Alien Nation #4 - The Change

  THE CHANGE is one of a small number of scripts developed by the producers and staff of ALIEN NATION™—scripts never televised because of the show’s early demise. A piece of history for ALIEN NATION fans, THE CHANGE provides an incredible glimpse at an ALIEN NATION story that never was.

  Critically acclaimed science fiction novelist Barry B. Longyear brings to life an exciting story in which Newcomer police detective George Francisco undergoes a startling metamorphosis that will either mean his death or the beginning of a new life. In the midst of this time of change, George must also face a vicious, unstoppable killer from his past who has sworn a deadly revenge on George and everyone he cares for . . .

  A raw string of Tenctonese

  expletives assaulted George’s

  ear folds . . .

  It was startling because George had never heard Susan exercise that portion of her vocabulary.

  He looked into the nursery and saw Susan standing before Vessna’s crib. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  “Think, George,” she commanded, her voice cold yet frightened. “Is there something you’ve forgotten?”

  “That’s odd. I was just thinking that, but I simply couldn’t imagine what it was.”

  “Look into the baby’s crib. Maybe that will refresh your memory.”

  George glanced into Vessna’s crib, and caught his breath. Partially hidden by the baby’s pink and white blanket was the grip of his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver.

  The weapon was fully loaded and the hammer was fully cocked. That was curious too, because the gun had a hair trigger. Simply brushing against it, the baby could have fired it, which would have been unfortunate, since the barrel appeared to have been aimed at Vessna’s head.

  He pushed the blanket aside, picked up the weapon, and held it in his hand. Susan kept staring at the gun, saying nothing, which was good, because George was fresh out of responses . . .

  Alien Nation titles

  #1: The Day of Descent

  #2: Dark Horizon

  #3: Body and Soul

  #4: The Change

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 1994 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp.

  ALIEN NATION is a trademark of Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-73602-7

  First Pocket Books printing March 1994

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  To Isaac Asimov,

  who didn’t need a Hila

  to understand this.

  C H A P T E R 1

  China Lake Federal

  Maximum Security Facility

  HARDENED STEEL LOCKS clicked open and slammed shut, heavy metal doors hissed on their pneumatic hinges, silent lenses studied long, sterile passageways. Despite the air circulation system, the slight odors of machine oil and disinfectant hung in the air. The disinfectant killed germs. The machine oil helped the bars and locks keep the prisoners behind them from killing each other and the public at large.

  The Newcomer’s face appeared on the screen set into the steel wall, his hairless, spotted scalp covered by a guard’s cap. “Just a moment, Warden,” crackled the monitor’s tinny speaker. Warden Tom Rand tapped the letter against his fingers as he waited for the guard to open the security doors to the electronics shop checkpoint.

  Servo-mounted security cameras examined the warden and his surroundings from three different angles. They saw an athletically built man who kept that way by pumping iron with the yard monsters in the prisoner’s weight room. Rand was comfortable with the prisoners. The cons at China Lake, if they had the capacity to like anyone, liked Warden Rand. He was strict, intolerant toward rule breakers, but honest to the point of political stupidity. Respecting punishments, rights, opportunities, and privileges, it was Tom Rand’s mission in life to see that his charges always got what was coming to them. He had no family, no church, and no political affiliations. He believed in China Lake, rehabilitation, the L.A. Dodgers, and his own mission, in that order.

  As a concession to his fiftieth year, his hair was thinning, revealing a nine-centimeter-long scar on the back of his head, compliments of one prisoner who hadn’t liked him. That had been shortly before the alien ship crashed in the Mojave Desert. Warden Rand was rather proud of his scar; proud of the con who had given it to him, rather. The fellow had gone on to receive his masters in clinical psychology, and upon his release from China Lake, had received his doctorate. He was now a prison psychologist in Oregon, and he had asked Tom Rand to be the best man at his wedding. Partly as a joke, mostly because they meant it, the yard eagles had nicknamed Warden Rand “Saint Thomas of the Crowbars.”

  “Enter your card now, sir.”

  Warden Rand removed his specially encoded identification card from his breast pocket and shoved it into the slot next to the monitor.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As the card emerged from the slot once again, the remote-controlled locks on the steel door behind Tom slammed shut while the locks on the door before him clicked, allowing the barrier to hiss open. Tom Rand shivered at the sounds. A wry expression crept onto his face as he removed the card and replaced it in his breast pocket. He had just realized something: China Lake gave him the willies. Perhaps it was the oppressive security. Perhaps it was the ever-present possibility of having to be ready to kill or to die to maintain control. He shrugged off the feeling. The guards were prisoners too. The willies didn’t have to look any further than that for a cause.

  Warden Rand went through the door and stopped before a booth faced with a three-inch-thick plate of bullet-proof glass. Behind the green-tinted barrier, the guard who controlled the checkpoint examined directly with his eyes what had already been examined electronically through the security cameras. “Very well, sir,” the guard said as he threw a switch that closed and locked the door behind the warden.

