended," Emily said.

"And many weren't. Just because I'm not doing it the way you did doesn't mean my way is wrong."

Emily stopped chopping and stared at her. "This isn't about you, it's about your son! Look at him! You're trying to make him grow up too fast for your own convenience."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Dee demanded.

"Well, let's see, which of the dozens of available examples should I pick?" her mother said sarcastically. "Let's start with this cup business. You never touched a cup until you were almost three, and then you go and act all huffy when I offer my own grandson a bottle."

"Philip has no problem drinking out of a cup, and bottles are a pain to clean and sterilize," Dee said, struggling to keep her temper.

"But this afternoon, he wanted that bottle," Emily pointed out.

"Of course he 'wanted' that bottle, Mama. Bottles are easier. I don't recall you always letting me take the easy way out of anything."

"That wasn't hard," Emily said with a touch of asperity. "You never did anything the easy way."

"I certainly come by that honestly," Dee said bitterly.

Emily set the knife down with a sigh. "I don't want to argue with you, Dee. I just want what's best for Philip."

"And what's best for Philip appears to be some other mother, some perfect mother who does everything exactly the way you did," Dee retorted. "Which is really odd, Mama, because of all the ways I'd describe you when I was growing up, 'perfect' isn't one of them."

Dee spun on her heel and marched furiously out of the kitchen, but not before she'd seen her mother's shoulders stiffen. Good, she thought sourly. Let her see what if felt like to be found wanting. She let the screen door close with a bang and plopped herself in one of the porch rockers, closing her eyes as a welcome breeze stirred the hot summer air outside.

"I was given to understand that 'fireworks' occur during the month following this one," a dry voice said nearby.

Dee's eyes flew open to find Brivari leaning against the porch railing. "You heard that?" she asked self-consciously, shifting in her chair.

"I'm not the only one," Brivari noted, nodding toward Rose Brazel, who was tending flowers in her front yard and casting uncomfortable glances toward the Proctor's house. "You and your mother have voices that, shall we say, 'carry'."

"In other words, we're loud," Dee translated.

"I was being tactful," Brivari said, taking a seat beside her. "Welcome home, by the way. How was your journey?"

"Fine, until I saw Mama," Dee said darkly. "Malik was at the bus station. What's this I hear about you still living in caves?"

"Malik exaggerates. I don't 'live in caves', I merely visit people who have a cave nearby."

"Malik has an apartment," Dee pointed out. "Why would you spend your life 'visiting' when you could get a place of your own?"

"And why would you return to a home where you're so unhappy?"

Dee looked away. "So now you're an expert on mother-daughter conflict?"

"No. I'm an expert on power struggles, which is exactly what you have here."

Dee snorted softly. "Right. As in my mother is struggling for power. According to her, I never do anything right because everything should be done her way."

"And if you want to change that behavior, you'll need to get to the root of it. Why do you think she behaves that way?"

"Because she likes to run things," Dee said flatly. "Why else?"

"Look deeper."

Dee shot Brivari an annoyed glance. He was starting to sound like a school teacher, or perhaps one of those prissy pre-med students eyeing psychiatry. "If you have something to say, stop beating around the bush, and say it."

Brivari smiled faintly. "My goodness, but you remind me of him. So impatient."

"Him who?"

"Never mind. My point is that the desire for conformity, for others to make the same decisions we have made, is really an expression of fear."

"Fear?" Dee repeated blankly. "You think my mother is afraid of me?"

"Not you personally, but what you represent. You are her child, yet you are no longer a child. She may fear you don't need her any more. And whenever you make a different decision than she made, that forces her to reassess her own decisions, reminds her that she could have made other choices...and makes her wonder if she should have."

"So....you think Mama is second-guessing herself?" Dee said slowly. "Why would she do that?"

"I have lived longer than you ever will," Brivari said, "and believe me when I say that I still 'second-guess' many of my own decisions."

"What for? What's done is done. What's to be gained from rehashing it?"

"Very little," Brivari admitted, "although that doesn't seem to stop the process for any species."

Dee considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. Mama sounds perfectly sure of herself. She's just picking on my decisions and trying to get me to do what she did."

"Of course she is," Brivari said calmly. "Seeing others copy us validates our own choices and makes us feel we did the right thing, while seeing others choose otherwise makes us question ourselves. But I'm repeating myself."

"So what good does this psychoanalysis do me?" Dee said with a touch of impatience. "She's still treating me like a child."

"Naturally. You're acting like one."

Dee's eyebrows rose. "Thanks for the support," she said sourly.

"You have to stop losing your temper," Brivari continued, ignoring her. "Your mother is having difficulty accepting the fact that her child has become a mother. Every time you argue with her, that vision of you as a child is reinforced."

"So what do I do, then?" Dee asked in exasperation. "Just let her do whatever she wants?"

"Of course not. You state your position calmly, and you do not argue. You do not offer explanations beyond the most perfunctory, debate the merits of your choice, or weigh other options. Doing so sounds like you're trying to defend your decision, which in turn sounds like you feel there is good reason to question it and invites further questioning. You must strive to sound confident, not defensive. A defensive posture is, by definition, a weak posture."

Dee swung a leg back and forth, watching Mrs. Brazel work on her roses, loathe to admit that Brivari was making sense. She had been doing nothing but defending, explaining, backing away even as her mother advanced further into her territory. "Is that the same advice you gave your king?" she asked.

"Many times. Too many, perhaps."

"Was he as young as Queen Elizabeth when he took the throne?"

"For an Antarian," Brivari nodded. "Although I must say he did not possess her presence and sense of certainty, both of which she has in abundance."

Dee smiled, recalling how Brivari had followed the career of Britain's current monarch with keen interest, reading every newspaper item about her and watching her coronation on television with great relish. "Did the king fight with his parents?" she asked.

Brivari shook his head. "No. He fought with me. His parents doted on him, and his father left the teaching of statecraft to me. Believe me, he did me no favors."

"Because he was like me," Dee said.

"In some ways," Brivari allowed. "He had a temper too, although he held it more tightly. A bit too tightly, in my opinion."

Dee rocked her chair, imagining a young king on another planet trying, and failing, to win Brivari's approval much the same way she was failing to win her mother's. "I need to get out of the house," she said, "and I know you certainly need to get out of your cave, or wherever you're living at the moment. Malik told me they're filming a movie in Roswell about aliens. Want to go check it out?"

Brivari gave her a skeptical look. "And why would I want to do that?"

"Because it'll be fun!" Dee said mischievously, some of her good humor returning. "Just think of all the laughs we could have. And word is they'll be hiring all sorts of townspeople for different jobs. You could get a job as an advisor on all things alien."

"And then my life will be complete," Brivari deadpanned.

"Oh, come on," Dee coaxed. "Philip would love to walk around downtown. Besides, Anthony will be busy working on the observatory and Daddy will be at work, so I'll be alone with Mama. I can't stay here all the time, or I'll strangle her. If she doesn't strangle me first, that is. What do you say?"

"Perhaps," Brivari said noncommittally.

"Dinner!" Emily called from inside.

"Maybe you could stay for dinner and work some of your magic with Mama," Dee said as she climbed out of her chair.

"Dinner, perhaps," Brivari answered. "But this particular scuffle is yours."

"Actually it's Mama's. She started it."

Brivari smiled and shook his head as he followed her inside. "I once advised a young man that if he wanted others to view him as a king, he needed to act like a king. Likewise, if you want others to view you as an adult, you will need to act like one. If your mother has started something you do not wish to continue, put a stop to it. That's what an adult would do."




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



New York City




"I cannot for the life of me understand why you wouldn't want to help him find Pierce," Steven declared. "I only wish I'd been there. I'd have seriously considered packing my bags and joining him."

Marie pushed her dinner plate away with a sigh, her appetite gone. Steven had been fretting ever since he'd found out John had reappeared. Fretting because he'd missed him. Fretting because she hadn't asked all the questions he would have asked had he been there. Fretting because John had offered something Steven very much wanted....and she had turned him down.

"Why not nose around a bit?" Steven was saying. "It's not like the country is overrun with neurologists. You know he didn't just retire and take up golf, so he must be in the medical community somewhere."

"Steven, I got my M.D. three years ago, and you've never asked me to do this," Marie said in consternation. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Because now I know both Warders are alive and capable of going after him," Steven answered.

"Great," Marie said sourly. "Now you've found a hit man, so now you want to go hunting. Need I remind you that you had a fit when I decided to go into neurology precisely because it was such a small field and you were afraid I'd stick out like a sore thumb? How much do you think I'll stick out if I trot around asking about Pierce?"

"You wouldn't ask about him directly. Ask about secret projects, about what the Nazi doctors that were given asylum are up to now, things like that."

"Right," Marie said dryly. "Because everyone asks about secret projects and Nazi doctors. Of course they do."

"Very funny," Steven said. "You know what I mean; go at it sideways, and you'd find him."

"And then what?"

"And then we let John know where he is, and he'll take care of it."

" 'Take care of it'?" Marie echoed. "Don't you mean 'kill him'? Since when did you belong to the mafia?"

"Since I got tired of hiding," Steven retorted. "Since I saw a chance to stop doing that."

"Steven, we went AWOL!" Marie exclaimed. "We can never stop hiding! Even if Pierce conveniently drops from a heart attack tomorrow, we still can't go back to being who we were."

"Of course not," Steven agreed, "but just think of what a world without Pierce would look like." He reached across their tiny kitchen table and took her hand. "Since we ran, I have lived every single minute of my life in fear that he will find you. That fear has colored everything we do, from where we ran, to where we live, to how and when we contact our families.....everything. Pierce is far more of a threat than the Army is, and frankly, he deserves anything the aliens want to dish out."

"I'm of no use to Pierce anymore," Marie said gently. "I'm 36 now, much too old for anyone interested in fertility. Besides, he doesn't have anything to experiment with. Brisson and I destroyed it all."

"You mean you think you destroyed it all," Steven corrected. "Brisson wasn't positive about that, and we can't be either."

"If Pierce were up to something, he would have been caught by now," Marie argued.

"Not necessarily. Look how long he tried with you. When you only get twelve chances a year, nine years isn't as long as it sounds."

"It's over, Steven," Marie insisted. "It's been over for almost a decade. Let John go after Pierce if he wants to, even kill him if he wants to. I won't mourn his passing. But I also won't help commit murder."

"So you won't help do it, but you don't mind if someone else does?" Steven said skeptically. "A bit on the hypocritical side, don't you think?"

"I can't stop John," Marie said.

"Would you if you could?"

Marie pulled her hand away and stared at her plate. "That's not fair."

"Yvonne—"

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. "I told you never to call me that! It's not safe!"

Steven sat back in his chair and studied her for a moment. "I don't get it," he said at last. "I know it's easier for me because my name is the same, and I know that in the beginning, we both had to get used to using your middle name. But we've long since gotten used to it, and there's absolutely no reason I can't call you Yvonne in the privacy of our own apartment."

"I told you, it's not safe," Marie insisted. "What if you slip up in public?"

"I've never slipped up in public," Steven said. "Why would I do that when I worry every single day that Pierce will find you?"

"You wouldn't do it on purpose," Marie said impatiently, pushing her chair away from the table and emptying her plate into the trash. "It would be an accident, and it could cost us. And besides, there's no reason to call me that because I'm not that person any more."

"What does that mean?"

"Yvonne White was an Army nurse," Marie said. "Marie Johnson is a doctor."

Steven's eyes narrowed. "Do you usually refer to yourself in the third person?"

"I'm done with this ridiculous conversation," Marie said flatly, beginning to clear the table even though Steven wasn't any more finished than she had been. He sat in silence for several minutes, watching her work. She had all the dishes in soapy water before he spoke again.

"So that's how you did it."

"How I did what?" she asked irritably.

"How you stayed sane. I always wondered how somebody could have something like that happen to them and not go mad. John does it by seeking revenge. And you do it my splitting yourself in two. Pierce almost killed Yvonne...but you're not Yvonne any more. You're Marie, someone Pierce hasn't touched. Until today, at least, when you were reminded that he had."

"That's silly," Marie declared. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about what happened to us at least once. It's not like I could forget."

"Maybe not," Steven allowed. "But you could mentally assign it to someone else....someone named 'Yvonne', maybe.....and just step back from it the way you do with your patients. They taught you not to get too involved. Maybe you applied that same logic to yourself and—"

"Would you please stop talking about me as though I were a patient?" Marie snapped. "I don't have a split personality, I've dealt with what happened, and I'm not going to send someone to kill Pierce. Which is how this conversation started, in case you forgot."

A chair scraped behind her as Steven rose from the table. "You don't remember what happened that night you almost died," he said quietly, "but I do. I remember it like it was yesterday. And if I ever get the chance to take Pierce out or help someone else take him out, I'll do it. I'll do it in a heartbeat, and I'll feel one hell of a lot better afterwards. And so will you, even if you won't admit it. Even if all he's doing now is sitting in a rocking chair with a cup of tea, he's still dangerous....and he always will be."



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




Somewhere in the United States




"Shit!"

Daniel Pierce peeled off his surgical cap and threw it across the room, narrowly missing one of the nurses, who ducked. Across the table, Dr. Burke stepped back hastily as bodily fluids from the misshapen fetus which had just collapsed ran off the table, narrowly missing his shoes. Alien bodies collapsed into piles of fine dust; this messy lump was the compromise between the alien and human DNA which was this fetus' heritage. He knew they'd get no information from it now. They'd stood at this crossroads before.

"How's the mother?" Burke asked the nurse, who lowered her eyes and shook her head.

Burke looked over at Pierce, who was pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips, then at the rest of the medical team who had been trying to keep the mother alive.

"Give me the room," Burke ordered.

The team filed out, casting uneasy glances in Pierce's direction. Burke waited until the door had closed behind them before stripping off his gloves and surgical mask. "Daniel—"

"I know, I know," Pierce interrupted. "I shouldn't get all upset over what I knew was going to happen anyway. It's just the unpredictability of when it will happen that's killing me. Last time we had a little over twenty-four hours only to discover something interesting just before it collapsed. This time we knew what to look for, and it collapsed right away. It's maddening, I tell you." He sighed, running a hand through hair that was much grayer than it had been when he'd started years ago. "I will apologize to the team, of course."

"That's not what I was going to say," Burke said. "I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news."

Pierce's eyes narrowed. "You're not going to tell me that they're shutting me down."

"No. But they want fresh blood. New perspectives. They want to expand the team."

"Absolutely not," Pierce said firmly. "Too many cooks spoil the broth. You know that."

"Daniel—"

"I thought I had the board's full support," Pierce interrupted sharply. "That's what you're always telling me, what they're always telling me every time I attend a meeting."

"You do have their support," Burke said soothingly. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't. But you've got to admit that you've put them in a difficult position. When you arrived, your chief goal was to impregnate. It took you six years to perfect that, and when you finally did, when subject after subject began conceiving, subject after subject also began dying."

"Oh, good Lord, this isn't the morals police again, is it?" Pierce snapped.

"Look at her!" Burke ordered, pointing to the mother of the fetus that had just collapsed. "She's dead just like the rest of them!"

"And four years ago, they died much more quickly," Pierce retorted. "Within a week of conception, if not less. Now I can keep them alive for almost three months, and the resulting fetuses are far more developed and far more interesting to study....when they don't collapse in short order, that is," he added bitterly. "The alien told me their bodies disintegrated precisely so they couldn't be studied. I'd like to find whoever did that and wring whatever he has that passes for a neck."

"What makes you think it was a 'he'?" Burke asked dryly as he pulled off his cap. "I know you've made great strides, and the board knows that too. But the fact remains that every single mother winds up dead. That's an awful lot of patients we have to invent a cause of death for, and frankly, the sheer numbers are beginning to draw the attention of the state. They're sending a regulatory delegation a week from tomorrow to audit our procedures, so we're going to have to hide any trace of what we're doing here and make certain we're all on the same page as to how these women died."

"Like the state would wear widow's weeds over the deaths of some mental patients," Pierce grumbled. "On the contrary, they're probably pouring champagne and congratulating themselves on having fewer inmates to feed and house. In private, of course."

"Whatever their true feelings, the fact remains that they can shut us down," Burke said firmly. "Let's not give them a reason to. Then we can both go back to what we do in private, be it toasting or experimenting. We have no more subjects pregnant at the moment, so we need to lock this project up tight until after the regulators leave. And while you're enjoying your vacation, we can discuss who else we're going to bring on board."

"I said no one," Pierce reminded him. "I'll not have—"

"Daniel, you either accept new members on the team, or the board will shut you down."

Burke winced as Pierce gave the stretcher holding the dead mother a savage kick; it jerked sideways, the mother's arm falling off with an IV line still attached. "Damn it, Joshua! What if one of those new members suffers a sudden attack of soft-heartedness? Doesn't the board care that bringing in strangers will make us vulnerable to exposure?"

"We're already vulnerable to exposure," Burke said. "The regulators, remember? There's no guarantee they're going to buy the notion that dozens of our inmates have fallen down stairs, suffered heart attacks, committed suicide, or whatever we come up with. Besides, we need new ideas. Our German colleague is dead, and the fields of genetics, neurology, and perinatology have all made great strides in the last decade. It can't hurt to have some of those with the most current knowledge contributing."

"That depends on who you had in mind," Pierce said.

Burke hesitated. "The board asked me for a short list three weeks ago, when we first found out about the audit. I called everyone on it earlier today."

"What?" Pierce whispered. "You.....do you mean....you already approached these people? Without consulting me?"

"That was the board's decision," Burke replied. "You wouldn't know any of these people anyway; you must admit you've been out of the conventional research loop for a very long time."

"Jesus H. Christ," Pierce muttered. "And when do I have the honor of learning who made this exulted list?"




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



10:45 p.m.

New York City



"Coming to bed?"

Marie glanced over her shoulder at Steven, standing in the bedroom doorway wearing only pajama bottoms. "Later," she said tonelessly.

"You should get some sleep."

"I'm on call, remember? I'll probably just doze in the chair."

She heard footsteps behind her, felt his hands on her arms, bare in her sleeveless nightgown. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For what I said earlier. About....about how you...."

"Forget it," Marie said quickly, not wanting him to repeat it. "We both got a big shock today. It'll take us a while to sort it out."

"Yeah." He squeezed her shoulders. "You're probably right." She felt a gentle kiss on top of her head before the hands disappeared. "Try to get at least some sleep, okay?"

"Okay. Good night."

"I love you," he added.

"I love you too."

Marie waited until the bedroom door had closed before putting her head in her hands and letting out a long shaky breath. She'd been holding herself together ever since their argument, pushing the fear aside until she had a moment to herself to look at it, examine it, see if there was any merit whatsoever to Steven's charge that she had effectively split herself in two in order to stay sane. Much as she hated to admit it, there was a lot of truth to that assertion. The first time she had successfully used her new name, she'd felt like a huge burden had been lifted from her, like she could finally put the past behind her and move on. It was only after she'd become "Marie" that she'd been able to use toothpaste again or keep track of her cycles; prior to that, every tube of toothpaste had reminded her of the drug Pierce had used to knock her out for his "procedures", every mark on a calendar of how Brisson had surreptitiously tracked her periods. Maybe she really had compartmentalized herself. Maybe all that had happened to Yvonne, not Marie. And maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. There were worse ways to keep one's sanity.

The phone rang, it's jangle making her jump. Good, she thought as she lifted the receiver. Work would be good for her. Anything to take her mind off what had happened today. "Dr. Johnson," she said into the receiver.

"Good evening, doctor," came a man's voice. "This is Dr. Fenton. Did you have a chance to look over that chart I sent you?"

"Dr. Fenton?" Marie repeated in surprise. "I....yes, I saw it. Why?"

"What did you think?" Fenton asked.

Marie paused, uncertain as to where this was going. "Well, the patient has been in a persistent vegetative state for two full years now, so the prospect of recovery is remote. But....certainly you already knew that."

"Of course I knew that," Fenton replied. "I just wanted to make certain we concurred before I brought you in."

"Brought me in where?"

"The hospital. As soon as possible. I've received the most interesting phone call, doctor, and I need to speak to you as soon as possible."



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


I'll post Chapter 4 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FOUR


June 16, 1959, 11:45 p.m.

Columbia Medical Center, New York City



It was nearly midnight when Marie pushed the door to the neurology floor open and strode down the hallway, thoroughly perturbed. Granted she was on call and might have had to make this trip anyway, but to make it for a cryptic meeting over what was essentially a hopeless case was irritating, to say the least. But William Fenton was an attending at Columbia who was said to have the ear of the chief of neurology, and since Marie was nearly through with her residency and soon to be applying for attending status, it would not be wise to annoy him.

"Where would I find Dr. Fenton?" Marie asked one of the night nurses.

"Room 314," the nurse answered.

Room 314 turned out to be one of the few private rooms available at the hospital, occupied by an unconscious female patient whose chart Dr. Fenton was examining as Marie came in. "Doctor!" he said cheerfully as though he hadn't just dragged her out of her apartment in the middle of the night. "So glad you came. Close the door."

Puzzled, Marie obeyed. Fenton handed her the chart he'd been reading. "Dr. Johnson, in your medical opinion, does this patient have any hope of recovery?"

"Haven't we already been over this?" Marie asked, flipping through the same chart she'd looked at earlier today.

"But will you go on the record?" Fenton asked. "Would you sign off as a second opinion that this woman is, for all practical purposes, brain dead?"

"I've already looked at this chart, and I gave you my opinion less than an hour ago," Marie answered, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. "Yes, I concur, and yes, I would go on record."

"Excellent," Dr. Fenton said, pulling a pen out of his pocket and handing it to her. "If you wouldn't mind....."

Marie stared at him a moment before taking the pen and writing a note inside the chart to the effect that she, too, considered this patient to be in a persistent vegetative state. "Thank you," Fenton said when she'd finished. "Follow me."

Marie returned the chart to its hook at the end of the bed and glanced briefly at the patient before following Fenton out of the room. So young.....only in her twenties, and the odds where overwhelming that she would never recover. And certainly Fenton knew that, as would any neurologist worth their salt, which made his insistence that she support him all the more ridiculous. What did he need her for?

"Have a seat," Fenton said, ushering Marie into his office, a spacious affair much different then her cramped variety, outfitted with a large desk which appeared to be mahogany. "Would you like anything to drink?" he added, opening a liquor cabinet.

Marie blinked. "Doctor, it's the middle of the night."

"So it is," he chuckled, pouring himself a glass of something or other and taking a seat at his desk. "Call me Bill," he added, gesturing to a nearby chair. "May I call you Marie?"

Marie perched on the edge of the chair, her ire rising more with each passing moment. "You may call me 'Doctor Johnson'," she said firmly. "And I will, of course, address you as 'Doctor Fenton'."

"Right," Fenton said quickly. "Quite right. Well....I understand you're almost done with your residency. Will you be staying at Columbia?"

"I haven't decided yet," Marie said warily, wondering if Fenton was trying to make a pass at her. If so, it certainly wouldn't be the first time a female doctor had been expected to pony up in exchange for a job. Or the last time a female doctor said no.

"I hope you decide to stay," Fenton said. "Despite my misgivings about women in medicine, you're an excellent physician. So excellent, in fact, that I'd like to make you an offer."

"I was under the impression that only chiefs could make job offers," Marie said.

"Oh, no, not a job," Fenton said. "At least not here. I've been offered a position on a very elite team currently undertaking some of the most cutting edge research in the country. They're looking for two neurologists; they've invited me and anyone I wish to bring with me. And I can't think of anyone better for the job than you."

Marie's mouth opened, then closed. Research was the cushy end of medicine, provided you had funding, of course; you kept regular hours, could organize your day the way you wanted, and were never on call. Which is precisely why research was usually reserved for senior members of the profession who had already served their time in the trenches, not residents begging for one of the few attending spots available.

"I....doctor, I don't know what to say," Marie stammered. "But why would you consider me over an attending?"

"Look at the researchers in America today," Fenton said. "Most of them are middle-aged, or pushing it. We need new blood, young blood, with the latest training and fresh perspectives. Like yours."

"Well....thank you," Marie said self-consciously. "What would we be studying? And where?"

"Frankly, I'm not certain," Fenton said. "I'm meeting with a representative from the team tomorrow night, and I'd like you to join me; then we'll know more. If you have a shift, I'll get you off."

"All right," Marie said, still overwhelmed as she pulled a notepad out of her bag. "When and where is this meeting?"

"Midnight, in Room 314."

"Midnight?" Marie echoed.

"This doctor is traveling quite a ways, so we have to be accommodating as to time," Fenton explained.

"All right. And....wait. Room 314 is your patient's room."

"That's right. My patient is an integral part of this."

"How so?"

Fenton swigged his drink. "A patient like mine is the price of admission to this particular club."

"But....your patient is brain dead," Marie said, thoroughly confused. "How could she give consent?"

"She can't," Fenton said. "But she'll need to be institutionalized, and her family has agreed to place her in an institution of my choosing providing there was a concurring opinion as to the hopelessness of her case. Which you have graciously provided."

Marie shook her head. "I understand she'll need care, doctor, but I don't see how she could contribute to research in the condition she's in."

Fenton studied her a moment across the desk. "Doctor, you know as well as I do that the most valuable research is done on live subjects."

Marie's throat abruptly began to itch as though she'd only just become aware of a noose around it. "Do I understand you to be talking about experimenting on a live subject who is incapable of giving consent?"

"Good heavens, doctor," Fenton chuckled. "Don't be so dramatic. Her family will give consent; it'll all be perfectly legal. And she wouldn't be the first to donate her body to science."

"People who donate their bodies to science have finished using them," Marie protested. "This woman hasn't."

"In a very real sense, she has," Fenton replied. "Her brain has, for all practical purposes, stopped functioning. She's nothing but a shell....and I have your signature on record concurring with that opinion."

"I never agreed she should be turned into a guinea pig!" Marie exclaimed.

"No, you didn't," Fenton agreed. "And you don't have to. The disposition of this patient is up to her family, who have left that decision to me."

Marie shifted in her chair, feeling like she'd been backed into a corner even though she was sitting in the middle of the room. "Does her family have any idea what you have in mind for her?"

"Of course they do. And they're in full agreement, especially in light of the financial stipend that would accompany her assignment to this research."

" 'Stipend'?"

"Money, doctor. I apologize if this sounds crass, but it's no secret that an institution would be very costly. The research team in question is willing to provide cooperative families with catastrophically injured loved ones a small stipend as a token of thanks for their participation."

Marie snapped to her feet, her patience gone. "Do you mean they're selling her? Like....like a piece of furniture? Like an animal? Oh, I'm sure it's 'perfectly legal'," she continued as Fenton began to protest, "but 'legal' doesn't equal 'right'. Honestly, doctor, have you been hitting the bottle earlier today? What makes you think you can get away with this? This is a gross violation of about a dozen ethical principles, and—"

"That will be enough," Fenton said sharply. "Simmer down."

"I will not 'simmer down'!" Marie exclaimed. "How dare you try to trick me into something like this? You can bet my next stop will the chief of—"

"Mention this conversation to another living soul, and I assure you, I will say it never occurred," Fenton interrupted. "And who will they believe? An attending, or a third year resident?"

Marie stopped short, realizing she had no way to prove anything. "Now, sit down," Fenton continued. "I realize you're young, and young doctors are all about principle. And that's fine, except when those principles get in the way of good common sense. There are a few things you ought to think about before you go ruining your career by making unfounded accusations against an attending with twenty-five years experience."

Slowly, Marie lowered herself into her chair, every nerve taut. So this was why he'd "chosen" her—he wanted someone he could bully. Someone he could threaten. Someone no one would listen to if she blew the whistle. The universe had seen fit to throw yet another Pierce her way, and right now, she was so furious, she wanted to pick up that glass of whisky and hurl it at Fenton's head.

"I think you need to get your mind around some inconvenient facts," Fenton said. "A great deal of research is accomplished using lab animals, but those results frequently don't translate to humans. A smaller slice is done using live volunteers, but no matter how much care is taken, the fact remains that every time we do a trial of a new drug or procedure, we are pushing the envelope. Accidents happen. Using patients like mine for these trials, patients who have no hope of recovery, who can't feel pain, who are nothing but financial drains on their families and society, minimizes this risk. Surely you can see that."

"How do we know she can't feel pain?" Marie demanded.

"Her brain has largely ceased functioning," Fenton reminded her. "You said so yourself."

"But that doesn't mean all of her senses have shut down," Marie argued. "She's not conscious to ask, so we really don't know."

"Our latest science—"

"Is hardly foolproof," Marie broke in. "Hundreds of years ago, bloodletting was standard treatment for just about everything you can think of; now we know it was not only a waste of time, it was dangerous. Far more people died of bloodletting than of the illnesses or injuries it was supposed to cure. What will we learn ten, twenty, fifty years from now that will make us look back and cringe the way we do when we look at that?"

"I have no idea," Fenton said patiently, "and that's irrelevant. All we have to work with is what we know now. And frankly, that superior knowledge you speak of won't be discovered unless we work with what we have now, imperfect as that might be. It's the chicken and egg all over again, doctor. In order to improve our science, we'll have to work with our current science. And if what we learn makes us cringe at what we once held true, so be it. At least we'll have learned enough to cringe."

"We take an oath," Marie said desperately, "an oath to 'first do no harm'."

"And what possible harm could we do to the woman you just saw?" Fenton asked. "She's not even there, doctor. She has ceased to be herself. By all but the most clinical of measures, she's already dead. That's what you signed off on fifteen minutes ago." He paused, staring at his glass. "I think we're getting a bit melodramatic here," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "I'm not even sure what these people are looking for. Let's talk to our visitor tomorrow before rushing to judgment; we owe it to ourselves to at least hear him out. What do you say?"

Silence. Marie stared at a point over Fenton's shoulder, perilously close to losing her temper and well aware that would do her no good. She needed to get out of here, to clear her head, to think. "Fine," she said flatly, rising to her feet. "I'll listen."

"Good!" Fenton beamed as though she'd just agreed to sign on. "You're doing the right thing, doctor. I realize you're just out of university, and that can make one very....rigid. Open yourself to new possibilities, and your career will be better for it."

"I was under the impression that being a doctor was about helping patients, not my career," Marie said stiffly.

"Oh, of course, of course," Fenton agreed. "But if you can kill two birds with one stone, then why not?"

Marie bit back a retort as she reached for the office door. She just couldn't get out of there fast enough....but a moment later she paused, something having occurred to her.

"You said that the price of admission to this research team was a patient 'like yours'. What exactly was the criteria you were given?"

"A female patient who is a ward of the state or eligible for such a designation," Fenton replied, "due either to injury or illness. And she has to be of child-bearing age with all reproductive organs intact."

Reproductive organs.... Marie suddenly grew cold, so cold that the doorknob she held in her right hand felt cold to the touch. "I see," she whispered, wrenching the door open and fleeing down the hallway, around the corner, down three flights of stairs, and out into the sweltering New York summer night where she sank down on a bench outside the hospital and rocked back and forth, back and forth, her eyes straight ahead, unseeing.




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




June 17, 1959, 1:30 a.m.

Pod Chamber



Alone in the moonlight on the rock formation which housed the pod chamber, Brivari pressed his hand to the handprint and hesitated when the door opened. Time. On the way to Earth after the coup, he had often wished he'd had more time. More time to think, to plan, to do more than just run. Now he found himself in the position of having too much of what he'd once wanted more of. Now he was afraid he had all the time in the world.

Slowly, he walked inside. A soft glow suffused the pod chamber as the door slid closed. The three sets of pods still leaned against the walls, glowing brightly. All were still healthy; that was a good start, but not nearly enough. With a heavy heart, he knelt beside the Zan hybrid which bore the mark and inspected it closely, careful not to react to what he saw, placing emotion on hold until he'd finished. When he was done, he leaned against a far wall, staring at the pods he hadn't inspected and didn't need to, knowing what he would find. Five full minutes passed in stunned silence as Brivari tried to reconcile what this meant for his future and the future of Antar.

When Jaddo had been freed and they had visited this chamber for the first time in three years, Brivari had noticed that the hybrids looked small for their age. According to Valeris' growth predictions, they should have been approximately the size of three year-old human children; instead, they had looked like infants. He had dismissed his concerns in the wake of the triumph of Jaddo's escape, attributing their small size to the trauma they'd suffered at their fragile beginning.

After that visit, they had stayed away from the pod chamber for a very long time. Uncertain of where the Argilians were or even if they'd arrived, or if the human military intended to continue pursuit, they had deemed it unsafe to approach. Five years later, with the humans consumed with their various wars and not so much as a whiff of their enemies' presence, they had cautiously made another visit, only to find that the hybrids, while certainly larger, were nowhere near as large as they should have been. Jaddo had brushed off Brivari's concerns. "They're alive and thriving," he had said. "So what if it takes them longer to mature than we expected? We can wait."

He can, Brivari thought heavily, staring at the pods in front of him, but I can't. Brivari had made a careful inspection of Dee Proctor's child at dinner earlier that evening. At the age of twenty Earth months, Philip Evans was what his mother described as "big for his age".....and the hybrids were just about his size. This meant that after twelve years of gestation, the hybrids were approximately the equivalent of two human years of age, perhaps less. At this rate, they would not reach adulthood for almost a hundred years. Jaddo was young; he would survive that long....but Brivari likely would not. And that didn't even begin to address what would happen to Antar during such a lengthy absence, or what the Warders would do with an exile which had multiplied by a factor of five.

And that's not the worst of it, Brivari thought, closing his eyes, unable to bear looking at the pods any longer. The recent death of General Ramey had brought home an important point—the human lifespan wasn't even half that of an Antarian. In a hundred years, every single ally they had made would be dead, some long dead, be it the Proctors, Quanah, River Dog—all of them. Even the infant Philip was unlikely to be alive a hundred years from now. Which means they would need to continually make new allies to replace the old, risking exposure every time they did so. And that was assuming that the hybrids were merely growing slowly. If it was something else....if they had all been compromised in a way that precluded development and irreparably impaired them.....then this entire venture was for nothing, and they had failed. Zan would never rule again, and Antar was lost.




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



Copper Summit, Arizona




"Courtney? Wake up."

Slowly, Courtney began to stir. It had taken forever to fall asleep in the heat of the summer night, but when she had, she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep that was difficult to escape. When she opened her eyes, she had to blink several times to clear her vision before she recognized her father's human face looming over her.

"I know it's late, sweetheart, but I'm in a meeting with Nicholas, and they've arrived. Could you take care of her?"

Courtney mumbled assent as she pushed herself up on one elbow and looked at the clock. Late? That was an understatement. But Nicholas had said that he was ordering everyone into the field, and arrivals always occurred in the wee small, when it was dark and humans were asleep. She rose from the bed, pulled on a robe, ran a comb, or tried to, through her rat's nest of uncooperative human hair, and shambled sleepily down the stairs. Her father waited at the open front door through which she could see a car in the driveway. The back door opened and a young woman climbed out, stumbling a few times as she started forward, caught by the men on either side of her. Courtney watched sympathetically, remembering what it had been like to abruptly be taller; all of one's balance points were suddenly in different places, and that took some getting used to.

"Right in here," her father said soothingly to the young woman and the men who supported her as she approached the front door. "This is my daughter; she'll take care of you. We have a room upstairs all ready for you."

The woman's eyes strayed toward the stairs, alarmed. "That's okay, Papa," Courtney said quickly, recalling how difficult it had been to navigate stairs in the very beginning. "It would be better if she stayed downstairs for awhile. I've got her," she added to the men, taking a firm grip on the woman's arm and steering her inside.

"Thank you, Michael," one of the men said to Courtney's father.

"You're most welcome," Michael answered. "When can we expect her family to collect her?"

"No time soon," the man answered. "I hear they've been assigned to another unit."

Typical, Courtney thought sourly, aiming the woman toward a couch which she sank down upon gratefully as though she just couldn't take another step. After congratulating himself about bringing family members along, Nicholas had gone and split them up; this woman probably had no idea where the rest of her family was stationed, and they were undoubtedly being kept in a similar state of ignorance regarding her whereabouts. It was much more effective to threaten your loved ones when you had no idea where those loved ones were. Her father's high position in Nicholas' ranks was likely the only reason they had been allowed to stay together.

"I'm Courtney," she said to the young woman, who had winced when she snapped on a light, tilting the shade down to minimize the glow. "What's your name?"

"Angela," the woman whispered.

"No, I mean your real name."

Angela's human eyes widened. "I can't tell you that. He forbade it."

Courtney resisted the urge to sigh heavily. "First of all 'forbade' is a very archaic human word. I wouldn't use it, if I were you; it will attract attention. And secondly, how would he know if you told me your real name?"

Angela looked away. "You know how."

Courtney's eyebrows rose. "You've seen him do it?"

"No," Angela allowed. "But I've heard about it. Haven't you?"

Who hasn't? Courtney thought. One of the reasons Nicholas occupied a special place in the Argilian military was because he supposedly possessed a trait few others of his race did. Most Antarians possessed telepathic abilities; all could use telepathic speech, and many could form telepathic connections to some degree. Argilians, on the other hand, were on the shallow end of Antar's gene pool. In addition to their fragile physiology regarding atmospheric conditions, few were at all telepathic. Nicholas, on the other hand, was said to be as telepathic as the most talented of Antarians, able to forcibly extract a person's memories. No one she knew had ever witnessed this including her own father, which left her wondering if it wasn't just another trumped up tale from a known braggart. But even she had to admit it had had a profound affect on Nicholas' troops. The very notion that their commander could take anything he wanted from their minds was a powerful motivator....or demotivator, depending on the circumstances.

"How long have you worn your husk, Angela?" Courtney asked, changing the subject.

"A week."

That bastard, Courtney thought darkly. It sometimes took months to acclimate to a husk, and this poor kid was being dumped outside after only a week? "Why don't I get you something to drink. Are you thirsty?"

"Very," Angela admitted. "When does the sun come up?"

"Not for several hours," Courtney assured her. "And we'll keep the drapes drawn."

"He said to leave them open. He said I had to get used to it."

"And you will," Courtney said, "just not the very first day."

"But he's right next door!" Angela protested. "He'll know!"

"Not if I get you upstairs where the sun is less intense anyway. Don't worry," she added hastily as Angela shrank back in fear, "I won't make you climb them yourself. Not right away. I'll help you."

Courtney went upstairs and fetched a glass of water from the bathroom. New husks took a little while to "settle in", and until they did, they sucked the moisture out of one's system like nobody's business. But that was minor compared to other difficulties. Argilians tended to be taller than Antarians and thus more suited to masquerade as humans, but even so, navigating in a husk took some getting used to. There was the height issue—it felt like you were walking on stilts. Then there were the hands, markedly smaller than their own, making you feel like you were handling everything with just the tips of your fingers. There were the eyes, which were much smaller and lacked an inner eyelid; combined with Earth's glaring sun, the resulting brightness could give one a headache. There were the hair and nails, which grew annoyingly fast and had to be trimmed. There was the disconcerting sensation of inhaling, but not having that air reach your real lungs for several seconds while the husk adjusted for atmospheric content and pressure. And there was the sheer shock of looking in a mirror and seeing an alien stranger staring back at you, moving as you moved, speaking your words with an alien voice. It was an overwhelming experience best undertaken in the confines of their ship, the only truly familiar environment on this planet. She wouldn't be at all surprised to see people go mad from accelerating the acclimation process. Nicholas might wind up sorry he'd pushed....but then what else was new.

"Here you go," Courtney said, handing Angela the glass of water which she drained instantly. Three more glasses disappeared before she leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes, or rather her husk's eyes, exhausted from the sheer effort of existing. Courtney settled Angela against a pillow and was heading back upstairs to get one for herself so she could sleep in the living room when she heard raised voices from behind the closed kitchen door.

"....looking for a needle in a haystack!" someone exclaimed. "They could be anywhere, Nicholas—anywhere. Don't we have at least an inkling of where they are?"

Outside the door, Courtney snorted softly. Anyone paying attention should have more than an "inkling" of where the Warders were, although Nicholas preferred to spread their people so thinly around the globe that they were practically useless. She had no sooner thought that when the door abruptly flew open.

"Courtney!" Nicholas said pleasantly as she gaped at him in shock. "So kind of you to join us. And since you've obviously found something funny, perhaps you'd like to share your joke with the rest of us."

Nicholas stepped back and motioned her into the kitchen, which was occupied by about a dozen men including Greer, Nicholas' nasty second, and her father, who was looking at her with undisguised disappointment. Damn Nicholas' hearing! But since he'd asked....

"The joke is simple," she said. "We're the joke."

Silence. Thirteen pairs of eyes stared at her, ten with shock, one with disdain—that was Greer—one with dismay—her father—and one with interest. "Really?" Nicholas said with what sounded like genuine curiosity. "Was than at an exclusive 'we', as in only those present at the moment, or an inclusive 'we', as in our entire contingent? Just wondering."

Courtney glanced around the room, taking in the expressions ranging from sullen, to surprised, to alarmed. She'd just had a thought, an incredible thought, one that would make her father turn red in the face and scream. Pulling it off would require just the right combination of facts and a willingness to gamble that her father would figure out what she was up to and chime in. Was it possible? If it were, it would be a huge step forward for the resistance....

"Look at us," Courtney said, taking the plunge and pushing past Nicholas into the room, "blundering around the planet with a few people here and there. Even with all of us off the ship, that won't accomplish anything; there's too much planet and not enough of us. We need to concentrate our efforts on the place where we know the Warders will be, if they're not there already—Roswell."

"Roswell?" someone else repeated blankly.

"Yes, Roswell," she insisted. "Or somewhere around there. Somewhere close to the crash site. Given how quickly the humans found their ship, the Warders must have stashed the hybrids close by. And given that we stationed operatives there right after our arrival, which was right after Jaddo escaped, it's unlikely they had time to move them. The hybrids are there, which means eventually the Warders will be there too."

"What a novel idea!" Nicholas said with mock surprise. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"

"Do you think we're stupid?" Greer growled. "We've had operatives in that area for years, and they've never seen a thing."

"Then you didn't wait long enough," Courtney said stubbornly. "How many do you have there now?"

Uneasy glances were exchanged. "One," Greer admitted grudgingly.

"One operative?" Courtney repeated. "You're kidding, right? You should have the whole area covered at all times because that's the most likely place to find them."

"That could take years," someone grumbled.

"We're already been here 'years'," Courtney retorted. "Now that we have a lot more people in the field, it's downright irresponsible not to put more people in Roswell."

"Strong words," Nicholas said. "More of an accusation, really. What do you think, gentlemen? Are we 'downright irresponsible' like the lovely lady says?"

Courtney waited while Nicholas' lieutenants studied him, trying to figure out which way the wind was blowing before declaring a position. Doing what she had just done, taking a stand without knowing how Nicholas felt about the issue ahead of time, was completely unthinkable, which was probably why her father looked ill. Come on, Papa! she thought desperately, wishing now more than ever, that her kind were capable of telepathic speech. This was their chance to put a resistance member in Roswell, right where they wanted to be, where they needed to be. Nicholas wouldn't want to give up a close lieutenant like her father, of course, but her father could suggest someone, and that suggestion would likely be taken. Say something! she commanded silently as her father continued to sit there in maddening silence while her brilliant plan fell apart.

"I have an idea," Nicholas said suddenly. "Since you feel so strongly about this, why don't you go to Roswell, Courtney?"

She blinked, watched her father's eyes widen in alarm. Nicolas was smiling at her, the kind of smile he wore when he'd managed to take something from you that you really cared about. Apparently he'd misinterpreted her longing glances toward her father and used that to decide her punishment for daring to challenge him—seperation from her family, just like Angela. It took her a moment to realize that it didn't matter. She'd gotten what she wanted anyway.

"All right," Courtney replied. "I will."



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


I'll post Chapter 5 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading! *wave*






CHAPTER FIVE



June 17, 1959, 6 a.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona



"You can't do this!" Michael protested. "I'll talk to Nicholas, beg him if necessary—"

"You already tried, remember?" Courtney said. "Besides, I want to do it."

"But it's not safe!"

"Nothing about this mission is 'safe'. You know that."

"You're too new," Michael insisted. "You haven't had enough time in the field, enough training—"

"I've had plenty of training for reconnaissance."

"Courtney—"

"Papa—no," she said firmly, throwing the last of her clothes into her suitcase, which had never really been unpacked anyway. "We have to find Jaddo. We came here to find him, didn't we?"

"Of course we did," Michael said impatiently, "but that doesn't mean I expected you to go gallivanting off by yourself only a day after moving into town!"

"Nothing here is like we expected," Courtney said with a sigh, plopping down on her bed. Early morning sun streamed through the window, it's arrival having been heralded by the sounds of Angela fretting even though her curtains were tightly closed. "We all thought we'd hook up with our Covari operatives—imagine us having 'Covari operatives'—and go capture Jaddo. And then capture Brivari when he tried to rescue Jaddo. Instead, we got here and found the operatives dead or gone, Jaddo free, and both Warders vanished. No one ever thought it would take this long."

"I don't care how long it takes—I don't want you running off by yourself, and I don't want you involved with shapeshifters!" her father declared. "What in the world possessed you to go after Nicholas like that? What were you thinking?"

I was thinking that maybe I could get a resistance operative in Roswell, Courtney thought silently, once again resisting the urge to point out that her tirade last night had been calculated. She'd listened to this lecture several times already, and each time her father grew more upset; telling him she'd done it on purpose would only make him more upset. Better for him to think it was just bad luck while she pointed out all the positives.

"Papa, you've been worried ever since we landed that you wouldn't be able to get to Jaddo fast enough after he was found, and that's a bigger worry than ever now because everyone's been ordered into the field. Both Warders have laid low for so long now they're bound to slip up sometime, and when they do, we'll be swarming all over them like ants. So having me in Roswell is a good thing," Courtney continued as Michael began to protest again, "because we both know that's where we're most likely to find them; they must have hidden the hybrids nearby, and they had allies there. Now you'll have a trusted operative there who can let you know the moment there's any news, and that will give you the chance to mobilize all of us and maybe prevent another tragedy."

Her father sank into a nearby chair. "It all sounds so logical when you explain it," he said dully, "but I'm a father. Fathers, by definition, aren't logical. At least not when it comes to their daughters."

"Afraid I'm going to elope with a human?" Courtney teased.

Michael stared at her uncomprehendingly. " 'Elope'?"

"I'll let you figure that one out on your own," Courtney said lightly, closing her suitcase. "I'll call you when I get settled. I'll be staying with Mark Green, the operative in Roswell, until I find a job. Currency is such a pain."

"What kind of job?" her father asked suspiciously.

"I don't know. I'll find something. The humans are making one of their 'movies' in Roswell this summer, so there should be all kinds of jobs, especially for someone like me. I'm told I have a young, beautiful husk by human standards."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Michael muttered.

"I only look young, Papa. I can take care of myself." She hefted her suitcase off the bed. "I'm ready."

Her father didn't move, just gazed out the window. "Do you know what happened to the first half dozen operatives we sent to approach Rath?"

Courtney gripped her suitcase harder and prayed for patience. "I heard they died."

"Yes," Michael answered in a hollow voice. "All six of them were killed by Jaddo. We sacrificed six of our own to that monster before we even got the chance to ask for a meeting with Rath, never mind actually have one." He paused. "I don't want that to happen to you."

"Neither do I," Courtney allowed, "but you're being a bit dramatic, aren't you? I'm just watching. No contact, remember? And besides, Jaddo already knows about us. And even if he is Covari, I think it's a little unfair to call him a 'monster' when he was only doing his job. Warders are guard dogs, Papa. Pit bulls, not poodles. That's what they're for."

"If he finds you, he'll kill you," her father whispered.

"I won't let him. I won't get that close."

"If Nicholas won't relent, I can go to Ida, beg her to—"

"No," Courtney broke in firmly. "I want to go. I think this is a huge break for the resistance, and you'd be hard-pressed to argue with me."

Michael rose slowly from his chair, an air of resignation surrounding him like fog. "All right. Then take this as a going away present."

Courtney took the box her father handed her and pulled off the lid; inside was a black, five-sided object labeled in Antarian writing. "What's this?"

"Something we've been trying to perfect for the past decade," Michael said. "The Covari who invented it is missing, either dead or defected, and we had only sketchy information to go on. It's our only defense against the Warders. Keep it with you at all times."

"What does it do?" Courtney asked.

"It emits an energy field that blocks their enhanced abilities," her father explained, "but they'll still be able to shift and still be deadly, so be careful."

"Then....why use it at all?" Courtney frowned. "If for some reason I wind up making contact, I'd want to present myself as an ally. The last thing I should do is antagonize them with something like this. I'd just be more likely to get killed."

"Take it with you," Michael pressed. "Just in case. If necessary, it might buy you enough time to present yourself as an ally. Remember, those first six never got that far."

"Right," Courtney said noncommittally, tucking the box into her pocket as she headed down the stairs. She'd take it with her to make her father feel better, but seriously doubted she'd need to use it. Setting her suitcase down by the front door, she pulled a jacket out of the front hall closet and glanced outside. Greer was waiting to drive her to Tombstone, the closest town with a bus station, leaning on the car as he spoke with Nicholas. Came to see me off, she thought sourly, stuffing her coat inside her suitcase. One of the best things about this latest turn of events was that she wouldn't have to put up with Nicholas every day. Having him just next door was unbearable.

"Now, behave yourself," her father warned, sensing her mood. "No sense in leaving on bad terms with Nicholas."

"Remind me again why we can't just get rid of him?" Courtney grumbled.

"Because that would send a loud and clear message that the resistance has infiltrated this mission," her father said patiently. "Not to mention the fact that we need Nicholas' manpower to find the Warders, and his death might result in Khivar recalling us, which we do not want. Like I said, behave yourself."

Courtney braced herself for the usual sarcastic onslaught that accompanied contact with Nicholas, but he was gone by the time she stepped onto the front porch. Thank God. Not that Greer was wonderful company, but at least he didn't shoot his mouth off all the time, or much at all, for that matter. "Ready?" Greer said shortly after Courtney had tossed her suitcase in the trunk and climbed into the back seat, his tone making it clear that he felt himself above the job of being her chauffeur.

"Absolutely," Courtney said. "Let's go."



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


10 a.m.

Downtown Roswell



"You sure you're going to be all right?" Anthony asked, pulling the stroller out of the car's trunk. "I feel funny just leaving you and Philip here by yourselves."

"Don't be silly," Dee said. "We lived here, remember? It's not like you're dropping us off in downtown Santa Fe. Besides, Philip loves to go for stroller rides."

"True," Anthony smiled, watching his little boy bounce up and down with excitement as Dee lifted him into the stroller. "I shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. I'll meet you right back here."

"Good luck," Dee said. "Say bye-bye to Daddy, Philip."

"Bye!" Philip chirped.

"Daddy's going to go see about building an observatory, little guy," Anthony said, planting a kiss on his son's head. "You be good for Mama." He looked up at Dee. "Are you sure—"

"I'm sure," Dee interrupted firmly. "Think of it this way—it keeps Mama and me away from each other."

"You handled her well last night at dinner, and this morning too," Anthony said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Just like a pro. Okay—I'm off. Have a good time."

Dee knelt beside the stroller and urged Philip to wave goodbye to his father as Anthony drove away; he obliged grudgingly, bouncing up and down in his seat, eager to be off. Philip hated sitting unless whatever he was sitting in or on was moving. That's what had made the bus ride bearable and why the stroller was such an attraction. "Okay, okay, we're going," she chuckled as she gave the stroller a push down Main Street's sidewalk, the already hot morning sunshine a taste of the heat to come later in the day. She strolled at a leisurely pace—it wasn't necessary to go fast, just to go—enjoying her walk down memory lane and the freedom of not having to watch her mother like a hawk. Little did Anthony know that the reason Dee had handled Emily "like a pro" last night was because she'd had a pro sitting at the dinner table, coaching her every move.

