Alien Nation #4 - The Change Page 5

  “Vikah ta. Your word ‘vendetta’ seems rather close to capturing its intent. It means ‘thorough revenge,’ and it requires slaying, not only the object of the vengeance, but anyone related to the object of vengeance by family, employment, or any other kind of association. Anyone who thinks kindly of the object of revenge.”

  “That could be one helluva lot of people, George. Are they that wacko?”

  “You’re right. That could be a large number of persons, Matt. Family,” he glanced up at Matt, “close friends, anyone who has any affection for the object.” He punched up the file for Maanka Dak on his screen. “That includes you.”

  “Oh, swell. Terrific.”

  “Matt, are you certain they’ll notify Duncan about this escape right away?”

  “What do you care? He hates your guts, doesn’t he?”

  “Dak and Fangan don’t know that. I doubt if they’ll ask him before they shoot. Besides, he was my T.O. Whatever he thought of me, he taught me a great deal.”

  “Man, what kind of a ninja half-witted idiot would take an oath like that?”

  George leveled his gaze at his partner and smiled. “I took the same vow myself, Matt. It was an oath for a different time, a different place. I had a different name then, it was on another planet, under much different conditions. The planet has changed, conditions have changed, and we’ve changed.” Maanka Dak’s image peered at George from the screen. “At least some of us have changed.” He studied the screen until his eyes seemed to glaze, then he glanced up at Sikes. “Do you have friends at the morgue?”

  “Among the living, I have a canoe maker who owes me a favor or two. Why?”

  “I just thought of something. I want to be there for Warden Rand’s autopsy.”

  Sikes snorted out a laugh. “You kidding? With the security they got clamped down on Rand’s shootout, the cutters’ll be lucky if they get in.”

  “Dak and Fangan were at China Lake. Maybe they had some connection to what happened to Warden Rand.”

  “Neither one of ’em are our cases, bro. We’re still buried in the Thunderbolt Poet. Grazer’s really on our tails too. We have about a hundred candy stores left, out of our share to cover, with those writing samples on the candy wrappers.”

  George frowned, shook his head slightly and held out his hands. “I don’t understand, Matt. The candy stores are a dead end. Why don’t we just pick up the perp?”

  Sikes’s eyebrows went up. “Why don’t we just pick up the perp?”

  “Yes.”

  Matt Sikes threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes. “You mean other than being short a name, an address, a reliable physical description, and a warrant? I can’t think of a single reason.”

  Francisco’s frown grew deeper. “She lives at 126 South Chicago.”

  “She?”

  George nodded. “Yes. A woman. Tenctonese.” George squinted and looked at a spot in space. “René Day. I don’t recall a physical description.”

  “Recall?” Sikes shook his head and stared wide-eyed at his partner. “Are you putting me on?”

  “Putting you on? You mean joking.” Francisco shook his head.

  “Yeah, are you joking?”

  “I am not putting you on, Matt. I was simply inquiring why we haven’t arrested her.”

  “Man, you better see a doctor, and soon. The task force’s had a dozen officers and a platoon of poets sorting through mountains of the most dull damned poetry on the planet, trying to piece together some hint concerning the perp, and out of thin air George Francisco finds a name and address? Man, where’ve you been for the past few months?”

  “I don’t understand, Matt.”

  Sikes slumped back in his chair. “Okay, how do you know the Thunderbolt Poet is a Newcomer, that she is a she, that her name is René Day, and that she lives on South Chicago? One twenty-six South Chicago.”

  George frowned and looked toward the ceiling as though he were trying to piece together the pieces of realistic evidence to justify some kind of knowledge that is obvious on its face. “The handwriting samples she’s left on those candy wrappers, ‘Blade of Victory,’ ‘Climb This Mountain,’ and so on. They’re all signed with the lightning bolt emerging from a rain cloud.”

  “Rain cloud.” Sikes nodded and raised his hands. “Right. Okay, I get it. Rain cloud; rainy day; René Day. But by the same evidence, her name could be Stormy Withers, Wet Butler, or something else.”

