All Too Human *Series* (AU, TEEN), Complete, 10/11

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Awww! And I thought this was to be the advent of the famous Agnes! ("They'll get their food when they get their food.")

Maybe Agnes is Abigail's daughter.

I guess the Covari aren't the only ones who've been using humans for their experiments. Makes it seem downright benevolent, compared to what we just saw.

At least the Antarians put their test subjects back together, if only out of concern for losing rare "specimens". Nicholas has the technology to spare his test subjects; he just can't be bothered.

And no Yvonne and Stephen this week! Naughty, naughty girl! (sobs uncontrollably) You positive Grinch, you! Begging just brings out the worst in you, doesn't it? .

None this week either. Good ol' Dr. Pierce is still deciding whom to summon. But they do pop up next week. Don't take it personally; I'm writing 47 chapters ahead of where I'm posting, so what you're reading now was written nearly a year ago. It's not a nefarious plot to make you cry!

Phillip obviously didn't know about aliens when 4AAAB happened. With how close the Shapeshifters were to the proctors, something has to happen and soon to get them out of their life.

It does indeed. Book 4 takes place in 1959, so whatever happens will happen by the end of the year. Philip will have just turned 2, so he'll still be young enough to not remember. Although it might be fun to give him some very hazy memories/dreams/impressions/something later on....

Wow, was Courtney working while Brivari and Jaddo were there? Now that is funny, how they were all in the same restauruant and none of them were none the wiser.

I'm certain the Warders will not be amused when they discover how virtually invisible their enemies are.

This also means that when Courtney comes to work at the Crashdown on the show, that's the second time she's worked in that restaurant. And it's still owned by a Parker.

I'm thinking this is going to explain why Nicholas was so advanced compared to the other skins.

Wouldn't it be just like Nicholas to enhance his own husk way beyond everyone else's? [understatement]He's just not the sharing type.[/understatement]










CHAPTER NINE


June 18, 1959, 4:00 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



"So there's your W4," Dee said, handing Courtney a pen. "Now you just have to fill in all the personal information and sign it right there by the 'X'."

"And what's this for again?" Courtney asked.

"Your federal withholding," Dee explained. "Every time Mr. Parker pays you, he'll hold a little bit back and send it to the government to pay your income tax. So when the end of the year rolls around and you have to fill out your income tax forms, hopefully you won't owe any money because you'll have already paid it. I'm guessing you'll even get a little back."

Courtney stared at her blankly for a moment before abruptly setting the form aside. "Okay....what's next?"

"The lease," Dee replied, reaching for a multi-page document. "This is the contract between you and Mrs. Bruce that outlines each of your responsibilities, how you'll pay her, what happens if you want to leave or she wants you to leave, and so on."

"So what happens if I want to leave?" Courtney asked, flipping through the pages.

"It's a standard month to month tenancy, so if you want to leave, you need to let Mrs. Bruce know in writing by the last day of the month before you want to leave," Dee said. "For example if you want to leave in August, you have to tell her by July 31st at the latest, and you'll be responsible for August's rent even if you leave before the end of that month. The same holds true in reverse; if she wants you to leave, she has to let you know by the last day of the month before she wants you out, and then you have until the end of that next month to leave." She paused, eyeing Courtney closely. "Is this making any sense? I know it's a lot to take in at once."

"It's okay," Courtney said, still lost in the lease. "I'm getting there, just....just give me a minute."

Dee left Courtney to her studying and went over to Philip, who was busy nesting and unnesting a set of metal saucepans, when he wasn't banging on them with a wooden spoon, that is. Courtney had rummaged through the cupboards in the little kitchen area when Philip had awakened from his nap and produced the perfect toys for someone his age, leaving them to finish the paperwork in relative peace. She's been around children before, Dee thought as Philip picked up the spoon and started drumming again. She was also a fast learner; Dee had watched for the better part of an hour this morning after Valenti left as Courtney learned the intricacies of diner lingo, deftly handled a couple of customer complaints, and haggled with Mr. Parker over how certain orders were cooked. She was unquestionably sharp and definitely perseverant; with all the mistakes she'd made, she'd never let it slow her down. She just kept ploughing forward, undaunted by setbacks or her own lack of knowledge. In Dee's experience, that kind of mindset only came by...well...experience.

So why does she seem so inexperienced? Dee thought, watching Courtney study the lease with the same dogged determination she'd displayed at Parker's. Courtney was a puzzle; she'd obviously been around, yet in some ways, she seemed awfully naïve. Granted that might come from her never having been on her own; one wouldn't necessarily know about W4's if one had never held a job or what a lease entailed if one had never signed one. And certainly not everyone had an eye for the minutiae of contracts and regulations like Dee did. Perhaps it was just lack of exposure. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely to last long given how quickly she learned.

"Okay, I think I understand this," Courtney said. "Rent is due by the first of the month, I'm responsible for the phone bill, but Mrs. Bruce pays the electric bill. And then there's all the stuff about how to break the lease and who pays for what if something gets broken. Is that about it?"

"Yep. Mrs. Bruce has already signed it, so now you just sign it, and you're done."

Courtney scribbled her signature and sat back with a sigh. "Okay—what next?" She pulled a pad toward her on which she'd been keeping a list. "The phone. You said I call the phone company and have this phone switched to my name, right?"

"Right."

"Shoes," Courtney said, ticking down her list. "How much would better shoes cost?"

"I'll bring some shoes with me to Parker's tomorrow morning," Dee answered. "Your feet are a half size smaller than mine, but anything's bound to be more comfortable than those heels. Just give them back when you you're able to buy new ones."

"I really appreciate this, Dee," Courtney said. "I mean, spending all this time going over papers is one thing, but lending me shoes too? How can I ever repay you?"

"Don't worry about it," Dee said dismissively. "This worked for me too. If I hadn't been with you, I would have wound up going home early, and I definitely didn't want to do that."

"What's wrong with your mother? If you don't mind my asking," Courtney added quickly. "I mean, it must be pretty bad if you're willing to wander around town with a baby instead of going home."

Dee sighed, feeling the beginnings of the headache that always seemed to accompany thoughts of her mother. "Mama doesn't approve of the fact that I had a baby while I was in college, and she never misses an opportunity to point that out. I'm just sick of hearing it, is all."

"You mean she's not happy to have a grandchild?"

"Oh, sure she is," Dee said dryly. "When she's not yanking my chain for having him in the first place, that is."

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Courtney asked. "I mean, he's here, and you certainly can't send him back."

Dee gave a soft snort. "Tell that to Mama. Go ahead—I dare you."

"Okay," Courtney said promptly. "If I ever meet her, I will."

Dee stared at her for several seconds before she burst out laughing. "You're serious, aren't you? Do you have a death wish?"

"No," Courtney said calmly. "I've just dealt with a number of difficult people in my time."

" 'Your time'?" Dee echoed. "But you can't be much older than me. How old are you, anyway?"

Courtney gazed at her a moment before dropping her eyes. "It's not how old you are, it's how many different types of people you've met," she said lightly. "And I think parents everywhere tend to be that way. I know my mother is."

"Where are your parents?" Dee asked. "You never said where you were from."

"My father isn't too far away," Courtney answered, "but my mother...well...she's a long ways away."

"How often do you get to see her?" Dee asked as Philip toddled over to show her an especially fascinating speck of dust he'd found.

"I'll probably never see her again."

Dee looked up in surprise. "Why not? Is she dying?"

Idiot! Dee thought fiercely the moment the words left her mouth. What was she thinking, spitting out a loaded question like that? But Courtney hadn't reacted, was merely shaking her head. "No, she's fine. I just know I won't be seeing her again."

"But..." Dee stopped, finding herself in one of those rare moments when she couldn't think of anything to say.

"It's okay," Courtney said gently. "I knew when I left that I'd never see her again, and she knew that too. We had a chance to say goodbye. That's more than a lot of people get."

Her tone was both wistful and matter-of-fact, as though she were simply stating a sad fact of life, and Dee found herself recalling her conversation with Brivari and how she'd wondered what it would be like to have everyone around her die. She'd run inside and hugged Emily after that, but détente had been short-lived; less than an hour later, Emily was arguing about how to put Philip to bed, or more precisely, how not to. Now, faced with someone who really wasn't going to see her mother again or at least thought she wasn't, Dee was suddenly regretting some of the things she'd said last night.

"Well....you might see her, right?" Dee said uncertainly. "I mean, anything can happen. Things could change."

"Possibly," Courtney allowed, "but unlikely."

There it is again, Dee thought. That adult overtone, that world weary resignation one typically heard from someone who had seen too much to harbor any illusions about happy endings. "But you might see her again," she insisted stubbornly. "However unlikely, it's still possible. You have to have hope."

Courtney smiled faintly. "You know, with everything that I don't have now, that's the one thing I do have. Don't worry about me, Dee. I know all about hope. That's why I'm here."

Someone knocked on the door, cutting off Dee's reply. "Probably Mrs. Bruce wanting her lease," Courtney said, standing stiffly on her sore feet. "I'll be right back."

"C'mon, sweetie," Dee said to Philip who had just discovered that the bottom dresser drawer pulled out easily. "We don't play in there. We have to go meet Daddy soon, so can you help Mama put the pans back? Show me how you stack them."

Philip returned his attention to the pans and had just started giving his mother a stacking lesson when voices drifted from the door. "What's this about?" Courtney was asking with a worried edge to her voice. "I've already told you everything I know, which certainly isn't much."

A male voice answered. Curious, Dee walked to the door, staying out of sight.

"....just a few minutes," the man was saying. "We just want to make sure we didn't miss anything."

"I'm really tired right now," Courtney answered. "Maybe later."

"I'm afraid it can't wait," the man persisted, polite but firm. "The investigation is ongoing, and—"

The man stopped short as Dee came into view, folding her arms across her chest and leaning casually against the doorframe. "Afternoon, Deputy....Hanson," she said, reading his name tag. "Anything wrong?"

"He wants to search the room, but they already did," Courtney said before Hanson could answer.

"As I was explaining to Miss Harris, we're concerned we may have missed something regarding the former occupant of these premises," Hanson said.

"Like what?" Dee asked.

"I'm afraid that's confidential," Hanson replied.

"Of course," Dee nodded. "May I see your warrant?"

"I don't need a warrant, ma'am," Hanson said with complete confidence. "The former occupant of this apartment is deceased."

"The apartment has a new occupant," Dee said. "The lease was signed today. So now you need a warrant."

A flicker of unease passed over Hanson's features. "I need to see that lease. May I come in?"

"No," Dee said firmly as Hanson took a step forward. "I'll bring it to you. Don't let him in," she added to Courtney. "He can't come in without a warrant, and he knows it, so he'll pressure you to grant him permission. Don't do it."

Courtney's eyes darted from Dee to the deputy and back, but she nodded and stood directly in front of the deputy, who now looked thoroughly ticked off. Dee fetched the lease from the kitchen table and Hanson spent a full minute looking it over. "This lease starts the first of July," he noted, "so until then, this apartment belongs to the former occupant."

"But the new occupant has moved in her belongings, so searching the apartment now means you'd be searching her things," Dee pointed out. "Because of that, and because a legal contract exists between the current occupant and the landlord, no court will let you just waltz in here without a warrant."

"That's not the way it works, ma'am," Hanson said irritably.

"Fine," Dee shrugged. "So prove me wrong. Go get a warrant."

Silence. Hanson looked back and forth from one woman to the other in consternation. "Excuse us a moment," Dee said to Courtney, crowding Hanson backwards as she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. "I have a message for your boss," she said as Hanson scowled at her. "Tell Sheriff Valenti that his attempt to bully his way into this woman's apartment and perform an illegal search has failed. And further tell him that if he ever tries something stupid like this again, Dee Evans will personally act as this woman's attorney in court and nail him to wall. If he wants information, he's going to have to buckle down and get it the good old fashioned legal way. Think you can remember all that, or should I write that down for you?"

Hanson's eyebrows had risen so far they were almost disappearing under his hat. "No, thanks," he said sourly. "I've got it."




******************************************************




Valenti residence




"Jimmy, come set the table for din—Ah!"

Valenti grinned as his wife whipped around, peeling his hands off her eyes. "Don't do that!" she admonished, trying to sound peeved even though she was smiling. "You nearly scared the daylights out of me!"

"Surprise!" Valenti said. "I've missed so many meals this week, I thought I'd finally make it home for once."

"Do you mean you're actually going to let the town run for a couple of hours without you?" Andi asked dryly.

"Why not? I'm in a good mood," Valenti said cheerfully. "The town council agreed with me that good ol' Morty Steinfeld can't bring his traveling Hollywood show to town until the Monday after the Crash Festival. He wanted to set up shop and start hiring extras the day before. Can you imagine the mess that would have made? Now he not only has to wait until it's over, we get the whole Independence Day weekend in peace."

"Hallelujah," Andi said. "It's always better to have one four alarm fire at a time. Do you want a salad?"

"Sure. How's Jimmy?"

"A little down. He and his friends went fishing and didn't catch much."

"I should take a day off and take them out," Valenti said.

"Like that's going to happen," Andi said skeptically. "I know you. Your town's about to be invaded, and you won't rest till the interlopers are gone."

"It won't be invaded for another couple of weeks, so now's the perfect time to go," Valenti said, pulling a beer out of the fridge. "Where's the novice fisherman?"

Valenti planted a kiss on his wife's cheek and followed her nod, stripping off his sidearm on the way to the back porch where his son was seated cross-legged on the floor trying to unravel a mass of fishing line which obviously hadn't performed the way it should have. "Hey, kiddo," he said, sitting down beside him.

"Hi, Dad," Jimmy said tonelessly. "Sorry I got my reel all messed up."

"What's tangled can be untangled," Valenti said confidently. "Hand it over."

Jimmy obliged with the air of one who had given up. "I hear your fishing trip didn't go well today. How's about you and me take the boat out," Valenti added when his son shook his head. "I can teach you how to get those fish jumping into your boat."

"You can?" Jimmy said, brightening. "Tommy said he knew everything about fishing, but he's the one who messed up my reel."

"Well, Tommy can come too if you want," Valenti said magnanimously.

Jimmy considered that for a moment. "I don't think so. He brags. Besides, I want it just you and me."

And we don't get much of that, do we? Valenti thought as part of the tangle gave way. A sheriff was never really off duty. Roswell wasn't huge, but it may as well be with the yearly parade of tourists, and the influx in the summer just when Jimmy was off school made for even more hours away from home. "How about tomorrow?" he asked. "Got any plans for Saturday?"

Jimmy was about to answer when the phone rang. "That's probably for you, Dad," he said matter-of-factly.

"Ignore it," Valenti said. "I'm off."

"Really?" Jimmy said in surprise.

"Really."

Andi appeared at the door. "Honey, it's Hanson. He says it's not an emergency, but you'll want to know this."

"Tell him I'm busy," Valenti said.

Andi blinked. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Valenti answered with a touch of annoyance.

"It's okay," Jimmy said quickly. "I'll wait."

Valenti looked from his wife to his son before setting the reel down with a sigh. "This is a switch. Usually I'm the one vaulting for the phone, and you're the one asking if it can wait."

"Gotta keep you guessing," Andi smiled. "Dinner's in five. Jimmy you need to set the table. You and Daddy can fix your reel after we eat."

Valenti followed his family into the house, grabbing the receiver left beside the telephone on the table in the living room. "What's up, Hanson?"

"Nothing terribly important, sir, but I thought you'd want to know what happened with the Harris girl," Hanson said.

"What do you mean 'happened'? Something happened?"

"Well....no," Hanson replied. "She had a visitor, someone who says she knows you. A 'Dee Evans'?"

"And?" Valenti sighed.

"She told the Harris girl not to let me in and waved a lease in my face," Hanson said. "It was only signed today and it's effective July 1st; I guess Mrs. Bruce is letting her stay there on the dead guy's dime."

"He's 'Mr. Green'," Valenti corrected. "Not 'the dead guy'. Every 'dead guy' has a name, and this one's name is 'Mark Green'. Use it."

"Yes, sir," Hanson said quickly. "Sorry, sir. Anyway, this Proctor woman knew exactly what you were trying to do and said she'd go with the Harris girl to court if you try again. Is she a lawyer? Looks a little young."

You should have seen her when she was nine, Valenti thought, remembering the time Dee had parked the state statutes under his nose and argued that there were no laws forbidding aliens. "No, she's not a lawyer," he replied. "Not technically, anyway; she doesn't start law school until the fall."

"So do you want me to get a warrant?" Hanson asked. "Given that the lease isn't even in effect yet—"

"No," Valenti interrupted. "Just let it go. I'll find another way around it."

There was a pause. "Sir, are you saying that you're letting some wet-behind-the-ears college student scare you off an investigation?"

"Of course not," Valenti said sharply. "I'm saying we're on shaky ground here as it is, and the judge is bound to notice that even without anyone pointing it out. Besides, you met her—did she sound 'wet behind the ears' to you?"

"No," Hanson admitted. "But still, if you have a good reason for wanting a search, I'm sure the judge will consider it."

"That's just it," Valenti said. "I don't have a good legal reason. I checked with Greyhound—Courtney Harris arrived by bus the evening of the day Mark Green was killed, which means she wasn't anywhere near Roswell when the murder occurred."

"Then why are you watching her?" Hanson asked. "I know you, sir. You must have a reason. You always do."

"Of course I have a reason," Valenti answered. "And when the time's right, I'll let you know what it is. Or was. Thanks for calling. Shit," he muttered under his breath as he hung up the phone, feeling his good mood evaporating. Foiled by a Proctor for the second time today.

"Dad?"

Jimmy was standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at him wide-eyed. "Oh, geez....I'm sorry," Valenti said, embarrassed that his son had heard him swearing. "I was just....."

"Mad?" Jimmy suggested helpfully. "It's okay, Dad. Mom wanted me to tell you dinner's ready."

"Are you all right?" Andi asked as Valenti slid into a seat at the kitchen table.

"Just frustrated," Valenti answered, grateful that his wife hadn't heard what he'd said. She took a dim view of the use of profanity in front of children. And Jimmy seemed to know that, because he'd kept the increasing number of times he'd heard his father slip up to himself.

"Tommy says his dad used to work with you," Jimmy announced.

"Is that right? What's his last name?" Valenti asked.

"Cook," Jimmy answered.

"Jake Cook," Valenti nodded. "Mr. Cook used to be a Roswell deputy. He quit a while back."

"Why?" Jimmy asked.

"Don't know," Valenti said. "I wasn't working at that station at the time."

Jimmy twirled his fork on his plate for a moment in silence. "Tommy's dad says that they found you asleep in your car with a whole bunch of beer bottles, and you said an alien did it. He said they called you 'Deputy Martian'."

Andi's hand paused midway to her mouth, her spoonful of mashed potatoes hanging in the air. Bastard, Valenti thought angrily. Naturally Jake would go to the trouble of recounting that story from '47 when an alien had intervened just as Valenti had been about to catch the Proctor family red-handed with glowing somethings or other. He'd awakened in his car with a nasty bump on his head and an empty six pack that hadn't been there before, and Roswell's Sheriff Hemming had round-filed the report and transferred Valenti to the Chaves County station to get him away from the gossip.

"That's quite a story," Valenti said lightly, "but I think Mr. Cook got a few details mixed up."

"Do you believe aliens are real, Dad?" Jimmy asked.

"I think it's possible," Valenti said noncommittally.

"Did you ever meet one?" Jimmy pressed.

I not only met one, I killed one. "Not personally," Valenti answered. "So—are you ready to get up before the crack of dawn on Saturday?"

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. "Why so early?"

"Because that's when the fish are biting," Valenti answered. "Early morning's the best time."

Talk turned to the upcoming fishing trip, but Valenti had a hard time focusing. He wanted to know what Courtney Harris was hiding and what Doctor Blake was so worried about that he couldn't even talk about it. He also planned to have a few terse words with Jake Cook. The last thing he needed on the eve of a Hollywood invasion was everyone calling him "Deputy Martian".




******************************************************




UFO Center, Roswell




"The UFO center will close in thirty minutes," came a voice over the loud speaker.

The crowd inside the center began to shift restlessly at this announcement, knowing their time was short. The center was still open, but the meeting, or whatever it had been, was over, the participants leaving for yet another city to display their wares. Brivari stood off to one side, watching the various purveyors of "alien artifacts" pack them in boxes with the kind of loving care usually reserved for the genuine. But perhaps they were genuine in the only way that mattered in a society such as this: They were genuine magnets for currency. He'd spent the better part of the day here watching the skeptical, the curious, the gullible, the foolish, and the downright stupid poke, prod, stare, worship, question, argue....and pay. It didn't seem to matter where a given human fell on the "do you believe in aliens" scale; all were willing to part with their currency, whether to gaze at what they believed was real or to gather evidence that it was not.

As it turned out, Dee had only described the free exhibits at dinner the other night; there were several pay-per-view exhibits which she hadn't seen and which had piqued Brivari's interest. What he had found had been surprising....and disturbing. For all the charlatans, it turned out there were genuine artifacts here, and most of those humans who had the real thing knew what they had and charged accordingly. There were plenty of fragments from the hull of their ship, a rather crude but accurate sketch similar to the one the Healer had said she'd drawn and passed to another officer, and what looked suspiciously like a piece of the five-sided device that Amar had used to block Jaddo's abilities. Probably smuggled out by a soldier, Brivari had thought, although he'd had no luck discovering where any of the genuine artifacts had come from other than the ship fragments, which appeared to be obtained by trespassing on the crash site, now government property. Several "collectors", as they styled themselves, had boasted of their prowess in avoiding detection as they'd gone where others feared to tread, often paying the price in the form of a fine or an arrest. Still, they had likely recouped the difference and then some judging from the foot traffic to and from the curtained booths where they showed their finds to those who could pay.

But whether the "artifact" in question was genuine or not, there was one thing on which everyone agreed: Aliens had indeed landed on this planet. The reasons for doing so were the subject of much debate and ranged from the benevolent to the nefarious to the incompetent, the latter being the view espoused by James Atherton, the odd man Dee had met and Brivari had encountered earlier. The human military had, to use a human expression, "shot itself in the foot" by telling the public it had found an alien spacecraft and then attempting to cover up its discovery of same. No one believed the cover story, even those who said they did; most who argued vociferously that the very notion of extra-terrestrial life was nonsense were actually terrified that such beings existed and coped by denying it at the top of their lungs. If ever one needed proof that Earth was not ready for an encounter with another world, this was it.

"Oh, rats, I missed it!" came a voice nearby. A woman had just pushed through the crowd to find the collectors packing. "Where are they going next? Is it nearby?"

"Someone said Santa Fe," a man offered.

"I heard Dallas," another said.

"Well, which is it?" the woman asked. "I could make it to Santa Fe, but Dallas is just too far."

"It doesn't matter where they're going," another voice said. "Wherever it is, it will all be nothing but nonsense."

Everyone turned toward the speaker, including Brivari, who was promptly confused. Covari had learned long ago not to rely only on form as a means of identification, and he recognized the voice as belonging to James Atherton. But Atherton was nowhere to be seen. Where was he?

"If you feel that way, then why are you here?" the woman asked the man who had spoken, a middle-aged gentleman Brivari had never seen before.

"Some people golf, others fish—I enjoy watching people make fools of themselves," the man answered dryly. "Thank your lucky stars that you didn't waste your precious time or money in this place, madam. It is undeserving of your attention."

An argument ensued between believers and unbelievers just like it had dozens of times before, but Brivari heard none of it. His eyes were fastened on the gentlemen who had objected, studying him closely. It's him, he thought wonderingly. It's Atherton. But not the Atherton he'd seen before—gone was the long white hair, the bushy mustache, the heavy glasses, and the odd clothing. In their place was a conservatively dressed, middle-aged gentleman with close-cropped, thinning hair, no mustache, and no corrective lenses. Even his posture was different, having shed the slight stoop of his earlier incarnation, and his voice was an octave lower. An expert disguise, by human standards....but then Brivari was no human.

"I'm surprised to hear you are an 'unbeliever'," Brivari said casually as Atherton's tormentors wandered away muttering. "That's not what you said earlier."

" I don't believe we've met," Atherton said politely. "My name is James Anderson."

"Interesting," Brivari murmured. "When we met earlier you gave your name as James Atherton."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Atherton insisted. "I only just arrived a few minutes ago. Perhaps I resemble this other fellow—"

"Actually, you don't," Brivari said. "Your disguise is excellent. My compliments."

Atherton looked at him in astonishment. "Are you saying you don't believe I am who I say I am?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Brivari answered calmly.

"Then that would be your problem, sir, and I leave it with you," Atherton said with obvious annoyance. "Perhaps spending so much time here today has addled your brains."

"And how would you know how much time I've spent here if you've only arrived in the last few minutes?"

