Species II (27 page)

“Wow,” Dennis said. “That would definitely be a bonus.”

“So this is why Dennis wasn’t infected along with Ross and Anne Sampas up on the
Excursion,”
Press said. “Because the aliens can sense that he might have cancer?”

“Not exactly,” Laura said. “What they can tell, apparently, is that any
children
he has in the future might, and since their prime imperative is to mate and reproduce, Dennis is not a suitable father. On the surface this ‘preference’ seems innocuous, but it’s not at all insignificant. Instead, gentlemen, it is our key. Our
weapon.
Why? Because the alien DNA can’t cope with the genetic flaws that exist in human DNA. It’s defenseless against them.”

Press gave her a smile that was full of misgiving. “You mean like in
War of the Worlds?”

Laura looked at him blankly but Dennis’s face lit up. “That’s a classic science-fiction movie that started out as a novel written by H. G. Wells. The story is that Earth is invaded by aliens and nothing we do to fight back does any good—guns, bombs, nothing. What finally does the bastards in are the tiniest things we have. Our germs. So you think that’s our answer—our germs?”

Now it was Laura’s turn to smile. “I suppose you could put it that way, although technically I can’t say that the cause of every disease can actually be traced to a bacteria or a virus, which if I’m understanding you correctly, seems to be the miracle cure in your movie.” She tapped a key on the computer and Dennis’s medical history disappeared from the screen, and was quickly replaced by a flowing stream of data—more information about Eve and her body chemistry. Laura looked at the two men, her expression gone completely serious. “I just know that turnabout is fair play. The alien DNA infected us, and now it’s our turn to do the same to it.”

H
ome, sweet home again, Patrick thought as he pulled the car into the driveway of his mother’s summer mansion. There were lights on in the house—the servants again. It was always possible that his father might be here tonight, but the big car the old man rode around in was nowhere to be seen, which also meant nothing, since it could be parked in one of the garages or his driver might have taken it to town on some errand. Tonight there was no breeze to rattle Old Faithful on the pole and cover his noise; then again, regretfully, Patrick had no new offspring to bring to the barn anyway.

Without a child to lead, the walk across the back grounds took half the time. It was late and dark and still, with not even the far-off barking of the neighbor’s dogs to break the silence. Lost in his own thoughts, Patrick literally didn’t realize the padlock on the barn doors had been busted until he moved to insert his key into it and saw it on the ground next to the crowbar that had shattered it.

Alarm shot through him and he grabbed for the handle of the barn door. Before he could enter, a voice from the shadows stopped him.

“I knew you’d be here.”

Patrick whirled and saw his father standing there. The older man looked smaller and slightly shriveled, as if the last four or five days had sucked away a good portion of his life force. They stared at each other until Judson Ross looked away, his gaze scanning the darkened fields between the barn and the house. On the other side was an orchard, a small stream, and a large, fenced pasture where they’d ridden horses when Patrick was a teenager. The animals were gone now, the pasture choked with weeds and wildflowers.

“The best part of your childhood was spent here,” his father said wistfully. “Do you remember? So many wonderful summers we had, the three of us. Until your mother died, of course. Then everything changed.”

Patrick waited and said nothing.

“I dropped myself into my work,” Senator Ross continued. “And the bottle, too—I’m quite aware that I drink too much. I guess the work and the liquor helped me to ease the loss.” His head turned back toward Patrick. “But it didn’t do much for you, did it?”

Patrick frowned but stayed silent. What did the old man want?

“Patricia always loved it here,” Judson Ross said softly. “And she loved you, too—so very much. She was a much better mother than I’ve been a father. But you know all that, don’t you?”

Something inside Patrick . . .
stretched.
There was no way to explain it other than that there was a defeated part of him that reached out and tried to resurface. He felt pain suddenly, but it wasn’t really physical. A twist in his heart and his mind and suddenly Patrick was standing in front of his father and blinking as tears started to fill his eyes. Now that he wanted to say something, nothing would come out.

His father dropped his gaze to the ground, and he had never seemed more ashamed. “They told me what happened in space, Patrick. How you were infected by something up there. And all the while, I’d been in my office, thinking about power and a seat in the Senate and when my only son comes to me for help, I turn him away. I should have listened.”

Finally,
finally,
Patrick felt he could speak. “You never listened,” he whispered. “Never.”

Senator Ross lifted his chin. “But I’m listening now,” he said fiercely. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right, to fix it.”

Patrick shook his head. Suddenly his mind was a jumble of images, some he couldn’t understand, others he didn’t want to see. Everything inside his head seemed undercut with a sort of shiny, golden-brown fog . . . where it wasn’t tinted red. Like blood. “No,” he rasped. “You can’t, not now. It’s too late—if I go with you, they’ll kill me—”

“Absolutely
not,”
Senator Ross said. For a moment he sounded like his old self again: strong, secure, in charge of the world. “There is no possible way that I’m turning you over to any of those military-minded Pentagon bastards. Until I make all the arrangements for you to go to Johns Hopkins for treatment, you’ll be plenty safe here—this property’s always been in your mother’s maiden name. They won’t even know where to look.” He held out a hand. “Come on, Patrick. Let’s go back to the house and make a pot of coffee, sit down and talk about what’s happened and what needs to be done. We’ll walk through this together, just like we used to handle problems when you were a boy.”

