Species II (28 page)

They stared at him, waiting.

“And I’ll take care of Preston Lennox.”

H
e wanted to see them go into the changing stages of their life.

There was one of those massive Wal-Mart stores not far away, so Patrick went there, digging around until he found what he was looking for in the automotive department: four portable electric lights, the kind that clamped onto the hood of a car so you could work hands-free. One for each floor; the barn had been abandoned, but no one had ever bothered to disconnect the simple electric lines that offered the occasional outlet for power tools. Within an hour, the inside of the dank and musty barn was lit well enough to see whatever he needed to.

Now Patrick was watching the last of his current offspring enter the chrysalis stage. Patrick himself had been denied this great experience, but he wasn’t jealous. His childhood had, of course, been spent as a human, and now he viewed that earlier time as a primer for the learning that he had put to such good use after his visit and his . . .
enlightenment
on Mars. While the thought of the chrysalis stage was intriguing, it was also a time of complete and utter helplessness, which was something that Patrick could not abide. That was why he was needed here in the barn, to assure that these children came to full growth. When that happened, they could go on their way, and he would go on his. And they would all, obviously, continue to breed—the males would find the strongest of the human females, and the females would chose the strongest of the human males.
Ad infinitum,
until his kind ruled Earth.

No frightened boy here; his youngest son was quiet and content, reassured by the presence of his parent as more tentacles than Patrick could keep track of pushed from everywhere on the child’s exposed skin. Long and graceful, they extended up and up and up, into the shadows between the beams overhead where the gleam of the portable lights couldn’t reach. Somewhere up there the willowy appendages must’ve met and attached, because not even a full minute passed before his son was lifted up with them. Fastened high among the rafters, the boy stayed soundless as the final walls of his chrysalis enveloped him.

Satisfied, Patrick went to the stairs at the back of the barn and began to climb. One flight, then another, and finally he was on the fourth and final level of the barn, the loft. Along the way, he inspected the results of his handiwork of the last week or so, walking among his children and touching, where he could reach, each one to feel the sweet life within. Weak they might have been, but perhaps he should be more grateful to the human women who’d given their lives to become their initial living incubators. Now those children, like their youngest brother downstairs, had been wrapped snugly away and hung here and there to await rebirth into adulthood. So many women, so many children.

At least three dozen. Maybe more; it was hard to see way up in the roof rafters.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“J
esus,” Dennis said as he stepped inside the room behind Press. “I thought we were at a medical facility. This looks like some kind of illegal arms manufacturer.”

“Nah. It’s not nearly big enough.” The room was small, barely ten by ten and painted that oh-so-attractive shade of dull military green. Press began inspecting the weapons stored neatly in racks along the walls. “Besides, they don’t make ’em; we just stock ’em. That’s why it’s called the ‘Emergency Armory.’ ”

“You sound like a commercial.”

The special agent gave a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s me. Number One Fan of Uncle Sam.” Next to a rack of M-16s, Mossberg 590 shotguns, and SWAT H&K MP5A3s, he saw half a dozen Kalishnikov rifles; he picked one up and peered at it, then put it back in its place. Speaking of Uncle Sam, where—and why—the hell had a U.S. Air Force base come up with this Russian shit? There was even an entire shelf of ammunition. So much for buying American.

“What’s this thing?”

Press glanced over his shoulder. “A Tartex land mine. It’ll pretty much wipe out this room if you drop it and it goes off.”

“Shit,” Dennis said nervously. He set the mine back in its slot on a shelf, handling it like it was a paper egg, then eyed the supply of olive-drab hand grenades next to it. “Can’t we just call in the National Guard?”

Press shook his head. “Sorry, pal. No can do—this is strictly a solo mission.”

Dennis made a sound that Press thought was a moan. “Man, I’m a lover, not a fighter. How’d I get involved in this?”

“Lover, my ass,” Press said with a wicked grin. “You ain’t been laid in eleven months, remember?”