Brivari smiled as Atherton huffed off, his eyes darting left and right as though worried someone else had spotted him, unlikely given the care with which he'd hidden his identity. Hiding one's identity was a Covari's stock in trade, so Brivari was curious as to why Atherton felt the need to do so. Then again perhaps he just wanted to wander the venues anonymously and take the pulse of his clientele. Not a bad idea, come to think of it. Many of the "collector's" here were astute business men, if nothing else.

A few minutes later Brivari had left the UFO center behind and was walking up Main Street, heading for Parker's. It was dinner time, and he was hungry; Jaddo had not reappeared and was probably off sulking, so it looked like he would be eating alone. He was halfway to the diner when he heard a worried voice in his ear.

"How did you know it was me?"

Brivari smiled faintly without turning around, knowing who had fallen in step behind him. "A more interesting question would be why you feel the need to disguise yourself," he answered.

"Hardly," Atherton retorted. "I have never had anyone see through my cover. Never. And yet you picked me out the moment you spotted me. How?"

"Most people rely solely on the visual," Brivari replied. "I have learned to look past that."

"What are you?" Atherton demanded. "A police officer? A soldier? A spy?"

"I am all of those things....and none of them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Anything you'd like it to," Brivari answered.

A hand grabbed his arm, spun him around. Atherton looked genuinely frantic, as though expecting Brivari to shout his secret at the top of his lungs right there on Main Street. "You can't tell anyone," he insisted. "My work depends on people not knowing who I really am."

"How very interesting," Brivari said. "So does mine."

"Then you won't say anything?"

"I have no reason to expose you, so no, I won't say anything."

"Good," Atherton said warily as Brivari resumed his trek toward the diner. "You know, you never told me how you knew."

"And you never explained the reason for your subterfuge," Brivari reminded him. "Which leaves us both bereft of information."

Atherton was silent for a moment. "Were you serious when you said that your work depends on no one knowing who you are? Then I have a proposal," he continued when Brivari raised an eyebrow. "I'll buy you dinner and tell you why I was in disguise if you'll tell me how you recognized me so I can make certain it never happens again."

"If this is truly the first time someone has seen past your disguise, I doubt you have anything to worry about," Brivari answered.

"Maybe not," Atherton said. "But my offer stands. I'm still curious."

"As am I," Brivari admitted. "Very well, then—I accept."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 10 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to everyone!

So I've been thinking more about this. If Briviari is Kal, to what extent did he abandon Max and Co? When Max goes and sees him in California he knew everything about him, hell he knew before that when Max was looking for the ship in Utah. How would he know all of that unless he was watching, and watching closely.

Max even asked him how he knew and Kal said, "Because it's my job."

That is the episode (or two-parter, rather) that got me thinking about all of this. For all Langley's hostility, he seemed to be keeping close tabs on Max. At first I thought that was just to make certain Max kept his distance, but when he made the comment about Max's mother feeling like she'd lost him, it felt like Langley was showing way more interest than he needed to just to stay hidden. I never got over the feeling that there was a lot more to Langley's attitude than met the eye, and can safely say that's why I'm here. To explain it.

If you don't mind, could you tell us where 47 chapters from now leads? Like where in the timeline of the show?

47 chapters leads to the end of August, 1959, when the lead actress on "They Are Among Us" has just been killed and all hell is breaking loose. In addition to the shapeshifter and a suspicious Grandpa Valenti which the show told us about, I've added Skins and Special Units and a few others things for good measure.

Why can't Brivari tell that Courtney is a Skin? I thought he can always spot them, or sense their energy or something?

Covari give off an infrared signature/glow/whatever you want to call it. They can see in the infrared spectrum, so they can see that signature and identify other members of their race. (In my little corner of the universe, that is, not the show.) The exception would be Hunters, which are bred without the infrared signature (among other things) to make them harder for "regular" Covari to identify.

The Skins are wearing husks which have no infrared signature or identifying feature of any kind other than the seal, which isn't exactly obvious, and the fact that husks heal much more quickly than an ordinary human body would. (The seal is, of course, from the show, while the healing bit was my idea.)

Me, too! I'm with her. I want all the 47 chapters, now!

No, you don't, because you like good writing, and those don't qualify yet! Most are rough drafts, having gone through none or only 1 of the multiple edits every chapter goes through before it's fit for either human or alien consumption. My hat is off to authors who can write and post in rapid succession; this story would be a hopeless mess if I did that. Actually I'm behind; I like to be a full year ahead of where I'm posting. I was originally, but I've slipped a few times over the years. Five times, to be exact.

Misha: I considered posting twice a week?! I honestly don't remember that. That must have been before I settled into the weekly write one/edit one/post one routine. I see your point about the short chapters--every time I go back to the earlier part of Book 2, I frequently think, "Wow! That's the whole chapter?"

And congrats on your nominations! That's wonderful news!







CHAPTER TEN


Two weeks later.


July 2, 1959, 7:15 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station


"Okay, does everyone know their assignments?" Valenti asked. "Remember there's only one deputy at each compass point: Alvarez at the north, Baker at the south, Checora goes west, and Reyes goes east. Hanson and I will be making regular circuits of the festival grounds, the wagon will be running to and from the station all night, and the station itself will be fully staffed. Does everyone know their post?"

Heads nodded. "Good," Valenti said. "Let's make certain the cells are clean because we're going to be packing them in like sardines. Oh, and one more thing—everyone bring a bucket from home. Ninety-nine percent of those we bring in will be losing whatever they drank, and we all know what happened before."

Laughter rippled around the room. They weren't laughing last year, Valenti thought, remembering how they'd run short on buckets for drunks to throw up in, resulting in a bit of a nightmare when it came time to clean up. "This is our big night," he reminded them. "We haven't had any major problems in the last several years, so let's keep that record going and have a good Crash Festival. Any questions?"

Hands shot up. "What if I have to pee while I'm patrolling?" one of the deputies asked.

"You have to radio for a replacement before you can leave," Valenti answered to collective groans. "Under no circumstances are you to leave your sector unattended. Whichever of the rotating deputies that's nearest will take over while you do your business. Just make it quick."

More questions followed. Valenti was dimly aware of someone poking their head in the door of the briefing room and Hanson going over to talk to them. A moment later a note was slipped into his hand.

Valkyrie at 3 o'clock.

Mystified, Valenti looked at Hanson, who nodded toward the door which was indeed in the 3 o'clock position to their right. And through that door he could just glimpse a familiar face. Make that an irritated familiar face.

"Hanson will answer any further questions," Valenti said, backing away and slipping into the hallway, where he was instantly ambushed. "Not here," he said shortly as his tailgater trailed him down the hall and into his office, where he closed the door behind her only seconds before she erupted.

"Why are you spying on Courtney Harris?"

"Good morning to you, too, Miss Proctor—I mean Mrs. Evans," Valenti amended. "I'm still not used to that."

"Don't change the subject," Dee said severely. "You've got goons staking out her apartment. Why?"

"Gee, I thought they were called 'deputies'," Valenti said calmly. "Where's the little mister today?"

"None of your business. And you haven't answered my question."

"Just trying to take an interest in my constituents."

"I live in Corona, remember? And like hell you are. You're dodging, and you know I won't let you. What are you after?"

Valenti sighed as he sank into his chair. "Honestly? I'm not sure," he admitted. "But as it's not a crime for anyone, my deputies included, to sit in a car on a public street, I'm not sure what you're after either."

Dee plopped down in the chair opposite his desk, eyeing him with a piercing gaze that hadn't changed a bit from when she was eight years-old and fending him off for the first time. "I know you, sheriff. I know you checked with the bus company, and I know they told you Courtney arrived right when she said she did; if you'd discovered otherwise, she would have heard about it. So since you have proof that she wasn't even in the state when this Green guy was killed, why are you still after her?"

"Miss Harris has become something of a project for you, hasn't she?" Valenti said casually. "Word gets around. You've been helping her get settled, find her way around, figure out how to waitress, and so forth. That's mighty nice of you."

Dee rose from the chair and planted her hands on his desk. "Do I have to file a harassment complaint to get your attention? Because I will if I have to. And I'll go right to the judge since I have reason to believe that the sheriff's been compromised. Is that what you want?"

Valenti tapped his fingers for a moment in silence, weighing his options. "Have a seat, Mrs. Evans," he said finally.

She did, perching stiffly on the edge of the chair as though ready to leap up and file that complaint at any moment. And the problem was that if she did, the judge would very likely not be amused. Technically Valenti hadn't broken any laws, but he also technically had absolutely nothing on Miss Harris other than the timing of her arrival and his own sixth sense. He didn't have much of anything on Mark Green either, including a body.

"The man that Miss Harris was coming to Roswell to stay with died under suspicious circumstances," Valenti began, choosing his words carefully. "So naturally—"

"What kind of circumstances?" Dee interrupted.

"I'm not at liberty to say. Suffice it to say I find the fact that Miss Harris was planning on bunking with this man very interesting."

"Don't you think it would be better to start with his friends and co-workers?"

"I did. Mark Green was an auto mechanic, an unusually good one from what I hear. His friends were his co-workers, and they come up clean."

"Are you tailing them too?"

Valenti smiled faintly. "Those friends tell me that Mr. Green used to join them at local bars after work. They also tell me that, as far as they know, he hadn't left town for several weeks before his death."

"So?"

"So maybe you'd like to explain to me why Miss Harris says she met Mr. Green at a bar about a week before his death, but can't remember which bar or even what city the bar was in. Or why none of his friends could identify a photo of her. And if they didn't meet in Roswell, then where did they meet if Green never left town?"

"How do you know he didn't leave town?" Dee demanded. "Were these 'friends' with him every single minute? No, of course not, nor is it even faintly reasonable to assume that Green spilled everything to his friends. Look," she continued when Valenti started to protest, "so far, the only crime I'm aware of is the murder of Mark Green. Since Courtney wasn't even in the state, she's off the hook for that one unless you think she can kill somebody from a distance of several hundred miles. Whatever else you think she's mixed up in, you don't even have enough to bring her in for questioning or you would have done that already. Which means you have nothing, sheriff. Nothing but your gut and your paranoia."

"As I recall, my gut's pretty damned good," Valenti noted.

"So's your paranoia. Leave her alone," Dee said firmly, "unless and until you've got something more."

"So what's your explanation?" Valenti asked. "I know she's lying to me. Why do you think that is?"

Dee gave him a skeptical look. "What, now I have to walk you through what can happen when one visits bars and over-imbibes? There could be all sorts of things she doesn't want to tell you, not a single one of them nefarious. There's a standard of evidence before the law allows you to pursue a suspect. You know that."

"And you know that meeting that standard of evidence requires a certain amount of investigative work," Valenti reminded her. "Which is precisely what I'm doing, and which is precisely my job. If you think otherwise, by all means, go whine to the judge."

Dee shot him a dazzling smile. "Okay, I will."

"You know, there's a faster way to settle this," Valenti said as she rose from her chair, hoping he sounded calm instead of desperate. "You're close to Miss Harris. Get her to tell you what was up with her and Mr. Green, and perhaps we can put this to bed once and for all."

"So now you want me to spy on her?" Dee said in disbelief. "Anything else? Maybe search her apartment, or listen in on her phone calls? Would you like me to find out if she and Mark 'did it', and in what position?"

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "No need to get crass. I'm just doing my job."

"Your 'job' doesn't require every American citizen to cough up personal details on demand when they haven't been charged with a crime," Dee retorted. "Either charge her, or back off. And since I know you haven't managed to come up with a shred of real evidence against her in two weeks, which is quite a while for you, take my advice and back off."

"Is that your legal advice? Look," Valenti continued when Dee's eyes narrowed, "Miss Harris is in no danger. I'm as bound by the law as anyone else, more so, in fact. I'm just protecting the people in my town."

"Then you'd do well to remember that Courtney Harris is one of the people you're supposed to protect," Dee said pointedly. "And even if you suspect she's guilty of something or other, you still have a responsibility to see that her rights are upheld. You told me that years ago....remember?"

"Mrs. Evans, I never forget the rights of the citizens under my care," Valenti said firmly. "Never."

"Good," Dee said. "One of those rights is the right to her own dirty laundry unless you have a compelling reason to drag it out of her. And until you do, you're skating on thin ice. I know it, and you know it. The only question is whether or not you want the judge to know it."

Dee marched to the door, then paused, her expression softening. "I haven't forgotten how you rescued Mama when Cavitt had her. If you hadn't been a bulldog that night, she might not be here to drive me crazy right now. I just don't see this as a good time to be a bulldog."

"I gather I've just been whacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper?" Valenti said dryly.

"Have a nice day, sheriff," she smiled, closing the office door behind her.

Valenti leaned back in his chair and let out a long slow breath. He didn't doubt for a moment that she'd follow through with her threat, nor did he doubt the judge's reaction if she did. It certainly wouldn't do any good to let slip about exploding bodies, so he'd just have to be more careful now that he was being watched every bit as closely as he'd had his deputies watching Miss Harris. And she's not the only one with dirty laundry problems, Valenti thought as he spied a file on his desk that hadn't been there when he'd arrived this morning. Airing one's dirty laundry was no fun; having it aired for you was even worse. As soon as the Crash Festival was over, he planned to pay a call and remind someone of that.



******************************************************



10:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



"Coffee?"

"Please," Brivari answered.

"Where's your friend?" the waitress asked. "Isn't he usually here by now?"

"Have we become that predictable?"

"Well, considering that for the last two weeks both of you have eaten breakfast together at about this time, sitting at this same table....yeah, I'd say you have."

Brivari smiled faintly as the waitress passed him a cup. She'd come a long way, this one, since that day when Dee Proctor had fended off the sheriff on her behalf. Now "Courtney", as her name tag read, was expert at juggling several different tables, the use of the mysterious parlance used to order food in these places, and the handling of irate customers, among other things.

"Perhaps we should try a different restaurant," Brivari suggested. "New vistas, and all."

"Please don't," Courtney said. "You're both good tippers and polite to boot. Besides, just sit tight and it'll change around you. Mr. Parker is having a contest to come up with a new name for this place, and then he's going to redecorate. I guess too many folks are confusing it with the bar, so he wants to make it clear that this side's different. I hear that "Crash Site Cafe" is the current front runner."

"Original," Brivari said dryly.

"Want to enter? The winner gets a free meal a day for a week."

"No, thank you," Brivari said.

"I'll bet your friend would like to enter," Courtney commented. "He seems like the entering type."

Indeed he is, Brivari thought as she scurried off to take care of other customers. James Atherton was more than just the contest-entering type; he was a human chameleon the likes of which Brivari had never seen. He wasn't quite certain what he'd been expecting when Atherton had offered to buy him dinner after Brivari had seen through his disguise, but he certainly hadn't been expecting what he'd heard.

"I don't believe a word I wrote in that book," Atherton had announced. "Oh, I believe in aliens, but that's about it. The rest is rubbish."

It had taken Brivari a moment to process the implications of this fantastic statement. "So....what you're saying is that you wrote a book making claims you don't believe?"

"Exactly."

"And the parts about aliens not being as advanced as humans are....'rubbish'?"

"Of course," Atherton had answered. "One need look no further than the ship that crashed to answer that. Humans don't have spaceships, so aliens must be more advanced, or at least those aliens are."

"Forgive me if this seems an obvious question," Brivari had said slowly, "but why would you go to the trouble of publishing theories you don't believe and pretend to believe them?"

"Because what I believe doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

"Not a bit. What matters is what my audience believes. It's the audience that buys the book, after all. If you want people to buy your book, you have to tell them what they want to hear. And what they want to hear is quite simple to ascertain. What was the chief emotion following the crash of the alien spaceship—forgive me, 'weather balloon'—in 1947?"

"Fear," Brivari had said promptly.

"Exactly!" Atherton had said triumphantly. "People don't want to hear that aliens are stronger and better and smarter than we are. That's exactly what they're afraid of! They want to hear that we are stronger and better and smarter than aliens. That makes aliens look less threatening, and makes everyone feel better. Which is why my book is selling like hotcakes while the weighty tomes of others languish on bookstore shelves....just like mine did, before I got smart."

"By 'smart', you're referring to publishing what you consider to be rubbish?"

"You think me mad," Atherton had said, smiling indulgently at Brivari's tone. "But I'm simply playing the game so I come out the winner. I wasn't lying when I said I was a serious alienologist. The problem is that, according to those in the circles in which I wish to move, there is no such thing as an 'alienologist'. We're all considered to be crackpots and treated accordingly. Call yourself a 'researcher', however, or a 'scientist', an 'engineer', or any other of a number of respected professions, and you'll have people tripping over themselves to give you the same information they would never have given you when you were an 'alienologist'. It's all in the perception, you see. In many ways, perception is more important than reality."

"Very true," Brivari had agreed. "In my experience, reality is highly overrated."

"Precisely!" Atherton had exclaimed. "Which is why I decided to play the game on two different boards. On the one I am James Atherton, an eccentric UFO aficionado who nevertheless sells lots of books because I tell people what they want to hear. On the other, I am whoever I need to be at the moment in order to find out what I want to know."

"Which is.....what?"

Atherton had leaned in and lowered his voice. "I want to make actual contact," he'd said with an earnest expression Brivari would have found amusing had this entire experience not been so bizarre. "I want to locate the aliens who crashed in '47 and find out what they're doing here."

"What makes you so sure there are still aliens here?"

"I've been in contact with a former Army grunt," Atherton had said confidently. "He assures me that a live alien was held at the base nearby for three years—three years—with the American public none the wiser, and that this alien escaped in 1950."

"And this....'grunt' was willing to talk to you because....."

"Because I'm not James Atherton, I'm James Anderson, Oxford don and researcher," Atherton had answered with a twinkle. "And because I greased his palm, of course. Atherton makes a good deal of money which he very generously shares with Mr. Anderson, or whoever happens to need funding at the moment."

"So 'James Anderson' isn't your only pseudonym?" Brivari had asked.

"Heavens, no!" Atherton chuckled. "I'm whoever I need to be in order to learn what I want to learn. I do have a couple of favorites I use over and over, though, and I do try to keep the same initials and the same rhythm to my aliases; makes them easier to remember. I've been so many different people, it's sometimes hard to keep track."

"Understandable," Brivari had sympathized.

"And what about you?" Atherton had asked. "What's your line of work?"

"Security," Brivari answered. "High level security."

"Ah," Atherton said knowingly. "Secret Service?"

"Similar."

"And that explains why you could tell who I was," Atherton had said. "You're accustomed to watching for threats to your client. Is your client in Roswell now?"

"I'm....on vacation at the moment," Brivari replied. "But old habits die hard, as you noticed."

"Indeed," Atherton agreed. "I imagine you've had to employ disguises to protect your client?"

"You have no idea."

They had talked for hours and set a breakfast meeting for the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Atherton seemed tickled to have someone with whom he could share his secret, and Brivari marveled at the similarities between himself and one he had initially dismissed. Atherton was alone in the world—his parents were dead, he had no siblings, spouse, or children—and he spent most of his time hiding his true identity. For all practical purposes, he was as isolated on this planet as Brivari....and yet he reveled in it. Granted, Atherton wasn't facing a lifespan like Brivari's, but still, his enthusiasm was infectious. After the bad news concerning the hybrids' growth rate, he was a breath of fresh air, and the fact that he was intelligent and well educated was an added bonus.

"Good morning, my friend!"

Brivari looked up as Atherton slid into the opposite side of the booth, all smiles as usual. "You look unusually happy today, even for you," Brivari observed.

"And why shouldn't I be?" Atherton beamed. "I just received word that my book is going into another printing!"

"Which means....what?"

"It means they've run out of books to sell and have to print more," Atherton said cheerfully. "No doubt this will cause endless grousing among alienologists. I heard that at one gathering, they actually burned one of my books."

"You sound pleased," Brivari noted. "Most people would fear the censure of their colleagues."

"They're censuring my alter ego, not me," Atherton reminded him. "Besides, in order to burn my books, they have to buy them....which means I'm laughing all the way to the bank," he added with a chuckle. " Mr. 'Anderson' thanks them for their patronage."

"And how do you feel about those with genuine artifacts?" Brivari asked.

Atherton's eyebrows rose. "So you noticed," he said with satisfaction. "I saw you visiting those booths, and I wondered if you'd been able to tell the real thing from a fake. The problem is that most of those with genuine artifacts merely bought them from someone else, like a soldier who collected souvenirs—there's quite a black market for those, as you can imagine—or dug them up by trespassing on Pohlman ranch. They don't actually know anything about what they're showing."

"And you do?" Brivari asked with a touch of amusement.

"All in good time, my friend, all in good time," Atherton said magnanimously. "You can't expect me to spill all my secrets. Heaven knows you haven't. Ah, there you are, my dear!" he said to Courtney, who had appeared at his left elbow with a pot of coffee. "Splendid, splendid. I hear there's going to be a 'Crash Festival' in town tonight. Is it worth attending, do you think?"

"I'm new here, so I wouldn't know," Courtney said, "but I can't imagine it would be."

"Oh?" Atherton said. "Why's that?"

"Well....from what I hear, folks think a spaceship full of aliens crashed here. Why would anyone have a festival to celebrate a disaster that killed people?"

"Why, indeed," Brivari agreed.

"Interesting!" Atherton said approvingly, delighted as always to encounter an out-of-the-mainstream viewpoint. "I would imagine it has something to do with the fact that most would not consider aliens to be 'people'. I take it you disagree with that popular conception?"

Courtney smiled, but didn't bite. "I just bring the food. Can I get you something?"

"The usual," Atherton replied. "And I'm wondering, do you know that man at the end of the counter?"

"No. Should I?"

"Well, you tell me," Atherton said. "Because he seems to know you."

"I'm not following," Courtney said, puzzled.

"I've only just arrived and could be mistaken....but I imagine my friend here has noticed the same thing I have," Atherton said. "Let's ask him."

Two pairs of eyes fastened on Brivari, who had indeed noticed. "He's watching you," he told Courtney. "Has been ever since he came in."

"I swear you are the only person I have ever encountered who is as observant as I am," Atherton announced with typical modesty, beaming at Brivari as Courtney glanced behind her in alarm and hurried off. "We could make quite a team. Just think of what we could learn if we pool our talents!"

"Yes," Brivari said mildly. "Just think."




******************************************************



"Nancy, do you know that man at the end of the counter?" Courtney asked.

Nancy glanced behind her as she grabbed a couple of orders from the shelf. "Sure. That's Deputy Alvarez."

" 'Deputy'?"

"Sheriff's deputy. Must be off duty because he's not wearing his uniform." She paused. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No," Courtney said quickly. "No, I...thanks. I just wondered if you knew him."

Courtney clipped her latest orders to the carousel and escaped into the kitchen's back hallway, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Just a sheriff's deputy. For a moment there, she'd been terrified that she'd been fingered by a shapeshifter. Granted she'd come here to find the shapeshifters, but it was a bit early to find herself nose to nose with a Royal Warder after everything that had happened. The last couple of weeks had been about survival, so much so that she'd frequently forgotten her real mission here. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The sheriff must have figured out by now that Mark Green wasn't human—why else would he still be watching her? And if he ever got the notion in his head that she wasn't human, she'd need to leave fast. She may not have as much time as she thought she did.

Calm down, she told herself fiercely. Fortunately she had identified herself as an acquaintance of Mark's, not a relative, so the sheriff would have no reason to suspect her of not being human. And Khivar had promised them their disguises would be flawless to everyone, including Covari, so even if she did encounter a Warder, they shouldn't be able to recognize her true nature. Of course she wouldn't recognize them either, so that made them even, a rare event with any Covari, let alone a Royal Warder. She should be okay just as long as she could keep Mark's death a secret from those in Copper Summit, a task which had proven easier than she'd originally thought. After finally contacting her father three days after arriving in Roswell and enduring an animated protest about how long it had taken her to do so, she'd learned something interesting. It turned out that operatives reported by mail unless they had specific intelligence to share. All she had to was send in Mark's report for him, and she'd be home free. For the moment, anyway.

"Are you okay, honey?"

Courtney opened her eyes; Nancy was standing there, looking concerned. "Yeah, I...I'm just tired. It's been a little overwhelming."

"I know," Nancy said sympathetically, throwing an arm around her. "I can't imagine what I would have done in your shoes, what with being all alone and the guy you were going to stay with turning up dead just as you got here. How did the clothes work out?"

"Great," Courtney smiled. "I really appreciate it. You've all been a big help."

"Well, we take care of our own," Nancy said firmly. "You need anything else, you let us know, you hear? Your orders are up, dear. Better go get'em."

