Alan Dean Foster (28 page)

It was Whiltey who reached the other side of the car first.

"Oh, God. . ."

The two detectives joined him, saw what had brought their companion officer up short. The bodies of the coroner wagon driver and his assistant lay stretched out on the asphalt, battered and crushed. Twisted and bent Re mistreated children's toys, the two uniforms who'd arrived in the freeway cruiser lay in a heap not far away.

Whiltey held a hand to his mouth as he backed away from the corpses.

"That's it. I'm calling for backup, now."

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Francisco took a step toward him, "Whiltey, no."

The cop wasn't in the mood to listen to anyone, much less a Newcomer.

Trying to follow, the detective found himself caught and spun around by an angry and frustrated Sykes.

"Okay, George, I've had enough. I want an explanation." He nodded tersely in the direction of the four bodies. "You've got an idea what happened here, I want to know what you know. What is this, George? What the hell's going on here?"

Francisco licked his lips, his attention on the far end of the avenue where warehouses marked the boundary between docks and street. He kept his voice low so Whiltey wouldn't hear, though given his current state of mind it was doubtful the duty cop could concentrate on anything except the image of the four executed men lying on the pavement nearby.

"It's Harcourt."

Sykes made a face. "Harcourt is dead."

"No, he's not."

Sykes had prepared himself for any of several replies. That wasn't one of them. "George, what the hell do you mean he's not dead? I checked him myself. Cold, no pulse, nada. If that ain't dead, then what is?"

Francisco tried to explain. "If he overdosed on ssjabroka as you describe, then he did not die. Small quantities of the drug generate great pleasure. An overdose can induce violent seizures which sometimes result in death from double heart failure and so forth. But when ingested, an amount on the order you describe does something entirely different to us. Sufficiently massive amounts can trigger a-a change. Do you have any idea what a physiocatalytic enzyme can do?"

"No. Should l?"

"I suppose not, since insofar as I am aware there are no human analogs.

It involves the hidden nature of the drug. Your body functions seize up, the hearts stop, and you appear to be dead, but it's really a state of incubation. The enzyme affects the entire system. Our cellular structure is far more malleable than yours. It has to do with the way we 203

were engineered to cope with dangerous environments." He gestured down at himself.

"Tilis is the preferred mode, both for ourselves and for those we once served. But they designed us very carefully, so that in a last-chance case, on a world more hostile than anyone could imagine, we would still have a chance to survive with the aid of the drug-enzyme. We would be capable of little else but survival. As I said, the enzyme was to be employed only as a last resort.

"After you ingest that much of the drug you lie very still for a short time until the metamorphosis is complete. When you recover you're. . ."

Sykes was staring at the four bodies sprawled on the pavement. "Tell me about it." He took a deep breath. "So what do you want to do, once you've been metamorphosed or incubated or microwaved or whatever the hell it is that happens to you? What would Harcourt do?"

Francisco was studying the silent warehouses. "He would not run far. It is much too soon, after. The process of internal change takes days to solidify. Other changes require rest in order to strengthen properly, much as a newly emerged butterfly needs time to exercise its wings before it tries to fly. He must wait for the process to finish. Then. . . " He glanced back toward the patrol car. "We must explain some of this to this man Whiltey."

Sykes looked in the direction of the idling cruiser. "I'll leave that to you. I ain't sure I understand it all myself."

"Very well. Afterward we must do what we can."

Whiltey didn't take the explanation very well, but the four bodies in the street lent emphasis to Francisco's vague commentary. The cop had questions, decided to ask them later. They had no trouble convincing him to drive the car. He was glad of the protection it offered.

With Whiltey manipulating the door-mounted spotlight, the three of them started toward the warehouse complex. As the uniform played the intense light over buildings and shadows, Sykes and Francisco walked alongside the slowly coasting car. Guns drawn and ready, their eyes flicked over every alcove, every possible hiding place. Only the New-204

comer knew what they were really searching for. His companions, he reflected, were the fortunate ones. Sometimes a little ignorance is a good thing.

