Alien Nation #4 - The Change Page 3

  “Those three or four kids I could’ve hired. Instead of working for me, they’re out there on the streets, getting into trouble, mugging, taking down their despair with chemicals, killing to get more, lashing out in frustration and hate against the universe! I can’t hire them! I can’t screw with W-2 forms, withholding, child labor laws, liability insurance, worker’s comp, fucking bureaucrats, goddamned lawyers, idiot after idiot after idiot! No! I’m not all right! I don’t know anyone who is all right. I cannot even conceptualize a being in the entire universe who is all right.”

  The Rand panel was acting up again. The man mind. The insect gave the knob another turn, but all of the safety interlocks had melted. The video monitors showed the convict, the counter gang, all of the ones in the place, looking at him. Looking at the shell. Seeing only outside. The universe of creatures is made up of countless insides. The universe of perceptions is made up of countless outsides. How could they ever understand?

  “Can’t you see it, Rorik? It’s all a cesspool: courts, bureaucrats, politicians, lawyers. It’s the wrong kind of people, their heads filled with the wrong kinds of ideas, killing the country by sucking it dry to implement unworkable solutions!”

  The customers screamed as the robot lifted its arm, took an assault rifle from beneath its coat, and jabbed the muzzle into Rorik Ifan’s chest. “Kill a lawyer for Jesus, Rorik! Say it! Kill a lawyer for Jesus!”

  “Kill—kill, kill—”

  “Say it, you fucking convict piece of nigger slag! That’s what they used to call you until I stopped them: nigger slag! Say it!” He pulled a machine pistol out of his pocket and waved it around at the customers. “Everybody! Kill a lawyer for Jesus! Kill a lawyer for Jesus!”

  “Kill a lawyer for Jesus,” whimpered a few voices. “Kill a lawyer for Jesus.”

  “Louder!” screamed the insect. “That was terrible! Shout it! Let’s hear it again! Kill a lawyer for Jesus!”

  “Kill a lawyer for Jesus!” screamed the customers and staff.

  Three patrons tried to sneak through one of the glass double doors. The motion detectors in the robot’s control room sounded the alarm, and the insect pulled levers, twisted servos, and pressed the fire button. The robot squeezed the trigger on the machine pistol, stitching the three across the back. The screams through the control room’s speakers were deafening. The insect reached out a leg and turned down the volume.

  “Now,” he said finally, “that was what I call the wrong kind of idea.” He looked up and saw the counter girl whispering hysterically into a telephone. The insect pushed the fire button again, sending a .30 caliber lump of steel-jacketed lead from the assault rifle through the counter girl’s spotted head. The contents of her cranium spattered the video screens behind her.

  It’s so hard, thought the insect. Doing the right thing is so hard. Some people have relatives that are lawyers. Every now and then you run into a lawyer that seems like a pretty good sort. Once in a while a day goes by when you don’t get screwed by a lawyer, or at least you don’t know about it until it’s too late. You get lulled into this false sense of security; like lawyers are just like any other working stiff, putting in the time, hauling it home, catching shit about forgetting the anniversary. It makes you forget they’re aliens; hideously fiendish monsters from Hell’s last dimension.

  “It’s all smoke, Rorik,” said the insect into the microphone. “Lawyers, even the ones with a streak of goodness, have a terrible disease of the conscience and soul. They’re like addicts and little, abused infants whose minds have shut down, who cannot afford to admit to the too painful truth.”

  The robot lurched over to a booth and bent over as it waved the assault rifle at the three persons sitting there. “I have proof! I have proof!” He looked down at the table. In its center was a candy-striped bucket half filled with greasy lumps of breaded something.

  “What’s that?” He looked up at the faces one at a time. “What is that shit?”

  “Sq-sq—” stuttered one.

  “Nuggets,” said the one on the right. “Squirrel nuggets.”

  “Squirrel nuggets!” screamed the insect. All of the pain monitors were pegged. There were no more circuits to shut down.

  There was that tiny baby squirrel little Tommy Rand had found beneath a tree. Tommy had taken it home and kept it in a shoe box. He had fed it milk with a dropper until the furry little thing opened its beautiful eyes. It had such a soft, pink little tongue. It used to lick peanut butter from his finger. “His name was Rocky.”

