Alan Dean Foster (29 page)

The fishing boat was old. Nets trailed behind it as it cleared the jetty at a knot or two. Sykes spotted it and broke into a dazed run. Still in no rush but increasing his pace slightly, Harcourt followed.

Francisco emerged at the top of the stairs, hunting frantically for some sign of his partner. He'd heard the Casull roar and had followed the echoes to this spot, picking his way as best he could through the mazelike warehouse. Now he saw the two figures making their way along the concrete path atop the harbor jetty. Sykes was in front, making the 209

best speed he could. Harcourt was right behind and closing fast.

With an apprehensive glance at the dark water, Francisco started down the nearest stairs.

Sykes felt his legs going. His dislocated shoulder was throbbing painfully. By the time he reached the end of the jetty the fishing boat had just cleared the point. He was out of room by a few feet. With no other choice left to him he leaped, pushing off on his right leg the way he'd been taught to do in high school. He'd always hated that coach. Now he could have kissed him.

He didn't gain much altitude, but the end of the jetty was higher than the stem of the boat. It made the difference.

He landed hard on a coil of net in the back of the craft, yelling in pain as his ankle twisted beneath him. But he'd made it. The boat continued out to sea, out to safety. He lay on the stinking ropes, clutching his shoulder and breathing raggedly.

Harcourt had delayed a moment too long, had once more been a bit too overconfident. By the time he reached the spot where Sykes had taken off, the boat had traveled beyond even his jumping range. But there was a fishing platform next to the jetty, and another longer jetty protruding from it into the water. He grinned, fangs shining in the moonlight. What was it humans said? A hop, a skip, and a jump?

He made the leap to the platform without straining, raced down the next jetty. The boat was rounding the far point, farther than any human could have jumped, but Harcourt knew he could make the distance. He felt no pity for the poor, dumb human cop who doubtless thought he'd made it to safety. In his new form Harcourt felt no pity for anything.

Sykes saw the massive shape land high up on the boat near the central cabin. Nowhere else to run to now. The little craft continued chugging up the access channel toward the open sea, leaving the harbor behind.

Francisco reached the end of the first jetty, breathing hard. He'd seen it all. A bright light made him blink and he found himself squinting up into the intense beam of a police

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helicopter sungun. It was coming in low over the docks, searching, probing. In hunting for quarry, it had found only another cop.

Francisco fumbled for his badge and began waving it frantically at the hovering chopper, trying to signal it down. The pilot saw the metallic flash, hesitated at the sight of the big Newcomer, then descended.

"Go, up!" The pilot gaped at his passenger, was reassured by the sight of the detective's badge, then nodded and leaned on the stick. As they rose into the night a whole squad of uniforms materialized on the dock, minutes too late to help. Francisco gestured anxiously seaward, leaning toward the glass and trying to penetrate the darkness.

"On that boat, out there!"

The pilot indicated his understanding. Tilting forward, the copter shot out over the water. Francisco tried to find the fishing boat and avoided looking straight down.

Moving painfully on all fours, Sykes crawled his way up fishing net toward the stem. Harcourt dropped from the roof of the cabin. A taloned hand touched the detective's leg and Sykes jerked clear, bellowing as the sharp claws ripped through his pants into the flesh beneath. He continued to climb the net, however inelegantly.

It was draped over a dinghy slung from the boat's stem. He succeeded in pulling himself over the railing, felt the tiny craft rock as he tumbled in. Then the Harcourt-thing was smiling at him over the gunwales. The dinghy was the end.

Sweat poured from Francisco's face as he forced himself to look down at the ocean racing past beneath the copter. They reached the slow-moving boat and the pilot turned the sungun onto the deck, searching for movement. The light quickly located Sykes and Harcourt, pinned both of them in its glare.

The pounding old diesel had muffled the sounds of Sykes's desperate flight and Harcourt's arrival, but now the ship's owner reacted to the presence of the police helicopter hovering overhead. Frowning, he turned to see what the

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light was focused on, and got his first glimpse of Harcourt. His hair stiffened and he let out an involuntary shout.

