Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy

In an all-new
ALIEN NATION™
novel, a chance encounter with a mysterious woman from his past propels Detective Matt Sikes into an investigation of a lethal Newcomer drug, and forces the woman he loves to risk her life for someone she’s never even met.

Meanwhile, tension mounts between Sikes and his Newcomer partner, George Francisco, as each is forced to deal with the range of emotions evoked by this unusual case. As they delve deeper into the intricate maze of L.A.’s illegal drug market, Fransicso and Sikes discover that some Newcomers will do anything to assimilate into human society—even face the horrifying and deadly consequences that could destroy them all.

“You’re under arrest,
lady,” Matt said.

Her eyes widened, she turned, bewildered, saw the shield first, then his face.

And gaped.

Recognition.

Unmistakable.

Matt smiled, to let her know it was all a joke.

“Hey, Fancy. Congratulations.”

She faltered before her voice came. “I’m—I’m sorry, you have me confused with someone else.” That said, she began pushing through the crowd with the force of a small tank. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said, the words tinged by desperation, and then she broke free of the crowd, off and running, past Cathy who looked after her with an expression akin to sorrow. Or pity.

Alien Nation titles

#1: The Day of Descent
#2: Dark Horizon
#3: Body and Soul
#4: The Change
#5: Slag Like Me
#6: Passing Fancy

Published by POCKET BOOKS

An
Original
Publication of POCKET BOOKS

Copyright © 1994 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp.

ALIEN NATION is a trademark of Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-79517-1

First Pocket Books printing December 1994

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

WITH LOVE AND THANKS,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO . . .

. . . my family: William, Florence, Steven, Roxanne, Molly, and the memory of Lee . . .

. . . the inner circle’s longtime charter members: Daniel & Laura, Greg & Agnes, Golladay & Congdon, Jeff & Janet; Patrick, Robert, Denis and Joe; Walter, Steve, and Alan B.; Kay, Ann Marie, Janie, Sarah, Stephanie, Maureen, Zina, and Melodie; of course Scott, which implies Pat—and especially Joan . . .

. . . the wondrous new friends who have meant so much in the two years since: Wendy B., Elise, Doug, Danny, Adele, Lou, Julia (who might have inspired Fancy and, in a just world, would have played her)—and especially Luane . . .

. . . and the memory of Bruce Peyton (You were one Christmas shy, bub. I wish you might have held the finished goods in your hands) . . .

. . . because while it’s all well and good to keep the faith in tough times . . . it’s nicer if you don’t have to do it alone.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Kate Loague, fellow former inmate at Citibank, for providing the spark; to Peggy Kerrigan for research and friendship, both with a smile; to friend and collaborator Skip Kennon for the lovely tune that prompted the lyric; and especially to Nancy Golladay, for block-breaking, plot pointers, wry wisdom, deft counsel, and various other benefits that she will merrily take out of my hide in lieu of (and possibly in preference to) payment.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Sometimes you write for television, not because the money is good (and the money is great) but because the medium has actually produced something of value, something that you want to be part of.

I vigorously pursued writing for
Alien Nation
while it was on the air, and was rewarded for my efforts by being allowed to pitch stories to the staff of the series and their stalwart, passionate leader, Kenneth Johnson. The openness with which I was greeted is, I think, typical of the show’s unusual generosity of spirit and humanism. I am based in New York, where I do most of my writing for the musical theatre; at the time I was in no position to travel to L.A.; and Johnson & Company allowed me to pitch
over the phone.
I won’t say that’s an unheard of circumstance, but—the logistics and politics of television being what they are—it sure is rare.

The staff liked the way I thought for the show, seemed to think I “got it,” in terms of format, character, and philosophical subtext, and, from a number of storylines discussed (developed in tandem with my sometime collaborator and full-time great friend, the late Bruce Peyton), one survived two pitch sessions and was set for a third. Traditionally, and according to Writers Guild regulations, if a story makes it to a third meeting, the writer has an assignment.

A day or two before my third scheduled pitch session, I was told that the Fox Broadcasting Network had put a freeze on all outside pitches to
Alien Nation.
And shortly thereafter the series was canceled.

But I was genuinely passionate about the work I’d done, terribly fond of the fictional universe I’d been allowed to borrow, so I kept my notes, and, at least in my heart, the stories survived.

This novel is based on the one I cared about most.

FIVE YEARS FROM TODAY;

TWO MONTHS BEFORE DAY ONE . . .

O
N THE MORNING
of the last day of auditions—a Friday it was, with rehearsals scheduled to begin Monday—director Dallas Pemberton was holding fast to his conviction that you didn’t have to settle for mere competence. He had learned through long experience that if you didn’t panic, that if you remained patient, there was always
someone
who’d walk through the door,
someone
who’d fulfill the vision—or, at least, make you rethink the vision in a new and exciting way.

Never lose faith, that was the trick.

By midafternoon he was losing faith.

He felt his mind would be next if the producer kept chafing at him.

“Dallas,” came the whiskey-voiced rumble of Iris McGreevey, “I’d like you to take another look at that Callaway girl. I believe she can be worked with and she does come highly recommended.”

Dallas, a small, wiry man of fifty, closed his eyes, craned his skinny neck back, opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling of the theatre. Nice job of renovation, he thought. Felt like a theatre but hadn’t lost the comforting feel of the synagogue it used to be.

“Highly
recommended,” Iris pushed.

Just at this moment Dallas was finding it ironic that Iris had chosen to call her new theatre The Healthy Workplace. It was to be the home of a new rep company, intended, eventually, to be a prestigious retreat for young L.A.-based actors—a place to keep their theatre muscles in tune and, just as importantly, a place to escape from the madness of Hollywood. But it wouldn’t make an enormous weekly “nut”; (the theatre sat only 299, what in New York would be called a mid-size house); it was located in an out-of-the-way part of the city (so with a small publicity budget, it would depend almost exclusively on reviews for audiences to know it was there, much less care); and as a new outfit with no reputation as yet, it had to depend on finding gifted unknowns. Pay for any cast member was bargain-basement scale. Favored nations: big role, small role, all the same; barely enough to keep you in Big Macs and rent.

“Dallas?”

Dallas closed his eyes again, leaned forward, forearms on the back of a chair in the next row, chin upon an arm.

“I’m certain she comes highly recommended, Iris. But I can’t have her as Nora in
A Doll’s House
just because she’s an attractive trouper.”

“Oh, she’s more than that. She’s very skilled.”

Dallas scratched his mop of prematurely gray hair, faced Iris. Her whiskey voice was deceptive; she was a sober, square-jawed woman in her late fifties. You’d describe her, because of her bearing, as handsome. He wondered if even in her youth she was ever something
other
than handsome. Say, for example, pretty . . . ? He had no idea if she was married. Or had ever been. She wore no ring, and she was not the kind of lady you got personal with.

“I know, Iris,” he said, “but as I warned you at the top, it’s not a question of skill, it’s a question of persona. The audience has to believe in the depth of Nora’s dilemma. And since so much of what she feels is kept under the surface, we require an actress who’s
lived
a little, who can communicate that kind of repression and still let us know she’s a roiling cauldron. Your Miss Callaway is far too lightweight for that.”

“I thought she read those angry passages quite well.”

“Any good actress can work herself into a state of agitation. But this isn’t a play about anger. It’s a play about rage. There’s a difference.”