Species II (6 page)

“One of the things we’ve developed here in the lab is a hydrochlorine-based toxin. In a moment, you will witness the effects of this chemical agent on the alien.” More commands into the keyboard, a firm stroke of the enter key, and suddenly a blue-tinted mist spewed from nozzles set at regular intervals around the inside of the glass cage. Within the tube, Eve gasped and her chest began to hitch in humanlike sobs as she twisted and turned in a vain attempt to avoid the haze.

“As you can see,” Laura said grimly, “Eve is not only repulsed by the hydrochlorine toxin, but it results in distinct physical injuries. If you’ll turn your attention to the monitors across the room, you’ll be able to view close-up images from two perspectives. One is a magnetic-resonance pattern of Eve’s body, the other is a real-time video feed that shows the damage being done as we speak.” One of the screens flicked to a close-up and showed Eve writhing in agony, her formerly smooth skin covered with ugly, raised welts. Laura gave her audience a few moments to register what they were seeing as she checked the biological information scrolling beneath the film views, then she leaned forward.

“Unfortunately, it’s far too early in our experiments to celebrate. Watch very closely, gentlemen. What you are about to witness will shatter any notion that you might have that the young woman below you is a member of humankind.” Laura almost
felt
their interest elevate as she thumbed the switch that brought her voice down to the technician in charge on the main floor. “Clear the tube.”

Somewhere out of sight, a reverse fan whirred to life and the air in the glass capsule began to reverse, the noxious blue mist spiraling down to thin ribbons as it was sucked out via the same nozzles it had entered. In a few seconds, the glass was once again unobstructed, this time giving them a view of a different Eve—swollen, red, and crying like a child.

Laura didn’t say anything more—she didn’t have time to—before Eve’s healing began.

It was like watching a layer of sand shift and bubble across the woman-form’s skin—a
vibration
of cells rearranging,
regenerating,
right in front of their eyes. Two seconds, then three . . . and every indication of physical harm was just . . .

Gone.

Eve stood there, rosy-skinned and perfect, blinking but seemingly unsurprised at her own metamorphosis, completely at home in her own skin despite the blatant display of her nudity. She was healed; she was whole.

She was
Eve.

When Laura glanced up at the viewing booth, she saw all four men staring down, their expressions frozen with disbelief. She cocked an eyebrow and broke the spell. “Now you understand what we’re up against here. Every toxic chemical agent that we’ve come up with has had the same result: as an offense, whatever we employ against her works only once, and only
very
briefly. The alien’s biology immediately adapts and renders the weapon useless.”

For the first time, the speaker on her console came to life and she heard Colonel Burgess address the others in the booth with him: “Simply put, this is it. Nothing we’ve found so far works, and we still haven’t figured out an efficient way to deep-six these alien bastards.”

Wow, Laura thought with a roll of her eyes that thankfully couldn’t be seen from above. A man of eloquence. Still, she felt compelled to add her own measure of important information. “There’s another extremely important thing. The species displays a very measurable sixth sense—a form of telepathy. We believe it’s essentially a Darwinian survival mechanism that enables it to communicate with others of its kind in what it perceives to be hostile environments.”

For a long moment there was no response, and Laura could imagine the Pentagon Three considering this new bit of information, turning their strategy-oriented thinking toward the concept of a savage being capable of communicating without their knowing it. When the response finally came, it was short and to the point.

“Continue the testing, Dr. Baker.”

Was there ever any doubt?

Laura gave the three figures in the viewing room a brisk nod, snapped on the control that would drop Eve’s glass capsule back to the lower level for unloading, then climbed out of the control pod and went back to work.

I
t took only a few minutes to store the notes from the experiment and make backup copies for the data banks, but in that short time Eve had already been released into her habitat by the safety crew on the main floor. Laura found her getting dressed in one of the simple-patterned jumpers that made up her wardrobe, anger sparking from her clear blue eyes as she yanked the cotton fabric down and over her head, then jammed her feet into a pair of white canvas flats. Eve stood when she saw Laura, then backed up a step and folded her arms defiantly, like a schoolgirl standing up to a teacher. “Why did you do that to me?” she demanded.

For a moment, Laura couldn’t answer. Guilt suffused her, robbing her of the scientific reasons that she knew would justify her actions; all she could see was this blond-haired, fresh-faced young woman standing in front of her, all she could hear was Eve’s righteous indignation. This was the image that stayed with her at the end of the day and the reason she sometimes had to forcibly remind herself that the being in front of her was an alien creature,
not
the exploited woman she appeared to be now.

“I-I’m sorry, Eve,” she managed to say. “We lowered the dosage as far as possible, but the purpose of the test was to show the toxin’s effect. It could have been so much more painful . . .” Her voice faltered as she belatedly realized that her words sounded like nothing less than a threat. “I’ve explained why we have to do this,” she said at last, her voice low and as reassuring as she could make it. Eve said nothing, just continued to stare at her. “What happened with Sil—”

“—and why you have to be prepared,” Eve cut in bitterly. “Survival of the fittest and all that. Right.” Her voice softened and she looked away from Laura, gazing longingly at the color television, now dark, built into one wall of her living area. “I suppose that one must be cruel in order to survive.”

Stung, Laura opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say to that? In nature cruelty was a given, brutality accepted and even admired. But in the human race, were they not expected to be civilized? Or even kind?

“You know,” Eve said when Laura remained quiet, “I watch all these programs on television and see the places I can’t go, the people I can’t meet—I bet you didn’t know that I’d give anything to visit the Pyramids, did you?” She gave a short, harsh laugh. “No, of course not. How could you?”