Brivari had accepted her invitation to join them for dinner last night, taking a seat near David at the opposite end of the table from Dee. But the length of a table was no impediment to conversation for those fluent in telepathic speech, so when Emily appeared with a bottle for Philip and Dee felt that familiar anger boiling inside, she wasn't surprised to hear a quiet voice in her head.

*You tried it your way, and that's obviously not working. Why not try it mine?*

*Hopefully your way involves heaving heavy objects at Mama,* Dee had replied sourly.

*On the contrary, losing your temper is what you must not do. Every time she sees you angry, she sees a child, not an adult. Don't get angry, don't argue, and don't let her do what you've decided she shouldn't.*

Don't want much, do you? Dee had grumbled privately. But she had to admit her volcanic eruptions hadn't had any effect on her mother's determination to have things her own way, so she certainly had nothing to lose. Philip's hand was reaching eagerly for the bottle when her own caught it in midair.

"Philip uses a cup, Mama," Dee said calmly, as though she hadn't already told Emily this a dozen times. "I'll get him one."

Emily began to protest as Dee rose from her chair. *Go,* Brivari ordered. *Don't let her stop you. There can be no argument if you refuse to participate.*

Dee had obeyed, completely ignoring her mother, whose voice rose as Dee kept walking only to cease abruptly when the dining room door swung closed behind her. She poured the milk into a cup, tried and failed to dredge up a smile, and reentered the dining room wearing what she hoped at least resembled a neutral expression.

*Explain to your son that his grandmother didn't realize how skilled he was, and made an honest mistake,* Brivari instructed.

*Why?* Dee protested. *He won't—*

*Of course he won't. You're not talking to Philip—you're talking to everyone else. Always know your audience.*

Everyone was staring at her, waiting to see what she would do next. Well, not everyone; Malik was politely looking at his plate while Brivari dished up some food, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a confrontation was happening right in front of him. Emily looked annoyed, Anthony looked wary, Philip wanted his drink, and David....David looked pleased. Proud, even.

"It's okay, Philip," Dee said soothingly as she set the cup down in front of the fretting toddler. "Grandma didn't realize what a big boy you are now. Most boys your age can't drink from a cup yet."

"You must be proud to have a grandson so advanced," Brivari remarked casually to Emily.

Dee took her seat and tucked back into her dinner, watching her mother wrestle with just how to reply. What was she going to say? That she wasn't proud? That he wasn't advanced? Brilliant, Dee thought admiringly. Using praise as a weapon had never occurred to her.

*Change the subject before she can protest further,* Brivari advised.

"So, Daddy, how is Mac?" Dee asked, saying the first thing that came to mind. "Has he retired yet? He's certainly earned it."

"What? Oh....well, you know Mac. He'll probably walk that ranch until he can't walk," her father chuckled. "But I understand Rose doesn't agree with that......"

Her father chattered on while Dee stole a glance at her mother. She looked absolutely stunned, her head swiveling from one person to another as though she just couldn't believe that was the end of it....and she wasn't the only one. *I don't believe it,* Dee said to Brivari. *She actually shut up. Thanks.*

*Don't thank me yet,* Brivari warned. *You'll need to repeat this procedure many times, I'm sure.*

He'd been right about that. She'd had to repeat it the very next morning when a bottle had once again appeared. Dee made another calm substitution with a somewhat more pointed tone and was delighted to find that, even though Emily was still basically ignoring her, the whole process had become much easier on both Philip and herself. She knew from experience how exhausting it was to be angry all the time; her year spent angry with Emily for throwing Brivari out of the house had taught her that. This way Philip got his cup, Emily got her comeuppance, and Dee's stomach didn't get all tied up in knots. It was a better outcome all the way around, and she felt almost light-hearted as they reached the nearest corner and rounded a bend with Philip bouncing excitedly in his seat, eager to see more.

*Fancy meeting you here.*

*There you are,* Dee smiled as Jaddo fell in step beside her wearing one of his more familiar faces. Shapeshifters had several different faces much the way humans had several different pairs of shoes. *I wish you'd come by last night. I could have used a soldier.*

*Let me guess: Your mother?*

*Is there anyone who doesn't know we're fighting?* Dee asked in annoyance.

*Try Antar,* Jaddo replied calmly. *I'd wager that would be news there.*

*You're a stitch,* Dee said sourly.

*So who won the battle?* Jaddo asked, ignoring her temper the way she always ignored his.

*I did. With a little help from a king's warder.*

*Brivari was coaching you?* Jaddo chuckled. *Now, there's an irony.*

*Why?*

*Because your mother is doing to you exactly what Brivari did to the king.*

Dee blinked. *Really? Well....he did say something about me being impatient just like the king was.*

*Trust me, that was not a compliment.*

Dee was quiet for a moment, pushing the stroller along the sidewalk with Jaddo walking beside her, eyeing Philip curiously as he did so. She couldn't recall either Jaddo or Brivari ever referring to how well they'd gotten along with those they protected. Perhaps that wasn't suitable subject material for a child, which is what she'd been for most of the time she'd known them. *So....was Brivari right?* she asked. *Was the king impatient? Is that why he got killed?*

They walked another half block before she got an answer. *Zan was young,* Jaddo said. *Young and inexperienced, neither his fault. His father, Brivari's first Ward, held the reins of rule very tightly, too tightly in my opinion. Since he wanted his son to rule after him, he should have begun grooming him for that long before he did. By the time that training started in earnest, he had very little time to learn before the old king died.*

*So Brivari had to teach him,* Dee said, beginning to understand.

*Exactly. And Brivari was of the opinion that Zan should do everything exactly the way his father had, much the way your mother feels you should raise your child exactly the way she raised you. You can imagine how well that went over.*

*I sure can,* Dee muttered.

*Brivari felt that Zan was too lenient, too progressive, too quick to change that which had worked well for a very long time. They argued constantly.*

*So who was right?* Dee asked.

*Both....and neither,* Jaddo answered. *Zan's youth and inexperience made him a target for enemies eager to take advantage of those twin disadvantages, so perhaps it would have been wiser to adhere to his father's policies, for a while at least. But Zan had been raised in a different world than his father, a world that called for a different vision and a different touch. There were those who looked forward to the son being more flexible where the father had not. Zan made allies where Riall never had.*

*Are you sure they were allies?* Dee asked skeptically. *Maybe they were just trying to cash in on all that youth and inexperience.*

*Now you sound like Brivari,* Jaddo said dryly. *My Ward believed those allies to be true.*

*Well, something went wrong,* Dee argued. *The king's dead.*

*Yes, and by his own sister's idiocy,* Jaddo sighed. *Granted, Zan's ascension to the throne had emboldened Khivar and his followers, but they didn't have the wherewithal to topple the king. It wasn't Zan's policies as a ruler that invited disaster, but his lax hand with his sister. That one needed a good thrashing.*

*Sounds like maybe it was the other way around,* Dee commented. *Sounds like he tried to order her around, and she didn't like it. Wasn't she supposed to marry Rath?*

*Don't remind me,* Jaddo said wearily. *A poor match if ever there was one.*

*Oh, my goodness,* Dee laughed. *I'm trying to imagine you with some prissy princess to look after, and I'm not having much luck.*

*Looking after Vilandra would have been Urza's job,* Jaddo scowled, *and I would have happily left it to him.*

Dee was still smiling as she brought the stroller to a halt at a crosswalk. There was quite a crowd waiting for the light to change, and Philip bounced up and down in his seat, unhappy that he was no longer moving and couldn't see anything either. When the light changed and the crowd surged forward, she realized where everyone was headed—they were right across the street from the UFO center, which looked to be doing a brisk business.

*Have you been in there?* Dee asked, nodding toward the UFO center as they crossed the street.

*Perish the thought,* Jaddo said darkly. *It might make me.....unpleasant.*

*Aren't you usually?* Dee teased, enjoying his resulting annoyed look. *I would think it would be fun seeing how wrong everyone is. Let's go in!*

*Tell me you're joking.*

*Heck, no,* Dee said cheerfully. *I could use a good laugh.*

*I shall never understand the things that amuse some people,* Jaddo said in a wounded tone.

*Spoil sport,* Dee said casually. *Catch you later.*

Jaddo walked off shaking his head while Dee motored Philip's stroller to the UFO center. People politely cleared a path for the lady with a baby, and they were inside in just a few minutes. There appeared to be some kind of meeting going on, with various UFO enthusiasts camped out at tables adorned with posters, displays, and leaflets as the public filed by, taking it all in. She passed displays of "alien artifacts", blurry photos of supposed aliens or alien ships, and had to stifle a laugh as she came abreast of a table displaying "pieces of an alien ship". As one who had genuine pieces of an alien ship stashed under her childhood bed, she could confidently attest that these so-called artifacts were definitely not what they claimed to be.

"This is a fragment of the saucer the Army denies having captured back in '47!" the proud owner was telling his awestruck audience. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is genuine alien metal! Can you imagine how advanced a race must be to make something like this?"

"Looks like a twisted piece of car bumper," Dee said.

The owner's eyes flared briefly in alarm before he recovered. "We have an unbeliever among us!" he announced as everyone's attention shifted her way. "Miss, don't you believe in aliens?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Dee answered. "But believing in aliens won't turn that into anything but a piece of car bumper."

The owner hesitated, confused as to how to proceed. He'd obviously expected her to deny the existence of aliens, and now that she hadn't, he didn't know what to do. Meanwhile, the viewing public was growing dubious. "You know, that does look like it came from a car bumper," a man agreed.

"There's even some paint on it," someone else remarked.

"So there is," Dee said pleasantly, peering over a shoulder. "Wow. Who knew aliens painted their ships red?"

Laughter erupted and the owner of the "alien ship piece" scowled mightily at her as his audience drifted away. But he had a new crop within seconds, and his booming voice carried over the noise of the crowd as Dee pushed the stroller along to the next booth which sported nothing more than a pile of books.

"So," a droll voice said. "We have a skeptic, do we?"

Dee looked up to find an older gentleman seated behind the table with a mane of long, white hair and an eclectic choice of clothes that made it appear he was colorblind. "Not necessarily," she answered. "I just know a fake when I see one."

"Good for you," the man said approvingly. "That idiot has been trotting out every bit of detritus he can find for months now, and you wouldn't believe how many people just buy it hook, line, and sinker. I'm glad to see someone's called a spade a spade."

"I gather you're trotting this out?" Dee asked, picking up one of the books and inspecting the cover.

"I, my dear, do not 'trot things out'," the man declared. "I am a serious alienologist, dedicated to discovering the truth of the aliens—" here he paused, tapping the book in her hand "—Among Us. I mean business, and I can tell you mean business too. I can always tell when someone means business." He smiled, extending a hand. "James Atherton, at your service."



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


Dr. Raymond Burke's office

Roswell




"Where's the Doc?" Valenti asked as the office door slammed behind him. "The station told me he called; I got here as fast as I could."

"Hello to you too," the doctor's secretary said dryly. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Valenti flushed. "God, Maureen....I'm sorry. It's just that everything's going to hell in a hand basket. I didn't get home till after midnight last night, I missed both dinner and putting Jimmy to bed, the phone rang at 5 o'clock this morning, and now I'll probably miss dinner again....it's been a mess."

"I'm sure Andi understands," Maureen said sympathetically. "She knew you were probably going to wind up sheriff when she married you. Is it the movie that's driving you nuts?"

"The movie, the Crash Festival, that UFO convention which just blew into town, my head deputy getting stars in his eyes wanting to be an actor....you name it, it's gone wrong. Add this morning's murder to the list, and this day just keeps getting worse."

"I wouldn't get all worked up over it, sheriff," Maureen said. "It looks like a simple money job. Go see for yourself. Doc's in the surgery."

Valenti passed the two examining rooms on his way to the back room, larger than the others, that served as Dr. Burke's surgery and a makeshift morgue. Not that they had many bodies; this was only the second murder in Valenti's tenure as sheriff, only the second time he'd be sending a toe-tagged corpse off to the county coroner. Not exactly what he needed just prior to Roswell being invaded by both Hollywood and hordes of UFO nuts.

Ray was standing beside a prone body which had a large-handled knife protruding prominently from its back. "Good thing I skipped lunch," Valenti said dryly. "I'm guessing you didn't call me to help ferret out a cause of death?"

Ray shook his head. "Thanks for coming so quickly, Jim. And no, I think the cause of death is pretty obvious, as is the motive. Check his pants pockets. Guess they were interrupted."

Valenti picked up the pair of work trousers lying on a nearby chair and pulled a wallet out of one pocket and a huge wad of bills out of the other. "Jesus H. Christ," he muttered, counting. "There must be $500 dollars here. Hadn't this guy heard of a bank?"

"A lot of folks don't trust banks after the depression," Ray observed.

"This guy's not old enough to remember much about the depression," Valenti noted, opening the wallet. " 'Mark Green'. It's a Roswell address. Looks like one of Mrs. Bruce's roomers. I'll look him up. But why'd you call me?"

"Because this is weird," Ray said, pointing to the body. "Look at the knife."

"What about it?" Valenti asked.

"It must have pierced his heart. Look at the angle, the point of insertion. There should have been massive blood loss."

"And?"

"And there wasn't. I haven't cleaned him up—this is exactly how he was found. There's blood on the skin here, but not nearly enough, and none at the murder scene either. Simply put, this guy didn't bleed enough."

Bracing himself, Valenti stepped closer. Ray was right; the knife was right at heart level, the flesh closed smoothly around it like it belonged there, and very little blood surrounded the wound. "Are you sure he's dead?" he asked doubtfully.

"I did go to medical school," Ray said with a touch of asperity. "No pulse, no respiration, no reflexes....and no rigor mortis. And watch this."

Ray picked up a scalpel from a nearby tray and made an incision down the victim's back. Bright red blood welled from the wound as it split apart, and Valenti was about to ask what the point was when it became clear that the bleeding was stopping. Ray dabbed at the blood with a piece of gauze, and a minute later, the incision had stopped bleeding completely.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Valenti asked, feeling his stomach turn.

"No," Ray said. "This guy's bleeding like he's still alive, but he's not, not to mention that incredible clotting factor. And not only that, but I made a similar incision on the other side about an hour ago, and look at it now."

"Where? I don't see anything."

"Exactly," Ray said. "It healed. It's completely gone."

"But how can that be?" Valenti asked, confused.

"I haven't the faintest," Ray admitted. "I've never seen anything like this in all my years."

Valenti thought for a moment. "Pull the knife out," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Pull it out. I need it for evidence anyway."

Valenti produced an evidence bag from his pocket while Ray took a firm grip on the knife; one steady pull and a horrible squishing sound later, it was free. A small amount of blood welled around the gash, but within a minute, it was clear that this wound was disappearing just like the brand new incision close by, already fainter than it had been. "Well, I'll be damned," Ray murmured. "What the hell is going on here?"

Great, Valenti thought sourly, inspecting the knife which had clearly been inserted to a depth of at least 6 inches. Not only a murder victim, but a weird one as well. "Open him up," he said tersely.

"What?"

"Open him up," Valenti repeated. "Do an autopsy."

"But....isn't the county coroner—"

"Screw the county coroner," Valenti interrupted. "I've got a weird murder victim just as all hell is set to break loose in my town, so I want to know what's going on here. Open him up. Call me when you've got the results."

"Okay," Ray said skeptically. "You're the boss."

Damned straight I am, Valenti agreed, taking the murder weapon and the dead man's wallet and cash with him. He was most of the way down the hall when there was a huge bang behind him followed by a loud crash, causing him to drop to the floor just at the waiting room threshold.

"Jesus!" Valenti exclaimed. "Ray? Ray!"




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


I'll post Chapter 6 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and Happy Thanksgiving to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SIX

June 17, 1959, 4:30 p.m.

Dr. Raymond Blake's office, Roswell




Valenti looked around wildly as he crouched on the floor. In front of him, Maureen was gaping at him wide-eyed; behind him, the door to the surgery was still closed, and an eerie silence hung over the office even as his ears rang from the noise. What in the name of God had caused that? "Ray!" he called as he clambered to his feet and raced back down the hallway, reaching for his gun as he threw open the door to the surgery.

The doctor was sprawled on the floor amidst the contents of a steel cart which had toppled over, the apparent source of the crashing noise Valenti had heard. Debris hung in the air, floating lazily down to rest on whatever surface it reached first. And the body....the body was gone.

"Are you all right?" Valenti asked, crossing the room and extending a hand.

"Yeah, I....I'm okay," Ray said, sounding dazed as he grasped Valenti's hand and climbed to his feet. "I.....good Lord."

"What? What happened?" Valenti demanded. "Where's the body?"

Ray shook his head slowly. "Gone."

" 'Gone'?" Valenti echoed. "How can it be 'gone'? I only left a minute ago. Where'd it go?"

Ray's eyes drifted toward the ceiling while one hand gestured around the room. "It's......there. Everywhere."

Valenti looked around in consternation for a moment before he realized the soft, flaky stuff floating around the room wasn't debris. Nothing in the room was damaged save for the metal cart which Doc had obviously toppled himself.

"You mean....you mean this....stuff floating around is the body?"

"What's left of it," Ray said.

"It blew up? How?"

"I was examining the entry wound, " Ray said, "and it had almost healed over. So I started poking around, and....boom."

" 'Boom'?"

"It just....exploded," Ray said uncertainly, as though that weren't quite the right word.

"It looks like skin," Maureen said in wonder, having come in behind Valenti. "You know, like when you have dry skin and it flakes off?"

The three of them stood in stunned silence for a full minute before Valenti regained his senses. "Okay," he said tersely, holstering his gun. "Maureen, lock the office door. Reschedule tomorrow's appointments. No one comes in here; I don't care if it's Christ's mother."

Maureen scurried off to obey as Valenti turned to the doctor. "How is this even possible? If this body was rigged, the whole room should have blown up, and you with it. Not that I'm complaining, but what explodes a body and doesn't take anything else with it?"

Ray shook his head as he fished a container out of a cabinet and started sweeping flakes into it. "I have no idea. Add this to the list of things I've never seen before. But even if I don't know how it was done, it's not a big leap to figure out why."

"A spy," Valenti said grimly.

"That would be my guess," Ray agreed. "Probably Soviet or Cuban, and probably checking up on the Army base. The scuttlebutt is that now that Castro's in power in Cuba, he's going to cozy up to the communists. I know McCarthy was nuts, but he was partially right—there are Americans working for the communists. This might be one of them."

"He certainly didn't look either Russian or Cuban," Valenti muttered. "Tell me you took pictures."

"Of course I did," Ray said, reaching for his camera and shaking flakes off it.

"I'll get the film developed," Valenti said. "In the meantime, clean this up, look it over, and tell me anything you can. And don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"You're going to call the base, aren't you?"

"Hell, no," Valenti declared, "and you aren't either."

"But Jim, this could be important!" Ray protested. "The military should know—"

"And they will," Valenti interrupted, "but not a moment before I've completed my own investigation. Ray, listen to me," he continued when the doctor began to object. "I've dealt with the military before. If we let the tanks roll in now, we'll never know what happened. They'll confiscate everything, and I mean everything—maybe even us. Whoever this guy was, whatever he was doing here, he was loose in my town, and I intend to find out why. I want samples of everything, copies of everything, and time to nose around before they shut me down. Understood?"

The doctor hesitated a moment before nodding reluctantly. "All right. I'd like to know what happened myself. Although....are you sure you know what you're doing? You could be getting yourself mixed up in something nasty."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Valenti said darkly. "Not by a long shot."




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



Proctor residence




"No, wait, there's more," Dee insisted as laughter erupted around the dinner table. "Then he goes on to tell me that humans are just a happy accident, a quirk of the universe that couldn't possibly have been repeated, the ultimate life form. So any aliens out there, by definition, must be lower on the evolutionary ladder than we are. Sort of like slightly more evolved apes, or something."

"Unbelievable," David said, shaking his head.

"It doesn't help that he already looks a bit unhinged, what with that long white hair, big bushy mustache, and weird clothes," Dee added. "But then when you hear what comes out of his mouth, it just gets worse."

"So this Atherton fellow actually believes he knows what he's talking about?" David asked.

"What's even more incredible is that he wrote a book about something he knows nothing about and is actually living off the proceeds," Anthony commented.

"Not just the book," Dee said. "Don't forget the lecture circuit. He says that's where the real money is. Plus the lectures drive book sales, and sales of his book get him more lecture dates, so they feed off each other."

"He's just following the money," Malik said. "Aliens are big business now."

"And fear is always lucrative," Brivari added. "Humans fear aliens, so anything that either stokes or alleviates that fear will garner attention, and therefore currency."

Talk continued around the table, but Dee's attention fastened on Brivari. This was the first time he'd spoken this evening save for a perfunctory greeting, spending his time instead gazing rather fixedly at Philip, who was seated next to Dee in her old high chair drinking contentedly out of his much contested cup. She'd had to remove yet another bottle at lunch time, but not at dinner—her mother seemed to be getting the message, albeit slowly, and now regarded Dee with a combination of exasperation and puzzlement, as though she couldn't quite figure out what to do next. Fortunately Dee was in too much of a good mood to let Emily get to her today. Her time at the UFO center had been one hilarity after another, and she'd spent the meal thus far regaling everyone with what she'd seen.

"So these people had 'artifacts'," David said. "What kind of artifacts?"

"Most of them were supposedly pieces of an alien ship," Dee answered. "Basically any piece of twisted metal will do as long as it's not readily identifiable.....and maybe even if it is. Witness the guy with the car bumper."

"People are so gullible," Anthony said. "If there were that many pieces of an alien ship being paraded around, the Army would be all over them in a heartbeat."

"I saw some soldiers from the base there," Dee said. "They were every bit as awestruck as everyone else."

"Back in the forties, only a handful of people ever knew what was really going on at the base," Malik said, "and most of those are long gone. Anyone there now is probably none the wiser."

"The one thing I consistently heard was that the Army held live captives," Dee continued. "Some felt it happened in the past, others that it was still going on. That was the second most popular 'artifact'—so-called pieces of aliens. There were so many jars of formaldehyde that the place reeked."

"Please," Emily groaned. "We're eating."

"And then there was an exhibit which claimed the Army found aliens, but they were all dead," Dee went on. "It had these dolls that reminded me of Mrs. Chamberlain's Crash Festival dolls, this little family with alien parents and alien children who died in the crash—"

"Excuse me," Brivari said abruptly, pushing his chair back.

"There were a lot of soldiers there when Urza and Valeris were carried out," David reminded her. "So people did see them. And a few saw you on the ship and said they thought they'd seen a child. That information was bound to seep into the public's consciousness."

"I don't know," Anthony said doubtfully. "I think we'd be hearing the same stories even if none of that had happened. For example...."

Anthony went on, but Dee was watching Brivari, who had walked out the front door and taken a seat on the porch. *What's eating him?* she asked Malik privately.

*Don't know,* Malik answered. *But whatever it is, it's been 'eating him' for quite awhile now.*

*If it's been that long, how could you not know what it is?*

*Easy. There are certain things they just don't discuss with me.*

Dee blinked. *You mean they still don't trust you? After all this time?*

*Not completely,* Malik said. *Remember, I turned on their Wards once. Warders don't forget.*

Like elephants, Dee thought, picking up her glass of wine and excusing herself from the table. Emily would probably slip Philip a bottle just as soon as she was out of the room, but Anthony could handle this one. Maybe he'd have better luck. She found Brivari on the front porch, staring off into the distance.

"Nice night," Dee said casually as she slid into a chair next to him. And it was, hot but not boiling, the type of dry heat which was easier to live with than humidity.

"It is indeed," Brivari agreed without looking at her.

"Mama seems to be calming down a little," Dee said. "She looks confused, like she can't figure out why I'm not yelling."

"She is on unfamiliar ground and is currently rethinking her strategy," Brivari replied. "You would be wise to do the same, as she will soon try some other means of circumventing your wishes now that her initial method has failed."

"Darn," Dee said, genuinely disappointed. "And here I'd hoped she was just going to wave the white flag."

"Your mother? Hardly. Patience," Brivari advised. "You've won a few battles, but the war has only begun."

Such an optimist, Dee thought dryly, keeping that thought to herself as they sat in companionable silence, Brivari staring into space as she sipped her wine, trying to decide how to broach the subject and settling at length on her favorite approach—the direct one.

"So are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you going to make me guess?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Subtlety was never your strong point."

"Given the way you keep staring at Philip, and the fact that Jaddo was looking at him much the same way earlier today, I'd say it had something to do with him," Dee continued. "But that doesn't make sense. What would Philip have to do with anything?"

"Directly? Nothing."

"So....indirectly," Dee murmured. "Interesting. Okay, I'm off school for the summer, so we can play word games all night if you want. Or I could keep guessing and pester the daylights out of you. Or you could just tell me and save yourself a whole lot of grief."

Brivari added a head shake to his smile, and Dee could have sworn she heard a resigned telepathic sigh. "Let me guess," Dee said. "I sound just like Zan, right?"

"Not this time," Brivari answered. "He wouldn't have noticed something was bothering me." He paused. *The hybrids are not growing at the rate they should be.*

Dee set her wine glass down. Trouble with the very reason the Warders were here in the first place was very bad news. *Are they all right? Is there something wrong with them?*

*Not that I'm aware of. They appear to be thriving, just small.*

*How small?*

*Much too small,* Brivari said heavily. *They are roughly the size of your son.*

*But....I thought they were supposed to grow the way humans did. You've been here....what....twelve years now? So they should look like 12 year-olds, or close to that.*

*Precisely,* Brivari replied. *And they don't.*

*None of them?*

*None of them.*

Dee was quiet for a moment, at a loss for what to say. *Did Valeris leave any notes? Instructions? Anything?*

*A few,* Brivari replied, *but they are unhelpful. Basically, once the process is started, it cannot be altered, at least not positively. It can certainly be impeded, which is exactly what happened when our ship crashed. The hybrids were very young and very vulnerable at that point, and their incubators failed in the crash. It was several hours before we managed to restore power. We lost dozens.*

*But not these,* Dee said.

*No. These have survived every insult....but perhaps not as unscathed as I thought.*

*Wait a minute,* Dee said. *Back up. Wasn't this was the first time you'd tried to make this kind of hybrid? Then how do you know how they grow?* she continued when Brivari nodded. *If this is the first try, this could be just how it works.*

*Perhaps,* Brivari agreed. *But regardless of the reason, the same problem remains: It will take much longer for them to mature than previously thought. It is unlikely I will live long enough to see them emerge.*

Good Lord, Dee thought, leaning back in her chair. No wonder Brivari was upset. After everything they'd been through, to not be there when the king reappeared was a nasty kick in the pants. *What about Jaddo? Will he still be alive?*

*Yes,* Brivari answered. *He is much younger than I am. But he will be alone.*

*But someone will be here,* Dee said. *The hybrids are still healthy, even if they're growing slower than you expected, and at least one of you will be here for them.*

*It looks that way....at the moment,* Brivari admitted.

*So it's not a total loss,* Dee insisted. *I mean, it could be worse, right? Look,* she continued when Brivari arched an eyebrow at her, *I can only imagine how disappointing this must be. But keep in mind that you don't really know what's going to happen because you've never tried it before. Maybe they'll grow slowly for awhile and then speed up. Maybe they'll be born younger than you thought. Or maybe it really will take as long as you're afraid it will. You don't really know, and there's nothing you can do about it but what you've already done, which is keep them safely hidden. So there's no point fretting over what you can't change. All you can do is make a life for yourself here, and wait and see what happens.*

*My 'life' here was supposed to be half over by now,* Brivari said wearily.

*You don't have a life here,* Dee said bluntly. *You're just hanging around, worrying and waiting, and frankly, that's a colossal waste of time. You have an opportunity to have something here that you could never have back home, and instead you've gone on a decade-long mope fest. What good is that going to do anyone? It'll just make you miserable, and it won't make the hybrids grow any faster.*

*I stand corrected,* Brivari said dryly. *You lack not only subtlety, but tact.*

*Call me anything you want, but you know I'm right,* Dee said firmly.

*Did Jaddo happen to mention that General Ramey died recently?*

*I....what? No,* Dee answered, confused. *Isn't he the one who let Jaddo go?*

*Yes.*

*Well....I'm sorry to hear he died, but what does that have to do with anything?*

Brivari rose from his chair and walked to the porch railing, his back to her. *You will all die,* he said quietly. *Every last one of you. If it truly takes as long as I fear for the hybrids to mature, I will have the distinct displeasure of watching every single ally I've made here die. Your parents. You. Even your son will not live that long, not even if the human lifespan increases faster than I think it will. And then I will likely die before the king emerges. First everyone I know and then me, and all without seeing my task completed.* He paused. *What does one do when facing a 'life' like that? How does one even make a 'life' in the face of such prospects?*

Tongue-tied, Dee said nothing as the implications of what he'd just said washed over her. You will all die.... What would it feel like to lose everyone? She remembered her Uncle James' death when he'd killed himself after he and her father had returned from the war, followed by her grandmother's death shortly thereafter, as well as the difficult time her parents had gone through coping with two deaths in such a short period of time. She expected her parents to die before her, but....Anthony? And Philip? No parent was prepared to outlive their own children. The idea of continuing on while everyone around you died was so depressing, it was practically paralyzing. No wonder Brivari was so upset.

*All you can do,* she said finally, *is all any of us can do—you live your life, and you hope for the best. No one knows for certain what will happen in the future; not me, not you, not anyone. I expect to outlive my parents, but I may not. I expect Philip to outlive me, but he....he may not," she continued, her breath catching in her throat at the mere thought that anything could happen to her baby. *You expect to have to wait much longer for your hybrids, but you may not. None of us knows what will happen. So we do the best we can with what we do know, we control what we can, and we don't waste our time worrying about what we can't. Or at least we try not to,* she amended. "Because when we do, we waste the life we have, and we each only get one. We can't afford to waste it. And neither can you. You may live a lot longer than we do, but you still only get one life.*

*I wish it were that simple,* Brivari murmured.

*It is that simple,* Dee insisted. *You're making it harder than it needs to be. Isn't it hard enough already?*

Brivari didn't say anything for a long time, long enough for Dee to drain her wine glass and wish for more. *Give my regards to your parents,* he said finally. *I have to be going.*

Go where? Dee thought as he walked away. To mope some more? Brivari simply wasn't the type to give up easily; seeing him like this was alarming. Still, she couldn't argue that he didn't have a reason to be depressed. She sat on the porch and tried to imagine what he was facing for a few more minutes before heading back inside and hugging the very first person she saw, who happened to be her mother.

"My goodness," Emily said, returning the hug hesitantly as though not quite certain it was real. "What brought this on?"

"Does it matter?" Dee whispered.

She felt a hand on her back. "No," Emily said quietly. "It doesn't."




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


Ruth Bruce's rooming house,

Roswell




Courtney gratefully set her suitcase down on the sidewalk and squinted at the address on the piece of paper in her hand, then at the house in front of her. 151 Cheltenham Road had turned out to be a large, two-story house about a mile from the bus station and less than a block from Roswell's main street. She'd walked here, having not wanted to spend the precious little currency she had on one of the taxi's lined up outside the station that appeared to be doing a brisk business. Roswell was booming, and the irony was that it had her planet to thank for that. Who would have thought that the deaths of royalty across the galaxy would have such a profound effect on a little town on a primitive planet light years away? Hefting her suitcase once again, she proceeded up the front walk and onto the front porch, where she rang the bell and waited patiently until an older human woman answered the door.

"Hi," Courtney said. "I'm here to visit someone who lives here, Mark Green. Is he in?"

"Upstairs, dear," the woman said. "First door on the right. I'm Mrs. Bruce, the landlady."

"Nice to meet you," Courtney smiled, stepping over the threshold and sighing when she saw the steep, narrow staircase in front of her. A minute later she'd coaxed her aching feet to climb it and was knocking on a door marked "2B". No one answered. She tried again with no result.

"Isn't he there?" Mrs. Bruce called from the base of the stairs. "He might be sound asleep. Stays out late sometimes, that one, and ties one on. Let me fetch my keys."

Great, Courtney thought sourly. All she needed was a drunken roommate. Not that "Mark" would be the first of their expedition to go overboard with Earthly distractions. Most of them had never known the kinds of freedom they were enjoying here, and it wasn't unusual for people to get carried away.

"Here we go," Mrs. Bruce said, bustling up the stairs and inserting a key into the lock. The door opened to reveal a single large room with kitchen appliances in one corner, a sitting area in another, and a rumpled, empty bed near the window.

"Now, that's odd," Mrs. Bruce said. "It looks like he didn't even come home last night."

"Is there anywhere else in the house he could be?" Courtney asked.

"Well, there's the bathroom," Mrs. Bruce said, peering out the door, "but that's empty. The two roomers up here share that one bathroom. My kitchen's off limits because everyone has their own. I suppose he might be in the yard.....oh, there's the bell," she said as the doorbell sounded downstairs. "I'll be right back."

Mrs. Bruce hurried off to answer the door while Courtney wandered around the room, opening drawers and cupboards. Whoever Mark Green was, he ate little, wore little, and from the looks of the bed, slept little. And washed little, she added, wrinkling her nose at the contents of a laundry sack which should have been laundered days ago. She wasn't looking forward to living with a slob, but she didn't have much of a choice until she found a job. Still, any place was better than living next door to Nicholas and his minions. Greer had dropped her off at the bus station with the air of someone washing his hands of a problem, and the feeling was absolutely mutual. Slob or no slob, she intended to milk this Mark for everything she needed to know to live on her own as a human so she would never need to depend on anyone else again.

"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Bruce's voice floated up from the first floor, sounding alarmed. Curious, Courtney looked up from the drawer she'd been rifling through and paused; a moment later, two sets of footsteps sounded up the stairs. Probably Mark, she thought. If he hadn't checked his communicator, he wouldn't know he was having a visitor, so he'd probably just told his landlady that whoever she'd let into his room was an imposter. Closing the drawer, she repositioned herself in the center of the room as though she'd been waiting politely for the landlady to return.

And return the landlady did, followed by a uniformed human enforcer that was definitely not Mark. "Oh dear," Mrs. Bruce said, obviously flustered. "Sheriff, this is.....oh dear, I never got your name," she said to Courtney, growing downright agitated.

"Courtney," Courtney said hurriedly. "Courtney Harris."

"Miss Harris, this is Sheriff Valenti," Mrs. Bruce said, "and he....I..." She stopped, at a complete loss for words.

"Why don't you let me handle this, Ruth," the sheriff said soothingly.

Mrs. Bruce gave Courtney a sympathetic pat. "The sheriff will help you out, dear," she said, obviously grateful to be off the hook. Courtney eyed the sheriff as the landlady bustled off, wondering what he was supposed to "help" her with. To be facing an enforcer after being in town only a little over an hour was not encouraging.

"Miss Harris, I'm Sheriff Valenti of the Roswell Sheriff's department."

"Hi," Courtney said uncertainly.

"Just arrived?" the sheriff asked, glancing at her suitcase.

"Yes," Courtney said, careful to keep her voice even. What was this all about? Had she done something wrong? Had she given herself away somehow?

"By car?"

"Bus."

"Welcome to Roswell," the sheriff smiled. "You have family here?"

"No."

"Just passing through?"

"I....I'm looking for work," Courtney said. "I hear Roswell's a good place to find a job."

"Uh huh. That it is," the sheriff agreed. He paused a moment, his eyes drifting around the room as Courtney waited in wary silence for the next query. "I understand you're looking for Mark Green."

"Yes, I was," Courtney answered, practically sagging with relief. Mark must have gone and gotten himself into trouble with the human law, something all of them had been strictly ordered not to do. The last thing they wanted was to bring attention to themselves, but obviously that's what Mark had done. Her lessons on human law were fuzzy, but she vaguely remembered something about currency being used to shorten one's imprisonment. If that's what was going on, Mark would just have to wait; she was quite certain her small stash wouldn't be enough to accomplish that.

"Is Mark a friend of yours?"

"Not really," Courtney said truthfully.

"Then why are you looking for him?"

The sheriff's tone was casual, but it was clear that it might not be wise to know too much about Mark Green right now. "I needed a place to stay while I was looking for work, and he said I could live with him for awhile," Courtney said.

"Have you known Mark a long time?"

"No. We'd just met."

"When?"

"A week or two ago."

"Uh huh. Where?"

"At a bar," Courtney answered, beginning to sweat. She hadn't expected to have to come up with this many details, but bars were common human meeting places.

"Which bar?"

"I....I don't remember the name," Courtney said, flustered. "Sheriff, did I do something wrong? I've only just arrived, Mark's not here, and now you show up and start interrogating me—"

"I'm not interrogating you, Miss Harris, I'm just asking a few questions," she sheriff corrected.

"And I've given you a few answers," Courtney said, an edge to her voice. "What say we switch and I'll ask you some questions. Like what's going on here, and why do you want to know how I know Mark?"

The sheriff gave her an appraising look as Courtney forced herself to hold his gaze. I shouldn't have done that, she admonished herself. Rule #1 was don't run afoul of the law. Rule #2 was don't antagonize enforcers because doing so could cause you to violate rule #1 even if you hadn't already. Wonderful. Her first phone call to her father was likely to be from a jail cell. She was just about to backpedal and apologize when the sheriff spoke.

"Miss Harris, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm afraid Mr. Green is dead."

Dead? "Dead?" Courtney repeated. "But.....how....."

"His body was discovered earlier this morning," the sheriff continued. "We think someone was trying to rob him because he had a large amount of cash on him when he was found."

Courtney sank slowly down on the end of the bed, shaking all over. Dead? How could Mark be dead? The husk's seal could be broken if one knew exactly how to do it, but the fact that there was something left for this enforcer to identify meant that Mark had been killed while the husk had been left intact. It was very, very difficult to kill an Argilian without also destroying the husk. A husk was a living thing, a life form in its own right that had been designed to either heal quickly or give way entirely, removing any evidence that humans could examine. For Mark to die with his husk intact....that wasn't supposed to happen.

"I'm sorry," the sheriff said gently, kneeling beside her, mistaking her agitation for grief. "I know this is a shock. Rest assured I'll be looking into Mark's death, and I'll let you know the minute I learn anything. Do you know if he has any family?"

"Uh....no," Courtney stammered. "None that I know of."

"All right. Let me get you a glass of water, and you just sit tight while I have a look around his room and see if I can find anything that might help."

Courtney accepted the glass of water with a nod and spent the next ten minutes sitting tensely on the bed while the sheriff combed the little room thoroughly, leaving no drawer untouched. By the time he was finished, she was absolutely nauseous as the ramifications of this latest development became clearer. Husks were life forms and thus could die, but they were essentially separate from the Argilians they housed and would wither at a different rate. Human medicine was primitive, but surely someone would notice that Mark's "body" wasn't decaying the way a normal human body would. Deprived of nourishment, the husk would eventually fail and allow Earth's deadly atmosphere inside, causing instant decompression; she was quite sure the humans would notice if Mark's body suddenly exploded or inexplicably disappeared. And when that happened, they would go looking for answers, and they would start with anyone who had anything at all to do with Mark Green. Thank goodness she hadn't introduced herself as his sister like she'd been planning to do.

"Are you okay?" the sheriff asked, having finished his rummaging.

"No," Courtney said truthfully.

"I thought you said you and Mark had just met," the sheriff said, watching her closely.

"Do people you've just met usually get murdered?" Courtney said sharply, fear making her voice rise. "And that's not all of it. Mark said I could stay with him. Now I have nowhere to go."

The sheriff dropped his eyes and glanced toward the door. "I would imagine Mr. Green's rent was paid through the end of the month. I'll talk to Mrs. Bruce. Maybe she'll let you stay here until then. That'll give you a couple of weeks to find a job. How's that sound?"

"Okay," Courtney said dully. "Thanks."

"I'm really sorry," the sheriff said gently. "Not a very good first day in Roswell, is it?"

"No," Courtney whispered.

"I'll send Mrs. Bruce up on my way out," the sheriff continued. "The two of you can talk things over. One of my men will drop by to collect Mr. Green's things. And if you need anything, Miss Harris, you just call me, all right?"

Courtney nodded wordlessly, holding herself together until the sheriff's footsteps had faded down the stairs before she lay back on the bed, curling into a ball. Now what? she thought wearily. Now what?




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




11:55 p.m.

Columbia Medical Center, New York City




"Good evening, Doctor Johnson," the charge nurse at the nurse's station said. "Dr. Fenton and his guest are waiting for you in Room 314."

"Thank you," Marie said, heading around the corner and striding purposefully toward Room 314, only to lose her nerve halfway there and duck into the nurses' bathroom, the only one available to her given that most doctors were men. Fortunately it was empty; no doubt the nurses would have found the sight of Doctor Johnson peering worriedly into a mirror and applying another coat of lipstick with a trembling hand to be very disturbing. Marie certainly did. She'd prepped for this all day and now here she was, shaking and scared. She couldn't possibly walk into that room in this condition. If she couldn't pull herself together, she'd have to leave.

The fact that she was here at all was something of a surprise after her reaction to the meeting with Dr. Fenton last night. His announcement of the price of admission to the particular study he'd been invited to join had rattled her badly, so badly that she'd spent a full half hour on the bench outside the hospital in the dead of night before returning to her apartment. "A female patient who is a ward of the state or eligible for such a designation, due either to injury or illness. And she has to be of child-bearing age with all reproductive organs intact." Was it possible that after all this time, all the running and the subterfuge and the care that she'd put into making a new identity for herself, that Pierce had found her again by sheer chance? What were the odds? And if Pierce was behind this research on women of "child-bearing age", what was she going to do about it?

It was only on the walk back to the apartment that a modicum of sense had returned. Research was being done all the time in every field imaginable; Columbia itself was at the forefront of many different types. Any research involving reproduction, pregnant women, or children was the most difficult to do because, by it's very nature, research involved a certain amount of failure. While that failure was understood and accepted when dealing with adult subjects, it was much less well tolerated when it affected society's most vulnerable. Perhaps she had overreacted. Perhaps the use of subjects like Dr. Fenton's unfortunate patient was a small price to pay for avoiding the risk with a healthy adult, providing it was done legally, of course. There was the question of what the patient herself would have wanted, but even Marie had to admit that patient was no longer in a position to want anything. And there was the fact that, if Marie were to find herself in a similar state, she would gladly have donated her body to science to be used however it saw fit. By the time she had climbed into bed with her sleeping husband, Marie had resolved to at least go to the meeting and see what was what before jumping to any further conclusions.

Still, she'd found it prudent to take at least some precautions. What if she found herself facing Pierce himself? Granted, her name was different and her hair was now short and a totally different color, but that wouldn't be enough to fool Pierce in close quarters. She'd worn a formal dress coat to minimize her resemblance to the Yvonne White of Pierce's memory who had always worn military uniforms, and donned a hat which swept down partially over her face. She'd even mentally reviewed the building's layout to familiarize herself with possible exits and places to hide. All of this was most likely completely unnecessary, but it had made her feel better....until now, that is, when she had suffered a sudden anxiety attack. What if it really was Pierce? What if her disguise wasn't good enough? She could still walk away, but wasn't it her duty as one of his victims to find out, to prevent that list of victims from growing as John had said? And what if this was perfectly legitimate research, as it probably was, and walking away from it meant passing up the chance of a lifetime?

Marie adjusted her hat a bit lower over one eye and left the bathroom, resolved to at least find out what was going on. She knocked on the door to 314 before slowly pushing it open, unwilling to rush right in until she saw who Fenton was meeting with. A single glance at the man examining the chart at the foot of the bed told her that it wasn't Pierce—he was too short, too young, and had too much hair. So all this fretting had been for nothing after all.

"Doctor!" Fenton beamed, obviously delighted to see her. "I'm so glad you decided to join us. My, how nice you look tonight! I hope we didn't take you away from something."

"I had a previous engagement," Marie said evasively. "I didn't have time to change."

"And I think I can safely say that neither of us minds," Fenton said. "Hospital whites are so boring. Doctor Johnson, this is Doctor Joshua Burke. Doctor Burke, this is Doctor Marie Johnson, a third year resident at this hospital and one of the finest of our up-and-coming neurologists."

"Doctor Johnson," Dr. Burke smiled, extending a hand. "I've heard so much about you, all of it good."

"I'm flattered," Marie replied, accepting the handshake. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your specialty, doctor?"

"Psychiatry," Dr. Burke answered. "I practice out of a state hospital."

"Which part of the country?" Marie asked.

"Not the garden spot, I'm afraid," Burke chuckled. "The hospital is rather remote on purpose, built out in the desert in case any of the inmates escaped. The ones who are mobile, that is."

" 'Desert'?" Marie echoed, hoping the alarm in her voice wasn't audible.

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Burke said apologetically. "We're in De Baca County, New Mexico, which is rather sparsely populated. But just one county south of us is the famous Roswell, home of everything 'alien'. It's quite the place to visit. You might want to do a little sightseeing when you come for your interview if you've never seen it."

A sudden chill gripped Marie as the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "No," she said faintly. "Haven't had the pleasure."





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


I'll be gone over Thanksgiving, so I'll post Chapter 7 on Sunday, December 2nd.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SEVEN


June 18, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

New York City



"I can't believe you're actually considering this!" Steven exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind?"

Marie sighed and stared at her uneaten breakfast as Steven thundered on, reminding herself that she'd deliberately broached this subject before they both left for work because that would give her the rest of the day away from him in case he took it badly. A wise instinct, as it turned out, as he was taking it very badly indeed.

"How could you even think of just trotting out to some hospital in the middle of nowhere when this has Pierce written all over it?" Steven demanded. "Do you have a death wish, or something?"

"Steven, there is absolutely no evidence that Pierce has anything to do with this," Marie said patiently. "I admit it's a little too coincidental that Dr. Burke's hospital is in New Mexico, but the fact is that we don't know where Pierce intended to send me if he ever succeeded. Brisson never said, probably because he never knew."

"He said it was in a 'remote location'," Steven reminded her. "Tell me this doesn't fit the bill."

"Of course it does—just like dozens of others," Marie said. "Many mental hospitals are in 'remote locations' because normal people don't like to have mental patients anywhere near them."

"But this one is near the base!"

"Eighty-five miles north and in a different county isn't exactly 'near'," Marie said. "And distance means nothing. Pierce was an expert with sedatives, which are handed out like candy in mental institutions, so he could easily have knocked me out for as long as it took to transport me wherever he wanted to."

"Okay, then what about this guy, this 'Burke'? What kind of legitimate researcher holds secret meetings at midnight?"

"He came in on a late flight, and the meeting wasn't secret," Marie reminded him. "The nurses knew about it."

"Then what about what he's planning to do with this patient of Fenton's?" Steven continued, unwilling to let it go. "Does her family even know what's going on?"

"As a matter of fact, they do. I made a point of meeting the patient's husband early this morning when he arrived to visit. He knows exactly what's going on. He can't afford the care his wife needs, and this way he gets paid to have her institutionalized, which will help with their children. And I can't disagree that she's basically gone, Steven. Her body is functioning, but her mind isn't."

"But what's Burke going to do to her?" Steven persisted. "You still haven't told me exactly what kind of research he's conducting."

Marie hesitated, this being the one thing that still bothered her about last night's meeting. "That's because he was rather vague," she admitted, "but—"

"There!" Steven said triumphantly. "Why would he be vague unless he had something to hide?"

"—conducting research on this type of subject is undeniably controversial," Marie continued, ignoring the interruption. "Doctors have been blackballed by their own colleagues, and even the families of the subjects have been ostracized if others find out what they've done. It's not necessarily something you'd want to discuss with just anyone—"

"You're a doctor, not 'just anyone'," Steven said crossly.

"—but it is completely legal," Marie finished. "The patient's husband holds power of attorney, all the necessary consents have been obtained, the papers have been drawn up....and that's exactly what makes me think this isn't Pierce. Pierce wouldn't bother with all that troublesome legal stuff. He just takes what he wants, legalities be damned."

"He did when he was a one man show," Steven muttered. "Maybe he isn't any more."

"Look, two days ago you were urging me to find out where Pierce is," Marie said, unable to control her exasperation any longer. "Now you think I'm onto something, and you're upset? What changed?"

"I wanted you to make some phone calls, not deliver yourself directly into his hands," Steven retorted.

"And what if this isn't what you think it is? What if this is perfectly legitimate and unconnected with Pierce in any way?"

"What say we let John find that out," Steven argued. "If it's okay, you can go in."

"And if it isn't?" Marie asked. "Then what? John kills Pierce, and that's it?"

"You aren't really suggesting that would be a bad thing, are you?"

"Do you really think killing Pierce is going to make everything all better?"

"Would for me," Steven declared.

Marie rose from the table and walked to the window, gazing outside at yet another hot day in New York for a moment before she spoke again. "When I went back to the compound right after Pierce almost killed me, I found Brivari in my quarters. He asked me if I was certain about still willing to help John escape, and I told him I had to, had to stop Pierce, had to make certain that what happened to me never happened to anyone else. And he told me I couldn't stop it. Maybe I'd stop Pierce himself, but I couldn't stop the type of research he was doing, or the fact that others would take up the torch. He said you could slow progress or regulate it, but you couldn't stop it; there would always be someone pushing the envelope, breaking the rules, crossing the line, convinced they had a right because it was for 'science', or 'progress', or 'posterity', or however they justified it to themselves."

"He's probably right," Steven said.

"Probably," Marie agreed, "but I didn't want to hear it then. I got mad and asked him if he really expected me to just give up, to do nothing because I couldn't stop it entirely. He said the only way to affect it was to become one of those who would regulate it, who would pass judgment on those who crossed the line. I've never forgotten that conversation. It didn't mean much when I was in school, but now that I'm almost finished with my residency, I'm in a position to choose a path that might make me one of those regulators." She paused, watching people walk by on the sidewalk below. "What if this is something that needs regulating, Steven? Whether Pierce is involved or not, what if this is something that crosses that line? And if it is, then someone needs to blow the whistle, someone that others will listen to....like a doctor. Like me."

"Fine," Steven grumbled. "Then let some other doctor do the whistle-blowing. And I still don't see what this has to do with sending John in there to find out if Pierce is involved. If he is, he's obviously not alone because this Burke guy is in on it, so even if Pierce dies, there'll still be something to blow the whistle on."

"But that's not good enough," Marie insisted. "If Pierce is involved and John kills him, an awful lot of evidence will die with him, and Pierce will never stand trial. And he has to, Steven. He needs to be arrested, tried, and convicted, not only in court, but in the courts of both public and medical opinion. The Pierce's of the world operate in secrecy, and destroying that secrecy is the key to shutting them down. Their dying in secret just maintains the veil that protected them in the first place, and that's exactly what I don't want to do."

"But—"

"Did you ever think that maybe this has been put in my path for a reason?" Marie ploughed on. "If there's a God, maybe He threw this my way because He knew I'd respond. He knew I'd never play ball, that I'd feel a responsibility to—"

"When did this turn into a Sunday School lesson?" Steven demanded. "This isn't about the health of the universe or divine providence, it's about your life, Yvonne, your safety, not—"

He stopped, registering the look on her face from his use of her real name. "Look," he said, making an obvious effort to control himself, "just promise me that you won't do anything or make any promises until we hash this out. There has to be a way for you to fulfill what you see as your obligation and stay safe at the same time. We just have to find it."

Marie turned back to the window. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. The meeting last night was just the first step. If Burke is interested, Fenton and I will be invited for an interview, and then I have no idea if we'll get the job. For all I know, I'll never hear anything more about it. We may be arguing for nothing."

"Right," Steven sighed. He glanced at his watch and did a double take. "Damn! I'm late. Are you home for dinner tonight?"