Momentarfly distracted from finishing off his prey, the altered Newcomer turned to see the Captain gaping at him from the open bridge above. A wood-handled fishing gaff was slung beneath the railing nearby. Breaking the clips that held it to the wood, Harcourt threw it like a javelin. It went right through the Captain's chest.

Face frozen in shock, the man gripped the gaff protruding from his ribs and staggered backward. He was unconscious before he fell against the throttle. The boat leaped ahead as the engine revved noisily.

The sudden burst of speed threw Harcourt into the dinghy with Sykes. As the alien started to recover, the desperate detective spotted the release for the dinghy's ropes. Lunging forward, throwing himself at the safety release more than reaching for it, he managed to hit the switch. Both lines began to play out and the dinghy dropped neatly into the water.

The tie line was maybe ten feet long. When it had ran out, the dinghy lurched ahead, slapping along in the wake of the runaway fishing boat.

Ignoring everything else, Harcourt fought to regain his balance as he clawed his way relentlessly toward his quarry.

Water came splashing in over the transom. Never meant to be used in so rough a fashion, the ancient wooden dinghy was already leaking. Harcourt grabbed the detective's leg and began pulling Sykes toward him, his grip unbreakable. Sykes found himself dragged across the bottom of the dinghy as he fought desperately for a handhold. His fingers locked around one of the stem cleats. Harcourt grinned contemptuously, his expression especially horrifying because despite the fangs and distorted face and transformed skull he was still Harcourt, still the same suave, predatory, amoral Newcomer behind the hellish transformation.

He yanked the detective free with ease, breaking his frantic hold on the brass cleat.

As he was pulled toward the bow, Sykes kicked madly in the direction of the ratchet release. Harcourt was very close 212

now, fangs gleaming brightly. In a moment it would all be over.

The detective's shoe connected hard with the ratchet lever. It flipped up and the tie line instantly snaked through the pulley in the bow, freeing the dinghy from the fishing boat. Caught in the grasp of the waves, the tiny craft rocked madly in the wake of the receding boat. Harcourt stumbled, fought for balance.

A wave splashed over the gunwale. Some of the seawater struck Harcourt, who let out an unearthly howl and released his grasp on Sykes. Hearing the copter close by, the detective tried to scramble over the side, only to have the Newcomer grab him a second time. Sykes flailed at the water. His weight on the side of the dinghy tilted it dangerously. More water sloshed in. They were starting to sink.

The drops continued to batter the moaning Newcomer. Thick blood began to bead up on his armored skin, showing where the sea had struck. Sykes was swept up in a desperate bear hug, felt the breath squeezed out of him as Harcourt's massive arms contracted. The pressure was agonizing.

He shoved backward with his feet, knocking the alien off balance. Harcourt lost his grip and staggered, fear showing on his face for the first time.

He tried to recover, but it was impossible to stand up and stay stable in the wildly rocking dinghy. In the small boat, all his great size and strength worked against him.

He took a step toward the cringing Sykes, overcompensated to the left as the boat rocked right, tried to correct, and fell. The dinghy overturned, dumping its occupants into the sea.

Gasping for air and kicking madly, Sykes broke the surface. Using his one good arm, he fought for a grip on the smooth back of the capsized dinghy.

Around him all was silent except for the lap of the waves, the receding moan of the fishing boat, and the whup-whup of the copter circling somewhere overhead.

Until Harcourt burst from the water behind him, body and face partly melted, and dragged him below.

Leaning out the open door of the copter, Francisco watched 20

helplessly from above, knowing there was nothing he, could do to help.

Harcourt's slowly dissolving but still massive body clinging to him, Sykes broke the surface a moment later. He was utterly, completely exhausted. His shoulder had frozen up and he could no longer feel the ankle he'd sprained on his leap into the stem of the fishing boat. With no strength left and only one arm and one leg functioning properly, he could no longer stay afloat in the choppy sea. A wave swept over his head and saltwater went down his throat. He coughed weakly, went under, bobbed back to the surface.

With his free hand he tried to beckon for help. He was drowning.

A Newcomer would not last long enough to drown, but Francisco knew what it meant for a human. He turned desperately to the pilot. "What about Air-Sea Rescue? We called in. Where are they?"

