Alien Nation #1 - The Day of Descent (31 page)

“Can you find fault with them if they do?” Vondmac asked in return. “We all know what the plan’s success will mean to you.”

“Freedom for our people,” Moodri said, no longer bothering to maintain the essence of the goddess in his words.

“And certain death for you.”

Moodri gazed at the curved and mechanistic walls of the intersection. They did remind him of his youth, in the first years of his people’s captivity, when the fires of Tencton’s clearly remembered sun had burned within all of them and they had sworn to give their lives for the defeat of their enemies.

“Have you forgotten the vows of our youth?” Moodri asked. “Made here, in these same tunnels?”

“Our people’s hearts were full of passion then,” Vondmac said sadly. “But as our wisdom has grown that passion has faded. I feel it. I know you feel it, too.”

“Perhaps that is the nature of things,” Melgil added. “Thus the old pass on their wisdom to help those generations who follow, those in whom the passion has not yet been extinguished.”

Moodri studied his two friends closely. “Is this what the peace of Ionia has brought to you? Acceptance of one’s own fate may well be the key to inner peace, but how can you accept the fate of all our people?” He stood unsteadily on the bundled wires and cables beneath his feet. “If we do not act now, there will be no children to follow us. I
can
accept my own death—at my age it is just a matter of time. But I cannot accept that my race will die. And shame on those who think that I do.”

Melgil looked embarrassed. “It is not so much your death as it is the
nature
of your death.” He turned away so he would not meet Moodri’s gaze. “We do not even know if you
will
die. Ever.”

“So it has come to this,” Moodri said, letting them hear the anger and the disappointment that he felt. “The spots of the council have grown so pale that they cannot believe that any of us still believes in the ideals of our youth. Well, you tell them this: I will not consign my race to the extinction of Terminus. Finiksa
will
be on the bridge at the appointed time. He
will
insert the circuitry override key at the proper moment.” Moodri’s eyes seemed to blaze in the dim light of the intersection. “The superluminal drive
will
activate improperly. The cargo disk
will
be jettisoned. And when the drive translates into superluminal space in an uncontrolled trajectory, I
will
be on board to transmit the messages the rest of the cursed fleet will need to hear to know that this ship has apparently been lost in an unforeseen accident, never to be found again.” Moodri sat down again, voice trembling. “And if it is my fate to be drawn into a never-ending spiral deep into the gravity well of the star we approach, then so be it. Eternity will be but a single, relativistic instant to me, and eventually even the stars will fade and the universe will collapse, and when time ends I shall return to the Mother knowing I have done what I must do.”

Melgil and Vondmac looked at each other as if each wanted the other to speak. Vondmac was first.
“We
do not doubt you, old friend,” she said. “We only relate the concerns that were raised in the council.”

There was something more to what she had said, but Moodri knew it would come out in time, when she was ready. He looked at her sharply. “I trust you will relate back to them that their concerns are unfounded.”

“For you, yes,” Melgil said with difficulty. “But for Finiksa . . .”

“I will talk with him,” Moodri said through clenched teeth. “He will know his duty as clearly as I know mine. What other choice do we have?”

Unexpectedly Vondmac spoke. “There is another plan.”

Moodri felt his hearts trade beats. “And I have not been told?”

“Keer’chatlas,”
Melgil whispered.

“A plan kept from
me?”
Moodri asked in amazement.

“A precaution,” Vondmac said. “There are those who have never trusted the involvement of a child. It was a backup plan. Merely a contingency.”

Moodri twisted the hem of his skirt in his fists. “How does this new plan get the circuitry key to the bridge?”

“Among the stores of
eemikken\
we have accumulated over the years,” Vondmac said, “we have also . . . another drug.”

Instantly Moodri understood. Instantly he was appalled. Vondmac could only mean
jabroka
—the miner’s drug. A narcotic that affected the mind as well as the body’s genetic structure. “You would turn our people into monsters,” he said in horror.

“An assault squad of twenty only,” Melgil said. “Enough to storm the bridge by force.”

Moodri shook his head. “There are five pressure doors between the cargo section and the bridge.”

