Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (32 page)

“Honey,” she announced, “I
am
the Serovese Corporation!”

She wasn’t, of course. She was simply its sole visible employee. She was Maureen Goldfaden, a woman who had answered an ad. Her job interview had been conducted by phone, and when she showed up at the office nearly a year ago—the key having been left with the doorman—she’d found her first week’s salary and an innocuous list of instructions.

Her duties mostly included maintaining the neatness of the office and seeing to it that the answering machine never ran out of tape on its incoming reel. When a cassette looked to be running out, she was to replace it with a fresh one. She would put the old cassette in an envelope and leave it at a “drop” in the local public library—behind the books on the second shelf of western novels. This she did every Tuesday at 4:30.

The answering machine had been jury-rigged so that she could not hear incoming messages, although she always knew, by the sounds the machine made, when her bosses were accessing messages by remote (which they had not yet done today). She was given strict instructions
never
to listen to the tapes herself. She was told that they were somehow encoded by the answering machine, and if any but authorized ears listened, the Serovese Corporation would know, and her job would be terminated.

She suspected this was a bluff; the answering machine looked like a bargain-basement Panasonic to her; but she had chosen to behave as if she believed the warning because the paycheck was extraordinary, and why mess with good fortune?

She’d fully expected that the good fortune would run out someday. The arrangement was too fishy, the bosses too anonymous, the security measures too paranoid. But she’d also known that she was legally untouchable. Her safety net was the letter of her routine, which contained not even the implication of illegality. As long as she adhered to it, she imagined she’d stay out of trouble—and she was right.

In regard to her job at the so-called Serovese Corporation—hey, it had been a nice ride while it lasted. If it was over, it was over. She thought she might take a week off, maybe go to Hawaii with her boyfriend before hitting the job market again. What the hell, she could afford it on what she’d socked away.

Zep and Laura took her number and address, advised her that plans for Hawaii might be slightly premature, and let her go.

When they reported in, they wound up having a twelve-minute police radio confab with Grazer, Sikes, Francisco, and Billy Youmans, a lanky lieutenant who headed up the SWAT team. Together they formed a plan of action.

Shortly thereafter, a trace was put on the Serovese Corporation’s phone line to locate the sources of any incoming calls. Maureen had been correct about the answering machine: It
was
a bargain-basement Panasonic, and its speaker had been rendered useless. But it had a jack for an external sound system. No need to wait for elaborate electronic hardware: A patch cord and a cheap speaker from the local Radio Shack solved the problem of monitoring any incoming calls.

If new messages came in . . . they would know.

If the Serovese Corporation beeped in for its messages . . . they would know.

If anybody tried to warn the Serovese Corporation—at
this
number anyway—about the bust about to go down in Inglewood . . . they would know.

The phone line was secure.

Phase One of the operation was complete.

Outside, the rain was less fierce, slowly ebbing back to a drizzle.

Phase Two went into effect at 4:46 under a clearing sky, when Matthew Sikes walked up two worn iron steps onto an iron landing, stood before the metal door of a former warehouse in Inglewood, and activated the door buzzer.

From the speaker over the button, he heard an edgy,
“What is it?”

“I’m here to do the memory upgrade on your computers.” For a long time only an electronic hum issued from the speaker.

Save for that, the building appeared dead. It was three storeys tall; it sat on land that was overgrown with weeds; and its many tall windows were either boarded up or painted black from the inside.

At length, there was a response.
“That’s Corigliano’s code. What’re
you
doing with it?”

“Wrong answer,” said Matt, and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute.”

Matt turned back to face the door.

More electronic hum. Then:

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. Thanks for being so prompt.”

The surly tone of voice belied the words, but it was the correct countersign.

“You got a question now?” Matt challenged.

“Same one. This isn’t even Corigliano’s time. Who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Matt Sikes. I work with him at Richler; you can call him, run a check on me, or I can just show you ID. I’ve been hip to his operation for a while. I gave him a choice—cut me in for a little taste or face the music.”

“So now you want a route of your own, is that it?”

“Not even close. There’s possible trouble. The cops may be onto him. He doesn’t know for sure but he thinks they’re tailing him. He sent me in his place to warn you.”

“And you actually
came?”

“Is it so inconceivable that I’d want to protect my investment—or are you actually as dumb as you sound?”

“All right, you’ve warned us. Begone.”

“Don’t you want your money?”

Again, electronic hum.

Lots of it.

Then:
“Wait there.”

The rain had ceased, but it was the rain that saved his life.

Matt heard the door unlocking and reflexively took a step back. His foot landed toe first on a part of the iron landing that had been worn smooth by six or seven decades of shoe traffic and had subsequently become a shallow recess, where today, as on all inclement days, a puddle of rainwater had collected. Slippery when wet.

His foot shot out behind him, he overbalanced, and nearly fell backward onto the hard steps. He grabbed for the metal banister, whose peeling, lead-based paint cut into his skin, and found himself swinging against it like a gate.

In this manner, he missed the path of the shotgun shells.

For when the door flew open, a Newcomer with a sawed-off rifle stood there and fired at where Matt should have been. Seeing his error, the Newcomer pivoted to adjust, but by now George had popped up from behind the unmarked police cruiser parked at the curb, his own gun at the ready, and fired into the shotgunner, who staggered back floppily and dropped like a suddenly stringless marionette.

Leaving the front door wide open.

Which was the first thing they needed.