  A bucket of squirrel nuggets.

  “You bastards!” The robot swung around and screamed, “His name was Rocky!” The insect threw all of the firing switches and watched the monitors as the bullets ripped through the people, the gang behind the counter, the video screens, and the gaudy plastic furnishings. One clip emptied, the insect had the robot fit a fresh clip into the weapon. The bolt was thrown, and again he greased the squirrel eaters, the lawyers, the pain givers, the pain oceans, the early risers and whores.

  “Kill a lawyer for Jesus!”

  He loaded the weapon again, chewed up more bodies, and then the assault rifle jammed. It was silent in the restaurant except for the whimpering and moaning of a few customers. There was someone talking, though. The insect turned up the volume and heard a voice from outside the building. It was a woman’s voice speaking through a bullhorn. He dropped the assault rifle and checked the machine pistol, noting that its clip was still three-quarters full. With his left hand he pulled a loaded revolver from his pocket. Holding a weapon in each hand, he tried to look though the windows at who was calling him.

  The insect frowned as it realized that the robot was standing in probably the only place in the restaurant’s customer area that couldn’t see through the windows. The woman on the bullhorn spoke again, this time the voice more urgent. The insect shook his head in frustration. He never could understand anyone speaking through a bullhorn.

  He saw Rorik Ifan on the ceramic tile floor, his pale pink blood spreading out on the squares of white and tan. “Blood like that,” said the insect, “it’s not like killing a man at all. It’s more like squashing a bug.”

  That Dr. Norcross. What was it she’d expected from Maanka Dak and Sing Fangan? She’d sent money, she brought authorizations and blessings from the Surgeon General, the Justice Department, and the Bureau of Prisons. Everybody seemed to think Maanka Dak was the best thing since the microchip. There was something wrong, though.

  But the new thing wrong is not with Maanka, thought the insect. Everybody knows what’s wrong with Maanka. What’s wrong is with the other one.

  The insect looked at the Rand panel. It was in there. What was wrong with Carrie Norcross was in there. He’d have to let Rand out from behind his panel, though, and that he wasn’t allowed to do. There was something wrong, though. Something terribly wrong.

  He took a step toward the former inmate’s inert form, and in the space of less than half a second almost two dozen high-powered slugs flew through the windows, shattering them, and into the robot’s torso, splashing the floor and the walls with red.

  The insect nodded as the sensors dimmed and went off the air. “Now that,” said the insect, “is blood.”

  C H A P T E R 4

  GEORGE FRANCISCO OPENED his eyes to see the shadowy figure silhouetted by a ghostly glow. It was too soon for the pain minister. It was too soon.

  That was the past; other times, other planets, other solar systems. He tore himself from the ship, from the treatment bay, from the past. Overseers, pain ministers, slavery, were things of long ago.

  Still, the figure stood in the door of the bedroom; his bedroom, on Earth in Los Angeles.

  The Thunderbolt Poet Killer. Did the killer know George was on the trail? Soon his blood would soak the bedclothes, and the Thunderbolt would leave another drawing of lightning coming out of a rain cloud, another cryptic line of poetry.

  Overwhelming dread vibrated every fiber of his body. There were a
lot of sick individuals on Earth. Many of them had turned their sicknesses against the Newcomers. George could tell from the smooth silhouette of the large head that the person in the door was a Newcomer. The Thunderbolt only killed Newcomers, hence the police psychiatrist’s profile listed the killer as a human.

  This was a Newcomer. A female. Yet, the dread remained.

  “Susan?” he called. “Odrey, kak t’avee?” he asked in Tenctonese.

  “Stangya, t’vot,” answered Susan’s voice. “Stangya, it’s you.”

  The figure came closer, and George sat up in bed and raised his hand to stroke her temples. She did not bend down for the caress. “Susan, what is the matter?”

  “It’s you, George. It’s you. It’s always you. It’s always been you. It’s you now. It always will be you.” Her voice was dull, but charged somehow with cold, raw hatred.

  George lowered his hand and pushed himself back against the bed’s headboard. “What are you saying?”

  “You’re less than enough. You’re nothing, George. You were genetically designed to be nothing, and there’s no fighting genes, George.”