  George snickered and reached his fingers behind his shades to rub his eyes. “Wet Butler,” he repeated. “That’s pretty good.”

  “Frankly, my dear—”

  “I know,” George said, holding up his hands. “I know.”

  “Well?”

  “Rainy Day. René Day.” George’s eyebrows went up as he shook his head. “The gag immigration name. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s really very clever of you, Matt.”

  “What?”

  “The rain cloud. Coming up with René Day from that.”

  Matt drummed his fingers on his chair’s armrest for a moment and then pointed at George. “So, if you didn’t figure the name like that, how did you guess it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t guess it.” He looked at Matt. “What made me think of her name was that I saw it on a property theft report she filled out two years ago. There was a copy attached to a television set down in the property room. I saw it a few weeks ago when I was checking out the evidence for the Parker trial.”

  “You saw it on a TV set down in the property room?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You mean you spent your time down there examining theft reports on the off chance that the perp might have filled one out some time in the past?”

  “No. That would’ve been foolish. I just happened to glance at it when I was picking up the Parker evidence. The handwriting on the report matched the samples found on the candy wrappers. That’s all.”

  “That’s all,” Matt repeated dully.

  “Yes. Her name and address were on the report.” After a beat, Sikes said, “You aren’t kidding, are you, George?”

  “Why would I be making jokes? Of course I’m not kidding. I just don’t want to waste our valuable time hitting candy stores.”

  “Then I don’t get it. Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  George shrugged and held out his hands. “The connection didn’t occur to me until now, although how I could have missed something so obvious is quite beyond me. It was right there all the time. I suppose I’ve had too many things on my mind.”

  “Okay, George, back to Rainy Day. How do you know she’s a Newcomer?”

  “You mean besides the neighborhood in which she lives and the stupid joke name she was given?” George frowned, slightly surprised at the anger in his words. He took a deep breath, let it out, picked up a copy of the Thunderbolt’s writing and handed it to Matt. “Look at the way those t’s are crossed. See that little chevron at the ends of the crosses?”

  “Yeah. What about them?”

  “Only someone used to sine writing does that. I do it myself.”

  As he stared at the writing sample, Matt made a grabbing motion with his free hand. “Gimmie.”

  George held out another of the Thunderbolt’s notes, and Matt shook his head.

  “No. Something of yours.”

  George handed Matt his pocket notebook. Sikes flipped through a few pages, then dropped it on his desk and began going through his desk drawers. “Where is that damned card? The one Albert gave me on Celine’s birthday.” Matt paused as he located the object of his search and pulled out the blue and silver greeting card he had received three months before. He grunted, pulled out a magnifying glass from his drawer and held it over the card. “I’ll be damned. There it is, as big as bald and twice as ugly.”

  George sat forward and clasped his hands together. “So, do we go do the autopsy?”

  “Just a second.” Sikes stared at the handwriting sample for a long time. He shook his head, picked u
p his handset, punched in a number, and tucked the handset between his neck and shoulder. “We’ll see, George. If it turns out you’re not on some weird kind of drug, and if the property room still has that TV, and if the handwriting checks out, and if Rainy Day is still at 126 South Chicago—” He looked down and said into the phone, “Yeah, I’ll hold. No music pl—” He looked into his handset, his upper lip curled in disgust. “I thought disco was dead.”

  “Matt, do we do the autopsy?” George insisted.

  Matt held up a hand, palm facing his partner. “As I was saying, George, if the TV is in the property room, and the handwriting comparison is enough for a warrant—”

  A light began flashing on George’s telephone. “One moment, Matt.” He picked up the handset. “Officer Francisco. Oh, hello, Susan. There wasn’t any need to check up on me. Matt’s making arrangements for me to see a doctor right now.” George smirked at Sikes, then his face became quite serious. “Are you certain?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t understand. He hasn’t said anything to me.” He nodded, his brow wrinkled in concern. “Yes, I agree. We should talk to him tonight.”