“The miner’s drug unlocks the unexpressed genes that make our species so adaptable,” Vondmac said. “Under its influence the assault squad will draw on the hidden strength. They will be able to move fast enough.”

“But not fast enough to prevent the Overseers from sending a distress signal indicating a revolt,” Moodri snapped. “What good will it do to find freedom on a new world if we know that in less than a Tencton year a new ship will arrive to reclaim us?”

“It is a technologically developed world,” Melgil said. “We will teach them, help them create defenses.”

“Defenses?
Against
ships?
From a world that has only developed
radio
in the past hundred years?” If it was not so pathetic and desperate an idea, Moodri would have laughed.

“We have no other choice,” Melgil said.

“We have Finiksa!”

Melgil and Vondmac both bowed their heads. “The council has already decided. We cannot trust the fate of our people to a child in the sway of the Overseers.”

Moodri lifted his head defiantly. “I refuse to accept the council’s decision.”

“As you wish,” Melgil said. Then he stroked his withered arm with his good hand. “But you forget that I control the key. And I shall give it to the assault squad, not to your great-nephew.”

“Then you will doom us all,” Moodri said. “Even if the assault squad reaches the bridge, even if the key survives the battle and is used on time, more ships will come for us.”

“I am sorry, Moodri,” Vondmac said. “But it is our last opportunity. We must choose to pursue the plan that will give us the best chance for success. And we have chosen.”

Moodri now understood the betrayal that Vondmac had concealed in her words. “You voted against me, didn’t you?”

Both Melgil and Vondmac nodded. “I am sorry, too, Moodri,” Melgil said.

The female and the
binnaum
stood. “We have arranged for a supply of vegrowth and water to be hidden in the third intersection by the inner food chambers,” Vondmac said. “You will be safe there until we begin our descent. After that, we doubt if the Overseers will have much interest in trying to find you.” She smiled briefly. “All other aspects of the plan will proceed as before—the search for the beacons, the capture of the Overseers.”

“If a distress call goes out,” Moodri said, “the beacons will not be necessary.”

“We will still need your help then,” Vondmac said. “We hope you will give it.”

“Then,” Moodri repeated grimly. “But not now.”

“You are no longer needed by the council,” Melgil said. “Rest for the next four days. You deserve it.”

They left Moodri then, alone in the intersection and the tunnels he had not traversed in years. Had he not had the goddess within him, he would have begun ranting in the empty intersection, listening to his words resound down darkened tunnels built by unknown intelligences unknown ages ago. But that was not his way. Despite what the council had voted, despite the well-intentioned betrayal by his friends, Moodri knew his options were not at an end.

“An assault squad,” he whispered, and he knew it was two generations of brutality that had led the council to adopt the very same measures that the Overseers would.

But force was not the answer here. It could not be. Whoever, whatever had built the ship had known more about force than the peaceful Tenctonese ever would, and safeguards against its use were built in at every key point.

Moodri straightened his skirt and hobbled off down the corridor, scanning each set of alien signs beneath each light, searching for the tunnel that would lead him toward the hull. If the council had abandoned him, then he would have no chance to tell them how important it was that they place their trust in the original plan and Finiksa. His only choice was to
show
them.

And he set out to do exactly that.

O
N THE FOURTH DAY
of his first homicide investigation, Sikes arrived at the station house to find a stuffed E.T. the Extraterrestrial doll handcuffed to his chair. There was a handwritten confession stapled to the doll’s chest, asking for a four-billion-dollar phone chit so he could call his lawyer back home. It was signed Commander BozoNuts of the Fourth Galaxy, but Sikes recognized the handwriting. He was impressed. He had never known Theo Miles to get up this early before.

Angie Perez came in a minute after Sikes, carrying a takeout coffee cup from which a tea bag tag fluttered. She looked over her sunglasses to squint at the doll as Sikes unthreaded its arm from one half of the cuffs.

“Since Grazer has the sense of humor God gave a dead frog,” Angie said, “I’d have to say, as a detective, that you’ve been talking to someone else about your case.” Then she waited for Sikes to come clean.

