Alan Dean Foster (21 page)

"We? You're telling me you've taken it?"

"We all did, in our previous existences." Despite the obvious pain the confession cost him Francisco confronted his partner as squarely as he had the question.

Sykes was shaking his head dubiously. "That doesn't make sense. Where did the stiff get the stuff? Was there some of it on the ship, maybe tucked away somewhere to provide future 'rewards' for the right sort of performance by selected individuals?"

"No." Francisco shook his head. "I am sure not. It was a clean ship. I can remember when the checks were run. It was a necessary part of the departure and flight procedure.

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That is why I am so concerned. If our dead holdup man had it in his system, and the test Bentner ran appears conclusive, then someone must now be producing the drug here. Even if it had come from the ship its effects would long since have faded, unless it was held in the medical section where the proper long-term storage facilities were available. And I know that was impossible. That was the most heavily guarded and frequently inspected part of the ship.

"Besides, no one was conscious during the journey. Ship's records can prove that. But that is not what has me so puzzled and worried. None of my people knows how to make the drug. It was always given to us in its finished state. The process of manufacture was carefully guarded by the Masters, for obvious reasons."

The enormity of what his partner was telling him was still sinking into Sykes's overloaded brain.

"Jesus, this is major. Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why'd you hold out on me? Did you really think I couldn't handle it? Hell's bells, George, I've been dealing with narcotics my whole career. It's nothing new to me."

"I know that, Matt. I realized from the start that you would have no difficulty in comprehending the problem. That is not why I kept silent for so long.

"So then tell me, why?"

"Because your people are ignorant of this part of our past. In the main they see us as not very bright innocents, big and strong but otherwise comparatively harmless, and willing to adopt and hew to your own moral codes even when that code is not applied fairly to us. I have watched your popular media and learned much from it. Can you imagine the headlines if this news becomes known? 'Alien Dope Fiends Run Amok,' or something like that. You see, I know how your society reacts to such things, and it is usually not with understanding.

"If this were to become common knowledge it would threaten our entire existence here. At the very least there would be new restrictions just when we are beginning to integrate effectively. At worst it would mean a return to the quarantine camps and a lifetime of surveillance by your 151

medical specialists. It must be kept a secret or we are lost. Our future here will come to a dead end, and presently things are going much too well for me to allow that to happen. Tell me that you understand, Matt. I need to hear you say it. "

As he listened to his partner Sykes had calmed down completely. When Francisco had finished, the senior detective spoke calmly but with great force, looking him straight in the eye.

"George, I've got just one thing to say to you. Don't you ever lie to me again. No matter what. Ever."

"I must trust you, Matthew." Francisco was staring at the ceiling of the cab. "I suppose I would have had to tell you sooner or later. Now that it is out I feel better for having explained. I wanted to choose the right time, but you are an impossible man to say no to. Believe me, Matt.

I cannot stop this without you. And stop it we must before it can spread and before the news becomes public. Understand me clearly: no one else can know of this but you and me. It must not go beyond this place."

Sykes nodded curtly, then hit the emergency stop a second time. They descended the rest of the way to the parking level in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

It was dark outside as they made their way back to the slugmobile. Sykes reached for the handle and winced as the fingers of his injured hand sought to grip the metal. The son-of-a-bitch still hurt like hell. He'd just have to manaae. A thought struck him as Francisco opened the door on the other side.

He didn't have to manage.

"George?" The Newcomer peered over the top of the car at him. "How about you drive?"

Francisco didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His expression said it all for him as he reacted to the small but welcome vote of confidence.

The two detectives switched places.

Sykes always liked to relax by listening to dispatch when he was concentrating on another case. It soothed him to 152

know that someone else was responsible for checking out reports of homicides and burglaries, rapes and break-ins, vice busts and vandalism.