Patrick stared at his father’s hand, a part of him wanting so badly to take it. But another part, a
darker
part, would never allow that. He should turn away now, walk out of range of this man who had once been a part of him but who was now forever separated. Instead he felt frozen in place, pulled in two different directions by unseen forces whose power at the moment canceled one another out and left him stuck in the middle, staring at the hand his father had extended. It promised so much—warmth, love,
help.
“I’ve done . . . terrible things,” he managed to say at last. “They can’t be undone—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Judson Ross said stubbornly. “You’re still my son. You’ll
always
be my son, no matter what.” He took a step toward Patrick, then another. His hand, large and warm, closed around Patrick’s elbow and urged him forward. “Come on, son. I’ll take care of it, I swear. Everything will be all right.”

Patrick shivered and tried to shake his head—

no no no

“I know I haven’t been the father I should have been,” Senator Ross said levelly. “And I understand if you’re reluctant to listen to what I have to say—I probably would be, too. But if you won’t do it for me, then remember your mother, Patrick. Your mother would want you to go on and be healed, to do the right thing for yourself. If nothing else, Patty, do it for her.”

That internal yearning again, wanting so much—

“Help me,”
Patrick said raggedly. “Oh, my
God—”

He sagged but his father was there, for the first time in years, to carry Patrick’s weight. So much time spent on his own, making his own way without anyone’s help and with no one but friends—usually Dennis and Melissa—to talk to about what to do with his life and the future. Now his old man’s arms were around him, strong and sure, and the elder Ross was turning Patrick back toward the house and steering him away from the barn. “It’s all right, son, it’ll be fine. You’ll see. Let’s go back to the house and then—”

His father’s touch, so warm and . . .
human,
sent a sudden chill down his spinal column. Something within him screamed a warning—

—and was smashed down.

Forever.

Senator Judson Ross’s face contorted in agony and blood welled from his mouth as a tentacle, beautifully studded with dozens of barbs, rammed all the way through the middle of his torso. The tentacle twisted and churned, and its work was done in hardly more than a heartbeat; glistening with the crimson lifeblood of his father, the extra appendage drew back into Patrick’s body and dropped the corpse on the ground. Marking its wake was only the blood-splattered tear in the center of Patrick’s once-white shirt.

Patrick stepped over the body of his father and turned back toward the barn. There, clustered around the open doorway and staring at him with pride from the darkened recesses, were his children.

Patrick smiled, and went to them.

18

“C
olonel, may I remind you that this situation has gone on far too long for comfort. Each day that passes makes it more difficult to maintain the utter secrecy for which we’ve been striving throughout the duration of this project.”

Ah, yes, Carter Burgess thought. Another dressing-down from my superiors. And I’ll warrant that Preston Lennox thinks he’s the only one who keeps getting reamed out over this farce.

The second of the generals picked up where the first one had left off. “A leak to the media could open a Pandora’s box unlike anything this government has ever seen. It would not be difficult to trace it internally and find out that not only had we suspected life on Mars, but that Herman Cromwell, lunatic though we thought he was, predicted that a human sent to Mars would be exposed to undue risk. Even worse, an investigative reporter with a tantalizing lead, the right connections, and enough bribe money could in all probability work out a path all the way to the fiasco with the first alien woman, that ‘Sil.’ ”

Colonel Burgess frowned. “There have been no reports or indication that anyone found out—”

“You’re wearing blinders if you believe that, Colonel,” said one of the others in a flat voice. “And I don’t believe you’re a stupid man. Questions have already been raised about Patrick Ross. The NSEG office is fielding calls from civilians who have been complaining about his strange behavior, most from women he’s apparently approached and tried to pick up. There’s always some bimbo trying to make a fast buck by talking to the tabloids, and the fact is, we should have been giving thought to the matter of silencing these so-called witnesses all along. We can try to discredit them, but for the most part, now it’s too late.”

“I’ve informed Senator Ross of our dilemma,” Burgess said when the trio looked at him expectantly. “My hope is that he’ll be able to help us locate his son.”

“When we do, Preston Lennox will have to kill him,” said the general who was usually the quietest. “Such a shame to be forced to eliminate a national hero.” The others nodded in agreement, but they all knew there was no alternative.

“I’m afraid it’s Press Lennox that I’m worried about,” Burgess said coolly. He waited, but it wasn’t for long.

“How so?” asked the first general. “Do you think he would—”

“He’s a loose cannon,” Burgess said matter-of-factly. “He blames the military for this entire project and its results, and he deeply resents what he perceives as an irresponsible repetition of our first mistake with Sil. And we all know how much he resists authority.” He gave them time to let that digest, then hit them with the final blow. “When this is over,” he said smoothly, “don’t be surprised to see the whole sordid story on the front page of
The New York Times.”

The second of the group looked doubtful. “Preston Lennox is an excellent covert agent who has always been highly dependable and efficient,” he said. “He’s uniquely qualified to terminate the alien, and the simple reality of this is that there isn’t anyone else with both his level of skill and his previous experience with just this sort of creature. There simply isn’t anyone else who can do this job.” He studied Burgess’s unyielding face, then sighed. “If you still have misgivings, we’ll just have to deal with them when he has accomplished his assignment of exterminating the alien threat.”

Burgess almost smiled. But no; it would never do to have these men, all of whom thought they were so intelligent and cagey, realize that they’d played right to where he wanted them. “I have a suggestion.”

“And what’s that?”

He didn’t know which of the men had asked the question, and he didn’t care. What mattered was that his chance was finally here. Nobody manhandled him like Lennox had. As far as Burgess was concerned, Press Lennox was the King Asshole and the colonel had ways, eventually, of dealing with people like that; Lennox was about to get dealt with. “We’ll use the Oswald-Ruby gambit. Or, to quote a cliché, kill two birds with one stone. Preston Lennox will take care of Patrick . . .”