"Unless I have to do a double shift."

"Good; see you then. And don't go running off to another state without me, you hear?"

Marie smiled and kissed him goodbye, remaining at the window until she saw him walk out the front door below, privately noting that she hadn't made him the promise he'd asked for.....and he hadn't noticed.



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



Parker's Diner,

Roswell, New Mexico




"Okay, so that's a six hour shift with two fifteen minute breaks at a dollar an hour, plus tips. Schedule's posted in the back. Be here ready to work at least ten minutes before your shift starts. Here's your uniform; it's your job to clean it. Got it?"

No. "Yes," Courtney said helplessly as the proprietor of the restaurant dumped a bundle of clothing into her arms. "Um....would my first 'shift' be posted on the schedule in the back?"

"Your first shift starts as soon as you change into your uniform."

"What....you mean right away?" Courtney stammered. "But..."

"Look, sweetheart, do you want this job or not?"

"I....yes," Courtney said, nodding vigorously. "Yes, I do."

"Good," the proprietor said. "We only just expanded, so we need to get everything running nice and smooth before Hollywood rolls into town in a couple more weeks. Go in the back and change, grab a pad, and get to work. Nancy will tell you which tables are yours."

The proprietor gave her a gentle shove toward the swinging door that apparently marked the entrance to "the back", which turned out to be a hot, smelly cooking area where grease sizzled on cooking stoves and steam made damp clouds. She stood there for a moment, clutching her uniform and watching the humans doing the cooking read the little pieces of paper the servers hung up for them on twirling holders, shovel food onto plates, then plop them on a long, narrow shelf what seemed like only seconds later. Everything moved at a furious pace, and for a moment, she almost lost her nerve. How was she ever going to learn everything she needed to know to survive on her own? Perhaps she should just call her father and have him come get her.

"So you came to eat and stayed to work," said a smiling, older human woman who appeared out of a cloud of steam. "What's your name, dear?"

"Courtney," Courtney whispered.

"Pretty name," the woman said approvingly. "I'm Nancy; I'll be training you. Go on in the bathroom and get your uniform on, and then come find me. And don't forget your button."

"Button?" Courtney echoed. But Nancy had already steered her toward a door off a little back hallway, and a moment later, Courtney found herself alone in a small room with a toilet, a sink, and a mirror, in which she studied herself for a long minute.

"You wanted this," she said firmly to her reflection as though expecting it to disagree. "You decided you were going to stay and at least give it a try. There's no harm in giving it a try. You can always go back home, but if you leave, you won't get a chance like this again."

The pep talk seemed to work. Calmer now, she set her bundle down on the toilet seat and began to sort through it, separating one item of clothing from another until she was certain she knew what went where. Then she began to change unhurriedly, taking her time. If her first "shift" didn't start until after she had donned this uniform, then she couldn't be late.

She almost hadn't been here at all. After the enforcer had left last night, she had laid on Mark Green's bed for a long time, ticking through her options and liking none of them. This was the first time one of their operatives had died, or at least the first she knew of, and his death was problematic in more ways than one because Mark was supposed to teach her the in's and out's of surviving on one's own in the human world. All of the Argilian operatives had received basic training pertaining to this particular part of the planet, including the human language spoken most frequently, human family structure, and the rudiments of human government. This was enough to pass as human while living in an Argilian household and having passing contact with humans; only a chosen subset received the additional training necessary to actually live and work among humans on a regular basis, to infiltrate their organizations and operate independently. Initially this system had been nothing more than Nicholas' typical hubris; having expected to capture at least one Warder quickly, he hadn't bothered with advanced training for all operatives. As time went on and it had become apparent that they'd be here for awhile, the concern turned to defection; Nicholas didn't want large numbers of his troops capable of independence, so he had carefully rationed advanced level training. He'd have to ease up on that rationing now that he wanted everyone in the field, but unfortunately, that didn't do her one bit of good—she had expected to let Mark handle the details of life among humans while she hunted for Warders. She was woefully unprepared for the intricacies of human existence, and there seemed to be more of those everywhere she turned.

Take, for example, the matter of the "lease". About an hour after the enforcer had left, Mrs. Bruce had politely knocked on the door, offered her condolences, and then launched into a conversation that had left Courtney's head reeling. It seemed one had to produce currency called "rent" in order to stay in one of Mrs. Bruce's apartments, and Mark's "rent" was indeed paid through the end of the month as the sheriff had suspected. Mrs. Bruce offered to let her stay in Mark's room until the last day of the month, at which time she would either have to move out or sign a "lease". This "lease" turned out to be a lengthy, confusing document which Courtney had read several times and come away with nothing more than the fact that she was supposed to pay the landlady the incredible sum of $25 every month as "rent". Which meant she needed to find a job immediately, not just when she felt like it. This morning had found her wandering the streets of downtown Roswell wondering how one knew where to look for jobs. The smell of food from this particular establishment had been overpowering; she hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and she spent some of her precious currency on a meal which disappeared almost before the plate had hit the counter. It had been while she was gulping her breakfast that she'd seen the "help wanted" sign and impulsively asked the man behind the counter what skills were required for the job.

"Can you talk?" the man had asked.

"Yes," Courtney had answered warily, finding that to be an exceptionally stupid question.

"Can you walk?"

"I walked in here, didn't I?"

The next ten minutes had been the most bewildering of her life, even more so than when she had first left their ship. The man had turned out to be the proprietor of this particular establishment, and upon being assured that she could walk and talk, he'd begun talking to her in rapid fire human too fast for her to process. The conversation had ended with the uniform being plopped into her hands, and now here she was; she'd found a job, but had no idea what it was or how to do it.

Courtney finished tying the extra piece of cloth around her middle and adjusted the headpiece. Fortunately she hadn't been so addled that she hadn't noticed how these apparently useless items of clothing were worn. Examining herself in the mirror, she mentally compared her image to those of the employees she'd seen so far. No doubt she'd gotten something wrong, but close enough. Now she would just have to figure out what she was supposed to do and do it well enough that she could continue to stay here. Because she had to at least try to stay here—that had been the one thing, perhaps the only thing that had been clear last night amidst all the confusion. Sooner or later, the humans would figure out that something was very wrong with Mark's body, which is precisely why Nicholas would recall her in a heartbeat were he to learn of Mark's death. And he mustn't do that. The Warders were tied to this place; the resistance was certain of that because they had information Nicholas lacked—the fact that Larak had spoken with both Warders via a private communication frequency shortly before Jaddo's escape and warned them of the Argilians' pending arrival. With more enemies approaching, the safest thing for the Warders to do would have been to leave the hybrids right where they were. So the likelihood that they were still hidden in their original location was very strong, and that original location must be in this area, near the site of the crash. Even if the Warders weren't living here, they would return, and when they did, the only Argilian to note their presence would be a rebel operative, one who would keep that precious information to herself and her fellow rebels. Nicholas would never know.

Assuming I can pull this off, she thought wearily, gazing in the mirror. But she had to try. Fate had put her here, in the prime position to find what everyone on Antar wanted to find for one reason or another. Now she just had to hold down a human job to provide the necessary currency for her survival, cover Mark's absence, and avoid being killed by murderous Covari. What was that human expression? "Piece of cake," she murmured to herself, as she opened the bathroom door. "Whatever that means."




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



Mescalero Indian Reservation




"You were up early today, Nasedo."

Brivari nodded in greeting as Quanah eased himself into a seat next to him in the yard behind his house, facing the woods which had been Brivari's refuge years ago. "The sunrise was especially beautiful today," he answered. "But you must know that because you were awake as well."

"This cough has plagued me for some time now," Quanah admitted, his voice gruff. "It interrupts my sleep most nights. It plagues my mother also."

"Is it anything serious?" Brivari asked, genuinely concerned. His friend was as calm and good-tempered as ever, but he looked weary and sounded worse.

"It is only a bad cold," Quanah answered. "I am more concerned for my mother. Even a cold could be dangerous at her age."

"Perhaps you should consult a healer," Brivari suggested. "And no offense, but I don't mean your medicine man."

Quanah smiled, that simple act sending him into a fit of coughing. "I have already visited the doctor at the clinic. He gave me some medicine. And I would appreciate you not mentioning that to Itza-chu."

"Mentioning what?" Brivari asked dryly, knowing full well what the medicine man's reaction would be. Quanah's people seemed to save visits to a truly scientific healer for only the most serious conditions. At first Brivari had ascribed this hesitancy to superstition; in reality, it was more related to a lack of currency. "If you need further assistance, I will be happy to pay for it," Brivari said. "No one need know."

Quanah shook his head. "That is very generous of you, but unnecessary. The doctor was unconcerned for me. This will pass."

"You don't look well," Brivari pressed.

" I am not the only one," Quanah noted. "Your rising early to brood is unlike you."

"I wasn't 'brooding', I was enjoying the sunrise."

Quanah chuckled, producing only a few coughs this time. "That explanation would work with almost anyone else....but not me. I can tell when an old friend is troubled. I know what ails me; what ails you?"

Brivari didn't reply for a long time and Quanah didn't press him, the two sitting in comfortable silence in the summer morning sun. Old friend. That is what he and Valeris had called each other. It seemed both odd and proper to hear those words coming from Quanah, who came closest to occupying the position left vacant by Valeris. Brivari had spent a great deal of time in Quanah's village these past several years, not in the cave, as many thought, but at Quanah's house, which offered more room now that all his children had married and his father had died. Brivari had attended Taklishim's funeral, along with the weddings of each of Quanah's children and the blessing ceremonies for each grandchild, and was as welcome in any of their homes as he was in Quanah's. These "Indians", outcasts on their own world, had become family for this outcast from another.

"I have recently had some bad news," Brivari said at length. "A major task entrusted to me will take much longer than expected."

"And you blame yourself for this?"

"For the additional time needed? No," Brivari allowed. "But for the fact that the task exists at all....." His voice trailed off as he closed his eyes. "My life's work....my crowning achievement, destroyed....that I blame myself for. And now it appears I will not live to see it restored."

"Is there anyone to carry on in your place?" Quanah asked.

Brivari hesitated a moment. "Yes."

"So your 'life's work' may indeed be restored, but you will not be the one restoring it," Quanah murmured.

"Yes."

They sat in silence a while longer, both gazing into the woods, Quanah asking nothing more. He never pried, Quanah, never pressed for details that Brivari was unwilling to give. Their friendship differed from that which Brivari had with David Proctor, who knew so much about Brivari's life and purpose that conversation with him invariably included a great deal of detail. Brivari had discovered merit in seeking the opinion of one who had only an overview of a given situation. Everyone tended to get mired in the details, something one could not do if one didn't know them to begin with.

"You are a fortunate man, Nasedo," Quanah said finally. "Many men have not lived to see the completion of their 'life's work', and you have not only seen it completed, you have arranged for it's repair following it's fall. Few could say the same."

"I believe this is what is meant by 'rose-colored glasses'," Brivari said dryly. "Forgive me if I choose to view this as nothing less than a disaster."

"And there lies my point," Quanah said. "Very often the events which we label 'good' or 'bad' are neither; they simply are. It is our response to those events which makes them 'good' or 'bad', and that response, unlike the event itself, is a choice we make. Many things are nothing more or less than what we make of them."

"So in other words, I should stop moping and go make a life for myself while I'm waiting?"

Quanah chuckled, producing another fit of coughing. "Good advice, although I would have phrased it differently."

"No surprise there," Brivari said. "It comes from one young and tactless."

"All the more reason to listen to it," Quanah said. "When one receives the same advice from two very different sources, one is always wise to consider it."

"And I would," Brivari said, "had I any idea how to follow it. I have no idea how to 'make a life' for myself. My life was my achievement; then my life became the task of restoring that achievement."

"It appears that it still is. Only now you have the opportunity to make your life even more than that."

"If only I'd seen it coming," Brivari whispered. "Preventing it would have been so simple if only I'd been listening."

"We all have regrets, Nasedo," Quanah said quietly, once again seeking no clarification whatsoever as to the exact nature of Brivari's. "A man may be known by his deeds, but a necessary part of those deeds is how he chooses to respond to the inevitable setbacks." He shifted in his chair, triggering more coughing which took several seconds to subside. "When I was young, I often noticed that it wasn't always the strongest, the fastest, or even the most deserving who prevailed, but the one who persevered. I thought this unfair until my father pointed out that it was the Creator's way of balancing the equation, of giving those of us who aren't the strongest or fastest a bit of an advantage. Even the fastest runner will never win the race if he quits before it is over. Success is often measured by nothing less than a refusal to give up."

"More rose-colored glasses?" Brivari said doubtfully.

"You should try them sometime," Quanah smiled. "My point is that you, my friend, are not one to give up. This I know as surely as I know I am sitting here right now. I fought a life and death battle with you; that tells one a lot about a man. You will find a way to overcome this disappointment and you will see your task through to its end, or yours, whichever comes first. You can do no less. It is who you are."

I haven't even told him what that task is, Brivari noted privately. Quanah had a great deal of faith with very little information, a skill Brivari had yet to master....and yet that appeared to be exactly what was needed here. Perhaps Quanah was right. Perhaps it was all in the perspective. Perhaps it was time to move on.




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



Parker's Diner, Roswell




Courtney emerged from the bathroom with her clothes bundled in her arms, wondering what to do next. She didn't have long to wonder. "There you are!" Nancy exclaimed as though Courtney had been missing for a week. "You can use this locker for your things. Go on," she coaxed as she held open the door to a small storage receptacle. "Toss'em in there and let's get you going. I want you on board by lunch."

Mystified, Courtney pushed her clothes into the "locker" and trotted along after Nancy; wasn't "on board" a nautical expression? "I'm giving you the counter," Nancy announced, gesturing toward the window in the swinging door that had ushered Courtney to her latest challenge. "It's easier to start there: Fewer customers, all close together, you don't have to carry plates very far, and there's always someone close by to ask questions. Here's your pad and pen; remember, everything they order gets written down, along with the price next to it. Don't bother adding up the check; Abigail will do that at the register. Get the prices off the menus until you memorize them. Any questions?"

"One," Courtney admitted, staring at the proffered stack of paper and writing instrument. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing?"

Nancy's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

Wrong question, Courtney thought. "What's my job title?" she amended.

" 'Job title'?" Nancy said with amusement. "You're a waitress, dear. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And a 'waitress'.....waits?" Courtney ventured.

Nancy's eyebrows rose further. "On tables," she said. "Or in your case, the counter. Like one of us did for you when you ate there this morning."

"Yes! Right!" Courtney exclaimed as the pieces fell into place. Her server this morning had produced her food and a slip of paper announcing how much currency was owed. That must be what she was supposed to do. "Got it," she assured Nancy, who was watching her warily. "I just...well....the proprietor didn't tell me exactly what I'd be doing."

Nancy's expression softened. "Mr. Parker would lose his head if it wasn't attached," she chuckled. "No, dear, you won't be washing dishes or cleaning floors. Just write down customers' orders, bring them their food, give them their check, take away the dirty dishes, and repeat. Where's your button?"

"What?" Courtney said, moving from delighted that she'd figured out what was expected of her to alarmed that she'd forgotten something.

"It's in your pocket," Nancy said, fishing a circular item out of Courtney's uniform pocket and pinning it to her collar. "There you go. Mr. Parker's trying to give this place a new image, so we all have to wear our buttons."

Doesn't look new to me, Courtney thought, gazing down at the image of an alien, or what passed for an alien in human circles. Actually the likeness wasn't that far off; change the skin color from green to gray and it would be remarkably close. Someone had obviously laid eyes on a real Antarian. How ironic that her first human job required her to wear a relatively accurate image of her true form. Clutching her pen and pad, she pushed through the swinging door and froze, staring at the expanse of counter in front of her—for some reason it looked a lot bigger from this side. Twelve, she gulped, mentally counting the seats. She'd have to "waitress" as many as twelve different customers at once.

"Hey, doll!" a burly human male in a plaid shirt called. "When you're done gapin' at my handsome face, I'd like some coffee."

Courtney flushed as laugher erupted from several males at the counter. "Steady, Henry," a female voice said. "She probably just can't believe how ugly you are, and who could blame her?"

More laughter, this time at "Henry's" expense. The speaker was a sandy-haired young woman at the far end of the counter who winked at Courtney and nodded toward something behind her. Coffee, Courtney thought after she'd spun around. Coffee was blessedly familiar, bearing the closest resemblance to a popular beverage on Antar. A couple of minutes later she'd poured several cups of coffee, the last one for her rescuer who also had a stroller parked beside her stool which held a small boy.

"This is new," the woman remarked. "Mr. Parker never had anything but the bar."

Wait....I know this, Courtney thought, dredging up some of the proprietor's speedy speech . "He's....expanding. Yes, that's what he said. The bar is on still on the other side, and this is the family side. Or something like that."

"Gotta feed the tourists," the woman chuckled. "First day?" she added as Courtney miscalculated and almost overfilled the coffee cup.

Courtney looked up in alarm. "Is it that obvious?" she asked nervously.

The woman smiled. "I waited tables while I was in school," she said, tactfully avoiding the question. "It can be awfully intimidating, especially when the dirty old men get going."

Courtney glanced over at the men who had teased her; some were certainly unkempt, although none looked like they needed to bathe. "I really have no idea what I'm doing," she confessed in a whisper. "Do I go back now and see if they want something to eat, or do I wait?"

"Go back now," the woman advised. "And take this." She folded up the paper menu she was holding and tucked into Courtney's pocket. "That way you can refer to it whenever you need to. Take it home with you tonight and memorize it; it'll save loads of time."

Courtney nodded, replaced the coffee pot, and returned to the knot of men, fully expecting another round of teasing. But they were much more subdued now, ordering quietly as she dutifully scribbled everything down, wondering as she did so what the difference was between eggs "sunny-side up" and "over hard".

"Better watch yourself around that one," one of the men murmured to "Henry". "Got a tongue like her mother's."

Courtney followed their gaze to the sandy-haired woman who was watching the men closely, clearly ready to jump right in again at the first sign of teasing. Making a mental note to thank her later, she added her slips of paper to the rotating order holder, and turned back to the counter, hoping she'd done that right. There were new customers waiting, and more coffee requested all around. She'd reached the end of the row when the bell on the door dingled again.

"Some for me, too, please?" a familiar voice asked.

Courtney stiffened as the enforcer from yesterday slid onto a stool. "Miss Harris," he said pleasantly. "Fancy meeting you here. Sheriff Valenti, in case you forgot."

Not likely, Courtney thought, trying to hold her hand steady, the coffee pot seeming suddenly heavier. "Of course I remember. I haven't had a day like that ever."

"I'll bet you haven't," the sheriff remarked. "I see you got yourself a job. Is Mrs. Bruce going to let you stay?"

"Yes, she is," Courtney said. "Thanks for talking to her for me. Can I get you something to eat?"

"You know, I heard that a train was derailed yesterday right outside Santa Fe," the sheriff said. "Were you on that train?"

"I didn't come by train," Courtney reminded him. "I came by bus."

"Oh. Right. My mistake," the sheriff smiled. "That's right, you said you came by bus to see your friend, Mark."

"He wasn't my friend," Courtney objected. "I'd only met him once."

"You did say that," the sheriff said apologetically. "That's right, you'd just met him at a bar, I believe....and which bar was that?"

Courtney's heart began to pound. "I don't remember the name. I told you that."

"Right," the sheriff said slowly. "Well, can you tell me where the bar was?"

"I....I said I don't remember," Courtney stammered.

"You said you don't remember the name, but you must remember where you were. Was it here in Roswell?"

"It....it couldn't have been in Roswell because my bus didn't get here until yesterday evening," Courtney said, stalling for time as she tried to come up with an answer.

"Right," the sheriff said. "So the bar was.....where?"

Courtney's eyes locked with the sheriff's. He knows, she thought frantically. And she wasn't familiar enough with the area to come up with a plausible answer, so now what did she do?

"Miss Harris, I can understand you not remembering the name of the bar, but I'm finding it hard to believe that you didn't even know what town or city you were in," the sheriff said. "So I'll ask you again: Where were you when you met Mark Green?"

"You don't have to answer that."

Courtney tore her eyes away from the sheriff's to find the sandy-haired woman standing beside him. "You don't have to tell him a blessed thing unless you want to," the woman announced. "Isn't that right, sheriff?"

The sheriff, who had turned around in surprise when he was interrupted, now turned back to his coffee, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Good morning, Miss Proctor. Fancy meeting you here."


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


I'll post Chapter 8 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER EIGHT


June 18, 1959, 9:00 a.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



I had her, Valenti thought ruefully as the Harris girl's eyes darted back and forth from him to the Proctor's daughter. She'd been about to crack; he just knew it. And now that she'd been given unsolicited legal advice, he may never have her again. Not the first time he'd been stymied by a Proctor, and most likely not the last.

"So....I can go now?" Miss Harris said uncertainly.

"You can certainly talk to him if you want to," Dee said, settling herself on the stool next to Valenti. "But you don't have to unless he's ordering breakfast or asking where the little boy's room is."

The Harris girl's eyes swung back to Valenti. "I just came in for coffee," he said. "It was nice to see you again, Miss Harris. Best of luck with your new job."

"Nice save," Dee commented as the Harris girl fled. "I didn't expect you to concede defeat so quickly."

"One thing you and your family taught me was to quit when I'm behind," Valenti said. "Which I usually was, so I got a lot of practice. So how've you been, Miss Proctor?"

"Good," Dee answered. "Mama said they'd made you sheriff—congratulations. And I'm not a 'Miss' any more."

"That's right; I heard you and Mr. Evans got hitched. No surprise there," Valenti added with a smile. "So it's 'Mrs. Evans' now....and I see you've come up with a little Mr. Evans."

"Call me 'Dee'; Mrs. Evans sounds like my mother-in-law. And this is Philip," she added, hoisting her son up on her lap. "Say hello to the nosy sheriff, Philip."

"Nosy," Philip repeated solemnly.

"I was just asking Miss Harris some friendly questions," Valenti said.

" 'Friendly', my foot," Dee said dryly. "If that's your version of 'friendly', I'd hate to see you when you're really after something. Oh, wait—I have."

Valenti couldn't help but return the smile she was wearing in spite of her tone. There was an awful lot of water under their shared bridge, even though neither had laid eyes on the other in years. Dee had grown tall, her shoulder length hair pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail, those eyes flashing the same challenge as when they'd first met when she was only eight. She was twenty now if he'd done his math correctly, and those eyes hadn't changed a bit; he'd simply had to wait a while for her to grow into them.

"So is Mr. Evans here with you?" Valenti asked, changing the subject.

"He's at a meeting," Dee said, producing a ring of keys for her son to play with. "He just got his Bachelors in astronomy, and he's on the committee to build the observatory in town."

"I heard about that," Valenti nodded. "And you?"

"I got my degree in political science, and I'm off to law school next fall. Anthony's going back for his masters."

"Good for him," Valenti said. He paused a moment, stirring his coffee. "I remember back when you were nine years old and arguing state law with me, so I'm not surprised that you're comfortable giving legal advice even though you're not a lawyer yet."

Dee raised an eyebrow. "About as comfortable as you are giving the third degree to someone on her very first day of work."

"I wasn't giving her the 'third degree', I was asking her a few questions," Valenti corrected. "Just cleaning up some loose ends."

"Horse hockey," Dee said calmly. "You were fishing."

"See this?" Valenti said, indicating his badge. "That's my fishing license. And you didn't necessarily do her any favors. It's a lot better to answer questions here than down at the station."

"Oh, please," Dee smiled. "You wouldn't be sitting here nursing a cup of coffee if you had enough to bring her in for questioning."

"Questioning does fall within the scope of my duties," Valenti reminded her.

"And refusing to answer falls within the scope of her rights," Dee said. "What'd she do, anyway?"

"I don't think she 'did' anything," Valenti said. "But I do think she's not telling me everything she knows. And you know me well enough to know how I feel about people lying to me."

Dee bent in closer, leaning on one elbow. "And you know me well enough to know that there are times when you have to lie. There were even times you had to lie."

Valenti smiled faintly as he reached in his pocket for change. "It's nice to see you back, Miss Proctor—'Dee'," he amended. "That's going to take some getting used to."

"Is it as hard for you to see me as an adult as it is for my Mama?"

"I doubt it," Valenti answered, setting some coins beside his coffee cup. "As far as I'm concerned, you've always been an adult. It just took a few years for your body to catch up." He donned his hat. "Give my regards to Mr. Evans and your parents....and it was nice meeting you," he added to Philip. "See you around."

Valenti walked outside into the morning sunshine, nodding his thanks to the other patron who held the door for him and puzzling over the fates that had decided to send the Proctor girl his way at just this moment. His involvement with her family had indeed taught him the necessity of lying, a skill he'd be using in the very near future after his frustrating conversation with Doctor Blake this morning when he'd called for an update on what had happened to their murder victim with the exploding body.

"I can't make heads or tails of this," Ray had said, sounding completely befuddled.

"You must have some theories," Valenti had said.

A soft snort had wafted over the phone. "Sure, I've got theories. But none you'd want to hear."

"Try me."

"I can't, Jim. You'd think I'm mad."

"You might be surprised at how much it'd take to surprise me," Valenti had answered. "I want to hear your best guess no matter how crazy that guess sounds to you at the moment. I swear I won't tell anyone."

"No, you won't," Ray had agreed, "because I'm not saying a word until I get more information."

"Good Lord, what is it?" Valenti had chuckled. "Aliens?" There had been a long, uncomfortable pause. "I was only joking," he'd added. "Don't get sore."

"I'm not," the doctor had objected. "It's just that if I'm going to make myself sound like a crackpot, I at least want some data backing me up. I need to send this out for further analysis."

"Absolutely not," Valenti had objected. "I'm not taking any chances with this getting back to the wrong people before I'm ready to let it. Can't you do whatever 'further analysis' you need by yourself?"

"I suppose I could use the university's lab," Ray had said grudgingly. "But you'd be waiting longer for an answer."

"How much longer?"

"A couple of weeks if we're lucky. As much as four if we're not."

"Four weeks?" Valenti echoed. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Sit on it. You're the sheriff. If anyone can sit on it, you can."

"I can't sit on a murder investigation for a month!" Valenti had exclaimed.

"If you want me doing the investigating, you're going to have to," the doctor had declared. "Or if you'd rather, I'll be happy to turn the body—or what's left of it—over to the county coroner, who will promptly notify the base."

And take the investigation right out of my hands, Valenti thought sourly. If he wanted to keep control of this, he was going to have to play it Ray's way. "All right—call me the minute you've got something you're willing to say. Even if it's the middle of the night."

"Bet Andi would love that," Ray had chuckled. "Relax, Jim. You said this guy had no family, and he's certainly not going anywhere. Use the time to nose around until I can get my hands on something definitive. Trust me, you don't want your career on the line with what I've got now."

Already had it there, Valenti thought as he climbed into his cruiser; that business with aliens back in the forties had definitely put his career on the line. Aliens....had that long silence meant Ray was actually considering that? But this couldn't be aliens; he'd watched an alien die back in '47, collapsing into a pile of dirt that looked like coal dust. That hadn't been what happened to Mark Green. No, this was something different, and whatever it was, Courtney Harris knew something about it. All he had to do was drag it out of her.




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




*She'll never change, will she?* Jaddo asked.

*Doubtful,* Brivari replied, overhearing the Proctor's daughter engage in a verbal sword fight with the enforcer as he and Jaddo ate breakfast in a booth only a few feet away, wearing faces no one would recognize. One of the benefits of Roswell being "alien central", as Emily Proctor liked to call it, was that the steady stream of tourists made it very easy for a shapeshifter to hide. An outsider would be spotted immediately in many communities, but not this one.

*She's certainly not one to parse her words,* Jaddo continued. *Though I suppose I should be grateful for that. We might not be here now if not for that tendency.*

Indeed, Brivari thought silently. It was not lost on him that, despite the difference in age and experience, both Dee and Quanah had given him essentially the same advice. Quanah had couched that advice in soothing terms while Dee had been her usual blunt self....but it was precisely that bluntness which had lingered in his mind, invading his thoughts even in sleep. There were times when tact was a detriment, allowing one to rationalize remaining in whatever comfortable rut one found oneself. Brutal honesty had its place.

*Aren't you going to ask me how the General's funeral went?* Jaddo said.

*I imagine it went like most funerals,* Brivari answered, staring into his coffee cup. *Why—did something unusual happen?*

*You might say that. I found the Healer.*

*You found Lieutenant White? Where?*

*In the same city in which the General was interred. She attended the funeral too.*

*And what of the captain? Is he with her?*

*I didn't see him, but they married long ago,* Jaddo said. *The Healer has become a physician, and Captain Spade is head of security at the hospital where she works. Both are using false identities provided by Sergeant Brisson before his death at Pierce's hands, and the Healer has altered her appearance considerably. They have not been discovered since they went into hiding, and appear to be thriving.*

*And did she have what you wanted?* Brivari asked softly.

Jaddo kept his eyes on his food. *No.*

Silence. A waitress circulated, presenting the check and asking if they needed anything else, and Brivari shook his head, never taking his eyes off Jaddo. It had been one of Jaddo's goals to locate the Healer, not only to see how she fared but to find out if she had any idea how to locate Pierce. Brivari had found that unlikely given that the lieutenant and the captain had obviously fled because of Pierce, but Jaddo had clung to the hope that she could point him in the right direction. Dee had argued that Brivari needed something to occupy his time, but Jaddo already had that; his life's work at the moment was to find and punish Pierce, a goal which had eluded him these past nine years.

*I'm not surprised,* Brivari said. *If I were the Healer, I would stay as far away from Pierce as I could.*

*Staying away doesn't mean she doesn't know where he is. There was no harm in asking.*

*Of course not,* Brivari agreed, *and it's good to know that she and the captain are well.* He paused. *I have news as well. I visited the pod chamber while you were gone.*

Jaddo looked up, his eyes suffused with a longing which made Brivari regret having decided to broach this subject now. Jaddo had already had one piece of bad news, and he was about to have another....but then he often disappeared for days in his pursuit of Pierce. There was no way of telling when the next opportunity to discuss this would arise.

*And?* Jaddo demanded.

*They are alive and well,* Brivari said, beginning with the good news. *And about the size of Dee Proctor's child.*

Jaddo blinked, then turned slowly to gaze at Philip Evans, who was sitting on his mother's lap playing with a ring of keys she'd handed him while she continued her thrust and parry with the enforcer. *Are you sure?* he whispered.

*Quite. And Dee tells me her son is 'big for his age'.*

Jaddo set his fork down and pushed his plate away, kneading his hands together in his typical expression of agitation. For Brivari that expression took the form of pacing; Jaddo always appeared to be working his problem manually, as though he could use his hands to force it into the shape he wanted. *But you said they're healthy,* he said at length. *And certainly bigger than when we last looked if they're the size of the child over there.*

*Yes, but it is now obvious that not only is their growth rate far below what we expected, it has actually slowed.*

*Irrelevant,* Jaddo announced. *As long as the hybrids live, our duty remains unchanged.*

*Of course it does,* Brivari said with a touch of impatience. *This isn't about our duty, it's about what we can expect in terms of the length of our stay on this world. At the rate they're growing, I won't live to see their emergence—*

*We have no way of knowing what will happen in the future,* Jaddo interrupted.

*—and the task of completing our mission will fall to you and Malik,* Brivari finished. *Needless to say, I find this distressing.*

*And I find it useless for you to be 'distressed' over a totally unknown variable we are helpless to affect,* Jaddo said sharply. *If we spend all our time fretting over what might happen tomorrow, we miss what happens today.*

*If we spend none of our time considering what may happen tomorrow, we miss the chance to shape the future,* Brivari retorted. *Why does this always turn into an argument? Is it really that difficult for you to face the fact that you may have to see this through without me? If—*

Brivari sighed as Jaddo abruptly rose and stalked out. He had always strenuously resisted the notion that anything was wrong with the hybrids' rate of development, so being confronted with irrefutable proof was no doubt upsetting. He was probably on his way to the pod chamber to see for himself, and then it would be awhile before he broached the subject again. And what of it? Brivari thought as he carried the check over to the cash register and paid his bill. It's not like they didn't have time. Too much time, in fact. Far too much.

Brivari left the restaurant, holding the door for the enforcer who had apparently finished his boxing match with Dee. I was wrong about him, Brivari thought, watching him walk away. When they'd first arrived on Earth, he'd been certain the enforcer would need to eliminated. Instead he had rallied to the Proctors' defense, shielding them from the military and the Warders by association. In a strange way Brivari found it good to know that his judgments weren't always on the mark. Perhaps his judgment about the length of time it would take for the hybrids to emerge was similarly incorrect.

A short walk brought him within range of the UFO center, and he paused a moment, gazing at it. He'd never been inside, never attended any of the numerous events or festivals surrounding the myths they'd started when their ship crashed twelve years ago. But Dee's description last night had piqued his interest, and besides, he could use a bit of amusement right now. Ten minutes later he was wandering past booths of "alien artifacts", "alien corpses", and supposed photographs of aliens, alien ships, alien anything one could name. The amount of sheer fakery was staggering, and Brivari couldn't resist a snort of disgust upon seeing the umpteenth "piece of an alien ship" which was clearly no such thing. Judging from where all these "pieces" had been found, aliens had crashed virtually all over the globe with no one noticing. Even humans weren't that inattentive.

"So.... we have a skeptic, do we?"

Brivari turned to find a man with shoulder length white hair and heavy glasses standing behind him. "Is that a problem?" he inquired.

"Not at all," the man assured him. "Most of this stuff is nonsense, sheer nonsense."

"Except what you have, of course," Brivari said with a touch of sarcasm. "Which is.....what?"

"A book," the man declared with a broad smile, grabbing a volume off a nearby table and holding it up for Brivari's inspection. "James Atherton, at your service."




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



2:30 p.m.

Roswell




Courtney stepped out of Parker's and into the afternoon heat and sunshine, thoroughly exhausted and thoroughly confused. Her mind was numb, her feet were killing her, and her hands clutched incomprehensible papers which Mr. Parker told her she had to fill out so that she could be paid. Which she hadn't been, something that had come as a nasty surprise when 2 o'clock had rolled around and her "shift" had ended. She hadn't had any idea when her shift was supposed to end, having neglected to ask that question, so when Mr. Parker had announced she was done for the day and asked her to step into his incredibly messy office, she'd assumed she was going to be paid. Instead she'd had this mass of papers thrust into her hands along with instructions to bring them back tomorrow.

"But....don't I get paid?" she'd asked in dismay.

"Sure you do," Mr. Parker said. "End of the week. But you got your tips, right?"

"Tips?"

"Yeah, tips. The money customers left over and above the amount they owed. They usually leave it on the counter, or hand it to you."

"Oh....I....that was for me?"

"Sure it's for you. What'd you do with it?"

"I....I gave it to Abigail," Courtney said, unable to believe she'd actually passed up currency.

"Well, she should've given it back to you," Mr. Parker declared. "You mean she kept it?"

When Courtney had nodded, Mr. Parker had marched out to the cash register and proceeded to question Abigail, a fellow waitress who "cashed out" most of the customers. Abigail insisted it was all a big misunderstanding and handed over a pile of coins with many apologies which no one appeared to believe. "Little thief," Nancy had muttered darkly as Courtney was emptying her locker. "How long did she think she was going to get away with that? You make sure you pocket your tips, honey, and don't let her sticky fingers get anywhere near them. God knows you earned them."

That's for sure, Courtney thought, sinking down on a bench, her feet hurting so badly that every step sent shooting pains up her legs. Glancing down, she saw the tops of her feet spilling over the edge of her shoes, and she reached down to pull one off. Why couldn't whoever had designed husks have spared them at least some of the more annoying side effects of having a human body?

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said nearby. "You'll never get it back on."

It was her rescuer from this morning, pushing the stroller which held her now sleeping baby. She'd been so busy trying to figure out what various foods looked like and were called, because they never seemed to be called what they were called on the menu, that she'd missed the chance to thank the woman before she'd left and hadn't had time to fret over that frightening conversation with the sheriff. Now it came flooding back, obvious evidence that the sheriff knew something about Mark Green that he shouldn't. Wonderful. What else could go wrong?

"Mind if I sit?" the woman asked, parking the stroller beside the bench and extending a hand. "My name's Dee."

"Courtney," Courtney said, accepting her first ever handshake from a human, having only practiced with her own people before. "How'd you find me? Have you been out here all this time?"

"No," Dee chuckled. "I knew when your shift ended."

"You did? How?"

"I asked Pete. Mr. Parker," she clarified when Courtney looked blank.

"Then you knew more than I did," Courtney sighed, shifting her swollen feet. "Thanks for what you did with the sheriff, by the way. I take it you know each other?"

"Oh, yeah," Dee smiled. "We go way back. Way back. Why's he after you?"

Courtney hesitated a moment before deciding that it couldn't hurt to have someone else hear her side of the story, especially someone who had leaped to her defense unbidden. "I just got into town last night. I was supposed to be staying with a guy who lived here until I got a job, but...well...that guy was murdered yesterday morning."

"Wow," Dee said, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry. Was he a friend of yours?"

"No," Courtney said truthfully. "We'd barely met. But I got here right after it happened, so the sheriff must think I had something to do with it."

"I doubt it," Dee said. "I think he's just covering all the bases. I heard you tell him you came by bus, so all he has to do is check with the bus company and they'll confirm where you got on and when you arrived. You can't ask for a better alibi than that."

Where you got on.... Courtney stiffened, realizing where her trail would lead should the sheriff follow it past the bus station: Nowhere. She'd boarded the bus in Tombstone, but there would be no record of a Courtney Harris in Tombstone, or anywhere else, for that matter. Operatives were provided with all the necessary paperwork to survive in the human world, but the fact remained that those papers were fake, and if anyone was persistent enough to pursue the matter, they might very well figure that out. Which is precisely why Nicholas had operatives depart from somewhere other than Copper Summit and why it was extremely important not to attract the attention of human enforcers, which she'd done just by coming here. Hopefully once the sheriff figured out that she'd been on a bus just like she'd said she'd been, he'd stop there. Hopefully.

"So what burst of madness made you decide to wear heels?" Dee asked, staring at Courtney's swollen feet.

Courtney looked down at her standard issue human women's shoes, and then at the women walking by. "These are the same shoes every woman wears. Except you," she added, noting that Dee was not only not wearing women's shoes, she wasn't wearing a dress either. "Why are you wearing men's clothes?"

"Because shorts and sneakers are more comfortable than dresses and heels, especially in this heat," Dee answered. "Heels were invented by a sadist. That's my theory, anyway," she added when Courtney blinked. "You'll need a pair of shoes like these if you'd like to keep walking. Save the pumps for dressing up."

"Great," Courtney muttered. "I need new shoes, I have all these papers to fill out that make no sense to me, I don't get paid until the end of the week, and the sheriff is after me. Anything else?"

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"The man I was going to stay with had a room, and his landlady is letting me stay there because he was all paid up until the end of the month. But after that I have to sign something."

"A lease," Dee said calmly, as though that were the most natural thing in the world to her. "And what are these? Oh—this one's for federal withholding," she said, leafing through the papers that Courtney handed her. "You'd have to estimate your yearly earnings before you could decide on the number of exemptions. And this is a notice about the Social Security tax because they'll be taking something out of your paycheck for that too....."

Dee's voice dwindled to a buzz as Courtney listened in dismay. She knew what taxes were, of course, but she'd had no idea that there were several different kinds or that she had anything to say about the amount paid. That was the difference between basic and advanced training: Simple information about currency and the various ways it was used versus knowledge of the intricate workings of that system. I wasn't supposed to have to know this, she thought wearily. Not yet, anyway. She was just supposed to move in with Mark and let him pull all the human strings while she slowly learned the ropes. So much for that.

"Tell you what," Dee said, handing the papers back to her. "Is your room nearby?"

"Three blocks," Courtney said dejectedly, that three blocks looking more like three miles at the moment.

"Good," Dee said decisively, rising to her feet. "Let's go there now, and you can put your feet in some ice water while I look at your lease and explain those papers to you."

Courtney studied her for a moment in silence. "Why are you helping me? First this morning with the sheriff, and now here. Why? You don't even know me."

Dee smiled faintly. "I recognized the look on your face when you were talking to the sheriff. I know how he can be. He's not a bad person, he's just a little....intense."

"But what about your baby? Don't you have somewhere else you'd rather be? Don't you want to go home?"

"Not really," Dee said. "My mother and I aren't exactly seeing eye to eye, and....well, let's just say that home is the last place I want to be now. What about you? Can you go home, or are you stuck here trying to make ends meet?"

Courtney's eyes drifted away, across the street where those smelly contraptions called "cars" filed by. "I can go home," she said, "but I don't want to."

"Then that makes two of us," Dee said, releasing the brake on the stroller. "Shall we?"



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



Copper Summit, Arizona




"Michael!" Nicholas exclaimed upon answering the door bell. "Come in, come in!"

Michael stepped hesitantly into the Crawford's house, nodding to Nicholas and Greer, who was looming nearby. "Thank you, sir."

"No 'sir', remember?" Nicholas answered. "How's Angela?"

"She's....adjusting," Michael answered. "She's new to her husk, so it will take her awhile to get used to it."

"Don't let it take too long," Nicholas warned. "So what do you think of your new house?"

"Very nice, s—very nice," Michael replied, remembering at the last minute to drop the "sir", the use of which was so ingrained that stopping it would be difficult. No one but Khivar would have dared address Athenor without a title back home. "I'm delighted to have such a wonderful home, and it's such an honor to have it right next door to yours. I'm humbled, truly humbled."

"It is an honor," Nicholas agreed cheerfully, "one reserved for my most trusted operatives. I have Greer on my left and you on my right—what else could I ask for?"

Michael plastered a grateful expression on his face as Nicholas droned on. Usually he could go through the motions of fawning over Nicholas with detachment, but he was having trouble this time. Maybe it was because Courtney wasn't here; she had always despised what he had to go through for the cause, and the need to constantly remind her why all the groveling was necessary had served as a reminder for himself as well. Here she'd been gone only a day, and already he was feeling her absence.

Ida Crawford appeared. "Michael!" she exclaimed with a smile. "I'd heard you moved in next door. So good to see you. Welcome to our home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crawford," Michael said, dipping his head slightly. Athenor's mother wasn't royalty, but she may as well have been. Beneath that seemingly benign, middle-aged husk lay the equivalent of one of Earth's black widow spiders; once she'd gotten what she wanted out of you, usually to advance her son, your life was forfeit. Living so close to her was more unnerving than living next to Athenor.

Everyone continued to stand in the entryway and smile at each other, and Michael began to grow uneasy. He'd known he'd be summoned to pay his respects to Nicholas, but there was a strange expectancy in the air, like everyone was waiting for something to happen. Had Nicholas discovered that the leader of the resistance was one of those "trusted operatives"? Is that what this was all about?

"Michael, I think you and I should take a walk," Nicholas announced as Ida smiled encouragingly and Greer looked surprised.

"A....walk?" Michael echoed.

"Yes, a walk. Downstairs."

Michael blinked. "You want me to go....downstairs with you?"

"Absolutely," Nicholas said firmly, with a pointed glance at Greer, who was now scowling. "Mom and I have decided you've earned it, haven't we, Mom?"

"Yes, indeed," Ida agreed. "I've always encouraged Nicholas to reward his most faithful servants."

"Well, I....I don't know what to say," Michael replied, flustered. "I'm honored, s—Nicholas."

"Of course you are," Nicholas nodded. "Shall we?"

Ida beamed and clicked on the light as the three men headed down the basement stairs, Nicholas leading, Michael following, and Greer bringing up the rear, still scowling. Michael had heard about that light. The Covari who had lived here before could see in the dark, but Argilians enjoyed no such advantage. It was said the light had been quietly installed before Nicholas ever saw the basement because of how much he hated to be reminded of Covari superiority.

"Here we are," Nicholas said expansively, gesturing toward the back wall of the still dark, dank, and largely empty basement. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Me?" Michael said. "But how..."

"I had the lock encoded for you too," Nicholas explained. "Use it wisely."

Michael stared at him, overcome by emotion that Nicholas probably thought was gratitude but was really a sense of triumph, of vindication, of a long road finally coming to an end. The resistance had patiently infiltrated Khivar's upper echelons for years, working their way up step by painful step. Along they way they'd lost operatives and suffered many setbacks, not the least of which was having their offer of support turned down by Rath. Their numbers had dwindled after that, with some abandoning a cause they now found untenable when confronted with their chosen king's unshakable loyalty. But others had seen Rath's refusal to betray Zan as a mark of character, not weakness, and stayed the course. That course had led here, to the most restricted sanctum on two planets. No one but the chosen few were certain what lay inside. Now he was about to find out. Michael passed a trembling hand over the wall; the lock flared to life, and he pressed his hand to it.

"This wall was sealed shut when we got here," Nicholas commented as the door rumbled open. "It appeared the stone had literally liquefied and fused together. Obviously the work of an enhanced Royal Warder. Here we have the communications center," he continued after they had filed through the door, "the main purpose of which, other than to contact home and take reports from operatives, is to pinpoint the Warders' location should they ever initiate communication with home in any way. So far, they haven't. Unfortunately."

"But can't they track us?" Michael asked.

"Not with portable communicators," Nicholas answered. "Only the comm equipment on their ship could intercept our communications, and that's out of the Warders' reach. The human military still has their ship, and our contacts tell us it's still sealed."

"You have contacts in the human military?" Michael asked.

Nicholas smiled, but didn't answer. "Our operatives report in by communicator only when necessary," he went on. "We don't want to take the chance that someone will stumble in on them and find them talking to a hologram unless there's a good reason to take that kind of risk. Regular reports come in once a month via the human mail system. And over here," he continued pointing to the back of the room where technicians were busy at workbenches, "is where we assemble the TAG's."

Michael recognized the device being assembled, but not the name. " 'TAG's'?"

"Trithium amplification generators," Nicholas said. "What a mouthful. Who has time for that? Humans invented the acronym, and there's no reason for us not to follow suit. I love these babies," he sighed, caressing one of the devices with a finger. "This is the only thing of value we got out of those Covari dogs who were working for us."

"What about the seals on our husks?" Michael asked, immediately regretting it. Nicholas' eyes flared dangerously for a moment and Greer's eyebrows rose.

"The seal was designed by our scientist," Nicholas said in a steely tone, "the one Brivari murdered when he found this place."

"Of course," Michael said deferentially, dropping his eyes and refraining from pointing out that the scientist in question could not have survived here, never mind completed his task, without the help of the two Covari recruited after they'd fled Antar.

"It took us years to perfect these," Nicholas continued, his good humor returning now that he had one of his toys in his hand. "The Covari who invented them had a good idea, but of course he couldn't finish the job. They never can, those shifters. So we did, along with several upgrades. Now they're genuine multi-purpose tools. The one I gave you is the latest model."

And I gave it to Courtney, Michael thought with alarm, wondering exactly what he'd handed his daughter. Hopefully nothing that would give her away at an inconvenient time.

"But more on that later," Nicholas said, one of the techs wincing as he casually tossed the "TAG" onto the workbench. "Let me show you the real reason I brought you down here." He walked to the back wall and revealed yet another handprint. "You still need me for this one," he said, pressing his hand to the lock. "You're not quite that far up the food chain....yet."

Mystified, Michael followed Nicholas and Greer through the doorway and down a set of stone stairs. It's a hospital, he thought as a vast room came into view, partitioned into several different sections; they walked by treatment areas, an atmospheric chamber where husks could be tended to without danger to the host, and....he gasped as he walked by another section and saw what was inside.

"I....I though we didn't have spares," Michael said when Nicholas gave him a hard stare.

"Only for the most important of us," Nicholas said. "If people thought we had spares, can you imagine how poorly they'd behave? Husks are difficult to cultivate. Every husk is precious. Never forget that."

"Yes, s—Nicholas," Michael said, trotting along behind as they advanced further into the room, mentally adding, I'm not the one who forgot. Husks were indeed tricky to cultivate, a point brought home quite forcefully when the journey to Earth had been delayed after Nicholas had decided to increase the size of his forces and ordered his scientists to rush the maturation of several husks, something theoretically possible, but never tried. The results had been disastrous. A husk was a living organism; harvested too soon, it malfunctioned. Sometimes the husk merely died; sometimes the direct physiologic link between the husk and its host failed to form. This could be as simple as preventing the host from breathing or as horrific as preventing ingested nutrients from reaching the husk, causing the husk to feed on the Argilian inside, digesting its host in a vain attempt to save itself. Several operatives had died from donning immature husks, and their delay in leaving Antar had resulted in Jaddo's escape shortly before their arrival. Nicholas had assumed that Jaddo would remain an easy target indefinitely; his bravado had cost him a Warder, dozens of operatives, and all of the spare husks, which had to be destroyed when it was learned that their early harvesting made them lethal. It had been impressed upon everyone that they had to care for their husk, that should something happen to it, there was no recourse other than banishment to the ship, the only place where an Argilian could safely live in this hostile atmosphere. How very interesting, then, that Michael had just glimpsed spare husks for Nicholas, Ida, Walt, and Vanessa. Apparently Greer didn't qualify.

"Here we are," Nicholas said, steering him behind a curtained area at the far end of the room where a scientist stepped back deferentially, giving Michael an unfortunate full view of what lay inside "What no one else knows," Nicholas continued, oblivious to Michael's dismay, "is that we've already started working on the second generation of husks. Hopefully we won't need them here, of course; hopefully we'll find what we came for and go home. But when we do, we'll go home far more powerful than when we came....because of this." He indicated the table in front of them with a nod as Michael's stomach heaved. "Both Zan and his father kept the project from us, Michael. They got what he wanted, enhanced their dogs, and meant to enhance the rest of their race the same way. They thought they could keep it from us, and for a long time, they did. But no more. It's time we evened the score, don't you think?"

"I....I thought our physiologies were incompatible," Michael stammered. "I didn't think this was possible."

"Oh, it isn't," Nicholas agreed, "or rather, wasn't. Not the way they did it. We can't enhance ourselves directly, but we can enhance our husks. They're built from human genetic material, so it's just a matter of figuring out what we need to take and where to apply it. The template is already there; we just need to upgrade it. We've already isolated the area of the human brain which controls the production of bioelectric energy. Eventually we should be able to do everything the Warders can do. And that's where you come in."

"Me?" Michael echoed.

"I need more of these," Nicholas said casually as though he were ordering a set of spare parts. "Several more. We don't have the advantage of servants who can masquerade as mummy and daddy, but we also don't need to conserve resources. We can just grab and go, and use it up completely. As you can see, this one's almost done for."

Nicholas poked the shape lying on the table; it twitched feebly, the restraint which held it seeming hardly necessary. "Poor response to stimuli," Nicholas sighed. "We kept it alive as long as possible, but this is a feeble race; they can't take much study. How did a brain like that wind up in such an inferior body? Must be one of the universe's little jokes," he added with disgust. "Anyway, now that we know what to look for, we can move faster, so we need more specimens. Greer has some ideas for spreading it out so we don't attract suspicion; he'll go over them with you. Get me a half dozen to start with. I'll let you know when we need more. And Michael," he added, coming closer, Michael resisting the urge to back up. "You're to keep this to yourself. No sense getting everyone all excited prematurely; new husks will take several years to grow. Serve me well, and I will see to it that your new husk is considerably more valuable than the one you now wear."

"Thank you, Nicholas," Michael whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the small boy on the table, the top half of his skull removed, the grayish-white brain in full view.



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




I'll post Chapter 9 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER NINE


June 18, 1959, 4:00 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



"So there's your W4," Dee said, handing Courtney a pen. "Now you just have to fill in all the personal information and sign it right there by the 'X'."

"And what's this for again?" Courtney asked.