George barked a signal into a walkie-talkie. Meanwhile, Matt, steady and gun-ready, peered around the door into the illicit drug factory. He ducked down as bullets whined over his head, but he’d seen what he needed to see.

He pressed himself flat against the wall next to the door, shouting as he did, “Ten human males, three of ’em armed, four long tables full of equipment, center of the room!” All of which George repeated into the walkie-talkie as five cop cars and a SWAT truck came tearing around both sides of the block to surround the building.

Matt fired a few shots through the doorway. Upward warning shots. To keep anybody from trying to close the front door. Which might be hard to do in any event. The Newcomer’s body was blocking it.

The uniforms took defensive positions behind their vehicles as the SWAT guys mounted the offensive, firing assault rifles upward into the large first-floor windows, whose blackened glass shattered and fell away to expose the first-floor operation, just as Matt had described it. One man attempted to fire back; a SWAT marksman
pinged
him before he could steady his aim.

Lieutenant Billy Youmans, SWAT team leader, reed thin, red-haired and wire tough, spoke into an amplified bullhorn.

“THIS IS THE POLICE!” his voice boomed. “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST! LIE FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS! AVOID THE LINE OF FIRE! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RESIST OR YOU WILL BE SHOT! I REPEAT. THIS IS THE POLICE! YOU ARE ALL . . .”

The litany continued as the first floor was secured and cops, Matthew and George among them, began swarming in, rounding up prisoners. George chose a random prisoner and threw him up against the nearest wall.

The fellow cowered. “Don’t hurt me, please! I’m just a chemist here!”

“What’s the layout upstairs?” George demanded.

“Same on floor two, supplies and storage on floor three! I’m cooperating, see?”

“Continue to do so. How many more weapons? How many more men?”

“Weapons I’m not sure. Seven other men, all human. Five right above, two in supplies.”

George passed the chemist over to a uniformed cop for cuffing and again spoke into his walkie-talkie, relaying the information.

On the floor above, three criminal guns were trained on the elevator and the stairway access was locked. The five men thought they had a chance. At least to wait out the cops and think.

If the windows hadn’t been blackened, they might’ve thought otherwise.

Two SWAT guys, who had rappelled off the roof, exploded through the panes, bullets from their assault rifles first and boots after, the former to shatter the glass, the latter to kick it inward. They landed on their feet, battle ready. One of the bad guys overcame his surprise quickly and spun to fire. The SWAT man on the left had an unusual opportunity and took him down without killing him, merely blowing his gun hand off. The SWAT man on the right grunted dryly at his partner. “Showboat,” he accused.

Matt and George were already pounding up the stairs toward floor three. Storage and supplies. Taking the elevator up had been out of the question; it was a slow, manually operated mesh cage; with gunmen possibly awaiting their arrival, they might just as well book passage On a moving coffin. The stairwell had been the only option. But of course, the heavy-duty, metal stairway-access door to the third floor was locked.

And there was acrid chemical smoke drifting out from under it.

“Shit!” exclaimed Matt. “They’re destroying evidence in there.”

From behind them a voice said, “Not for long.”

The voice belonged to Eric Pettiford, a young, black SWAT guy who sported dreadlocks. And a bazooka.

Matt and George backed down half a flight as Pettiford aimed at the door and fired, blowing it all the hell off its hinges and out of the frame.

The two supply men inside were so unnerved by what had happened to the door that they immediately dropped what they were doing and reached for the overhead fluorescents, as Eric and Matt barreled in and secured them.

“Where’s a fire extinguisher?” roared George, right behind them, because at the center of the room, in a freestanding washtub, a pyramid of boxes and chemicals was in flames. The question proved to be rhetorical, for as soon as he spoke, he spotted the canister, red and waiting on the wall. He took it down, aimed its nozzle, and let the white foam fly.

It killed the flames almost upon contact, leaving molten chemical sludge underneath as the foam dissolved into a gucky puddle that left a greasy film over everything.

Gun trained on the supply men, who were now supine and awaiting cuffs, Matt glanced over his shoulder at the mess.

An unpleasant thought came to him then, unbidden.

What have I done, really done, to poor Fancy and countless others like her? This stuff was poison, but it was their personal poison, and they built lives and careers around it. Who am I to say the damage it would have caused them in the end isn’t worth what they felt they were gaining along the way? The Newcomers depending on bad Stabilite weren’t junkies looking for a high . . . they were desperate people looking for respectability.

What they did, they chose to do.

I’ve just taken Choice from them.

Not alone, but I started the ball rolling and I’m here now at the finish.

Whatever happens to them now . . . for good or ill . . . I
caused
it to happen. I was the catalyst who
—

—Matt cut the thought short. To pursue it was to pursue too many sleepless nights. The truth was: there were no clean answers. He had done what he had done. It had seemed a good and noble idea at the time. He would have to be at peace with that.

And he was.

But not before he remembered his last encounter with Fancy Delancey, Newcomer .
. .

He stands in the hall, across from the door to the squad briefing room, which is, at this moment, in temporary use as a classroom. Another PACT class for another group of cynical cops is wrapping up inside.

He is restless, uneasy. He fully appreciates the covenant he made with his soul about the rightness of doing what he is about to do, but he hadn’t planned on the sensations it would evoke, the resonances from high school and grade school.

Student sensations. That’s what they are. Sensations he associates with being at someone else’s mercy. With not having power.

With not being a grown-up.

It’s a feeling he struggles with all the time—privately, in metaphor—but here the connection is just too terribly literal. He
is,
in fact, outside the classroom, waiting for the teacher, totally without control over the situation.