Alan Dean Foster (11 page)

Every contact was a potentially useful one. Amazing how you could make a human your friend simply by judicious use of the expression they called the smile.

It was an indication of his considerable self-control that his own smile did not vanish completely at Kipling's next words.

"That cop, the one who was just talking to you? The human?"

"What about him?"

"He was the one who killed Anderson and the driver."

Harcourt nearly stopped in his tracks. Nearly, but not quite. "This is becoming a serious breach of security. We have to put a stop to it immediately. There's too much going on, everything is going far too well to risk something like this now. I don't have the time to deal with it.

Everything is at a very delicate stage of development. "

"I know." Kipling smiled, but it wasn't anything like Harcourt's expression. Where the entrepreneur's was warm and reassuring, his assistant's was feral. "Don't worry. He didn't recognize me."

"I'm not worried about some 'ss'ask1i human cop. It is his new partner who concerns me."

Kipling nodded thoughtfully and turned to search the crowd. But the persistent human detective and his tall partner were already gone.

75

Maffet had retired years ago, but like some career cops he couldn't keep away from police business. There was always a job for lifers like him, and the younger cops viewed him with sympathy. As for themselves, they couldn't understand a mindset like Maffet's when all they wanted was to do their time with as little trouble as possible and retire early. Not Maffet and his kind. They loved the rapid-fire banter of the station house. Maffet wasn't an enthusiast. He was an addict.

The old man had a special fondness for guns. So they'd put him to work down on the firing line. The range was empty now, quiet, only half the lights on. Footsteps echoed through the subterranean chamber as the old man led his visitors through the grill that served as a gate. The clang of it shutting behind them boomed in the enclosed space.

Stepping behind the counter, he unlocked the cage that held the range supplies and removed a bag of reloads and a handful of silhouette targets which he passed to Francisco. The Newcomer detective glanced questioningly at his partner.

Sykes gestured rangeward. "Go on ahead. I'll be right in." Francisco nodded, turned to leave. As soon as he was out of sight, Sykes whispered to the old man. "Okay, what did you dig up for me?"

Maffet's eyes gleamed. He glanced a last time in the direction of the entrance, more for effect than need. Others would be arriving soon to make use of the range, but they still had the facility all to themselves.

"I could catch hell for this if anybody finds out I did it for you. "

"Nobody's gonna find anything out, you paranoid old fart. You think Francisco's gonna tell?"

Maffet leaned over the counter and looked toward the range, where the Newcomer detective was loading his own weapon. "How the hell can you be so sure of him? He's a Slag. 11

Sykes's expression twisted. "Hey, sure he's a Slag-but he's an okay Slag.

Got me? As far as you're concerned he's a detective. "

76

Maffet looked up sharply at Sykes. "Don't tell me you actually like him?"

"I don't have to tell you nothin'. You're a civilian now, remember? So what did you find for me?"

"Okay, okay. Don't get your ass in an uproar." Maffet's sour look vanished when he unlocked a drawer beneath the counter and pulled it out. The bag he withdrew didn't contain groceries.

Maffet reached into the bag and pulled out the biggest handgun Sykes had ever seen. Plenty of custom jobs in the shops came equipped with longer barrels, but that had nothing to do with power. The bore on Maffet's baby was immense, capacious enough to hold a shotgun shell. Nor was bore size the gun's only unique characteristic. The whole weapon; hammer, cylinder, trigger guard, scope, everything down to the screws, was fashioned of solid stainless steel.

There was reverence in Maffet's eyes as he handed it over. Sykes accepted it gingerly, studying it as he flipped it from one side to the other, finally hefting it in one hand to aim it experimentally. It was heavy, yes, but not unwieldy.

Maffet looked like a proud parent at Christmas. "You said you wanted the biggest thing I could find. Well, there she is. Cost about a grand. "

"You'll get your money, pops. What is it?"

"Casull .454 Magnum. You're talking twice the impact energy of .44 Magnum hot loads. Place called Freedom Arms makes these puppies somewhere up in Wyoming. See, it even has a scope."

Sykes looked back curiously. "What the hell would anybody want a scope on a handgun for?"