"Your federal withholding," Dee explained. "Every time Mr. Parker pays you, he'll hold a little bit back and send it to the government to pay your income tax. So when the end of the year rolls around and you have to fill out your income tax forms, hopefully you won't owe any money because you'll have already paid it. I'm guessing you'll even get a little back."

Courtney stared at her blankly for a moment before abruptly setting the form aside. "Okay....what's next?"

"The lease," Dee replied, reaching for a multi-page document. "This is the contract between you and Mrs. Bruce that outlines each of your responsibilities, how you'll pay her, what happens if you want to leave or she wants you to leave, and so on."

"So what happens if I want to leave?" Courtney asked, flipping through the pages.

"It's a standard month to month tenancy, so if you want to leave, you need to let Mrs. Bruce know in writing by the last day of the month before you want to leave," Dee said. "For example if you want to leave in August, you have to tell her by July 31st at the latest, and you'll be responsible for August's rent even if you leave before the end of that month. The same holds true in reverse; if she wants you to leave, she has to let you know by the last day of the month before she wants you out, and then you have until the end of that next month to leave." She paused, eyeing Courtney closely. "Is this making any sense? I know it's a lot to take in at once."

"It's okay," Courtney said, still lost in the lease. "I'm getting there, just....just give me a minute."

Dee left Courtney to her studying and went over to Philip, who was busy nesting and unnesting a set of metal saucepans, when he wasn't banging on them with a wooden spoon, that is. Courtney had rummaged through the cupboards in the little kitchen area when Philip had awakened from his nap and produced the perfect toys for someone his age, leaving them to finish the paperwork in relative peace. She's been around children before, Dee thought as Philip picked up the spoon and started drumming again. She was also a fast learner; Dee had watched for the better part of an hour this morning after Valenti left as Courtney learned the intricacies of diner lingo, deftly handled a couple of customer complaints, and haggled with Mr. Parker over how certain orders were cooked. She was unquestionably sharp and definitely perseverant; with all the mistakes she'd made, she'd never let it slow her down. She just kept ploughing forward, undaunted by setbacks or her own lack of knowledge. In Dee's experience, that kind of mindset only came by...well...experience.

So why does she seem so inexperienced? Dee thought, watching Courtney study the lease with the same dogged determination she'd displayed at Parker's. Courtney was a puzzle; she'd obviously been around, yet in some ways, she seemed awfully naïve. Granted that might come from her never having been on her own; one wouldn't necessarily know about W4's if one had never held a job or what a lease entailed if one had never signed one. And certainly not everyone had an eye for the minutiae of contracts and regulations like Dee did. Perhaps it was just lack of exposure. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely to last long given how quickly she learned.

"Okay, I think I understand this," Courtney said. "Rent is due by the first of the month, I'm responsible for the phone bill, but Mrs. Bruce pays the electric bill. And then there's all the stuff about how to break the lease and who pays for what if something gets broken. Is that about it?"

"Yep. Mrs. Bruce has already signed it, so now you just sign it, and you're done."

Courtney scribbled her signature and sat back with a sigh. "Okay—what next?" She pulled a pad toward her on which she'd been keeping a list. "The phone. You said I call the phone company and have this phone switched to my name, right?"

"Right."

"Shoes," Courtney said, ticking down her list. "How much would better shoes cost?"

"I'll bring some shoes with me to Parker's tomorrow morning," Dee answered. "Your feet are a half size smaller than mine, but anything's bound to be more comfortable than those heels. Just give them back when you you're able to buy new ones."

"I really appreciate this, Dee," Courtney said. "I mean, spending all this time going over papers is one thing, but lending me shoes too? How can I ever repay you?"

"Don't worry about it," Dee said dismissively. "This worked for me too. If I hadn't been with you, I would have wound up going home early, and I definitely didn't want to do that."

"What's wrong with your mother? If you don't mind my asking," Courtney added quickly. "I mean, it must be pretty bad if you're willing to wander around town with a baby instead of going home."

Dee sighed, feeling the beginnings of the headache that always seemed to accompany thoughts of her mother. "Mama doesn't approve of the fact that I had a baby while I was in college, and she never misses an opportunity to point that out. I'm just sick of hearing it, is all."

"You mean she's not happy to have a grandchild?"

"Oh, sure she is," Dee said dryly. "When she's not yanking my chain for having him in the first place, that is."

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Courtney asked. "I mean, he's here, and you certainly can't send him back."

Dee gave a soft snort. "Tell that to Mama. Go ahead—I dare you."

"Okay," Courtney said promptly. "If I ever meet her, I will."

Dee stared at her for several seconds before she burst out laughing. "You're serious, aren't you? Do you have a death wish?"

"No," Courtney said calmly. "I've just dealt with a number of difficult people in my time."

" 'Your time'?" Dee echoed. "But you can't be much older than me. How old are you, anyway?"

Courtney gazed at her a moment before dropping her eyes. "It's not how old you are, it's how many different types of people you've met," she said lightly. "And I think parents everywhere tend to be that way. I know my mother is."

"Where are your parents?" Dee asked. "You never said where you were from."

"My father isn't too far away," Courtney answered, "but my mother...well...she's a long ways away."

"How often do you get to see her?" Dee asked as Philip toddled over to show her an especially fascinating speck of dust he'd found.

"I'll probably never see her again."

Dee looked up in surprise. "Why not? Is she dying?"

Idiot! Dee thought fiercely the moment the words left her mouth. What was she thinking, spitting out a loaded question like that? But Courtney hadn't reacted, was merely shaking her head. "No, she's fine. I just know I won't be seeing her again."

"But..." Dee stopped, finding herself in one of those rare moments when she couldn't think of anything to say.

"It's okay," Courtney said gently. "I knew when I left that I'd never see her again, and she knew that too. We had a chance to say goodbye. That's more than a lot of people get."

Her tone was both wistful and matter-of-fact, as though she were simply stating a sad fact of life, and Dee found herself recalling her conversation with Brivari and how she'd wondered what it would be like to have everyone around her die. She'd run inside and hugged Emily after that, but détente had been short-lived; less than an hour later, Emily was arguing about how to put Philip to bed, or more precisely, how not to. Now, faced with someone who really wasn't going to see her mother again or at least thought she wasn't, Dee was suddenly regretting some of the things she'd said last night.

"Well....you might see her, right?" Dee said uncertainly. "I mean, anything can happen. Things could change."

"Possibly," Courtney allowed, "but unlikely."

There it is again, Dee thought. That adult overtone, that world weary resignation one typically heard from someone who had seen too much to harbor any illusions about happy endings. "But you might see her again," she insisted stubbornly. "However unlikely, it's still possible. You have to have hope."

Courtney smiled faintly. "You know, with everything that I don't have now, that's the one thing I do have. Don't worry about me, Dee. I know all about hope. That's why I'm here."

Someone knocked on the door, cutting off Dee's reply. "Probably Mrs. Bruce wanting her lease," Courtney said, standing stiffly on her sore feet. "I'll be right back."

"C'mon, sweetie," Dee said to Philip who had just discovered that the bottom dresser drawer pulled out easily. "We don't play in there. We have to go meet Daddy soon, so can you help Mama put the pans back? Show me how you stack them."

Philip returned his attention to the pans and had just started giving his mother a stacking lesson when voices drifted from the door. "What's this about?" Courtney was asking with a worried edge to her voice. "I've already told you everything I know, which certainly isn't much."

A male voice answered. Curious, Dee walked to the door, staying out of sight.

"....just a few minutes," the man was saying. "We just want to make sure we didn't miss anything."

"I'm really tired right now," Courtney answered. "Maybe later."

"I'm afraid it can't wait," the man persisted, polite but firm. "The investigation is ongoing, and—"

The man stopped short as Dee came into view, folding her arms across her chest and leaning casually against the doorframe. "Afternoon, Deputy....Hanson," she said, reading his name tag. "Anything wrong?"

"He wants to search the room, but they already did," Courtney said before Hanson could answer.

"As I was explaining to Miss Harris, we're concerned we may have missed something regarding the former occupant of these premises," Hanson said.

"Like what?" Dee asked.

"I'm afraid that's confidential," Hanson replied.

"Of course," Dee nodded. "May I see your warrant?"

"I don't need a warrant, ma'am," Hanson said with complete confidence. "The former occupant of this apartment is deceased."

"The apartment has a new occupant," Dee said. "The lease was signed today. So now you need a warrant."

A flicker of unease passed over Hanson's features. "I need to see that lease. May I come in?"

"No," Dee said firmly as Hanson took a step forward. "I'll bring it to you. Don't let him in," she added to Courtney. "He can't come in without a warrant, and he knows it, so he'll pressure you to grant him permission. Don't do it."

Courtney's eyes darted from Dee to the deputy and back, but she nodded and stood directly in front of the deputy, who now looked thoroughly ticked off. Dee fetched the lease from the kitchen table and Hanson spent a full minute looking it over. "This lease starts the first of July," he noted, "so until then, this apartment belongs to the former occupant."

"But the new occupant has moved in her belongings, so searching the apartment now means you'd be searching her things," Dee pointed out. "Because of that, and because a legal contract exists between the current occupant and the landlord, no court will let you just waltz in here without a warrant."

"That's not the way it works, ma'am," Hanson said irritably.

"Fine," Dee shrugged. "So prove me wrong. Go get a warrant."

Silence. Hanson looked back and forth from one woman to the other in consternation. "Excuse us a moment," Dee said to Courtney, crowding Hanson backwards as she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. "I have a message for your boss," she said as Hanson scowled at her. "Tell Sheriff Valenti that his attempt to bully his way into this woman's apartment and perform an illegal search has failed. And further tell him that if he ever tries something stupid like this again, Dee Evans will personally act as this woman's attorney in court and nail him to wall. If he wants information, he's going to have to buckle down and get it the good old fashioned legal way. Think you can remember all that, or should I write that down for you?"

Hanson's eyebrows had risen so far they were almost disappearing under his hat. "No, thanks," he said sourly. "I've got it."




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




Valenti residence




"Jimmy, come set the table for din—Ah!"

Valenti grinned as his wife whipped around, peeling his hands off her eyes. "Don't do that!" she admonished, trying to sound peeved even though she was smiling. "You nearly scared the daylights out of me!"

"Surprise!" Valenti said. "I've missed so many meals this week, I thought I'd finally make it home for once."

"Do you mean you're actually going to let the town run for a couple of hours without you?" Andi asked dryly.

"Why not? I'm in a good mood," Valenti said cheerfully. "The town council agreed with me that good ol' Morty Steinfeld can't bring his traveling Hollywood show to town until the Monday after the Crash Festival. He wanted to set up shop and start hiring extras the day before. Can you imagine the mess that would have made? Now he not only has to wait until it's over, we get the whole Independence Day weekend in peace."

"Hallelujah," Andi said. "It's always better to have one four alarm fire at a time. Do you want a salad?"

"Sure. How's Jimmy?"

"A little down. He and his friends went fishing and didn't catch much."

"I should take a day off and take them out," Valenti said.

"Like that's going to happen," Andi said skeptically. "I know you. Your town's about to be invaded, and you won't rest till the interlopers are gone."

"It won't be invaded for another couple of weeks, so now's the perfect time to go," Valenti said, pulling a beer out of the fridge. "Where's the novice fisherman?"

Valenti planted a kiss on his wife's cheek and followed her nod, stripping off his sidearm on the way to the back porch where his son was seated cross-legged on the floor trying to unravel a mass of fishing line which obviously hadn't performed the way it should have. "Hey, kiddo," he said, sitting down beside him.

"Hi, Dad," Jimmy said tonelessly. "Sorry I got my reel all messed up."

"What's tangled can be untangled," Valenti said confidently. "Hand it over."

Jimmy obliged with the air of one who had given up. "I hear your fishing trip didn't go well today. How's about you and me take the boat out," Valenti added when his son shook his head. "I can teach you how to get those fish jumping into your boat."

"You can?" Jimmy said, brightening. "Tommy said he knew everything about fishing, but he's the one who messed up my reel."

"Well, Tommy can come too if you want," Valenti said magnanimously.

Jimmy considered that for a moment. "I don't think so. He brags. Besides, I want it just you and me."

And we don't get much of that, do we? Valenti thought as part of the tangle gave way. A sheriff was never really off duty. Roswell wasn't huge, but it may as well be with the yearly parade of tourists, and the influx in the summer just when Jimmy was off school made for even more hours away from home. "How about tomorrow?" he asked. "Got any plans for Saturday?"

Jimmy was about to answer when the phone rang. "That's probably for you, Dad," he said matter-of-factly.

"Ignore it," Valenti said. "I'm off."

"Really?" Jimmy said in surprise.

"Really."

Andi appeared at the door. "Honey, it's Hanson. He says it's not an emergency, but you'll want to know this."

"Tell him I'm busy," Valenti said.

Andi blinked. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Valenti answered with a touch of annoyance.

"It's okay," Jimmy said quickly. "I'll wait."

Valenti looked from his wife to his son before setting the reel down with a sigh. "This is a switch. Usually I'm the one vaulting for the phone, and you're the one asking if it can wait."

"Gotta keep you guessing," Andi smiled. "Dinner's in five. Jimmy you need to set the table. You and Daddy can fix your reel after we eat."

Valenti followed his family into the house, grabbing the receiver left beside the telephone on the table in the living room. "What's up, Hanson?"

"Nothing terribly important, sir, but I thought you'd want to know what happened with the Harris girl," Hanson said.

"What do you mean 'happened'? Something happened?"

"Well....no," Hanson replied. "She had a visitor, someone who says she knows you. A 'Dee Evans'?"

"And?" Valenti sighed.

"She told the Harris girl not to let me in and waved a lease in my face," Hanson said. "It was only signed today and it's effective July 1st; I guess Mrs. Bruce is letting her stay there on the dead guy's dime."

"He's 'Mr. Green'," Valenti corrected. "Not 'the dead guy'. Every 'dead guy' has a name, and this one's name is 'Mark Green'. Use it."

"Yes, sir," Hanson said quickly. "Sorry, sir. Anyway, this Proctor woman knew exactly what you were trying to do and said she'd go with the Harris girl to court if you try again. Is she a lawyer? Looks a little young."

You should have seen her when she was nine, Valenti thought, remembering the time Dee had parked the state statutes under his nose and argued that there were no laws forbidding aliens. "No, she's not a lawyer," he replied. "Not technically, anyway; she doesn't start law school until the fall."

"So do you want me to get a warrant?" Hanson asked. "Given that the lease isn't even in effect yet—"

"No," Valenti interrupted. "Just let it go. I'll find another way around it."

There was a pause. "Sir, are you saying that you're letting some wet-behind-the-ears college student scare you off an investigation?"

"Of course not," Valenti said sharply. "I'm saying we're on shaky ground here as it is, and the judge is bound to notice that even without anyone pointing it out. Besides, you met her—did she sound 'wet behind the ears' to you?"

"No," Hanson admitted. "But still, if you have a good reason for wanting a search, I'm sure the judge will consider it."

"That's just it," Valenti said. "I don't have a good legal reason. I checked with Greyhound—Courtney Harris arrived by bus the evening of the day Mark Green was killed, which means she wasn't anywhere near Roswell when the murder occurred."

"Then why are you watching her?" Hanson asked. "I know you, sir. You must have a reason. You always do."

"Of course I have a reason," Valenti answered. "And when the time's right, I'll let you know what it is. Or was. Thanks for calling. Shit," he muttered under his breath as he hung up the phone, feeling his good mood evaporating. Foiled by a Proctor for the second time today.

"Dad?"

Jimmy was standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at him wide-eyed. "Oh, geez....I'm sorry," Valenti said, embarrassed that his son had heard him swearing. "I was just....."

"Mad?" Jimmy suggested helpfully. "It's okay, Dad. Mom wanted me to tell you dinner's ready."

"Are you all right?" Andi asked as Valenti slid into a seat at the kitchen table.

"Just frustrated," Valenti answered, grateful that his wife hadn't heard what he'd said. She took a dim view of the use of profanity in front of children. And Jimmy seemed to know that, because he'd kept the increasing number of times he'd heard his father slip up to himself.

"Tommy says his dad used to work with you," Jimmy announced.

"Is that right? What's his last name?" Valenti asked.

"Cook," Jimmy answered.

"Jake Cook," Valenti nodded. "Mr. Cook used to be a Roswell deputy. He quit a while back."

"Why?" Jimmy asked.

"Don't know," Valenti said. "I wasn't working at that station at the time."

Jimmy twirled his fork on his plate for a moment in silence. "Tommy's dad says that they found you asleep in your car with a whole bunch of beer bottles, and you said an alien did it. He said they called you 'Deputy Martian'."

Andi's hand paused midway to her mouth, her spoonful of mashed potatoes hanging in the air. Bastard, Valenti thought angrily. Naturally Jake would go to the trouble of recounting that story from '47 when an alien had intervened just as Valenti had been about to catch the Proctor family red-handed with glowing somethings or other. He'd awakened in his car with a nasty bump on his head and an empty six pack that hadn't been there before, and Roswell's Sheriff Hemming had round-filed the report and transferred Valenti to the Chaves County station to get him away from the gossip.

"That's quite a story," Valenti said lightly, "but I think Mr. Cook got a few details mixed up."

"Do you believe aliens are real, Dad?" Jimmy asked.

"I think it's possible," Valenti said noncommittally.

"Did you ever meet one?" Jimmy pressed.

I not only met one, I killed one. "Not personally," Valenti answered. "So—are you ready to get up before the crack of dawn on Saturday?"

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. "Why so early?"

"Because that's when the fish are biting," Valenti answered. "Early morning's the best time."

Talk turned to the upcoming fishing trip, but Valenti had a hard time focusing. He wanted to know what Courtney Harris was hiding and what Doctor Blake was so worried about that he couldn't even talk about it. He also planned to have a few terse words with Jake Cook. The last thing he needed on the eve of a Hollywood invasion was everyone calling him "Deputy Martian".




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




UFO Center, Roswell




"The UFO center will close in thirty minutes," came a voice over the loud speaker.

The crowd inside the center began to shift restlessly at this announcement, knowing their time was short. The center was still open, but the meeting, or whatever it had been, was over, the participants leaving for yet another city to display their wares. Brivari stood off to one side, watching the various purveyors of "alien artifacts" pack them in boxes with the kind of loving care usually reserved for the genuine. But perhaps they were genuine in the only way that mattered in a society such as this: They were genuine magnets for currency. He'd spent the better part of the day here watching the skeptical, the curious, the gullible, the foolish, and the downright stupid poke, prod, stare, worship, question, argue....and pay. It didn't seem to matter where a given human fell on the "do you believe in aliens" scale; all were willing to part with their currency, whether to gaze at what they believed was real or to gather evidence that it was not.

As it turned out, Dee had only described the free exhibits at dinner the other night; there were several pay-per-view exhibits which she hadn't seen and which had piqued Brivari's interest. What he had found had been surprising....and disturbing. For all the charlatans, it turned out there were genuine artifacts here, and most of those humans who had the real thing knew what they had and charged accordingly. There were plenty of fragments from the hull of their ship, a rather crude but accurate sketch similar to the one the Healer had said she'd drawn and passed to another officer, and what looked suspiciously like a piece of the five-sided device that Amar had used to block Jaddo's abilities. Probably smuggled out by a soldier, Brivari had thought, although he'd had no luck discovering where any of the genuine artifacts had come from other than the ship fragments, which appeared to be obtained by trespassing on the crash site, now government property. Several "collectors", as they styled themselves, had boasted of their prowess in avoiding detection as they'd gone where others feared to tread, often paying the price in the form of a fine or an arrest. Still, they had likely recouped the difference and then some judging from the foot traffic to and from the curtained booths where they showed their finds to those who could pay.

But whether the "artifact" in question was genuine or not, there was one thing on which everyone agreed: Aliens had indeed landed on this planet. The reasons for doing so were the subject of much debate and ranged from the benevolent to the nefarious to the incompetent, the latter being the view espoused by James Atherton, the odd man Dee had met and Brivari had encountered earlier. The human military had, to use a human expression, "shot itself in the foot" by telling the public it had found an alien spacecraft and then attempting to cover up its discovery of same. No one believed the cover story, even those who said they did; most who argued vociferously that the very notion of extra-terrestrial life was nonsense were actually terrified that such beings existed and coped by denying it at the top of their lungs. If ever one needed proof that Earth was not ready for an encounter with another world, this was it.

"Oh, rats, I missed it!" came a voice nearby. A woman had just pushed through the crowd to find the collectors packing. "Where are they going next? Is it nearby?"

"Someone said Santa Fe," a man offered.

"I heard Dallas," another said.

"Well, which is it?" the woman asked. "I could make it to Santa Fe, but Dallas is just too far."

"It doesn't matter where they're going," another voice said. "Wherever it is, it will all be nothing but nonsense."

Everyone turned toward the speaker, including Brivari, who was promptly confused. Covari had learned long ago not to rely only on form as a means of identification, and he recognized the voice as belonging to James Atherton. But Atherton was nowhere to be seen. Where was he?

"If you feel that way, then why are you here?" the woman asked the man who had spoken, a middle-aged gentleman Brivari had never seen before.

"Some people golf, others fish—I enjoy watching people make fools of themselves," the man answered dryly. "Thank your lucky stars that you didn't waste your precious time or money in this place, madam. It is undeserving of your attention."

An argument ensued between believers and unbelievers just like it had dozens of times before, but Brivari heard none of it. His eyes were fastened on the gentlemen who had objected, studying him closely. It's him, he thought wonderingly. It's Atherton. But not the Atherton he'd seen before—gone was the long white hair, the bushy mustache, the heavy glasses, and the odd clothing. In their place was a conservatively dressed, middle-aged gentleman with close-cropped, thinning hair, no mustache, and no corrective lenses. Even his posture was different, having shed the slight stoop of his earlier incarnation, and his voice was an octave lower. An expert disguise, by human standards....but then Brivari was no human.

"I'm surprised to hear you are an 'unbeliever'," Brivari said casually as Atherton's tormentors wandered away muttering. "That's not what you said earlier."

" I don't believe we've met," Atherton said politely. "My name is James Anderson."

"Interesting," Brivari murmured. "When we met earlier you gave your name as James Atherton."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Atherton insisted. "I only just arrived a few minutes ago. Perhaps I resemble this other fellow—"

"Actually, you don't," Brivari said. "Your disguise is excellent. My compliments."

Atherton looked at him in astonishment. "Are you saying you don't believe I am who I say I am?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Brivari answered calmly.

"Then that would be your problem, sir, and I leave it with you," Atherton said with obvious annoyance. "Perhaps spending so much time here today has addled your brains."

"And how would you know how much time I've spent here if you've only arrived in the last few minutes?"

Brivari smiled as Atherton huffed off, his eyes darting left and right as though worried someone else had spotted him, unlikely given the care with which he'd hidden his identity. Hiding one's identity was a Covari's stock in trade, so Brivari was curious as to why Atherton felt the need to do so. Then again perhaps he just wanted to wander the venues anonymously and take the pulse of his clientele. Not a bad idea, come to think of it. Many of the "collector's" here were astute business men, if nothing else.

A few minutes later Brivari had left the UFO center behind and was walking up Main Street, heading for Parker's. It was dinner time, and he was hungry; Jaddo had not reappeared and was probably off sulking, so it looked like he would be eating alone. He was halfway to the diner when he heard a worried voice in his ear.

"How did you know it was me?"

Brivari smiled faintly without turning around, knowing who had fallen in step behind him. "A more interesting question would be why you feel the need to disguise yourself," he answered.

"Hardly," Atherton retorted. "I have never had anyone see through my cover. Never. And yet you picked me out the moment you spotted me. How?"

"Most people rely solely on the visual," Brivari replied. "I have learned to look past that."

"What are you?" Atherton demanded. "A police officer? A soldier? A spy?"

"I am all of those things....and none of them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Anything you'd like it to," Brivari answered.

A hand grabbed his arm, spun him around. Atherton looked genuinely frantic, as though expecting Brivari to shout his secret at the top of his lungs right there on Main Street. "You can't tell anyone," he insisted. "My work depends on people not knowing who I really am."

"How very interesting," Brivari said. "So does mine."

"Then you won't say anything?"

"I have no reason to expose you, so no, I won't say anything."

"Good," Atherton said warily as Brivari resumed his trek toward the diner. "You know, you never told me how you knew."

"And you never explained the reason for your subterfuge," Brivari reminded him. "Which leaves us both bereft of information."

Atherton was silent for a moment. "Were you serious when you said that your work depends on no one knowing who you are? Then I have a proposal," he continued when Brivari raised an eyebrow. "I'll buy you dinner and tell you why I was in disguise if you'll tell me how you recognized me so I can make certain it never happens again."

"If this is truly the first time someone has seen past your disguise, I doubt you have anything to worry about," Brivari answered.

"Maybe not," Atherton said. "But my offer stands. I'm still curious."

"As am I," Brivari admitted. "Very well, then—I accept."



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


I'll post Chapter 10 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to everyone!






CHAPTER TEN


Two weeks later.


July 2, 1959, 7:15 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station


"Okay, does everyone know their assignments?" Valenti asked. "Remember there's only one deputy at each compass point: Alvarez at the north, Baker at the south, Checora goes west, and Reyes goes east. Hanson and I will be making regular circuits of the festival grounds, the wagon will be running to and from the station all night, and the station itself will be fully staffed. Does everyone know their post?"

Heads nodded. "Good," Valenti said. "Let's make certain the cells are clean because we're going to be packing them in like sardines. Oh, and one more thing—everyone bring a bucket from home. Ninety-nine percent of those we bring in will be losing whatever they drank, and we all know what happened before."

Laughter rippled around the room. They weren't laughing last year, Valenti thought, remembering how they'd run short on buckets for drunks to throw up in, resulting in a bit of a nightmare when it came time to clean up. "This is our big night," he reminded them. "We haven't had any major problems in the last several years, so let's keep that record going and have a good Crash Festival. Any questions?"

Hands shot up. "What if I have to pee while I'm patrolling?" one of the deputies asked.

"You have to radio for a replacement before you can leave," Valenti answered to collective groans. "Under no circumstances are you to leave your sector unattended. Whichever of the rotating deputies that's nearest will take over while you do your business. Just make it quick."

More questions followed. Valenti was dimly aware of someone poking their head in the door of the briefing room and Hanson going over to talk to them. A moment later a note was slipped into his hand.

Valkyrie at 3 o'clock.

Mystified, Valenti looked at Hanson, who nodded toward the door which was indeed in the 3 o'clock position to their right. And through that door he could just glimpse a familiar face. Make that an irritated familiar face.

"Hanson will answer any further questions," Valenti said, backing away and slipping into the hallway, where he was instantly ambushed. "Not here," he said shortly as his tailgater trailed him down the hall and into his office, where he closed the door behind her only seconds before she erupted.

"Why are you spying on Courtney Harris?"

"Good morning to you, too, Miss Proctor—I mean Mrs. Evans," Valenti amended. "I'm still not used to that."

"Don't change the subject," Dee said severely. "You've got goons staking out her apartment. Why?"

"Gee, I thought they were called 'deputies'," Valenti said calmly. "Where's the little mister today?"

"None of your business. And you haven't answered my question."

"Just trying to take an interest in my constituents."

"I live in Corona, remember? And like hell you are. You're dodging, and you know I won't let you. What are you after?"

Valenti sighed as he sank into his chair. "Honestly? I'm not sure," he admitted. "But as it's not a crime for anyone, my deputies included, to sit in a car on a public street, I'm not sure what you're after either."

Dee plopped down in the chair opposite his desk, eyeing him with a piercing gaze that hadn't changed a bit from when she was eight years-old and fending him off for the first time. "I know you, sheriff. I know you checked with the bus company, and I know they told you Courtney arrived right when she said she did; if you'd discovered otherwise, she would have heard about it. So since you have proof that she wasn't even in the state when this Green guy was killed, why are you still after her?"

"Miss Harris has become something of a project for you, hasn't she?" Valenti said casually. "Word gets around. You've been helping her get settled, find her way around, figure out how to waitress, and so forth. That's mighty nice of you."

Dee rose from the chair and planted her hands on his desk. "Do I have to file a harassment complaint to get your attention? Because I will if I have to. And I'll go right to the judge since I have reason to believe that the sheriff's been compromised. Is that what you want?"

Valenti tapped his fingers for a moment in silence, weighing his options. "Have a seat, Mrs. Evans," he said finally.

She did, perching stiffly on the edge of the chair as though ready to leap up and file that complaint at any moment. And the problem was that if she did, the judge would very likely not be amused. Technically Valenti hadn't broken any laws, but he also technically had absolutely nothing on Miss Harris other than the timing of her arrival and his own sixth sense. He didn't have much of anything on Mark Green either, including a body.

"The man that Miss Harris was coming to Roswell to stay with died under suspicious circumstances," Valenti began, choosing his words carefully. "So naturally—"

"What kind of circumstances?" Dee interrupted.

"I'm not at liberty to say. Suffice it to say I find the fact that Miss Harris was planning on bunking with this man very interesting."

"Don't you think it would be better to start with his friends and co-workers?"

"I did. Mark Green was an auto mechanic, an unusually good one from what I hear. His friends were his co-workers, and they come up clean."

"Are you tailing them too?"

Valenti smiled faintly. "Those friends tell me that Mr. Green used to join them at local bars after work. They also tell me that, as far as they know, he hadn't left town for several weeks before his death."

"So?"

"So maybe you'd like to explain to me why Miss Harris says she met Mr. Green at a bar about a week before his death, but can't remember which bar or even what city the bar was in. Or why none of his friends could identify a photo of her. And if they didn't meet in Roswell, then where did they meet if Green never left town?"

"How do you know he didn't leave town?" Dee demanded. "Were these 'friends' with him every single minute? No, of course not, nor is it even faintly reasonable to assume that Green spilled everything to his friends. Look," she continued when Valenti started to protest, "so far, the only crime I'm aware of is the murder of Mark Green. Since Courtney wasn't even in the state, she's off the hook for that one unless you think she can kill somebody from a distance of several hundred miles. Whatever else you think she's mixed up in, you don't even have enough to bring her in for questioning or you would have done that already. Which means you have nothing, sheriff. Nothing but your gut and your paranoia."

"As I recall, my gut's pretty damned good," Valenti noted.

"So's your paranoia. Leave her alone," Dee said firmly, "unless and until you've got something more."

"So what's your explanation?" Valenti asked. "I know she's lying to me. Why do you think that is?"

Dee gave him a skeptical look. "What, now I have to walk you through what can happen when one visits bars and over-imbibes? There could be all sorts of things she doesn't want to tell you, not a single one of them nefarious. There's a standard of evidence before the law allows you to pursue a suspect. You know that."

"And you know that meeting that standard of evidence requires a certain amount of investigative work," Valenti reminded her. "Which is precisely what I'm doing, and which is precisely my job. If you think otherwise, by all means, go whine to the judge."

Dee shot him a dazzling smile. "Okay, I will."

"You know, there's a faster way to settle this," Valenti said as she rose from her chair, hoping he sounded calm instead of desperate. "You're close to Miss Harris. Get her to tell you what was up with her and Mr. Green, and perhaps we can put this to bed once and for all."

"So now you want me to spy on her?" Dee said in disbelief. "Anything else? Maybe search her apartment, or listen in on her phone calls? Would you like me to find out if she and Mark 'did it', and in what position?"

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "No need to get crass. I'm just doing my job."

"Your 'job' doesn't require every American citizen to cough up personal details on demand when they haven't been charged with a crime," Dee retorted. "Either charge her, or back off. And since I know you haven't managed to come up with a shred of real evidence against her in two weeks, which is quite a while for you, take my advice and back off."

"Is that your legal advice? Look," Valenti continued when Dee's eyes narrowed, "Miss Harris is in no danger. I'm as bound by the law as anyone else, more so, in fact. I'm just protecting the people in my town."

"Then you'd do well to remember that Courtney Harris is one of the people you're supposed to protect," Dee said pointedly. "And even if you suspect she's guilty of something or other, you still have a responsibility to see that her rights are upheld. You told me that years ago....remember?"

"Mrs. Evans, I never forget the rights of the citizens under my care," Valenti said firmly. "Never."

"Good," Dee said. "One of those rights is the right to her own dirty laundry unless you have a compelling reason to drag it out of her. And until you do, you're skating on thin ice. I know it, and you know it. The only question is whether or not you want the judge to know it."

Dee marched to the door, then paused, her expression softening. "I haven't forgotten how you rescued Mama when Cavitt had her. If you hadn't been a bulldog that night, she might not be here to drive me crazy right now. I just don't see this as a good time to be a bulldog."

"I gather I've just been whacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper?" Valenti said dryly.

"Have a nice day, sheriff," she smiled, closing the office door behind her.

Valenti leaned back in his chair and let out a long slow breath. He didn't doubt for a moment that she'd follow through with her threat, nor did he doubt the judge's reaction if she did. It certainly wouldn't do any good to let slip about exploding bodies, so he'd just have to be more careful now that he was being watched every bit as closely as he'd had his deputies watching Miss Harris. And she's not the only one with dirty laundry problems, Valenti thought as he spied a file on his desk that hadn't been there when he'd arrived this morning. Airing one's dirty laundry was no fun; having it aired for you was even worse. As soon as the Crash Festival was over, he planned to pay a call and remind someone of that.



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



10:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



"Coffee?"

"Please," Brivari answered.

"Where's your friend?" the waitress asked. "Isn't he usually here by now?"

"Have we become that predictable?"

"Well, considering that for the last two weeks both of you have eaten breakfast together at about this time, sitting at this same table....yeah, I'd say you have."

Brivari smiled faintly as the waitress passed him a cup. She'd come a long way, this one, since that day when Dee Proctor had fended off the sheriff on her behalf. Now "Courtney", as her name tag read, was expert at juggling several different tables, the use of the mysterious parlance used to order food in these places, and the handling of irate customers, among other things.

"Perhaps we should try a different restaurant," Brivari suggested. "New vistas, and all."

"Please don't," Courtney said. "You're both good tippers and polite to boot. Besides, just sit tight and it'll change around you. Mr. Parker is having a contest to come up with a new name for this place, and then he's going to redecorate. I guess too many folks are confusing it with the bar, so he wants to make it clear that this side's different. I hear that "Crash Site Cafe" is the current front runner."

"Original," Brivari said dryly.

"Want to enter? The winner gets a free meal a day for a week."

"No, thank you," Brivari said.

"I'll bet your friend would like to enter," Courtney commented. "He seems like the entering type."

Indeed he is, Brivari thought as she scurried off to take care of other customers. James Atherton was more than just the contest-entering type; he was a human chameleon the likes of which Brivari had never seen. He wasn't quite certain what he'd been expecting when Atherton had offered to buy him dinner after Brivari had seen through his disguise, but he certainly hadn't been expecting what he'd heard.

"I don't believe a word I wrote in that book," Atherton had announced. "Oh, I believe in aliens, but that's about it. The rest is rubbish."

It had taken Brivari a moment to process the implications of this fantastic statement. "So....what you're saying is that you wrote a book making claims you don't believe?"

"Exactly."

"And the parts about aliens not being as advanced as humans are....'rubbish'?"

"Of course," Atherton had answered. "One need look no further than the ship that crashed to answer that. Humans don't have spaceships, so aliens must be more advanced, or at least those aliens are."

"Forgive me if this seems an obvious question," Brivari had said slowly, "but why would you go to the trouble of publishing theories you don't believe and pretend to believe them?"

"Because what I believe doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

"Not a bit. What matters is what my audience believes. It's the audience that buys the book, after all. If you want people to buy your book, you have to tell them what they want to hear. And what they want to hear is quite simple to ascertain. What was the chief emotion following the crash of the alien spaceship—forgive me, 'weather balloon'—in 1947?"

"Fear," Brivari had said promptly.

"Exactly!" Atherton had said triumphantly. "People don't want to hear that aliens are stronger and better and smarter than we are. That's exactly what they're afraid of! They want to hear that we are stronger and better and smarter than aliens. That makes aliens look less threatening, and makes everyone feel better. Which is why my book is selling like hotcakes while the weighty tomes of others languish on bookstore shelves....just like mine did, before I got smart."

"By 'smart', you're referring to publishing what you consider to be rubbish?"

"You think me mad," Atherton had said, smiling indulgently at Brivari's tone. "But I'm simply playing the game so I come out the winner. I wasn't lying when I said I was a serious alienologist. The problem is that, according to those in the circles in which I wish to move, there is no such thing as an 'alienologist'. We're all considered to be crackpots and treated accordingly. Call yourself a 'researcher', however, or a 'scientist', an 'engineer', or any other of a number of respected professions, and you'll have people tripping over themselves to give you the same information they would never have given you when you were an 'alienologist'. It's all in the perception, you see. In many ways, perception is more important than reality."

"Very true," Brivari had agreed. "In my experience, reality is highly overrated."

"Precisely!" Atherton had exclaimed. "Which is why I decided to play the game on two different boards. On the one I am James Atherton, an eccentric UFO aficionado who nevertheless sells lots of books because I tell people what they want to hear. On the other, I am whoever I need to be at the moment in order to find out what I want to know."

"Which is.....what?"

Atherton had leaned in and lowered his voice. "I want to make actual contact," he'd said with an earnest expression Brivari would have found amusing had this entire experience not been so bizarre. "I want to locate the aliens who crashed in '47 and find out what they're doing here."

"What makes you so sure there are still aliens here?"

"I've been in contact with a former Army grunt," Atherton had said confidently. "He assures me that a live alien was held at the base nearby for three years—three years—with the American public none the wiser, and that this alien escaped in 1950."

"And this....'grunt' was willing to talk to you because....."

"Because I'm not James Atherton, I'm James Anderson, Oxford don and researcher," Atherton had answered with a twinkle. "And because I greased his palm, of course. Atherton makes a good deal of money which he very generously shares with Mr. Anderson, or whoever happens to need funding at the moment."

"So 'James Anderson' isn't your only pseudonym?" Brivari had asked.

"Heavens, no!" Atherton chuckled. "I'm whoever I need to be in order to learn what I want to learn. I do have a couple of favorites I use over and over, though, and I do try to keep the same initials and the same rhythm to my aliases; makes them easier to remember. I've been so many different people, it's sometimes hard to keep track."

"Understandable," Brivari had sympathized.

"And what about you?" Atherton had asked. "What's your line of work?"

"Security," Brivari answered. "High level security."

"Ah," Atherton said knowingly. "Secret Service?"

"Similar."

"And that explains why you could tell who I was," Atherton had said. "You're accustomed to watching for threats to your client. Is your client in Roswell now?"

"I'm....on vacation at the moment," Brivari replied. "But old habits die hard, as you noticed."

"Indeed," Atherton agreed. "I imagine you've had to employ disguises to protect your client?"

"You have no idea."

They had talked for hours and set a breakfast meeting for the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Atherton seemed tickled to have someone with whom he could share his secret, and Brivari marveled at the similarities between himself and one he had initially dismissed. Atherton was alone in the world—his parents were dead, he had no siblings, spouse, or children—and he spent most of his time hiding his true identity. For all practical purposes, he was as isolated on this planet as Brivari....and yet he reveled in it. Granted, Atherton wasn't facing a lifespan like Brivari's, but still, his enthusiasm was infectious. After the bad news concerning the hybrids' growth rate, he was a breath of fresh air, and the fact that he was intelligent and well educated was an added bonus.

"Good morning, my friend!"

Brivari looked up as Atherton slid into the opposite side of the booth, all smiles as usual. "You look unusually happy today, even for you," Brivari observed.

"And why shouldn't I be?" Atherton beamed. "I just received word that my book is going into another printing!"

"Which means....what?"

"It means they've run out of books to sell and have to print more," Atherton said cheerfully. "No doubt this will cause endless grousing among alienologists. I heard that at one gathering, they actually burned one of my books."

"You sound pleased," Brivari noted. "Most people would fear the censure of their colleagues."

"They're censuring my alter ego, not me," Atherton reminded him. "Besides, in order to burn my books, they have to buy them....which means I'm laughing all the way to the bank," he added with a chuckle. " Mr. 'Anderson' thanks them for their patronage."

"And how do you feel about those with genuine artifacts?" Brivari asked.

Atherton's eyebrows rose. "So you noticed," he said with satisfaction. "I saw you visiting those booths, and I wondered if you'd been able to tell the real thing from a fake. The problem is that most of those with genuine artifacts merely bought them from someone else, like a soldier who collected souvenirs—there's quite a black market for those, as you can imagine—or dug them up by trespassing on Pohlman ranch. They don't actually know anything about what they're showing."

"And you do?" Brivari asked with a touch of amusement.

"All in good time, my friend, all in good time," Atherton said magnanimously. "You can't expect me to spill all my secrets. Heaven knows you haven't. Ah, there you are, my dear!" he said to Courtney, who had appeared at his left elbow with a pot of coffee. "Splendid, splendid. I hear there's going to be a 'Crash Festival' in town tonight. Is it worth attending, do you think?"

"I'm new here, so I wouldn't know," Courtney said, "but I can't imagine it would be."

"Oh?" Atherton said. "Why's that?"

"Well....from what I hear, folks think a spaceship full of aliens crashed here. Why would anyone have a festival to celebrate a disaster that killed people?"

"Why, indeed," Brivari agreed.

"Interesting!" Atherton said approvingly, delighted as always to encounter an out-of-the-mainstream viewpoint. "I would imagine it has something to do with the fact that most would not consider aliens to be 'people'. I take it you disagree with that popular conception?"

Courtney smiled, but didn't bite. "I just bring the food. Can I get you something?"

"The usual," Atherton replied. "And I'm wondering, do you know that man at the end of the counter?"

"No. Should I?"

"Well, you tell me," Atherton said. "Because he seems to know you."

"I'm not following," Courtney said, puzzled.

"I've only just arrived and could be mistaken....but I imagine my friend here has noticed the same thing I have," Atherton said. "Let's ask him."

Two pairs of eyes fastened on Brivari, who had indeed noticed. "He's watching you," he told Courtney. "Has been ever since he came in."

"I swear you are the only person I have ever encountered who is as observant as I am," Atherton announced with typical modesty, beaming at Brivari as Courtney glanced behind her in alarm and hurried off. "We could make quite a team. Just think of what we could learn if we pool our talents!"

"Yes," Brivari said mildly. "Just think."




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



"Nancy, do you know that man at the end of the counter?" Courtney asked.

Nancy glanced behind her as she grabbed a couple of orders from the shelf. "Sure. That's Deputy Alvarez."

" 'Deputy'?"

"Sheriff's deputy. Must be off duty because he's not wearing his uniform." She paused. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No," Courtney said quickly. "No, I...thanks. I just wondered if you knew him."

Courtney clipped her latest orders to the carousel and escaped into the kitchen's back hallway, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Just a sheriff's deputy. For a moment there, she'd been terrified that she'd been fingered by a shapeshifter. Granted she'd come here to find the shapeshifters, but it was a bit early to find herself nose to nose with a Royal Warder after everything that had happened. The last couple of weeks had been about survival, so much so that she'd frequently forgotten her real mission here. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The sheriff must have figured out by now that Mark Green wasn't human—why else would he still be watching her? And if he ever got the notion in his head that she wasn't human, she'd need to leave fast. She may not have as much time as she thought she did.

Calm down, she told herself fiercely. Fortunately she had identified herself as an acquaintance of Mark's, not a relative, so the sheriff would have no reason to suspect her of not being human. And Khivar had promised them their disguises would be flawless to everyone, including Covari, so even if she did encounter a Warder, they shouldn't be able to recognize her true nature. Of course she wouldn't recognize them either, so that made them even, a rare event with any Covari, let alone a Royal Warder. She should be okay just as long as she could keep Mark's death a secret from those in Copper Summit, a task which had proven easier than she'd originally thought. After finally contacting her father three days after arriving in Roswell and enduring an animated protest about how long it had taken her to do so, she'd learned something interesting. It turned out that operatives reported by mail unless they had specific intelligence to share. All she had to was send in Mark's report for him, and she'd be home free. For the moment, anyway.

"Are you okay, honey?"

Courtney opened her eyes; Nancy was standing there, looking concerned. "Yeah, I...I'm just tired. It's been a little overwhelming."

"I know," Nancy said sympathetically, throwing an arm around her. "I can't imagine what I would have done in your shoes, what with being all alone and the guy you were going to stay with turning up dead just as you got here. How did the clothes work out?"

"Great," Courtney smiled. "I really appreciate it. You've all been a big help."

"Well, we take care of our own," Nancy said firmly. "You need anything else, you let us know, you hear? Your orders are up, dear. Better go get'em."

Courtney swallowed a lump in her throat as she headed back into the kitchen. The most telling thing about this entire experience was the way everyone had rallied around her once they'd heard her story. Dee had been first, walking her through the maze of human regulations and loaning her shoes that didn't make her feet bleed, but it turned out she'd been only one participant in a veritable parade of human kindness. Mrs. Bruce had gone door to door in her rooming house soliciting donations of anything useable on Courtney's behalf, and quietly left bags of kitchenware and bed linens by her door. Mr. Parker had donated food from the diner, and Nancy and the other waitresses had pitched in some used clothes and generously donated a day's tips so she could buy her own pair of comfortable shoes. The list of reasons to run back to Copper Summit had been long and compelling, and she'd rethought the decision to remain here many times; the kindness of total strangers had definitely played a part in her resolve to stay. That and the fact that her world needed her to stay. The mess on Antar would not be settled by the faint of heart.

"There you go," Courtney said, sliding plates in front of the two gentlemen who met for breakfast every morning.

"So who was the man watching you?" the older man asked avidly. He got excited about just about everything, this one, in sharp contrast to his somewhat younger and much quieter friend.

"A sheriff's deputy," Courtney replied.

"Really?" the man said with obvious interest. "Have you had a run-in with the law?"

"No, just bad timing. The person I was going to stay with when I got to town was killed right before I arrived, and the sheriff seems to think I know something about it even though I wasn't even here."

"Good gracious!" the man exclaimed. "How awful! Why would the sheriff suspect you if you hadn't arrived?"

"No idea," Courtney said.

"Well, don't you let him scare you off," the man said stoutly.

"I won't," Courtney assured him. "I came here to stay, and I'm staying."

"Good for you!" the man said approvingly. "And if you need assistance in any way, do call on us. I am Mr. Anderson, and this is Mr. Langley."

"Nice to meet you," Courtney said as Mr. Anderson beamed and Mr. Langley nodded politely. "And thanks for the offer."

Courtney smiled as she headed for a new customer at the next table. In spite of everything that had gone wrong, she'd managed to hang on, with new offers of support coming every day from people she'd never expected. And now that she was relatively stable, it was time to get down to business.

She had a Warder to find.




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




Columbia University,

New York City



"Dr. Fenton stopped by," Claire said as Marie walked by. "He left a note on your desk. Said it was important."

"Thanks," Marie said, hurrying into her office. After two weeks with no word, she'd nearly forgotten about Fenton's midnight visitor and strange research project, assuming she hadn't been chosen. And maybe that was for the best; she really didn't need more arguments with her husband, risks to take, or difficult moral choices to make. Now it all came rushing back as she tore open the sealed envelope labeled "Dr. Johnson—Private" in a masculine scrawl....and gaped at the contents which tumbled out onto her desk.

"Wow!" Claire said, having followed her in. "Plane tickets! Where to?"

"New Mexico," Marie whispered.

"This plane leaves in three hours," Claire noted, peering over her shoulder. "That must be why he asked me to cancel all your appointments. Want me to call your husband?"

Marie hesitated. "No," she said finally. "Don't. I'll tell him."

"Okay. Let me know when to expect you back," Claire said as she rushed off to answer the phone.

Marie sank into her chair. I'll tell him, she amended silently, but not yet.




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


I'll be gone over the holidays, so I'll post Chapter 11 on Sunday, January 6th.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading! I hope you all had nice holidays, and that returning to normal life wasn't too jarring. (Has been for me this year. )





CHAPTER ELEVEN


July 2, 1959, 3:30 p.m.

Somewhere over the United States



"Wine?"

"No, thank you," Marie answered.

"Please," Dr. Fenton said, holding out his glass for the stewardess to fill. "Lighten up, doctor. We're on a private jet heading to a private meeting with some of the world's top researchers. You've more than earned the right to enjoy yourself."

"I just want to stay sharp," Marie said.

"No need for that until later," Fenton said. "All the finalists will be dining with Dr. Burke at the hotel tonight, so you have plenty of time."

"Will we be meeting the other study participants at dinner?" Marie asked.

"No. There will be a lecture tomorrow morning at the facility, and I gather that's when the true winnowing will begin. Those selected will be given a tour, and if they decline to participate, runners-up will have their chance. The real fun begins tomorrow."

Good, Marie thought. That gave her at least a little bit of time to gather her wits and double and triple check her disguise.

"What's with the sunglasses?" Fenton asked suddenly, as though reading her mind. "We're on an airplane, for heaven's sake."

"They're quite the style now," Marie said. "Audrey Hepburn loves them."

"Really? I never saw you as a style maven," Fenton commented, settling further back into his seat. "But suit yourself. They just hide half your face, that's all."

Which is precisely the point, Marie thought, grateful for the silence as Fenton started to doze. She had no idea if Pierce was involved in this research as Steven suspected, but just in case, she had to be prepared. The thought of being in the same state with Pierce was unnerving; the thought of being in the same room with him was downright terrifying. But if he was out there, if he'd managed to continue what he'd started or found some other horror to perpetrate, she was absolutely certain it was her responsibility to stop him. And in order for that to mean anything, it must happen in front of his colleagues, in full view of the entire medical community. The Pierce's of the world worked in secret, beneath the radar of society's mores, and the only way to shut them down was to haul them into the light. Back room dealing or the private death an alien would bring would simply keep everything hidden. Which is why she hadn't told Steven where she was going, why she'd left a message that she'd be working late and to not expect her home for dinner. That was not unusual, so hopefully it would be well into the night or even tomorrow before he realized something was amiss. And since domestic air travel was still a novelty, the fastest way for him to reach New Mexico would be by car, which would take over twenty-four hours.

Even if he started now, this very minute, it would be too late for him to interfere.




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



Mrs. Bruce's rooming house

Roswell



Courtney's feet were very much looking forward to a rest as she climbed the steep staircase to the second floor, lugging two bags of groceries. Cooking wasn't her strong point, so she'd stuck to simple things like sandwiches until just recently, when her time in the diner had emboldened her to consider a can of soup, only to discover that the stove in her room wasn't working. Still, even cold soup would be a welcome change from sandwiches, and she had several cans in her bags right now. Dee said that she knew someone who could fix her stove, so as soon as that happened, she could....

She stopped suddenly; the door to her room was ajar, and whoever was inside was making no effort to be quiet. Had Nicholas found out what happened to Mark and sent someone here? Was it the sheriff going through her things? She'd located Mark's hiding place for his communicator and hidden that strange five-sided device her father had given her along with it, but they still weren't out of reach of a truly determined searcher. Cautiously, she nudged the door open with her toe.

A man was peering into her oven, a tool box splayed out beside him. "Hello?" Courtney said.

"Hi," the man answered. "I'm Carl. Are you Courtney?"

"Do I know you?" Courtney asked.

"You do now," Carl smiled. "We have a mutual friend. Dee said your stove was acting up, and I'm a repairman."

That's right, Courtney remembered. Dee had said she knew a repairman who was so good he was "out of this world"....and then laughed as Courtney had smiled tentatively and wondered what the joke had been. "She did say something about a repairman, but.....how did you get in here?"

"As luck would have it, I'm also Mrs. Bruce's repairman," Carl said. "Have been for the last several years. I told her that your stove needed looking at, so she unlocked your door for me. I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, that's okay," Courtney said, finally relaxing as she set her bags down. "I was just surprised, that's all. So what's wrong with it?"