  He was struck speechless, his universe a fiction, his life a revealed fraud. Devastation crushed his hearts as he finally found his tongue. “I don’t understand. I’ve fought. I fought for us, our children. Itri Vi. Don’t you remember Itri Vi? What about our love, our children, our home, our—”

  He cut off his words as he saw the flash of the blade in her hand. It was a kitchen knife with a ten-inch blade. She swung down the blade, and George threw up his arms to protect his face. The point of the razor-sharp blade cut through his hand and struck deeply into his head through his right eye—

  “Aaaaaaa!”

  “Daddy?”

  Emily’s voice came to him as though through a fog. “Run, Emily! Grab Vessna and run, darling! Your mother’s got a knife! Warn Buck!”

  “Daddy? Wake up. Are you all right? Daddy?”

  George opened his eyes, his throat constricted with panic. It was full daylight. He was in bed alone, the covers wrapped about his head. Standing before him was his daughter. “Emily? What is it?”

  His daughter held out her hands, dropped them to her sides, and rolled her eyes in a show of exasperation. “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. It’s almost seven-thirty, you’re still in bed, and you were screaming your head off.”

  “Seven-thirty? Nonsense.” He took a deep breath, let it out, and tried to chase the dream shadows from his mind. “The Wexler cat kept me up all night. I set the alarm for six-fifteen. I know I did because I have to take Vessna to day care today.”

  “Daddy, Polly Wexler’s cat doesn’t bother anyone except Ramon, and he only complains so he can see her. I think he’s in love.”

  George looked at the clock and pushed the alarm button. The readout showed the alarm set for seven-fifteen. It also showed that the alarm button had been disengaged. “I don’t understand. I’m certain I set the alarm.”

  “I’m guessing you forgot.” His daughter grinned wickedly and asked, “What was your dream about, Daddy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You sounded as though every Halloween slasher since the landing was after you. Was it about the Thunderbolt? Was Mom in it?”

  “Child, you are developing an unhealthy interest in the morbid.”

  “Maybe I just want to follow in my daddy’s footsteps.”

  George scowled as he turned and looked up at Emily. He saw that she was wearing her usual designer-shredded jacket and electric-blue leotards, but there was a new touch: hair. In Technicolor. Reds, golds, oranges, greens, blues. “What’s that on your head?”

  Emily touched her hand to the tie-dyed fall that covered the right side of her spotted scalp and was gathered into a hot pink curl on her shoulder. “Isn’t this the tot’s spots? It’s called a woobie.”

  “Woobie? It’s hair! I won’t have it! We’ve been through this before. You’re not a human, and you’re not to make yourself up like one. Do you think any self-respecting Tenctonese boy will find that demeaning display attractive?”

  Emily stood and fumed for a moment, then tossed back her hair and said, “First, I’m not responsible for what nice Tenctonese boys think. Second, Ricky Martin thinks I look just fine. There’re lots of girls in class, but I’m the one he asked to help him with his part in the school play. Third, Mom thinks I look just fine, and she already said I can wear my woobie. If you have a problem with that, you have a problem with Mom, not with me.” Emily abruptly turned on her heel and left the room.

  “Woobies,” George grunted disgustedly, confused at how much Emily’s attire seemed to threaten him. Nonsense, he thought. I’m not threatened; I’m offended by this unthinking racial outrage.

  George put his feet on the floor, stood, and faced the empty door. He frowned as he remembered something. “Now, just one minute, Emily. Who is Rick Martin? Are you dating a human? I—”

  George’s words were cut short as a wave of dizziness and nausea struck. He sat back on the bed, his head still spinning. “What’s happening to me?”

  When George at last dressed and made it to the kitchen, the television was on. Susan was frantically finishing up breakfast dishes and cleaning Vessna’s face while everyone seemed to be talking at once. George attempted to wish his wife good morning, but the chatter in the room in combination with the noise from the television seemed to overwhelm him. Dropping into his chair, he looked at his watch and said, “I’m sorry. The alarm didn’t go off. I won’t have time to take Vessna to day care.”

  “I certainly don’t have time,” Susan retorted. “Why did you stay in bed so long?”

  “The alarm didn’t go off.”

