Alien Nation #3 - Body and Soul (7 page)

The giant had landed on the canvas-covered cargo of a passing truck. He was lying there, looking somewhat stunned, as the truck roared off headed south.

[
“Damn.”
] muttered River.

Well, things hadn’t been a total loss, at least. At least they still had the infant.

The infant would probably serve their purposes. Not only that, but it guaranteed that the giant would come to them. There was no way that he would just leave the child behind. Sooner or later, he would seek it out, and then they would have him.

Penn was staggering to his feet as River turned toward the infant. He started toward the bundle, which was lying, without so much as a whimper, where it had fallen.

And then the police siren became deafening, and a black and white roared up over the overpass, headlights blazing and dome light spinning.

Covering the distance between himself and the baby could quite conceivably mean getting nailed. The Newcomer made the decision in a split instant . . .

And ran.

The moment Penn saw River take off, he immediately followed suit. The two Newcomers sprinted like rabbits toward little Tencton, where they knew they could vanish amidst the population with no effort at all.

The two cops leaped out of the car, not bothering to radio for backup since they knew, beyond any doubt, that by the time any more police arrived, the two perps would be long gone.

One of the cops, Officer Stern, went over to the adult male body that had been picked up by the car’s headlights. He knelt down beside the body, and it was only at that point that he saw the full damage that had been inflicted. He grimaced at the body, because it looked as if someone had taken a jackhammer to the guy’s skull.

“This guy’s dead,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily.

The other cop, Officer Ryan, was looking in dread at the small bundle that lay wrapped up on the ground. He pulled the blanket aside without a clue as to what he would see.

A face smiled up at him . . .

A face that he couldn’t believe.

His mouth moved for a moment, and then he actually managed to get some sound out. Barely above a whisper, he said to his partner, “Hey, Dave, you gotta see this.”

Stern went to Ryan’s side, and together they stared down in amazement.

The darkness was suffused with a gentle glow.

And all was silent.

“I
SLIPPED ON
some soap in the shower.”

Sikes sat in his car outside the police station, the morning sun glowing down at him with disgusting enthusiasm. He glanced one more time in the mirror and then spoke once more, varying the emphasis.

“I
slipped
on some soap in the shower.” He paused. “I slipped on some
soap
in the shower.”

Yes. That was it. Definitely put the accent on the word
soap.
Somehow it seemed to ring of greater sincerity. That’s what he needed to be. Sincere. Honest. Straightforward. That was always the best attitude to keep in mind when you were lying through your teeth.

He heard someone call out, “Morning, Sikes,” and he started to turn reflexively to respond. This was not a good move; it caused a sharp stabbing pain to ricochet through him like a pinball. So he continued to stare forward and wave halfheartedly.

He waited until whoever had spoken had had enough time to get wherever he was going. And then, slowly, so slowly, he opened the car door and eased himself out of it.

He stood stiffly, then reached back with his foot and kicked the door shut. It sounded like it had closed securely. He sure hoped to hell it had, because there was no way that he was going to turn around and take a look.

He turned the collar of his leather jacket up a bit to try and obscure the odd angle of his head. In addition, he was holding out some hope that the black and blue bruise that was prominent on his chin was likewise hidden to some degree.

He entered the police station, his arms swinging loosely in as jaunty a fashion as he could muster.

Naturally . . .
naturally
. . . the first person he ran into was a Newcomer.

Officer Sandy Beach gave Sikes a very odd look that could best be described as fish-eyed. Sikes tried to avoid returning his gaze, which wasn’t all that difficult. All he had to do was turn his body, since his head was not presently capable of independent motion. He started to walk past the officer, when Sandy called out, “Hey, Sikes . . .”

Sikes sighed. He stopped and turned his entire body to face Beach. Beach laughed coarsely, and then he made a tsk-tsk gesture with his fingers. It was as if he’d caught Sikes red-handed in the cookie jar.

“What?” said Sikes. He tried to sound impatient, as if he didn’t have a clue as to what Beach might be snickering about.