The pilot looked over at him and shrugged helplessly. "It takes time to get out here from the base! They might be another couple of minutes."

The Newcomer gazed back down at the roiling sea. "Haven't got a couple of minutes." He took the longest, deepest breath of his adult. "Take it down.

Take it down!"

Nodding, the pilot slowly let the chopper fall toward the turbulent water below. The sungun turned the sea to boiling silver. Locking the fingers of his left hand around the nearest solid grip, Francisco forced himself to lean out and over. The thick, briny odor of the saltwater was ripe in his nostrils, making him dizzy and faint. The surface of the sea was an unstable, sparkling blue beneath him.

Sykes's head appeared in the middle of it, sank back below the surface. The pilot was doing some miracle flying, keeping the chopper's landing skids a scant yard above the water. Still too far away.

Francisco looked back and bellowed loud enough to make himself heard above the whirling blades. "ALL THE WAY!"

"I CAN'T!" the pilot screamed back at him. "IT'LL DITCH! "

Sykes appeared again. His head rolled back and he must have seen the copter, because one hand stretched feebly

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upward. Too far away. No telling how much longer the pilot could hold their present position.

Francisco could see that if his partner went down one more time, he wouldn't come back up. Trying not to think, not to feel, fighting to stifle every instinct in his body, the Newcomer detective proceeded to do the bravest thing he'd ever had to do in his life.

Hanging on tightly, he abandoned the chopper's cabin and stepped out onto the narrow landing skid. Locking one leg around the metal strut, he let himself dangle freely as he reached for Sykes's groping fingers.

Their fingertips met, slid apart. Feeling the strain in his leg, Francisco made himself stretch another inch, another two. Then he had his partner's hand in his, the grip firm. With success some of his strength returned.

There was saltwater on his friend's palm and he winced from the pain as it penetrated his fingers. Ignoring it, he began lifting. Slowly, now wanting, not daring to lose contact.

Harcourt's head exploded from the water a foot in front of Sykes's face.

The eye sockets were empty, the soft flesh there having dissolved away almost instantly. Most of the skin was gone, along with much of the underlying muscle. The nearly skeletal body threw itself back onto Sykes, the weight breaking his partner's grip. Sykes and the nearcorpse sank beneath the waves.

There was nothing else Francisco could do, nothing more except ...

Leaning out as far as possible, his face a foot above the surface, he took a deep breath to steel himself and screamed to block the pain he knew would be forthcoming as he shoved his lightly clad arm into the water.

The pain came immediately, racing up his arm toward his shoulder and setting his brain afire. His fingers felt nothingand then a lump, bobbing just beneath the surface. Feeling around, he got ahold of the object and pulled. His hand emerged from the water, clutching his partner's wrist. The rest of Sykes followed, coughing and sputtering.

His arm feeling Re a log in a fireplace, Francisco turned to shout. "Take it up! -

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The pilot waved and the copter rose slowly. His wrist locked in Francisco's grip, Sykes began to rise clear of the waves-as Harcourt's arm rocketed upward to clutch the detective's dripping ankle. Sykes looked down in horror at the thing clinging to him as the chopper continued to ascend.

The rest of Harcourt's body broke the surface, the nearly skeletal arm ripped from off the dissolving torso, and the weight fell harmlessly away into the ocean. Trembling uncontrollably, Sykes managed to dislodge the still dangling severed arm from his leg. It spun back into the churning water below.

Francisco continued to pull, careful and steady, until he could slip both arms beneath his partner's. Then Sykes was safely inside the chopper. The pilot headed back toward land. The detective was soaked, battered, barely conscious as he sat on the floor clutching his injured arm. Wincing from the lingering pain, Francisco removed his jacket and wrapped the dry part around his own damaged hand.

As they turned, the pilot stared down at the circle of water where the rescue had taken place. "I was too busy trying to keep us from ditching to see much, but what the hell was that down there? It was weird."

Francisco hesitated, then turned meaningfully to his partner, waiting to hear what Sykes would say. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Sykes shrugged painfully.

"Looked like every other damn Slag to me. Just plain ugly. "