“Eve—”

“A lab rat,” Eve said suddenly, her eyes narrowing. “To be tested and poked and prodded.
Tortured.
Is that all I am to you? I wonder what your animal-rights people would say to
this.”

“Stop it,” Laura said, more sharply than she’d intended. Her face was heating up with exasperation and she hated that—if she didn’t put a stop to this now, the constant videotape would make her look like she’d painted rouge on her cheeks. “I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.” With effort, she brought her tone back to the carefully measured level she always used when talking with Eve. “Part of the reason I took this job was to make sure these experiments were done with regard for the subject—”

“Subject,” Eve said with a sneer. “Yeah. That would be me.” Gazes locked, for a long moment neither woman said anything. Then, feeling chastised, Laura broke the gaze and turned to go.

“Tell me,” Eve said from behind her, “what was the rest of your reason? Curiosity, perhaps?”

Laura stopped and turned back. “Aren’t we all curious?”

Eve cocked her head. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Her expression relaxed a little and she looked thoughtful; then hesitantly she reached out and touched Laura on the arm. “I know you’ve been good to me, Laura. But remember one thing . . .

“I’m human, too.”

Laura gave her a small smile and briefly squeezed Eve’s hand before stepping out of the habitat and into the exit corridor.

God help her, a big part of Laura wanted to believe that.

3

“L
ook at it,” Melissa said dreamily. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” She glanced at Patrick and he smiled and followed her gaze to where she was staring, out the best window at The Willows Steakhouse. The view from this prime corner booth was indeed spectacular: on the other side of the glass was a rare, clear night sky showing a faint sweep of crystalline stars overhead, their sparkle diminished only by the butter-yellow glow of the White House in the distance. Not many places in Washington, D.C. could boast a panoramic scene like this, and not many people rated the one table in the restaurant that offered it.

“It’s very pretty,” Patrick agreed, and he meant it.

“Oh, silly,” Melissa said. “I know you’re only indulging me—it’s probably nothing compared to what you saw while you were on the
Excursion.”

The smile he sent her was genuine, and the warmth in his dark eyes made Melissa’s breath quicken. “What it can’t compare with is how beautiful you look tonight. The dress suits you perfectly.”

“A-hem,” Senator Ross said with mock seriousness.

“No kidding,” Dennis Gamble put in. “The two of you could light the candle here without touching it.”

Melissa blushed and made herself ignore the other two men, instinctively smoothing away a fold in the red-velvet fabric along the line of one hip, knowing that Patrick’s gaze would follow the movement appreciatively. She didn’t want to be rude, but she wished Senator Ross and Dennis would just go on home and let the two of them have the rest of the evening together. The dress was right, the mood was right—even if the quarantine wasn’t lifted yet, she could at least make sure Patrick was thinking only of her. God knew, the competition for his attention got harsher every day, especially now that his dark-haired, handsome features were plastered across the front of every news magazine in the world. She was about to hint to Patrick that they should leave when a stranger’s voice cut into the conversation.

“Uh, excuse me, Commander Ross?”

The four of them looked up to see a young man, hardly out of his teens, standing nervously about four feet away, clearly too afraid to come any closer. “I, uh, hate to bother you, but . . .” He aimed a glance over his shoulder at a table somewhere in the room, swallowed, and tried again. “I was wondering if I could, uh, get your autograph?”

Melissa beamed with pride as Patrick gave the admirer a friendly nod. “Sure,” he joked as he pushed aside the remains of his dessert to make room on the table. “What am I signing—a napkin or a menu?”

“Actually,” the stranger said shyly, “it’s just a piece of paper my girlfriend had in her purse.”

“That’ll work just fine,” Patrick said as he scrawled out his name with the pen the guy offered. “There you go.”

“Wow, thanks—now I’ve got yours
and
Michael Jordan’s!” His face split in a huge grin, the young man hurried back to his table, his prize autograph clutched firmly in one hand.

“Well, you made his day,” Dennis said with a chuckle.

Patrick looked at Melissa. “Hey, you think Michael Jordan gets hand cramps?”

Before she could answer, Senator Ross leaned forward. “Popularity, boy. That’s the name of the game.” Melissa’s pretty features slipped a notch as she heard the slur in the senator’s words. Darn; he wasn’t going to get loud right here, was he? Jesus, not tonight. This time, however, he surprised her by lowering his voice instead of raising it. “I got the head of the Republic National Committee telling me you’re a shoo-in for a Senate seat, Patrick.”

Like Melissa’s, Patrick’s expression sobered a bit. “No thanks.”

The senator leaned back again, studying his son, and Melissa could’ve sworn the look in his eye was more calculating than anything else. “Come on, son. There’s no harm in at least exploring the possibilities. You could be one of the youngest ever—”

Patrick cleared his throat. “I’ll leave the politics to you, Dad. It’s just not my line of work.”

“I spent four years in flight school with your son, Senator.” Dennis smiled amiably. “He doesn’t lie well enough to be a politician.”

Bless Dennis for making them all laugh and turning the conversation away from government employment and exactly the kind of future Melissa, if not Patrick, wanted to avoid. She supposed it was probably inevitable—didn’t all astronauts grow up to be politicians of one sort or another? What a strange predicament to find herself in, madly in love with the son of a powerful United States senator and who, let’s face it, was destined to someday sit in an office in the nation’s capital.

“So, Dennis,” Senator Ross said when the gaiety had diminished, “Patrick only talks about the good stuff for dear old dad. Tell me what it was
really
like up there for eleven months.”

For just a beat too long Dennis didn’t answer, and Melissa frowned. Before Patrick’s father could pick up on the hesitation, however, Dennis looked over at Patrick and gave him a sappy smile. “Not much that I can tell you about the details, sir. But I will say this: Patrick and I are getting married.”