Courtney swallowed a lump in her throat as she headed back into the kitchen. The most telling thing about this entire experience was the way everyone had rallied around her once they'd heard her story. Dee had been first, walking her through the maze of human regulations and loaning her shoes that didn't make her feet bleed, but it turned out she'd been only one participant in a veritable parade of human kindness. Mrs. Bruce had gone door to door in her rooming house soliciting donations of anything useable on Courtney's behalf, and quietly left bags of kitchenware and bed linens by her door. Mr. Parker had donated food from the diner, and Nancy and the other waitresses had pitched in some used clothes and generously donated a day's tips so she could buy her own pair of comfortable shoes. The list of reasons to run back to Copper Summit had been long and compelling, and she'd rethought the decision to remain here many times; the kindness of total strangers had definitely played a part in her resolve to stay. That and the fact that her world needed her to stay. The mess on Antar would not be settled by the faint of heart.

"There you go," Courtney said, sliding plates in front of the two gentlemen who met for breakfast every morning.

"So who was the man watching you?" the older man asked avidly. He got excited about just about everything, this one, in sharp contrast to his somewhat younger and much quieter friend.

"A sheriff's deputy," Courtney replied.

"Really?" the man said with obvious interest. "Have you had a run-in with the law?"

"No, just bad timing. The person I was going to stay with when I got to town was killed right before I arrived, and the sheriff seems to think I know something about it even though I wasn't even here."

"Good gracious!" the man exclaimed. "How awful! Why would the sheriff suspect you if you hadn't arrived?"

"No idea," Courtney said.

"Well, don't you let him scare you off," the man said stoutly.

"I won't," Courtney assured him. "I came here to stay, and I'm staying."

"Good for you!" the man said approvingly. "And if you need assistance in any way, do call on us. I am Mr. Anderson, and this is Mr. Langley."

"Nice to meet you," Courtney said as Mr. Anderson beamed and Mr. Langley nodded politely. "And thanks for the offer."

Courtney smiled as she headed for a new customer at the next table. In spite of everything that had gone wrong, she'd managed to hang on, with new offers of support coming every day from people she'd never expected. And now that she was relatively stable, it was time to get down to business.

She had a Warder to find.




*****************************************************




Columbia University,

New York City



"Dr. Fenton stopped by," Claire said as Marie walked by. "He left a note on your desk. Said it was important."

"Thanks," Marie said, hurrying into her office. After two weeks with no word, she'd nearly forgotten about Fenton's midnight visitor and strange research project, assuming she hadn't been chosen. And maybe that was for the best; she really didn't need more arguments with her husband, risks to take, or difficult moral choices to make. Now it all came rushing back as she tore open the sealed envelope labeled "Dr. Johnson—Private" in a masculine scrawl....and gaped at the contents which tumbled out onto her desk.

"Wow!" Claire said, having followed her in. "Plane tickets! Where to?"

"New Mexico," Marie whispered.

"This plane leaves in three hours," Claire noted, peering over her shoulder. "That must be why he asked me to cancel all your appointments. Want me to call your husband?"

Marie hesitated. "No," she said finally. "Don't. I'll tell him."

"Okay. Let me know when to expect you back," Claire said as she rushed off to answer the phone.

Marie sank into her chair. I'll tell him, she amended silently, but not yet.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll be gone over the holidays, so I'll post Chapter 11 on Sunday, January 6th.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading! I hope you all had nice holidays, and that returning to normal life wasn't too jarring. (Has been for me this year. )





CHAPTER ELEVEN


July 2, 1959, 3:30 p.m.

Somewhere over the United States



"Wine?"

"No, thank you," Marie answered.

"Please," Dr. Fenton said, holding out his glass for the stewardess to fill. "Lighten up, doctor. We're on a private jet heading to a private meeting with some of the world's top researchers. You've more than earned the right to enjoy yourself."

"I just want to stay sharp," Marie said.

"No need for that until later," Fenton said. "All the finalists will be dining with Dr. Burke at the hotel tonight, so you have plenty of time."

"Will we be meeting the other study participants at dinner?" Marie asked.

"No. There will be a lecture tomorrow morning at the facility, and I gather that's when the true winnowing will begin. Those selected will be given a tour, and if they decline to participate, runners-up will have their chance. The real fun begins tomorrow."

Good, Marie thought. That gave her at least a little bit of time to gather her wits and double and triple check her disguise.

"What's with the sunglasses?" Fenton asked suddenly, as though reading her mind. "We're on an airplane, for heaven's sake."

"They're quite the style now," Marie said. "Audrey Hepburn loves them."

"Really? I never saw you as a style maven," Fenton commented, settling further back into his seat. "But suit yourself. They just hide half your face, that's all."

Which is precisely the point, Marie thought, grateful for the silence as Fenton started to doze. She had no idea if Pierce was involved in this research as Steven suspected, but just in case, she had to be prepared. The thought of being in the same state with Pierce was unnerving; the thought of being in the same room with him was downright terrifying. But if he was out there, if he'd managed to continue what he'd started or found some other horror to perpetrate, she was absolutely certain it was her responsibility to stop him. And in order for that to mean anything, it must happen in front of his colleagues, in full view of the entire medical community. The Pierce's of the world worked in secret, beneath the radar of society's mores, and the only way to shut them down was to haul them into the light. Back room dealing or the private death an alien would bring would simply keep everything hidden. Which is why she hadn't told Steven where she was going, why she'd left a message that she'd be working late and to not expect her home for dinner. That was not unusual, so hopefully it would be well into the night or even tomorrow before he realized something was amiss. And since domestic air travel was still a novelty, the fastest way for him to reach New Mexico would be by car, which would take over twenty-four hours.

Even if he started now, this very minute, it would be too late for him to interfere.




******************************************************



Mrs. Bruce's rooming house

Roswell



Courtney's feet were very much looking forward to a rest as she climbed the steep staircase to the second floor, lugging two bags of groceries. Cooking wasn't her strong point, so she'd stuck to simple things like sandwiches until just recently, when her time in the diner had emboldened her to consider a can of soup, only to discover that the stove in her room wasn't working. Still, even cold soup would be a welcome change from sandwiches, and she had several cans in her bags right now. Dee said that she knew someone who could fix her stove, so as soon as that happened, she could....

She stopped suddenly; the door to her room was ajar, and whoever was inside was making no effort to be quiet. Had Nicholas found out what happened to Mark and sent someone here? Was it the sheriff going through her things? She'd located Mark's hiding place for his communicator and hidden that strange five-sided device her father had given her along with it, but they still weren't out of reach of a truly determined searcher. Cautiously, she nudged the door open with her toe.

A man was peering into her oven, a tool box splayed out beside him. "Hello?" Courtney said.

"Hi," the man answered. "I'm Carl. Are you Courtney?"

"Do I know you?" Courtney asked.

"You do now," Carl smiled. "We have a mutual friend. Dee said your stove was acting up, and I'm a repairman."

That's right, Courtney remembered. Dee had said she knew a repairman who was so good he was "out of this world"....and then laughed as Courtney had smiled tentatively and wondered what the joke had been. "She did say something about a repairman, but.....how did you get in here?"

"As luck would have it, I'm also Mrs. Bruce's repairman," Carl said. "Have been for the last several years. I told her that your stove needed looking at, so she unlocked your door for me. I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, that's okay," Courtney said, finally relaxing as she set her bags down. "I was just surprised, that's all. So what's wrong with it?"

"The stove? Nothing." Carl turned on the gas, lit a match, and the burner flared to life. "This is an older model without a pilot light. You have to turn on the gas and then light it with a match. Same thing with the oven. Just make sure you don't leave the gas on without lighting it, or you'll pickle yourself and everyone else in the house."

Courtney blinked. "Wow. You have to use a match? Like a...." She fished around in her human vocabulary for a suitable metaphor. "Like a campfire?"

"Sort of," Carl agreed, "but not as much work and nowhere near as messy. Want me to leave these here?"

"Sure," Courtney said, accepting the box of matches. "I guess I just wasn't expecting something so....so...."

"Primitive?" Carl suggested.

Courtney stared at him a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it exactly."

"Well, like I said, this is an older model," Carl replied, beginning to pack up his things. "But it'll work just fine. Do you cook?" he asked, nodding toward her bags of groceries.

"A few people have given me recipes, but almost everything has...." Courtney stopped, having been about to say almost everything has meat. They'd been taught to eat meat because most humans in this region of Earth did so, and she could stomach cooked meat in things like soup. But the thought of actually handling raw meat was....repulsive. "Almost everything has ingredients I'm not familiar with," she amended. "Guess I'm not much of a cook."

"I could teach you," Carl offered. "But first, I'd better make certain you can light your own stove. Why don't you give it a try while I'm still here. Turn on the gas first," he advised. "Then you won't find yourself holding a lit match while you try to work the dial."

Courtney obeyed, turning the dial as instructed before lighting the match and holding it gingerly to the flame. She couldn't ever remember working with an open flame; everything on Antar was either a different power source entirely or sealed and out of sight. "Is it supposed to be blue?" she asked. "I thought fire was yellow or orange."

"Pure gas flames are blue," Carl replied.

"Whatever the color, at least it works," Courtney said, pulling a can of tomato soup out of her bag. "It'll be good to have something hot for a change. I—" She stopped, suddenly realizing that she had no way to open the can. There hadn't been a can opener in Mrs. Bruce's pile of donated kitchen tools.

"No problem; I've got it," Carl said, fishing a tool out of his box.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" Courtney said, feeling stupid.

"Don't I wish," Carl smiled. "So, where are you from?"

Another part of the galaxy. "A long ways away," Courtney answered.

"Not as far as me, I bet."

"You might be surprised," Courtney noted.

"You might be too," Carl replied. "Dee tells me you've had a rough introduction to Roswell."

Courtney dropped her eyes. "You could say that."

"It'll pass. I got a rocky start here too."

"Oh, really? Did you come in on the heels of a murder?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Carl said, handing her the now open can of soup.

Courtney took the can, stunned. "You did? How? I mean....was it someone you knew?"

Carl snapped his toolbox shut. "It was a good friend of mind. He took a bullet for me."

"Oh," Courtney whispered, feeling horrible that she'd even raised the subject. At least Mark hadn't been anyone she'd known or cared about. "I'm so sorry. Look, I wasn't trying to be flippant, or anything, I just.....I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Carl said. "You didn't know."

"If you don't mind my asking," Courtney said as Carl headed for the door, "why are you still here? I mean, you said you were from far away, and I can't imagine you'd want to stay somewhere where....that happened."

Carl paused at the door and considered a moment. "I don't necessarily want to be here right now, but there are worse places, and....it's where I have to be. Some things are bigger than just what we want, you know?" He smiled faintly and shook his head. "That sounded corny, didn't it?"

"No," Courtney said quickly. "No, not at all. I know exactly what you mean. I...." She hesitated, phrasing her words carefully. "That's why I'm here now....kind of. I have something I need to do that's more important than what I want. I can't leave. Not yet."

"Me neither," Carl said. "Sounds like we have a lot in common. Anything else you need before I go? Besides a can opener, that is."

I need to find a Warder, Courtney thought, having half a mind to say it out loud, knowing Carl wouldn't have any idea what she was talking about. "No," she answered. "Nothing you could help me with. But thanks anyway."




******************************************************




6:00 p.m.

Columbia Medical Center, New York City




The elevator door opened, and virtually everyone who stepped out gave Steven a big smile as he stepped on. And no wonder—he was holding a bouquet of long stemmed red roses, a virtual walking advertisement for a date. Or a peace offering, he amended silently. Yvonne—or rather, Marie; he still privately though of her as Yvonne, even though he'd never admit that to her—had been noticeably cool to him ever since he'd made that comment about her hiding behind her pseudonym, probably because he was right. But right or not, bringing that to her attention mid-argument had been a poor choice. He had avoided the subject religiously these past two weeks, but she hadn't budged, so this was step one in what would hopefully be the beginnings of a thaw. Marie had called earlier and said she'd be working well into the night, and he knew how caught up she got in her work, how she wouldn't think to take a break, or eat, or do anything for herself. So he was bringing the break to her in the form of an offer to fetch dinner and eat it with her at the hospital wherever she wanted to.

But first he had to find out where she was. When the elevator doors opened, Claire was obviously in the process of packing up to go home, but still at her desk. Good; he'd made it in time. Claire could always find Marie faster than anyone.

"Good evening, Mr. Johnson," Claire said when she spied him. "What lovely flowers!"

"Thanks," Steven answered. "Could you tell me where I'd find Dr. Johnson now, or at least give me some options? I'd like to buy her dinner."

Having expected to be handed a list of possible places to find his wife, Steven was surprised when Claire looked blank. "Well....she's not here."

"I know that. She called earlier and said she'd be working late. She just didn't say where."

Claire glanced at another secretary, whose eyes flicked to Steven and then back to her typewriter. "Um....Mr. Johnson, I don't know exactly what Dr. Johnson told you, but....she's not here."

"I know that," Steven repeated patiently. "I just need—"

"No, I mean she's not here," Claire interrupted. "She's not at the medical center. She's not...." She paused, as if deciding whether to continue. "She's not even in the state."

"In the state?" Steven echoed. "Then where is she?"

Claire glanced around again; all the other secretaries were studiously pretending they weren't eavesdropping. "Come in here," Claire said, grabbing a set of keys and coming around the desk to unlock the door to Marie's office. Steven followed her in, mystified, and she closed the door behind them.

"Dr. Johnson left with Dr. Fenton early this afternoon," Claire explained. "He told me to cancel all of her appointments, and he left plane tickets for her. I don't know what it was about, but—"

"Where?" Stephen broke in, an icy wave of fear washing over him.

"Where what?" Claire said.

"Where were they going?" Stephen demanded. "Did she say, or did you see the tickets?"

"New Mexico," Claire answered. "The Santa Fe airport. I—"

"And then where? Where exactly were they headed?"

"I....I don't know," Claire answered, flustered. "I'm not Dr. Fenton's secretary—"

"Then who is?"

"Well...his office would be over at the hospital. But they won't tell you anything; Dr. Fenton is an attending in neurology—"

"He's going to be an attending in heaven if they don't tell me where he took my wife!" Stephen said angrily.

Claire paled. "Third floor, building five. But he didn't 'take her', Mr. Johnson. She left willingly. I can assure you that whatever they're doing, it's strictly professional—"

"And likely to get her professionally killed!" Steven snapped as Claire backed up in alarm. "Fenton has no idea who he's dealing with!"

"And....you do?" Claire ventured.

"Yes!" Steven said, ready to burst, he was so frightened and so furious. "Fenton's people are going to tell me where they were going, or I swear to God, I'll tear his office apart finding out."

"Calm down!" Claire begged. "If you go in there like this, your own security people will throw you out in a heartbeat. Did you...." She hesitated for a moment. "Did you mean what you said about her being killed, or are you just worried she's having an affair?"

Claire stiffened apprehensively as Steven took her by the shoulders. "Claire, believe me when I say that I would much rather she be having an affair. At least that way she'd be alive. Marie is quite possibly going to wind up tangling with someone who has already tried to kill her once and would gladly try again if he got the chance."

"Why?" Claire asked incredulously. "Why would anyone want to kill Dr. Johnson?"

"Because of what she knows," Steven said. "If she ever tells what she knows, this man and a lot of others will go down, and they know it. We argued about this two weeks ago. She thinks it's more important to expose him to the medical community so they can publicly censure what he's doing, but they won't be able to do that if he kills her first. Which he might very well end up doing, so tell me how I find out where Fenton took her!"

"Let me go," Claire said firmly.

It took a Herculean effort, but Steven relaxed his grip and Claire backed up, gazing at him wide-eyed. "All right," she said slowly. "This all sounds preposterous, but....but I know you, and I've never seen you like this. So something's going on, even though I'm not sure what. Let me get my coat, and I'll take you to Dr. Fenton's office. Maybe I can find out what you want to know. The secretaries will talk to me long before they'll talk to a crazy man with an even crazier story. Stay here," she instructed. "If anyone sees you like this, word will get around."

Steven sank into Marie's desk chair as Claire walked out, carefully closing the door behind her. She promised! he thought fiercely. She'd promised she wouldn't go anywhere near that "research" project without talking to him first. What was he going to do? He didn't have enough to call the police, and besides, he didn't know where to send them. Marie had accused him of wanting a hit man, and that's exactly what he needed right now: A professional, deadly assassin who could find Marie and protect her if Pierce was involved. Unfortunately, the only person he knew who fit that description was over a day away by car and not reachable by phone.....or was he?

A minute later, Steven was impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk as the phone at the Proctor's house rang and rang and rang. If anyone knew how to find John and Brivari, it would be the Proctors, but no one was home. "Damn it!" he swore, midway to slamming the phone into its cradle when he stopped, something else having occurred to him. It was a long shot and risky to boot, but at this point, he didn't have a lot of options.

"Eagle Rock," a voice said at the other end of the line after he'd dialed.

"I'm calling for Captain Thompson," Steven said.

"May I tell him who's calling?" the voice asked.

"Tell him I need him," Steven instructed. "Stress the word 'need'. He'll know who I am. Just do it," he continued firmly when the voice began to protest. "The captain won't be happy if you don't."

Silence. Steven waited what seemed like forever before he heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"Brian," Steven said, nearly collapsing with relief. "God, is it good to hear your voice!"

"Are you nuts?" Thompson whispered. "Calling the base like this is way too risky!"

"It's too risky not to," Steven argued. "Don't talk—just listen. Yvonne might be in trouble."




******************************************************



7 p.m.

Roswell



"Tell me again why I agreed to this?" Dee asked as a festival-goer ran past in a purple alien costume.

"I believe it had something to do with getting away from your mother," Anthony replied, setting Philip down to toddle around.

"It's a lot of fun if you go early," Malik said. "Before dark, it's more like your town's Independence Day festival. It's only after dark that it gets a little strange."

Dee shot him a skeptical look as they strolled across the field toward the Crash Festival, already well attended even though the night was young. It was also hot and promised to stay that way, the approaching sunset notwithstanding. From a distance she had to admit it was hard to tell this festival from any other; there were the usual food and game booths, along with the usual rides. One of those was a Ferris wheel, and Dee paused, watching it whirl around after doing the usual stop-and-go loading.

"Something wrong?" Malik asked.

"I took Urza on the Ferris wheel," Dee answered wistfully. "He loved it."

"I never knew Urza," Malik said. "Did you, Anthony?"

Anthony shook his head. "Nope. That was before my time. I heard about him, though. He took care of that bully who jumped Dee."

"By 'took care of', I assume you mean 'killed'?" Malik asked.

"Right," Dee said, only dimly remembering the coyote that had reared out of the darkness and buried its teeth in her attacker's throat. "I had a skull fracture, and Urza argued with the others that they had an obligation to use the healing stones on me. Something about the 'king's protection'."

"Royal Warders are supposed to offer protection to allies who have risked their lives in the service of the king," Malik said. "I'd certainly agree that was warranted in your case. So who didn't agree?"

"Who do you think?" Dee said. "Jaddo said no, Brivari was on the fence, and Valeris sided with Urza."

"And now I bet both Brivari and Jaddo are very glad Urza made a fuss," Malik smiled. "Urza was widely regarded as a pushover, but I never believed that. Warders aren't made Warders lightly."

"Is it legal to have a real alien discussion at the Crash Festival?" Anthony asked innocently.

"Oh, hush," Dee said with mock annoyance as Malik broke into a laugh. "It may be legal, but it's probably not very smart. Especially with him hanging around."

They had reached the outskirts of the festival, and who should be patrolling this particular spot but Sheriff Valenti himself. "Hello again, Mrs. Evans," Valenti said. "Second time today. Mr. Evans, good to see you. You too, Carl," he added, using Malik's human name. "Love the work you did on the plumbing at the station."

*I'd love to tell him he's actually talking to an alien,* Dee said privately to Malik.

*Steady, there,* Malik said calmly. "Thanks," he said out loud to Valenti. "Any time."

"So how's the little mister enjoying the festival?" Valenti asked watching Philip run gleefully around the wide open space.

"So far, so good," Anthony said. "Carl tells us the real....er....enthusiasts don't come out till after dark."

" 'Enthusiasts'?" Valenti chuckled. "You're too kind. But after dark is when they crash the spaceship, or whatever they've rigged up that passes for a spaceship. That's also when the beer's been flowing freely and all the fights begin. If I were you, I'd leave before that. It can get a little wild."

"We won't be here that long," Anthony promised him. "Hope your night goes well."

"So do I," Valenti said. "Have a good time."

"What did he mean by 'second time today'?" Anthony asked as they left Valenti behind.

"I went to see him earlier," Dee said, picking a dandelion and handing it to Phillip. "He's been bothering Courtney even though I know he doesn't have anything on her. She wasn't even in the state when that guy she was going to move in with was murdered."

"Valenti's always been rather intense," Anthony said. "It may just take him a little while longer to give it up."

"I wouldn't worry about Courtney," Malik added. "I met her today, and she doesn't strike me as the easily intimidated type."

"What was wrong with her stove?" Dee asked.

"Nothing. It's an older model without a starter, so you have to use a match to light it, and she didn't know that."

"I can't believe she hasn't been able to heat food for two weeks and hasn't said anything," Dee said.

"She's no whiner, that's for certain," Malik said. "She said she came here to do something important, and she intends to stay until it's finished."

Dee stopped suddenly, letting Anthony and Philip wander ahead. *She said that? What do you think she meant?*

*I have no idea,* Malik replied. *Why?*

Dee waved to Philip, who was now busily plucking more dandelions and holding them up for his mother's inspection. *Valenti told me the reason he's watching Courtney is that the guy she was going to stay with died under 'suspicious circumstances'.*

*Meaning?*

*He wouldn't say. But he also said he thinks she's lying about something, and as much as he can be a pain in the rear, we both know he has a nose for that.*

*Yes, he does,* Malik agreed. *But just because she doesn't want to spill her guts to the sheriff doesn't mean she's up to something illegal.*

*I know, but....*

*But what?*

Dee hesitated before plunging ahead. *But we both know Valenti won't back off, and I want to find out what's up with Courtney before he does. Do you think you could get her to tell you?*

*You want me to spy on her?* Malik asked. *Isn't that what Valenti's doing that's got you all up in arms?*

*Not 'spy', exactly, just nose around a little,* Dee said impatiently.

*Why me? You see her more than I do.*

*But she never told me that,* Dee countered. *I don't want you to tie her to a chair in a dark room with a bare light bulb, I just want you to probe a little bit. How can that hurt?*

*Never use the word 'probe' with an alien,* Malik deadpanned. *All right,* he added hurriedly as Dee's eyes narrowed. *I'll be here all night, so I'll keep an eye out for her; most of the town comes out for this, so she might be here at some point. If not, you'll have to find something else that's broken so I have an excuse to visit again.*

Dee blinked. *You stay for the entire festival?*

*I love this festival,* Malik said. *I look forward to it every year.*

*What for? I would think you'd avoid it like the plague.*

*Look around you,* Malik said as they started walking again, catching up to Anthony and Philip, who was eyeing the Kiddie Whip. *Most people are terrified of the very notion of aliens. But this actually celebrates our arrival, albeit in a rather back-handed way.*

*Gee, and I thought it was all just an excuse to lure tourists and make money,* Dee said dryly. *Malik, most of these people would drop to their knees and scream if they met a real alien. You know that.*

*But a number of them wouldn't,* Malik countered. *I don't mean those,* he added as a group of alien-costumed teenagers trundled by speaking in tongues. *I mean the ones who come out later with all their equipment and scan the sky to see if they can find evidence of aliens listening. Those are the types who are actually excited about the idea that they're not alone in the universe.*

*You mean weirdoes,* Dee said.

*Maybe,* Malik allowed. *But with all the fear that runs through your culture about life on other planets, it's a treat to see those who aren't sucked in by it. Say what you want about the weirdoes, but even you have to admit they're right. Which means you have something in common with weirdoes.*

*I'm starting to think you're a weirdo,* Dee grumbled, rolling her eyes when he laughed at her.




******************************************************



Three hours later




"And here we are!" the bus driver announced cheerfully. "Buses will be running back and forth from the festival site to downtown Roswell every twenty minutes until 2 a.m. Catch an alien!"

Why did I come here? Courtney thought as she rose in unison with the rest of the passengers, many of whom were wearing some kind of costume. Oh, yes—because virtually the entire town was going, leaving the streets empty and her rooming house eerily quiet. This was actually one of the later waves to leave, and it boasted a higher percentage of hard core alien aficionados. Along with the costumed revelers were several humans toting radios or other paraphernalia; she'd spent the bus ride listening to an earnest conversation directly behind her about how best to contact the aliens on Alpha Centari. It was hard to believe the chatterers believed their primitive radio would contact anyone across town, never mind the galaxy, but it was also hard not to get caught up in the general level of excitement, silly expectations notwithstanding.

"No costume?" the bus driver asked Courtney as she filed past on the way out.