"The stove? Nothing." Carl turned on the gas, lit a match, and the burner flared to life. "This is an older model without a pilot light. You have to turn on the gas and then light it with a match. Same thing with the oven. Just make sure you don't leave the gas on without lighting it, or you'll pickle yourself and everyone else in the house."

Courtney blinked. "Wow. You have to use a match? Like a...." She fished around in her human vocabulary for a suitable metaphor. "Like a campfire?"

"Sort of," Carl agreed, "but not as much work and nowhere near as messy. Want me to leave these here?"

"Sure," Courtney said, accepting the box of matches. "I guess I just wasn't expecting something so....so...."

"Primitive?" Carl suggested.

Courtney stared at him a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it exactly."

"Well, like I said, this is an older model," Carl replied, beginning to pack up his things. "But it'll work just fine. Do you cook?" he asked, nodding toward her bags of groceries.

"A few people have given me recipes, but almost everything has...." Courtney stopped, having been about to say almost everything has meat. They'd been taught to eat meat because most humans in this region of Earth did so, and she could stomach cooked meat in things like soup. But the thought of actually handling raw meat was....repulsive. "Almost everything has ingredients I'm not familiar with," she amended. "Guess I'm not much of a cook."

"I could teach you," Carl offered. "But first, I'd better make certain you can light your own stove. Why don't you give it a try while I'm still here. Turn on the gas first," he advised. "Then you won't find yourself holding a lit match while you try to work the dial."

Courtney obeyed, turning the dial as instructed before lighting the match and holding it gingerly to the flame. She couldn't ever remember working with an open flame; everything on Antar was either a different power source entirely or sealed and out of sight. "Is it supposed to be blue?" she asked. "I thought fire was yellow or orange."

"Pure gas flames are blue," Carl replied.

"Whatever the color, at least it works," Courtney said, pulling a can of tomato soup out of her bag. "It'll be good to have something hot for a change. I—" She stopped, suddenly realizing that she had no way to open the can. There hadn't been a can opener in Mrs. Bruce's pile of donated kitchen tools.

"No problem; I've got it," Carl said, fishing a tool out of his box.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" Courtney said, feeling stupid.

"Don't I wish," Carl smiled. "So, where are you from?"

Another part of the galaxy. "A long ways away," Courtney answered.

"Not as far as me, I bet."

"You might be surprised," Courtney noted.

"You might be too," Carl replied. "Dee tells me you've had a rough introduction to Roswell."

Courtney dropped her eyes. "You could say that."

"It'll pass. I got a rocky start here too."

"Oh, really? Did you come in on the heels of a murder?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Carl said, handing her the now open can of soup.

Courtney took the can, stunned. "You did? How? I mean....was it someone you knew?"

Carl snapped his toolbox shut. "It was a good friend of mind. He took a bullet for me."

"Oh," Courtney whispered, feeling horrible that she'd even raised the subject. At least Mark hadn't been anyone she'd known or cared about. "I'm so sorry. Look, I wasn't trying to be flippant, or anything, I just.....I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Carl said. "You didn't know."

"If you don't mind my asking," Courtney said as Carl headed for the door, "why are you still here? I mean, you said you were from far away, and I can't imagine you'd want to stay somewhere where....that happened."

Carl paused at the door and considered a moment. "I don't necessarily want to be here right now, but there are worse places, and....it's where I have to be. Some things are bigger than just what we want, you know?" He smiled faintly and shook his head. "That sounded corny, didn't it?"

"No," Courtney said quickly. "No, not at all. I know exactly what you mean. I...." She hesitated, phrasing her words carefully. "That's why I'm here now....kind of. I have something I need to do that's more important than what I want. I can't leave. Not yet."

"Me neither," Carl said. "Sounds like we have a lot in common. Anything else you need before I go? Besides a can opener, that is."

I need to find a Warder, Courtney thought, having half a mind to say it out loud, knowing Carl wouldn't have any idea what she was talking about. "No," she answered. "Nothing you could help me with. But thanks anyway."




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




6:00 p.m.

Columbia Medical Center, New York City




The elevator door opened, and virtually everyone who stepped out gave Steven a big smile as he stepped on. And no wonder—he was holding a bouquet of long stemmed red roses, a virtual walking advertisement for a date. Or a peace offering, he amended silently. Yvonne—or rather, Marie; he still privately though of her as Yvonne, even though he'd never admit that to her—had been noticeably cool to him ever since he'd made that comment about her hiding behind her pseudonym, probably because he was right. But right or not, bringing that to her attention mid-argument had been a poor choice. He had avoided the subject religiously these past two weeks, but she hadn't budged, so this was step one in what would hopefully be the beginnings of a thaw. Marie had called earlier and said she'd be working well into the night, and he knew how caught up she got in her work, how she wouldn't think to take a break, or eat, or do anything for herself. So he was bringing the break to her in the form of an offer to fetch dinner and eat it with her at the hospital wherever she wanted to.

But first he had to find out where she was. When the elevator doors opened, Claire was obviously in the process of packing up to go home, but still at her desk. Good; he'd made it in time. Claire could always find Marie faster than anyone.

"Good evening, Mr. Johnson," Claire said when she spied him. "What lovely flowers!"

"Thanks," Steven answered. "Could you tell me where I'd find Dr. Johnson now, or at least give me some options? I'd like to buy her dinner."

Having expected to be handed a list of possible places to find his wife, Steven was surprised when Claire looked blank. "Well....she's not here."

"I know that. She called earlier and said she'd be working late. She just didn't say where."

Claire glanced at another secretary, whose eyes flicked to Steven and then back to her typewriter. "Um....Mr. Johnson, I don't know exactly what Dr. Johnson told you, but....she's not here."

"I know that," Steven repeated patiently. "I just need—"

"No, I mean she's not here," Claire interrupted. "She's not at the medical center. She's not...." She paused, as if deciding whether to continue. "She's not even in the state."

"In the state?" Steven echoed. "Then where is she?"

Claire glanced around again; all the other secretaries were studiously pretending they weren't eavesdropping. "Come in here," Claire said, grabbing a set of keys and coming around the desk to unlock the door to Marie's office. Steven followed her in, mystified, and she closed the door behind them.

"Dr. Johnson left with Dr. Fenton early this afternoon," Claire explained. "He told me to cancel all of her appointments, and he left plane tickets for her. I don't know what it was about, but—"

"Where?" Stephen broke in, an icy wave of fear washing over him.

"Where what?" Claire said.

"Where were they going?" Stephen demanded. "Did she say, or did you see the tickets?"

"New Mexico," Claire answered. "The Santa Fe airport. I—"

"And then where? Where exactly were they headed?"

"I....I don't know," Claire answered, flustered. "I'm not Dr. Fenton's secretary—"

"Then who is?"

"Well...his office would be over at the hospital. But they won't tell you anything; Dr. Fenton is an attending in neurology—"

"He's going to be an attending in heaven if they don't tell me where he took my wife!" Stephen said angrily.

Claire paled. "Third floor, building five. But he didn't 'take her', Mr. Johnson. She left willingly. I can assure you that whatever they're doing, it's strictly professional—"

"And likely to get her professionally killed!" Steven snapped as Claire backed up in alarm. "Fenton has no idea who he's dealing with!"

"And....you do?" Claire ventured.

"Yes!" Steven said, ready to burst, he was so frightened and so furious. "Fenton's people are going to tell me where they were going, or I swear to God, I'll tear his office apart finding out."

"Calm down!" Claire begged. "If you go in there like this, your own security people will throw you out in a heartbeat. Did you...." She hesitated for a moment. "Did you mean what you said about her being killed, or are you just worried she's having an affair?"

Claire stiffened apprehensively as Steven took her by the shoulders. "Claire, believe me when I say that I would much rather she be having an affair. At least that way she'd be alive. Marie is quite possibly going to wind up tangling with someone who has already tried to kill her once and would gladly try again if he got the chance."

"Why?" Claire asked incredulously. "Why would anyone want to kill Dr. Johnson?"

"Because of what she knows," Steven said. "If she ever tells what she knows, this man and a lot of others will go down, and they know it. We argued about this two weeks ago. She thinks it's more important to expose him to the medical community so they can publicly censure what he's doing, but they won't be able to do that if he kills her first. Which he might very well end up doing, so tell me how I find out where Fenton took her!"

"Let me go," Claire said firmly.

It took a Herculean effort, but Steven relaxed his grip and Claire backed up, gazing at him wide-eyed. "All right," she said slowly. "This all sounds preposterous, but....but I know you, and I've never seen you like this. So something's going on, even though I'm not sure what. Let me get my coat, and I'll take you to Dr. Fenton's office. Maybe I can find out what you want to know. The secretaries will talk to me long before they'll talk to a crazy man with an even crazier story. Stay here," she instructed. "If anyone sees you like this, word will get around."

Steven sank into Marie's desk chair as Claire walked out, carefully closing the door behind her. She promised! he thought fiercely. She'd promised she wouldn't go anywhere near that "research" project without talking to him first. What was he going to do? He didn't have enough to call the police, and besides, he didn't know where to send them. Marie had accused him of wanting a hit man, and that's exactly what he needed right now: A professional, deadly assassin who could find Marie and protect her if Pierce was involved. Unfortunately, the only person he knew who fit that description was over a day away by car and not reachable by phone.....or was he?

A minute later, Steven was impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk as the phone at the Proctor's house rang and rang and rang. If anyone knew how to find John and Brivari, it would be the Proctors, but no one was home. "Damn it!" he swore, midway to slamming the phone into its cradle when he stopped, something else having occurred to him. It was a long shot and risky to boot, but at this point, he didn't have a lot of options.

"Eagle Rock," a voice said at the other end of the line after he'd dialed.

"I'm calling for Captain Thompson," Steven said.

"May I tell him who's calling?" the voice asked.

"Tell him I need him," Steven instructed. "Stress the word 'need'. He'll know who I am. Just do it," he continued firmly when the voice began to protest. "The captain won't be happy if you don't."

Silence. Steven waited what seemed like forever before he heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"Brian," Steven said, nearly collapsing with relief. "God, is it good to hear your voice!"

"Are you nuts?" Thompson whispered. "Calling the base like this is way too risky!"

"It's too risky not to," Steven argued. "Don't talk—just listen. Yvonne might be in trouble."




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



7 p.m.

Roswell



"Tell me again why I agreed to this?" Dee asked as a festival-goer ran past in a purple alien costume.

"I believe it had something to do with getting away from your mother," Anthony replied, setting Philip down to toddle around.

"It's a lot of fun if you go early," Malik said. "Before dark, it's more like your town's Independence Day festival. It's only after dark that it gets a little strange."

Dee shot him a skeptical look as they strolled across the field toward the Crash Festival, already well attended even though the night was young. It was also hot and promised to stay that way, the approaching sunset notwithstanding. From a distance she had to admit it was hard to tell this festival from any other; there were the usual food and game booths, along with the usual rides. One of those was a Ferris wheel, and Dee paused, watching it whirl around after doing the usual stop-and-go loading.

"Something wrong?" Malik asked.

"I took Urza on the Ferris wheel," Dee answered wistfully. "He loved it."

"I never knew Urza," Malik said. "Did you, Anthony?"

Anthony shook his head. "Nope. That was before my time. I heard about him, though. He took care of that bully who jumped Dee."

"By 'took care of', I assume you mean 'killed'?" Malik asked.

"Right," Dee said, only dimly remembering the coyote that had reared out of the darkness and buried its teeth in her attacker's throat. "I had a skull fracture, and Urza argued with the others that they had an obligation to use the healing stones on me. Something about the 'king's protection'."

"Royal Warders are supposed to offer protection to allies who have risked their lives in the service of the king," Malik said. "I'd certainly agree that was warranted in your case. So who didn't agree?"

"Who do you think?" Dee said. "Jaddo said no, Brivari was on the fence, and Valeris sided with Urza."

"And now I bet both Brivari and Jaddo are very glad Urza made a fuss," Malik smiled. "Urza was widely regarded as a pushover, but I never believed that. Warders aren't made Warders lightly."

"Is it legal to have a real alien discussion at the Crash Festival?" Anthony asked innocently.

"Oh, hush," Dee said with mock annoyance as Malik broke into a laugh. "It may be legal, but it's probably not very smart. Especially with him hanging around."

They had reached the outskirts of the festival, and who should be patrolling this particular spot but Sheriff Valenti himself. "Hello again, Mrs. Evans," Valenti said. "Second time today. Mr. Evans, good to see you. You too, Carl," he added, using Malik's human name. "Love the work you did on the plumbing at the station."

*I'd love to tell him he's actually talking to an alien,* Dee said privately to Malik.

*Steady, there,* Malik said calmly. "Thanks," he said out loud to Valenti. "Any time."

"So how's the little mister enjoying the festival?" Valenti asked watching Philip run gleefully around the wide open space.

"So far, so good," Anthony said. "Carl tells us the real....er....enthusiasts don't come out till after dark."

" 'Enthusiasts'?" Valenti chuckled. "You're too kind. But after dark is when they crash the spaceship, or whatever they've rigged up that passes for a spaceship. That's also when the beer's been flowing freely and all the fights begin. If I were you, I'd leave before that. It can get a little wild."

"We won't be here that long," Anthony promised him. "Hope your night goes well."

"So do I," Valenti said. "Have a good time."

"What did he mean by 'second time today'?" Anthony asked as they left Valenti behind.

"I went to see him earlier," Dee said, picking a dandelion and handing it to Phillip. "He's been bothering Courtney even though I know he doesn't have anything on her. She wasn't even in the state when that guy she was going to move in with was murdered."

"Valenti's always been rather intense," Anthony said. "It may just take him a little while longer to give it up."

"I wouldn't worry about Courtney," Malik added. "I met her today, and she doesn't strike me as the easily intimidated type."

"What was wrong with her stove?" Dee asked.

"Nothing. It's an older model without a starter, so you have to use a match to light it, and she didn't know that."

"I can't believe she hasn't been able to heat food for two weeks and hasn't said anything," Dee said.

"She's no whiner, that's for certain," Malik said. "She said she came here to do something important, and she intends to stay until it's finished."

Dee stopped suddenly, letting Anthony and Philip wander ahead. *She said that? What do you think she meant?*

*I have no idea,* Malik replied. *Why?*

Dee waved to Philip, who was now busily plucking more dandelions and holding them up for his mother's inspection. *Valenti told me the reason he's watching Courtney is that the guy she was going to stay with died under 'suspicious circumstances'.*

*Meaning?*

*He wouldn't say. But he also said he thinks she's lying about something, and as much as he can be a pain in the rear, we both know he has a nose for that.*

*Yes, he does,* Malik agreed. *But just because she doesn't want to spill her guts to the sheriff doesn't mean she's up to something illegal.*

*I know, but....*

*But what?*

Dee hesitated before plunging ahead. *But we both know Valenti won't back off, and I want to find out what's up with Courtney before he does. Do you think you could get her to tell you?*

*You want me to spy on her?* Malik asked. *Isn't that what Valenti's doing that's got you all up in arms?*

*Not 'spy', exactly, just nose around a little,* Dee said impatiently.

*Why me? You see her more than I do.*

*But she never told me that,* Dee countered. *I don't want you to tie her to a chair in a dark room with a bare light bulb, I just want you to probe a little bit. How can that hurt?*

*Never use the word 'probe' with an alien,* Malik deadpanned. *All right,* he added hurriedly as Dee's eyes narrowed. *I'll be here all night, so I'll keep an eye out for her; most of the town comes out for this, so she might be here at some point. If not, you'll have to find something else that's broken so I have an excuse to visit again.*

Dee blinked. *You stay for the entire festival?*

*I love this festival,* Malik said. *I look forward to it every year.*

*What for? I would think you'd avoid it like the plague.*

*Look around you,* Malik said as they started walking again, catching up to Anthony and Philip, who was eyeing the Kiddie Whip. *Most people are terrified of the very notion of aliens. But this actually celebrates our arrival, albeit in a rather back-handed way.*

*Gee, and I thought it was all just an excuse to lure tourists and make money,* Dee said dryly. *Malik, most of these people would drop to their knees and scream if they met a real alien. You know that.*

*But a number of them wouldn't,* Malik countered. *I don't mean those,* he added as a group of alien-costumed teenagers trundled by speaking in tongues. *I mean the ones who come out later with all their equipment and scan the sky to see if they can find evidence of aliens listening. Those are the types who are actually excited about the idea that they're not alone in the universe.*

*You mean weirdoes,* Dee said.

*Maybe,* Malik allowed. *But with all the fear that runs through your culture about life on other planets, it's a treat to see those who aren't sucked in by it. Say what you want about the weirdoes, but even you have to admit they're right. Which means you have something in common with weirdoes.*

*I'm starting to think you're a weirdo,* Dee grumbled, rolling her eyes when he laughed at her.




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



Three hours later




"And here we are!" the bus driver announced cheerfully. "Buses will be running back and forth from the festival site to downtown Roswell every twenty minutes until 2 a.m. Catch an alien!"

Why did I come here? Courtney thought as she rose in unison with the rest of the passengers, many of whom were wearing some kind of costume. Oh, yes—because virtually the entire town was going, leaving the streets empty and her rooming house eerily quiet. This was actually one of the later waves to leave, and it boasted a higher percentage of hard core alien aficionados. Along with the costumed revelers were several humans toting radios or other paraphernalia; she'd spent the bus ride listening to an earnest conversation directly behind her about how best to contact the aliens on Alpha Centari. It was hard to believe the chatterers believed their primitive radio would contact anyone across town, never mind the galaxy, but it was also hard not to get caught up in the general level of excitement, silly expectations notwithstanding.

"No costume?" the bus driver asked Courtney as she filed past on the way out.

"Nope," she smiled, adding privately, I'm already wearing mine. Once she stepped off the bus, it was even worse; easily 90% of the festival goers were dressed as some sort of alien, or what they thought was an alien, with most of the remaining 10% hauling equipment. The equipment toters headed for a field beyond the festival while the rest made a beeline for one of the food and alcohol vendors, of which there seemed an endless supply. Dazzled, Courtney wandered the aisles of booths, basking in the irony of being an alien costumed as a human among humans costumed as aliens. And such colorful aliens too, of every hue imaginable and sporting appendages she'd never seen anywhere before, from extra heads to tentacles to one with an alarming number of eyes. Still, there were enough that bore more than a passing resemblance to an Antarian that it was clear that some kind of information about the real crash had leaked out. The principle disagreement seemed to be color: Green seemed to be the winner, with only a handful correctly colored gray. Just as well, she thought. The last thing she needed was to run into a genuine facsimile of what she looked like without her husk.

Then, rounding a corner into the next aisle of booths, she did just that. It was a group of children, judging by the height, and whoever had dressed them had done their homework: Gray skin, slanted eyes, large hands. She stopped short, her breath catching in her throat as she was overcome by a wave of homesickness. There were about fifteen of them, and for just a moment, if she focused only on that group, she could almost believe she was back home.....

....until one of them slipped his mask off, revealing a human boy of about ten underneath. "You okay, lady?" he asked.

"Sure," Courtney answered, startled. "I....you....those are neat costumes."

"Thanks!" the boy said enthusiastically as the rest of his group pulled their masks off as well and beamed at her. "We tried really hard to get it right."

"You did a good job," Courtney said sincerely.

Suddenly she was surrounded by grateful pseudo aliens, all about her real height. "Can you believe all the garbage out there?" one of them said. "Everybody thinks aliens are green, but Mr. Brazel said they weren't green on the radio."

"Who's Mr. Brazel?" Courtney asked.

"Mac Brazel," another boy piped up. "He discovered the aliens' ship out on Pohlman Ranch, and he went on the radio and said they weren't green. Before the Army got'im, that is."

...discovered the aliens' ship... "Is this Mr. Brazel still here?" Courtney asked casually.

"Sure," the first boy said. "He lives in Corona. But he won't talk about it. Everybody tries to get'im to talk about it, but he clammed up a long time ago."

"Well, you boys did a great job," Courtney said. "You're very observant. Keep up the good work."

"You hear that? She said we're observant!" crowed one of the boys as they pulled their masks back on and sauntered off into the night, resplendent in their superiority. Courtney watched them leave, unable to believe that she'd hit paydirt within just a few minutes of her arrival. That was the real reason she'd come here, in the hopes that she would learn something that might point the way to the Warders. She'd spent the afternoon after the repairman had left pondering how to go about her mission. How did one find a dangerous being who was expert at not being found? Did you take out an ad in the local newspaper, or send up a flare, or stand in the middle of the street and shout their names? It was well known that the Warders had had allies here, but exactly who or where they were had never been shared, and there was no way of telling if they were even still in this area. But the man who had discovered the Warders' ship was still here, and if he was still "clammed up", it would be her task to....unclam him. At least it was a place to start, something she'd been lacking only five minutes ago.

A roar from the crowd made her turn. Lights on tall poles had just popped on, illuminating a huge saucer-shaped object toward the top of one of the poles. It's a cargo ship, Courtney thought wonderingly as she stared at the crude but still recognizable reconstruction of an Antarian cargo ship, a rather old model if she remembered rightly. The Warders had wisely fled Antar aboard a vessel which wouldn't have raised any alarms until it was too late to do anything, and apparently enough humans had seen it that its basic outline had seeped into their lore.

"They'll crash the ship in about twenty minutes," a voice said behind her.

Courtney turned around. "Carl! I didn't expect to see you here."

"Dee was here too, a bit earlier," Carl said. "They had to take the baby home. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have offered to join you."

"Oh....well, I wasn't coming," Courtney answered. "Not originally. I just decided to come when I saw almost everyone in town going. It was kind of weird having it so quiet back in town."

"I thought maybe you weren't coming because you were working on your big task," Carl said.

" 'Big task'?"

"You know, you said you had something really important to do here, and you wouldn't leave until it was finished. That task."

"Oh, that," Courtney said. "I did make a little headway with that. Not much, but it's better than nothing."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can find someone who doesn't want to be found," Courtney said.

"Actually, I have quite a bit of experience with that," Carl said.

"Wow," Courtney said dryly. "You fix things, you cook, and you find the unfindable. Is there anything you don't do?"

"Lots of things," Carl smiled, pulling her back a bit further as the crowd surged forward, growing more excited by the minute. "But seriously, why doesn't this someone want to be found?"

"We're having a bit of a....disagreement," Courtney answered, mentally tagging that as something of an understatement.

"Ah. A family feud?"

"Something like that." The crowd roared as lights on the "spaceship" flicked on, producing a glowing saucer. "I probably shouldn't have come here," Courtney said. "I still don't understand the point of celebrating an accident."

"That's a popular misconception," Carl replied. "They're not celebrating the crash—they're celebrating the idea that they're not alone in the universe."

"Aren't you the optimist," Courtney chuckled. "What makes you think that?"

Carl shrugged. "People love to dream, and they're fascinated with the notion of other worlds out there, other species. The crash taught them that they're not alone, and even though that scared a lot of them, it fired their imaginations more than you might think."

"So you think the crash was real?" Courtney asked. "You believe in aliens? What?" she added defensively as Carl broke into a laugh. "I may be new here, but I've heard the chatter around town. Everyone's divided into one of two camps: Believers or non-believers. Which one are you?"

"A believer," Carl smiled. "Definitely a believer."

"So....what would you do if you actually met an alien?" Courtney asked, fully expecting Carl to burst out laughing all over again.

But he didn't. "I guess the first thing I'd do is ask what they're doing here," he answered, sounding absolutely serious.

"You mean you wouldn't call the police, or the military? Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't just take it for granted that they were here for some awful purpose," Carl answered. "Honestly, all these stories about aliens coming here to eat us, or take over the Earth, or whatever. If that's what they're up to, they're taking an awful long time about it, don't you think?"

"Then why do you think their ship crashed?"

"Who knows? Maybe it really was just an accident. God knows we have enough of those here that we ought to be able to wrap our heads around that."

"Yeah," Courtney murmured, a dangerous thought forming in her mind. Amid the costumed crowd with a glowing recreation of a ship from her world blazing above her, the loneliness of the last two weeks suddenly seemed unbearable. She had only just left the safe, structured community near their ship that was used to train operatives before being thrust into a situation she wasn't prepared for. It would be so wonderful to have someone who knew, someone to share her secret. Maybe she could test the waters, maybe say she was an alien and then act like it was all a big joke if he panicked....

"Carl," she said carefully, "I have something to tell you."

"What's that?" he asked, his eyes on the ship.

"I....." Courtney stopped, looking not at Carl, but past him. A few feet away stood a man wearing the uniform of a soldier....and he was staring straight at her.




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


I'll post Chapter 12 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER TWELVE


July 2, 1959, 10:20 p.m.

Roswell



Courtney's words caught in her throat as she stared at the soldier, whose eyes appeared to be locked on hers. Oh, no! she thought frantically, gripped by a sudden panic that she'd been identified. What had she been thinking, about to blurt out her secret within miles of the very military base where Jaddo had been held captive? The tales of what had happened to him during his years of captivity were now legendary among her people, all of whom she knew would break the seals on their own husks before allowing themselves to be captured.

"Something wrong?" Carl asked.

"That soldier," Courtney whispered. "He's looking at me. Why is he doing that?"

Carl swung his head around. The soldier's eyes widened and he came closer as Courtney instinctively backed away. "It's you!" the soldier exclaimed. "What are the odds I'd recognize you?"

It took a moment for Courtney to process that the object of the soldier's interest had been Carl, not herself. And they apparently knew each other, because both worse expressions of shocked recognition. "You're looking for me?" Carl asked, his voice tense, his easygoing manner gone. "Why?"

"I was looking for someone else, but you're even better," the soldier said. "I got a call from the captain. He thinks she may have found Pierce. How do I find them?"

"Pierce!" Carl breathed. "Good Lord. Come with me," he ordered, the soldier immediately falling in step behind him as though Carl were his commanding officer.

"Wait!" Courtney called as they began to push their way through the crowd. "What's wrong?"

"Courtney....I'm sorry," Carl said as though he'd quite forgotten she was there. "I have to go now. This is important."

"Can I help?" Courtney asked, struggling to keep up with them as they threaded their way through the masses.

"You can't," Carl said shortly, all business now. "They never come to this," he added to the soldier, "so we'll have to—wait. Over there!"

Courtney scrambled after Carl and the soldier as they broke into a run, jogging to keep up with them. The bulk of the crowd was gathered around the ship, so it was less congested back here, enough so that she was able to spot two familiar faces they appeared to be aiming for—her customers from the diner, Mr. Langley and Mr. Anderson.




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




William Atherton strolled through the festival grounds, drinking in the sights and sounds of the bacchanalia in progress all around him. He never felt more alive than when he was undercover, and the orgy in which he now found himself in the midst of only accentuated that feeling. Part of that was due to the odd choice he'd made when he'd decided to craft two different personas. Most people would have married their real face to their real name and their disguise to their pseudonym. But he had done the opposite, pairing his disguise with his true identity, the one who actually existed in the eyes of the Internal Revenue Service, and his real face with his many and varied alter egos. The idea had come to him after his publisher had asked for many changes in the first draft of his book, calling it "too scholarly", "too frightening", and "unsellable". Infuriating, but correct, and after a great deal of thought, he'd made a fateful decision: Since no one wanted to talk to an "alienologist", he would give them someone else to talk to....but there was still that nagging problem of funding. So he'd revised his manuscript to reflect what people wanted to hear and his physical appearance to match. His publisher had been delighted with the manuscript but alarmed at his new image, telling him he looked like a crackpot. Precisely the point, Atherton had agreed, having spent a great deal of time crafting an easily wearable disguise. Unable to use the photograph they'd had taken before his change of heart and unwilling to run one of him in his new incarnation, his publisher had simply left it off the dust jacket while still pressuring him to "clean up". That issue had fallen away as his book sold handily—publishers didn't care what you looked like as long as you made them money—and the resulting revenue had funded more research than he'd ever been able to do, all while wearing his real face and feigning membership in professions which would open those doors previously closed to him. The gambit had worked flawlessly for several years now; his ridiculous book sold enough copies to allow him the comfortable pursuit of his real interest, that of making actual contact with alien life.

"I can't believe I allowed you to convince me to accompany you here," a voice said beside him.

"Oh, come now, Langley," Atherton said cheerfully. "I see through you better than you think. You're bored, bored, bored. You're used to an exciting life guarding whoever it is you guard, probably lots of travel, lots of politics, or at least intrigue, and now that you're on vacation, you simply don't know what to do with yourself. Am I right?"

Langley merely smiled faintly, one of his standard answers for just about any query. He was an enigma, this one; highly trained, highly intelligent, supremely observant, and unfailingly discreet about both Atherton's identity and his own. While the former was much appreciated, the latter was maddening; after two weeks of daily breakfasts, Atherton knew nothing more about his new friend than he had when they'd first met, including his first name. Langley kept things very close to the vest. But that was probably a necessity, him being in security and all. Secret Service agents probably didn't go around blabbing their business when they were on holiday either.

"I love this festival," Atherton declared. "This was the way man was intended to celebrate, with joy, and verve, and absolute abandon. They way we used to celebrate, before the Church got hold of us and made us all sit quietly in pews and sing dreary songs that would bore the dead."

"I gather you're not a spiritual man?" Langley asked.

"On the contrary, my friend, I am very spiritual," Atherton answered. "I have a deep and abiding faith in a higher power. But faith and religion are two different things, you see. Faith is a mindset, a belief; religion is really just a flawed institution invented by man and suffering from all of mankind's foibles."

"Such as?"

"Such as the endless quest for power," Atherton replied. "Did you know that the sacrament of confession in the Catholic Church was invented by a priest who wanted to keep tabs on his parishioners? He claimed they had to confess their sins to him in order to obtain God's forgiveness."

"A novel way of gathering intelligence," Langley said.

"And a very efficient way," Atherton agreed. "Withhold salvation from a man, and he will do anything to retrieve it. The Church was not long in noting this priest's idea. Before long, confession moved from a private practice in one parish to a sacrament of the Church, when all it really is a quest for control. Few Catholics recognize the contradiction in the Church's own teaching: It claims that Jesus Christ died on the cross specifically to earn the forgiveness which man could not earn for himself, then turns around and says that man can earn forgiveness by jumping through their hoops. If Christ's death secured forgiveness, then why is more needed? Was His death not sufficient? Is the Church saying that Christ botched the job?"

"I would imagine such viewpoints are not welcome in certain circles," Langley observed.

"Oh, you can bet they aren't," Atherton huffed. "Pin them to the wall about it, and they say the specter of confession is necessary to induce a man to control his behavior."

"It would be difficult to argue that self control is not an admirable goal," Langley said dryly as a festival goer pitched himself over the edge of a nearby trash can and proceeded to dispose of the contents of his stomach.

"It's not 'self control' they're after, it's their control," Atherton argued passionately. " 'Self control' is just that—control of one's self by one's own means and volition, not coercion from without. One cannot force self control without canceling out the 'self' part and turning it into something else entirely."

"I swear I've never met anyone who can belabor a point the way you can," Langley chuckled.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Atherton smiled, "especially as I notice you've offered no counter argument. But my real point is that revelries such as this are necessary to the human psyche, part and parcel of who we are. Socially acceptable outlets for this aspect of our natures allow us to 'blow off steam', as it were, and render us more sober in other situations. Trying to remove or repress our natural tendency to celebrate and occasionally overindulge is silly; better to channel it, to give it a place to be, allow it to expand our possibilities. Take this, for example," he continued, making a sweeping gesture than encompassed the festival grounds. "What I see here is not inebriated revelers vomiting in trash cans. Oh, there are those, of course, and always will be; some always operate at the extremes. No, what I see here is hope—hope that something is out there heretofore undiscovered. That new horizons await, that new truths are waiting to be found. This is a celebration of what we don't know, of what remains to be discovered. What do you see, Langley?"

Langley threw him a look that was equal parts skepticism and amusement before answering. "I see several hundred people, most of whom are in various states of inebriation and many of whom are costumed as what they fear. I see a crudely built 'spaceship' festooned with electric lights that will break when it is 'crashed' in a short while, upon which everyone in attendance will cheer as though disaster was something to be celebrated. While I admit the presence of a few who are genuinely curious and open to the undiscovered, the vast majority of those here would promptly panic were they to encounter an actual being from another planet."

"Such a cynic," Atherton sighed, shaking his head. "May I ask what's jaded you so thoroughly?"

"I'm afraid you wouldn't live long enough to hear that list," Langley replied. "Although...." He stopped, his head swinging sharply away as though he'd just heard something of note. Then he took off, and Atherton scurried to follow, wondering what had happened; no one had approached them, spoken to them, or hailed them in any way. A moment later he found himself standing in front of a very odd group: An Army captain, an unidentified man, and their waitress from the diner. No one spoke; Langley and the strange man merely looked at one another while the captain watched intently.

"Is.....something wrong?" Atherton ventured.

"I must leave," Langley said suddenly to Atherton. "My apologies for the abrupt departure. I will contact you when I return."

And then he was gone, hurrying through the crowd with the captain and the strange man behind him. Does he work for the military? Atherton wondered, noting how the captain conceded the lead to Langley. If so, it was no wonder he was so closed off about his profession; with the cold war and the arms race in full swing, America needed every advantage it could muster.

"It's Miss Harris, isn't it?" Atherton asked the befuddled waitress, who appeared every bit as confused as he was.

"Right," she answered. "Do you know what's going on, Mr. Anderson?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Atherton said.

"Well, I was just talking to Carl, and then that officer appeared out of nowhere and said they'd 'found' somebody....and then they just took off. I don't know what Mr. Langley has to do with it, though. Or Carl, for that matter."

"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mr. Langley has quite a bit do with whatever 'it' is," Atherton said confidently. "He says he's on vacation, but I doubt that one is ever really on vacation. So...I thought you told me this morning you weren't coming tonight?"

Before she could answer, a roar rose from the crowd in front of them, and the saucer suspended above began to move. It slid down the wire it was attached to, slowly at first, then faster and faster, hitting the ground with a spectacular noise that drove the crowd into an even bigger frenzy.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have," the waitress whispered, gazing sadly at the crashed "spaceship".

"Nonsense," Atherton scoffed. "Honestly, there's so much negativity here tonight! First Langley, now you....and here everyone else is having so much fun. Come with me, dear," he instructed, extending his arm, "and let me show you why this is a celebration, not a funeral."






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




July 3, 1959, 9:00 a.m.

Cook residence, Roswell




Jim Valenti pulled his cruiser into the Cook's driveway and shut off the engine. The Crash Festival had gone well last night, with deputies breaking up several altercations before they escalated and no shortage of cells and buckets for the inevitable drunk and disorderly. Today was Friday; Hollywood roared into town on Monday, giving him a few days to breathe.....and clean up some unfinished business. He'd given a lot of thought as to how to approach his former fellow deputy, ultimately nixing the plainclothes and regular car for his uniform and cruiser. Jake was a bit on the thick side; some visual cues were definitely in order.

Jake answered the door promptly, beer in hand. "Jim!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "Come on in. Haven't seen you in ages, but I hear our boys our hanging together."

"Yes, they are," Valenti agreed, removing his hat as he stepped inside. "Got a minute?"

"Sure, sure," Jake said, gesturing inside. "Make yourself comfortable. Want a beer?"

"No thanks. I'm on duty."

"Since when did that stop you?" Jake chuckled. "Just kidding," he added as Valenti's eyebrows rose. "I know, I know, you weren't on duty, and it was just that once. But it was a spectacular once, wasn't it?"

Valenti settled himself in a kitchen chair, regretting having spent so much time debating how to broach the subject at hand when Jake had gone and done it for him within thirty seconds of his arrival. "About that; I understand you've been telling your son tales, which have in turn found their way to my son."

" 'Tales'?" Jake repeated, leaning against the fridge. "What, you mean like lies? I haven't told Tommy a blessed thing that isn't true."

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "But you have told Tommy a blessed thing you shouldn't have. That's why I'm here."

Jake stared at him blankly for a moment before his face split into a wide smile. "Oh, I see. This is about that spectacular 'once' back in '47, isn't it? That little alien incident?"

"Funny," Valenti said, "there's no report involving me in an 'alien incident' in '47, or any other year."

"Of course not," Jake said. "Hemming sat on that report. You know that." He paused, noting the look on Valenti's face. "You're sore, aren't you? You're sore that your kid found out what happened. Jesus, Jim, that was more than a decade ago! Besides, our own guys found you, so I'm not the only one who knows you were passed out in your car with a bunch of empty beer bottles in the back."

"No, you're just the only one shooting your mouth off," Valenti said flatly.

"And then you turned around and said an alien set you up," Jake continued, shaking his head and chuckling. "Now, frankly, I thought that was drop dead brilliant of you. I mean, the whole damned county was going nuts over aliens, so that put you right in line with everyone else who thought they saw an alien behind every bush. Not surprised Hemming didn't buy it, though, although I was a little surprised he went so far as to transfer you to the county station. I thought that was a bit much—"

"Sheriff Hemming loaned several deputies to the county sheriff from '47 all the way through 1950," Valenti interrupted. "It wasn't just me. And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop spreading stories around."

"Aw, what's the matter, Jim?" Jake said with that maddening smile as he dropped into a seat across from him. "You worried? Afraid the town council is going to find out their sheriff had a few beers years ago and hallucinated some aliens? So what? You're certainly not the first deputy to tie one on in his off hours. Hell, half the council probably ties one on when they go home at night."

"It's not the council I'm worried about," Valenti said. "Their opinion of me is largely shaped by public perception, and what kind of perception is that going to be if your kid is going around repeating that story and calling me 'Deputy Martian'?"

"You're right," Jake said with mock dismay. "It should be Sheriff Martian. So let me get this straight—you came over to my house all gussied up in your uniform and your shiny badge because you're worried about your reputation? What are you going to do, sheriff? Call my mommy? Throw me in the slammer for name-calling? These things have a way of getting out, Valenti. Give it up."

Valenti leaned back in his chair, his arms folded in front of him as Jake smirked at him across the kitchen table. "I'm surprised to hear this attitude from you," he said mildly, "given that Hemming 'sat on' a few other things in his time."

The smile slid off Jake's face. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I took a walk through the personnel files. I always wondered why you suddenly up and decided to go into construction."

"What the hell are you doing, poking your nose where it doesn't belong?" Jake demanded. "Hemming told me he sealed those records!"

"Oh, he did," Valenti said. "Mighty nice of him, if you ask me, because being fired for frequent insubordination and a drinking problem would have made it hard for you to find just about any kind of work. And I'm not poking my nose where it doesn't belong. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the sheriff now. Which means that all personnel records are available to me, including those that were sealed."

"Including your own drinking spree, Deputy Martian?" Jake said sharply.

Valenti smiled faintly. "No; no, I'm afraid not that one. You see, Hemming didn't merely 'sit on' that report—he tore it up. It doesn't exist, so there was nothing to seal, nothing to find. But you.....oh, yes, you have something to find."

Jake's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me? You have no authority to blab about my dismissal to anyone, and you know it!"

"So it was a dismissal."

"No!" Jake retorted. "I quit! That's what went in the official report, and that's all you have any business telling anyone!"

"Oh, absolutely, absolutely," Valenti agreed. "But you said yourself how these things have a way of getting out. And I'd hate for this to get out. Wouldn't you?"

Silence. Jake glared at him across the table while Valenti kept his expression neutral. "You blab that," Jake said, his voice tight, "and I could lose my job."

"You keep blabbing about 'Deputy Martian', and I could lose my job," Valenti noted.

"I've got a wife and kid to support!" Jake thundered.

"What do you know?" Valenti said, feigning surprise. "So do I. Since we both know each others' secrets, and we both have families to protect, I suggest we both keep our mouths shut."

"You're blackmailing me!" Jake exclaimed, springing to his feet. "I can't believe it, you little shit, you're blackmailing me!"

"Or you're blackmailing me," Valenti said deliberately. "Which is exactly what I'm going to say if you ever breathe a syllable of this conversation to another living soul. I've got records to back up my claims, Jake. How about you?"

Jake glared at him furiously while Valenti watched calmly, his own temper firmly under wraps. It had been a given that Jake was going to lose his; no sense in both of them going off the deep end. Jake was a master braggart and bully, but he did seem to know when he was cornered. Which is how former Sheriff Hemming had managed to convince him to bow out gracefully instead of being fired, and why Valenti was hoping this gambit would work.

Which it apparently had. Jake sank back into his chair, scowling but cowed. "Fine," he said flatly. "I stop telling my story, and you don't tell yours. Although, frankly, I should be able to haul your ass into court for going into sealed records. But you'd never let it be tracked back to you, would you?"

"Not a chance," Valenti agreed, rising from his chair and donning his hat. "I'm so glad we came to an understanding, Jake. Good to see you again."

"Like hell it was," Jake muttered. "I don't remember you being such a ball buster, Jim. Where'd you learn to play dirty?"

"From the aliens," Valenti said seriously. "Catch you later."

"So where'd they go?" Jake called after him. "I haven't heard anything about aliens from you since the forties. Did you give up on them, Sheriff Martian?"

Valenti bit back a retort and left Jake's question hanging in the air as he walked out the front door and closed it quietly behind him. Even if Jake wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut, there was at least a fighting chance that nickname wouldn't stick anyway. There hadn't been so much as a whiff of anything alien in the past decade; after the drama in the late forties, the aliens appeared to have vanished, and that suited Valenti just fine. There'd be no complaint from him if that chapter in his life was closed forever.




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




11:45 a.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



"Up you go!" Dee said to Philip as she lifted him into the booth and fished in her purse for a box of crayons. A minute later he was scribbling away on the back of a paper placemat, unfazed by the chattering lunch crowd and the people who stopped to admire him on their way in and out. Philip had been taken so many places in his young life that travel was just business as usual. He'd probably die of boredom stuck in the house all day.

"Morning."

"Hi, Courtney," Dee said. "Wow—you're way ahead of me."

"Coffee for you, apple juice for Philip, right?" Courtney said, setting down the glasses. "Missed you at the festival last night."

"You went? Anthony and I left pretty early. It's not a favorite of mine anyway."

"Me neither," Courtney agreed. "But I did learn some interesting stuff. For example, the man who discovered the aliens' ship is still living here. Someone named 'Mac Brazel'. Do you know him?"

Dee smiled faintly at Courtney's earnest expression. Mac had long since grown weary of being inundated by tourists during the Crash Festival, and had adopted the habit of vacationing during the two weeks surrounding it. He and Rose had reportedly entertained the notion of disappearing for the entire summer tourist season, but the thought of leaving his house unattended while alien seekers beat a path to his door was less than appealing. Even her own family had been feeling the pressure as those alien seekers had developed the habit of knocking on other doors if the Brazels didn't happen to be home. Summer was a busy time on Baldwin Street.

"Everyone around here knows Mac," Dee answered. "He goes out of town this time of year because so many people bother him."

"Oh," Courtney said, disappointed. "I was hoping I could talk to him about what he saw."

"You and a million other people," Dee said dryly. "Mac doesn't talk about it, so you'd be wasting your time."

"Then could I go out to that ranch where he found the ship?"

"Depends on whether or not you'd like to get arrested," Dee said. "The government bought that land soon after the crash. It's all fenced off, although I hear lots of people try it."

"So who does the arresting? Sheriff Valenti?"

"No, that would be the United States Army," Dee said. "And my experience is that you don't want to mess with them."

Courtney's eyes widened. "You've had experience with the Army?"

A bit, Dee thought, a rush of memories flooding over her. That hot summer morning when she'd wormed her way into Mac's truck and begged him to take her out to the ranch so she could look for evidence of the "falling star" she'd seen the night before. Running through the throng of soldiers after the ship was discovered, desperately hoping the exhausted Warder inside would be able to shield her from their view long enough for her to reach her father. The night the hunters had come for Brivari, and Cavitt arriving only a short time afterward. The nurse who had cared for Jaddo and what they'd done to her. And Cavitt kidnapping her mother, trying to squirrel her away at the base before being stopped at the last minute by Captain Spade and Valenti, who had followed his trail as relentlessly as any hound dogs. She hadn't thought about any of this in a very long time, but it still lingered just beneath the surface. Even the sight of a military uniform made her skin crawl.

"The Army was all over this area for the first few years after the crash," Dee said. "That's why a lot of people think they're lying about it being a weather balloon. That and the fact they said it was a spaceship and then changed their minds."

"So what do you think?"

"I think it's quite possible an alien ship crashed here," Dee said casually, having answered this question so many times that she could hold this conversation in her sleep. As soon as anyone found out you'd been in the Roswell area in the late forties, the interrogation inevitably began.

"You grew up here, right?" Courtney asked. "Did you see anything when all that happened?"

"Nope," Dee said lightly. "Other than a whole lot of scared people, that is."

"But you still think a ship crashed?"

"I think something happened," Dee corrected. "The Army's interest means something happened. Whether or not it had anything to do with aliens, I don't know. I do know they were very hard on Mac back in the day, which is why I said don't mess with them."

Courtney shook her head as she pulled her order pad out of her uniform pocket. "I have to tell you, I was seriously freaked out when that officer showed up last night. But it turned out he just wanted to talk to Carl."

"Officer?" Dee echoed. "Wait—you saw Carl?"

"I ran into Carl last night at the festival," Courtney said, "and just a few minutes later, this officer comes up and says something to Carl, and then Carl just....took off. He said he had to leave, that he had something important to do."

"Like what?" Dee asked warily.

"Don't know. But he took off through the crowd and wound up hooking up with Mr. Langley, and then they both disappeared. I spent the rest of the evening with Mr. Anderson, Mr. Langley's friend. He's quite a character," Courtney added with a chuckle. "I've never met anyone with such an optimistic view of just about everything."

Dee's mind raced, uncertain as to which part of this extraordinary announcement to address first. Malik and Brivari had been approached by an Army officer, and left to do something important? Brivari had attended the Crash Festival? Brivari had a friend? "Okay," she said slowly, trying to prioritize but ultimately settling on the most startling part of Courtney's news. "First, of all, who is 'Mr. Anderson', and why do you think he's Mr. Langley's friend?"

"He's right over there," Courtney said, pointing. Dee twisted around to see an unfamiliar middle-aged man sitting alone in a booth a few down from hers. "They've been eating breakfast together every morning for the past couple of weeks now, and they were at the festival together last night."

"They have? They were?" Dee repeated, stunned. Then she turned back around, shaking off the distraction of Brivari actually having a social life. "This is important: Do you remember exactly what the officer said to Carl?"

"Sure," Courtney said. "I remember everything I hear. He seemed surprised to see Carl there, and then he said, 'I got a call from the captain', and 'he thinks she may have found Pierce. How do I find them?' "

Dee's throat constricted. "And then what?"

"And then Carl took off with the soldier and me following him," Courtney said. "He found Mr. Langley, and then the three of them left, and I spent the rest of the night with Mr. Anderson." She paused, looking at Dee curiously. "Do you know what that's all about?"

Oh my God, Dee thought, her stomach twisting in knots. "No," she said, flustered. "I....I don't."

"Oh. Well, Mr. Anderson doesn't either. He's been waiting all morning, but Mr. Langley hasn't shown up, so whatever needed doing, they must still be doing it." She flipped her pad open as another waitress walked by and gave her a strange look, probably wondering why she was standing there gabbing. "What would you like this morning?"

"Nothing," Dee said, reaching into her purse and pulling out some coins. "This is for the drinks. I have to go."

"Why?"

"I just remembered something I have to do at home," Dee said hurriedly, coaxing the crayons out of Philip's hands and folding up his picture to take with her. "Sorry to run. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Sure," Courtney said faintly as Dee practically charged out of the diner with her son on her hip. Anthony would be busy with the observatory, so she'd have to bum a ride, but that was the easy part. The hard part was how the past had just erupted into the present. Pierce was the doctor who had experimented on Jaddo while he was captive and nearly killed the nurse who had cared for him while trying to impregnate her with an alien-human child. It had taken Brivari and a healing stone to save her life after she'd been smuggled off the base and hidden in Dee's own house. As far as she knew, Brivari and Jaddo had never been able to find Pierce. If someone had located him, that would explain why two aliens and an Army officer had gone scurrying off into the night.




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




Route 285, New Mexico




The car came to a stop, and Marie settled her sunglasses more firmly on her nose and adjusted her head scarf before climbing out. The heat was blistering, but she didn't care, having been on the road for hours now. They'd started out early this morning, ferried in cars provided by the charming Dr. Burke down 285 South, stopping north of Roswell at the Norwood State Mental Hospital, a drab, utilitarian building which seemed built into the rocks behind it out here in the middle of the desert. They were finally going to hear a presentation on the actual research being done and meet those involved. If Pierce was involved, this was where she'd find him.

"Right this way," Dr. Burke was saying. "Let's get you all out of this heat."

Marie returned a perfunctory smile as she, Dr. Fenton, and the eight other finalists, all male, filed obediently behind Burke. There had been twelve last night when he'd met them for dinner at the hotel in Santa Fe, an elegant affair in a private room where Burke had kept the conversation light and deferred all specific questions about the research project till today's meeting. But there had obviously been more going on than just casual conversation because this morning two finalists were missing, having either withdrawn or been dismissed. Burke wouldn't say which, and Marie did not find that encouraging, although Fenton disagreed. "These things happen all the time at the top of the food chain," he'd said dismissively. "It's dog eat dog up there. I mean 'here'," he'd corrected with a smile. Fenton had thoroughly enjoyed the amenities Dr. Burke had provided, from the stellar hotel rooms to the fancy dinner to the limousines which had taken them to the hospital. Everything about Burke screamed "money", from his expensive suits to his earnest discussions with the sommelier at dinner last night. Fenton was enjoying that; Marie saw it as a bad sign.

But she had to admit there was nothing that screamed "money" about the building in which they now found themselves. Marie found herself shivering involuntarily as they marched into the rather forbidding front hall and Burke led them through the first floor, bypassing the barred, locked doorway through which one accessed the patient wards and into a comfortably appointed meeting room complete with coffee and sandwiches. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to sit; there was a podium and a projection screen up front, and a projector in the back. If Pierce was here, he could wind up in either location, so she took a seat in the middle, over Fenton's objections. "I want to be able to see the screen better," she whispered as he reluctantly joined her. The other eight finalists sprinkled themselves around the room and waited patiently as Dr. Burke donned a pair of glasses and shuffled papers at the podium for a full minute before finally speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you for coming and for your patience. I realize I haven't been forthcoming about exactly what we're doing here at Norwood, and the reasons for that discretion will soon become clear. What is happening here is of the utmost importance....and the utmost secrecy. The last thing we'd want is for the communists to get hold of our research. For that reason I'm going to ask each of you to sign a non-disclosure agreement in which you agree to never discuss what you hear in this room with anyone outside of this room, including your own families. If anyone would rather not sign, simply leave the room and I'll have you taken back to the hotel with no questions asked."

No one moved. Burke handed out the forms and everyone signed, with Fenton throwing Marie an excited look as he did so. Big deal, she thought as she scribbled her signature. Non-disclosures were old hat to her, and everyone was forever trotting out the communists as excuses for everything. When the forms had been collected, Burke meticulously checked each one before making a tidy pile on the table next to the podium and straightening his tie. "Here it comes," Fenton murmured.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Burke intoned, "we've all heard of the so called alien crash in this area back in 1947. What would you say if I told you that aliens are real?"

Marie stiffened, reaching up to touch her head scarf and glasses for reassurance as a collective murmur of apprehension rumbled through the room. "Naturally, you'll want proof," Burke continued. "And to provide that, along with answers to any questions you might have, allow me to introduce my esteemed colleague and the founder of our program, Dr. Daniel Pierce."



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


I'll post Chapter 13 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


July 3, 1959, 1:00 p.m.