Beach folded his arms, dropping any pretense of being coy, but still looking pretty damned amused. “Tried to jockey a Tenctonese woman, eh?”

All right. This was the moment he’d been rehearsing.

“No. I
slipped
on some soap in the shower.”

Beach grinned widely, and Matt cursed himself inwardly. That hadn’t sounded convincing, even to Sikes. Probably because he’d put the accent on the wrong word. That was it.

“Sure,” said Beach.

Sikes was about to continue his protest of innocence, but decided that there was no point. He might as well save his strength. If Beach was able to see through it that quickly, the chances were that this was going to be a pretty long day.

He turned and walked away, and Beach called out behind him, “Better get in sync! Or you’ll end up in the hospital!”

Sikes made a mental note that when Beach—who was newly married—had a child, Sikes was going to be first in line with the jokes. If it was a boy, it was “Son of a Beach.” A girl, and she was a “Beach on Wheels.”

He had a dreadful feeling that he was going to be making lots of mental notes of revenge as the day wore on.

He walked quickly, his angled head and bruise not catching all that much attention from the human officers. They probably just assumed that he had been in a fight. Certainly someone in Sikes’s line of work, and with Sikes’s temperament, could be expected to walk into work with an obvious war wound or two every now and then. Sure. That was it. If only the damned Tenctonese could just keep their opinions to themselves . . .

His desk, which faced George’s, was cluttered as always. And just as always, George’s desk was immaculate and—even more irritating—George was at it, early as usual. How the hell did the guy do it? For that matter . . . why did he do it?

George was eating what appeared, at first glance, to be a doughnut. But at second glance it was quite clearly something repulsive, so much so that Sikes couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask what it was. So he settled for a simple, “Hey, George,” as he settled down at his desk.

George took one look at him and knew instantly.

“Matt . . .”

Oh God, don’t say it.

Ignoring Matt’s unspoken plea, George continued, “. . . did you and Cathy try to copulate last night?”

To George Francisco,
tact
was a word that sounded like the past tense of tack. Other than that, it had no place in his vocabulary or his personality.

Sikes’s frustration with himself, with Cathy, with George, and pretty much with every Newcomer who had ever lived, tried everything he could do to repress his hostility. “No! There was a bar of soap on the floor of the shower. I didn’t see it. I took a step to get the shampoo and . . .”

George was staring at him with that irritating detective stare that had proven so useful in breaking down the obfuscations of suspects and perps. It was a decidedly uncomfortable feeling to have it directed at him.

He waved impatiently, causing a mild spasm in his neck. “Oh, never mind.”

George was able to file comprehension of the term
never mind
right up there with
tact.
He tilted his head slightly, studying Sikes as if he were a microbe. “Hmmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Your injury is consistent with that of males who rush into sex without proper preparation.”

Sikes was really starting to get pissed off. Proper preparation? That’s what you made sure to take care of if you were painting a room or something. What the hell did that have to do with the sex act? Lovemaking should be spontaneous, should be . . .

He realized that he really,
really
did not want to discuss it. Not with George, or Sandy Beach. Or even with himself.

He was so desperate to change the subject that he actually forced himself to stare at George’s breakfast. “What’s that disgusting thing you’re eating?” he demanded.

George held it up proudly, as if he’d just snatched the brass ring on a merry-go-round. “Weasel.”

Sikes’s eyes widened. Quietly his hand felt for the rim of the garbage can, just in case he needed to heave. He’d already eaten breakfast, and he was starting to fear it might make a return engagement.

Undaunted by the slightly pasty shade that Sikes must have turned, George continued cheerfully, “Weasel, but pressed into a ring. They’re new. You have your doughnuts. Now I have mine.”

He knew better than to try and offer it to Sikes. Sikes was never interested in sharing. He dipped the “doughnut” into his tea and continued, “Excellent for dunking. They make a jelly weasel, too.” He took a satisfied bite and smiled.

Sikes made a mental note not to stop in at a Dunkin’ Donuts anywhere within ten miles of a heavily Newcomer-populated area. He gripped the garbage can firmly. If George said one more thing extolling the virtues of any doughnut made from anything other than nice, simple dough fried in lard, he was definitely going to heave.