  Newcomers made excellent prison guards. They were intelligent, patient, attentive to detail, and able to adapt to changing conditions. That, and they all had lifetimes of experience as either prisoners or keepers. Many humans hated the coming of the Tenctonese, but Tom Rand didn’t number himself among them. The Newcomers had been a boon to the entire prison staff, not to mention bringing variety to the prisoner population. Prisoner Maanka Dak, aka Pete Moss, was a primary case in point.

  “Going to Dak’s place, Warden?”

  “As usual,” Rand answered with a smile. “Everything quiet, Hobbs?”

  “Like a tomb.” The guard turned from his monitors, where he’d been examining the opposite side of the door through which the warden was about to walk. Hobbs nodded toward the letter in Rand’s hand. “Good news for Dak?”

  “It certainly looks that way. Don’t be surprised if you see him walking out of here soon.”

  “Good. Someone with his gifts really doesn’t belong in here.”

  “That’s the honest truth. My guess is that the next parole board will see it that way too.”

  “That’s terrific, Warden.”

  Tom Rand smiled, raised his brows and pointed at the door with his thumb. “I know you’re lonely, Hobbs, but I can’t spend all day getting through your checkpoint.”

  Hobbs’s eyes changed color as he grinned. “Yessir. Sorry. I guess it does get a l
ittle too quiet at times.”

  “That’s just the way I like it.”

  The door swung open and Tom Rand waved at the guard and entered the guard room for the prisoners’ electronics complex, nicknamed “Button Row.” He waved at the human guard behind the glass and continued through the door the guard automatically opened.

  Everyone on staff knew Warden Rand liked to spend time with Maanka Dak. Everyone else did too. Dak’s obvious brilliance and good nature combined to make you feel good just to bask in his intelligence and wit. By himself, Dak had vindicated Tom Rand’s efforts to get the educational facility for his occupational rehabilitation program.

  It was the most advanced rehabilitation facility in the nation, if not the world, for instructing inmates in electronics; computer programming; industrial, home, and computer electronics design, calibration, and repair. Because of prisoner Maanka Dak’s experience and special aptitudes, the facility was rapidly developing its own medical electronics division, as well. While behind bars at China Lake, Maanka Dak had been granted over thirty patents on his inventions, several of which were already in hospital operating and therapy rooms saving lives. His holographic high-density imager had virtually revolutionized diagnostics. One could only imagine what the Newcomer would accomplish if he were on the outside with the proper funding and support facilities.

  After the locks on the final door slammed shut behind him, the warden inhaled the mysterious smells of electrical equipment, hot and hard at work. Humans and Newcomers alike were seated and standing before banks of equipment at workbenches, totally absorbed in what they were doing. Here and there a prisoner’s hand waved in greeting. Tom always waved back. The voices of visiting instructors in basic and advanced electronics could be heard coming from the separate classroom facilities on the other side of one of the security barriers.

  In the back of one of the workshops was “Dak’s place,” as it was known to guards and yard eagles alike. To Tom Rand, the racks of equipment there, half of it designed and built by Dak, looked like the bridge of a spaceship. Maanka Dak was bent over a computer keyboard, entering some calculations, while his Newcomer assistant, Sing Fangan, looked on over his shoulder. Sing noticed the warden first and smiled as he straightened up. “Hi, Warden.”

  “Hi, Sing.” He nodded toward Dak’s upturned face. “Hi, Maanka. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Have a seat, Tom. Always glad to see you,” said Dak, reaching out his hand. Warden Rand shook hands with the Newcomer and pulled up a chair from the end of the workbench. Dak nodded toward his computer’s monitor screen. “Sing and I were just double-checking some calculations on the neural transmitter experiment series we completed last week.”

  “How do they look?”

  A slight frown crossed Dak’s face. “The results are very promising; better than I had hoped, really.”

  Tom Rand pointed his finger at Maanka. “Then why the long face?”

  Maanka Dak glanced at Sing Fangan, his assistant shrugged, and Dak looked back at the warden. “Tom, it’s just that Sing and I have pushed this thing about as far as we can in here with these facilities. I’m certain now that the neural transmitter for humans is feasible. After all, the medical technicians on the ships used to use something similar to diagnose and treat certain disorders as a matter of routine.”

  Sing’s face grew grim. “They were also used to control and torture, as well.”

  Dak nodded and continued. “Be that as it may, I’m certain that with the adapted implant technique and different programming, the thing can work on humans. It’s just that we can’t prove it here.”

  “What is it?” the warden asked. “Is there a piece of equipment you need, materials, what?”

  “What I need, Tom, is a complete zero gee lab.”

  “A zero gee lab?” Warden Rand held up his hands. “That’s something I can’t get you.” He paused as he saw the letter in his hand, and remembered why he’d come. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.”

  “What is it?”

  “Maanka, I’ve gotten a letter from Dr. Norcross.”

  “Oh? Has she gotten the funding for her xenoneurology institute?”