Sikes knew he had broken protocol by going to Theo about his concerns before he went to Angie, but now that the Petty case seemed to be under some kind of control he didn’t see what harm could come of it. “Well, yeah,” he admitted as he held the doll in his hands, wondering if it was too babyish for Kirby, “I sort of ran into my old partner and told him about it.”

“Theo Miles?” Angie asked. Sikes nodded. “He’s undercover Vice now, isn’t he?” Sikes nodded again. “So you were hanging out someplace real nice where you just
happened
to run into an undercover vice cop? Sikes, what would your daughter think?”

“Okay, okay,” Sikes confessed. “I went looking for him. I got spooked when Amy Stewart mentioned the possibility that the government might be involved. Theo’s dealt with a couple of cases like that.”

Angie shook her head and dropped her silver-lensed sunglasses into place again. “And what did good old Theo tell you?”

Sikes dangled E.T. by his upward-pointing finger. “That the government has better things to do these days than whack civilians. And that there ain’t no such thing as little green men.”

“Ah, not even in Vice?” Angie asked sarcastically.

Sikes ignored her. “And that Amy probably had taken a photograph of a secret airplane or something. Maybe got caught up in industrial espionage. Something like that.”

Angie cocked her head to one side. “That’s an interesting take on it. Industrial espionage. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“But it fits in with what you did think of,” Sikes pointed out. “One of them stole something from the other. I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s astronomical or industrial research. The motive’s still the same.”

Angie nodded. “Have you found out what Petty and Stewart were actually working on at the university?”

“Hey, I just got in. Gimme a chance.”

“I’ll give you one more day,” Angie said. “But then you really do have to help me out on a couple of shootings on Robertson. Back of a restaurant stuff. Looks like two partners went for each other’s throats, but it could have been a third-party setup.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sikes said noncommittally as he plunked E.T. on the corner of his desk.

Before Angie could get settled at her own desk next to Sikes’s, a young khaki officer came into the ready room and handed her an interdepartmental document envelope. Inside was the photograph she had taken from Amy Stewart’s office and copies of the APB flyer that the Documents Division had made from it. The khaki told her that Public Affairs would have the photograph to the television stations in time for the noon news and the newspapers in time for the afternoon editions.

Angie tossed the flyers onto Sikes’s desk. “Note that I put
your
phone number on the bottom of it,” she said with a cruel grin. “As soon as it shows up on the TV screen you’re going to be hearing from every wacko in the city. You’ll probably even get a couple of Black Dahlia confessions. I always do.”

Sikes thanked her profusely and began to write out a list of the phone calls he had to make before that happened. Grazer walked in a few moments later carrying a briefcase and two newspapers and dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit as if he were a bank manager on his way to a board meeting. He stopped to take a puzzled look at the E.T. doll, then saw the APB fliers and the framed color photograph.

“So that’s Amy Stewart,” he said grandly.

Sikes and Angie exchanged a glance of mutual forbearance. “That’s what it says in the fine print,” Angie agreed.

Sikes had an idea. “Hey, Bryon, you know everything. Come on over here.”

Grazer straightened his collar in an attempt to act embarrassed and didn’t fool anyone.

“Take a look at this guy beside her.” Sikes pointed to the mystery man in the framed photograph. “He look familiar to you or what?”

Grazer gave the photograph careful scrutiny. “Well, yes. He does look like someone I’ve seen before.”

“Good,” Sikes said. “Who?”

Grazer frowned. “How should I know? He’s familiar, that’s all.”

Angie got up and walked around to stand beside Grazer, looking at the photograph over his shoulder. “That’s what we’re all saying. But the question is,
why
is he so familiar? Do you recognize him from television, or—”

“Hardly,” Grazer said imperiously. “I never watch it.”

“Never?” Sikes asked suspiciously.

Grazer coughed. “Well, the news of course. CNN. PBS. Worthwhile programs.”

Sikes and Angie raised their eyebrows together. “Okay,” Angie said, “so it’s someone either from the movies or from ‘worthwhile’ television.”

Grazer laughed knowingly. “I pride myself on not having seen a movie made since nineteen sixty,” he announced. “They really knew how to make them back then.” He peered again at the E.T. doll. “What the heck is that thing supposed to be, anyway?”