"Nope," she smiled, adding privately, I'm already wearing mine. Once she stepped off the bus, it was even worse; easily 90% of the festival goers were dressed as some sort of alien, or what they thought was an alien, with most of the remaining 10% hauling equipment. The equipment toters headed for a field beyond the festival while the rest made a beeline for one of the food and alcohol vendors, of which there seemed an endless supply. Dazzled, Courtney wandered the aisles of booths, basking in the irony of being an alien costumed as a human among humans costumed as aliens. And such colorful aliens too, of every hue imaginable and sporting appendages she'd never seen anywhere before, from extra heads to tentacles to one with an alarming number of eyes. Still, there were enough that bore more than a passing resemblance to an Antarian that it was clear that some kind of information about the real crash had leaked out. The principle disagreement seemed to be color: Green seemed to be the winner, with only a handful correctly colored gray. Just as well, she thought. The last thing she needed was to run into a genuine facsimile of what she looked like without her husk.

Then, rounding a corner into the next aisle of booths, she did just that. It was a group of children, judging by the height, and whoever had dressed them had done their homework: Gray skin, slanted eyes, large hands. She stopped short, her breath catching in her throat as she was overcome by a wave of homesickness. There were about fifteen of them, and for just a moment, if she focused only on that group, she could almost believe she was back home.....

....until one of them slipped his mask off, revealing a human boy of about ten underneath. "You okay, lady?" he asked.

"Sure," Courtney answered, startled. "I....you....those are neat costumes."

"Thanks!" the boy said enthusiastically as the rest of his group pulled their masks off as well and beamed at her. "We tried really hard to get it right."

"You did a good job," Courtney said sincerely.

Suddenly she was surrounded by grateful pseudo aliens, all about her real height. "Can you believe all the garbage out there?" one of them said. "Everybody thinks aliens are green, but Mr. Brazel said they weren't green on the radio."

"Who's Mr. Brazel?" Courtney asked.

"Mac Brazel," another boy piped up. "He discovered the aliens' ship out on Pohlman Ranch, and he went on the radio and said they weren't green. Before the Army got'im, that is."

...discovered the aliens' ship... "Is this Mr. Brazel still here?" Courtney asked casually.

"Sure," the first boy said. "He lives in Corona. But he won't talk about it. Everybody tries to get'im to talk about it, but he clammed up a long time ago."

"Well, you boys did a great job," Courtney said. "You're very observant. Keep up the good work."

"You hear that? She said we're observant!" crowed one of the boys as they pulled their masks back on and sauntered off into the night, resplendent in their superiority. Courtney watched them leave, unable to believe that she'd hit paydirt within just a few minutes of her arrival. That was the real reason she'd come here, in the hopes that she would learn something that might point the way to the Warders. She'd spent the afternoon after the repairman had left pondering how to go about her mission. How did one find a dangerous being who was expert at not being found? Did you take out an ad in the local newspaper, or send up a flare, or stand in the middle of the street and shout their names? It was well known that the Warders had had allies here, but exactly who or where they were had never been shared, and there was no way of telling if they were even still in this area. But the man who had discovered the Warders' ship was still here, and if he was still "clammed up", it would be her task to....unclam him. At least it was a place to start, something she'd been lacking only five minutes ago.

A roar from the crowd made her turn. Lights on tall poles had just popped on, illuminating a huge saucer-shaped object toward the top of one of the poles. It's a cargo ship, Courtney thought wonderingly as she stared at the crude but still recognizable reconstruction of an Antarian cargo ship, a rather old model if she remembered rightly. The Warders had wisely fled Antar aboard a vessel which wouldn't have raised any alarms until it was too late to do anything, and apparently enough humans had seen it that its basic outline had seeped into their lore.

"They'll crash the ship in about twenty minutes," a voice said behind her.

Courtney turned around. "Carl! I didn't expect to see you here."

"Dee was here too, a bit earlier," Carl said. "They had to take the baby home. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have offered to join you."

"Oh....well, I wasn't coming," Courtney answered. "Not originally. I just decided to come when I saw almost everyone in town going. It was kind of weird having it so quiet back in town."

"I thought maybe you weren't coming because you were working on your big task," Carl said.

" 'Big task'?"

"You know, you said you had something really important to do here, and you wouldn't leave until it was finished. That task."

"Oh, that," Courtney said. "I did make a little headway with that. Not much, but it's better than nothing."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can find someone who doesn't want to be found," Courtney said.

"Actually, I have quite a bit of experience with that," Carl said.

"Wow," Courtney said dryly. "You fix things, you cook, and you find the unfindable. Is there anything you don't do?"

"Lots of things," Carl smiled, pulling her back a bit further as the crowd surged forward, growing more excited by the minute. "But seriously, why doesn't this someone want to be found?"

"We're having a bit of a....disagreement," Courtney answered, mentally tagging that as something of an understatement.

"Ah. A family feud?"

"Something like that." The crowd roared as lights on the "spaceship" flicked on, producing a glowing saucer. "I probably shouldn't have come here," Courtney said. "I still don't understand the point of celebrating an accident."

"That's a popular misconception," Carl replied. "They're not celebrating the crash—they're celebrating the idea that they're not alone in the universe."

"Aren't you the optimist," Courtney chuckled. "What makes you think that?"

Carl shrugged. "People love to dream, and they're fascinated with the notion of other worlds out there, other species. The crash taught them that they're not alone, and even though that scared a lot of them, it fired their imaginations more than you might think."

"So you think the crash was real?" Courtney asked. "You believe in aliens? What?" she added defensively as Carl broke into a laugh. "I may be new here, but I've heard the chatter around town. Everyone's divided into one of two camps: Believers or non-believers. Which one are you?"

"A believer," Carl smiled. "Definitely a believer."

"So....what would you do if you actually met an alien?" Courtney asked, fully expecting Carl to burst out laughing all over again.

But he didn't. "I guess the first thing I'd do is ask what they're doing here," he answered, sounding absolutely serious.

"You mean you wouldn't call the police, or the military? Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't just take it for granted that they were here for some awful purpose," Carl answered. "Honestly, all these stories about aliens coming here to eat us, or take over the Earth, or whatever. If that's what they're up to, they're taking an awful long time about it, don't you think?"

"Then why do you think their ship crashed?"

"Who knows? Maybe it really was just an accident. God knows we have enough of those here that we ought to be able to wrap our heads around that."

"Yeah," Courtney murmured, a dangerous thought forming in her mind. Amid the costumed crowd with a glowing recreation of a ship from her world blazing above her, the loneliness of the last two weeks suddenly seemed unbearable. She had only just left the safe, structured community near their ship that was used to train operatives before being thrust into a situation she wasn't prepared for. It would be so wonderful to have someone who knew, someone to share her secret. Maybe she could test the waters, maybe say she was an alien and then act like it was all a big joke if he panicked....

"Carl," she said carefully, "I have something to tell you."

"What's that?" he asked, his eyes on the ship.

"I....." Courtney stopped, looking not at Carl, but past him. A few feet away stood a man wearing the uniform of a soldier....and he was staring straight at her.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 12 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

God, I finally have a positive ID on one of the future shapeshifters and you go and do this to me!!!!!

Just pointing out that we still have 2 applicants for 1 position. But it's settled in this book, so you'll know by the end of it.

You really loves ya some irony, don'tcha! Me likee, too -- the above example, and many others. Great stuff!

Thank you! I adore irony. There's so much irony here, I have to be careful not to overdo it.

It's well that she was played by "Liz" in the series, because she has that character's certainty that she's the only "noble" person in the universe, the only one who has the grit to do what's right. The only one naive enough to think it can be that simple.

An excellent comparison, and I'm betting Steven would agree with you about the "naive enough to think it can be that simple part". Assuming he's calmed down enough to be coherent, that is.





CHAPTER TWELVE


July 2, 1959, 10:20 p.m.

Roswell



Courtney's words caught in her throat as she stared at the soldier, whose eyes appeared to be locked on hers. Oh, no! she thought frantically, gripped by a sudden panic that she'd been identified. What had she been thinking, about to blurt out her secret within miles of the very military base where Jaddo had been held captive? The tales of what had happened to him during his years of captivity were now legendary among her people, all of whom she knew would break the seals on their own husks before allowing themselves to be captured.

"Something wrong?" Carl asked.

"That soldier," Courtney whispered. "He's looking at me. Why is he doing that?"

Carl swung his head around. The soldier's eyes widened and he came closer as Courtney instinctively backed away. "It's you!" the soldier exclaimed. "What are the odds I'd recognize you?"

It took a moment for Courtney to process that the object of the soldier's interest had been Carl, not herself. And they apparently knew each other, because both worse expressions of shocked recognition. "You're looking for me?" Carl asked, his voice tense, his easygoing manner gone. "Why?"

"I was looking for someone else, but you're even better," the soldier said. "I got a call from the captain. He thinks she may have found Pierce. How do I find them?"

"Pierce!" Carl breathed. "Good Lord. Come with me," he ordered, the soldier immediately falling in step behind him as though Carl were his commanding officer.

"Wait!" Courtney called as they began to push their way through the crowd. "What's wrong?"

"Courtney....I'm sorry," Carl said as though he'd quite forgotten she was there. "I have to go now. This is important."

"Can I help?" Courtney asked, struggling to keep up with them as they threaded their way through the masses.

"You can't," Carl said shortly, all business now. "They never come to this," he added to the soldier, "so we'll have to—wait. Over there!"

Courtney scrambled after Carl and the soldier as they broke into a run, jogging to keep up with them. The bulk of the crowd was gathered around the ship, so it was less congested back here, enough so that she was able to spot two familiar faces they appeared to be aiming for—her customers from the diner, Mr. Langley and Mr. Anderson.




******************************************************




William Atherton strolled through the festival grounds, drinking in the sights and sounds of the bacchanalia in progress all around him. He never felt more alive than when he was undercover, and the orgy in which he now found himself in the midst of only accentuated that feeling. Part of that was due to the odd choice he'd made when he'd decided to craft two different personas. Most people would have married their real face to their real name and their disguise to their pseudonym. But he had done the opposite, pairing his disguise with his true identity, the one who actually existed in the eyes of the Internal Revenue Service, and his real face with his many and varied alter egos. The idea had come to him after his publisher had asked for many changes in the first draft of his book, calling it "too scholarly", "too frightening", and "unsellable". Infuriating, but correct, and after a great deal of thought, he'd made a fateful decision: Since no one wanted to talk to an "alienologist", he would give them someone else to talk to....but there was still that nagging problem of funding. So he'd revised his manuscript to reflect what people wanted to hear and his physical appearance to match. His publisher had been delighted with the manuscript but alarmed at his new image, telling him he looked like a crackpot. Precisely the point, Atherton had agreed, having spent a great deal of time crafting an easily wearable disguise. Unable to use the photograph they'd had taken before his change of heart and unwilling to run one of him in his new incarnation, his publisher had simply left it off the dust jacket while still pressuring him to "clean up". That issue had fallen away as his book sold handily—publishers didn't care what you looked like as long as you made them money—and the resulting revenue had funded more research than he'd ever been able to do, all while wearing his real face and feigning membership in professions which would open those doors previously closed to him. The gambit had worked flawlessly for several years now; his ridiculous book sold enough copies to allow him the comfortable pursuit of his real interest, that of making actual contact with alien life.

"I can't believe I allowed you to convince me to accompany you here," a voice said beside him.

"Oh, come now, Langley," Atherton said cheerfully. "I see through you better than you think. You're bored, bored, bored. You're used to an exciting life guarding whoever it is you guard, probably lots of travel, lots of politics, or at least intrigue, and now that you're on vacation, you simply don't know what to do with yourself. Am I right?"

Langley merely smiled faintly, one of his standard answers for just about any query. He was an enigma, this one; highly trained, highly intelligent, supremely observant, and unfailingly discreet about both Atherton's identity and his own. While the former was much appreciated, the latter was maddening; after two weeks of daily breakfasts, Atherton knew nothing more about his new friend than he had when they'd first met, including his first name. Langley kept things very close to the vest. But that was probably a necessity, him being in security and all. Secret Service agents probably didn't go around blabbing their business when they were on holiday either.

"I love this festival," Atherton declared. "This was the way man was intended to celebrate, with joy, and verve, and absolute abandon. They way we used to celebrate, before the Church got hold of us and made us all sit quietly in pews and sing dreary songs that would bore the dead."

"I gather you're not a spiritual man?" Langley asked.

"On the contrary, my friend, I am very spiritual," Atherton answered. "I have a deep and abiding faith in a higher power. But faith and religion are two different things, you see. Faith is a mindset, a belief; religion is really just a flawed institution invented by man and suffering from all of mankind's foibles."

"Such as?"

"Such as the endless quest for power," Atherton replied. "Did you know that the sacrament of confession in the Catholic Church was invented by a priest who wanted to keep tabs on his parishioners? He claimed they had to confess their sins to him in order to obtain God's forgiveness."

"A novel way of gathering intelligence," Langley said.

"And a very efficient way," Atherton agreed. "Withhold salvation from a man, and he will do anything to retrieve it. The Church was not long in noting this priest's idea. Before long, confession moved from a private practice in one parish to a sacrament of the Church, when all it really is a quest for control. Few Catholics recognize the contradiction in the Church's own teaching: It claims that Jesus Christ died on the cross specifically to earn the forgiveness which man could not earn for himself, then turns around and says that man can earn forgiveness by jumping through their hoops. If Christ's death secured forgiveness, then why is more needed? Was His death not sufficient? Is the Church saying that Christ botched the job?"

"I would imagine such viewpoints are not welcome in certain circles," Langley observed.

"Oh, you can bet they aren't," Atherton huffed. "Pin them to the wall about it, and they say the specter of confession is necessary to induce a man to control his behavior."

"It would be difficult to argue that self control is not an admirable goal," Langley said dryly as a festival goer pitched himself over the edge of a nearby trash can and proceeded to dispose of the contents of his stomach.

"It's not 'self control' they're after, it's their control," Atherton argued passionately. " 'Self control' is just that—control of one's self by one's own means and volition, not coercion from without. One cannot force self control without canceling out the 'self' part and turning it into something else entirely."

"I swear I've never met anyone who can belabor a point the way you can," Langley chuckled.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Atherton smiled, "especially as I notice you've offered no counter argument. But my real point is that revelries such as this are necessary to the human psyche, part and parcel of who we are. Socially acceptable outlets for this aspect of our natures allow us to 'blow off steam', as it were, and render us more sober in other situations. Trying to remove or repress our natural tendency to celebrate and occasionally overindulge is silly; better to channel it, to give it a place to be, allow it to expand our possibilities. Take this, for example," he continued, making a sweeping gesture than encompassed the festival grounds. "What I see here is not inebriated revelers vomiting in trash cans. Oh, there are those, of course, and always will be; some always operate at the extremes. No, what I see here is hope—hope that something is out there heretofore undiscovered. That new horizons await, that new truths are waiting to be found. This is a celebration of what we don't know, of what remains to be discovered. What do you see, Langley?"

Langley threw him a look that was equal parts skepticism and amusement before answering. "I see several hundred people, most of whom are in various states of inebriation and many of whom are costumed as what they fear. I see a crudely built 'spaceship' festooned with electric lights that will break when it is 'crashed' in a short while, upon which everyone in attendance will cheer as though disaster was something to be celebrated. While I admit the presence of a few who are genuinely curious and open to the undiscovered, the vast majority of those here would promptly panic were they to encounter an actual being from another planet."

"Such a cynic," Atherton sighed, shaking his head. "May I ask what's jaded you so thoroughly?"

"I'm afraid you wouldn't live long enough to hear that list," Langley replied. "Although...." He stopped, his head swinging sharply away as though he'd just heard something of note. Then he took off, and Atherton scurried to follow, wondering what had happened; no one had approached them, spoken to them, or hailed them in any way. A moment later he found himself standing in front of a very odd group: An Army captain, an unidentified man, and their waitress from the diner. No one spoke; Langley and the strange man merely looked at one another while the captain watched intently.

"Is.....something wrong?" Atherton ventured.

"I must leave," Langley said suddenly to Atherton. "My apologies for the abrupt departure. I will contact you when I return."

And then he was gone, hurrying through the crowd with the captain and the strange man behind him. Does he work for the military? Atherton wondered, noting how the captain conceded the lead to Langley. If so, it was no wonder he was so closed off about his profession; with the cold war and the arms race in full swing, America needed every advantage it could muster.

"It's Miss Harris, isn't it?" Atherton asked the befuddled waitress, who appeared every bit as confused as he was.

"Right," she answered. "Do you know what's going on, Mr. Anderson?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Atherton said.

"Well, I was just talking to Carl, and then that officer appeared out of nowhere and said they'd 'found' somebody....and then they just took off. I don't know what Mr. Langley has to do with it, though. Or Carl, for that matter."

"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mr. Langley has quite a bit do with whatever 'it' is," Atherton said confidently. "He says he's on vacation, but I doubt that one is ever really on vacation. So...I thought you told me this morning you weren't coming tonight?"

Before she could answer, a roar rose from the crowd in front of them, and the saucer suspended above began to move. It slid down the wire it was attached to, slowly at first, then faster and faster, hitting the ground with a spectacular noise that drove the crowd into an even bigger frenzy.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have," the waitress whispered, gazing sadly at the crashed "spaceship".

"Nonsense," Atherton scoffed. "Honestly, there's so much negativity here tonight! First Langley, now you....and here everyone else is having so much fun. Come with me, dear," he instructed, extending his arm, "and let me show you why this is a celebration, not a funeral."






******************************************************




July 3, 1959, 9:00 a.m.

Cook residence, Roswell




Jim Valenti pulled his cruiser into the Cook's driveway and shut off the engine. The Crash Festival had gone well last night, with deputies breaking up several altercations before they escalated and no shortage of cells and buckets for the inevitable drunk and disorderly. Today was Friday; Hollywood roared into town on Monday, giving him a few days to breathe.....and clean up some unfinished business. He'd given a lot of thought as to how to approach his former fellow deputy, ultimately nixing the plainclothes and regular car for his uniform and cruiser. Jake was a bit on the thick side; some visual cues were definitely in order.

Jake answered the door promptly, beer in hand. "Jim!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "Come on in. Haven't seen you in ages, but I hear our boys our hanging together."

"Yes, they are," Valenti agreed, removing his hat as he stepped inside. "Got a minute?"

"Sure, sure," Jake said, gesturing inside. "Make yourself comfortable. Want a beer?"

"No thanks. I'm on duty."

"Since when did that stop you?" Jake chuckled. "Just kidding," he added as Valenti's eyebrows rose. "I know, I know, you weren't on duty, and it was just that once. But it was a spectacular once, wasn't it?"

Valenti settled himself in a kitchen chair, regretting having spent so much time debating how to broach the subject at hand when Jake had gone and done it for him within thirty seconds of his arrival. "About that; I understand you've been telling your son tales, which have in turn found their way to my son."

" 'Tales'?" Jake repeated, leaning against the fridge. "What, you mean like lies? I haven't told Tommy a blessed thing that isn't true."

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "But you have told Tommy a blessed thing you shouldn't have. That's why I'm here."

Jake stared at him blankly for a moment before his face split into a wide smile. "Oh, I see. This is about that spectacular 'once' back in '47, isn't it? That little alien incident?"

"Funny," Valenti said, "there's no report involving me in an 'alien incident' in '47, or any other year."

"Of course not," Jake said. "Hemming sat on that report. You know that." He paused, noting the look on Valenti's face. "You're sore, aren't you? You're sore that your kid found out what happened. Jesus, Jim, that was more than a decade ago! Besides, our own guys found you, so I'm not the only one who knows you were passed out in your car with a bunch of empty beer bottles in the back."

"No, you're just the only one shooting your mouth off," Valenti said flatly.

"And then you turned around and said an alien set you up," Jake continued, shaking his head and chuckling. "Now, frankly, I thought that was drop dead brilliant of you. I mean, the whole damned county was going nuts over aliens, so that put you right in line with everyone else who thought they saw an alien behind every bush. Not surprised Hemming didn't buy it, though, although I was a little surprised he went so far as to transfer you to the county station. I thought that was a bit much—"

"Sheriff Hemming loaned several deputies to the county sheriff from '47 all the way through 1950," Valenti interrupted. "It wasn't just me. And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop spreading stories around."

"Aw, what's the matter, Jim?" Jake said with that maddening smile as he dropped into a seat across from him. "You worried? Afraid the town council is going to find out their sheriff had a few beers years ago and hallucinated some aliens? So what? You're certainly not the first deputy to tie one on in his off hours. Hell, half the council probably ties one on when they go home at night."

"It's not the council I'm worried about," Valenti said. "Their opinion of me is largely shaped by public perception, and what kind of perception is that going to be if your kid is going around repeating that story and calling me 'Deputy Martian'?"

"You're right," Jake said with mock dismay. "It should be Sheriff Martian. So let me get this straight—you came over to my house all gussied up in your uniform and your shiny badge because you're worried about your reputation? What are you going to do, sheriff? Call my mommy? Throw me in the slammer for name-calling? These things have a way of getting out, Valenti. Give it up."

Valenti leaned back in his chair, his arms folded in front of him as Jake smirked at him across the kitchen table. "I'm surprised to hear this attitude from you," he said mildly, "given that Hemming 'sat on' a few other things in his time."

The smile slid off Jake's face. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I took a walk through the personnel files. I always wondered why you suddenly up and decided to go into construction."

"What the hell are you doing, poking your nose where it doesn't belong?" Jake demanded. "Hemming told me he sealed those records!"

"Oh, he did," Valenti said. "Mighty nice of him, if you ask me, because being fired for frequent insubordination and a drinking problem would have made it hard for you to find just about any kind of work. And I'm not poking my nose where it doesn't belong. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the sheriff now. Which means that all personnel records are available to me, including those that were sealed."

"Including your own drinking spree, Deputy Martian?" Jake said sharply.

Valenti smiled faintly. "No; no, I'm afraid not that one. You see, Hemming didn't merely 'sit on' that report—he tore it up. It doesn't exist, so there was nothing to seal, nothing to find. But you.....oh, yes, you have something to find."

Jake's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me? You have no authority to blab about my dismissal to anyone, and you know it!"

"So it was a dismissal."

"No!" Jake retorted. "I quit! That's what went in the official report, and that's all you have any business telling anyone!"

"Oh, absolutely, absolutely," Valenti agreed. "But you said yourself how these things have a way of getting out. And I'd hate for this to get out. Wouldn't you?"

Silence. Jake glared at him across the table while Valenti kept his expression neutral. "You blab that," Jake said, his voice tight, "and I could lose my job."

"You keep blabbing about 'Deputy Martian', and I could lose my job," Valenti noted.

"I've got a wife and kid to support!" Jake thundered.

"What do you know?" Valenti said, feigning surprise. "So do I. Since we both know each others' secrets, and we both have families to protect, I suggest we both keep our mouths shut."

"You're blackmailing me!" Jake exclaimed, springing to his feet. "I can't believe it, you little shit, you're blackmailing me!"

"Or you're blackmailing me," Valenti said deliberately. "Which is exactly what I'm going to say if you ever breathe a syllable of this conversation to another living soul. I've got records to back up my claims, Jake. How about you?"

Jake glared at him furiously while Valenti watched calmly, his own temper firmly under wraps. It had been a given that Jake was going to lose his; no sense in both of them going off the deep end. Jake was a master braggart and bully, but he did seem to know when he was cornered. Which is how former Sheriff Hemming had managed to convince him to bow out gracefully instead of being fired, and why Valenti was hoping this gambit would work.

Which it apparently had. Jake sank back into his chair, scowling but cowed. "Fine," he said flatly. "I stop telling my story, and you don't tell yours. Although, frankly, I should be able to haul your ass into court for going into sealed records. But you'd never let it be tracked back to you, would you?"

"Not a chance," Valenti agreed, rising from his chair and donning his hat. "I'm so glad we came to an understanding, Jake. Good to see you again."

"Like hell it was," Jake muttered. "I don't remember you being such a ball buster, Jim. Where'd you learn to play dirty?"

"From the aliens," Valenti said seriously. "Catch you later."

"So where'd they go?" Jake called after him. "I haven't heard anything about aliens from you since the forties. Did you give up on them, Sheriff Martian?"

Valenti bit back a retort and left Jake's question hanging in the air as he walked out the front door and closed it quietly behind him. Even if Jake wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut, there was at least a fighting chance that nickname wouldn't stick anyway. There hadn't been so much as a whiff of anything alien in the past decade; after the drama in the late forties, the aliens appeared to have vanished, and that suited Valenti just fine. There'd be no complaint from him if that chapter in his life was closed forever.




******************************************************




11:45 a.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



"Up you go!" Dee said to Philip as she lifted him into the booth and fished in her purse for a box of crayons. A minute later he was scribbling away on the back of a paper placemat, unfazed by the chattering lunch crowd and the people who stopped to admire him on their way in and out. Philip had been taken so many places in his young life that travel was just business as usual. He'd probably die of boredom stuck in the house all day.