Maffet was having a good time. "Hunting." He nodded toward the huge handgun. "Deer. Maybe bear."

"Bear, yeah." Though he wasn't smiling, Sykes gave every indication of being satisfied with the old man's choice. He flipped the cylinder open to examine the weapon's interior. "Only holds five cartridges."

"Yeah. The shells are too big to fit six in a cylinder. Hell, Matthew, you don't need but one."

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Sykes fought to hold the pistol at arm's length, taking casual aim in the direction of the range. "Heavy, but not impossible. I won't ask about recoil."

"You won't have to." Maffet grinned. "Find out for yourself." The sound of the grill being opened made him look toward the entrance. "Better get started. This time of night the place can fill up fast once the guys start coming in. "

Sykes nodded. Picking up the gun and a couple of boxes of very expensive shells, he went looking for his partner.

Francisco stood near the far end of the range, looking bizarre in his ear protectors. Unlike most articles of human attire which were cut too small for the average Newcomer, the ear shields were too large. They didn't fit tightly enough over the flat aural openings in the side of Francisco's head and he was readjusting them constantly. Duct tape would probably work better, Sykes mused.

The alien was taking careful aim with his regulation .38. His finger barely fit in front of the trigger. Up the range, recent arrivals were beginning to load and fire.

"Let's see what you got," Sykes asked him. When Francisco didn't respond, Sykes rapped him on the arm.

The alien lifted his ear muffs, looked querulous. "Sorry, Matt. "

"I said, let's see what you got, Cochise. Gimme six in a row, rapid fire."

"Please bear in mind that I am still not comfortable with the firearms they issue." This confession made, the detective replaced his ear protectors. Sykes slipped into his own and looked intently at the paper target downrange, which only made his partner more nervous.

Francisco let fly methodically, all six shells. Every one struck the target, but that was the best you could say for his aim. The bullet holes were spread all over the paper in a highly dispersed, sloppy grouping.

Sykes lowered his ear shields and proceeded to demonstrate the tact and diplomacy for which he was famed throughout the precinct.

"How long you been shooting? That's pitiful. Didn't they 78

teach you anything at the Academy? Cripes, the last thing they do is show rookies what a gun is for. What are you gonna do if somebody draws down on you? Wave your scores on the written exam at 'em?" As he spoke he was sliding thumb-sized cartridges into the cylinder of the Casull. The pop and bang of handguns being fired filled the range and he had to shout to make himself heard above the din.

Francisco listened, taking it all silently. Only when Sykes had finished did he speak up unexpectedly. "Why did you do it?"

"Why'd I do what?"

"Agree to work with me. You don't like me. You don't like any of us. You have nothing but contempt for my kind. That has been plain to see these past few days. Your attitude is obvious in the way you address me, in the way you refer to other Newcomers, in the way you look at us. You make no secret of it, so do not try to deny it. I am not surprised. Your attitude is the one that still prevails among most humans.

"And yet you make yourself an outcast among your fellow detectives by volunteering to become my partner. I wish you would explain this to me, Matthew Sykes, because I wish to learn as much as possible about human behavior."

Sykes turned sharply. "All right. I'll tell you why I'm working with you.

Because my partner is dead! Because one of you bastards killed him before disappearing down a rathole in Slagtown, where he's home safe and dry

'cause in Slagtown nobody sees nothing, nobody says nothing, and a cop like me's about as welcome as a visit from the Federal Forced Resettlement Bureau."

Turning away from Francisco, he angrily wrenched a Kelvar-IV bulletproof vest from a nearby wall hanger and slapped it over tha hanging target silhouette in front of him. As the Newcomer looked on impassively, Sykes flicked the wall switch and ran the vest-covered target down its transport wire, all the way to the end of the range. The stink of cordite filled the subterranean shooting gallery and it was loud even with muffs on.

Sykes was still talking as he waited for the target to reach 79

the end of its line. "But there's something the son-of-abitch didn't figure on. He didn't figure on you, George. That's why I closed my eyes and stuck up my hand when they asked for a volunteer to babysit you.