“Yeah, and no thanks to you, hotshot. And I
do
recall, thank you very much. Right down to that up-and-coming moment of golden truth when your army boys burst in and ruined it all.”

“Big talk.”

Dennis scowled at him, but without real animosity. “Okay, so I used to be a lover.” He gazed around the room again, taking in the kind of armor that they’d never had on the
Excursion.
“But I’m sure as hell no kind of soldier.”

“You’ll be doing your country a good turn,” Press said. “Helping out more than anything you ever did up there floating around in space. Hell, you never know—maybe once we’ve got him captured, they’ll award you the Congressional Medal of Honor. Hell, I’ll even recommend it.”

“Whoopee,” Dennis said, but Press thought he sounded anything but enthused.

“This looks about right.” He plucked a small, high-tech tranquilizer gun from a stand and inspected it closely, then snagged a box of darts. “Perfect, except that it only holds one dart at a time, plus there’s only one of these shooters in here—not much call for this kind of thing lately.”

Dennis came over to see and his mouth dropped open. “That punk-ass little thing? What are you trying to do—make it take a nap? No offense, but where are the bazookas? This looks like something my grandmother would hide in her purse at the bingo hall!”

Press smirked. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that size doesn’t matter?”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Dennis retorted. He scanned the rows of weapons, then stepped over and plucked a long, serrated machete from its place on the wall. “You can have your wimpy little gun, but I’m taking this for good measure.”

Press stopped, watching as Dennis fastened the handle of the machete to his belt loop. There was no doubt that the guy was a cutup, a smart-ass, and a continuously horny bastard to boot. But there were other qualities here that Press was discovering. “Dennis,” he said pointedly, “you don’t have to come with us, you know. You’re not Special Ops, and you’re not under any kind of obligation—”

“Oh, you are so wrong,” Dennis interrupted. He looked at the floor and Press knew he was trying to hide the pain on his face. “I’ve got
so
much of an obligation. Patrick was my best friend, and despite what he’s become, he was a great guy. You’ve seen all the horrible things he’s done now, but you never knew him when he was okay. He would’ve never done anything to hurt people, would have never,
ever
harmed Melissa—he worshiped her.” Dennis’s words had grown thick and he stopped for a moment, then continued in a quieter voice. “If he could stand outside himself and see what’s he’s become, know what’s he’s done . . . he would want us to end it for him.”

E
ve sat and watched the activity outside her habitat, noting with detached interest the tripled guards, the woman stationed by the tether mechanism, and down at the far end, Laura and that special agent, Press Lennox. They were doing something over there that had to do with filling tranquilizers that would be shot out of a pistol—as if such things could stop her. Or Patrick . . . especially him.

Sometimes Eve wondered if the good doctor had as much of a handle on her as she was reported to have on Patrick. Here she came now, a determined look on her face, and confidence—false, Eve could feel it—in her step. She motioned to the sentry to raise the outer gate and the person obeyed. A smart fox, though; the female guard retracted it only enough to allow Laura to duck inside the exchange hallway. When the gates behind her had been lowered back into place, she gestured for the guard to open the inner set.

“Dr. Baker,” Brea said, “we strongly advise you not to go in there. There’s been a definite shift in Eve’s personality. She’s unpredictable at best, and at worst she’s got the strength of ten men.” The young woman’s eyes were wide and frightened, her face bisected by the white strip across her broken nose. Both eyes were rimmed in bloody-looking purple, all thanks to the results of Eve’s little choking act. After patching her up in MedLab, Laura had wanted her to stay home for a few days, but Brea had refused. “I guess we all know how devious she can be, and now she’s refused to cooperate anymore with the laboratory monitoring.”