But listening didn't help tonight. What had been a fairly straightforward case made important by Tug's death had exploded into something infinitely more complex. If Francisco was to be believed, his people's whole future stood at risk. The responsibility was one Sykes hadn't asked for, didn't want, and would have put aside if possible. Couldn't do that now. Thanks to his dedication to his old partner's memory and his damnable curiosity, he was involved up to his neck.

George continued to insist that the ss'jabroka, or whatever the hell it was, had no effect on human beings. How the hell could he be sure? He'd covered up everything he'd known about the stuff ever since he'd suspected its presence because mere knowledge of it was so dangerous. Suppose he was covering up something else as well? Suppose he'd decided to give his partner the minimum amount of information concerning the situation so they could proceed? What if the stuff did have some kind of dangerous effect on humans? That would be reason enough to keep things secret. If that was the case, then widespread knowledge of the drug's existence and origin would be far more damaging to the Newcomer cause than anything that merely affected them.

He glanced sideways. Francisco was driving silently, professionally, a clean-cut graduate of Academy driving school, both hands firmly on the wheel and eyes concentrating on the traffic. He would've taken pursuit class too, Sykes knew. Was he telling his good buddy Matt Sykes everything he knew, or was he still holding back? No way to tell.

Just go with the flow, Sykes told himself, and keep an ear out for any obvious slip of the tongue. And watch his face, he reminded himself. The Newcomers were lousy poker players.

How many hands were being played here?

He tried to put it out of his mind. He was after Tug's murderer.

Concentrate on that. It was why he'd fought so hard to get this case, why he'd volunteered to work with a

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damn dumb Slag. Think about Tug. Let George worry about possibly dangerous Newcomer narcotics. Take him at his word that the junk is not dangerous to human beings.

Until something else proves otherwise.

They pulled into the parking lot outside the government building in West L.A. The night guard acknowledged their ID with a smile and a wave. Little traffic here this time of night.

Sykes spoke briefly to the watchman stationed in the lobby, who directed them to the proper floor. The elevator dropped them off halfway up the tower. The corridor ahead was deserted, the lighting turned down but not off.

"There's gotta be some other connection," he mumbled as they walked.

Francisco looked down at him. "What?"

"Nothin', nothin'. Forget it, George. Sometimes I just like to talk out loud, okay? It helps me see things. "

The Newcomer sighed. "Another astonishing human behavior. "

Sykes eyed him irritably. "What is?"

"Talking to oneself. A difficult concept to fathom."

"You think so? Fathom this." Sykes flipped him the bird, a gesture Francisco was familiar with. He tried to connect it to what his partner had just said and failed. Let it slide, he told himself. You had to do that with humans a lot. Otherwise you put your sanity at risk.

BUREAU OF NEWCOMER AFFAIRS

Sykes eyed the lettering on the door, wondering if his partner had spent time here previously, but said nothing. The door was unlocked. No reason to secure it, he mused as he entered the room beyond. No one made it this far without passing lobby security.

A maze of partitioned cubicles stretched out before them.

Francisco's gaze swept the room. "Nobody here."

"Got to be somebody," Sykes argued. "The guard downstairs said the place was operational. Somebody's got the lights on for a reason. Let's have a look around."

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They pushed into the maze. Each cubicle was decorated to individual taste, a warren of posters and family portraits and silk flowers. Each cubicle boasted a computer and printer.

"Maybe we don't need anybody. Can you run any of this stuffT, Francisco shook his head. "I can handle the basic machine, but I have no access to authorization codes."

"Who needs code authorization?"

The voice stopped them at an intersection between cubicles. The woman standing there was young, black, and wary. "Who are you guys and what are you doin' up here this time of night?"

Sykes handled the intro. "Detectives Sykes and Francisco, ma'am. LAPD, homicide division."

She studied the badge Sykes proferred, looked satisfied. Her gaze kept returning to Francisco. It was possible she'd been the one to process him after the ship's arrival.

"We could use a little help," Sykes told her.