"Morning."

"Hi, Courtney," Dee said. "Wow—you're way ahead of me."

"Coffee for you, apple juice for Philip, right?" Courtney said, setting down the glasses. "Missed you at the festival last night."

"You went? Anthony and I left pretty early. It's not a favorite of mine anyway."

"Me neither," Courtney agreed. "But I did learn some interesting stuff. For example, the man who discovered the aliens' ship is still living here. Someone named 'Mac Brazel'. Do you know him?"

Dee smiled faintly at Courtney's earnest expression. Mac had long since grown weary of being inundated by tourists during the Crash Festival, and had adopted the habit of vacationing during the two weeks surrounding it. He and Rose had reportedly entertained the notion of disappearing for the entire summer tourist season, but the thought of leaving his house unattended while alien seekers beat a path to his door was less than appealing. Even her own family had been feeling the pressure as those alien seekers had developed the habit of knocking on other doors if the Brazels didn't happen to be home. Summer was a busy time on Baldwin Street.

"Everyone around here knows Mac," Dee answered. "He goes out of town this time of year because so many people bother him."

"Oh," Courtney said, disappointed. "I was hoping I could talk to him about what he saw."

"You and a million other people," Dee said dryly. "Mac doesn't talk about it, so you'd be wasting your time."

"Then could I go out to that ranch where he found the ship?"

"Depends on whether or not you'd like to get arrested," Dee said. "The government bought that land soon after the crash. It's all fenced off, although I hear lots of people try it."

"So who does the arresting? Sheriff Valenti?"

"No, that would be the United States Army," Dee said. "And my experience is that you don't want to mess with them."

Courtney's eyes widened. "You've had experience with the Army?"

A bit, Dee thought, a rush of memories flooding over her. That hot summer morning when she'd wormed her way into Mac's truck and begged him to take her out to the ranch so she could look for evidence of the "falling star" she'd seen the night before. Running through the throng of soldiers after the ship was discovered, desperately hoping the exhausted Warder inside would be able to shield her from their view long enough for her to reach her father. The night the hunters had come for Brivari, and Cavitt arriving only a short time afterward. The nurse who had cared for Jaddo and what they'd done to her. And Cavitt kidnapping her mother, trying to squirrel her away at the base before being stopped at the last minute by Captain Spade and Valenti, who had followed his trail as relentlessly as any hound dogs. She hadn't thought about any of this in a very long time, but it still lingered just beneath the surface. Even the sight of a military uniform made her skin crawl.

"The Army was all over this area for the first few years after the crash," Dee said. "That's why a lot of people think they're lying about it being a weather balloon. That and the fact they said it was a spaceship and then changed their minds."

"So what do you think?"

"I think it's quite possible an alien ship crashed here," Dee said casually, having answered this question so many times that she could hold this conversation in her sleep. As soon as anyone found out you'd been in the Roswell area in the late forties, the interrogation inevitably began.

"You grew up here, right?" Courtney asked. "Did you see anything when all that happened?"

"Nope," Dee said lightly. "Other than a whole lot of scared people, that is."

"But you still think a ship crashed?"

"I think something happened," Dee corrected. "The Army's interest means something happened. Whether or not it had anything to do with aliens, I don't know. I do know they were very hard on Mac back in the day, which is why I said don't mess with them."

Courtney shook her head as she pulled her order pad out of her uniform pocket. "I have to tell you, I was seriously freaked out when that officer showed up last night. But it turned out he just wanted to talk to Carl."

"Officer?" Dee echoed. "Wait—you saw Carl?"

"I ran into Carl last night at the festival," Courtney said, "and just a few minutes later, this officer comes up and says something to Carl, and then Carl just....took off. He said he had to leave, that he had something important to do."

"Like what?" Dee asked warily.

"Don't know. But he took off through the crowd and wound up hooking up with Mr. Langley, and then they both disappeared. I spent the rest of the evening with Mr. Anderson, Mr. Langley's friend. He's quite a character," Courtney added with a chuckle. "I've never met anyone with such an optimistic view of just about everything."

Dee's mind raced, uncertain as to which part of this extraordinary announcement to address first. Malik and Brivari had been approached by an Army officer, and left to do something important? Brivari had attended the Crash Festival? Brivari had a friend? "Okay," she said slowly, trying to prioritize but ultimately settling on the most startling part of Courtney's news. "First, of all, who is 'Mr. Anderson', and why do you think he's Mr. Langley's friend?"

"He's right over there," Courtney said, pointing. Dee twisted around to see an unfamiliar middle-aged man sitting alone in a booth a few down from hers. "They've been eating breakfast together every morning for the past couple of weeks now, and they were at the festival together last night."

"They have? They were?" Dee repeated, stunned. Then she turned back around, shaking off the distraction of Brivari actually having a social life. "This is important: Do you remember exactly what the officer said to Carl?"

"Sure," Courtney said. "I remember everything I hear. He seemed surprised to see Carl there, and then he said, 'I got a call from the captain', and 'he thinks she may have found Pierce. How do I find them?' "

Dee's throat constricted. "And then what?"

"And then Carl took off with the soldier and me following him," Courtney said. "He found Mr. Langley, and then the three of them left, and I spent the rest of the night with Mr. Anderson." She paused, looking at Dee curiously. "Do you know what that's all about?"

Oh my God, Dee thought, her stomach twisting in knots. "No," she said, flustered. "I....I don't."

"Oh. Well, Mr. Anderson doesn't either. He's been waiting all morning, but Mr. Langley hasn't shown up, so whatever needed doing, they must still be doing it." She flipped her pad open as another waitress walked by and gave her a strange look, probably wondering why she was standing there gabbing. "What would you like this morning?"

"Nothing," Dee said, reaching into her purse and pulling out some coins. "This is for the drinks. I have to go."

"Why?"

"I just remembered something I have to do at home," Dee said hurriedly, coaxing the crayons out of Philip's hands and folding up his picture to take with her. "Sorry to run. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Sure," Courtney said faintly as Dee practically charged out of the diner with her son on her hip. Anthony would be busy with the observatory, so she'd have to bum a ride, but that was the easy part. The hard part was how the past had just erupted into the present. Pierce was the doctor who had experimented on Jaddo while he was captive and nearly killed the nurse who had cared for him while trying to impregnate her with an alien-human child. It had taken Brivari and a healing stone to save her life after she'd been smuggled off the base and hidden in Dee's own house. As far as she knew, Brivari and Jaddo had never been able to find Pierce. If someone had located him, that would explain why two aliens and an Army officer had gone scurrying off into the night.




******************************************************




Route 285, New Mexico




The car came to a stop, and Marie settled her sunglasses more firmly on her nose and adjusted her head scarf before climbing out. The heat was blistering, but she didn't care, having been on the road for hours now. They'd started out early this morning, ferried in cars provided by the charming Dr. Burke down 285 South, stopping north of Roswell at the Norwood State Mental Hospital, a drab, utilitarian building which seemed built into the rocks behind it out here in the middle of the desert. They were finally going to hear a presentation on the actual research being done and meet those involved. If Pierce was involved, this was where she'd find him.

"Right this way," Dr. Burke was saying. "Let's get you all out of this heat."

Marie returned a perfunctory smile as she, Dr. Fenton, and the eight other finalists, all male, filed obediently behind Burke. There had been twelve last night when he'd met them for dinner at the hotel in Santa Fe, an elegant affair in a private room where Burke had kept the conversation light and deferred all specific questions about the research project till today's meeting. But there had obviously been more going on than just casual conversation because this morning two finalists were missing, having either withdrawn or been dismissed. Burke wouldn't say which, and Marie did not find that encouraging, although Fenton disagreed. "These things happen all the time at the top of the food chain," he'd said dismissively. "It's dog eat dog up there. I mean 'here'," he'd corrected with a smile. Fenton had thoroughly enjoyed the amenities Dr. Burke had provided, from the stellar hotel rooms to the fancy dinner to the limousines which had taken them to the hospital. Everything about Burke screamed "money", from his expensive suits to his earnest discussions with the sommelier at dinner last night. Fenton was enjoying that; Marie saw it as a bad sign.

But she had to admit there was nothing that screamed "money" about the building in which they now found themselves. Marie found herself shivering involuntarily as they marched into the rather forbidding front hall and Burke led them through the first floor, bypassing the barred, locked doorway through which one accessed the patient wards and into a comfortably appointed meeting room complete with coffee and sandwiches. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to sit; there was a podium and a projection screen up front, and a projector in the back. If Pierce was here, he could wind up in either location, so she took a seat in the middle, over Fenton's objections. "I want to be able to see the screen better," she whispered as he reluctantly joined her. The other eight finalists sprinkled themselves around the room and waited patiently as Dr. Burke donned a pair of glasses and shuffled papers at the podium for a full minute before finally speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you for coming and for your patience. I realize I haven't been forthcoming about exactly what we're doing here at Norwood, and the reasons for that discretion will soon become clear. What is happening here is of the utmost importance....and the utmost secrecy. The last thing we'd want is for the communists to get hold of our research. For that reason I'm going to ask each of you to sign a non-disclosure agreement in which you agree to never discuss what you hear in this room with anyone outside of this room, including your own families. If anyone would rather not sign, simply leave the room and I'll have you taken back to the hotel with no questions asked."

No one moved. Burke handed out the forms and everyone signed, with Fenton throwing Marie an excited look as he did so. Big deal, she thought as she scribbled her signature. Non-disclosures were old hat to her, and everyone was forever trotting out the communists as excuses for everything. When the forms had been collected, Burke meticulously checked each one before making a tidy pile on the table next to the podium and straightening his tie. "Here it comes," Fenton murmured.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Burke intoned, "we've all heard of the so called alien crash in this area back in 1947. What would you say if I told you that aliens are real?"

Marie stiffened, reaching up to touch her head scarf and glasses for reassurance as a collective murmur of apprehension rumbled through the room. "Naturally, you'll want proof," Burke continued. "And to provide that, along with answers to any questions you might have, allow me to introduce my esteemed colleague and the founder of our program, Dr. Daniel Pierce."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 13 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


July 3, 1959, 1:00 p.m.

Norwood State Mental Hospital, New Mexico




Marie pushed the door to the ladies room open, grateful that there even was a ladies room. At least some of Norwood's visitors must be female in order to merit their own restroom; it was tiny and Spartan, but it had everything she needed. A moment later she was losing her breakfast in one of the two toilets, gripping the edges of the commode so fiercely that her hands turned white as she heaved for a full minute before slowly lowering herself to the floor, leaning against the wall of the stall with her eyes closed.

I wasn't ready for this, she thought miserably, pulling off the sunglasses which hid her face. Oh, she'd considered the possibility of running into Pierce and had taken the necessary precautions against being recognized, had even developed a game plan for what she would do should she find him. But she'd never considered finding him here a strong possibility, and had been utterly unprepared for the violent physical reaction the mere sight of him had triggered. If Steven had been right about her hiding behind her new identity, that was now over. It had been Yvonne White, not Marie Johnson, whose stomach had clutched at the sight of the somewhat older, slightly graying man who had almost killed her and had gunned down Sergeant Brisson in cold blood. It had been Yvonne, not Marie, who had fought off waves of nausea for the past hour as Pierce had held forth on the ethos of medical experimentation. As an added insult, throwing up hadn't made her feel any better, probably because it wasn't the food that was bothering her.

After Burke's tantalizing announcement that aliens were real, Pierce had gone off in an entirely different direction, that of the debate raging in the worldwide medical community over how best—or indeed, whether—to use the data collected by Nazi scientists as a result of their medical experimentation on anyone deemed unworthy to live, a long list if ever there was one. Some said the data should be destroyed as an expression of condemnation for the methods used to obtain it; others felt it would be the ultimate insult to destroy that which so many had been tortured and died for, rendering their suffering truly meaningless. As much as Marie deplored the means by which the Nazi's data had been collected, she couldn't see the point in discarding it; why not use it in honor of the victims and acknowledge where it came from to keep the memory of the Nazi's crimes alive? As hard as it was to believe now, there would come a time when no one alive remembered the death camps. Even now there were some who claimed the holocaust had never happened, that it was all an elaborate lie; how much easier would it be to make such ridiculous assertions in the future when the camps had crumbled and all the war veterans had died off?

Pierce had obviously been using the debate over the Nazi data as a litmus test for his new lackeys; anyone who advocated destroying the data certainly wasn't who he was looking for. Everyone had been quiet during his speech, but one doctor was visibly agitated; Marie wouldn't be surprised if he was gone when she returned. Not a word had been said about aliens, or alien-human hybrids, or alien anything, for that matter, so this was all still part of the weeding out process. Those whose disgust didn't eat them alive by the end would likely be the ones hired.

Marie pushed herself to her feet, walked to the sink, and checked her watch. Their break was half over; the next round would begin in ten minutes, and since each successive speech would likely reveal more of whatever Pierce was doing this time, it was imperative that she not react this way again; she had to be strong and assertive, not weak and nauseous. How she would do that when just the sight of him made her ill, she had no idea, but she had to find a way. She washed her face, rinsed her mouth as best she could, reapplied her lipstick, and resettled her sunglasses and head scarf so that Pierce wouldn't be able to recognize his own mother beneath them. Her stomach still wasn't happy, but at least there wasn't anything in there to lose. Stepping out into the hallway, she stopped as two of the doctors from their group walked by, heading for entrance, speaking to each other in low voices laced with unmistakable helpings of disgust. Two more down, she thought, wishing desperately that she were in a position to follow them. But she couldn't. It was time to put that plan she had never thought she'd need into action, while there were still a number of witnesses and before Pierce had time to clean everything up.




******************************************************



Proctor residence




"Let me help you with that," Mr. Lincoln offered.

"I've got it," Dee answered, setting the stroller on the grass and reaching into the back seat for her son. "Thanks for the ride, Mr. Lincoln. I really appreciate it. Say 'hi' to Mary Laura for me and give her my best."

"I will," Mr. Lincoln said cheerfully. "She'll be home this fall to get ready for her wedding."

"Mary Laura's getting married?" Dee asked, wondering what kind of man had found her prissy, bookish former schoolmate worth marrying. Or rather, what kind of man the bossy Mary Laura would even want to marry. Most likely someone without their own opinions, she thought privately. Mary Laura could never abide anyone's opinion but her own.

"She sure is," Mr. Lincoln answered. "Bet you'll never guess who the groom is."

"Hmm," Dee said, trying to settle on the most unlikely prospect she could think of. "How about.....Ernie Hutton?"

"How'd you know?" Mr. Lincoln exclaimed as Dee's eyes popped. "And here I thought I was going to surprise you! Oh, well. Glad to see you again, Dee, and to meet your little one. Remember me to Anthony."

The car whisked away as Dee stood on her front walk in a state of shock. Mary Laura was marrying Ernie Hutton? The bookworm of Franklin Delano Roosevelt School was getting hitched to the class clown-slash-bully? What in blazes could had brought about a pairing like that? He must have been joking, Dee thought, hoisting Philip onto her hip and putting it out of her mind. She had other matters to attend to, which is why she was home in the middle of the day for the first time in weeks. Her firm insistence on Emily's compliance with her rules for Philip had caused her mother to back off somewhat, but not completely. Waiting until dinner time to come home meant that Emily's influence was diluted by the presence of both Anthony and David, and since Philip went to bed around 8:00 p.m., she only had to endure a couple of hours of "do it my way" before the focus of the debate was fast asleep. Simply put, she'd solved the problem of the lingering tension by avoiding it. The coward's way out, perhaps, but it was working. Until today, when the need to know had overcome her distaste for her mother's heavy-handedness and brought her home early. Just to double check. Just to make sure.

"We're home, Mama," Dee called as she closed the side door behind her. Philip promptly made a beeline for a floor level cabinet and began pulling out his favorite pots and pans.

Emily was seated at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. "You're back early," she remarked. "Does this mean that Philip will actually get to take his nap in his crib instead of a stroller today?"

A comment like that would normally have raised Dee's hackles, but now she barely noticed. "I need to ask you something," she said, dropping into a chair opposite her mother. "Do you know if Brivari and Jaddo ever found that doctor who almost killed that nurse? What was his name?"

"Pierce," Emily said, "and I don't think so. Supposedly that's why Jaddo is gone so much, because he's looking for Pierce."

Dee's eyes widened. "Are you sure? It's been ten years, more than that, even. They never found him?"

Her mother stopped peeling, genuinely puzzled. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Something Courtney told me. You remember her, the girl I've been helping who just moved into town? She saw Malik at the Crash Festival last night, and she says a soldier came up to him and said he'd 'heard from the captain', and 'she may have found Pierce'. And then Malik took off and found Brivari—Mr. Langley to her—and they both left in a big hurry."

Emily rolled the potato between her fingers, the peeler pausing in the other. " 'Captain'....Captain Spade? And 'she' could be the nurse that nearly died. Both of them disappeared shortly after Jaddo escaped."

"So they may have found him," Dee said in dismay. "They must have told someone at the base, and they went to find the Warders."

"They're lucky they found anybody," Emily said, resuming her peeling. "Malik, at least, is still wearing the same face as he was back when all that happened, but the other two certainly aren't. Whoever went looking just got lucky. What's wrong?" she added as Dee rose from her chair and walked to the sink, her back to her mother.

Dee was quiet for a moment, feeling selfish for even thinking what she was thinking. "If Jaddo kills Pierce and that gets out, do you think they'll come looking for us again?"

"Who? The Army? I doubt it," Emily said. "Most of the players from the forties have moved on. Nothing truly alien related has happened here since 1950, so I can't imagine them connecting anything with us. Why?"

"Well....it's just that I've got Philip now, and I don't want him mixed up in all of that," Dee said. "I mean, if anything happens and someone comes snooping again, I've got a baby who—"

Laughter erupted behind her, and Dee whirled around to find Emily shaking with mirth beside her bowl of potatoes. "What's so funny?" Dee demanded. "I didn't say anything funny!"

"You certainly did," Emily chuckled, setting the peeler down and wiping her eyes with her apron. "You know, they say your kids grow up to sound exactly like you, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd hear you say something like that."

"Like what?" Dee said irritably.

"Good Lord, you don't even see it, do you?" Emily said. "For three years you ran around with aliens, crawled around their ship, delivered their messages, and stopped talking to me for the better part of a year because I kicked one out of the house. Everything I did, I did because I was terrified they'd come for you. My one solace when Cavitt hauled me off was that it was me he was hauling, not you. How does it feel, Dee? Do you understand now?"

"That was different," Dee insisted, her face growing warm. "I was older. Philip is just a baby!"

"And you think that makes a difference?" Emily said in disbelief. "Believe me, it doesn't. No matter how old Philip is at any given moment, you will still worry about him, still fear for his safety. What you worry about will change, but the fact that you worry won't. Your child will always be your child, to a certain extent at least."

"That must be your problem, then," Dee said sharply. "You haven't figured out the 'certain extent' part yet, and just keep treating me like I'm five. But at least you acknowledged that Philip is my child. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"If I'm so awful, then why are you here?" Emily asked. "You could have said 'no', you know. You always have before."

Dee briefly locked eyes with her mother before bending over to pick up the pots and pans Philip had strewn about the floor. "You're right, Mama. We shouldn't have come. It's bad for all of us. Anthony and I will find a room in town and be out of your hair as soon as possible. C'mon, sweetheart," she coaxed, encouraging Philip to nest the pans, something he loved to do that fortunately made clean up easier. "Time to go upstairs."

As Dee closed the cupboard door and reached for her son's hand, she caught a glimpse of her mother's stricken face. "Dee....wait," Emily said. "I didn't mean.....I didn't mean for you to—"

"I know, Mama," Dee said calmly. "But you're absolutely right—I shouldn't have come here. I'll bet you're happy I'm agreeing with you for a change, aren't you?"

But Emily just sat there, tongue-tied, as Dee and Philip walked past. She had no idea where they would stay or how they would afford it, but regardless, her mother was right: It was sheer madness to have come here. Emily was never going to stop trying to run her grandson's life, and Dee was never going to let her. And besides, she thought with a twinge of guilt, it might not be safe here anymore. If Jaddo went and planted a silver handprint on that doctor, that could stir up a hornet's nest that had remained undisturbed for the last decade.




******************************************************



Norwood State Mental Hospital





"This is nonsense!" Pierce snapped. "An absolute waste of time!"

Joshua Burke heaved a weary sigh and took a moment to compose himself. "You're overreacting, Daniel. We knew—"

"Overreacting?" Pierce echoed. "You lost two before you even got here, and two more just left!"

"—there would be attrition," Burke continued, unfazed, "which is precisely why the pool of hopefuls is larger than we need. Each step in this procedure is designed to winnow out those who would be uncomfortable with what we're doing. We still have eight—"

"And those eight won't be here long," Pierce declared. "Did you see their faces when I was talking about the Nazi experiments? Bleeding hearts, every one of them! Here they have valuable data, data which would never have been obtainable by socially acceptable methods, and they won't use it! They act like using it would be blasphemy, or—"

"Daniel, no one has weighed in on the disposition of the Nazi data save for the two gentlemen who just left," Burke interrupted. "We don't know how the others feel because we haven't asked, and they haven't said."

"They don't need to 'say'," Pierce said irritably. "It was all too obvious how they felt. And what in the name of God induced you to bring a woman on board? She'll take one look at those women upstairs and collapse into a puddle of pity!"

"I disagree," Burke said firmly. "We still have eight candidates including Dr. Johnson, who comes highly recommended by Dr. Fenton. And more to the point, you don't have a choice in the matter. The board has made it clear that it wishes to bring in more talent, so that's what we're going to do."

"You'll never find anyone willing to play ball," Pierce warned. "Bring in someone else, and we'll all be charged with moral turpitude before the sun sets on their first day of work. Most of my esteemed colleagues don't have the stomach for the higher forms of research."

"When the Germans fled here after the war, they found people willing to work with them," Burke said. "And we'll find people willing to work with us. It'll just take some time."

"Not my time," Pierce declared. "This charade is over. I'm ending it. Scuttle back in there and tell everyone to pack their bags."

Burke gazed at Pierce steadily for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm afraid you have it backwards, Daniel. If you won't go through with this, it's you who will be packing the bag."

"You don't really expect me to believe that the board will throw me out, do you?" Pierce scoffed. "They can't do this without me."

"On the contrary, we can continue very well without you," Burke said. "And I've been authorized all along to walk you to the door and shove you through it if you refuse to acquiesce to the board's mandate. Either you go out there and continue the presentation, or you go straight out the door to your car. I'll have the contents of your office boxed and sent home."

Silence. Pierce stared at him, stunned. "You're joking," he whispered.

"Try me," Burke said in a steely tone.

The two men faced off for what seemed a very long time before Pierce adjusted his tie. "It will be a cold day somewhere before I let more than a decade of my research be taken from me by people who don't even know how to wipe themselves," he said furiously. "Fine. I'll play your little game. But I want it on record that I predicted this was a disastrous route to take, and I want that record available to shake in the faces of the almighty board when they're called on the carpet for ethical infractions no one would ever have known about had everyone just kept their mouths shut!"

"Objection noted," Burke said calmly, gesturing toward the meeting room. "Shall we?"




******************************************************





"There you are," Dr. Fenton said as Dr. Johnson slipped into the seat beside him just as Dr. Burke approached the podium. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost. What took you so long?"

Dr. Johnson's head swung sideways. "Would you like a detailed account of my activities in the lavatory, or would generalizations suffice?"

Fenton's mouth dropped open. "Er...neither," he answered, feeling his face grow warm. Sometimes he plain forgot he was speaking to a woman, not a man. "I was just.....concerned. I was hoping you weren't bugging out on me."

Dr. Johnson's huge sunglasses remained trained on Fenton for several uncomfortable seconds before she returned her gaze to the front of the room. "Unlikely," she replied. "What did I miss?"

"We lost two more," Fenton said cheerfully. "There was quite a debate after you stepped out. The bald one who was sitting front left and the short one a few rows behind him don't feel the Nazi's data can be used by an ethical society. They got into it with the two sitting next to each other front right, and wound up stalking out in a huff. Or 'huffs'," he amended. "You'd think they might have stuck around just to see what's going on. What do you think is going on?" he continued. "What was that business about aliens being real, and how did that turn into Nazi's?"

"I imagine we're about to find out," Dr. Johnson murmured, watching Dr. Burke enter the room.

As if on cue, Burke cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "welcome back to the second part of this information session. Once again, the project's director, Dr. Daniel Pierce."