  Sikes turned back to his phone. “Yeah, Kim? This is Matt Sikes. How are things?” He nodded. “Taxes, pollution, crime, rap, it’s the same all over. I want a favor—”

  George hung up his phone, and Matt blushed as he shook his head. “No. Not that kind of favor. Yes, I’m still seeing Cathy. Tell me, can you get me and my partner standing room when your bunch burgers the warden? It’s real important.” He held out his hand. “Your boss’s got a big puzzle down there. My goomba thinks he might have a couple of pieces. How ’bout it? Can you be bought?” He nodded again, picked up a pencil, and began jotting down a list. “Ribs at Petro’s, fries, plenty of ketchup, chocolate shake, two cherry rolls, and two large decaf diet Jolts. We’ll be there for showtime, and thanks.” He hung up and raised his eyebrows at Francisco. “We’re in, and you pay for Kim’s cholesterol attack.”

  “Good. What time?”

  “We have time enough to bop on down to the property room, the judge’s chambers, and South Chicago with special weapons to nab, and book the Thunderbolt before we go to the canoe factory. We need to get our own stuff done first, George. Okay?”

  “When is the autopsy?”

  “Late. The curtain goes up at around three this afternoon.” Matt noticed the concerned look on his partner’s face. “What is it? What’d Susan have to say?”

  George frowned at his partner. “It’s one of Buck’s instructors at college. He called Susan at her office. Buck hasn’t been to any of his classes in three weeks.”

  Sikes sat up and leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think it’s connected to this vikah ta thing?”

  “No. Dak and Fangan only escaped from prison last night.” George frowned. “You’re right about one thing, though. Buck’s vulnerable. Emily. Vessna. Susan. My entire family is vulnerable. Susan and the children should be placed under protection until Dak and Fangan have been apprehended. Perhaps Susan could even take the children on a trip for a few days.”

  “After the chief’s review committee made noodles out of Grazer’s budget proposal last week, the captain isn’t going to spring for any round-the-clock just on a I’m-gonna-git-you-sucka flag.” Sikes stood and looked over at his partner. Francisco was looking back, his brow furrowed with confusion.

  “George? What’s the matter?”

  “You’re green, Matt. Bright green.”

  Sikes looked at his hands and found them their usual shade. “No, I’m not.”

  “I know,” George answered as he reached for his phone, still frowning. “I better call Susan and have her gather up Emily and Vessna while I try to track down Buck. When I get the time, perhaps a doctor. I’m not altogether certain I’m completely fit.”

  C H A P T E R 6

  THE SHIP, THE vikah ta, and the pain ministers were a dimly remembered dream from a remote past. As Susan pulled her old Mazda wagon out of the ad agency’s lot to pick up her two daughters, she remembered the Ahvin Yin, Those Who Resist, and the name no one dared even whisper: Maanka Dak.

  As the great ship had pulled away from Itri Vi, they brought with them two things. The Overseers took with them the technology for the implanted neural controllers. The slaves kept the Ahvin Yin.

  There was little that could be done about the oppression of the Overseers. As the Overseers were trained to oppress, the slaves were bred to serve in a state of complete passivity. There were flawed Overseers; men and women of compassion; men and women of obsessive cruelty. There were, as well, flawed slaves. Passivity was not their nature. It was, instead, a tactic; a mechanism of survival. They were the ones the Overseers attempted to control and punish with the neural implants. They were the ones who, in turn, retaliated through the vikah ta.

  As Susan swung north and increased the vehicle’s speed, she wondered if she had the capacity to resist. She could fight, of course. There were many kinds of work for which the slaves had been designed, including war. She did not know, however, if she had the capacity to fight authority. She knew George had it. He had the freedom flaw. He had been one of those in the Ahvin Yin.

  And Maanka Dak. In the self-imposed darkness that was Susan’s memory of the time before the crash, Maanka Dak stood out like some terrifying totem of retribution. Maanka had killed for the Ahvin Yin, and Overseers were the targets; Overseers marked for the vikah ta.