Norwood State Mental Hospital, New Mexico




Marie pushed the door to the ladies room open, grateful that there even was a ladies room. At least some of Norwood's visitors must be female in order to merit their own restroom; it was tiny and Spartan, but it had everything she needed. A moment later she was losing her breakfast in one of the two toilets, gripping the edges of the commode so fiercely that her hands turned white as she heaved for a full minute before slowly lowering herself to the floor, leaning against the wall of the stall with her eyes closed.

I wasn't ready for this, she thought miserably, pulling off the sunglasses which hid her face. Oh, she'd considered the possibility of running into Pierce and had taken the necessary precautions against being recognized, had even developed a game plan for what she would do should she find him. But she'd never considered finding him here a strong possibility, and had been utterly unprepared for the violent physical reaction the mere sight of him had triggered. If Steven had been right about her hiding behind her new identity, that was now over. It had been Yvonne White, not Marie Johnson, whose stomach had clutched at the sight of the somewhat older, slightly graying man who had almost killed her and had gunned down Sergeant Brisson in cold blood. It had been Yvonne, not Marie, who had fought off waves of nausea for the past hour as Pierce had held forth on the ethos of medical experimentation. As an added insult, throwing up hadn't made her feel any better, probably because it wasn't the food that was bothering her.

After Burke's tantalizing announcement that aliens were real, Pierce had gone off in an entirely different direction, that of the debate raging in the worldwide medical community over how best—or indeed, whether—to use the data collected by Nazi scientists as a result of their medical experimentation on anyone deemed unworthy to live, a long list if ever there was one. Some said the data should be destroyed as an expression of condemnation for the methods used to obtain it; others felt it would be the ultimate insult to destroy that which so many had been tortured and died for, rendering their suffering truly meaningless. As much as Marie deplored the means by which the Nazi's data had been collected, she couldn't see the point in discarding it; why not use it in honor of the victims and acknowledge where it came from to keep the memory of the Nazi's crimes alive? As hard as it was to believe now, there would come a time when no one alive remembered the death camps. Even now there were some who claimed the holocaust had never happened, that it was all an elaborate lie; how much easier would it be to make such ridiculous assertions in the future when the camps had crumbled and all the war veterans had died off?

Pierce had obviously been using the debate over the Nazi data as a litmus test for his new lackeys; anyone who advocated destroying the data certainly wasn't who he was looking for. Everyone had been quiet during his speech, but one doctor was visibly agitated; Marie wouldn't be surprised if he was gone when she returned. Not a word had been said about aliens, or alien-human hybrids, or alien anything, for that matter, so this was all still part of the weeding out process. Those whose disgust didn't eat them alive by the end would likely be the ones hired.

Marie pushed herself to her feet, walked to the sink, and checked her watch. Their break was half over; the next round would begin in ten minutes, and since each successive speech would likely reveal more of whatever Pierce was doing this time, it was imperative that she not react this way again; she had to be strong and assertive, not weak and nauseous. How she would do that when just the sight of him made her ill, she had no idea, but she had to find a way. She washed her face, rinsed her mouth as best she could, reapplied her lipstick, and resettled her sunglasses and head scarf so that Pierce wouldn't be able to recognize his own mother beneath them. Her stomach still wasn't happy, but at least there wasn't anything in there to lose. Stepping out into the hallway, she stopped as two of the doctors from their group walked by, heading for entrance, speaking to each other in low voices laced with unmistakable helpings of disgust. Two more down, she thought, wishing desperately that she were in a position to follow them. But she couldn't. It was time to put that plan she had never thought she'd need into action, while there were still a number of witnesses and before Pierce had time to clean everything up.




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



Proctor residence




"Let me help you with that," Mr. Lincoln offered.

"I've got it," Dee answered, setting the stroller on the grass and reaching into the back seat for her son. "Thanks for the ride, Mr. Lincoln. I really appreciate it. Say 'hi' to Mary Laura for me and give her my best."

"I will," Mr. Lincoln said cheerfully. "She'll be home this fall to get ready for her wedding."

"Mary Laura's getting married?" Dee asked, wondering what kind of man had found her prissy, bookish former schoolmate worth marrying. Or rather, what kind of man the bossy Mary Laura would even want to marry. Most likely someone without their own opinions, she thought privately. Mary Laura could never abide anyone's opinion but her own.

"She sure is," Mr. Lincoln answered. "Bet you'll never guess who the groom is."

"Hmm," Dee said, trying to settle on the most unlikely prospect she could think of. "How about.....Ernie Hutton?"

"How'd you know?" Mr. Lincoln exclaimed as Dee's eyes popped. "And here I thought I was going to surprise you! Oh, well. Glad to see you again, Dee, and to meet your little one. Remember me to Anthony."

The car whisked away as Dee stood on her front walk in a state of shock. Mary Laura was marrying Ernie Hutton? The bookworm of Franklin Delano Roosevelt School was getting hitched to the class clown-slash-bully? What in blazes could had brought about a pairing like that? He must have been joking, Dee thought, hoisting Philip onto her hip and putting it out of her mind. She had other matters to attend to, which is why she was home in the middle of the day for the first time in weeks. Her firm insistence on Emily's compliance with her rules for Philip had caused her mother to back off somewhat, but not completely. Waiting until dinner time to come home meant that Emily's influence was diluted by the presence of both Anthony and David, and since Philip went to bed around 8:00 p.m., she only had to endure a couple of hours of "do it my way" before the focus of the debate was fast asleep. Simply put, she'd solved the problem of the lingering tension by avoiding it. The coward's way out, perhaps, but it was working. Until today, when the need to know had overcome her distaste for her mother's heavy-handedness and brought her home early. Just to double check. Just to make sure.

"We're home, Mama," Dee called as she closed the side door behind her. Philip promptly made a beeline for a floor level cabinet and began pulling out his favorite pots and pans.

Emily was seated at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. "You're back early," she remarked. "Does this mean that Philip will actually get to take his nap in his crib instead of a stroller today?"

A comment like that would normally have raised Dee's hackles, but now she barely noticed. "I need to ask you something," she said, dropping into a chair opposite her mother. "Do you know if Brivari and Jaddo ever found that doctor who almost killed that nurse? What was his name?"

"Pierce," Emily said, "and I don't think so. Supposedly that's why Jaddo is gone so much, because he's looking for Pierce."

Dee's eyes widened. "Are you sure? It's been ten years, more than that, even. They never found him?"

Her mother stopped peeling, genuinely puzzled. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Something Courtney told me. You remember her, the girl I've been helping who just moved into town? She saw Malik at the Crash Festival last night, and she says a soldier came up to him and said he'd 'heard from the captain', and 'she may have found Pierce'. And then Malik took off and found Brivari—Mr. Langley to her—and they both left in a big hurry."

Emily rolled the potato between her fingers, the peeler pausing in the other. " 'Captain'....Captain Spade? And 'she' could be the nurse that nearly died. Both of them disappeared shortly after Jaddo escaped."

"So they may have found him," Dee said in dismay. "They must have told someone at the base, and they went to find the Warders."

"They're lucky they found anybody," Emily said, resuming her peeling. "Malik, at least, is still wearing the same face as he was back when all that happened, but the other two certainly aren't. Whoever went looking just got lucky. What's wrong?" she added as Dee rose from her chair and walked to the sink, her back to her mother.

Dee was quiet for a moment, feeling selfish for even thinking what she was thinking. "If Jaddo kills Pierce and that gets out, do you think they'll come looking for us again?"

"Who? The Army? I doubt it," Emily said. "Most of the players from the forties have moved on. Nothing truly alien related has happened here since 1950, so I can't imagine them connecting anything with us. Why?"

"Well....it's just that I've got Philip now, and I don't want him mixed up in all of that," Dee said. "I mean, if anything happens and someone comes snooping again, I've got a baby who—"

Laughter erupted behind her, and Dee whirled around to find Emily shaking with mirth beside her bowl of potatoes. "What's so funny?" Dee demanded. "I didn't say anything funny!"

"You certainly did," Emily chuckled, setting the peeler down and wiping her eyes with her apron. "You know, they say your kids grow up to sound exactly like you, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd hear you say something like that."

"Like what?" Dee said irritably.

"Good Lord, you don't even see it, do you?" Emily said. "For three years you ran around with aliens, crawled around their ship, delivered their messages, and stopped talking to me for the better part of a year because I kicked one out of the house. Everything I did, I did because I was terrified they'd come for you. My one solace when Cavitt hauled me off was that it was me he was hauling, not you. How does it feel, Dee? Do you understand now?"

"That was different," Dee insisted, her face growing warm. "I was older. Philip is just a baby!"

"And you think that makes a difference?" Emily said in disbelief. "Believe me, it doesn't. No matter how old Philip is at any given moment, you will still worry about him, still fear for his safety. What you worry about will change, but the fact that you worry won't. Your child will always be your child, to a certain extent at least."

"That must be your problem, then," Dee said sharply. "You haven't figured out the 'certain extent' part yet, and just keep treating me like I'm five. But at least you acknowledged that Philip is my child. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"If I'm so awful, then why are you here?" Emily asked. "You could have said 'no', you know. You always have before."

Dee briefly locked eyes with her mother before bending over to pick up the pots and pans Philip had strewn about the floor. "You're right, Mama. We shouldn't have come. It's bad for all of us. Anthony and I will find a room in town and be out of your hair as soon as possible. C'mon, sweetheart," she coaxed, encouraging Philip to nest the pans, something he loved to do that fortunately made clean up easier. "Time to go upstairs."

As Dee closed the cupboard door and reached for her son's hand, she caught a glimpse of her mother's stricken face. "Dee....wait," Emily said. "I didn't mean.....I didn't mean for you to—"

"I know, Mama," Dee said calmly. "But you're absolutely right—I shouldn't have come here. I'll bet you're happy I'm agreeing with you for a change, aren't you?"

But Emily just sat there, tongue-tied, as Dee and Philip walked past. She had no idea where they would stay or how they would afford it, but regardless, her mother was right: It was sheer madness to have come here. Emily was never going to stop trying to run her grandson's life, and Dee was never going to let her. And besides, she thought with a twinge of guilt, it might not be safe here anymore. If Jaddo went and planted a silver handprint on that doctor, that could stir up a hornet's nest that had remained undisturbed for the last decade.




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



Norwood State Mental Hospital





"This is nonsense!" Pierce snapped. "An absolute waste of time!"

Joshua Burke heaved a weary sigh and took a moment to compose himself. "You're overreacting, Daniel. We knew—"

"Overreacting?" Pierce echoed. "You lost two before you even got here, and two more just left!"

"—there would be attrition," Burke continued, unfazed, "which is precisely why the pool of hopefuls is larger than we need. Each step in this procedure is designed to winnow out those who would be uncomfortable with what we're doing. We still have eight—"

"And those eight won't be here long," Pierce declared. "Did you see their faces when I was talking about the Nazi experiments? Bleeding hearts, every one of them! Here they have valuable data, data which would never have been obtainable by socially acceptable methods, and they won't use it! They act like using it would be blasphemy, or—"

"Daniel, no one has weighed in on the disposition of the Nazi data save for the two gentlemen who just left," Burke interrupted. "We don't know how the others feel because we haven't asked, and they haven't said."

"They don't need to 'say'," Pierce said irritably. "It was all too obvious how they felt. And what in the name of God induced you to bring a woman on board? She'll take one look at those women upstairs and collapse into a puddle of pity!"

"I disagree," Burke said firmly. "We still have eight candidates including Dr. Johnson, who comes highly recommended by Dr. Fenton. And more to the point, you don't have a choice in the matter. The board has made it clear that it wishes to bring in more talent, so that's what we're going to do."

"You'll never find anyone willing to play ball," Pierce warned. "Bring in someone else, and we'll all be charged with moral turpitude before the sun sets on their first day of work. Most of my esteemed colleagues don't have the stomach for the higher forms of research."

"When the Germans fled here after the war, they found people willing to work with them," Burke said. "And we'll find people willing to work with us. It'll just take some time."

"Not my time," Pierce declared. "This charade is over. I'm ending it. Scuttle back in there and tell everyone to pack their bags."

Burke gazed at Pierce steadily for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm afraid you have it backwards, Daniel. If you won't go through with this, it's you who will be packing the bag."

"You don't really expect me to believe that the board will throw me out, do you?" Pierce scoffed. "They can't do this without me."

"On the contrary, we can continue very well without you," Burke said. "And I've been authorized all along to walk you to the door and shove you through it if you refuse to acquiesce to the board's mandate. Either you go out there and continue the presentation, or you go straight out the door to your car. I'll have the contents of your office boxed and sent home."

Silence. Pierce stared at him, stunned. "You're joking," he whispered.

"Try me," Burke said in a steely tone.

The two men faced off for what seemed a very long time before Pierce adjusted his tie. "It will be a cold day somewhere before I let more than a decade of my research be taken from me by people who don't even know how to wipe themselves," he said furiously. "Fine. I'll play your little game. But I want it on record that I predicted this was a disastrous route to take, and I want that record available to shake in the faces of the almighty board when they're called on the carpet for ethical infractions no one would ever have known about had everyone just kept their mouths shut!"

"Objection noted," Burke said calmly, gesturing toward the meeting room. "Shall we?"




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





"There you are," Dr. Fenton said as Dr. Johnson slipped into the seat beside him just as Dr. Burke approached the podium. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost. What took you so long?"

Dr. Johnson's head swung sideways. "Would you like a detailed account of my activities in the lavatory, or would generalizations suffice?"

Fenton's mouth dropped open. "Er...neither," he answered, feeling his face grow warm. Sometimes he plain forgot he was speaking to a woman, not a man. "I was just.....concerned. I was hoping you weren't bugging out on me."

Dr. Johnson's huge sunglasses remained trained on Fenton for several uncomfortable seconds before she returned her gaze to the front of the room. "Unlikely," she replied. "What did I miss?"

"We lost two more," Fenton said cheerfully. "There was quite a debate after you stepped out. The bald one who was sitting front left and the short one a few rows behind him don't feel the Nazi's data can be used by an ethical society. They got into it with the two sitting next to each other front right, and wound up stalking out in a huff. Or 'huffs'," he amended. "You'd think they might have stuck around just to see what's going on. What do you think is going on?" he continued. "What was that business about aliens being real, and how did that turn into Nazi's?"

"I imagine we're about to find out," Dr. Johnson murmured, watching Dr. Burke enter the room.

As if on cue, Burke cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "welcome back to the second part of this information session. Once again, the project's director, Dr. Daniel Pierce."

Polite applause followed from everyone but Dr. Johnson, who kept her hands in her lap. Fenton frowned slightly; didn't she realize that appearances were important in situations such as these? Even if they wound up with an offer they decided to decline, how one conducted oneself during the interviewing process was crucial, to future success if not present. "Do try to show at least perfunctory enthusiasm, doctor," he whispered. "Pierce may be talking, but he's also watching each and every one of us very closely, and so is Burke."

"When the time comes, I promise you I will exhibit all the enthusiasm the good doctor could possibly wish for," she replied.

Fenton's eyes shifted sideways. What on earth did that mean? Before he could ask, Pierce stepped up to the podium, wearing a smile that set off his striking features and impeccable suit. He was a handsome man, Dr. Pierce, the kind that women swooned over, and Fenton spared a moment of surprise that Dr. Johnson wasn't. Then again, Dr. Johnson was no ordinary woman.

"Welcome back," Pierce began. "You may recall that Dr. Burke mentioned aliens at the very beginning of our meeting. I appreciate your patience in waiting for an explanation. I promise you that everything you've heard so far is indeed germane to the project we're working on here at Norwood. It is now time to enlighten you further, and in order to do that, you need a few facts." Pierce rested his hands on the podium and gazed earnestly at the crowd. "The alleged crash of an alien ship in New Mexico in 1947 was, in fact, real. A saucer-shaped craft was recovered from an area known as Pohlman Ranch along with an even bigger prize: A live alien."

"My God!" Fenton breathed as excited babbling filled the room. Babbling from everyone but Dr. Johnson, that is, who remained motionless and silent, her eyes—or rather, her glasses—fixed on Pierce.

"The alien was held prisoner by the military for several years," Pierce continued, "during which time various tests were conducted on it. That body of research has come into my possession, and forms the basis for the project here at Norwood."

"Incredible!" Fenton murmured.

"Do you mean we'll be doing research on a live alien?" another doctor asked as eyes bulged all over the room.

"No," Pierce answered. "The alien died. But we do have—"

"How did it die?" someone interrupted.

"When did it die?" another voice called.

"Did you torture it?" Dr. Johnson asked softly.

One could have heard a pin drop in the room as that soft female voice cut through all the chatter, all eyes turning her way. "I'm sorry," Pierce said, his voice a degree colder. "And you are.....?"

"Marie Johnson, neurology resident," Dr. Johnson said, ignoring Fenton's warning look. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Ah. Yes," Pierce said. "The alien prisoner died after a three year confinement. We don't know why. Perhaps it just couldn't survive on our planet."

"Or perhaps you did to the alien exactly what the Nazi's did to their prisoners," Dr. Johnson said, as Fenton's eyes widened. "Is that why discussion of the Nazi medical data is 'germane'? Are you comparing one set of data obtained unethically to another obtained the same way? Do you wish to argue that those who would use the Nazi data should feel the same way about the alien data?"

Fenton felt his throat constrict. Be quiet! he thought wildly as eyes widened around the room, then narrowed suspiciously as they turned back to Pierce, whose own eyes had turned to ice. "I would appreciate it if you would let me continue," he said coldly, "instead of jumping to erroneous conclusions."

"Is she right?" a doctor demanded. "Is that the connection you're trying to make?"

"Good Lord," another muttered.

"I think we're getting a bit off topic here," Dr. Burke interjected smoothly with a warning glance at Pierce. "We'll answer all your questions, but we would like to present our information in a logical order. Surely you can understand that, given that we just confirmed that aliens are real."

"But you never answered the question," the first doctor declared. "Did you or did you not torture the alien?"

"The prisoner was not tortured!" Pierce snapped. "It was well treated, some say too well treated."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Dr. Johnson asked. "Did you work with the prisoner?"

"I did," Pierce confirmed, "and I can confidently assure you it was well treated."

"So you were in the military?"

"Dr. Johnson," Burke cut in as he and Pierce exchanged glances, "may I remind you that you signed a non-disclosure agreement which states that any information you receive in this meeting is not to be repeated outside of this room. That includes the identity of the study participants."

Dr. Johnson's sunglasses shifted in Burke's direction. "If you find my memory that poor, then I must ask why I am being considered for this position," she said flatly. "Of course I remember signing. And since you have that document in your possession, you should have no qualms about answering my question. Honestly, that is."

More silence. Fenton glared at Johnson, who completely ignored him. All other eyes were trained on Pierce, waiting for an answer.

"I am a physician, not a soldier," Pierce said, in a voice which made it clear he was struggling to control his temper. "And I am not at liberty to provide details of the time I spent with the prisoner or the means by which I acquired this research due to the non-disclosure agreement the military had me sign, just as you all did today. Surely, you can understand that."

Fenton let out a long, slow breath as the tension in the room eased somewhat....but only somewhat. Wary expressions still clouded every applicant's face save Dr. Johnson's, whose face was largely obscured beneath her scarf and glasses. "What in blazes are you doing?" Fenton hissed at her. "Are you trying to get us thrown out of here?"

"You don't strike me as an idiot," she replied. "Haven't you haven't figured it out yet?"

Fenton's jaw dropped. Dr. Johnson was well known for not being a pushover, a necessary character trait for a woman to succeed in the man's world of medicine, but never in all his years had a resident addressed an attending in this fashion, be they male or female. "If I were you, I would watch yourself, doctor," he whispered in a voice shaking with indignation. "If you think—"

"There's the problem," she interrupted sharply. "You don't think. And if I were you, I would spare myself further embarrassment by taking an immediate vow of silence."

"So are we working with data or actual alien tissue?" a doctor was asking, as Fenton gaped at Dr. Johnson in disbelief.

"Alien tissue," Pierce answered, "carefully preserved and still viable."

"What the good doctor means," Dr. Johnson said as Fenton's heart clutched, "is that he intends to impregnate the patients we bring to this study with alien reproductive cells in an attempt to produce an alien-human hybrid."

The silence which had followed Dr. Johnson's earlier remarks was nothing compared to the shock which now permeated the room. One key difference was that this time, Doctors Burke and Pierce shared that shock. Their eyes were every bit as wide as everyone else's as Pierce gripped the podium with hands gone white.

"Is everyone really so thick that they haven't discerned what's going on here?" Dr. Johnson demanded, commanding the attention of virtually everyone in the room. "Consideration as an applicant for this 'project', as Dr. Pierce so euphemistically calls it, was contingent upon each and every one of us providing a suitable test subject which met specific criteria: Female, brain dead....and fertile. Why would they need fertile test subjects if not to impregnate them? And furthermore," she continued as everyone gaped at her, "I do believe this project is not new and not going well. The female patients housed in this facility could easily be used as incubators, which is probably why this project is located here. What's the matter, doctor? Have you killed off all your test subjects? Is that why you need us to provide you with more? What happens when you run through our meager pile?"

The stunned silence continued for another several seconds after Dr. Johnson stopped talking.....and then the room erupted. Doctors began shouting, demanding to know if what Johnson had said was true while Pierce and Burke commenced a heated argument at the podium. Fenton remained in his seat, paralyzed, unable to believe his ears. What Johnson was proposing was preposterous, but still....her conclusion was logical, given the parameters at hand. Is it possible? he thought, feeling sick to his stomach. Was it possible that his delight in the honor of being "chosen" had made him blind to what was right in front of him? Was it possible that Pierce and Burke were not only willing to use Nazi data, but to emulate them as well? The other doctors obviously thought so. "I'm done here!" one declared, grabbing his briefcase and heading for the door as others followed.

"Remember, you signed!" Burke exclaimed as the trickle moving toward the door became a flood. "I have the agreements, and I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law if any of you spread rumors about what you heard today!" The other applicants ignored him as they piled into the hallway, angry and shouting; Pierce stalked after them with Burke on his heels.

"Doctor, I—" Fenton began....but she wasn't listening. Those sunglasses were following Pierce and Burke, and as they exited the room still arguing, she rose from her seat and followed them.




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




"Daniel, wait!" Burke called as Pierce strode out of the meeting room, the group of mutinous applicants well ahead of him and jabbering angrily as each vied for the honor of being the first to leave the building. The guard manning the locked gate which led to the rest of the hospital barely managed to unlock the door in time before Pierce smashed through with Burke on his heels. "Daniel, please!" Burke called again.

"This is your fault!" Pierce exclaimed angrily, never breaking stride as Burke scurried to keep up with him. "I told you to be careful, I warned you not to give out too much information. But of course you did, and now it's going to be all over the news tomorrow!"

"No it won't," Burke said as Pierce hung a right into his office. "No one knows anything for certain because no one saw anything and we confirmed nothing. I can't for the life of me figure out how Dr. Johnson made such an accurate guess. Do you know her?"

"Never seen her before in my life," Pierce said tersely, "from what I could tell, that is, in that Marlene Dietrich get-up. You were an idiot for bringing a woman into this, Joshua. Men are more practical....well, most men, anyway. Certainly not this crowd. Where did you dig up such a group of pansies? Do you realize we lost every single applicant to their lofty morals even if they're not sure what we're doing?"

"I know, I know," Burke said in dismay. "I...I'm not sure what happened. You'd think at least one of them would have stayed out of sheer curiosity, at least."

"Your selections were too young," Pierce declared. "During the war, people understood there were hard choices to be made, hard decisions that required sacrifice. But now everyone's gone soft; it's all about 'ethics' and 'doing the right thing'. Isn't staying ahead of the communist threat 'doing the right thing'? God, where's Joe McCarthy when you need him?"

"We'll try again," Burke assured him. "You want older prospects, I'll get older prospects. I just thought that veering younger would—"

"We will not try again!" Pierce said sharply. "How many people do you want out there knowing our business? And don't waste my time blathering about that damned non-disclosure agreement. I signed one of those myself when I was in the Army, and you can see what good that did them."

"Daniel, I made it clear that the board wants to bring in new talent," Burke warned. "If you don't agree, you're out."

"If I'm out, then the project is over," Pierce snapped. "Go tell the board that."

Burke sighed deeply. "You're angry," he said after a moment. "Have a drink or two, settle down, and I'll be back in an hour or so when you'll hopefully be more cooperative. Because they mean it. If you want to change the recruitment protocols, fine, but flatly refusing to go along will mean you're fired."

Go to hell, Pierce thought darkly as Burke left the office, closing the door quietly behind him. When Joshua came back, he had no intention of being here and neither would his research. He'd bugged out once before; it was time to do so again. His most prized possession, the formula for the serum which blocked the aliens' powers, was already safely hidden; now the research he'd done here would join that, where Burke and his idiot board would never find it. Flinging open a file cabinet, he began removing armfuls of files and stuffing them in boxes he retrieved from the closet, stashed there long ago against just such a necessity. When one was on the cutting edge, it paid to be prepared.

"Going somewhere, doctor?"

Pierce spun around to find Dr. Johnson behind him. "How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. "The guard should never have let you through!"

"Does it matter?" she asked calmly.

"Get out of here!" Pierce exclaimed. "Haven't you done enough damage for one day? What, did you sneak back here to gloat that you shut down my meeting before I even got to finish? And all that rubbish about alien babies, and such like. Honestly, aren't universities more discriminating about who they gift with medical degrees?"

"No one 'gifted' me with anything," Dr. Johnson replied. "I earned it the good old fashioned way. And I'd hardly call my theories 'rubbish'. Especially when I've had first hand experience with your wonderful 'research'."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Pierce snapped.

" 'Earth'," she repeated thoughtfully. "Funny you should bring that up." She reached up, untying the knot of her scarf, pulling it off. "You don't recognize me, do you?" she asked, pulling off her sunglasses. "Does this help?"

Pierce gaped at the face in front of him as he sank down into his desk chair, a very familiar face despite the short, dark hair, so different from the way she used to wear it. "Lieutenant White?" he whispered, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "How did.....where.....it's been so long," he stammered, completely unprepared for this encounter. "I never knew what happened to you."

"I went to medical school," she replied, wandering over to inspect one of Pierce's diplomas hanging on the wall. "I'm a neurologist now, just like you."

"Really? Well....I suppose I'm not surprised. You were very adept at research, very quick to learn...." Pierce paused, gathering his wits about him as the sheer magnitude of this sudden appearance settled in. The age in her face made it clear she was no longer the very young woman who had made such a perfect subject, but as a fellow neurologist....

"Lieutenant, I take it from your....'performance' today that you know what I was trying to achieve at Eagle Rock," Pierce began carefully, not certain of the extent of that knowledge.

"You mean how you tried to use me as a walking incubator, and nearly killed me in the process?"

Pierce's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Whatever Sergeant Brisson may have told you, I assure you—"

"Everything," she interrupted, turning hard eyes on him. "He told me everything."

Damn. "I see," Pierce said heavily, his right hand drifting imperceptibly toward his top desk drawer. "That is...unfortunate. Unfortunate that I was not there to correct any misconceptions he may have given you, of which I'm sure there were several."

"Are you, now?" she asked coldly.

"Quite," Pierce said calmly, his hand slipping into the drawer and beneath the false lining, closing on the handle of the pistol he kept there. It was regrettable to have to do this, but the lieutenant was the last living witness to what had happened at Eagle Rock, and a clearly hostile witness at that. If his aim was true, it should be a short, relatively painless death....

Slam! Pierce gasped as the drawer slammed shut trapping his hand. He clawed at the drawer to no avail; it wouldn't budge. "Why, doctor," Lieutenant White said in a voice heavy with irony. "Whatever are you doing?" She walked around the desk as Pierce tried to back away, his hand still firmly jammed in the drawer. "Were you.....were you planning to attack me?" she asked, sounding genuinely puzzled, as though she couldn't conceive of why he'd want to do that. "Well....if you must...."

The drawer flew open and Pierce rocketed backwards, his hand flying out of the drawer still holding the gun as his chair slammed into the wall behind him, tipped sharply, then righted itself. He jerked the gun up and pointed it straight at the lieutenant, who hadn't moved a muscle other than to raise her eyebrows.

"Go ahead," she said softly. "Shoot."

Don't mind if I do, Pierce thought grimly, aiming for the heart and pulling the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Click. Click. Click. With mounting panic, Pierce pulled the trigger again and again and again. What the hell.... It was loaded, wasn't it? He always kept it loaded, yet another necessary precaution for a visionary on the cutting edge. What was wrong with it? He started to open the barrel.....

.....and gasped as the gun was wrenched from his hands and swung around, hovering in mid-air as it pointed straight at him.

"It will work now," Lieutenant White said casually. "I promise you that."

Pierce remained stock still, only his eyes moving, darting from the gun to the lieutenant and back. Somehow, some way, the lieutenant had acquired what appeared to be alien powers. Was this what happened when woman were impregnated with alien cells? Did some of it "rub off"? "Lieutenant," Pierce said carefully, "I see you've developed certain....'talents'. I know you're angry with me, but look at what you've gained! Think of how much we could advance human civilization if we managed to reproduce that effect in others!"

"Only the right 'others', of course," she replied, a faint note of amusement in her voice. "I'm assuming you don't mean the great, unwashed public."

"Well, of course not, but.....work with me," Pierce said earnestly. "Together we could rewrite medical history. We could be rich beyond our wildest dreams!"

"And you could get your Nobel?"

"And you'll get one too!" Pierce promised enthusiastically. "This is far too great of an advancement to throw away over some petty grievance."

The lieutenant cocked her head to one side as though considering. "No," she said finally, shaking her head. "In the first place, my grievances are far from 'petty'. In the second, I have no interest in 'advancing human civilization' because I'm not human."

"Of course you are," Pierce protested. "You're just an evolved human. The very first evolved human, I might add. Your talents don't make you any less human."

"Yours certainly did," she said dryly, as Pierce flushed. "But really, doctor, you must learn to not believe everything you see, to properly assess the evidence right in front of you. For example, you do know me. But I'm not who you think I am."

Pierce opened his mouth to reply and got no further, his mouth hanging open in a flabbergasted "O" as Lieutenant White began to....melt. Her hair shortened as she grew taller, her clothing slithered and shifted around her, and a moment later, yet another familiar face smiled at Pierce.

"Good afternoon, doctor," his former prisoner said. "So good to see you again. I've been looking for you for a long time. A very long time."



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


I'll post Chapter 14 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FOURTEEN


July 3, 1959, 2 p.m.

Norwood State Mental Hospital



Daniel Pierce remained frozen in his chair, unable to believe his eyes. He'd often wondered what had happened to the prisoner whose captivity he'd overseen for three years, but with no alien sightings in the last decade, he'd assumed the alien had returned home somehow. To see it standing here now, with all its powers at its disposal and wearing a Cheshire Cat smile while holding a gun on him without actually "holding" it was completely unexpected and, needless to say, very bad news.

"What's the matter, doctor?" the alien asked. "Aren't you glad to see me? We spent so much time together. I expected more of a welcome."

"Do.....do you mind?" Pierce ventured, pointing to the gun.

"Goodness," the alien said, "where are my manners?" The gun fell to the hardwood floor with a crash almost as loud as a gunshot and promptly dissolved into a puddle of molten metal at Pierce's feet, who stared at it ashen-faced for only a moment before vaulting from his seat and launching himself at the door.

It was locked. Pierce shook the doorknob violently and pounded on the door, yelling "Help!" as loud as he could. Someone should hear him; this hallway housed all the staff offices. But no one came, and after a full minute of pounding and yelling, he turned around, panting, to face his visitor.

The alien was watching him with the quizzical look frequently worn by researchers when their test subjects didn't behave in the predicted fashion. Then it took a seat in Pierce's chair, caressing the leather arms and running its hands along the desk's smooth, polished wood. "Very nice," it said approvingly, "and quite expensive, if I'm not mistaken. You've done quite well for yourself, doctor. And how have you been these last several years?"

"Why are you here?" Pierce demanded in a ragged voice.

"Aren't you going to inquire after my health?" the alien asked, soundly faintly put out. "I expected at least some curiosity from you after all this time."

"Did you come here to kill me?" Pierce continued. "Because if you did, you won't get away with it. There are dozens of people nearby!"

"And yet none of them answered your cries of distress," the alien noted. "Why is that, do you think? Can they not hear you? Or perhaps they just don't care what happens to you?"

"Why are you here"? Pierce shouted, his panic getting the better of him.

"My good doctor," the alien said calmly, leaning back in the chair, "I am merely paying a social call. Like I paid your colleague, Colonel Cavitt, shortly after my escape."

"Sheridan? But he.....he....." Pierce stopped, a horrible realization dawning on him. "You killed him, didn't you? It wasn't suicide, it was you."

"You have no idea how much I would love to take the credit for the colonel's demise," the alien said, sounding completely sincere. "But I'm afraid I can't. No, I'm afraid the mere sight of me caused the colonel's heart to just.....stop. I'm guessing you have a stronger constitution. Which will make you a great deal more....entertaining."

Pierce's own heart began pounding so loudly he would have sworn it was audible. "You can't kill me," he insisted. "I saved you. I saved you so many times, it isn't even funny! Without me, you would have been dust in a matter of weeks! You owe me!"

The alien stared at him passively, its legs crossed, fingers tented. "Are you finished," it asked casually, "or do you have any other last words?"

"Wait," Pierce begged, holding up a hand. "I know we've had our.....differences, but you and I could do great things together. With what you know and my influence, you could be—"

"Let me guess," the alien interrupted in a bored tone. "I could be 'rich beyond my wildest dreams'. Given that currency is not used on my world, that's an empty promise at best."

"But you're not on your world," Pierce argued. "You're here, and the fact that you're here means you've stayed for a reason. How much longer do you plan to be here? Wouldn't it be nicer to have....'currency' for the duration of that time?"

"You misjudge me, doctor.....but then you always did. I'm not here out of greed. I'm here," the alien continued softly, "for revenge."

"Stay where you are!" Pierce shouted frantically, plastering himself against his office door.

The alien shrugged. "As you wish. Proximity is irrelevant, and I confess I find proximity to you to be highly distasteful."

Pierce opened his mouth to bellow again in the hopes that someone, anyone would hear him when he felt his feet leave the ground. A moment later his throat constricted as though an invisible hand were squeezing it tighter, tighter. His eyes bulged as he hung suspended in midair, his hands clawing at this throat, finding nothing. Just as his vision began to dim and he started to lose consciousness, the invisible vise on his throat suddenly opened and he fell to the floor, landing on all fours, gulping air into his burning lungs in great heaving gasps.

Then suddenly, the pain was gone. Cautiously, Pierce rose to his feet, his lungs no longer burning, his throat no longer feeling like it had nearly been wrenched in half. The alien was still seated at the desk, watching him with interest as Pierce felt himself all over as though to make certain he was still there.

"What just happened?" Pierce whispered.

"Allow me to introduce my colleague," the alien answered.

Pierce scrambled backwards against a bookcase as the wall beside him began to move, bulging into the room until a portion of it separated and melted into the form of an unfamiliar human male. "Good afternoon, Dr. Pierce," the second alien said. "So good to see you again."

"Again?" Pierce quavered. "Do I know you?"

"I was your first prisoner," the new alien answered, "but that's not where we spent most of our time together. You see," it continued when Pierce looked confused, "all those years my colleague was held hostage, both Lieutenant White and Captain Spade were working to free him. Lieutenant White allowed me to take her shape so I could visit my colleague. At least a third of the time you thought you were talking to her, you were really talking to me."

Pierce's head swung back and forth from one alien to another, thunderstruck. This alien had been taking Lieutenant White's shape? And with her blessing? So that was why she'd seemed to have those bursts of commanding and fearless behavior, those sudden insights, that razor sharp political acumen. It hadn't been her at all; it had been an alien beside him all that time, and he'd never had so much as an inkling.

"And now for the afternoon's agenda," the prisoner continued as though it were conducting a business meeting. "My colleague is skilled in healing, which is how you recovered so quickly. His presence here will insure that our time together does not end prematurely, as it did for Colonel Cavitt. I will drive you to the brink of death, and he will bring you back. We will repeat this procedure until either I tire of it or your weak human body expires, most likely the latter. Do you have any questions?"

A sudden and completely unexpected wave of sympathy for Sheridan Cavitt swept over Pierce as his own heart nearly stopped at those words. "You'll never get away with it," he warned. "Doctor Burke is coming back—"

"In an hour. Yes, I heard. Less time than I would have liked, but it will have to do." The prisoner rose from the chair and smiled as Pierce shrank backwards. "Shall we begin?"




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




"Malik, you have to let me out of here!" Marie begged, rattling the limousine's door handle.

"Sorry, lieutenant. I can't do that."

"I'm not a 'lieutenant' anymore, and yes, you can!" Marie said in exasperation. "It's not enough to just stop Pierce; he has to be exposed!"

"My orders are to get you safely back to Roswell, and that's what I'm going to do," Malik answered.

"Roswell?" Marie echoed blankly. "Why Roswell?"

"Because that's where Captain Spade will be by the time we return," Malik said, twisting around in the seat to look at her. "That's how we knew where to find you; the captain got wind of where you'd gone and called Thompson before he started for Roswell by car. Thompson found us....and here we are."

Oh my God, Marie thought, sinking back into her seat. Steven was driving across the country? Was he crazy? No crazier than I was coming out here by myself, she allowed, although she never would have admitted that out loud. She didn't care what happened to Pierce, but the thought of what he'd been trying to do here being covered up, of everyone who had helped him getting off Scot free, was too much to bear.

The latest twist in this exceptionally strange odyssey had occurred right after Marie had stepped out of the ladies room. On her way back to the meeting, she'd run into Dr. Fenton, who had insisted she accompany him out to the limousine because he wanted to speak with her privately. His tone had been concerned and urgent, a far cry from his earlier breezy acceptance of just about everything he'd heard, and she'd assumed he had learned something in her absence that had upset him and followed him outside, passing the two doctors who had already left and were waiting in the lobby for the meeting to end. Once in the car, however, she'd been surprised to see "Dr. Fenton" climb into the driver's seat, and further surprised when all the doors locked. "Forgive me, but I'm not Dr. Fenton," Dr. Fenton had announced, his features shifting into those of a face she hadn't seen in years. "You knew me as Malik, and I've been assigned to protect you."

What had followed was a good fifteen minutes of questioning, pleading, and fretting. Marie knew perfectly well that Pierce would end up dead in short order, and could honestly say she didn't care; all her earlier protests about killing him had gone up in smoke now that she'd learned he was up to his old tricks. What bothered her is that what had happened here would not be exposed to the medical world at large, and it had to be in order to discourage others from attempting the same type of thing. All her protests fell on deaf ears, however, and Malik easily fended off her feeble attempts to reach the door locks. It was also getting warm; the limo was parked beneath a shaded awning, but there was no getting around the fact that it was hot.

"So what's your plan?" she asked irritably. "Is letting me bake out here considered 'protecting me'?"

"Sorry about the heat," Malik replied. "Your colleagues should be along shortly. Jaddo is in there now, posing as you and explaining what Pierce is up to. As soon as they abandon ship, we'll all head back to Santa Fe, and then I'll take you to Roswell to meet the captain."

"Wonderful," Marie muttered, not looking forward to that reunion. This was all supposed to be over by the time he knew anything was happening, and here he'd found out in time to foil it with a phone call. Steven was going to be livid; correction, probably already was livid. "So John's in there being me? He'd better behave himself; I have to wear this face for the rest of my life."

"If you're unhappy with the way this turned out, that's your own fault," Malik said bluntly. "Why didn't you contact us when you found Pierce?"

"I didn't know until I got here," Marie said crossly.

"But you suspected, which is why you took care to wear a disguise. How did you intend to take Pierce down all by yourself?"

"I told you I'm not a lieutenant anymore, and I didn't plan on 'taking him down all my myself'," Marie protested. "I had a roomful of people in there who I hoped would support me."

"Did you really think you could expose Pierce without exposing yourself?" Malik asked. "At that point your life would have been forfeit no matter how many people were present, and not only would Pierce not have been exposed, you would be dead. What does that accomplish?"

"And what does just killing him accomplish?" Marie said sharply, unwilling to admit that Malik had a point. "John and Brivari are only interested in revenge, but for me, this is bigger than just Pierce. Kill him, and everything will be swept under the rug!"

"Don't forget who you're dealing with," Malik replied. "The Royal Warders aren't about to let anything get 'swept under the rug'. Besides, you were in no shape to take on Pierce. You would have betrayed yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marie demanded.

"That throwing up at the mere sight of him doesn't bode well for the future."

Marie's eyes widened. "You were....you were in the bathroom with me? I didn't see anyone else in there!"

"Of course you didn't. Wasn't that the point?" When Marie didn't answer, Malik glanced back at her briefly before returning his gaze to the windshield. "This is what we do, lieutenant. We watch, we find, we protect....and we execute. This is what we've always done, and we're very, very good at it."

Almost too good Marie thought glumly. Steven had obviously managed to weasel basic information out of someone, but no one, she and Fenton included, had known what hotel they'd be staying at in Santa Fe; the Warders must have tracked that down by themselves and arranged to install Malik as the limousine driver, all within the space of a few hours. No wonder their people were both highly prized and highly feared.

"Here they come," Malik said, his features shifting to those of the limousine driver.

Marie looked out the window; the rest of the contingent was indeed descending upon the car, nine sweaty men in suits who looked very upset, Fenton included. That upset turned to shock when the door was flung open to reveal her already inside.

"There you are!" Fenton exclaimed. "You ran out of the room ahead of me, and I couldn't find you anywhere! Where did you—"

"What does it matter?" another doctor demanded, pushing past Fenton into the car. "Dr. Johnson, I wish to thank you for exposing that fraud."

"And the way you exposed him," another enthused. "Excellent, doctor, excellent!"

"I admit I didn't think you had it in you," Fenton added. "A magnificent catch, doctor. I will have no problem recommending you for an attending's position, and with me doing the recommending, it's a done deal."

Marie blinked as the rest of their party crowded into the limo and joined the chorus, praising her to the skies as she dredged up skills long gone rusty and listened carefully for details of what "she" had said and done, a procedure which had been second nature back when Brivari had been regularly impersonating her. It sounded like John had put on quite a show. Living up to that would be a challenge.

"Driver, let's get out of here," Fenton declared. "We have some complaints to file with the authorities."

Malik caught Marie's eye as he turned the key in the ignition. "Yes, doctor," he said. "Right away."



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



"Enough! We have other tasks to accomplish."

Annoyed, Jaddo abruptly pulled his mind away, causing Pierce to fall to the floor with a satisfying thud which had echoed over and over inside this office for the past thirty minutes. He had anticipated enjoying this; what he hadn't anticipated was just how much he would enjoy it, how intense the rush of pleasure as Pierce gasped for air and clawed helplessly at his throat. That rush was followed by an immense satisfaction as he would fall to the floor with that satisfying thud, followed by a minute's worth of healing from Brivari so they could begin again. And then would come the best part, when Pierce, recovered and breathing normally, would look up in horror, realizing that it was all going to start over. It was exquisite, really, to be on the giving instead of the receiving end this time, and the fact that he'd waited so long for this moment made it even more precious.

"Do you really expect me to cut my pleasure short after waiting for a decade?" Jaddo demanded. "His colleague won't return for an hour. We have only consumed half that time."

"You know perfectly well that we came here to do more than just kill Pierce," Brivari reminded him. "We mustn't let the formula for that serum fall into anyone else's hands."

"That formula is no doubt in his head," Jaddo countered, gazing hungrily at the heap on the floor. "Sever the brain stem, and mission accomplished."

"We can't take that risk," Brivari argued. "If anyone else knows how to produce that serum, it could endanger our Wards."

"Why would anyone else know?" Jaddo asked impatiently. "You know perfectly well that Pierce doesn't share power, which is precisely what that serum represents. Now, heal him. I'm having fun."

"Once more," Brivari warned. "Then we're through."

"We're not through until I say we're through," Jaddo retorted.

Suddenly Jaddo found himself nose to nose with Zan's Warder. "Even if you're willing to allow your endless quest for revenge to endanger your Ward, you will not endanger mine," Brivari said severely. "Do you really want Rath rendered helpless in the future because you were too busy having 'fun'? Could you live with yourself if that happened?"

Jaddo glared at Brivari in sullen silence. "Very well, then," he said peevishly. "But I will have my 'once more', and more beyond that once we've torn this office apart."

Three minutes later Pierce was slumped on the floor again, having endured yet another round of choking. His body was showing the strain; it was taking longer and longer for Brivari to heal him. This time he didn't bother trying, leaving Pierce unconscious on the floor as he began dismantling a filing cabinet. Jaddo put his hand on the desk, meaning to reduce its contents to ash when Brivari stopped him. "Don't," he ordered. "You have to look first. If we destroy it, we'll want to know we've done that."

"If you think he has it stashed away somewhere other than his head, what makes you think it isn't stashed in multiple places?" Jaddo asked.

"I know him," Brivari said. "I spent a great deal more time with him than you did. He has it somewhere, but only one place to reduce the risk of it being found without his knowledge."

I would imagine you didn't resent 'your' time with him the way I did, Jaddo grumbled privately, pulling out drawers and upending them. Fifteen minutes later the entire office was in shambles, including the contents of the safe hidden behind the wall, and they had nothing to show for it.

"It's not here," Brivari said worriedly. "It must be somewhere else. Connect with him and find out where."

"What?" Jaddo exclaimed. "You want me to form a connection with him?"

"To find the formula," Brivari said with strained patience. "We're going to kill him anyway, so it doesn't matter if he sees something he shouldn't."

"Do it yourself," Jaddo said in disgust.

"I can already feel myself growing weaker," Brivari argued. "Torture takes much less out of one than healing, and I still need energy to escape. You are the best one to accomplish this. Stop arguing, and do it!"

Reluctantly, Jaddo knelt beside the still unconscious Pierce and laid a hand on his chest. The mere thought of touching his inquisitor was enough to make him nauseous, so he was none too subtle in the way he went about probing Pierce's thoughts. Perhaps "probing" was the wrong word; a connection was a much more passive endeavor, involving opening oneself to another's thoughts and waiting patiently while they marched by, hoping to find something useful. What he found was entirely predictable; Pierce's dreams of world domination were the stuff of childhood fantasy. At the moment those dreams were entangled with the concept of flight, of disappearing like he had the first time. Apparently Jaddo's impersonation of the Healer had had the desired effect; Pierce's position here was in jeopardy, and Jaddo smiled in satisfaction that he had managed to ruin Pierce's day beyond their own private encounter.

"Well?" Brivari demanded.

Sighing, Jaddo continued, closing his eyes to facilitate concentration. Interesting....Pierce had given at least a passing thought to the serum, quite recently if he was not mistaken. Unfortunately that thought did not seem to have included it's actual location. Frustrated, he attempted to probe more deeply without actually knowing how to accomplish that. It was said that Athenor was skilled at this. Before today he could not have imagined ever wishing, however fleetingly, that he were like Athenor.....

"You'll never find it."

Jaddo's eyes snapped open. Pierce was conscious, or partially so, his eyelids fluttering as though vision was a painful sense at the moment. But his face wore a smile that was all too familiar, a maddening, smug, self-satisfied smile that grew wider when he saw Jaddo's shocked face.

"You'll never find it," Pierce croaked from his damaged throat. "It's hidden.....well hidden...."

"Ignore him," Brivari ordered. "Continue. We don't have much time."

"One day, he'll find it," Pierce whispered, still smiling. "And when he does, he will own you just like I did...."

Something inside Jaddo snapped, the rage he'd held in check since late last night when he'd learned his quarry had been found engulfing him. A moment later his hand was smoking and Pierce was screaming, the agonizing cry of one whose insides had been virtually set on fire.

"Stop!" Brivari roared. "We agreed we'd leave no trail!"

But it was too late. By the time Brivari had raised a hand and sent Jaddo flying across the room, Pierce had fallen silent, slack-jawed, his eyes wide and staring, a gleaming silver handprint burned into his flesh.



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



3 hours later




"Dr. Burke?" the secretary whispered. "The police are back."

"Thank you, Carol," Dr. Burke replied. "I'll take it from here."

Carol fled gratefully, obviously anxious to be as far away from the next office down as possible. And who could blame her? When Burke had returned to Pierce's office to see if he'd calmed down, he had found Pierce dead on the floor wearing a bizarre silver handprint, his face twisted in an expression of unspeakable horror, and the stench of roasted flesh permeating the air. The office itself was in shambles; whoever had killed him had done a very thorough job of looking for something. The ensuing two hours had been a nightmare, involving tense phone calls to board members and the arrival of the local sheriff, who took one look at the body, blocked off Pierce's office, and left, saying he'd be back. Several other doctors had begun a spirited argument about whether they should ignore the blockade and examine the body themselves, but Burke had been more interested in the mountain of evidence that needed to be destroyed. They were prepared for this eventuality, of course; every research facility which existed on or over the edge of social acceptability had to be. His first stop had been the liquid nitrogen tank which contained the alien cells; to his horror, he'd discovered it had been destroyed. No one had been harmed, and nothing else in the lab had been touched; the targeting had been very precise. Shaken, Burke had turned his attention to the rest of the evidence, various cell cultures and mounds of written lab notes and case histories. There wasn't time to destroy it all, but there had been time to hide it in one of the many storage closets with false backs constructed for just this purpose.

We're okay, Burke assured himself, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he headed toward the lobby. Everything was safely squirreled away, and whoever had destroyed the alien cells had spared him the necessity of doing so. Now they could turn their attention to catching Pierce's killer, whom Burke was certain was one or more of the applicants who had left in a huff. He'd told the sheriff about the altercation earlier that day, leaving out certain salient facts, of course, but the sheriff had not been interested. Nor had he been interested in the fact that Pierce must have shouted or screamed or made some kind of noise, and yet no one, not even Burke, who had been in his own office right next door, had heard a thing. He'd just blocked off the office, sternly warned everyone not to touch anything, and vanished, promising to be back shortly. It's about time, Burke thought sourly as he approached the entrance to the hospital, only to pull up short, gaping out the window. That was no sheriff's cruiser outside. Instead there were three jet black cars disgorging nearly a dozen men wearing dark suits and dark glasses.

"Good afternoon," Burke said warily as the first of the dark-suited men came through the front door. "I am Doctor Joshua Burke, director of this facility. And you are.....?"

The dark suit at the head of the pack flashed a badge, and Burke's heart nearly stopped. FBI? Someone had called the FBI? Then the sea of suits parted and another suit stepped forward, a very important suit judging from the way the others deferentially stepped back. "Agent Bernard Lewis," the owner of the suit said calmly, presenting his own identification. "Doctor Lewis, actually. I understand you have a dead body here?"

"I....who....where's the sheriff?" Burke stammered. "The sheriff said he'd be back."

"The sheriff called me," Lewis replied. "This is now the FBI's case. Open that gate," he called to the goggle-eyed hospital guard, who hurried to comply without even waiting for a nod from Burke, who followed the wave of suits right to Pierce's office.

"Is that him?" one the agents asked.

"It is indeed," Lewis murmured, standing over Pierce's body as the rest of his men fanned out over the room. "Well, I'll be. They finally got you, Daniel. But then we both always knew they would."

"You know him?" Burke asked in surprise.

"I believe 'knew' is now the proper form of the verb," Lewis said dryly. "Yes, I knew Dr. Pierce. We both worked together, after a fashion, at Eagle Rock, where the alien was held prisoner. And now that alien has killed him."