"Couldn't we all. Why you think I'm working this late?" She sighed.

"Homicide, huh? That's more interesting than the stats I'm totaling. Come on. I was going to get some coffee, but it can wait."

"You give us a hand," Sykes said encouragingly, "and I'll buy the coffee."

She smiled. Had a pretty smile, Sykes thought, from somebody who spent all day in a six-by-six cubicle running records across a glass screen.

Never define somebody by their job. Who the hell had told him that?

Her cubicle was adomed with photo blowups of high white mountains and grassy valleys. One showed a castle in some unidentified European country. Travel agency stuff, She sat down in her chair and glanced up at them as she brought the screen in front of her to life.

"What do you want to know?"

"Recently deceased alien individual name of Warren Hubley," Sykes told her. "We know a few things about him. Not enough."

She nodded and her fingers danced on the keyboard. "Ut's see what we can find."

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Information scrolled past too fast for either detective to follow, braking automatically at the name HUBLEY, WARREN. She thumbed a switch and shifted the name to the top of the screen. Information in profusion appeared below.

Too many abbreviations for Sykes's taste.

"Here's Hubley," she informed them.

"I can't read it." Sykes peered over her left shoulder. "Bureaucratese. How about interpreting?"

"Too much information too spread out," the operator explained. She translated from the screen. "Warren Hubley. Left quarantine on November thirtieth, relocated first to Riverside, then moved to Los Angeles early in February the following year. Field of expertise: chemical manufacturing.

Did work with the alien ship when it was being prepared for departure, helped with the awakening from deepsleep on arrival. Was one of the first Newcomers out of suspension, according to his preprogramming. So he could help with the setup for the others, I guess."

Francisco's eyes were glued to the screen. "Makes sense."

She went on. "Was officially debriefed by US Army Chemical Engineering.

Looking for information on ship's functions. Apparently he couldn't help them there. All he'd been trained in was maintenance and closedown of the ship's sleep facilities. His other education was to be utilized on arrival.

He didn't know anything about the operation of the ship itself."

"None of us did," Francisco murmured. "We were not even passengers. We were cargo. "

Sykes didn't comment. "What happened to him after he was let out of quarantine?"

The operator enlarged the print slightly. Working at night was a strain.

"He was a lot better off than many Newcomers. Apparently he didn't have too much trouble adapting his specialized knowledge to useful jobs here on Earth. He must've known he'd do okay here, too."

"What makes you say that?"

She tapped the screen with a fingernail. "Says here that he passed up several other better-paying jobs waiting for one 156

at a particular refinery in Torrance. Not many Newcomers could afford to pick and choose like that. I guess it was just the kind of work he wanted to do."

Sykes and Francisco exchanged a look. Squinting at the screen, the senior detective tried to separate any useful information from the lines of statistics and history. It all looked like personal stuff: known addresses, physical characteristics, relationships, and movements. That wasn't what they were after.

"That's enough Hubley. Try a Joshua Strader, will ya, darlin'T'

"For you, anything." She gave him a lewd wink. "Is that Strader with an

'a' or an 'ay'?"

"S-t-r-a-d-e-r," Francisco spelled helpfully.

She nodded and punched in the request. Information filled the screen almost immediately. Sykes didn't know much about computers, but he knew that when a query was answered that fast there was some awesome CD RAM

behind it.

The operator leaned slightly forward. "Released on November twenty-ninth.

Came right to L.A. Specialist in interpersonal analysis and personnel management."

"That figures," Sykes muttered.

"Ten weeks after arriving," she went on, "he took over an abandoned nightclub on the edge of the Los Angeles Newcomer District, oversaw its renovation and refurbishment thanks to a substantial loan from the Federal Newcomer Small Business Bureau, and renamed the place

'Encounters.'

"That's all?" Francisco asked.

"It's followed by the same standard personal information and vital stars.

Apparently he was doing well financially, paying back his loan on time and taking out a decent profit besides. "