Sykes kept his voice down as he talked across the hood of the cruiser.

"I never thought I'd say this, but for once in my life I think I'm willing to wait for backup. You sure we're goin' about this the best way, George?" The image of the four dead men lying on the pavement behind them was still fresh in his mind, not to mention the bent and torn back doors of the coroner's wagon.

"We can't let him get away," Francisco muttered from the other side of the slowly advancing patrol car.

Sykes squinted across at his partner. "Why the hell are you so dead set against having backup?"

It was a while before the Newcomer replied. "Becausebecause of what might happen if humans see what we are capable of becoming."

"But there's no more drug, and Harcourt's the only one who knows the formula. You don't have to worry about that. You know he'd never entrust it to anybody else. Maybe his boy Kipling, but that boy's dead for real."

"You understand that, Matthew. But how many others will? How much sympathy can we expect if this becomes widespread knowledge?" He stared hard at his partner. "How much sympathy would you have had if you'd learned all this by reading about it in a newspaper a few weeks ago?"

Sykes started to reply, shut his mouth as he found himself thinking realistic but unflattering thoughts. Just then Whiltey detected movement cutting the far end of his spotlight beam some fifty yards in front of them. Whatever it was ducked through an open warehouse door.

"There he is!" the cop shouted excitedly. "We got him!" Before either of the detectives could stop him he floored the accelerator and kicked the patrol car toward the target. Sykes and Francisco stood stunned and abandoned in his wake.

"Whiltey!" Francisco howled. He and Sykes took off in pursuit.

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The cop sent the cruiser screeching to the left, barreled through the gaping warehouse doorway. Both detectives came running after. They reached the portal in time to hear the car's brakes locking up somewhere deep inside the cavernous structure.

They finally caught up to it at the far end of the building. It was idling softly and kicking out fumes. There was no sign of its driver.

Slowing cautiously, the two detectives edged around to the front of the vehicle. Liquid was dripping from the front bumper. It was too thick to be coming from a punctured radiator.

Whiltey's severed head sat on the front of the car, a grotesque and unexpected hood omament. Sykes was relieved the eyes were closed. The body lay in a heap beneath the bumper.

Both men spun, their eyes hunting the shadows for the source of the cop's quick death. Sykes found himself wondering what sort of thing could have managed such a quick decapitation. He was shaking inside.

The old building creaked and groaned as intermittent wind assaulted it from off the harbor. Water dripped from ill-maintained and rusty pipes.

Two hallways led away from the central parking area where the car and its gruesome burden sat. Neither corridor was well fit.

Francisco searched the patrol cruiser until he found the standard-issue riot gun, began grabbing shells from their box. He was loading while Sykes checked the Casull. They exchanged a last, silent look of understanding before they split up. Sykes took the path to the left, Francisco hurried off silently up the other corridor.

Turning the first comer, Sykes froze at the sound of a voice. Several voices, unexpectedly amused. He eased forward around an open doorway and found himself staring at an unoccupied table and chair. The mini-television on the table was tuned to some late-night talk show.

Sharing the tabletop with the TV was a Thermos, a steaming cup of coffee, and a half-eaten Twinkie.

Night watchman or guard's duty station, he told himself. Hanging on the chair was a jacket with the word SECURI-206

TY stenciled across the back. Its owner wag nowhere to be seen.

Sykes entered the room carefully, glad of the bright overhead light but uneasy at the silence. A quick inspection turned up nothing. He resumed his hike up the corridor.

The purpose of the building stood revealed in the next room, which was far larger than the guard's office. Fish nets of every size hung from the ceiling, blocking his path as they dried in the cool night air. Trying to keep the Casull in front of him at all times, he began pushing his way through. He couldn't see the far side of the drying room. It was like a House of Mirrors at an old-time amusement park, only without any reflections. He had only one hand to pull at the nets with since he didn't dare risk entangling his gun.

He wasn't expecting the face when it leaped out at him.

Stumbling backward, he let out a cry and found himself caught in the nets.