And he might just do it in George’s direction.

Sikes was spared that experience, however, because before George could continue with his praise of the jelly weasel, Albert walked up.

Albert Einstein was the Tenctonese janitor at the station. A short time back he had gotten married to a lovely young Newcomer named May Flowers who stood now beside him holding his hand. May looked so happy that her good mood threatened to burst out of her and spread through the squad room, ruining a perfectly good gloomy day for the somewhat intense police officers.

Albert Einstein wasn’t paying any attention to Sikes this day, however—something for which Sikes was immediately grateful. “George, we want to ask you—”

But it was too good to last. He noticed Sikes belatedly, and he was staring with concern at Sikes’s injuries.

“Sergeant Sikes . . . your neck. Did you try to copulate with a Newcomer?”

If his neck hadn’t been in such pain, Sikes would have slammed his face against his desk.

George leaned back in his chair, looking extremely satisfied that Albert had come to the same conclusion that he had. “He says,” George told him with clear skepticism, “that he fell in the shower.”

This was all that Sikes was going to take. He did not like, in the least, being called a liar . . . particularly when he’d been lying. It made him feel as if he wasn’t any good at it, and he had always prided himself on his ability to deceive. Hell, most of his relationships depended on it.

“That’s what happened!” he said angrily. “And if you don’t want to believe me, that’s—”

And then he moaned because he had been looking much too quickly from George to Albert and back again. As a result, his neck spasmed again, and this time the pain was something fierce.

Albert was drawn to suffering like an auditor to a write-off. “I can help you,” he said confidently.

At least he was confident. Sikes was not remotely so. Albert was walking behind him as Sikes said suspiciously, “What?”

“Just relax.”

To Sikes’s horror, Albert quickly put him in a headlock. His eyes widened in panic. He looked to George for succor, but George was just sitting there impassively, with some fur from the damned weasel sticking out the edge of his mouth.

“Albert, no!” Sikes cried out. He was terrified that the youthful Newcomer was going to rip his head off.

Albert snapped Sikes’s head around, quickly and efficiently and with a large measure of self-confidence. Sikes let out a compressed shriek of “Niiiiaaagh!”

He waited for pain to rip through every pore of his body. His skin would doubtless feel as if it were being flayed off. Every nerve ending was . . .

Was . . .

Nothing.

To Sikes’s astonishment, there was nothing. Well, not quite. There was something. But it was nowhere on a par with what he had been feeling before.

Albert took a step back. “How’s that?” he asked, his open hands still poised at either side of Sikes’s face. For a moment it seemed to Sikes as if Albert was preparing for the possibility that Sikes’s head might roll off its shoulders.

Slowly he brought his head in a circle. “Better,” he admitted, and then quickly amended, “It’s still sore, but I can move it.”

As if delivering a public service message, Albert said sagely, “Sexual ignorance is a very dangerous thing.”

“So is making comments like that around someone who’s armed,” said Sikes. “Remember, Albert, I do have a gun.”

“Yes, Matt, I think we all remember that,” George said pointedly.

Sikes glared at him.

May wisely took that moment to take the conversation in an entirely different direction. “George,” she said, “Albert and I want to have a child.”

George looked amazed. A grin split his face from ear to ear or, at least, what passed for ears on a Tenctonese head. “Really? That’s wonderful!”

Sikes was still rubbing his neck to work out the last of the kinks. “How?” he asked in a slightly distracted fashion. “You gonna adopt?”

May looked at Sikes as if he’d just dropped down from Mars . . . which was pretty ironic, considering who was looking at whom. “I’m going to conceive,” she said matter-of-factly. “Why?”

Now Sikes felt completely flustered. He had been so certain that adoption was a reasonable assumption, based on what he had learned about Tenctonese physiology. That was the problem with these damned people. Every time he thought he had a handle on them, they came up with some new philosophy or some new little biological trick that sent him off kilter once more. Sometimes he had the paranoid feeling that George and his friends were making this up as they went, just to keep the earth guy off balance.