“I have to agree, ma’am” said the guardswoman by the tether mechanism. Again, it was one of the women who had been there during Eve’s first outbreak. Beyond a few nasty bruises, she was fine, although her opinion of the life-form was clearly leaning toward a preference for termination. Brea seemed to regard the female soldier with more respect since the incident. “Even with this”—the guard gestured at the main switch—“the fact is that thing in there could kill you before the toxin would kill her, and there’s nothing I could to stop it.”

Laura stood for a moment, considering. Finally, she said, “It’s okay. It’s worth a reasonable risk if she cooperates.”

Brea stared at her. “And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll get the hell out of there. Go on—open it.”

Brea shook her head and activated the switch for the external gate. Before Laura stepped inside, she glanced back at her staff members. “If she takes me hostage, trigger the tether mechanism. Do
not
negotiate, and do
not
open this gate for her, under any circumstance. Understood?” They all nodded, faces creased with apprehension.

The external gate came down with a clang, but Laura had to gesture again before her reluctant crew would raise the inner one. Then she was inside Eve’s habitat and she could see the alien woman on the other side of several glass walls where, at the far end, she was amusing herself in what they called the exercise area. This small section had a few basic pieces of exercise equipment—a treadmill, an exercise bicycle, one of the Total Gym systems that used body weight as resistance. There were no weight plates, barbells or dumbbells, nothing that could be thrown or used as a weapon. As it turned out, they needn’t have bothered with anything but the treadmill, which Eve seemed to use only as a way of releasing pent-up energy. She was on it now, dressed in a sports bra and a pair of spandex bicycle shorts above thick cotton anklets and her Nikes. Her long, lean body was lathered in sweat as she pounded along the rubber surface at a good ten to eleven miles an hour, the treadmill’s motor screaming and at its performance limit. Her hair was plastered to her forehead but she wasn’t breathing hard at all; there were no more electrodes taped to her body.

When she saw Laura, she flipped the
OFF
switch and let the treadmill wind down, then stepped off it. “What are you doing in here?”

Laura studied her, noting the fine muscles and the immediate cardio recovery despite the long, vigorous run on the treadmill. Such beauty . . . such
danger.
She hesitated, then went for it. “I came to ask for your help again,” she said slowly. “To find Patrick. On our own—”

“No.”

“Eve—”

“If I came to you,” Eve said coldly, “and asked you to help me destroy the only other one of your kind in the world, would you agree to help me do it?” Her mouth twisted as she watched for Laura’s reaction. When nothing came, her expression changed once again, this time to fury. “We’re back to that lab-rat thing again, aren’t we? That’s me, an experimental little
nothing
to be poked and prodded and thrown out when I’m just no fun anymore.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Sorry, Dr. Baker. You’ll have to find Patrick without me. I won’t help you this time. Good luck, though—you’re definitely going to need it.” She turned her back and started to step back on the treadmill, but Laura’s next words stopped her.

“Eve, you have to understand that if you refuse to cooperate in this laboratory I can’t guarantee that the program will continue,” Laura said. She tried to keep her voice bland, but Eve wasn’t a stupid woman. Still, this was a last resort—

Eve whirled. “You’re threatening me!” she said incredulously. “Do you think I
care
what you do to me?” One hand gestured angrily at her living quarters. “This is all nice and bright and cheery, but in case you’ve forgotten, it’s a
prison.”
Laura saw the color change in Eve’s skin as her face took on a faint shade of red. “You want to kill me, Dr. Baker?” she hissed and took a step toward her. “Then do it . . . if you
can.”

Laura locked gazes with Eve and her heart started pounding. For the first time in all these months, there was nothing at all human in Eve’s eyes—sure, the blue color was the same, the shape was the same, but there was something else there, too. Something she couldn’t put a name to and that was unbelievably menacing.

The tables had turned.

Fear or not, Laura still told Eve the truth. “No,” she said as evenly as she could. “I don’t want to do that. I never did.”

Heart thundering, unwilling to turn her back, Laura edged out of Eve’s exercise area and left the life-form staring after her, then hurried out of the habitat.

She would never go in there again.