Polite applause followed from everyone but Dr. Johnson, who kept her hands in her lap. Fenton frowned slightly; didn't she realize that appearances were important in situations such as these? Even if they wound up with an offer they decided to decline, how one conducted oneself during the interviewing process was crucial, to future success if not present. "Do try to show at least perfunctory enthusiasm, doctor," he whispered. "Pierce may be talking, but he's also watching each and every one of us very closely, and so is Burke."

"When the time comes, I promise you I will exhibit all the enthusiasm the good doctor could possibly wish for," she replied.

Fenton's eyes shifted sideways. What on earth did that mean? Before he could ask, Pierce stepped up to the podium, wearing a smile that set off his striking features and impeccable suit. He was a handsome man, Dr. Pierce, the kind that women swooned over, and Fenton spared a moment of surprise that Dr. Johnson wasn't. Then again, Dr. Johnson was no ordinary woman.

"Welcome back," Pierce began. "You may recall that Dr. Burke mentioned aliens at the very beginning of our meeting. I appreciate your patience in waiting for an explanation. I promise you that everything you've heard so far is indeed germane to the project we're working on here at Norwood. It is now time to enlighten you further, and in order to do that, you need a few facts." Pierce rested his hands on the podium and gazed earnestly at the crowd. "The alleged crash of an alien ship in New Mexico in 1947 was, in fact, real. A saucer-shaped craft was recovered from an area known as Pohlman Ranch along with an even bigger prize: A live alien."

"My God!" Fenton breathed as excited babbling filled the room. Babbling from everyone but Dr. Johnson, that is, who remained motionless and silent, her eyes—or rather, her glasses—fixed on Pierce.

"The alien was held prisoner by the military for several years," Pierce continued, "during which time various tests were conducted on it. That body of research has come into my possession, and forms the basis for the project here at Norwood."

"Incredible!" Fenton murmured.

"Do you mean we'll be doing research on a live alien?" another doctor asked as eyes bulged all over the room.

"No," Pierce answered. "The alien died. But we do have—"

"How did it die?" someone interrupted.

"When did it die?" another voice called.

"Did you torture it?" Dr. Johnson asked softly.

One could have heard a pin drop in the room as that soft female voice cut through all the chatter, all eyes turning her way. "I'm sorry," Pierce said, his voice a degree colder. "And you are.....?"

"Marie Johnson, neurology resident," Dr. Johnson said, ignoring Fenton's warning look. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Ah. Yes," Pierce said. "The alien prisoner died after a three year confinement. We don't know why. Perhaps it just couldn't survive on our planet."

"Or perhaps you did to the alien exactly what the Nazi's did to their prisoners," Dr. Johnson said, as Fenton's eyes widened. "Is that why discussion of the Nazi medical data is 'germane'? Are you comparing one set of data obtained unethically to another obtained the same way? Do you wish to argue that those who would use the Nazi data should feel the same way about the alien data?"

Fenton felt his throat constrict. Be quiet! he thought wildly as eyes widened around the room, then narrowed suspiciously as they turned back to Pierce, whose own eyes had turned to ice. "I would appreciate it if you would let me continue," he said coldly, "instead of jumping to erroneous conclusions."

"Is she right?" a doctor demanded. "Is that the connection you're trying to make?"

"Good Lord," another muttered.

"I think we're getting a bit off topic here," Dr. Burke interjected smoothly with a warning glance at Pierce. "We'll answer all your questions, but we would like to present our information in a logical order. Surely you can understand that, given that we just confirmed that aliens are real."

"But you never answered the question," the first doctor declared. "Did you or did you not torture the alien?"

"The prisoner was not tortured!" Pierce snapped. "It was well treated, some say too well treated."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Dr. Johnson asked. "Did you work with the prisoner?"

"I did," Pierce confirmed, "and I can confidently assure you it was well treated."

"So you were in the military?"

"Dr. Johnson," Burke cut in as he and Pierce exchanged glances, "may I remind you that you signed a non-disclosure agreement which states that any information you receive in this meeting is not to be repeated outside of this room. That includes the identity of the study participants."

Dr. Johnson's sunglasses shifted in Burke's direction. "If you find my memory that poor, then I must ask why I am being considered for this position," she said flatly. "Of course I remember signing. And since you have that document in your possession, you should have no qualms about answering my question. Honestly, that is."

More silence. Fenton glared at Johnson, who completely ignored him. All other eyes were trained on Pierce, waiting for an answer.

"I am a physician, not a soldier," Pierce said, in a voice which made it clear he was struggling to control his temper. "And I am not at liberty to provide details of the time I spent with the prisoner or the means by which I acquired this research due to the non-disclosure agreement the military had me sign, just as you all did today. Surely, you can understand that."

Fenton let out a long, slow breath as the tension in the room eased somewhat....but only somewhat. Wary expressions still clouded every applicant's face save Dr. Johnson's, whose face was largely obscured beneath her scarf and glasses. "What in blazes are you doing?" Fenton hissed at her. "Are you trying to get us thrown out of here?"

"You don't strike me as an idiot," she replied. "Haven't you haven't figured it out yet?"

Fenton's jaw dropped. Dr. Johnson was well known for not being a pushover, a necessary character trait for a woman to succeed in the man's world of medicine, but never in all his years had a resident addressed an attending in this fashion, be they male or female. "If I were you, I would watch yourself, doctor," he whispered in a voice shaking with indignation. "If you think—"

"There's the problem," she interrupted sharply. "You don't think. And if I were you, I would spare myself further embarrassment by taking an immediate vow of silence."

"So are we working with data or actual alien tissue?" a doctor was asking, as Fenton gaped at Dr. Johnson in disbelief.

"Alien tissue," Pierce answered, "carefully preserved and still viable."

"What the good doctor means," Dr. Johnson said as Fenton's heart clutched, "is that he intends to impregnate the patients we bring to this study with alien reproductive cells in an attempt to produce an alien-human hybrid."

The silence which had followed Dr. Johnson's earlier remarks was nothing compared to the shock which now permeated the room. One key difference was that this time, Doctors Burke and Pierce shared that shock. Their eyes were every bit as wide as everyone else's as Pierce gripped the podium with hands gone white.

"Is everyone really so thick that they haven't discerned what's going on here?" Dr. Johnson demanded, commanding the attention of virtually everyone in the room. "Consideration as an applicant for this 'project', as Dr. Pierce so euphemistically calls it, was contingent upon each and every one of us providing a suitable test subject which met specific criteria: Female, brain dead....and fertile. Why would they need fertile test subjects if not to impregnate them? And furthermore," she continued as everyone gaped at her, "I do believe this project is not new and not going well. The female patients housed in this facility could easily be used as incubators, which is probably why this project is located here. What's the matter, doctor? Have you killed off all your test subjects? Is that why you need us to provide you with more? What happens when you run through our meager pile?"

The stunned silence continued for another several seconds after Dr. Johnson stopped talking.....and then the room erupted. Doctors began shouting, demanding to know if what Johnson had said was true while Pierce and Burke commenced a heated argument at the podium. Fenton remained in his seat, paralyzed, unable to believe his ears. What Johnson was proposing was preposterous, but still....her conclusion was logical, given the parameters at hand. Is it possible? he thought, feeling sick to his stomach. Was it possible that his delight in the honor of being "chosen" had made him blind to what was right in front of him? Was it possible that Pierce and Burke were not only willing to use Nazi data, but to emulate them as well? The other doctors obviously thought so. "I'm done here!" one declared, grabbing his briefcase and heading for the door as others followed.

"Remember, you signed!" Burke exclaimed as the trickle moving toward the door became a flood. "I have the agreements, and I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law if any of you spread rumors about what you heard today!" The other applicants ignored him as they piled into the hallway, angry and shouting; Pierce stalked after them with Burke on his heels.

"Doctor, I—" Fenton began....but she wasn't listening. Those sunglasses were following Pierce and Burke, and as they exited the room still arguing, she rose from her seat and followed them.




******************************************************




"Daniel, wait!" Burke called as Pierce strode out of the meeting room, the group of mutinous applicants well ahead of him and jabbering angrily as each vied for the honor of being the first to leave the building. The guard manning the locked gate which led to the rest of the hospital barely managed to unlock the door in time before Pierce smashed through with Burke on his heels. "Daniel, please!" Burke called again.

"This is your fault!" Pierce exclaimed angrily, never breaking stride as Burke scurried to keep up with him. "I told you to be careful, I warned you not to give out too much information. But of course you did, and now it's going to be all over the news tomorrow!"

"No it won't," Burke said as Pierce hung a right into his office. "No one knows anything for certain because no one saw anything and we confirmed nothing. I can't for the life of me figure out how Dr. Johnson made such an accurate guess. Do you know her?"

"Never seen her before in my life," Pierce said tersely, "from what I could tell, that is, in that Marlene Dietrich get-up. You were an idiot for bringing a woman into this, Joshua. Men are more practical....well, most men, anyway. Certainly not this crowd. Where did you dig up such a group of pansies? Do you realize we lost every single applicant to their lofty morals even if they're not sure what we're doing?"

"I know, I know," Burke said in dismay. "I...I'm not sure what happened. You'd think at least one of them would have stayed out of sheer curiosity, at least."

"Your selections were too young," Pierce declared. "During the war, people understood there were hard choices to be made, hard decisions that required sacrifice. But now everyone's gone soft; it's all about 'ethics' and 'doing the right thing'. Isn't staying ahead of the communist threat 'doing the right thing'? God, where's Joe McCarthy when you need him?"

"We'll try again," Burke assured him. "You want older prospects, I'll get older prospects. I just thought that veering younger would—"

"We will not try again!" Pierce said sharply. "How many people do you want out there knowing our business? And don't waste my time blathering about that damned non-disclosure agreement. I signed one of those myself when I was in the Army, and you can see what good that did them."

"Daniel, I made it clear that the board wants to bring in new talent," Burke warned. "If you don't agree, you're out."

"If I'm out, then the project is over," Pierce snapped. "Go tell the board that."

Burke sighed deeply. "You're angry," he said after a moment. "Have a drink or two, settle down, and I'll be back in an hour or so when you'll hopefully be more cooperative. Because they mean it. If you want to change the recruitment protocols, fine, but flatly refusing to go along will mean you're fired."

Go to hell, Pierce thought darkly as Burke left the office, closing the door quietly behind him. When Joshua came back, he had no intention of being here and neither would his research. He'd bugged out once before; it was time to do so again. His most prized possession, the formula for the serum which blocked the aliens' powers, was already safely hidden; now the research he'd done here would join that, where Burke and his idiot board would never find it. Flinging open a file cabinet, he began removing armfuls of files and stuffing them in boxes he retrieved from the closet, stashed there long ago against just such a necessity. When one was on the cutting edge, it paid to be prepared.

"Going somewhere, doctor?"

Pierce spun around to find Dr. Johnson behind him. "How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. "The guard should never have let you through!"

"Does it matter?" she asked calmly.

"Get out of here!" Pierce exclaimed. "Haven't you done enough damage for one day? What, did you sneak back here to gloat that you shut down my meeting before I even got to finish? And all that rubbish about alien babies, and such like. Honestly, aren't universities more discriminating about who they gift with medical degrees?"

"No one 'gifted' me with anything," Dr. Johnson replied. "I earned it the good old fashioned way. And I'd hardly call my theories 'rubbish'. Especially when I've had first hand experience with your wonderful 'research'."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Pierce snapped.

" 'Earth'," she repeated thoughtfully. "Funny you should bring that up." She reached up, untying the knot of her scarf, pulling it off. "You don't recognize me, do you?" she asked, pulling off her sunglasses. "Does this help?"

Pierce gaped at the face in front of him as he sank down into his desk chair, a very familiar face despite the short, dark hair, so different from the way she used to wear it. "Lieutenant White?" he whispered, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "How did.....where.....it's been so long," he stammered, completely unprepared for this encounter. "I never knew what happened to you."

"I went to medical school," she replied, wandering over to inspect one of Pierce's diplomas hanging on the wall. "I'm a neurologist now, just like you."

"Really? Well....I suppose I'm not surprised. You were very adept at research, very quick to learn...." Pierce paused, gathering his wits about him as the sheer magnitude of this sudden appearance settled in. The age in her face made it clear she was no longer the very young woman who had made such a perfect subject, but as a fellow neurologist....

"Lieutenant, I take it from your....'performance' today that you know what I was trying to achieve at Eagle Rock," Pierce began carefully, not certain of the extent of that knowledge.

"You mean how you tried to use me as a walking incubator, and nearly killed me in the process?"

Pierce's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Whatever Sergeant Brisson may have told you, I assure you—"

"Everything," she interrupted, turning hard eyes on him. "He told me everything."

Damn. "I see," Pierce said heavily, his right hand drifting imperceptibly toward his top desk drawer. "That is...unfortunate. Unfortunate that I was not there to correct any misconceptions he may have given you, of which I'm sure there were several."

"Are you, now?" she asked coldly.

"Quite," Pierce said calmly, his hand slipping into the drawer and beneath the false lining, closing on the handle of the pistol he kept there. It was regrettable to have to do this, but the lieutenant was the last living witness to what had happened at Eagle Rock, and a clearly hostile witness at that. If his aim was true, it should be a short, relatively painless death....

Slam! Pierce gasped as the drawer slammed shut trapping his hand. He clawed at the drawer to no avail; it wouldn't budge. "Why, doctor," Lieutenant White said in a voice heavy with irony. "Whatever are you doing?" She walked around the desk as Pierce tried to back away, his hand still firmly jammed in the drawer. "Were you.....were you planning to attack me?" she asked, sounding genuinely puzzled, as though she couldn't conceive of why he'd want to do that. "Well....if you must...."

The drawer flew open and Pierce rocketed backwards, his hand flying out of the drawer still holding the gun as his chair slammed into the wall behind him, tipped sharply, then righted itself. He jerked the gun up and pointed it straight at the lieutenant, who hadn't moved a muscle other than to raise her eyebrows.

"Go ahead," she said softly. "Shoot."

Don't mind if I do, Pierce thought grimly, aiming for the heart and pulling the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Click. Click. Click. With mounting panic, Pierce pulled the trigger again and again and again. What the hell.... It was loaded, wasn't it? He always kept it loaded, yet another necessary precaution for a visionary on the cutting edge. What was wrong with it? He started to open the barrel.....

.....and gasped as the gun was wrenched from his hands and swung around, hovering in mid-air as it pointed straight at him.

"It will work now," Lieutenant White said casually. "I promise you that."

Pierce remained stock still, only his eyes moving, darting from the gun to the lieutenant and back. Somehow, some way, the lieutenant had acquired what appeared to be alien powers. Was this what happened when woman were impregnated with alien cells? Did some of it "rub off"? "Lieutenant," Pierce said carefully, "I see you've developed certain....'talents'. I know you're angry with me, but look at what you've gained! Think of how much we could advance human civilization if we managed to reproduce that effect in others!"

"Only the right 'others', of course," she replied, a faint note of amusement in her voice. "I'm assuming you don't mean the great, unwashed public."

"Well, of course not, but.....work with me," Pierce said earnestly. "Together we could rewrite medical history. We could be rich beyond our wildest dreams!"

"And you could get your Nobel?"

"And you'll get one too!" Pierce promised enthusiastically. "This is far too great of an advancement to throw away over some petty grievance."

The lieutenant cocked her head to one side as though considering. "No," she said finally, shaking her head. "In the first place, my grievances are far from 'petty'. In the second, I have no interest in 'advancing human civilization' because I'm not human."

"Of course you are," Pierce protested. "You're just an evolved human. The very first evolved human, I might add. Your talents don't make you any less human."

"Yours certainly did," she said dryly, as Pierce flushed. "But really, doctor, you must learn to not believe everything you see, to properly assess the evidence right in front of you. For example, you do know me. But I'm not who you think I am."

Pierce opened his mouth to reply and got no further, his mouth hanging open in a flabbergasted "O" as Lieutenant White began to....melt. Her hair shortened as she grew taller, her clothing slithered and shifted around her, and a moment later, yet another familiar face smiled at Pierce.

"Good afternoon, doctor," his former prisoner said. "So good to see you again. I've been looking for you for a long time. A very long time."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 14 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FOURTEEN


July 3, 1959, 2 p.m.

Norwood State Mental Hospital



Daniel Pierce remained frozen in his chair, unable to believe his eyes. He'd often wondered what had happened to the prisoner whose captivity he'd overseen for three years, but with no alien sightings in the last decade, he'd assumed the alien had returned home somehow. To see it standing here now, with all its powers at its disposal and wearing a Cheshire Cat smile while holding a gun on him without actually "holding" it was completely unexpected and, needless to say, very bad news.

"What's the matter, doctor?" the alien asked. "Aren't you glad to see me? We spent so much time together. I expected more of a welcome."

"Do.....do you mind?" Pierce ventured, pointing to the gun.

"Goodness," the alien said, "where are my manners?" The gun fell to the hardwood floor with a crash almost as loud as a gunshot and promptly dissolved into a puddle of molten metal at Pierce's feet, who stared at it ashen-faced for only a moment before vaulting from his seat and launching himself at the door.

It was locked. Pierce shook the doorknob violently and pounded on the door, yelling "Help!" as loud as he could. Someone should hear him; this hallway housed all the staff offices. But no one came, and after a full minute of pounding and yelling, he turned around, panting, to face his visitor.

The alien was watching him with the quizzical look frequently worn by researchers when their test subjects didn't behave in the predicted fashion. Then it took a seat in Pierce's chair, caressing the leather arms and running its hands along the desk's smooth, polished wood. "Very nice," it said approvingly, "and quite expensive, if I'm not mistaken. You've done quite well for yourself, doctor. And how have you been these last several years?"

"Why are you here?" Pierce demanded in a ragged voice.

"Aren't you going to inquire after my health?" the alien asked, soundly faintly put out. "I expected at least some curiosity from you after all this time."

"Did you come here to kill me?" Pierce continued. "Because if you did, you won't get away with it. There are dozens of people nearby!"

"And yet none of them answered your cries of distress," the alien noted. "Why is that, do you think? Can they not hear you? Or perhaps they just don't care what happens to you?"

"Why are you here"? Pierce shouted, his panic getting the better of him.

"My good doctor," the alien said calmly, leaning back in the chair, "I am merely paying a social call. Like I paid your colleague, Colonel Cavitt, shortly after my escape."

"Sheridan? But he.....he....." Pierce stopped, a horrible realization dawning on him. "You killed him, didn't you? It wasn't suicide, it was you."

"You have no idea how much I would love to take the credit for the colonel's demise," the alien said, sounding completely sincere. "But I'm afraid I can't. No, I'm afraid the mere sight of me caused the colonel's heart to just.....stop. I'm guessing you have a stronger constitution. Which will make you a great deal more....entertaining."

Pierce's own heart began pounding so loudly he would have sworn it was audible. "You can't kill me," he insisted. "I saved you. I saved you so many times, it isn't even funny! Without me, you would have been dust in a matter of weeks! You owe me!"

The alien stared at him passively, its legs crossed, fingers tented. "Are you finished," it asked casually, "or do you have any other last words?"

"Wait," Pierce begged, holding up a hand. "I know we've had our.....differences, but you and I could do great things together. With what you know and my influence, you could be—"

"Let me guess," the alien interrupted in a bored tone. "I could be 'rich beyond my wildest dreams'. Given that currency is not used on my world, that's an empty promise at best."

"But you're not on your world," Pierce argued. "You're here, and the fact that you're here means you've stayed for a reason. How much longer do you plan to be here? Wouldn't it be nicer to have....'currency' for the duration of that time?"

"You misjudge me, doctor.....but then you always did. I'm not here out of greed. I'm here," the alien continued softly, "for revenge."

"Stay where you are!" Pierce shouted frantically, plastering himself against his office door.

The alien shrugged. "As you wish. Proximity is irrelevant, and I confess I find proximity to you to be highly distasteful."

Pierce opened his mouth to bellow again in the hopes that someone, anyone would hear him when he felt his feet leave the ground. A moment later his throat constricted as though an invisible hand were squeezing it tighter, tighter. His eyes bulged as he hung suspended in midair, his hands clawing at this throat, finding nothing. Just as his vision began to dim and he started to lose consciousness, the invisible vise on his throat suddenly opened and he fell to the floor, landing on all fours, gulping air into his burning lungs in great heaving gasps.

Then suddenly, the pain was gone. Cautiously, Pierce rose to his feet, his lungs no longer burning, his throat no longer feeling like it had nearly been wrenched in half. The alien was still seated at the desk, watching him with interest as Pierce felt himself all over as though to make certain he was still there.

"What just happened?" Pierce whispered.

"Allow me to introduce my colleague," the alien answered.

Pierce scrambled backwards against a bookcase as the wall beside him began to move, bulging into the room until a portion of it separated and melted into the form of an unfamiliar human male. "Good afternoon, Dr. Pierce," the second alien said. "So good to see you again."

"Again?" Pierce quavered. "Do I know you?"

"I was your first prisoner," the new alien answered, "but that's not where we spent most of our time together. You see," it continued when Pierce looked confused, "all those years my colleague was held hostage, both Lieutenant White and Captain Spade were working to free him. Lieutenant White allowed me to take her shape so I could visit my colleague. At least a third of the time you thought you were talking to her, you were really talking to me."

Pierce's head swung back and forth from one alien to another, thunderstruck. This alien had been taking Lieutenant White's shape? And with her blessing? So that was why she'd seemed to have those bursts of commanding and fearless behavior, those sudden insights, that razor sharp political acumen. It hadn't been her at all; it had been an alien beside him all that time, and he'd never had so much as an inkling.

"And now for the afternoon's agenda," the prisoner continued as though it were conducting a business meeting. "My colleague is skilled in healing, which is how you recovered so quickly. His presence here will insure that our time together does not end prematurely, as it did for Colonel Cavitt. I will drive you to the brink of death, and he will bring you back. We will repeat this procedure until either I tire of it or your weak human body expires, most likely the latter. Do you have any questions?"

A sudden and completely unexpected wave of sympathy for Sheridan Cavitt swept over Pierce as his own heart nearly stopped at those words. "You'll never get away with it," he warned. "Doctor Burke is coming back—"

"In an hour. Yes, I heard. Less time than I would have liked, but it will have to do." The prisoner rose from the chair and smiled as Pierce shrank backwards. "Shall we begin?"




******************************************************




"Malik, you have to let me out of here!" Marie begged, rattling the limousine's door handle.

"Sorry, lieutenant. I can't do that."

"I'm not a 'lieutenant' anymore, and yes, you can!" Marie said in exasperation. "It's not enough to just stop Pierce; he has to be exposed!"

"My orders are to get you safely back to Roswell, and that's what I'm going to do," Malik answered.

"Roswell?" Marie echoed blankly. "Why Roswell?"

"Because that's where Captain Spade will be by the time we return," Malik said, twisting around in the seat to look at her. "That's how we knew where to find you; the captain got wind of where you'd gone and called Thompson before he started for Roswell by car. Thompson found us....and here we are."

Oh my God, Marie thought, sinking back into her seat. Steven was driving across the country? Was he crazy? No crazier than I was coming out here by myself, she allowed, although she never would have admitted that out loud. She didn't care what happened to Pierce, but the thought of what he'd been trying to do here being covered up, of everyone who had helped him getting off Scot free, was too much to bear.

The latest twist in this exceptionally strange odyssey had occurred right after Marie had stepped out of the ladies room. On her way back to the meeting, she'd run into Dr. Fenton, who had insisted she accompany him out to the limousine because he wanted to speak with her privately. His tone had been concerned and urgent, a far cry from his earlier breezy acceptance of just about everything he'd heard, and she'd assumed he had learned something in her absence that had upset him and followed him outside, passing the two doctors who had already left and were waiting in the lobby for the meeting to end. Once in the car, however, she'd been surprised to see "Dr. Fenton" climb into the driver's seat, and further surprised when all the doors locked. "Forgive me, but I'm not Dr. Fenton," Dr. Fenton had announced, his features shifting into those of a face she hadn't seen in years. "You knew me as Malik, and I've been assigned to protect you."

What had followed was a good fifteen minutes of questioning, pleading, and fretting. Marie knew perfectly well that Pierce would end up dead in short order, and could honestly say she didn't care; all her earlier protests about killing him had gone up in smoke now that she'd learned he was up to his old tricks. What bothered her is that what had happened here would not be exposed to the medical world at large, and it had to be in order to discourage others from attempting the same type of thing. All her protests fell on deaf ears, however, and Malik easily fended off her feeble attempts to reach the door locks. It was also getting warm; the limo was parked beneath a shaded awning, but there was no getting around the fact that it was hot.

"So what's your plan?" she asked irritably. "Is letting me bake out here considered 'protecting me'?"

"Sorry about the heat," Malik replied. "Your colleagues should be along shortly. Jaddo is in there now, posing as you and explaining what Pierce is up to. As soon as they abandon ship, we'll all head back to Santa Fe, and then I'll take you to Roswell to meet the captain."