The gun whipped around wildly as he tried to bring it to bear--on the eyes of an old wooden figurehead lifted from God only knew what worn-out sailing ship eighty years or more ago. It was worm-eaten and decaying but still of value to someone.

Sykes cursed nonstop as he extricated himself, wishing that someday he might meet the owner of the paralyzing sculpture in a dark alley. His heart was pounding against his chest. That was okay. Much better than the alternative. He resumed his advance, forcing himself to move each net aside before continuing forward.

Having cleared the net-drying chamber, he found himself in _an_ empty storage room. An intersecting hallway lay beyond. )~s he headed toward the junction, a faint clinking sound caught his attention. He paused to listen before turning toward the sound.

It was a double strand of heavy ship's chain, rattling in the wind. With a sigh he reached out to steady the metal. Then it occurred to him that the links were awfully heavy to have been moved by a stiff breeze. The alternative was that something else had set them in motion. Backing away from the chain, he tightened his grip on the Casull.

Something else in the room with him. He felt it, street-207

smart senses in high gear now, internal alarms blaring. His nostrils flared though he smelled nothing. His ears were cold though he heard nothing. He whirled, and saw nothing.

But he could feel it.

He spun a second time, and there it was, stepping out of the shadows behind him. Harcourt. No, not Harcourt. What had once been Harcourt but was now Something Else. He was breathing hard and fast, mesmerized by what he was seeing. Thank God for the solidity of the Casull.

Harcourt still, but transfon-ned. Altered, changed-how had Francisco described it? Metamorphosed. Bigger and more powerful, the skin scaly and hard, neck muscles corded, skull swollen, eyes sunken and burning-but still William Harcourt. The intelligence still shone behind the altered eyes, but it was a different kind of intelligence, no longer concerned with the subtleties of civilized behavior, no longer interested in anything except surviving, at any cost.

His next question was answered. The creature was still capable of speech.

Somewhere deep inside the monstrosity sounded the voice of William Harcourt.

"Looking for me, Sergeant? Well, now you've found me. What do you think?"

Massive, muscular arms stretched lazily toward the ceiling. "This is on your head, you know. You forced me to take this step. I didn't want to.

There are consequences as well as compensations. The last resort. You forced it on me. The fault is yours."

Sykes didn't even try to respond. He stumbled backward as he fired, nearly losing his balance and going head over heels. The report of the Casull was thunderous in the enclosed room. The heavy slug caught Harcourt in the right shoulder, twisting him around.

It took him only a moment to recover from the impact. To his horror, Sykes saw that while the disheveled and torn shirt was shredded and powder-burned, the bullet had failed to pierce Harcourt's transformed, armored hide. Grinning to display razor-sharp fangs, the Newcomer started toward the wide-eyed detective. -

Scared shitless and unashamed to admit it, Sykes 208

backpedaled fast, firing until the Casull clicked empty. One shot missed completely, exploding a crate close to Harcourt's head. The other four caught him full on. Each slug made him jerk reflexively. None penetrated.

They slowed Harcourt up but they didn't come close to stopping him.

Sykes turned to flee and the Newcomer pounced on him, moving with preternatural speed. One hand grabbed the detective's gun hand and pulled. Sykes screamed as his shoulder was dislocated and the pistol fell out of his trembling fingers.

Picking him up with one hand, Harcourt carried him to the edge of a stairwell and contemptuously tossed him forward. Sykes hit the stairs halfway down, rolled the rest of the way. The pain in his shoulder nearly rendered him unconscious.

At the bottom he somehow struggled erect, turned to flee. The thing that Harcourt had become simply vaulted the rail and dropped the last fifteen feet to the ground, cutting off the detective's retreat. Sykes still tried to break free, but a clawed hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He felt himself being propelled through a back door, toward the docks.

Out front, Whiltey's legacy took the shape of two blackand-whites. They pulled up next to the coroner's wagon as other units, sirens wailing, arrived one at a time. Their occupants rushed the warehouses.

Sykes heard the sirens. Exerting all that remained of his strength, he managed to slip Harcourt's grasp and went stumbling along the edge of the dock. The Newcomer followed, in no hurry.