  “It didn’t go off,” Emily explained, “because Daddy forgot to set it.”

  George’s fist came down on the table. “I told you about that hair!”

  Emily’s eyes went wide with fright. Susan picked up Vessna suddenly, frightening the child into screaming.

  “Mom!” Emily shouted. “It’s not okay for Daddy to talk to me that way!”

  “Quiet!” Susan shouted. “Everybody quiet!” She took a deep breath, calmed down, and stroked Vessna’s temples. After a moment the child’s cries were lulled to sobs, then Vessna lost interest in crying and reached out her arm toward an electric-green ski mask on the end of the kitchen counter next to the small-screen TV. Susan allowed Vessna to pick up the ski mask and placed her on the floor. “Now, George,” she said, her syllables held artificially calm. “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  George held his hands to his head as he looked at his son, Buck, entering the room. Instead of his usual jeans and bomber jacket, Buck was wearing a dark brown hooded poncho over similarly colored shirt and trousers. George averted his eyes and saw Vessna pulling the ski mask over her head. Once she had it on, blinding her eyes, she stumbled into the table leg and knocked herself to the floor. The crying resumed.

  “What’s going on?” George demanded quietly. “When I went to bed last night, my life seemed to make some sort of sense. Now Emily’s sprouting neon hair, my son is dressing like some kind of mad monk, somebody turned off my alarm, and why is the television on?”

  Her eyes flashing, Susan placed her hands on her hips. “We discussed Emily’s current fashion statement days ago, when you went into a snit about the mess she’d made in the basement with her old toys.” She turned toward Emily. “A matter that still needs to be taken care of.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Susan faced George. “Buck looks just fine, no one but you touches your precious alarm clock, and there may be rain this afternoon. The television is on because I was hoping to hear some weather. Is there anything else you need to know, overseer-in-training?”

  In the ensuing embarrassed silence, George looked down at his bowl of Roach Toasties and pushed it away. Susan turned down the volume on the television, came over to her husband’s side and said, “What is it, George? You’re
acting very strange and you look terrible.”

  “Thank you for that,” he answered sarcastically. “This day has been going so extra specially well, the only thing I needed before going to work was to have what little self-image I have remaining pulverized—”

  He cut short his tirade when he realized he was in the midst of yet another embarrassed silence. He glanced at his wife and children, absorbed their looks of injury and concern, and looked back down at his breakfast cereal. “I’m sorry, Emily. Buck.” He glanced at Susan. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what’s come over me. When I came home late last night, Mrs. Rothenberg’s pit bull went after me. I had a crazy nightmare, and I’ve been dizzy and sick to my stomach all this morning. I couldn’t even figure out what necktie to put on.”

  “We noticed,” Emily said, grimacing at George’s bright purple tie. At the look from her mother, Emily said, “Sorry.”

  Susan brushed George’s temples with her knuckles. “Perhaps you have a touch of nia.” She held her fingers beneath his jaw and felt around his jawline to his neck. “Your nemeh glands are a little swollen.”

  “They are?”

  “I think you should have a doctor look into it, George. It might be nia, but it may be something more serious.”

  “I don’t see where I’ll find the time,” he answered, shaking his head. He pulled down his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. “I’m sorry. I know I said I’d take Vessna to day care today. I’m running so late I just can’t see how I can. Matt and I are up to his ears with a case.”

  “The Thunderbolt Killer?” Emily asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I can take Vessna, Dad,” Buck said.

  “You? The mad monk? You’ve only had your license for a year. It was only a few summers ago you got your head stuck in that storm drain in back of the house. And that car—”

  “You let Buck drive me to school,” Emily said. “If he and the car are so unsafe, why—”

  “Very well,” George interrupted. “My inconsistency. Yes. By all means.” George waved both his hands in angry resignation. “Yes, Emily, I value you as highly as I value Vessna, despite the fact that the frying pan you were playing with five days ago is still sitting on the front steps, getting rustier by the hour.” He held up his hand to stifle her protestations of innocence and shifted his gaze to Buck. “Yes, Buck, you may bring Vessna to day care. Be sure to get the car seat from your mother’s car. Thank you so much for offering. Have a successful day. Now, are everyone’s sensibilities adequately soothed?”