"Wonderful," Marie muttered, not looking forward to that reunion. This was all supposed to be over by the time he knew anything was happening, and here he'd found out in time to foil it with a phone call. Steven was going to be livid; correction, probably already was livid. "So John's in there being me? He'd better behave himself; I have to wear this face for the rest of my life."

"If you're unhappy with the way this turned out, that's your own fault," Malik said bluntly. "Why didn't you contact us when you found Pierce?"

"I didn't know until I got here," Marie said crossly.

"But you suspected, which is why you took care to wear a disguise. How did you intend to take Pierce down all by yourself?"

"I told you I'm not a lieutenant anymore, and I didn't plan on 'taking him down all my myself'," Marie protested. "I had a roomful of people in there who I hoped would support me."

"Did you really think you could expose Pierce without exposing yourself?" Malik asked. "At that point your life would have been forfeit no matter how many people were present, and not only would Pierce not have been exposed, you would be dead. What does that accomplish?"

"And what does just killing him accomplish?" Marie said sharply, unwilling to admit that Malik had a point. "John and Brivari are only interested in revenge, but for me, this is bigger than just Pierce. Kill him, and everything will be swept under the rug!"

"Don't forget who you're dealing with," Malik replied. "The Royal Warders aren't about to let anything get 'swept under the rug'. Besides, you were in no shape to take on Pierce. You would have betrayed yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marie demanded.

"That throwing up at the mere sight of him doesn't bode well for the future."

Marie's eyes widened. "You were....you were in the bathroom with me? I didn't see anyone else in there!"

"Of course you didn't. Wasn't that the point?" When Marie didn't answer, Malik glanced back at her briefly before returning his gaze to the windshield. "This is what we do, lieutenant. We watch, we find, we protect....and we execute. This is what we've always done, and we're very, very good at it."

Almost too good Marie thought glumly. Steven had obviously managed to weasel basic information out of someone, but no one, she and Fenton included, had known what hotel they'd be staying at in Santa Fe; the Warders must have tracked that down by themselves and arranged to install Malik as the limousine driver, all within the space of a few hours. No wonder their people were both highly prized and highly feared.

"Here they come," Malik said, his features shifting to those of the limousine driver.

Marie looked out the window; the rest of the contingent was indeed descending upon the car, nine sweaty men in suits who looked very upset, Fenton included. That upset turned to shock when the door was flung open to reveal her already inside.

"There you are!" Fenton exclaimed. "You ran out of the room ahead of me, and I couldn't find you anywhere! Where did you—"

"What does it matter?" another doctor demanded, pushing past Fenton into the car. "Dr. Johnson, I wish to thank you for exposing that fraud."

"And the way you exposed him," another enthused. "Excellent, doctor, excellent!"

"I admit I didn't think you had it in you," Fenton added. "A magnificent catch, doctor. I will have no problem recommending you for an attending's position, and with me doing the recommending, it's a done deal."

Marie blinked as the rest of their party crowded into the limo and joined the chorus, praising her to the skies as she dredged up skills long gone rusty and listened carefully for details of what "she" had said and done, a procedure which had been second nature back when Brivari had been regularly impersonating her. It sounded like John had put on quite a show. Living up to that would be a challenge.

"Driver, let's get out of here," Fenton declared. "We have some complaints to file with the authorities."

Malik caught Marie's eye as he turned the key in the ignition. "Yes, doctor," he said. "Right away."



******************************************************



"Enough! We have other tasks to accomplish."

Annoyed, Jaddo abruptly pulled his mind away, causing Pierce to fall to the floor with a satisfying thud which had echoed over and over inside this office for the past thirty minutes. He had anticipated enjoying this; what he hadn't anticipated was just how much he would enjoy it, how intense the rush of pleasure as Pierce gasped for air and clawed helplessly at his throat. That rush was followed by an immense satisfaction as he would fall to the floor with that satisfying thud, followed by a minute's worth of healing from Brivari so they could begin again. And then would come the best part, when Pierce, recovered and breathing normally, would look up in horror, realizing that it was all going to start over. It was exquisite, really, to be on the giving instead of the receiving end this time, and the fact that he'd waited so long for this moment made it even more precious.

"Do you really expect me to cut my pleasure short after waiting for a decade?" Jaddo demanded. "His colleague won't return for an hour. We have only consumed half that time."

"You know perfectly well that we came here to do more than just kill Pierce," Brivari reminded him. "We mustn't let the formula for that serum fall into anyone else's hands."

"That formula is no doubt in his head," Jaddo countered, gazing hungrily at the heap on the floor. "Sever the brain stem, and mission accomplished."

"We can't take that risk," Brivari argued. "If anyone else knows how to produce that serum, it could endanger our Wards."

"Why would anyone else know?" Jaddo asked impatiently. "You know perfectly well that Pierce doesn't share power, which is precisely what that serum represents. Now, heal him. I'm having fun."

"Once more," Brivari warned. "Then we're through."

"We're not through until I say we're through," Jaddo retorted.

Suddenly Jaddo found himself nose to nose with Zan's Warder. "Even if you're willing to allow your endless quest for revenge to endanger your Ward, you will not endanger mine," Brivari said severely. "Do you really want Rath rendered helpless in the future because you were too busy having 'fun'? Could you live with yourself if that happened?"

Jaddo glared at Brivari in sullen silence. "Very well, then," he said peevishly. "But I will have my 'once more', and more beyond that once we've torn this office apart."

Three minutes later Pierce was slumped on the floor again, having endured yet another round of choking. His body was showing the strain; it was taking longer and longer for Brivari to heal him. This time he didn't bother trying, leaving Pierce unconscious on the floor as he began dismantling a filing cabinet. Jaddo put his hand on the desk, meaning to reduce its contents to ash when Brivari stopped him. "Don't," he ordered. "You have to look first. If we destroy it, we'll want to know we've done that."

"If you think he has it stashed away somewhere other than his head, what makes you think it isn't stashed in multiple places?" Jaddo asked.

"I know him," Brivari said. "I spent a great deal more time with him than you did. He has it somewhere, but only one place to reduce the risk of it being found without his knowledge."

I would imagine you didn't resent 'your' time with him the way I did, Jaddo grumbled privately, pulling out drawers and upending them. Fifteen minutes later the entire office was in shambles, including the contents of the safe hidden behind the wall, and they had nothing to show for it.

"It's not here," Brivari said worriedly. "It must be somewhere else. Connect with him and find out where."

"What?" Jaddo exclaimed. "You want me to form a connection with him?"

"To find the formula," Brivari said with strained patience. "We're going to kill him anyway, so it doesn't matter if he sees something he shouldn't."

"Do it yourself," Jaddo said in disgust.

"I can already feel myself growing weaker," Brivari argued. "Torture takes much less out of one than healing, and I still need energy to escape. You are the best one to accomplish this. Stop arguing, and do it!"

Reluctantly, Jaddo knelt beside the still unconscious Pierce and laid a hand on his chest. The mere thought of touching his inquisitor was enough to make him nauseous, so he was none too subtle in the way he went about probing Pierce's thoughts. Perhaps "probing" was the wrong word; a connection was a much more passive endeavor, involving opening oneself to another's thoughts and waiting patiently while they marched by, hoping to find something useful. What he found was entirely predictable; Pierce's dreams of world domination were the stuff of childhood fantasy. At the moment those dreams were entangled with the concept of flight, of disappearing like he had the first time. Apparently Jaddo's impersonation of the Healer had had the desired effect; Pierce's position here was in jeopardy, and Jaddo smiled in satisfaction that he had managed to ruin Pierce's day beyond their own private encounter.

"Well?" Brivari demanded.

Sighing, Jaddo continued, closing his eyes to facilitate concentration. Interesting....Pierce had given at least a passing thought to the serum, quite recently if he was not mistaken. Unfortunately that thought did not seem to have included it's actual location. Frustrated, he attempted to probe more deeply without actually knowing how to accomplish that. It was said that Athenor was skilled at this. Before today he could not have imagined ever wishing, however fleetingly, that he were like Athenor.....

"You'll never find it."

Jaddo's eyes snapped open. Pierce was conscious, or partially so, his eyelids fluttering as though vision was a painful sense at the moment. But his face wore a smile that was all too familiar, a maddening, smug, self-satisfied smile that grew wider when he saw Jaddo's shocked face.

"You'll never find it," Pierce croaked from his damaged throat. "It's hidden.....well hidden...."

"Ignore him," Brivari ordered. "Continue. We don't have much time."

"One day, he'll find it," Pierce whispered, still smiling. "And when he does, he will own you just like I did...."

Something inside Jaddo snapped, the rage he'd held in check since late last night when he'd learned his quarry had been found engulfing him. A moment later his hand was smoking and Pierce was screaming, the agonizing cry of one whose insides had been virtually set on fire.

"Stop!" Brivari roared. "We agreed we'd leave no trail!"

But it was too late. By the time Brivari had raised a hand and sent Jaddo flying across the room, Pierce had fallen silent, slack-jawed, his eyes wide and staring, a gleaming silver handprint burned into his flesh.



******************************************************



3 hours later




"Dr. Burke?" the secretary whispered. "The police are back."

"Thank you, Carol," Dr. Burke replied. "I'll take it from here."

Carol fled gratefully, obviously anxious to be as far away from the next office down as possible. And who could blame her? When Burke had returned to Pierce's office to see if he'd calmed down, he had found Pierce dead on the floor wearing a bizarre silver handprint, his face twisted in an expression of unspeakable horror, and the stench of roasted flesh permeating the air. The office itself was in shambles; whoever had killed him had done a very thorough job of looking for something. The ensuing two hours had been a nightmare, involving tense phone calls to board members and the arrival of the local sheriff, who took one look at the body, blocked off Pierce's office, and left, saying he'd be back. Several other doctors had begun a spirited argument about whether they should ignore the blockade and examine the body themselves, but Burke had been more interested in the mountain of evidence that needed to be destroyed. They were prepared for this eventuality, of course; every research facility which existed on or over the edge of social acceptability had to be. His first stop had been the liquid nitrogen tank which contained the alien cells; to his horror, he'd discovered it had been destroyed. No one had been harmed, and nothing else in the lab had been touched; the targeting had been very precise. Shaken, Burke had turned his attention to the rest of the evidence, various cell cultures and mounds of written lab notes and case histories. There wasn't time to destroy it all, but there had been time to hide it in one of the many storage closets with false backs constructed for just this purpose.

We're okay, Burke assured himself, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he headed toward the lobby. Everything was safely squirreled away, and whoever had destroyed the alien cells had spared him the necessity of doing so. Now they could turn their attention to catching Pierce's killer, whom Burke was certain was one or more of the applicants who had left in a huff. He'd told the sheriff about the altercation earlier that day, leaving out certain salient facts, of course, but the sheriff had not been interested. Nor had he been interested in the fact that Pierce must have shouted or screamed or made some kind of noise, and yet no one, not even Burke, who had been in his own office right next door, had heard a thing. He'd just blocked off the office, sternly warned everyone not to touch anything, and vanished, promising to be back shortly. It's about time, Burke thought sourly as he approached the entrance to the hospital, only to pull up short, gaping out the window. That was no sheriff's cruiser outside. Instead there were three jet black cars disgorging nearly a dozen men wearing dark suits and dark glasses.

"Good afternoon," Burke said warily as the first of the dark-suited men came through the front door. "I am Doctor Joshua Burke, director of this facility. And you are.....?"

The dark suit at the head of the pack flashed a badge, and Burke's heart nearly stopped. FBI? Someone had called the FBI? Then the sea of suits parted and another suit stepped forward, a very important suit judging from the way the others deferentially stepped back. "Agent Bernard Lewis," the owner of the suit said calmly, presenting his own identification. "Doctor Lewis, actually. I understand you have a dead body here?"

"I....who....where's the sheriff?" Burke stammered. "The sheriff said he'd be back."

"The sheriff called me," Lewis replied. "This is now the FBI's case. Open that gate," he called to the goggle-eyed hospital guard, who hurried to comply without even waiting for a nod from Burke, who followed the wave of suits right to Pierce's office.

"Is that him?" one the agents asked.

"It is indeed," Lewis murmured, standing over Pierce's body as the rest of his men fanned out over the room. "Well, I'll be. They finally got you, Daniel. But then we both always knew they would."

"You know him?" Burke asked in surprise.

"I believe 'knew' is now the proper form of the verb," Lewis said dryly. "Yes, I knew Dr. Pierce. We both worked together, after a fashion, at Eagle Rock, where the alien was held prisoner. And now that alien has killed him."

"An alien?" Burke echoed. "Hardly. We'd just had a very contentious meeting with a group of prospective employees who left right before this happened. I'm sure it was one of them. I have their names if you want—"

"Didn't you notice the silver handprint?" Lewis interrupted. "Smell the burning flesh? His internal organs have been fried from the inside out. Only one creature kills like that, leaves a mark like that, and that creature is not of this world. Nothing the least bit human did this." He turned to one of his men. "Shut this place down. I want every employee out of here, every record confiscated."

Still reeling from the announcement that an alien had actually been in his hospital, Burke came to his senses. "What? Why would you shut down the hospital? You just said an alien did this, and even though that's a ridiculous assumption, you seem to believe it, so you can't possibly think anyone here is to blame! Carol, don't let them near the files!" he called out the door as a small army of suits advanced on him. "Get your hands off me!" Burke shouted as two suits grabbed him by the arms. "You can't arrest me! What's the charge?"

But instead of being carried outside, Burke found himself deposited in a chair, with the door to Pierce's office closed and guarded by the two agents who'd grabbed him. "Dr. Burke," Agent Lewis said, leaning against the front of the desk as it's owner lay dead on the floor, "I wish to lay my cards on the table. As I said, Daniel and I were both at Eagle Rock when the alien was held prisoner. I know he was trying to produce an alien-human hybrid before he went AWOL, and I'm willing to bet he was still trying, given the number of available female patients here. Did he ever succeed?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Burke declared, giving the board-approved answer to questions of this nature.

Lewis smiled faintly. "Believe me when I say I know how difficult it can be for men like you—like me—who defy social convention in order to further knowledge. I'm well aware of the precautions one must take, the lies one must tell to protect oneself from the sanctimonious disapproval of those who don't understand that certain risks must be taken, certain taboos ignored for the betterment of mankind. And while that has always been the case, it has never been more true than now, when we see the evidence of what is out there, and what it's willing to do to us. Now, I'll ask you again....did Pierce ever succeed?"

Burke hesitated, not certain if this was just a slick sales pitch or a truly kindred spirit. "I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," he repeated. "Whatever you did with Pierce, it has nothing to do with his work here."

The smile slid from Lewis' face. "I see," he said in a voice a good deal less friendly. "Perhaps I should elaborate. I know what you've been doing here, doctor, or trying to. Cooperate with me, and that remains our little secret. Refuse to cooperate and I will have every legal and medical body within earshot of the FBI, which, in case that requires clarification, would be every legal and medical body in existence, descend on this hole in the desert with all the self-righteous indignation they can muster, not to mention the attendant press such indignation will attract. Have I made myself clear?"

"Absolutely," Burke whispered, swallowing hard.

"Then for the third time, did Daniel succeed in his quest for an alien-human hybrid?"

"No," Burke said stiffly. "The fetuses never made it past twelve weeks, and the mothers always died. And that's the end of it, because someone destroyed the alien cells."

"Oh, I'm sure they did," Lewis answered. "And where is the formula for the serum?"

"What serum?" Burke asked.

"The serum which suppresses alien powers," Lewis said impatiently. "The serum which allowed us to hold the alien prisoner for three years before it escaped. That serum."

Burke blinked. "I knew there was an alien, of course, because we had alien cells. But Daniel never talked about how they held it, and never mentioned it escaping; he said it died. And he certainly never mentioned a serum."

Something cold and hard pressed into Burke's head on either side, and he went rigid in his chair as he realized both guards had drawn their guns. "Look around you," Lewis said in a conversational tone as Burke struggled to obey, his eyes darting sideways. "Note the condition of this office. The aliens were here for revenge, but they were obviously also here for something else. That something was the serum Pierce developed, our only means of holding them captive, the formula for which Pierce took with him when he went AWOL. Where is it?"

"I.....I don't know," Burke stammered, having visions of joining Pierce on the floor. "I told you, he never mentioned a serum. Why would he? We weren't holding any aliens here."

Burke shrank back in his chair as Lewis squatted down before him. "Dr. Burke, we've been getting along so well that I truly hate to put you in this position, but you must understand the gravity of the situation. The military would love to get its hands on that serum. So would the FBI. And so would the aliens. It's possible the aliens already have it, of course, but I doubt Daniel would keep it in his office. That's just not like him. Which means the aliens are still looking for it just like the rest of us. And you don't want them to get hold of it, do you? Look what they did to your friend, your colleague. Tell me where it is, Dr. Burke."

"I said I don't know!" Burke exclaimed. "I can't tell you what I don't know!"

"Tell me where it is, or I'll make it known that you're hiding it," Lewis said flatly. "Which means you'll be getting another alien visitation, only this time, you'll be the target."

Burke paled, but shook his head. "I don't have it."

"Tell me, or I'll have them shoot!" Lewis burst out.

"Then I'm dead anyway!" Burke shouted. "Either you kill me now, or the aliens will, and it won't help either of you because I don't know where it is! I'd never even heard of it until today! If you want it so badly, don't you think you'd be better off spending your time looking for it elsewhere? Because while you're in here threatening someone who doesn't have it, the aliens are out there looking for it, and they just might find it before you do!"

Burke fell silent, panting, glaring at Lewis, who regarded him stonily for a full minute before giving a barely perceptible nod. The pressure on Burke's head disappeared, and he nearly collapsed with relief. Jesus, but Pierce had run with a rough crowd.

"Show me to Pierce's apartment," Lewis demanded.

"He didn't live here," Burke answered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "He has—had—a house nearby."

"The address?" Lewis asked.

Burke hesitated. "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple.



******************************************************



De Baca County, New Mexico




"This is the place, sir," Agent Del Bianco said.

Bernard Lewis looked out the car window and frowned. "Are you sure?"

"It's the only house that fits Dr. Burke's description," Del Bianco said. "And it's not like there's a lot to pick from."

Quite true, Lewis thought, stepping out of the car into the fierce New Mexico sun. Dreadful place, this desert state. He'd hated it back in the forties, and time had not improved his opinion. But no matter; he'd go to hell and back, hell, he'd go to hell and stay for a month if it meant getting his hands on what he was after.

"What do they call this place?" Lewis asked.

"They don't," Del Bianco replied. "It's not a town, or a village, or even a hamlet. It's nothing official; just a spot in the road, a few houses and businesses strewn along Route 285. Nearest post office is the county seat in Fort Sumner. The population of De Baca county hovers between two and three thousand, around one person per square mile. There's a whole lot of nothing out here. An excellent place to hide, if I do say so, sir."

"Very slick, Daniel, very slick," Lewis murmured as they approached the house, a modest one-story building that was neat as a pin and one of only four nearby. This was indeed the perfect place to hide, a place neither the Army nor the FBI would ever have thought to look for an ambitious man like Pierce. "Remember, we're here on a condolence call," Lewis reminded Del Bianco. "No guns, no threats, no giving me away."

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco said, obediently hanging back as Lewis knocked on the door.

His knock was answered by a short woman with shoulder length dark hair. "Can I help you?" she asked apprehensively, her eyes drifting behind Lewis to Del Bianco and the car.

"Are you Mrs. Daniel Pierce?" Lewis asked gently.

The eyes widened, then darted back to Lewis. "Why?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," Lewis continued. "May we come inside?"

The woman stared at him a moment in shock before nodding numbly and opening the door, one hand on her very swollen, very pregnant belly.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 15 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Misha: The POD thread does seem like ages ago, doesn't it?

I guess Brivari and Jaddo are going to become very much soured by their role, their mission, and their station in life way back on good ol' Antar?

Somewhat. Mostly they're going to disagree violently over how to handle the situation when the hybrids emerge far younger than expected. Stay tuned for Book 5.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



July 3, 1959, 7 p.m.

De Baca County, New Mexico



"But....how could this happen? He was only forty-eight! Isn't that too young for a heart attack?"

"It is unusual to have that happen to a man as young and vital as Daniel," Agent Lewis said to the distraught woman sitting across from him, "but unfortunately even young men sometimes suffer unexplainable tragedies. Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Pierce."

"You must work for the government," Mrs. Pierce said as she wiped a hand across her red, swollen eyes. "Daniel worked for the government, and his work was very important, very secret, so he couldn't use his real name. Everyone else knew him as 'Dr. Pearson'."

"I know," Lewis said smoothly. "I'm a doctor myself, and I worked with your husband. Naturally I knew his pseudonym, but we're in private, so there's no need for secrecy here."

"You knew Daniel?" Mrs. Pierce asked, shifting her bulk uncomfortably on the couch. "I didn't know any of his friends or co-workers. He never mentioned them, but I just assumed that was because his work was so secret."

"Just so," Lewis agreed. "Daniel and I were great friends, like brothers, really. But as you said, certain things must be kept to oneself when one attains a high position like he had. It's a cross we all must bear, but I think it's hardest for our families."

Mrs. Pierce's face contorted. "Yes," she sobbed as another round of tears started. "I'm not even sure who to call, or what to do, or....what do I do? I've never had anyone close to me die before, and now my own husband....." She broke off, unable to continue, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other to her very pregnant belly.

"There, there," Lewis said soothingly, rising from his chair and taking a seat beside her, offering a handkerchief as he did so. "This is precisely why I am here instead of a local sheriff or anyone else. Our nation understands the sacrifices it asks from its best and brightest, and they will take care of you in your time of need. I am here as your resource for anything you may need during this difficult time."

"Thank you," Mrs. Pierce wept, squeezing Lewis' hand tightly. Behind her Agent Del Bianco rolled his eyes. He was accustomed to Lewis' performances, of course, but this was a tour de force, worthy of an Oscar.

"The first thing we should do," Lewis continued, "is to make certain you're set for the near future, at least. When is your child due, Mrs. Pierce?"

"Helen," she said, her breath coming in great, gulping sobs. "Call me Helen."

"And I am Bernard," Lewis smiled. "When is your baby due, Helen?"

"September. It's a boy. Daniel was so pleased."

"How did he know it was a boy?" Lewis asked.

"He's a doctor, silly," Helen answered. "Or was."

A fresh round of crying ensued as Lewis patted her hand and tried to mask his impatience. "Helen, I know how difficult this must be for you, but we must settle certain things right away for your own safety and security. For example, do you have access to money now that Daniel is gone? Did he leave a will that needs to be attended to?"

"Daniel did all the finances," Helen said between sobs, "so I don't know about that. He gave me cash for things like groceries. But he did have a will. It's filed with an attorney in Fort Sumner."

"Daniel must have kept a copy of that will," Lewis coaxed. "Do you know where to find that?"

"His office, I guess," Helen said, gesturing down a hallway. "I never go in there. I didn't want to accidentally find out anything I wasn't supposed to know and get him in trouble."

"Of course you didn't," Lewis smiled, nodding to Del Bianco as he stood up. "I think you and I should go into the kitchen and have a nice cup of tea while my assistant here checks Daniel's office for a copy of the will and any other relevant documents that will help us to help you. Do you agree?"

"Of course," Helen said, struggling to hold back more tears. "You would know more about that than I would." She accepted the hand Lewis offered, maneuvering herself off the couch with difficulty. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have one of Daniel's closest friends here at a time like this."

"It's the least I can do for Daniel," Lewis said with a perfectly straight face. "He did it for me, you know. When my wife died, he was there for me every single minute."

"Your wife died?"

"Three years ago," Lewis said quietly. "I've never felt complete since then."

"Then you know!" Helen exclaimed. "You know exactly what I'm going through!"

"I do indeed," Lewis assured her. "And I will be here for you every step of the way just like Daniel was for me."

Helen clung gratefully to his arm as Lewis steered her toward the kitchen, giving a curt nod to Del Bianco as they passed. Del Bianco would tear that office apart within the hour, and if the formula for the serum wasn't there, they'd just have to keep looking. Now that the aliens had resurfaced, the one who held that formula would be the winner in the alien sweepstakes, breezing past all other contenders. Lewis intended that winner to be him, even if he had to stay here all night with Pierce's weepy wreck of a wife and weave a blanket of lies large enough to cover New Mexico.