That's why I've kept my ears shut and taken all the crap at the station while I've been working with you. Don't think I did this because I'm some kind of saint, or because I'm overflowing with the milk of human kindness, or because I felt bad for you. I did it because I need you. You're the only one who can help me find Tug's murderer." The target had stopped swinging.

"You're going to get me through that wall of silence, George. You're going to make them talk to me. You're going to help me find that Slag son-of-a-bitch. Comprendo?"

"Procedure. We spoke about. . . "

"We spoke about a lot of shit, George," Sykes said, interrupting him. "We also spoke about what it means to be partners. Remember?"

"I remember, Matt, but. .

"And if Fedorchuk and the boys in the bullpen don't like it, screw them,"

he continued, "and if the Captain doesn't like it, screw him, and if the computer doesn't like it, unscrew it, and if all the Slags down in Slagtown don't like it, why hell, screw them too!"

Francisco was about to reply but his following words were drowned out by a thunderous, echoing roar as Sykes raised the Casull in both hands and let rip. It sounded as if someone had set off a small bomb in the range.

The target nearly flipped a 360, swinging wildly on its stressed clips as the shell slammed clean through the paper and the state-ofthe-art bulletproof vest.

That's how he learned about the recoil. It slammed him a step backward and brought his arm up sharply. Fighting down the pain, he grimly resumed his position and fired a second time. Another gaping hole appeared in the vest. Fragments of cardboard drifted like snow to the floor of the range, illustrating graphically how the target was being shredded by the impact.

As Sykes kept firing it grew quieter and quieter uprange. The other shooters were leaning out and looking downrange 80

curiously, trying to locate the source of the awesome explosions.

Sykes set the pistol down, saw that his hand was bleeding. It would take awhile to get used to the Casull. He felt only satisfaction as he studied the still swaying, devastated target.

VI

Few humans ventured beyond the outskirts of Slagtown at all save for government workers, and even the police preferred to avoid this end of the alien ghetto. Only the X-Bar seemed at home, a brightly hued carrion feeder set down among dark storefronts and boarded-up apartment buildings.

The menial laborers lounging in front of the bar looked Re rejects from the Raiders' offensive line, big and battered. They glared with undisguised antagonism at the two detectives as they emerged from the slugmobile. Sykes took in the sullen expressions and threatening gazes phlegmatically.

"Okay," he told his partner. "I do this all the time, so just stay back and watch me. Watch and learn, watch and learn."

"Whatever you say, Matt." Francisco obediently followed Sykes into the bar.

Sykes expected bad lighting. That much was evident from outside. But he wasn't prepared for the near total absence of illumination. A few indigo-colored ultraviolet lamps made the place resemble the nightmare end of an old fun house. Shirt and socks glowed eerie blue. Sykes knew the ultraviolet wasn't for effect. The Newcomers could see farther into that region of the spectrum than any human.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. Gradually he picked out the long straightaway of the bar and the massive humanoid shapes hunched over the plastic wood counter. 61

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The floor was spotted with chairs and tables, islands adrift in an ocean of ultraviolet.

"I can't see dick in here." Francisco didn't comment.

Booths lined the far wall. They were mostly empty. He tried to take a headcount, thought maybe twenty inhabitants shuffled silently through the purple haze. All of them had been chattering animatedly in their own language when the detectives had entered, making the place sound like the snake house at the zoo. As the presence of the intruders was noted, the conversation died.

He sauntered toward the bar, to all outward appearances utterly unconcerned about his safety and ignorant of the hostility that was rising like steam all around him. His walk was casual, unhurried. He might've just dropped in for a drink and a chat, like the rest of them. Except that he wasn't thirsty, and he wasn't like the rest of them.

Easy enough to grab their undivided attention. He addressed the general silence. "Which one of you Slags is Porter?"

A voice rose from an unseen source near the far end of the bar. "Who wants to know?" The English was crude, the alien accent heavy.

Sykes squinted into the darkness, without result. He needed to be an owl in this place. Instead he felt like a mole, blind and groping his way. He mumbled softly to his partner.

"I can't make 'em out. Who said that?"