  When judgement was passed and the vikah ta ordered against an Overseer, it was almost as though the order alone could kill. Other Overseers would avoid being seen with the target, or having anything to do with the target or the target’s family or friends. The vikah ta killed not only the target, but any kind memory of the target. She had never met Maanka Dak, yet she remembered being more frightened of Maanka than she was of the Overseers.

  She had seen some of the results of his work after he had killed an Overseer, his friends, associates, and family. In a span of one iras, a little more than an Earth week, Maanka had executed twenty-two men, women, and children. Her husband had quit the Ahvin Yin after that, but he had never mentioned it until the phone call that morning to gather up Vessna and Emily. Now he might be a target himself. It was an old threat and possibly nothing would come of it, but just to be on the safe side, grab the children, run for the hills, and pray that Buck turned up somewhere before the vikah ta found him.

  The tan stucco walls and red tile roofs of Emily’s school loomed ahead, and Susan squealed to a stop in a no parking zone in front of the administration office. A guard came walking toward her but held up his hand and waved when he saw who it was.

  “I won’t be long,” Susan called as she got out of the car and slammed the door. “I have to get Emily. It’s an emergency.”

  “No problem,” the guard said. “Hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Me too,” Susan muttered as she waved again, then ran into the main building past several students and a startled custodian. In the neon glare of the school office, she smacked her open palm on the counter and demanded, “Emily Francisco! Where is she?”

  A secretary jumped up from her grade posting and looked over the tops of her reading glasses. “Mrs. Francisco?”

  “Yes. My daughter Emily. I need her right now. It’s very important.”

  “I can’t leave the office right now, but in a few minutes I can send someone for her.” The secretary reached to a bank of form files and pulled out a lime-green sheet of paper. “While you’re waiting, if you could please fill out this parental absence request—”

  “I need Emily now!” Susan demanded, her voice deep and menacing. “Where is she?”

  “Mrs. Francisco, I really need you to fill out—”

  Susan took the form, balled it up, and threw it across the office. “Later! Once I’ve seen Emily, I’ll be happy to fill out a hundred forms. But first I have to see my daughter! It’s an emergency! Where is she?”

  “Please, Mrs. Francisco. Your voice—”
<
br />   Susan yelled out, “Where is she? Where’s my daughter?”

  The door to the principal’s office opened, revealing a balding man heavy with scowl. “What in the hell is going on out here, Cloris?”

  “Mr. Marquez, I have to see my daughter! It’s an emergency! Where’s my daughter? I have to see her!”

  “Mrs. Francisco? Emily?” The principal faced his secretary. “What’s the matter, Cloris? What’s happened to Emily?”

  The secretary’s face flushed scarlet. “Nothing! Nothing has happened to Emily. It’s just that Mrs. Francisco needs to fill out the proper request form—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Cloris!” Mr. Marquez exploded. “Where’s her daughter? Don’t you know?”

  “Well, of course I know where she is, Mr. Marquez. She’s in Bill Rafferty’s room this period. It’s just—”

  The principal held up his hand and faced Susan. “I’m really very sorry, Mrs. Francisco. I’ll take care of this. Your daughter’s in room 312. Use the faculty elevator at the—”

  Susan bolted from the office, ignored the elevator, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. In a moment she was at room 312. She looked in the open doorway, saw a young man at the chalkboard, his arm raised, his hand holding a white stub of chalk. “Mr. Rafferty?

  He lowered his arm, turned his head, and looked over the tops of his glasses at Susan. “And you?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m Emily Francisco’s mother.” She gave the large classroom a quick scan, searching desperately for Emily’s gaudy hairpiece. “I don’t see her.” She looked at the teacher, her eyes frightened. “I don’t see her. Where is she?”

  “Emily didn’t make it to my class today. I had to report her absent.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Bill Rafferty shrugged, held out his hands, and arched his eyebrows. “Nevertheless. Is it something important?”

  “It’s an emergency.” She faced the class and looked over the faces of the students. “Her last class. Was she there?” she asked everyone. “Did any of you see her last period?” Three or four students nodded and held up their hands.