  “There’s nothing new on that.”

  Maanka nodded. “One wonders if the peace dividend is ever going to pay off. What’s the letter about?”

  “You respect Carrie Norcross a great deal, don’t you?”

  “She’s supplied the funding for a good bit of my work here, Warden, and I’ve consulted with her a great deal in designing the adaptation programs for the neural transmitter.” Dak pointed toward the letter. “Does that have something to do with the application for the new equipment we were hoping to get here?”

  “It’s a letter from her to the parole board.” He withdrew the letter from its envelope and looked down at it. “In here she describes your work and its value to the medical profession, and in particular points out the potential for your work in addressing an entire host of mental and neurological disorders, particularly the ones clogging the courts and prisons right now. Listen to this: ‘Imagine being able to cure an alcohol, crack, or heroin addict with a simple outpatient operation that would cost less than it takes to support the same addict for one day at a medium security prison.’ She goes on to urge the board to grant your parole, and the letter is signed by a virtual medical and political who’s who.”

  He held out the letter, and Maanka Dak took it and began reading, Sing Fangan looking over his shoulder. “The surgeon general?” Sing exclaimed. He pointed at the letter. “Look at this. L.A.’s chief of police.”

  “And the mayor,” the warden added. “If I was a betting person, Maanka, I’d say your next parole hearing was a done deal.”

  “How about that?” Dak said, beaming at the warden. He turned his head and looked up at Sing. “Maybe in another few months we’ll be out of here.”

  Sing frowned and studied the letter. “I don’t know if I’m included.” He looked up at Tom Rand. “Warden?”

  “The charges of bank robbery and attempted murder were the same for both of you, as well as the circumstances. In addition, Sing, I think everyone is aware of how valuable your skills and experience are to Maanka’s work. I don’t see how the board could parole Maanka without paroling you, as well. I will insist upon it, and I know Dr. Norcross will, as well.”

  “You’d go in front of the board for us?” Dak asked.

  “I’ve done it twice before. Why would I stop, now that wanting you out from behind crowbars is getting chic?”

  Maanka placed his hands on the warden’s shoulders and said, “I guess what you told me the day I first came through the gate six years ago is true. The good things come for those who work for them.” He smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was pretty angry back then.”

  “Ancient history,” the warden answered.

  Maanka removed his hands from the warden’s shoulders and favored Tom Rand with a proud grin. “Well, would you like to see the latest?”

  “You bet.”

  “It’s a bit crude, of course, but it’s a fully operational unit.” He glanced at Sing and nodded. Sing Fangan went to the tiny refrigerator, opened the door and reached inside.

  “How come you keep it on ice?” the warden asked.

  “It’s powered by a thermocouple, so once it gets to a certain temperature, it turns on. The only way to keep it off is to keep it cold.”

  Sing closed the refrigerator door and walked over to Maanka and the warden. He bent down and held out a small white foam block in the center of which was a stubby needle a little over a centimeter long and almost a millimeter thick. “The production models would be much smaller,” he said, holding out a magnifying glass.

  Warden Rand held the magnifier close to his eye and studied the needle. “Maanka, you showed me the schematics for this, but it’s hard to believe you and Sing managed to get all that in something the size of a piece of pencil lead.”

  “Once we have the facilities, we can make that c
apsule thinner than a hair.”

  “Amazing.” The warden looked up and frowned. “The operation itself . . . how is the transmitter implanted? One of your goals was to be able to implant the transmitters on an outpatient basis.”

  Dak held up an instrument that resembled a curved stiletto with a grooved blade. “This is all it takes. We call it the ice pick.”

  Tom Rand took the instrument and examined it. “Wicked-looking thing. How do you make the implant without actually making an incision?”

  “Here, Sing, show him the book.”

  Sing Fangan reached across the warden to a shelf and removed a thick volume from between two pieces of test equipment. As Dak fitted the neural transmitter to the grooved blade of the implantation awl, Sing’s nimble fingers flipped through the pages until they stopped on a transparency set showing cutaway views of a human head. “In reality, it is an incision,” he said. “It’s just not a visible incision. After using a local anesthetic to desensitize the eye and eyelid, the eyelid is lifted, the top of the eyeball is depressed slightly, then the awl is inserted and punched through the—”

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” Tom said, only half joking.

  Maanka laughed as he patted Sing’s shoulder. “Let’s not spoil Tom’s dinner.” He held the awl toward the warden. “See how it locks into the grooved end? It stays locked until the awl is withdrawn. Once the transmitter is implanted, the biofilaments begin growing, attaching themselves to the appropriate neurons.”

  The warden studied the end of the awl as he asked, “How long does it take for the filaments to begin functioning?”

  “Almost right away, although they continue growing until they run out of medium, unless arrested. We can do that with the controller.”

  Tom shook his head and grinned. “I don’t know much about these things, but I know you’re going to have to come up with another way to implant the transmitter. That under-the-eyelid method’s never going to get past the description.”