"An alien?" Burke echoed. "Hardly. We'd just had a very contentious meeting with a group of prospective employees who left right before this happened. I'm sure it was one of them. I have their names if you want—"

"Didn't you notice the silver handprint?" Lewis interrupted. "Smell the burning flesh? His internal organs have been fried from the inside out. Only one creature kills like that, leaves a mark like that, and that creature is not of this world. Nothing the least bit human did this." He turned to one of his men. "Shut this place down. I want every employee out of here, every record confiscated."

Still reeling from the announcement that an alien had actually been in his hospital, Burke came to his senses. "What? Why would you shut down the hospital? You just said an alien did this, and even though that's a ridiculous assumption, you seem to believe it, so you can't possibly think anyone here is to blame! Carol, don't let them near the files!" he called out the door as a small army of suits advanced on him. "Get your hands off me!" Burke shouted as two suits grabbed him by the arms. "You can't arrest me! What's the charge?"

But instead of being carried outside, Burke found himself deposited in a chair, with the door to Pierce's office closed and guarded by the two agents who'd grabbed him. "Dr. Burke," Agent Lewis said, leaning against the front of the desk as it's owner lay dead on the floor, "I wish to lay my cards on the table. As I said, Daniel and I were both at Eagle Rock when the alien was held prisoner. I know he was trying to produce an alien-human hybrid before he went AWOL, and I'm willing to bet he was still trying, given the number of available female patients here. Did he ever succeed?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Burke declared, giving the board-approved answer to questions of this nature.

Lewis smiled faintly. "Believe me when I say I know how difficult it can be for men like you—like me—who defy social convention in order to further knowledge. I'm well aware of the precautions one must take, the lies one must tell to protect oneself from the sanctimonious disapproval of those who don't understand that certain risks must be taken, certain taboos ignored for the betterment of mankind. And while that has always been the case, it has never been more true than now, when we see the evidence of what is out there, and what it's willing to do to us. Now, I'll ask you again....did Pierce ever succeed?"

Burke hesitated, not certain if this was just a slick sales pitch or a truly kindred spirit. "I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," he repeated. "Whatever you did with Pierce, it has nothing to do with his work here."

The smile slid from Lewis' face. "I see," he said in a voice a good deal less friendly. "Perhaps I should elaborate. I know what you've been doing here, doctor, or trying to. Cooperate with me, and that remains our little secret. Refuse to cooperate and I will have every legal and medical body within earshot of the FBI, which, in case that requires clarification, would be every legal and medical body in existence, descend on this hole in the desert with all the self-righteous indignation they can muster, not to mention the attendant press such indignation will attract. Have I made myself clear?"

"Absolutely," Burke whispered, swallowing hard.

"Then for the third time, did Daniel succeed in his quest for an alien-human hybrid?"

"No," Burke said stiffly. "The fetuses never made it past twelve weeks, and the mothers always died. And that's the end of it, because someone destroyed the alien cells."

"Oh, I'm sure they did," Lewis answered. "And where is the formula for the serum?"

"What serum?" Burke asked.

"The serum which suppresses alien powers," Lewis said impatiently. "The serum which allowed us to hold the alien prisoner for three years before it escaped. That serum."

Burke blinked. "I knew there was an alien, of course, because we had alien cells. But Daniel never talked about how they held it, and never mentioned it escaping; he said it died. And he certainly never mentioned a serum."

Something cold and hard pressed into Burke's head on either side, and he went rigid in his chair as he realized both guards had drawn their guns. "Look around you," Lewis said in a conversational tone as Burke struggled to obey, his eyes darting sideways. "Note the condition of this office. The aliens were here for revenge, but they were obviously also here for something else. That something was the serum Pierce developed, our only means of holding them captive, the formula for which Pierce took with him when he went AWOL. Where is it?"

"I.....I don't know," Burke stammered, having visions of joining Pierce on the floor. "I told you, he never mentioned a serum. Why would he? We weren't holding any aliens here."

Burke shrank back in his chair as Lewis squatted down before him. "Dr. Burke, we've been getting along so well that I truly hate to put you in this position, but you must understand the gravity of the situation. The military would love to get its hands on that serum. So would the FBI. And so would the aliens. It's possible the aliens already have it, of course, but I doubt Daniel would keep it in his office. That's just not like him. Which means the aliens are still looking for it just like the rest of us. And you don't want them to get hold of it, do you? Look what they did to your friend, your colleague. Tell me where it is, Dr. Burke."

"I said I don't know!" Burke exclaimed. "I can't tell you what I don't know!"

"Tell me where it is, or I'll make it known that you're hiding it," Lewis said flatly. "Which means you'll be getting another alien visitation, only this time, you'll be the target."

Burke paled, but shook his head. "I don't have it."

"Tell me, or I'll have them shoot!" Lewis burst out.

"Then I'm dead anyway!" Burke shouted. "Either you kill me now, or the aliens will, and it won't help either of you because I don't know where it is! I'd never even heard of it until today! If you want it so badly, don't you think you'd be better off spending your time looking for it elsewhere? Because while you're in here threatening someone who doesn't have it, the aliens are out there looking for it, and they just might find it before you do!"

Burke fell silent, panting, glaring at Lewis, who regarded him stonily for a full minute before giving a barely perceptible nod. The pressure on Burke's head disappeared, and he nearly collapsed with relief. Jesus, but Pierce had run with a rough crowd.

"Show me to Pierce's apartment," Lewis demanded.

"He didn't live here," Burke answered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "He has—had—a house nearby."

"The address?" Lewis asked.

Burke hesitated. "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple.



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



De Baca County, New Mexico




"This is the place, sir," Agent Del Bianco said.

Bernard Lewis looked out the car window and frowned. "Are you sure?"

"It's the only house that fits Dr. Burke's description," Del Bianco said. "And it's not like there's a lot to pick from."

Quite true, Lewis thought, stepping out of the car into the fierce New Mexico sun. Dreadful place, this desert state. He'd hated it back in the forties, and time had not improved his opinion. But no matter; he'd go to hell and back, hell, he'd go to hell and stay for a month if it meant getting his hands on what he was after.

"What do they call this place?" Lewis asked.

"They don't," Del Bianco replied. "It's not a town, or a village, or even a hamlet. It's nothing official; just a spot in the road, a few houses and businesses strewn along Route 285. Nearest post office is the county seat in Fort Sumner. The population of De Baca county hovers between two and three thousand, around one person per square mile. There's a whole lot of nothing out here. An excellent place to hide, if I do say so, sir."

"Very slick, Daniel, very slick," Lewis murmured as they approached the house, a modest one-story building that was neat as a pin and one of only four nearby. This was indeed the perfect place to hide, a place neither the Army nor the FBI would ever have thought to look for an ambitious man like Pierce. "Remember, we're here on a condolence call," Lewis reminded Del Bianco. "No guns, no threats, no giving me away."

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco said, obediently hanging back as Lewis knocked on the door.

His knock was answered by a short woman with shoulder length dark hair. "Can I help you?" she asked apprehensively, her eyes drifting behind Lewis to Del Bianco and the car.

"Are you Mrs. Daniel Pierce?" Lewis asked gently.

The eyes widened, then darted back to Lewis. "Why?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," Lewis continued. "May we come inside?"

The woman stared at him a moment in shock before nodding numbly and opening the door, one hand on her very swollen, very pregnant belly.



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


I'll post Chapter 15 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FIFTEEN



July 3, 1959, 7 p.m.

De Baca County, New Mexico



"But....how could this happen? He was only forty-eight! Isn't that too young for a heart attack?"

"It is unusual to have that happen to a man as young and vital as Daniel," Agent Lewis said to the distraught woman sitting across from him, "but unfortunately even young men sometimes suffer unexplainable tragedies. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Pierce."

"You must work for the government," Mrs. Pierce said as she wiped a hand across her red, swollen eyes. "Daniel worked for the government, and his work was very important, very secret, so he couldn't use his real name. Everyone else knew him as 'Dr. Pearson'."

"I know," Lewis said smoothly. "I'm a doctor myself, and I worked with your husband. Naturally I knew his pseudonym, but we're in private, so there's no need for secrecy here."

"You knew Daniel?" Mrs. Pierce asked, shifting her bulk uncomfortably on the couch. "I didn't know any of his friends or co-workers. He never mentioned them, but I just assumed that was because his work was so secret."

"Just so," Lewis agreed. "Daniel and I were great friends, like brothers, really. But as you said, certain things must be kept to oneself when one attains a high position like he had. It's a cross we all must bear, but I think it's hardest for our families."

Mrs. Pierce's face contorted. "Yes," she sobbed as another round of tears started. "I'm not even sure who to call, or what to do, or....what do I do? I've never had anyone close to me die before, and now my own husband....." She broke off, unable to continue, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other to her very pregnant belly.

"There, there," Lewis said soothingly, rising from his chair and taking a seat beside her, offering a handkerchief as he did so. "This is precisely why I am here instead of a local sheriff or anyone else. Our nation understands the sacrifices it asks from its best and brightest, and they will take care of you in your time of need. I am here as your resource for anything you may need during this difficult time."

"Thank you," Mrs. Pierce wept, squeezing Lewis' hand tightly. Behind her Agent Del Bianco rolled his eyes. He was accustomed to Lewis' performances, of course, but this was a tour de force, worthy of an Oscar.

"The first thing we should do," Lewis continued, "is to make certain you're set for the near future, at least. When is your child due, Mrs. Pierce?"

"Helen," she said, her breath coming in great, gulping sobs. "Call me Helen."

"And I am Bernard," Lewis smiled. "When is your baby due, Helen?"

"September. It's a boy. Daniel was so pleased."

"How did he know it was a boy?" Lewis asked.

"He's a doctor, silly," Helen answered. "Or was."

A fresh round of crying ensued as Lewis patted her hand and tried to mask his impatience. "Helen, I know how difficult this must be for you, but we must settle certain things right away for your own safety and security. For example, do you have access to money now that Daniel is gone? Did he leave a will that needs to be attended to?"

"Daniel did all the finances," Helen said between sobs, "so I don't know about that. He gave me cash for things like groceries. But he did have a will. It's filed with an attorney in Fort Sumner."

"Daniel must have kept a copy of that will," Lewis coaxed. "Do you know where to find that?"

"His office, I guess," Helen said, gesturing down a hallway. "I never go in there. I didn't want to accidentally find out anything I wasn't supposed to know and get him in trouble."

"Of course you didn't," Lewis smiled, nodding to Del Bianco as he stood up. "I think you and I should go into the kitchen and have a nice cup of tea while my assistant here checks Daniel's office for a copy of the will and any other relevant documents that will help us to help you. Do you agree?"

"Of course," Helen said, struggling to hold back more tears. "You would know more about that than I would." She accepted the hand Lewis offered, maneuvering herself off the couch with difficulty. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have one of Daniel's closest friends here at a time like this."

"It's the least I can do for Daniel," Lewis said with a perfectly straight face. "He did it for me, you know. When my wife died, he was there for me every single minute."

"Your wife died?"

"Three years ago," Lewis said quietly. "I've never felt complete since then."

"Then you know!" Helen exclaimed. "You know exactly what I'm going through!"

"I do indeed," Lewis assured her. "And I will be here for you every step of the way just like Daniel was for me."

Helen clung gratefully to his arm as Lewis steered her toward the kitchen, giving a curt nod to Del Bianco as they passed. Del Bianco would tear that office apart within the hour, and if the formula for the serum wasn't there, they'd just have to keep looking. Now that the aliens had resurfaced, the one who held that formula would be the winner in the alien sweepstakes, breezing past all other contenders. Lewis intended that winner to be him, even if he had to stay here all night with Pierce's weepy wreck of a wife and weave a blanket of lies large enough to cover New Mexico.




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



Parker's Diner,

Roswell




It was evening when Spade finally brought the car to a stop outside Parker's and climbed out, stiff and sore from being in one position for so long. He'd been awake for thirty-six hours and on the road for twenty, pausing only for gas, bathroom breaks, and a pay phone to call Thompson and tell him he would be there soon. Thompson had responded with two words—"mission accomplished"—which at least meant Yvonne was safe and had gone a long way toward making those last few hundred miles more bearable. He entered the bar and eagerly scanned the room without success; then he noticed the door to the back room now had a window, and through that window he caught a glimpse of Pete, former bartender now apparently turned cook. It's a restaurant, Spade thought as he walked through the door and into a different world. So this is what Thompson had meant when he'd told him they'd meet at Parker's on the "new side". Pete had obviously parlayed Parker's popularity into a booming business for both locals and tourists judging from the bustle on both sides. He found Thompson dressed in civvies in a booth at the very end of a long row of booths which stretched from the front door to the very back corner.

"Jesus," Thompson said in astonishment when he saw Spade. "You look like hell, captain."

"Nice to see you too," Spade said dryly, noting that Thompson had lost that boyish look from ten years ago. "And I haven't been a captain for ages now. Call me Steven. Where's my wife?"

"On a plane back to New York with her colleague," Thompson answered. "When Malik called and said they'd reached Santa Fe, I told him not to bring her here."

"Why not?" Spade demanded.

"Because she shouldn't be here now, and neither should you. With what's going on at the base, the last thing you need is to be recognized as two AWOL soldiers they never found."

A waitress appeared, took one look at Spade, and said, "Right—coffee," and disappeared. "What happened?" Spade pressed as soon as she left. "Is Pierce dead?"

"Yes," Thompson said quietly. "Pierce was found dead in his office this afternoon at the Norwood State Mental Hospital, which is about forty miles north of here and could accurately be described as being in a 'remote location'."

Spade felt his gut tighten. So that's where Pierce had been planning to take Yvonne if he succeeded in impregnating her with an alien-human hybrid. Which he had, of course, but he'd never learned that. "Good," Spade said firmly. "I know Yvonne won't agree with me, but I'm delighted Pierce is dead. That's a huge weight off our shoulders even if she won't admit it. What was he doing out there at his 'remote location'?"

"I don't know," Thompson answered. "You don't discuss things like that over the phone, and I haven't seen the others since last night. What's more important is the reaction to Pierce's death."

"I imagine there's a fair amount of scurrying around," Spade said, gratefully accepting the coffee cup the waitress offered and the pot she left behind as well. "One of their AWOL's just showed up in a body bag."

"It's worse than that," Thompson said in a low voice. "When I spoke to them last night, the aliens agreed not to leave any alien calling cards. But Pierce was found with a silver handprint on his chest."

"So somebody lost their temper," Spade sighed, "and I bet I know who. But what's the problem? They're all free now, and they can all change their shape, so no one can find them."

"Sir, you won't believe the havoc this has caused at the base," Thompson said urgently. "No one has seen anything of aliens for a decade, and now suddenly they learn they're still out there. A lot of people have moved on, but some are still around. Remember Major Lewis?"

"How could I forget?" Spade said darkly. "Mr. Slicer-and-Dicer himself, and the bastard who knocked my wife around. What about him?"

"Lewis resigned his commission rather than face court-martial back in 1950. He went to work for the FBI, and he's been trying to worm his way back into the Army ever since. He wants to start a special task force dedicated to hunting aliens; I think he has dreams of recapturing one of them and finishing what he tried to start back in the forties."

"I don't even want to think about that man's dreams," Spade said, shaking his head. "But why the Army? Why not lobby the FBI?"

"Lewis is very much into rank," Thompson answered. "I don't think the title of 'agent' really does it for him. He wants his brass back, and until now, he's been thwarted by both the lack of any alien activity and by General Ramey, who was always vehemently opposed to his reinstatement under any circumstances."

"But now Ramey's dead," Spade said.

"And they have a silver handprint," Thompson added heavily, "not to mention a turf war. Lewis reached Pierce's body first and staked a claim for the FBI. He's offering to share whatever he finds in exchange for his special unit. And there's the matter of the serum."

"What about it?" Spade asked.

"Pierce took the formula for the serum he developed to block the aliens' powers with him when he went AWOL, along with all his notes on how he developed it. Both the Army and the FBI have been keen on finding him because that serum is the only way we have to control them short of knocking them out or killing them. Now that Pierce is dead, there'll be a scramble to find it; the winner will be the agency who will actually hold an alien if one is ever captured."

"Good God," Spade muttered, having lived through numerous power plays the last time aliens were held captive. "You've had quite a day, Brian."

"It gets worse," Thompson went on. "Stuff was pulled out of storage today that I haven't seen in years, including yours and Lieutenant White's files. I don't think I have to tell you what that means."

No, you don't, Spade thought, leaning back in the booth and closing his eyes. The hunt for him and Yvonne, long abandoned, might now be taken up in earnest by a new cadre of alien hunters all fired up by this latest alien sighting. "And here I thought that once Pierce was dead, we'd be....well, not 'home free' exactly, but a lot closer. Guess that's not going to happen."

"Just the opposite," Thompson agreed. "I didn't want you to come here tonight, but I couldn't tell you anything over the phone without someone overhearing me and couldn't get enough leave to meet you anywhere else. I finally settled on this side of Parker's because this is where the families come; soldiers mostly go to the bar. You need to get the heck out of Dodge, captain. I know you're tired, but tank up on coffee and drive. There are so many people in these parts who saw your picture today that I'm afraid even that scruffy beard won't be a good enough disguise."

" 'Scruffy'?" Spade echoed. "It's only scruffy because I've been up for two days."

Thompson smiled faintly. "Sorry, sir."

"I'm not a 'sir'," Spade reminded him, "and you're a captain now yourself."

"After everything we went through together, you'll always be a 'sir' to me." Thompson paused. "I know these aren't the best of circumstances, but I'm really glad to see you again. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, it has," Spade agreed. "Nine years. And nine years later, you're still saving my ass. Thanks, Brian."

"As I recall, you and the lieutenant saved mine quite a few times too," Thompson smiled. "I'm glad you both managed to escape and make a life for yourselves, and glad Pierce can't hurt her any more."

"Even if we did wind up whacking the bee's nest in the process," Spade murmured.

"There's one silver lining to that cloud," Thompson noted. "If they thought Pierce had died by human hands, they may have looked more closely into that delegation the lieutenant was a part of and discovered who she really was. Now everyone's looking for aliens, aliens who can look like anyone, and they have a better chance of hiding than you and the lieutenant."

A group of noisy soldiers entered from the bar area, filling up a booth and calling for a waitress. "You should go," Thompson said. "Make certain you cross the state line before you stop for the night."

"Understood," Spade nodded. "We'll keep in touch the usual way?"

"Not for a while. Let everything simmer down first. I don't know but what they'll be watching me because they know we were friends."

"Yeah," Spade sighed. "Well....if you're ever in—"

"Don't," Thompson interrupted firmly. "I still don't know exactly where you're living, and we should keep it that way."

"Right. Well...goodbye, Brian. Take care of yourself."

"You too, sir."

Spade slid out of the booth and walked toward the front of the restaurant, pulling up his collar as he passed the group of soldiers. Here he'd thought that Pierce's death would bring them a measure of peace, but he now felt more exposed than he had in years, and he continued to feel that way long past the city limits.




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




Proctor residence




Emily hesitated outside the dining room door, mentally rehearsing her speech, not wanting a repeat of what had happened earlier. Anthony was sitting at the dining room table absorbed in computations, a plethora of blueprints for the proposed observatory spread out in front of him as his pencil scritched over the paper in short, rapid strokes. Maybe this wasn't the best of times, and she was just about to leave when he looked up.

"Emily? Did you want something?"

"I....I don't want to bother you," Emily said. "You look busy."

"I could use a break," Anthony said, setting his pencil down and stretching in his chair.

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, Emily glanced at the blueprint nearest her. "This is going to be quite a production," she remarked.

"If they actually build it," Anthony said. "Right now we're arguing over the size of the telescope. No telescope is big enough for me, especially after playing with an alien telescope."

Emily smiled faintly. The telescope Brivari had given Dee on her ninth birthday still looked like the inexpensive model he'd constructed it from; only a handful of people knew what it could actually do. "That must be frustrating to have something so advanced and not be able to copy it."

"Frankly, I don't really understand how it works," Anthony admitted. "I just know that it does. And even if I were to learn, I think my colleagues would be a bit suspicious if I suddenly showed up spouting physics they didn't even know existed. It's probably better to stick to what I know." He paused. "So what's up?"

"Dee came home early today," Emily began, folding her hands on the table in front of herself, "and we....well...."

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I heard."

His tone was even and non-judgmental, but there was something about the steady way he held her gaze that caught Emily off guard. Anthony was an enigma. Despite the fact he'd spent half his childhood only four doors down, she still felt she didn't know him all that well. He usually kept to himself, staying on the fringes of any fray in progress almost as though he'd been assigned to observe rather than participate. "Okay," she said uncertainly. "Well....then you know she took something I said the wrong way. Again. Now she's talking about moving out, and I was hoping you could talk some sense into her."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Anthony said. "I agree with her. We should leave."

This simple statement left Emily speechless for a full half minute. "You can't mean that," she finally said in disbelief. "Look, Dee....overreacts. She always has. You've always been the steady one, so don't let her suck you into whatever it is she's upset about now. She has no business letting her personal problems uproot her entire family."

"Emily, you know I don't usually get involved when you and Dee disagree, but—"

"Then why are 'getting involved' now?" Emily demanded.

"—this time, it's different," Anthony continued right over top of her protest. "You obviously have issues with the way Philip is being raised. And since Philip is also my son, that means you have issues with me as well as Dee."

Emily stared at him, at a loss for what to say. She wasn't used to having any kind of conversation with Anthony, never mind such a frank confrontation. "We've given it some time," he went on. "We've been here for a couple of weeks, and during that time, you have persistently challenged the way we raise our son, interfering with everything from what dishes he uses at meals to when and how he takes his naps. Dee has held her temper for the most part and insisted our wishes be respected, but the minute her back is turned, you're right back to doing things your way. So far Philip hasn't gotten confused by this tug of war, but he's bound to if he stays here, and as his father, I simply cannot allow that."

Anthony's tone was calm, but rock steady, and Emily just sat there, flabbergasted. She'd never seen him like this, never known he'd had it in him. But then she should have suspected; anyone who had ushered her daughter out of harm's way as many times as Anthony had was obviously made out of some pretty stern stuff. "I....I'm sorry you feel that way," she stammered defensively. "I wasn't trying to 'interfere', I was just trying to give my own daughter the benefit of my experience. She's so stubborn that she's making mountains out of mole hills."

"Someone certainly is," Anthony said. "What difference does it make if Philip drinks out of a cup instead of a bottle as long as he gets his milk? What difference does it make where or when he naps as long as he gets enough sleep? Apparently a very big difference to you, because it was you, not Dee, who started all these arguments. I don't want my son spending months watching his mother and grandmother locked in combat, and Dee and I need to be able to make our own decisions without having you constantly challenge them."

"I wasn't 'challenging'," Emily insisted, "or....at least I didn't mean to come across that way," she finished, flustered. "It just seems that Dee thinks about herself more than Philip some times. A lot of the time," she amended. "And besides, how are the two of you going to afford your own place? The whole point of staying here this summer was to save money."

"We're going to look for a room in Roswell close to where I'm working," Anthony answered. "And Dee's planning to get a job, so that will help pay the rent."

"But....what about Philip?" Emily asked, bewildered. "Who will watch him if you're both gone all day?"

"Dee and I will work that out just like we always have before," Anthony replied.

"But—"

"I should make it clear that we're not asking your opinion," Anthony continued, "nor are we seeking your approval. We're simply informing you of the decision we've made." He paused. "I know you love us," he added softly, "and I appreciate your offer to stay here. I'm sorry it didn't work out. Hopefully we'll all get along better when we don't have to live together."

Emily opened her mouth to launch into a long string of very good reasons why this was a very bad idea, but caught herself just in time when she saw the look in Anthony's eyes. Anything she said now that was the least bit negative was going to be taken as "interfering", so she stood up and left the dining room before she said anything else she would wind up regretting.




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation




It was after dark when Brivari arrived at Quanah's village. He and Jaddo had spent the afternoon keeping a watchful eye on the aftermath of the discovery of Pierce's body, a discovery made all the more eventful because it had revealed their continued presence here. Jaddo had made an unfortunate misstep by losing his temper and killing Pierce the way he had; the original plan was to leave no mark of any kind that could not be traced to another human. The earlier than expected arrival of Pierce's colleague and the drama that followed had relegated them to mere observers, and what they had observed was disturbing: Cavitt and Pierce may be dead, but the one called "Lewis" still lived, arriving on the scene in mere hours. It had taken all of Brivari's powers of persuasion to convince Jaddo not to kill the man who had tried to make him the subject of a "living autopsy"; a second death so close on the heels of the first, especially with the first clearly pointing to alien involvement, would have been a very bad idea indeed. Restricted to watching, they had ultimately decided they were safe; Lewis was familiar with Jaddo's years of captivity and obviously knew who had killed Pierce, but there was no way for him to locate them. Even their failure to find the formula for the serum was not the disappointment it may have been; Lewis, too, had failed to find it, and with Pierce dead, no human possessed the ability to hold them should they be captured, an unlikely event in any case. They would keep a watchful eye in case the serum was discovered in the future, but as long as they were careful to lay low, the present excitement should die a natural death from lack of evidence, leaving them with the satisfaction of knowing one of their worst tormentors was now dead.

And what a relief that is, Brivari thought as he made his way through the village, which was curiously silent tonight. Perhaps Jaddo could move on now that his thirst for revenge had been slaked. Despite the fact that events had not gone quite the way they had intended, Brivari had to admit to a deep satisfaction that Pierce was dead and no longer posed a threat, be it to themselves, the Healer, or anyone else, and he wished to share that satisfaction, if not the details surrounding it, with his closest friend. He had not visited Quanah in two weeks, having spent his time with Atherton instead. But for all the excitement Atherton brought, he lacked Quanah's solid wisdom and experience, not to mention his trademark discretion. Informed of Brivari's joy at the elimination of a hated enemy, Atherton would ply him with questions while Quanah would merely toast his good fortune. The latter is what he sought tonight, along with the company of one who had shared his past, even if only for a little while.

Brivari rounded a corner and paused, confused. The village had seemed empty, but Quanah's house was ablaze with light and packed with people, so many that they could not all fit. The last time he'd seen such an assemblage had been for River Dog's wedding. Was this another wedding? But all of Quanah's children were now married, and the looks on the faces of those he could see did not suggest celebration. Ish-keh, he thought as he worked his way through the solemn crowd. Quanah had noted that his elderly mother was ill. The coughing sickness must have taken her, and this crowd must represent the burial rites of Quanah's people, something Brivari was still unfamiliar with. He reached the house; the crowd parted to allow him entrance, their faces troubled, and he felt a prickle of unease. Why all the sadness? Ish-keh was very old, having lived a long life and raised many children. Certainly he would have expected sorrow at her passing, but not this pall of grief. Had something else gone wrong, perhaps with the children or the grandchildren?

The house was so packed with people that Brivari found movement difficult, but some deft maneuvering brought him closer to where everyone's gaze seemed to be directed, the front room of Quanah's house. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spied River Dog and his family, along with his siblings and their families. Quanah's wife, Leosanni, sat between her two sons, her face contorted with grief. And next to her, wearing a similar expression was....Ish-keh? Alarmed now, Brivari pushed his way through the remainder of the crowd, scanning face after face for the one he had not yet seen. He found it in the last place he would have expected.

Quanah lay on some sort of platform, dressed in his best clothing, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. At his head sat Itza-chu, who looked up in surprise when Brivari emerged from the crowd. "What's wrong with him?" Brivari demanded of the medicine man. "What happened?"

River Dog rose from his place beside his mother. "It was pneumonia, a sickness of the lungs," he said in a shaky voice. "A week ago it became much worse, and this afternoon....he died."

"But he told me he'd been to see a healer and was given some medicine," Brivari protested. "Didn't it work?"

"We could only afford medicine for one," River Dog said, "and father gave the medicine to grandmother."

A moan went up from Quanah's mother, a sound suffused with so much grief it was almost unbearable to hear. "I should not have taken it," she whispered as her family supported her. "No mother should have to bury her son."

"We tried to find you," River Dog continued. "One of us has been at the cave around the clock for the past week in case you returned there instead of the village."

But I wasn't there, Brivari thought wildly. Quanah had been coughing the last time they'd spoken, but had said he feared for his mother's health more than his own....and had given his mother the medicine, leaving none for himself. And Brivari hadn't returned immediately because he'd been enjoying Atherton's company, unaware that while he did so, his closest friend since Valeris was dying when just a little privacy and a healing stone could have saved him.

"Out," Brivari whispered.

River Dog blinked. "What?"

"Out," Brivari repeated urgently. "All of you need to leave."

River Dog stepped closer as everyone exchanged confused glances. "Nasedo, my father is dead," he said steadily. "There is nothing you can do for him now."

"You don't know that," Brivari said in a ragged voice. "Sometimes there is still life in an apparently lifeless body."

"He died hours ago," River Dog persisted. "It is too late."

"It may not be," Brivari argued, "but it certainly will be if we just stand around talking about it!"

"You must not do this," River Dog urged in a whisper, clearly having divined Brivari's intentions. "There is no point. It will not help father, and you will only expose yourself."

"Not if everyone leaves!" Brivari snapped, his grief giving way to anger. "Everyone out now!"




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


I'll post Chapter 16 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTEEN


July 3, 1959, 10:30 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



The healing stone stopped glowing as Brivari lowered both head and hands in defeat; across from him, River Dog did the same. In many medically primitive cultures, "death" was not true death; a spark of life remained, accessible by those who knew how to find it. But not so with Quanah, whose mind was vacant despite Brivari's desperate attempts to coax it back. Bringing someone very near death back from the brink would have required a tremendous amount of energy, but the boy's help had not been needed. They sat alone in silent defeat, the house having been emptied by none other than Itza-chu, who had heeded Brivari's admonitions to leave and herded everyone out, allowing them to work in private without the prying questions the sight of the healing stones would have brought.

"You tried," River Dog said gently. "I am grateful for that."

"I failed," Brivari whispered. "I doubt you are grateful for that."

"You brought my father back once before, and I have never forgotten that. Perhaps twice was too much to ask."

"It was not too much," Brivari said bitterly, gazing at his dead friend. "Had it been earlier, I could have saved him."

"Then perhaps you were not meant to save him."

Brivari's eyes flicked up to River Dog's passive, accepting expression, a sharp contrast to the anger boiling within himself. "What do you mean, 'not meant to'? Who would mean for me not to save him?"

"The Creator," River Dog said simply. "Perhaps my father was meant to die now."

"You think your 'creator' prevented me from saving him?" Brivari said sharply. "No 'creator' worth your reverence would willfully deprive the universe of this man."

"He might if it served some larger purpose," River Dog answered. "We believe that what happens does so for a reason. We may not know this reason now or ever, but—"

"I am not interested in 'reasons'," Brivari broke in angrily. "If you wish to view yourselves as nothing more than game pieces on a board, moved this way and that by another's whim, so be it. But I am no one's plaything, and should I chance to meet anyone who blocked my way to healing this man for any reason, they would not live long enough to regret it!"

A low rumble spread through the room as Brivari's anger escaped unbidden, rattling the glass in the windowpanes and shaking the table on which Quanah lay. River Dog looked around in alarm as Brivari restrained himself with a great deal of effort, wanting nothing more than to pulverize anything in sight. Normally he ignored human superstitions, even found them amusing. But to suggest there was a benevolent mind at work behind Quanah's death was too much to bear, a typical excuse from a primitive culture for that which they could not change. If someone had kept him from Quanah deliberately, that someone was guilty of murder.

"You are angry," River Dog said gently, "but—"

" 'Angry' doesn't begin to describe the way I feel right now," Brivari warned.

"—you are not responsible for my father's death," River Dog finished. "It was the sickness which—"

"It was my absence which killed him, not the sickness," Brivari snapped as River Dog flinched. "Whatever 'sickness' this was would not have stood a chance against me had I been here! Do not ply me with platitudes or make childish excuses in order to render this acceptable. It is not, nor will it ever be, acceptable, do you hear me? Never!"

"Enough," ordered a voice behind them.

River Dog hastily cupped the healing stone to hide it as Brivari sighed in annoyance. "I thought I told you to wait outside," he said tersely to Itza-chu.

"Leave us," Itza-chu said to River Dog, ignoring Brivari.

River Dog rose obediently, giving Brivari a sympathetic look as he left the room. Itza-chu took River Dog's seat on the other side of Quanah's body, directly across from Brivari. "Do you think your grief outweighs that of Quanah's own kin?" the medicine man said sternly. "I did not think you capable of such presumption."

"I have made no such claim," Brivari retorted. "Do you think I have no right to grieve because I am not kin?"

"I said no such thing," Itza-chu protested.

"Then it appears we have each misunderstand the other," Brivari said flatly.

Itza-chu was quiet for a time, eyeing Brivari with the same piercing stare he had turned on him at the very beginning, when Quanah had first welcomed him into his home. "Your friendship with Quanah has lasted many years," Itza-chu said finally. "Of course you mourn his death. And I am glad to see that you do."

"What kind of man takes pleasure from another's grief?" Brivari demanded.

"The kind who knows how power can be misused," Itza-chu answered. "It is good that one with power such as yours is capable of feeling loss and regret. Without the capacity for loss, one becomes arrogant. Arrogance and power make poor companions."

Arrogance. Yes, that was probably what his insistence that he could have saved Quanah looked like to a culture lacking Antarian medical acumen. "I could have saved him," Brivari said in a brittle voice. "That is not arrogance, but simple fact."

"I believe you," Itza-chu said. "And the fact that you were not given the opportunity to do so tells me that saving him was not the Creator's wish."

"I do not believe in your 'creator'," Brivari said.

"What either of us believes is irrelevant," Itza-chu replied. "Our differing interpretations will not change what has happened."

"I could have changed what happened," Brivari insisted. "Had I but known, Quanah would be alive today. Let me tell you what I believe," he continued heatedly as the medicine man regarded him passively, unmoved by his anger. "I believe we each write our own destiny. I believe we succeed or fail by the choices we make, and that those choices are our choices, not those of some unseen being which amuses itself by murdering good men for no reason!"

Brivari fell into a frustrated silence as Itza-chu regarded him levelly for several long minutes. "We are men of power, Nasedo," he said at length. "We are accustomed to being able to do things other cannot, to being able to right things others cannot. And yet there are times when our powers are not enough, when the universe steps in to remind us that, in the end, it is out of our hands. There is no shame in being humbled this way." He paused. "I am not familiar with your people's beliefs, but I am grateful we do not share them. If you feel responsible for Quanah's death because you were not here when you had no reason to think you should be, imagine how his mother feels. She, too, had the lung sickness, and she took the medicine her son urged on her, knowing he could not afford any for himself...and now she will bury him. Her guilt is greater than yours. And if the belief that this was meant to be, that some greater hand is guiding our destinies makes this burden easier to bear, so be it. Absent that belief, she might well take her own life."

Brivari dropped his eyes, unable to look the medicine man in the face. For all his own grief, that of Quanah's family must be far greater, and his mother's greatest of all. To watch her son die knowing she had consumed what could have saved him....

"I suspect Quanah anticipated your reaction," Itza-chu continued. "He left a letter for you."

Itza-chu held out an envelope, his hand hovering in the air over Quanah's body; Brivari stared at it, wanting to take it, not wanting to take it. Here was another message from a dead friend he had not been able to save, and Valeris' last words as delivered by the Proctor's child rang in his mind as he reluctantly accepted it. "What does it say?" he whispered.

"I do not know," Itza-chu replied. "He wrote it before his death and gave it to River Dog, who bade me deliver it. It seems Quanah was not the only one who anticipated your reaction."

Brivari cast a guilty glance toward the front door, hoping his lapse of control hadn't frightened River Dog too badly. He wasn't accustomed to feeling ashamed of his behavior, couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt the need to explain his behavior. It was an unsettling feeling, and he rose to leave, feeling chastised even though the medicine man had been remarkably circumspect.

"I would ask a favor of you," Itza-chu said behind him. Brivari paused, not turning around. "I respect your beliefs even though I do not share them, and would ask the same courtesy in return. Do not burden Quanah's kin with your talk of murder and blame. Allow them the 'platitudes' which make his death easier to bear, if that is how you see them. And if you find yourself unable or unwilling to grant this request, then do not attend his burial. Do not make this harder for them than it already is."

That prickle of shame reared its ugly head again. It was not a pleasant sensation for a King's Warder, and Brivari nodded curtly before leaving in a hurry through the back door, avoiding the crowd outside.




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



FBI Field Office

Santa Fe



"Nice office," Agent Del Bianco said, settling into a chair. "Whose is it?"

"That agent has been reassigned," Agent Lewis answered from behind his new desk. "You're late."

"And you're early," Del Bianco replied. "I'd assumed you'd be out with the lovely Mrs. Pierce."

"I dined with Daniel's weepy widow earlier tonight," Lewis replied, recalling how he'd hid his distaste every single time that emotional woman had burst into tears, which was, on average, every ten minutes. "She's still buying my story about my having been bosom buddies with her husband; fortunately there is no one to contradict it."

"So what'd you learn?"

"Nothing," Lewis sighed, "because she knows nothing. Helen Pierce is about as close to an empty vessel as you can get, a smart choice for a man who wanted to fill her with all sorts of tall tales. For our purposes, she is precisely useless."

"Maybe not," Del Bianco said thoughtfully. "She is carrying his child."

Lewis' eyebrows rose. "Meaning?"

Del Bianco opened a folder which contained several pages of hastily scrawled notes. "I took that will I found in his safe to one of our attorneys, and told him what I'd discovered at the county courthouse. Pierce was no fool. His marriage is legit, and so is the will. Both were executed in his real name."

"I thought we'd paid off officials in all fifty states to report any instances of a 'Daniel Pierce' trying to do anything other than breathe," Lewis said irritably.

"Apparently we didn't pay off the right people in De Baca County, population, 2,302," Del Bianco said dryly. "As far as they knew, Pierce wasn't 'Pierce', he was 'Pearson', a doctor who was working on a top secret project. Everyone spoke very highly of him, and although he told them he wasn't at liberty to divulge the nature of his work, he apparently let on that it had something to do with fighting the communists, a sentiment that would go over big with those in De Baca."

"Who naturally understood the need to hide his real name and happily helped him do so," Lewis said sourly. "I swear that communists are the all purpose excuse for just about anything, including cold-blooded murder."

"We've used them as an excuse ourselves, sir," Del Bianco chuckled. "The justice of the peace who married Pierce thought his last name was 'Pearson'," he continued hastily when Lewis scowled, "and recalled the marriage license as reading Pearson. But there's no Pearson on file, so something got switched afterwards, and that was probably done by the county clerk at the time, one Ina Sanchez, now deceased. I guess we aimed our bribes too high."

"Wonderful," Lewis deadpanned. "Is there any chance of proving the marriage illegal?"

"Possibly," Del Bianco said doubtfully, "but it won't do any good. Pierce anticipated that. His will names his wife by her maiden name, Helen Butcher, not by a married name or simply by the title of 'wife'. So even if the marriage is invalidated, she'd still be Helen Butcher, and she'd still inherit his estate lock, stock, and barrel."

"And somewhere in that estate is the serum," Lewis fretted. "But where? You're sure you took the house apart?"

"Down to the drywall. But I don't think that's where you'll find what you're looking for." Del Bianco tapped his notes. "Pierce left a safe deposit box in trust for his child at a bank right here in Santa Fe which he or she will inherit upon his reaching the age of twenty-one. That child also stands to inherit Pierce's entire estate upon Helen's death."

"That's it!" Lewis said triumphantly. "Oh, brilliant, Daniel, brilliant! Leave the serum to an unborn child who won't be old enough to inherit it for a couple of decades! Anyone there we can bribe?"

"No one on record, sir."

"I don't suppose we can break in?" Lewis asked hopefully.

"To the First National Bank of Santa Fe? We'd be better off nursing the bribe route."

"Right," Lewis agreed. "Who would—" He stopped, a horrible thought having occurred to him. "What happens," he said slowly, "if Helen Butcher's child doesn't survive?"

Del Bianco hesitated. "In that case, the will directs that the contents of the safe deposit box be destroyed immediately."

"Damn it," Lewis muttered, pushing his chair back from the desk, drumming his fingers on the arm. "Further proof that what we're looking for is likely in that box. Unless this is all just a ruse to point us in the wrong direction, something Daniel was quite capable of." He frowned as he rose from his seat, gazing out the window at the city lights. "Regardless, it would appear that we have a vested interest in the health and welfare of Daniel's unborn child. When is she due again?"

"September 18th," Del Bianco answered.

"And she'll needs lots of emotional support," Lewis murmured, "the kind that can only come from a dear friend of her dead husband who also happens to be a doctor."

"You're diabolical, you know that, sir?"

"Of course I am," Lewis said briskly, resuming his seat. "That's why I have this job, and why I'll soon have an even better one. Now that the aliens have reappeared, everyone will be interested in anyone who knows anything about them, and who knows more about them than me? No one, that's who. Anyone else 'in the know' is either dead or missing."

"What about the hospital staff?" Del Bianco asked.

"Almost as useless as Daniel's wife," Lewis answered. "Oh, that Burke is slippery, I'll give him that. Managed to remove every shred of evidence in the short time between Daniel's death and our arrival. Quick work, that, very quick; under different circumstances, I might offer him a job. But Burke was the only one who knew that the alien reproductive cells they were using to impregnate their inmates came from a live alien, and even he thought the alien had died, not escaped. No, that avenue is closed to interested parties, which only makes us more appealing, not to mention the fact that we have Pierce's body safely stashed in Washington."

"So what are you planning to do?" Del Bianco asked eagerly.

"First, you need to keep looking," Lewis said. "Yes, I know you already looked. Look again. Pierce could have hidden that formula virtually anywhere, from the safe deposit box to the back of an old grocery list. Intellectual capital is easy to conceal."

"But what about the box?" Del Bianco asked. "You can't exactly tell her what you're looking for, and a bank heist is risky, especially if what we're looking for isn't there. And we certainly can't sit around waiting for the kid to grow up."

"Who is the executor of Daniel's estate?" Lewis asked.

"Helen Butcher," Del Bianco answered.

"Then as executor, she will need to view the contents of that box prior to his estate being settled," Lewis said. "And when she does, I will see to it that she is accompanied by her husband's dear friend, who has graciously offered to stand by her during this confusing time."

Del Bianco smiled faintly. "Did I mention that you're diabolical, sir?"

"Yes," Lewis answered with satisfaction. "As a matter of fact, you did."




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation




Moonlight filtered through the trees as Brivari stood in the front of the cave which had sheltered him from his enemies for the better part of three years. He hadn't lived here in nearly a decade, hadn't even visited because there'd been no need to. But tonight, holding Quanah's letter in his hands, this had seemed the only appropriate place to read it. His feet crackled on the dry earth of the cave floor as he walked inside, recalling that night when the sweat had felled him and River Dog had found the healing stones and brought him back. Like they both had done for Quanah later that night after the hunters' attack had injured him. Like Brivari could have done for Quanah this time had he been here.

Brivari's heart felt like lead as he sank down on the cave floor and opened the letter. Quanah's scrawl was alarmingly weak and messy, punctuated here and there by jagged lines that probably indicated a coughing attack which had come on mid-sentence. It took him a full minute after opening the letter to work up the courage to read it.



Nasedo,

My illness worsens, and I have reason to believe my time grows short. If you are reading this, then my time has run out.

I know you, my friend. I know you blame yourself for my death, either because you were not aware of it or because you tried, and failed, to forestall it. Please know that I do not blame you in any way. I know you either did what you could or were prevented from doing so by lack of knowledge. Nothing happens without purpose, and our not knowing that purpose does not mean it does not exist. If my death serves some higher purpose, then so be it. I accept it willingly, knowing that death is not the end for my people, but merely the next step in the journey our spirits take. You know this too from your experience with the sweat, which showed you another world in spite of the danger it posed. Only my body has ended; I go on. River Dog will look for me in the spirit world the same way I sought my grandfather. Perhaps I will have a message for you just as your kinsman did years ago.

Do you remember the last conversation we had, when you told me that your greatest achievement had been destroyed and its repair delayed? I pray you do not allow your disappointment to define you, and that you follow the advice your kinsman gave you long ago: Do not forget how to live. Each of us is given only one chance upon this earth. We must not waste a moment of it because none of us knows when time will grow short. Do not waste your time mourning my death, but rather celebrate your life. What I am not there to enjoy, enjoy in my place. Perhaps you will live to see your greatest achievement reborn. And if you do, be certain the time you spent waiting for it was used wisely.




The signature was so badly scrawled that it was virtually illegible; Brivari set the letter in his lap and read it again, and then a third time. Perhaps you will live to see your greatest achievement reborn.... Quanah could not have known how pertinent that statement was. He had never known what Brivari truly was the way River Dog did, and neither father nor son knew his purpose here. Quanah had known so little, asked so little, yet his absence left a void in Brivari's life even larger than Valeris'.

An hour passed before Brivari left the cave. A short time later he had noiselessly unlocked the door to a rooming house similar to Malik's and climbed the stairs, knocking on a door as quietly as possible, hoping no one else would hear him. A minute later a very sleepy Atherton opened the door, tying a robe around himself and gaping when he saw who stood outside.

"Langley!" he exclaimed. "Wherever have you been? And what are you doing here in the middle of the night? You look....." Atherton blinked, peering harder. "My God, man, you look awful! What's happened?"

"A....a good friend of mine has died," Brivari said haltingly. "May I come in?"




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




Copper Summit, Arizona




The basement door slid open, and Michael stepped inside, nodding to the operatives manning the surveillance equipment before heading straight for the door to the lower level. Initially closed to him, it had not stayed that way for long; his assignment to abduct human children for Nicholas' experiments had necessitated making the lower level available to him as well. Unfortunately, he thought as he pressed his hand to the second lock. This newest assignment was one of the most distasteful he had ever had, and at his age, he had quite a few to choose from. He didn't believe for a moment that Nicholas intended to share anything he learned from these experiments, and if he succeeded in replicating the purported powers of the Royal Warders, he would become more powerful then Khivar, a frightening thought if ever there was one. Many a resistance meeting in the last two weeks had ended in frustration as its members struggled to find a way to sabotage this latest bid for power. The problem was that only a handful of operatives knew what was happening; any countermove from any source would mean that someone on that very short list had talked. They had come up with a few stalling tactics, but those would be short-lived at best. His being summoned here by Nicholas today most likely meant that the first stalling tactic had been discovered. Two weeks, Michael thought heavily. It only lasted two weeks. Which was better than nothing, but not by much.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase which led to the lower level, Michael took his time walking through the maze of cubicles as he always did, looking inside each as he passed, trying to learn anything he could. The cubicle which had held the spare husks for Nicholas and his family was now empty; Michael's discovery of that which was not supposed to exist had apparently prompted their relocation. Most of the rest were filled with machinery and manned by technicians engaged in some sort of testing. "Intake", as Nicolas euphemistically referred to the tissue harvesting area, was in the very back, probably so that anyone who gained unauthorized access to this room would have to traverse its entire length before they could get a clear picture as to what exactly was being done here. It was a long walk which ended much too soon, and Michael braced himself for a tongue-lashing.

"Harder," came a breathless voice from behind the curtain. "Harder.....harder......"

Pausing just outside, Michael peered cautiously around the curtain. Vanessa was leaning over the end of the table with Nicholas behind her, and....well....the humans had a term for this in one of their major languages: In flagrante delicto. He held his breath, watching with guilty fascination. The human method of mating had proven a huge distraction for the Argilian contingent. Primitive species relied more on raw senses for information and stimuli than more advanced species; what humans lacked in their brain evolution was more than made up for in those deliciously sensitive places on the human body, so exquisitely sensitive that they were almost painful to a race not accustomed to such a highly developed sense of touch. The irony was that, although the husks they wore were fully functional in every way, Khivar's sabotage of Nicholas' husk meant that his was the exception; intervention from their technicians had been needed in order for him to perform the act, and even then, he could feel nothing. So why do it at all? Michael wondered, as the pair heaved and sweated. This could only be for Vanessa's benefit, and Nicholas was not given to participating in anything from which he did not receive a direct benefit. Then he caught a glimpse of his master's face and discovered the answer; watching his lover enjoy herself was as close as Nicholas could get to this particular human sensation, which he had to admit appeared absolutely intoxicating....

Michael looked down in horror as he felt his own husk responding to what he saw with an uncomfortable stiffness he had experienced only once before. Then he moved slightly and got a better look at the table; while Vanessa and Nicholas enjoyed themselves in their respective ways at one end, one of the unfortunate human children Michael had delivered lay at the other, tethered and unconscious, the upper half of his skull removed. The sight filled Michael with such disgust that his stiffness vanished almost instantaneously. Interesting how the human body responded so quickly and fiercely to emotion. Antarians had long since severed that link.

"Ahem, Michael coughed.

The resulting tableau was priceless as Nicholas stumbled backwards off the box on which he'd had to stand in order to service his lover, affording Michael a full view of her husk's hindquarters before she spun around in shock, her clothing falling into place. "What the hell are you doing here?" Nicholas demanded, yanking his pants up.

"You summoned me," Michael answered.

"That doesn't mean you can go barging in on people!" Vanessa sputtered, her husk's face reddening in yet another human response to emotion.

"My apologies," Michael said smoothly. "I had no reason to think anyone was engaged in private activities. In future, how would you wish me to respond? Should I interrupt, or wait until you're finished?"

"Finished with what?" barked a voice behind him.

Michael suppressed a smile as Ida Crawford blustered into the cubicle, taking in Vanessa's red face and Nicholas' sweaty indignation in one glance. "Were you......were they?" she demanded, spinning around to face Michael. "Don't lie to me, Michael. Were they mating?"

"Yes, ma'am," Michael answered promptly.

"Why, you idiots! Get out of here!" Ida ordered as Vanessa scurried away, her eyes brimming with hatred. "And you should know better!" she continued to her son, who wisely backed up. "Haven't I warned you a million times about what it looks like for a grown woman to be doing that with a child?"

"Which is why we were down here," Nicholas said in exasperation, "where no human could ever see us! God, Mom, when do I ever get to have any fun?"

"When you finish the job you came here for," Ida snapped. "That's the only thing I want to see you trying to 'finish', is that clear?"

Ida stalked off, ignoring Michael and having spared not even a glance at the human child on the table. Michael waited, knowing he wouldn't be chastised for tattling; even Nicholas would never dare lie to his mother. If anything Michael's interruption had been beneficial; a minute later, and Ida wouldn't have needed to ask what they'd been doing, which would undoubtedly have made her even angrier. "You wanted to see me?" Michael said, ignoring his master's discomfiture.

"Yes, I did," Nicholas said tersely, gesturing toward the table. "This one's too old. They're all too old. Where did you get them?"

"From a human organization known as a 'scout troop'," Michael answered. "They were camping in the woods; the disappearance of several of their party was attributed to wild animals, I believe."

"Good cover, bad specimens. They need to be younger. These are eleven or twelve at least, and the parts of their brains that we need have atrophied. Get younger ones, much younger ones. No more than five or six."

"That will be difficult," Michael said. "Human children that young are watched very closely. It's only when they're older that they go off by themselves and become easier to obtain."

"I don't care if it's difficult, just do it," Nicholas said irritably.

"I'll need to consult with Greer about the least risky way to acquire younger children," Michael replied. "Being caught would be catastrophic."

Nicholas swore loudly as Michael stood passively by. When Riall and Zan had sent their operatives to do exactly what Nicholas was trying to do now, they'd had Covari who could take the shape of virtually anyone, including the child they were taking or the child's parents; Argilians had no such advantage. Michael intended to emphasize that point with Greer and make it as difficult as possible to obtain younger children. He wasn't certain how long he could keep that up, but any delay would be welcome.

"Sir?"

"For the last time, don't call me 'sir'!" Nicholas exploded at the terrified operative behind them. "What?"

"I....it's in the surveillance room," the operative stammered. "You'll want to see this."

Nicholas stormed out and Michael hastened to follow, curious about what was so important. And important it must be judging from the knot of operatives gathered around one of the consoles, jabbering excitedly. They scrambled aside as Nicholas approached, waiting in eager silence as he scanned the incoming message....and broke into a wide smile.

"At last," he whispered. "At long last. Where did you get this?"

"From our usual contact," an operative answered.

"Did you notify the nearest operative?"

"Yes, but he hasn't responded yet."

"Keep trying. Let me know the minute you hear from him."

"What happened?" Michael asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

"Go upstairs," Nicholas told him triumphantly, "and tell that hellion of a mother of mine that I just got a lot closer to finishing 'the job I came for'."




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




July 4, 1959, 3:30 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



The phone jangled Courtney awake; she reached for it without opening her eyes, her hand missing three times before she managed to pull the receiver off its cradle. "Hello?" she mumbled.

"Courtney? Wake up," her father's tense voice answered. "Mark hasn't checked his communicator for hours, and I need to talk to him right away."

Courtney's eyes flew open as she sat up so quickly that she was momentarily dizzy. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I need to talk to Mark," her father insisted.

"He's....not here."

"Not there?" her father echoed sharply. "Then where is he?"

"At work," Courtney said quickly.

"At this hour?"

"He.....had a car come in from a wealthy client, and....they wanted it fixed right away," Courtney stammered, her sleepy brain groping desperately for a rational explanation as to why a car mechanic would be working at this hour. "I guess he's getting paid a lot of money to work on it all night," she added, crossing her fingers that her father would buy that. She hadn't had to deal with Mark's absence since she'd moved in, hadn't even given it a second thought after successfully lying to her father two weeks ago. Obviously that had been a mistake.

"Oh," her father said, disappointed. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Not for a while," Courtney said evasively. "What's wrong, Papa? Something must be wrong if you're calling me in the middle of the night, or calling me at all, for that matter. You hate telephones."

There was a brief conversation wherever her father was. Courtney strained to hear, but he must have had his hand over the mouthpiece because everything was muffled. What was going on? Had her father's rebel status been discovered? But then why would he be on the phone to her?

When her father spoke again, he sounded resigned. "I need you to listen to me very carefully," he said intently. "Get the trithium amplification generator I gave you, and come back to the phone."

"The what?"

"The five-sided device," her father clarified. "Go get it."

"But....you said that was to block the Warders' powers," Courtney said in alarm. "Why do I need it now?"

"Because you were right," her father said, fear lacing his voice. "They're there, Courtney. The Warders have killed a man just north of Roswell."





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


I'll post Chapter 17 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


July 4, 1959, 3:40 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



Courtney's hands shook as she dug her fingernails into the loose floorboard inside her closet beneath which she'd hidden the device her father had given her before she left Copper Summit. He'd told her to keep it with her at all times, and she had done nothing of the sort, hiding it first in one of the bureau drawers and then here after she'd found the loose board and Mark's communicator beneath it. Dee and her little boy visited a lot, and one of Philip's favorite activities was emptying cupboards and drawers. Not that Dee would know what it was if he found it, of course, but it was best if no one ever saw it, especially since she still didn't know what any of the numbered buttons did other than the one that activated the energy field which blocked the Warders' powers. "Okay, I've got it," she said breathlessly into the phone, her finger on the one button she was familiar with.

"Press number three," her father instructed.

"But....that's not the one you showed me," Courtney said. "Shouldn't I be blocking their powers? Isn't that why you called me?"

"We just want to send you a transmission," her father clarified. "As far as we know, you and Mark have not been compromised and are in no immediate danger. That device is also a communicator. You activate it with the third button."

Courtney sagged back against the bed in relief, nearly dropping the phone in the process. She'd thought they'd found her, that Royal Warders were lurking outside her door at this very moment and her father had called her to warn her so she could use the one defense at her disposal. And all he'd wanted to do was send a transmission. Why hadn't he just said that right away?

"Courtney?" her father asked sharply. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Papa," Courtney said quickly, pressing the indicated button. "It's on. Go ahead."

A hologram promptly shot up from the center of the device, in vivid color and a meter square. What it showed her was not pretty, and she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them as the images rotated by. All were of a man lying on the floor with a silver handprint emblazoned on his chest...no, into his chest, a look of absolute terror etched on his dead features. She set the phone back in its cradle when her father's face appeared in the lower right corner of the image. "When did this happen?" she whispered, relieved to have a face to talk to instead of a disembodied voice.

"Yesterday afternoon, at some kind of hospital several miles north of Roswell," her father explained.

"Did they kill anyone else?"

"No. The man in the image is Doctor Daniel Pierce, one of two commanders who held Jaddo hostage. The other was killed shortly after Jaddo escaped."

"They're persistent," Courtney murmured. Jaddo had no doubt hunted this "Pierce" since his escape in 1950. It had taken him nine years, but he'd had his revenge.

"Royal Warders are noted for their persistence and ruthlessness," her father answered. "The point is—"

"The point is that you were right," another voice interrupted as a different face replaced her father's in the lower right corner.

Nicholas. Courtney sat bolt upright, fully awake now. "Right about what?" she asked cautiously.

"You argued that they were near Roswell, and it looks like they are," Nicholas said. "This is the first time they've shown their faces in nearly ten years. I knew they'd slip up some time."

"I wouldn't call this 'showing their faces'," Courtney said doubtfully. "And even if they had, it wouldn't mean a thing—they're shapeshifters."

"You know what I mean," Nicholas said, sounding a tad annoyed. "Now, I want you and Mark to get off your rear ends and find them."

"Are you sending more operatives?" Courtney asked, suddenly flooded with panic. Even one more operative meant she couldn't keep the news of Mark's death secret any more.

"Not yet," Nicholas answered. "Too many of our people up there before they've been identified might tip them off. Find them first. Start with any unexplained deaths or unexplained miracles. They're very likely living right there in the community, maybe even in a position of prominence. You know how Warders like to lord it over everyone."

"You mean like you?" Courtney said before she could stop herself.

But Nicholas wasn't about to let anything rain on his parade. "Always the joker," he laughed as Courtney imagined her father cringing. "Just find the murdering bastards so we can go home."

"Understood," Courtney said. "Can I talk to my father again?"

There was a pause before Michael reappeared. "Listen to me," he said intently. "If you find them, do not engage them. Just find out as much as you can without drawing suspicion, and let us know."

"Right, Papa," Courtney said, knowing full well that her father really meant "let the resistance know". "I'll let you know the minute I—we—find anything."

"Check your generator frequently for messages," her father added. "The indicator will blink, just like with a regular communicator. If Mark is working odd hours, you may be the first to hear of anything that's happening. Good luck, sweetheart, and be careful. I love you."

"I love you too, Papa," Courtney said wistfully. "Goodbye."

Her father's image melted away, the transmission still hanging in the air above the generator showing a gruesome death which had arguably been richly deserved if any of the tales of Jaddo's captivity were to be believed. The Warders had targeted the one man with whom they had a score to settle and left everyone else unscathed. That hardly qualified them as "murdering bastards", to her way of thinking. Not that they'd thank me for that assessment, she thought, shutting off the imager and replacing the generator beneath the floorboard before turning off the light and climbing back into bed. No, one glimpse of who she really was, and she could wind up just like this "Pierce" before she'd even had a chance to say a word.




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



7 a.m.

Parker's Diner




"In you go," Atherton said firmly, holding the door to the diner open.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," Brivari grumbled. "I didn't want to go anywhere."

"Nonsense," Atherton scoffed. "Getting out will do you good. At a time like this, it's important not to hibernate."

"People don't 'hibernate'," Brivari noted. "Fauna do."

"That's where you're wrong," Atherton declared. "People do hibernate, and the results are typically disastrous. Have a seat, and we'll order some coffee."

Brivari obediently slid into their usual booth, secretly grateful to be looking at something other than the four walls of Atherton's room. Atherton had been nothing less than conscientious, staying up with him for several hours and listening patiently to an abbreviated version of Quanah's death while saying very little, something of a surprise given how chatty he usually was. Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch, awakening about an hour ago, and Atherton had insisted on going to the restaurant where they usually met. The morning sunshine had made Brivari feel marginally better, and he had agreed, only to regret it as they walked the short distance from Atherton's rooming house to Parker's. To walk in a world that Quanah no longer inhabited was painful, so painful that he had briefly considered attempting a sweat again for a chance to see him one last time. The thought that Quanah would not be there the next time he visited the village was simply unbearable.

Courtney appeared, pad in hand. "Good morning! You're early today. And you're back, Mr. Langley. What—" She stopped, eyeing him closely. "You don't look so good. Is something wrong?"

"Mr. Langley has suffered the death of a close friend," Atherton explained.

"Oh....I'm so sorry," the waitress said. "That's awful. Were you close?"

"Quite close," Atherton answered when Brivari remained silent, having dreaded just this type of questioning. "May we have some coffee, please? A pot would be nice. You don't look so good yourself," he added. "Are you all right, dear?"

"I didn't get much sleep last night," she admitted.

"Anything wrong?"

"I just got an unexpected phone call in the middle of the night."

"Ah, the middle of the night phone call," Atherton nodded. "I've had a few of those myself."

Courtney went to fetch coffee as Atherton leaned across the table. "I didn't mention this last night because of the state you were in, Langley, but how old did you say your friend was?"

"I don't know exactly. In his fifties, I think. Why?"

Atherton began to answer, but Brivari wasn't listening. Jaddo had walked in, and he glanced briefly at the two of them before taking a seat in a booth directly behind Atherton.

*He never shuts up, that one,* Jaddo commented.

*Good morning to you, too,* Brivari said sourly.

*We were supposed to meet at the base last night,* Jaddo continued, ignoring Brivari's sarcasm. *Where were you?*

*Quanah is dead,* Brivari announced. *Does that answer your question?*

There was a long pause. *I'm sorry to hear that,* Jaddo said finally, *but I believe I warned you about starting relationships with humans. Several times.*

".....and an Indian's life expectancy is only about sixty, considerably less than yours or mine," Atherton was saying, oblivious to the fact that a second conversation was taking place right in front of him. "Your friend actually lived to a ripe old age."

"This isn't about his age," Brivari said sharply. "It's about the fact that I didn't know, that perhaps I could have done something to help him had I known."

"How could you have known?" Atherton asked. "And what could you have done? Well, I suppose you could have financed medication for him. Or......"

*Do you mean to tell me that you would have actually considered using a healing stone?* Jaddo demanded. *If you'd done that, they would have wanted everyone they knew healed! You would put us at risk for a human friend?*

*Ally,* Brivari corrected, *an ally who gave me shelter when I was hunted and took down a hunter single-handedly, if you remember. An ally every bit as valuable as the Proctor's child or the Healer, both of whom we saved with healing stones. And you're a fine one to talk about 'putting us at risk' after the stunt you pulled yesterday. We agreed not to leave a trail, so of course you planted a handprint on Pierce.*

*What difference does it make?* Jaddo said. *They can't find us. Let them trip over themselves hunting. Besides, it was a worthwhile price to pay for giving Pierce exactly what he deserved.*

*There were dozens of other ways to kill him that wouldn't have set off a locator beacon!* Brivari exclaimed. *And you didn't seem to think it was a price worth paying before we went out there, when you agreed we should not leave a trail. Or are you rewriting history now?*

".....but in the end, it may have been too late," Atherton said. "Once pneumonia has advanced to a certain stage, I'm not certain even medication would have worked. I suppose he could have been hospitalized, but most Indians won't go to a hospital...."

*You're upset,* Jaddo said calmly, *so I'll ignore your temper. Let this be a lesson to you not to get overly involved with humans, Brivari. They're a fragile race. And I, for one, am delighted you didn't know about this Quanah's dilemma so you wouldn't be tempted to risk exposure by healing him. If you had—"

*If I had,* Brivari interrupted, *he would be alive right now, and I would have been free to meet you at the base to assess the damages you caused by losing control.*

*I earned that!* Jaddo snapped. *I earned every single second it took his puny human body to die; if the price of that is some stirrings at the base, so be it. And if the price of our cover is Quanah's death—"

Brivari slammed his hands on the table as he rose abruptly, startling Atherton into silence. *Get out!* he ordered.

But Atherton, of course, couldn't hear. Neither could the waitress, who was hovering nearby, wide-eyed. "Whatever is the matter?" Atherton asked, bewildered, only to turn around when Jaddo rose from his seat behind him and turned hard eyes on Brivari.

*Now who's lost control?* Jaddo asked coldly.

*Get out,* Brivari said flatly.

Atherton watched in utter confusion as Jaddo stalked out the door. "I....brought you some coffee," Courtney said carefully, "and a plate of your favorite breakfast. On the house. Mr. Parker said so."

"Thank you," Brivari said quietly, resuming his seat as she deposited a plate of pancakes and eggs and left, throwing an inquisitive glance Atherton's way.

Atherton, for his part, was still looking back and forth from Brivari to the door. "What was that all about? Do you know that man, Langley?"

"No," Brivari answered, "and I have no idea."




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



Eagle Rock Military Base




"Bernard!" General McMullen exclaimed. "Good to see you! Come in, come in."

"Thank you, sir," Agent Lewis said, "and thank you for seeing me."

"Of course," McMullen smiled. "We go back a long ways, you and I. I keep having to remind myself that it's 'agent' now, not 'major'. Have a seat," he continued, indicating a chair and opening the liquor cabinet. "Whiskey?"

"Please," Lewis answered.

"So how's the FBI treating you, Bernard? Has J. Edgar been good to you?"

"Director Hoover has been quite good to me," Lewis replied, accepting a glass. "Although not as good as the Army."

"I'm surprised you went with the FBI," McMullen said. "Given how you felt about the Army, I would have thought you'd prefer to thumb your nose at our preferences and go with the CIA. We've never liked the CIA."

"I had no quarrel with the Army," Lewis noted. "It was the Army that had a quarrel with me. Besides, the CIA is merely an intelligence gathering organization which lacks police powers. I'm a man of action, and so are you.....or you were, at least. I certainly hope you still are." He paused when McMullen looked down at his glass. "Well? What did they say to my proposal?"

McMullen hesitated a moment. "The Army is not prepared to offer you an alien-hunting task force at this time."

Lewis' eyes widened. "But....but they resurfaced!" he exclaimed. "You always said that if they ever came back, I could come back. And they not only came back, they killed Daniel!"

"Don't you think I'm aware of that?" McMullen replied. "I saw the pictures; I read the report. And that's part of the problem—this was clearly a vengeance killing. Only Pierce was affected when the aliens could easily have killed off everyone in that hospital."

"What difference does that make?" Lewis asked angrily. "All I've heard for the past nine years is, 'no one's seen or heard from them. They probably went home'." But I knew that wasn't true, and so did Sheridan....and so did you, George. We knew they came here deliberately, so it's no surprise that they're still here a decade later!"

"And yet we haven't seen hide nor hair of them in all that time," McMullen noted. "And when they do finally rear their heads, it's to kill their former captor."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Lewis demanded. "They didn't go home, they're here. Why are they still here? Because they're gathering information, that's why! It's why they came here in the first place; that business about their ship crashing was nothing but rubbish—"

"Anyone who saw that ship could tell it had crashed," McMullen interrupted. "Even you."

"So they crashed," Lewis said crossly. "They're bad drivers, or they never learned to parallel park. The point is that they came here deliberately, and the reason they came here deliberately can't be good news for us. They have to be found. They have to be stopped!"

McMullen sighed and took a sip of his whiskey. "I'm not saying I disagree with you, Bernard, but you have to realize what a delicate position we're in. Those of us who knew about the alien prisoner willfully kept that information from the president. And even though a number of that coalition have died, there are still some left—myself, General West, and General Andrews to name a few—who could be court-martialed if word of that leaked out. Pierce's death dredged up a lot of things that might best have remained hidden. Discrepancies are being noted and questions asked that are making a number of us mighty uncomfortable. Even you aren't exempt; the circumstances surrounding your own resignation came up just yesterday."

"Didn't General Ramey came up with a suitable ruse for what happened here? If it worked then, why wouldn't it—" Lewis stopped, staring at McMullen. "That's not it, is it? It's not that you don't want the task force, it's that you don't want me leading it."

"You must admit it would look odd," McMullen replied. "A former Army major allegedly involved in a top secret mission resigns under suspicious circumstances, then returns years later to head a task force related to that mission? And there's the credibility issue."

" 'Credibility'?" Lewis echoed. "What could possibly be wrong with my 'credibility'? I was directly involved in the project, for God's sake, not watching from afar like the rest of you! Ramey's dead, Sheridan's dead, Daniel's dead; I'm one of the few left who has any 'credibility' at all!"

"I was referring to your last alien encounter," McMullen clarified. "I seem to recall they subdued you rather quickly."

Lewis flushed, the redness blazing all the way to his chest. "They shot me with a tranquilizer dart! And while we're on the subject of being 'subdued', may I remind you that you and a number of other brass were locked in the observation room? You weren't any more helpful than I was!"

"But I'm not the one angling to lead an alien-hunting task force," McMullen pointed out as Lewis fumed. "No, Bernard, I'm afraid there's no getting around the fact that you never captured an alien like Sheridan Cavitt, or allowed us to hold an alien like Daniel Pierce. Perhaps you would have had you been given the chance; we'll never know. What I do know is that all anyone remembers about you is that you defied a decision made by the coalition and intended to keep the alien alive despite a direct order to terminate it—"

"Only for a short while, to study it!" Lewis objected.

"—you attacked a female lieutenant—"

"She was insubordinate!"

"—and the aliens removed you the same way one would flick a bug out of the way. You then resigned with allegations of misconduct hovering over your head. And to make matters worse, you've confiscated Pierce's body, which has caused all sorts of caterwauling because an AWOL officer's body should be the province of the Army. Even if we weren't worried about our participation in the project being discovered, all of that would be enough to make us choose someone else to lead the kind of task force you've proposed."

Lewis stared at McMullen, stunned. " 'Someone else'? I thought you said the Army didn't want a task force."

"At this point in time, we don't. But if that should change....well.....I said the Army wasn't prepared to offer you a task force. I didn't say it wouldn't ever offer it to anyone."

There was a long pause as Lewis gripped the arms of his chair hard. "Who?" he demanded finally, his voice thick with rage. "Who would you offer it to?"

"Does it matter? If it makes you feel any better, it wouldn't be anyone you would know. We would need to go with people who didn't know about the prisoner, who wouldn't blow our cover with their mere presence."

"So you'd rather have some wet-behind-the-ears grunt?" Lewis demanded. "Men who don't know their asses from holes in the ground, who—"

"I assure you they would know plenty," McMullen interjected. "If it proves necessary, we're prepared to let on that the two dead aliens everyone who's anyone knows about actually lived a short time before they died, which gives us leave to impart certain information that might otherwise be difficult to explain how we came by. We have all the intelligence you have."

"But you don't have me!" Lewis exclaimed, slamming his glass on the desk, spilling the contents in the process. "You don't have anyone with experience dealing with these monsters! Jesus, George, why would you throw that away? You know as well as I do that the best hunters to set on a trail are experienced hunters!"

McMullen drained his own whiskey and threw a longing look at the liquor cabinet. "I know you're upset, Bernard, but try not to take this personally. It's not personal—it's business. More than that, it's politics. We all know how the game is played. Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose."

Lewis gazed at McMullen blankly for several long seconds before abruptly rising from his chair. "You're right, sir," he said, sounding much more calm. "I let my personal desires get the better of me. The important thing is that the Army is addressing the problem. I should never have allowed personal vanity to cloud my judgment."

"Bullshit," McMullen said casually. "Don't pull that crap with me. I know you plenty well enough to know that you don't believe a word of that."

"Thank you for your time, sir," Lewis said. "And please tell the others I appreciate their consideration."

McMullen's eyes narrowed as he rose from his chair. "What are you up to?" he asked suspiciously. "Don't think for a minute that I'm buying this shtick."

"Do have yourself a good afternoon, sir," Lewis said pleasantly. "I'll let myself out."

"Bernard!" McMullen called sharply. "Whatever you're planning, don't."

Lewis kept walking, and McMullen's protests died away as he descended the stairs to the first floor, where Agent Del Bianco was waiting for him. "How'd it go?" Del Bianco asked.

"It didn't," Lewis said shortly.

"They said no?"

"Just like they have for the past nine years."

"Even with 'you know what' out there?" Del Bianco asked, shaking his head in disbelief as he scurried to keep up with Lewis' long strides. "So now what?"

"Now I do exactly what the good general suggested," Lewis answered. "I 'play the game'. I should thank him for reminding me what a very good player I am."

"What exactly does that mean?" Del Bianco asked as they climbed into their car. "Where are we going?"

"Onward and upward," Lewis said grimly. "The Army has dismissed me for the last time."




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



1 p.m.

Parker's Diner



One more hour, Courtney thought, easing her weight from one tired foot to another as she poured her umpteenth cup of coffee for her umpteenth customer. At least she was working the counter now, a prime location all the waitresses fought over because it was less work; all that walking and carrying was greatly reduced. Nancy tried hard to be fair to everyone, so after a morning spent scurrying out to the booths and back, the counter was a luxury.

The door dingled, and Courtney was delighted to see Carl coming in. "Hi there!" she called, pointing to an empty stool at the end. "Long time, no see."

"I'm so sorry I ran out on you at the festival," Carl said. "Something really important came up."

"I heard," Courtney replied. "So that guy's dead?"

Carl blinked. "What?"

"Someone died," she clarified. "At least that's what Mr. Langley said."

"Mr. Langley told you that?"

Courtney nodded. "He was very upset this morning. Got into some kind of fight with someone who stomped out of here all mad. I didn't hear exactly what happened, but—"

"Wait," Carl broke in. "Mr. Langley told you—told you—that a man died?"

"Sure," Courtney answered, mystified. "That Indian friend of his."

"Indian....oh!" Carl said, his eyes widening. "Okay. Right."

"Well....isn't that where you both went the other night when you ran off together in such a hurry?" Courtney asked.

"Yes," Carl nodded, "yes, that's....that's where we went. So sad."

"Mr. Langley certainly thought so," Courtney said. "He seemed to think he could have done something to help his friend if he'd known he was sick. I think Mr. Anderson was trying to make him feel better."

"Mr. Anderson?"

"Mr. Langley's friend."

"His 'friend'?" Carl repeated blankly.

"Honestly, what is it about that guy?" Courtney chuckled. "Dee said the same thing. It's pretty clear the Indian who died was his friend. Anyway, Mr. Langley and Mr. Anderson have been eating breakfast together for the last couple of weeks. I gather they were up all night because Mr. Langley was so upset. I was up all night too," she added. "We should have all gotten together and commiserated."

"Why were you up all night?" Carl asked. "Is something wrong?"

Courtney excused herself to wait on another customer, barely hearing what was ordered, she was so preoccupied. Should she answer that question? The urge to do so, to share some of the burden, was overpowering; it had been so when the Warders' presence in the area was merely hypothetical, and was even more so now that it had been confirmed. She was accustomed to at least having her father to talk to and usually several other members of the resistance besides, making her long for someone to consult with, to advise her, even to just listen. She'd almost spilled her secret to Carl two nights ago when that soldier had interrupted. Spilling had arguably been a bad idea, but perhaps she could manage something a little less drastic.

Carl was looking at her inquisitively when she came back. "Remember how I told you that I came here to do something important?" she asked in a low voice.

"Sure," Carl replied. "You're looking for someone you said doesn't want to be found. Some kind of family feud, if I recall."

"Right. Well, I wasn't sure that the one I was looking for was here. But now I know he is. He's definitely here."

"So it's a he?"

Or a she, or just about anything else you can think of. "Yes," Courtney answered, keeping it simple. "But he doesn't know I'm here, and he won't be happy if he finds out."

"You mean he hasn't seen you yet?"

"Not yet. So now I have to figure out how to find him without him finding me so he doesn't kill me."

"Kill you?" Carl echoed. "If it's that bad, I think you need the sheriff."

"Well, not 'kill me' exactly," Courtney said hastily. "He....I....he's just going to be really mad if he finds out I'm here. I'm sorry," she sighed. "I know this sounds crazy. Do you have any idea where I could get my hands on some old newspapers? They might help me find who I'm looking for."

"The library," Carl said promptly. "You're in luck; they just finished a brand new building with a lot more space, so finding things should be easier."

I could use a little luck right now, Courtney thought, feeling guilty for even thinking that. She'd had a great deal of luck already, from Mark's death not being discovered, to the sheriff being kept at bay, to all the people who had helped her make her way here. The kind of luck that would not only find a Royal Warder but keep her own presence a secret was probably too much to ask for.

"Everything okay here?"

Courtney hastily grabbed a coffee pot as Nancy hovered nearby, looking at Carl curiously. "Of course," she said, pouring him a cup of coffee he hadn't asked for. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," Carl answered, playing along.

Nancy gave him a wry smile. "I know she's pretty, but she's working. Chat her up when she gets off, okay?"

"When do you get off?" Carl asked after Nancy walked away. "I could take you to the library, if you want."

"You could? I'd love that! I'm off at 2 p.m."

"And....well, I was wondering if I could make up for last night by taking you to the Fourth of July fireworks tonight at the festival in Corona," Carl continued.

Corona. Where Dee lived.....and where Mac Brazel lived. The Mac Brazel who had found the Waders' ship. "I'd love to go to that too," Courtney answered, unable to believe her good fortune.

"Good," Carl said, sliding off his stool as Nancy walked by, throwing them a pointed look. "Oh....one more thing," he added, leaving some coins beside his coffee cup. "If you find whoever you're looking for, I'm willing to talk to him on your behalf."

"That's generous of you," Courtney said gratefully. "Really generous. But I can't put you in that position."

"Why not?"

Because it could get you killed. "It could get.....complicated," Courtney said.

"Trust me, I'm used to complicated," Carl replied.

"Okay, then it could get messy."

"Ditto on messy."

"It could be dangerous," Courtney persisted. "Are you used to dangerous?"

"You might be surprised how very used to that I am," Carl said dryly.

"Why would a repair man be used to dangerous?"

"It's.....complicated." Carl smiled faintly as she raised her eyebrows. "Look, the offer stands. See you at two."

"So," Nancy commented slyly as Courtney carried Carl's cup and saucer into the back. "You and the handyman?"

"You know Carl?" Courtney asked.

"Everyone knows Carl, hon," Nancy chuckled. "He's the ultimate fix-it guy. Carl can fix anything, and I mean anything. And he's a sweetheart to boot; I'm a little surprised no one's hooked him in all these years. "

"How many years?" Courtney asked.

Nancy thought a moment. "Nine. He got here in 1950, right around this time of year. Good catch," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Courtney stared after her as she left the kitchen. 1950? That was when the Argilian contingent had arrived....and right around this time of year. Carl can fix anything..... Could it be? Is that why he was used to "complicated" and "dangerous"?

You're nuts, she told herself firmly, shaking off the preposterous notions flying through her head as she deposited Carl's cup in the dirty dish bin. There was no way Carl could be a Covari, never mind a Warder.

He was much too human.



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


I'll post Chapter 18 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


July 4, 1959, 4:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




It was late afternoon when Quanah's family emerged from his house with his body in tow, heading for the woods. Malik watched from a distance as the entire village followed with the exception of one he'd been certain would be joining them. Brivari had been keeping vigil outside Quanah's house, and now shook his head in response to a brief question from Quanah's eldest son. The son looked uncertain but continued on with the family, leaving Brivari to watch the procession file past him, almost everyone nodding to him as they passed. Brivari was obviously well liked, making it all the more odd that he wasn't attending the funeral. But that was a question for later; Brivari was not in a good mood, if Courtney was to be believed, and Malik was in no hurry to cross his path. Best to stay hidden.

*Did Jaddo send you here?* a sharp voice rang in Malik's mind.

So much for hidden, Malik thought with a sigh of resignation. Dealing with difficult people seemed to be his lot in life, although he had to admit he seemed to have a knack for it. Which is why he found it so amusing that Courtney had been reluctant to accept his offer of assistance in approaching whoever she was searching for. Having dealt with a lethal Royal Warder tended to put things in perspective.

*The waitress from the diner told me what happened, or enough that I could figure it out,* Malik said when he reached Brivari. *I'm really sorry. I know you were close to him.*

Brivari gave a snort of derision. *Are you here to lecture me about the folly of consorting with humans?*

*No.*

*Perhaps you would like to regale me with the brief nature of the human lifespan and the futility of protesting that?*

*No.*

*Then why are you here?* Brivari demanded.

*To pay my respects to an ally,* Malik answered, *one without whose help I would not have found you the night Lieutenant White nearly died.*

Brivari relaxed a fraction, having clearly been spoiling for a fight. *He also killed a hunter with his weapon and his bare hands while I took on the other in this very forest. I would never have succeeded without him.*

Malik kept his eyes on the group now disappearing into the trees, masking his surprise. One of the unwritten rules of his association with the Warders was that they never confided in him unless they had to, and following Jaddo's successful escape years ago, they hadn't had to. Consequently he knew precious little about anything that had happened prior to Brivari's accepting him as an ally. To have information, any information, volunteered like this was unprecedented.

*At least you understand the concept of an 'ally',* Brivari continued, *something which appears to be lost on Jaddo.*

*Jaddo understands alliances,* Malik answered. *What he doesn't understand is friendship, which is really what you had with Quanah these past several years, more so than an alliance. I'm here to honor an ally. You're here to honor a friend.*

*Do you have a problem with that?* Brivari challenged.

*Of course not. Although I am a bit curious as to why you're not attending your friend's funeral.*

*Because there shouldn't have been a funeral!* Brivari said angrily. *Because I could have saved him had I known. Because I'm tired of excuses, of primitive explanations meant to make death acceptable, even desirable. Tired of the idiotic notion that a misguided deity prevented me from rendering aid for some cosmic greater good. Tired of the way these people simply accept this superstitious nonsense without question when I know they're smarter than that.*

*Many cultures with limited medical technology have such superstitions,* Malik noted. *That's how they stay sane, by finding meaning in that which they can't control.*

*The time they waste looking for 'meaning' would be better spent searching for cures for their common illnesses,* Brivari said irritably.

*Agreed, but does that matter now?* Malik asked. *Funerals are for the living. Don't begrudge them what little comfort they can find.*

*There is no 'comfort' in death!* Brivari exclaimed. *Only emptiness. Only failure. I could have saved them,* he whispered, to himself more than Malik. *If I had been there.....if I had been paying attention....I could have saved them both.*

Both. For a moment Malik thought he'd miscounted and two people had died in this village until he realized there was another reason for Brivari to speak in the plural. *You can't be everywhere at once,* he said gently. *Not here, not on Antar.*

*But I was there!* Brivari snapped. *I was right there, with Khivar's affair with Vilandra happening right under my nose, with her dispute with her brother over her betrothal to Rath and her subsequent tantrum right in front of me. I was there, I saw it....and I misinterpreted it. I underestimated it. I underestimated her. I had no idea she'd go so far.*

Malik blinked. *'Go so far'....what are you saying? Do you mean Vilandra had something to do with Khivar's coup?*

*She had everything to do with Khivar's coup,* Brivari said bitterly. *She was Khivar's coup. She allowed him into the capital thinking he intended to ask for her hand in marriage. The fool learned otherwise, but not before a world had fallen.*

Malik was speechless, stunned into silence by more than just another offering of information. He and Amar had known Khivar thought himself in love with Vilandra, but for all their speculation on how he'd managed to prevail, they had never once looked Vilandra's way. His own sister, Malik thought sadly. Zan had not been undone by military might, political upheavals, or even a conventional spy, but by his own sister. The theft of Antar's throne hinged on nothing more than a family dispute over who a princess would marry.

*I....I had no idea,* Malik said faintly, still flabbergasted. *I....we knew Khivar was having an affair with her, but I never dreamed....but how could you have stopped her? I never would have thought her capable of that, and so never would have thought to prevent it.*

*I was there,* Brivari repeated, quieter now, though every bit as angry. *I saw it, saw it all, yet I did not draw the proper conclusions that would have prevented her idiocy. And history has repeated itself. I knew Quanah was ill, yet I stayed away. I did not check to make certain he was recovering. Now he is dead.....and it is my fault. My fault!*

Brivari stalked off suddenly in the direction of the funeral procession whose footsteps had long since faded. Malik made no move to follow. There was no consoling a grief that was wide enough to encompass two fatal mistakes on two different worlds in two different parts of the galaxy.




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




7 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School, Corona




"It looks a lot smaller," Dee commented.

"I think we're just older," Anthony smiled.

Dee shielded her eyes from the sun as they stood on the outskirts of the Independence Day festival that Corona hosted every year. Behind the festival was their school, which Dee had attended since kindergarten and Anthony since fourth grade, both appearing not only smaller but a good deal more weathered than she remembered. This festival had been one of the highlights of the year, looked forward to by every child in Corona; now the booths were showing signs of age, while some of the rides looked rusty or just plain silly. Even the Ferris wheel that Urza had found so captivating was nowhere near as tall as she remembered.

Urza. Dee's eyes strayed to the school's roof as she and Anthony walked along, then to the tree line beyond. So much had happened here; she'd taken an alien to this very festival, almost gotten killed, been healed by aliens, and been chased by another a year later. "I'm surprised they still have this," she said. "Roswell has become such a tourist destination, you'd think they'd have their own festival for the Fourth."

"Not with the Crash Festival only two days before," Anthony said. "There's talk of moving that to another time of year so Roswell can celebrate the Fourth."

"And if that happens, this one will probably die," Dee said wistfully, feeling suddenly protective of that which had seemed old and worn out only moments before. "Good thing we came tonight. Might be the last time."

"You surprised me when you agreed to come," Anthony said. "I didn't think you'd want to leave Philip with your mother."

"I surprised you?" Dee said, giving his arm a playful punch. "Look who's talking! I can't believe you actually told my mother off. That's usually my job."

Anthony shrugged. "You know I usually try to let you and your mother work out your own differences, but this time, she needed to hear it from me. I'm still not sure why you were okay leaving Philip with her tonight."

"Because Mama's still in shock, Daddy's home too, and Philip's in bed," Dee said. "Might as well take advantage of it while we can."

"True," Anthony smiled, putting an arm around her. "I know you'll want to watch the fireworks from the roof like we usually do, but they won't start for a couple of hours at least, so what's first? Cotton candy? The Ferris wheel?"

Dee was about to answer when she spied a group of soldiers in uniform coming toward them. They passed by, heading for one of the game booths, and she immediately felt foolish. Soldiers from the base had always loved this festival, but the sight of a military uniform still made her stiffen, a legacy from all those years they'd feared the sight of the military on their doorstep.

"Still worried?" Anthony asked.

"If what Courtney overheard means what I think it means, then we should be worried," Dee said, suddenly aware of just how many soldiers were here. "If Pierce dies, it could start everything up all over again."

Anthony smiled faintly. "Isn't that your mother's line?"

"I just want to protect our baby," Dee said, flushing as she recalled her mother's amusement at her concern. "Don't you?"

"Of course I do. But I can't help but notice that you're sounding exactly like your mother did when we were kids."

"That was different," Dee insisted. "I was older, and far more capable than Philip is."

"You certainly were," Anthony agreed. "You were awfully capable of getting yourself into trouble, some of which I pulled you out of. Look, I'm not trying to start an argument," he continued when Dee looked likely to do just that. "It's not worth arguing over. Even if Pierce is dead, that doesn't mean they'd know what killed him. And even if they do, I can't see them finding their way back to us after nearly ten years."

"I just wish I could find out what happened," Dee fretted. "I haven't seen any of them for days now. That can't be a good sign."

"There's a good sign now," Anthony said. "Go find out what happened."

Relief flooded over Dee as she followed his gaze and saw Courtney and Malik playing a ring toss game at a booth in the distance. "Finally," she breathed, taking off at a trot, Anthony hurrying to keep up with her. She reached the booth just as Malik landed a ring over the neck of a bottle.

"Grand prize!" announced a baffled Mrs. Chambers of Chambers Grocery, presenting Malik with a large stuffed dog which he promptly handed to Courtney, who looked at it curiously.

"Congratulations!" Dee said. "That's a hard game to win."

"Hi," Courtney said to Dee and Anthony. "You should see Carl play this. He's very good at it."

*Shall we tell her why?* Dee asked dryly.

*I didn't cheat,* Malik protested uncomfortably. *I just have better coordination than humans.*

*Relax,* Dee chuckled. *Mrs. Chambers cheats. Everybody knows she weights those rings so they don't throw well.*

"Where's Philip?" Courtney asked.

"Home with Mama, and for the last time," Dee answered. "We're moving out; we'll be looking at rooms in Roswell on Monday."

"The man across the hall from me just moved out," Courtney said hopefully.

Excellent, Dee thought, seeing a double opportunity. "Courtney, I need to talk to Carl for a minute. I've seen your rooming house, but Anthony hasn't; why don't you tell him about it while he shows you some of the other games, and we'll catch up in a few minutes. Try the dunking booth," she suggested. "I heard the mayor agreed to be in it this year."

Anthony and Courtney walked off, Courtney lugging her stuffed dog and asking what a dunking booth was. *Subtle,* Malik deadpanned. *No one would ever guess you didn't want her around.*

*I'm not interested in 'subtle',* Dee said impatiently. *What happened with Pierce? Did you find him? Don't look at me like that,* she continued when Malik's eyebrows rose. *Courtney told me what that soldier said to you at the Crash Festival, and that could only mean Pierce. So what happened?*

*He's dead,* Malik answered.

*You found him dead?*

*No, Jaddo killed him,* Malik clarified. *And I imagine the women Pierce was experimenting on just like he did with Lieutenant White would thank him for that.*

*He was doing the same thing to other women?*

*Has been for the last nine years, if our information is correct,* Malik replied. *Trust me, he's no loss to human society.*

*Absolutely not,* Dee agreed soberly. *But does anyone know aliens killed him?*

*Unfortunately, that didn't work out the way we'd planned,* Malik answered. *Jaddo lost his temper as only Jaddo can and left a silver handprint behind.*

Dee felt her stomach clutch briefly, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy suddenly making her nauseous. She'd seen silver handprints before, when Valeris had killed the very first soldiers who had found the ship, and she remembered it clearly....the smoke, the smell of burning flesh, the screams..... *So they do know,* she said, pushing those memories aside. *They know for sure that an alien killed him.*

*Yes,* Malik sighed, *and believe me, Brivari isn't happy about that. But it's done, and I really can't see what anyone can do about it. The Warders are free, and Jaddo won't dare leave a calling card like that again. It was an unfortunate lapse, but I don't think anything will come of it.*

*But you can't be sure of that,* Dee said, feeling suddenly exposed as another group of soldiers walked by. *They could start hunting you all over again, and if they do, they might come back to my family.*

*Is that what this is about? I don't think you have anything to worry about, Dee. Jaddo spent the day at the base, and while there was certainly some scurrying around, most of those who were involved in his capture are either dead, missing, or want to keep what they know a secret because it was kept secret from your president. Oh, I'm sure they'll make a show of doing something, but Jaddo feels they're all so busy covering their backsides that it won't amount to anything.*

*I hope not,* Dee said doubtfully. *What about Brivari? Does he feel that way too?*

*Brivari is a bit preoccupied at the moment,* Malik said. *One of the allies who hid him while the hunters were chasing him died while we were dealing with Pierce, and Brivari took it hard.*

*Oh, no,* Dee whispered. *He was just talking about that. About how he'd have to watch everyone he cared about die around him because our lifespans are so much shorter.*

Malik gave her a quizzical look. *Why would that happen? He's only got another ten years or so before the hybrids emerge.*

The bell on a nearby merry-go-round dingled a last call, and Dee watched it slowly begin turning, the horses starting their up-and-down rhythm.. *There's some kind of problem with your hybrids,* she said finally. *They're not growing as fast as everyone expected them to. You didn't know?*

Malik shook his head. *Like I said before, the Warders don't tell me much of anything. What exactly does 'not growing as fast' mean?*

*Brivari said they look like they're about two years old.*

Malik's eyes widened. *Two years? They should be about ten years old by now! That means they won't reach adulthood until.....until.....*

*Until everyone you know is dead,* Dee said sadly. *The humans, that is. That's what Brivari was upset about. He said they looked healthy and everything, but they were just really small. Any idea why?*

Malik shook his head. *Not my area of expertise. Even Marana probably couldn't have answered that question. Those are the first Antarian-Human hybrids we've tried, and every hybrid has it's own quirks that you don't discover until you actually make one and see what happens. So if it turns out their gestation period is a lot longer than expected, well....I guess we'll just have to deal with that.*

*Yeah, I guess,* Dee said glumly.

*Don't worry about Brivari,* Malik advised. *You don't get to be a king's warder by being the sort who gives up easily. He'll bounce back. And I have some good news,* he continued. *I found out why Courtney's here: She's looking for someone. I took her to the library today and she went through a bunch of old newspapers without finding anything, but it sounds like some kind of family argument. Nothing Valenti would be interested in.*

Dee relaxed slightly as two major worries receded a bit into the background. It certainly wasn't good news that the military had just been reminded that aliens existed, but it sounded like they weren't pursuing it, at least not yet. And if there was nothing for Valenti to find on Courtney but personal matters that didn't concern him, that was good news too. Brivari's misfortune was another matter, but one thing at a time.

Then another group of soldiers passed by, one of them throwing her an appraising look as he passed. *Easy,* Malik said gently when she tensed again. *He was just looking at the pretty girl. Handprint or no handprint, I don't think we have anything to fear from the Army.*




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


10 p.m.

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.




"Step into the elevator, please."

Bernard Lewis hesitated, having rarely found himself in situations where he needed to mask fear. Impatience, perhaps, or contempt—definitely contempt. But fear was not an emotion he was accustomed to, and it was most uncomfortable now, surrounded as he was by armed guards who had appeared out of nowhere in the deserted lobby of the Justice Department building which housed the FBI headquarters.

"Gentlemen, I don't quite understand," Lewis said, trying to sound puzzled instead of alarmed. "I'm here for a meeting with—"

"We're aware of your meeting, and have orders to escort you to the appropriate office," one of the guards interrupted.

"That won't be necessary—"

"I'm afraid it will," the guard broke in again. "Access to that office is restricted. If you'll step into the elevator, please."

Lewis glanced at Agent Del Bianco, who was doing a somewhat less convincing job of hiding his own alarm. "Of course," he said, his tone making it clear he was not amused. The guards didn't seem to care, two going in ahead of him and two behind, one of whom pushed Del Bianco back when he tried to follow.

"Agent Lewis only," the guard said. "You wait down here."

Del Bianco backed off. The doors to the elevator slid closed, leaving Lewis packed like a pickle in a guard sandwich. The ride was short but seemed interminable, and he was very glad when the car came to a halt, waiting eagerly for the doors to open.

But they didn't. One of the guard inserted a small key into a keyhole on the panel and turned it; the car lurched upward again, only a short ways this time before the doors opened and the two front guards stepped out. "This way," they motioned to Lewis.

Lewis stepped out of the elevator with all the confidence he could muster, which wasn't much. He was standing in a tiny hallway, little more than an alcove, really, which came complete with two more guards. A total of six now surrounded him, the four he came with plus the two already there, one of whom walked up to Lewis and held out his hand.

"Your weapon, please."

Fuming, Lewis handed over his gun and was then subjected to a pat down. "Is there a particular reason I'm being treated like a criminal?" he asked tightly.

"Director's orders," one of the guards said. "He's clean. Open the door."

A moment later Lewis found himself at the far end of a long, dimly lit office, the other being occupied by a large, imposing desk behind which sat a not so large but definitely very imposing man. "Leave us," the Director ordered the guards, who promptly obeyed.

The ensuing silence was pure torture. Lewis waited for leave to approach, his fingers clasping and unclasping as he debated what to do with his hands. The Director seemed in no hurry to alleviate his suffering, thumbing casually through a pile of reading material on his desk without so much as a glance at Lewis, who ultimately couldn't stand it any longer.

"Sir, I want to thank you for agreeing to see me. I only made the request this morning, so I'm especially surprised and grateful that you would respond so quickly, and on a national holiday, no less. I—"

"And why wouldn't I see you after perusing the....'reading material' you sent me?" the Director interrupted. "Very interesting, Agent Lewis, very interesting. Sit," he added, indicating a chair in front of the desk.

Lewis hesitated for only a moment before willing his legs to work, to carry him to the chair and seat him gracefully before giving out from under him. Up close, J. Edgar Hoover was much less imposing than from a distance, more of a middle-aged man with a paunch and obviously thinning hair, a portrait which belied the Bureau's perception of him as a terrifying, ruthless man who was spoken of only as "the Director", and then only in whispers. The public loved him, seeing in him a man who gave no quarter to the enemies of the United States, chief among them the communists. Within the Bureau Hoover was noted for his tendency to ruin the careers of agents who had displeased or upstaged him, or even to randomly fire agents for no discernable reason. He had also been accused of exceeding his authority on many occasions and abusing it on many more; less clear were reports of his homosexuality or penchant for women's clothing. Whatever the Director's personal demons, he remained a man of incredible power who was not afraid to wield that power, and to his own advantage, if necessary. The trick now, having just dropped something into his lap which could make him more powerful than ever, was to convince J. Edgar—or "J. Edna" as some wags referred to him—that he could not succeed without the special talents of one Bernard Lewis.

It was hot on this top floor, the humid summer air coming in the open windows only making things worse. Lewis resisted the urge to loosen his tie as he waited for Hoover to speak again, determined not to babble as he had a moment ago. Unlike the previous silence, this silence was actually welcome; the evidence he'd sent Hoover was damning, very damning indeed, and he'd have to answer for having stolen that evidence, not to mention having kept it from the FBI. Reviewing his reasons for doing so was not a bad idea, and he'd made it only halfway through the list when Hoover spoke again.

"So," Hoover said, indicating the large file on his desk in front of him, "the Army held a live alien for three years."

"Yes, sir," Lewis answered.

"You actually met this alien?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the alien escaped in 1950?"

"Yes, sir."

Hoover tented his fingertips. "You joined the Bureau in 1950, did you not?"

Lewis' hands twitched in his lap. "Yes, sir."

"So all this time, you've known that a live alien escaped in our country....and you're only getting around to telling me about it now?"

"I had signed a non-disclosure agreement, sir," Lewis said smoothly.

"Which apparently means nothing to you now," Hoover noted.

"With all due respect, sir, that is incorrect," Lewis said firmly.

Silence. The sweat trickling down Lewis' back turned into a river as the Director's eyes bored into him. "My goodness," Hoover said softly after a full minute had passed and Lewis' shirt had become very damp indeed. "I am rarely, if ever 'incorrect'. Explain to me if you would, Agent Lewis, exactly how I am....'incorrect'."

This is it, Lewis thought. Show time. The only way to survive the lion known as J. Edgar Hoover was to roar every bit as loudly as he did. Granted one might still wind up eaten, but any sign of fear, of timidity, and the show was over. The one thing Hoover couldn't stand was a wimp.

"Sir, I have kept my silence since the alien's capture in 1947 even though I have long suspected the military is not acting in our country's best interests. Recent events have confirmed that suspicion; honoring that non-disclosure at this point would be tantamount to treason."

"And I would agree, judging by the evidence," Hoover remarked. "Smuggling this out must have been difficult. An operation that covert wouldn't have left much of a paper trail."

"None, actually," Lewis replied, hoping he'd managed to hide the relief he felt at Hoover's instant acceptance of his argument. "What little existed was destroyed following the alien's escape in 1950. I took what I could prior to that because I had grave misgivings about the way the prisoner was being treated by command. The late Sheridan Cavitt and myself were of the opinion that the aliens' presence here was no mistake. They knew far too much about us; this couldn't possibly have been their first visit here. Despite that, command seemed more interested in coddling the prisoner than pressing it for answers. Three years went by in this fashion, with little of note learned about the aliens themselves and next to nothing about their motives."

"Except the repaired ship," Hoover noted.

"Which the prisoner promptly sealed shut just as soon as it was finished repairing it," Lewis pointed out. "No one's been able to access it since. It was clear to me that the time would come when the threat the aliens posed became undeniable, and when it did, it would be necessary to have a record of the prisoner's captivity."

"So now they've killed again," Hoover murmured, gazing at one of the photographs of Pierce's body.

"Yes, sir. After a nine year hiatus, Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Pierce, a medical doctor and co-commander of the compound in which the alien was held, was found dead with the aliens' trademark silver handprint on his chest. His internal organs had been heated to a very high temperature while leaving his skin unmarked aside from the handprint. That's one of the ways they kill."

" 'One of the ways'?" Hoover echoed. "What are the others?"

"They have several," Lewis answered vaguely. "My point, sir, is that the aliens are still here. The military assumed they returned to their own planet, but nine years after the prisoner's escape, at least one of them is still here, quite likely more. I'd like to know why. Wouldn't you?"

Hoover sat back in his chair, eyeing him appraisingly. "Cut to the chase. What do you want?"

"A special unit, led by me, whose sole mandate is the capture and interrogation of aliens," Lewis said promptly.

Hoover opened another file on his desk. "And why, exactly, would I grant oversight of such a unit to someone who was nearly court-martialed back in 1950? For disobeying orders, no less, not to mention the assault of a fellow officer? Oh yes," he continued softly, "I have a file on you, Agent Lewis. I have a file on everyone. Do you deny that you resigned your commission to avoid prosecution?"

"I do not," Lewis answered promptly, "and I offer no apologies for my behavior, no more than you do for yours. The security of this country was, and remains, at stake, and I will do anything—anything—to stave off the threat these creatures pose. You should give me command of this unit because I am the only living person left who is willing to stop them and has had direct experience with the prisoner. The little evidence I managed to scrounge doesn't even begin to tell the whole story. The rest is up here"—he tapped his head—"which is why you need me."

"And of course you want the FBI's resources," Hoover said.

"I want more than that, sir," Lewis said intently, sitting forward in his chair. "I want you. I need you. I need a man with your vision, someone unafraid to pursue these creatures and do whatever is necessary to wring from them the truth of their presence here. The Army was only willing to placate them. Roger Ramey called the prisoner a 'guest'. Can you imagine what would happen if that 'guest' made an alliance with the Soviets? These aliens can look like anyone, sound like anyone; the damage they could do is incalculable. But those in the Army with knowledge of this situation are too afraid their former duplicity will be revealed, too close to retirement to rock the boat. Oh, they say they'll do an investigation, but it will be led by people who haven't been told the whole truth and never will be. They don't know what they're chasing. I do."

"And if I give you your unit," Hoover said slowly, "how do I know you're not planning to double cross me exactly like you've done to the Army?"

Lewis sat back in his chair and looked Hoover directly in the eye. "You don't."

Lewis held his breath and Hoover's gaze as the two men stared each other down across the desk. Agents had been fired for saying much less, but it took a certain display of hubris to play ball with J. Edgar. Having shown his cards, Lewis knew he'd made himself too valuable to dismiss; the question now was whether Hoover would give him what he wanted or lock him up in a very dark place until he coughed up what he knew for someone else's use. He would either walk out of here with what he wanted or walk out of here in custody. Based on past experience, it could easily go either way.

At length, Hoover rose from his chair. "Agent Lewis?"

"Yes, sir?" Lewis said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"Get me that thing's head on a platter."

It took a moment for Lewis to process that sentence, and another to quell the eruption of thanks which Hoover would not have appreciated. "Yes, sir," Lewis said briskly. "Is that all?"

"No," Hoover said flatly. "If I so much as think that you're doing to me what you did to the Army, it will be your head on that platter. Have I made myself clear?"

Lewis forced himself to look Hoover in the eye without blinking. "Absolutely clear, sir."




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


I'll post Chapter 19 next Sunday.