******************************************************



Parker's Diner,

Roswell




It was evening when Spade finally brought the car to a stop outside Parker's and climbed out, stiff and sore from being in one position for so long. He'd been awake for thirty-six hours and on the road for twenty, pausing only for gas, bathroom breaks, and a pay phone to call Thompson and tell him he would be there soon. Thompson had responded with two words—"mission accomplished"—which at least meant Yvonne was safe and had gone a long way toward making those last few hundred miles more bearable. He entered the bar and eagerly scanned the room without success; then he noticed the door to the back room now had a window, and through that window he caught a glimpse of Pete, former bartender now apparently turned cook. It's a restaurant, Spade thought as he walked through the door and into a different world. So this is what Thompson had meant when he'd told him they'd meet at Parker's on the "new side". Pete had obviously parlayed Parker's popularity into a booming business for both locals and tourists judging from the bustle on both sides. He found Thompson dressed in civvies in a booth at the very end of a long row of booths which stretched from the front door to the very back corner.

"Jesus," Thompson said in astonishment when he saw Spade. "You look like hell, captain."

"Nice to see you too," Spade said dryly, noting that Thompson had lost that boyish look from ten years ago. "And I haven't been a captain for ages now. Call me Steven. Where's my wife?"

"On a plane back to New York with her colleague," Thompson answered. "When Malik called and said they'd reached Santa Fe, I told him not to bring her here."

"Why not?" Spade demanded.

"Because she shouldn't be here now, and neither should you. With what's going on at the base, the last thing you need is to be recognized as two AWOL soldiers they never found."

A waitress appeared, took one look at Spade, and said, "Right—coffee," and disappeared. "What happened?" Spade pressed as soon as she left. "Is Pierce dead?"

"Yes," Thompson said quietly. "Pierce was found dead in his office this afternoon at the Norwood State Mental Hospital, which is about forty miles north of here and could accurately be described as being in a 'remote location'."

Spade felt his gut tighten. So that's where Pierce had been planning to take Yvonne if he succeeded in impregnating her with an alien-human hybrid. Which he had, of course, but he'd never learned that. "Good," Spade said firmly. "I know Yvonne won't agree with me, but I'm delighted Pierce is dead. That's a huge weight off our shoulders even if she won't admit it. What was he doing out there at his 'remote location'?"

"I don't know," Thompson answered. "You don't discuss things like that over the phone, and I haven't seen the others since last night. What's more important is the reaction to Pierce's death."

"I imagine there's a fair amount of scurrying around," Spade said, gratefully accepting the coffee cup the waitress offered and the pot she left behind as well. "One of their AWOL's just showed up in a body bag."

"It's worse than that," Thompson said in a low voice. "When I spoke to them last night, the aliens agreed not to leave any alien calling cards. But Pierce was found with a silver handprint on his chest."

"So somebody lost their temper," Spade sighed, "and I bet I know who. But what's the problem? They're all free now, and they can all change their shape, so no one can find them."

"Sir, you won't believe the havoc this has caused at the base," Thompson said urgently. "No one has seen anything of aliens for a decade, and now suddenly they learn they're still out there. A lot of people have moved on, but some are still around. Remember Major Lewis?"

"How could I forget?" Spade said darkly. "Mr. Slicer-and-Dicer himself, and the bastard who knocked my wife around. What about him?"

"Lewis resigned his commission rather than face court-martial back in 1950. He went to work for the FBI, and he's been trying to worm his way back into the Army ever since. He wants to start a special task force dedicated to hunting aliens; I think he has dreams of recapturing one of them and finishing what he tried to start back in the forties."

"I don't even want to think about that man's dreams," Spade said, shaking his head. "But why the Army? Why not lobby the FBI?"

"Lewis is very much into rank," Thompson answered. "I don't think the title of 'agent' really does it for him. He wants his brass back, and until now, he's been thwarted by both the lack of any alien activity and by General Ramey, who was always vehemently opposed to his reinstatement under any circumstances."

"But now Ramey's dead," Spade said.

"And they have a silver handprint," Thompson added heavily, "not to mention a turf war. Lewis reached Pierce's body first and staked a claim for the FBI. He's offering to share whatever he finds in exchange for his special unit. And there's the matter of the serum."

"What about it?" Spade asked.

"Pierce took the formula for the serum he developed to block the aliens' powers with him when he went AWOL, along with all his notes on how he developed it. Both the Army and the FBI have been keen on finding him because that serum is the only way we have to control them short of knocking them out or killing them. Now that Pierce is dead, there'll be a scramble to find it; the winner will be the agency who will actually hold an alien if one is ever captured."

"Good God," Spade muttered, having lived through numerous power plays the last time aliens were held captive. "You've had quite a day, Brian."

"It gets worse," Thompson went on. "Stuff was pulled out of storage today that I haven't seen in years, including yours and Lieutenant White's files. I don't think I have to tell you what that means."

No, you don't, Spade thought, leaning back in the booth and closing his eyes. The hunt for him and Yvonne, long abandoned, might now be taken up in earnest by a new cadre of alien hunters all fired up by this latest alien sighting. "And here I thought that once Pierce was dead, we'd be....well, not 'home free' exactly, but a lot closer. Guess that's not going to happen."

"Just the opposite," Thompson agreed. "I didn't want you to come here tonight, but I couldn't tell you anything over the phone without someone overhearing me and couldn't get enough leave to meet you anywhere else. I finally settled on this side of Parker's because this is where the families come; soldiers mostly go to the bar. You need to get the heck out of Dodge, captain. I know you're tired, but tank up on coffee and drive. There are so many people in these parts who saw your picture today that I'm afraid even that scruffy beard won't be a good enough disguise."

" 'Scruffy'?" Spade echoed. "It's only scruffy because I've been up for two days."

Thompson smiled faintly. "Sorry, sir."

"I'm not a 'sir'," Spade reminded him, "and you're a captain now yourself."

"After everything we went through together, you'll always be a 'sir' to me." Thompson paused. "I know these aren't the best of circumstances, but I'm really glad to see you again. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, it has," Spade agreed. "Nine years. And nine years later, you're still saving my ass. Thanks, Brian."

"As I recall, you and the lieutenant saved mine quite a few times too," Thompson smiled. "I'm glad you both managed to escape and make a life for yourselves, and glad Pierce can't hurt her any more."

"Even if we did wind up whacking the bee's nest in the process," Spade murmured.

"There's one silver lining to that cloud," Thompson noted. "If they thought Pierce had died by human hands, they may have looked more closely into that delegation the lieutenant was a part of and discovered who she really was. Now everyone's looking for aliens, aliens who can look like anyone, and they have a better chance of hiding than you and the lieutenant."

A group of noisy soldiers entered from the bar area, filling up a booth and calling for a waitress. "You should go," Thompson said. "Make certain you cross the state line before you stop for the night."

"Understood," Spade nodded. "We'll keep in touch the usual way?"

"Not for a while. Let everything simmer down first. I don't know but what they'll be watching me because they know we were friends."

"Yeah," Spade sighed. "Well....if you're ever in—"

"Don't," Thompson interrupted firmly. "I still don't know exactly where you're living, and we should keep it that way."

"Right. Well...goodbye, Brian. Take care of yourself."

"You too, sir."

Spade slid out of the booth and walked toward the front of the restaurant, pulling up his collar as he passed the group of soldiers. Here he'd thought that Pierce's death would bring them a measure of peace, but he now felt more exposed than he had in years, and he continued to feel that way long past the city limits.




******************************************************




Proctor residence




Emily hesitated outside the dining room door, mentally rehearsing her speech, not wanting a repeat of what had happened earlier. Anthony was sitting at the dining room table absorbed in computations, a plethora of blueprints for the proposed observatory spread out in front of him as his pencil scritched over the paper in short, rapid strokes. Maybe this wasn't the best of times, and she was just about to leave when he looked up.

"Emily? Did you want something?"

"I....I don't want to bother you," Emily said. "You look busy."

"I could use a break," Anthony said, setting his pencil down and stretching in his chair.

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, Emily glanced at the blueprint nearest her. "This is going to be quite a production," she remarked.

"If they actually build it," Anthony said. "Right now we're arguing over the size of the telescope. No telescope is big enough for me, especially after playing with an alien telescope."

Emily smiled faintly. The telescope Brivari had given Dee on her ninth birthday still looked like the inexpensive model he'd constructed it from; only a handful of people knew what it could actually do. "That must be frustrating to have something so advanced and not be able to copy it."

"Frankly, I don't really understand how it works," Anthony admitted. "I just know that it does. And even if I were to learn, I think my colleagues would be a bit suspicious if I suddenly showed up spouting physics they didn't even know existed. It's probably better to stick to what I know." He paused. "So what's up?"

"Dee came home early today," Emily began, folding her hands on the table in front of herself, "and we....well...."

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I heard."

His tone was even and non-judgmental, but there was something about the steady way he held her gaze that caught Emily off guard. Anthony was an enigma. Despite the fact he'd spent half his childhood only four doors down, she still felt she didn't know him all that well. He usually kept to himself, staying on the fringes of any fray in progress almost as though he'd been assigned to observe rather than participate. "Okay," she said uncertainly. "Well....then you know she took something I said the wrong way. Again. Now she's talking about moving out, and I was hoping you could talk some sense into her."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Anthony said. "I agree with her. We should leave."

This simple statement left Emily speechless for a full half minute. "You can't mean that," she finally said in disbelief. "Look, Dee....overreacts. She always has. You've always been the steady one, so don't let her suck you into whatever it is she's upset about now. She has no business letting her personal problems uproot her entire family."

"Emily, you know I don't usually get involved when you and Dee disagree, but—"

"Then why are 'getting involved' now?" Emily demanded.

"—this time, it's different," Anthony continued right over top of her protest. "You obviously have issues with the way Philip is being raised. And since Philip is also my son, that means you have issues with me as well as Dee."

Emily stared at him, at a loss for what to say. She wasn't used to having any kind of conversation with Anthony, never mind such a frank confrontation. "We've given it some time," he went on. "We've been here for a couple of weeks, and during that time, you have persistently challenged the way we raise our son, interfering with everything from what dishes he uses at meals to when and how he takes his naps. Dee has held her temper for the most part and insisted our wishes be respected, but the minute her back is turned, you're right back to doing things your way. So far Philip hasn't gotten confused by this tug of war, but he's bound to if he stays here, and as his father, I simply cannot allow that."

Anthony's tone was calm, but rock steady, and Emily just sat there, flabbergasted. She'd never seen him like this, never known he'd had it in him. But then she should have suspected; anyone who had ushered her daughter out of harm's way as many times as Anthony had was obviously made out of some pretty stern stuff. "I....I'm sorry you feel that way," she stammered defensively. "I wasn't trying to 'interfere', I was just trying to give my own daughter the benefit of my experience. She's so stubborn that she's making mountains out of mole hills."

"Someone certainly is," Anthony said. "What difference does it make if Philip drinks out of a cup instead of a bottle as long as he gets his milk? What difference does it make where or when he naps as long as he gets enough sleep? Apparently a very big difference to you, because it was you, not Dee, who started all these arguments. I don't want my son spending months watching his mother and grandmother locked in combat, and Dee and I need to be able to make our own decisions without having you constantly challenge them."

"I wasn't 'challenging'," Emily insisted, "or....at least I didn't mean to come across that way," she finished, flustered. "It just seems that Dee thinks about herself more than Philip some times. A lot of the time," she amended. "And besides, how are the two of you going to afford your own place? The whole point of staying here this summer was to save money."

"We're going to look for a room in Roswell close to where I'm working," Anthony answered. "And Dee's planning to get a job, so that will help pay the rent."

"But....what about Philip?" Emily asked, bewildered. "Who will watch him if you're both gone all day?"

"Dee and I will work that out just like we always have before," Anthony replied.

"But—"

"I should make it clear that we're not asking your opinion," Anthony continued, "nor are we seeking your approval. We're simply informing you of the decision we've made." He paused. "I know you love us," he added softly, "and I appreciate your offer to stay here. I'm sorry it didn't work out. Hopefully we'll all get along better when we don't have to live together."

Emily opened her mouth to launch into a long string of very good reasons why this was a very bad idea, but caught herself just in time when she saw the look in Anthony's eyes. Anything she said now that was the least bit negative was going to be taken as "interfering", so she stood up and left the dining room before she said anything else she would wind up regretting.




******************************************************




Mescalero Indian Reservation




It was after dark when Brivari arrived at Quanah's village. He and Jaddo had spent the afternoon keeping a watchful eye on the aftermath of the discovery of Pierce's body, a discovery made all the more eventful because it had revealed their continued presence here. Jaddo had made an unfortunate misstep by losing his temper and killing Pierce the way he had; the original plan was to leave no mark of any kind that could not be traced to another human. The earlier than expected arrival of Pierce's colleague and the drama that followed had relegated them to mere observers, and what they had observed was disturbing: Cavitt and Pierce may be dead, but the one called "Lewis" still lived, arriving on the scene in mere hours. It had taken all of Brivari's powers of persuasion to convince Jaddo not to kill the man who had tried to make him the subject of a "living autopsy"; a second death so close on the heels of the first, especially with the first clearly pointing to alien involvement, would have been a very bad idea indeed. Restricted to watching, they had ultimately decided they were safe; Lewis was familiar with Jaddo's years of captivity and obviously knew who had killed Pierce, but there was no way for him to locate them. Even their failure to find the formula for the serum was not the disappointment it may have been; Lewis, too, had failed to find it, and with Pierce dead, no human possessed the ability to hold them should they be captured, an unlikely event in any case. They would keep a watchful eye in case the serum was discovered in the future, but as long as they were careful to lay low, the present excitement should die a natural death from lack of evidence, leaving them with the satisfaction of knowing one of their worst tormentors was now dead.

And what a relief that is, Brivari thought as he made his way through the village, which was curiously silent tonight. Perhaps Jaddo could move on now that his thirst for revenge had been slaked. Despite the fact that events had not gone quite the way they had intended, Brivari had to admit to a deep satisfaction that Pierce was dead and no longer posed a threat, be it to themselves, the Healer, or anyone else, and he wished to share that satisfaction, if not the details surrounding it, with his closest friend. He had not visited Quanah in two weeks, having spent his time with Atherton instead. But for all the excitement Atherton brought, he lacked Quanah's solid wisdom and experience, not to mention his trademark discretion. Informed of Brivari's joy at the elimination of a hated enemy, Atherton would ply him with questions while Quanah would merely toast his good fortune. The latter is what he sought tonight, along with the company of one who had shared his past, even if only for a little while.

Brivari rounded a corner and paused, confused. The village had seemed empty, but Quanah's house was ablaze with light and packed with people, so many that they could not all fit. The last time he'd seen such an assemblage had been for River Dog's wedding. Was this another wedding? But all of Quanah's children were now married, and the looks on the faces of those he could see did not suggest celebration. Ish-keh, he thought as he worked his way through the solemn crowd. Quanah had noted that his elderly mother was ill. The coughing sickness must have taken her, and this crowd must represent the burial rites of Quanah's people, something Brivari was still unfamiliar with. He reached the house; the crowd parted to allow him entrance, their faces troubled, and he felt a prickle of unease. Why all the sadness? Ish-keh was very old, having lived a long life and raised many children. Certainly he would have expected sorrow at her passing, but not this pall of grief. Had something else gone wrong, perhaps with the children or the grandchildren?

The house was so packed with people that Brivari found movement difficult, but some deft maneuvering brought him closer to where everyone's gaze seemed to be directed, the front room of Quanah's house. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spied River Dog and his family, along with his siblings and their families. Quanah's wife, Leosanni, sat between her two sons, her face contorted with grief. And next to her, wearing a similar expression was....Ish-keh? Alarmed now, Brivari pushed his way through the remainder of the crowd, scanning face after face for the one he had not yet seen. He found it in the last place he would have expected.

Quanah lay on some sort of platform, dressed in his best clothing, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. At his head sat Itza-chu, who looked up in surprise when Brivari emerged from the crowd. "What's wrong with him?" Brivari demanded of the medicine man. "What happened?"

River Dog rose from his place beside his mother. "It was pneumonia, a sickness of the lungs," he said in a shaky voice. "A week ago it became much worse, and this afternoon....he died."

"But he told me he'd been to see a healer and was given some medicine," Brivari protested. "Didn't it work?"

"We could only afford medicine for one," River Dog said, "and father gave the medicine to grandmother."

A moan went up from Quanah's mother, a sound suffused with so much grief it was almost unbearable to hear. "I should not have taken it," she whispered as her family supported her. "No mother should have to bury her son."

"We tried to find you," River Dog continued. "One of us has been at the cave around the clock for the past week in case you returned there instead of the village."

But I wasn't there, Brivari thought wildly. Quanah had been coughing the last time they'd spoken, but had said he feared for his mother's health more than his own....and had given his mother the medicine, leaving none for himself. And Brivari hadn't returned immediately because he'd been enjoying Atherton's company, unaware that while he did so, his closest friend since Valeris was dying when just a little privacy and a healing stone could have saved him.

"Out," Brivari whispered.

River Dog blinked. "What?"

"Out," Brivari repeated urgently. "All of you need to leave."

River Dog stepped closer as everyone exchanged confused glances. "Nasedo, my father is dead," he said steadily. "There is nothing you can do for him now."

"You don't know that," Brivari said in a ragged voice. "Sometimes there is still life in an apparently lifeless body."

"He died hours ago," River Dog persisted. "It is too late."

"It may not be," Brivari argued, "but it certainly will be if we just stand around talking about it!"

"You must not do this," River Dog urged in a whisper, clearly having divined Brivari's intentions. "There is no point. It will not help father, and you will only expose yourself."

"Not if everyone leaves!" Brivari snapped, his grief giving way to anger. "Everyone out now!"




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 16 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTEEN


July 3, 1959, 10:30 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



The healing stone stopped glowing as Brivari lowered both head and hands in defeat; across from him, River Dog did the same. In many medically primitive cultures, "death" was not true death; a spark of life remained, accessible by those who knew how to find it. But not so with Quanah, whose mind was vacant despite Brivari's desperate attempts to coax it back. Bringing someone very near death back from the brink would have required a tremendous amount of energy, but the boy's help had not been needed. They sat alone in silent defeat, the house having been emptied by none other than Itza-chu, who had heeded Brivari's admonitions to leave and herded everyone out, allowing them to work in private without the prying questions the sight of the healing stones would have brought.

"You tried," River Dog said gently. "I am grateful for that."

"I failed," Brivari whispered. "I doubt you are grateful for that."

"You brought my father back once before, and I have never forgotten that. Perhaps twice was too much to ask."

"It was not too much," Brivari said bitterly, gazing at his dead friend. "Had it been earlier, I could have saved him."

"Then perhaps you were not meant to save him."

Brivari's eyes flicked up to River Dog's passive, accepting expression, a sharp contrast to the anger boiling within himself. "What do you mean, 'not meant to'? Who would mean for me not to save him?"

"The Creator," River Dog said simply. "Perhaps my father was meant to die now."

"You think your 'creator' prevented me from saving him?" Brivari said sharply. "No 'creator' worth your reverence would willfully deprive the universe of this man."

"He might if it served some larger purpose," River Dog answered. "We believe that what happens does so for a reason. We may not know this reason now or ever, but—"

"I am not interested in 'reasons'," Brivari broke in angrily. "If you wish to view yourselves as nothing more than game pieces on a board, moved this way and that by another's whim, so be it. But I am no one's plaything, and should I chance to meet anyone who blocked my way to healing this man for any reason, they would not live long enough to regret it!"

A low rumble spread through the room as Brivari's anger escaped unbidden, rattling the glass in the windowpanes and shaking the table on which Quanah lay. River Dog looked around in alarm as Brivari restrained himself with a great deal of effort, wanting nothing more than to pulverize anything in sight. Normally he ignored human superstitions, even found them amusing. But to suggest there was a benevolent mind at work behind Quanah's death was too much to bear, a typical excuse from a primitive culture for that which they could not change. If someone had kept him from Quanah deliberately, that someone was guilty of murder.

"You are angry," River Dog said gently, "but—"

" 'Angry' doesn't begin to describe the way I feel right now," Brivari warned.

"—you are not responsible for my father's death," River Dog finished. "It was the sickness which—"

"It was my absence which killed him, not the sickness," Brivari snapped as River Dog flinched. "Whatever 'sickness' this was would not have stood a chance against me had I been here! Do not ply me with platitudes or make childish excuses in order to render this acceptable. It is not, nor will it ever be, acceptable, do you hear me? Never!"

"Enough," ordered a voice behind them.

River Dog hastily cupped the healing stone to hide it as Brivari sighed in annoyance. "I thought I told you to wait outside," he said tersely to Itza-chu.

"Leave us," Itza-chu said to River Dog, ignoring Brivari.

River Dog rose obediently, giving Brivari a sympathetic look as he left the room. Itza-chu took River Dog's seat on the other side of Quanah's body, directly across from Brivari. "Do you think your grief outweighs that of Quanah's own kin?" the medicine man said sternly. "I did not think you capable of such presumption."

"I have made no such claim," Brivari retorted. "Do you think I have no right to grieve because I am not kin?"

"I said no such thing," Itza-chu protested.

"Then it appears we have each misunderstand the other," Brivari said flatly.

Itza-chu was quiet for a time, eyeing Brivari with the same piercing stare he had turned on him at the very beginning, when Quanah had first welcomed him into his home. "Your friendship with Quanah has lasted many years," Itza-chu said finally. "Of course you mourn his death. And I am glad to see that you do."

"What kind of man takes pleasure from another's grief?" Brivari demanded.

"The kind who knows how power can be misused," Itza-chu answered. "It is good that one with power such as yours is capable of feeling loss and regret. Without the capacity for loss, one becomes arrogant. Arrogance and power make poor companions."

Arrogance. Yes, that was probably what his insistence that he could have saved Quanah looked like to a culture lacking Antarian medical acumen. "I could have saved him," Brivari said in a brittle voice. "That is not arrogance, but simple fact."

"I believe you," Itza-chu said. "And the fact that you were not given the opportunity to do so tells me that saving him was not the Creator's wish."

"I do not believe in your 'creator'," Brivari said.

"What either of us believes is irrelevant," Itza-chu replied. "Our differing interpretations will not change what has happened."

"I could have changed what happened," Brivari insisted. "Had I but known, Quanah would be alive today. Let me tell you what I believe," he continued heatedly as the medicine man regarded him passively, unmoved by his anger. "I believe we each write our own destiny. I believe we succeed or fail by the choices we make, and that those choices are our choices, not those of some unseen being which amuses itself by murdering good men for no reason!"

Brivari fell into a frustrated silence as Itza-chu regarded him levelly for several long minutes. "We are men of power, Nasedo," he said at length. "We are accustomed to being able to do things other cannot, to being able to right things others cannot. And yet there are times when our powers are not enough, when the universe steps in to remind us that, in the end, it is out of our hands. There is no shame in being humbled this way." He paused. "I am not familiar with your people's beliefs, but I am grateful we do not share them. If you feel responsible for Quanah's death because you were not here when you had no reason to think you should be, imagine how his mother feels. She, too, had the lung sickness, and she took the medicine her son urged on her, knowing he could not afford any for himself...and now she will bury him. Her guilt is greater than yours. And if the belief that this was meant to be, that some greater hand is guiding our destinies makes this burden easier to bear, so be it. Absent that belief, she might well take her own life."

Brivari dropped his eyes, unable to look the medicine man in the face. For all his own grief, that of Quanah's family must be far greater, and his mother's greatest of all. To watch her son die knowing she had consumed what could have saved him....

"I suspect Quanah anticipated your reaction," Itza-chu continued. "He left a letter for you."

Itza-chu held out an envelope, his hand hovering in the air over Quanah's body; Brivari stared at it, wanting to take it, not wanting to take it. Here was another message from a dead friend he had not been able to save, and Valeris' last words as delivered by the Proctor's child rang in his mind as he reluctantly accepted it. "What does it say?" he whispered.

"I do not know," Itza-chu replied. "He wrote it before his death and gave it to River Dog, who bade me deliver it. It seems Quanah was not the only one who anticipated your reaction."

Brivari cast a guilty glance toward the front door, hoping his lapse of control hadn't frightened River Dog too badly. He wasn't accustomed to feeling ashamed of his behavior, couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt the need to explain his behavior. It was an unsettling feeling, and he rose to leave, feeling chastised even though the medicine man had been remarkably circumspect.

"I would ask a favor of you," Itza-chu said behind him. Brivari paused, not turning around. "I respect your beliefs even though I do not share them, and would ask the same courtesy in return. Do not burden Quanah's kin with your talk of murder and blame. Allow them the 'platitudes' which make his death easier to bear, if that is how you see them. And if you find yourself unable or unwilling to grant this request, then do not attend his burial. Do not make this harder for them than it already is."

That prickle of shame reared its ugly head again. It was not a pleasant sensation for a King's Warder, and Brivari nodded curtly before leaving in a hurry through the back door, avoiding the crowd outside.




******************************************************



FBI Field Office

Santa Fe



"Nice office," Agent Del Bianco said, settling into a chair. "Whose is it?"

"That agent has been reassigned," Agent Lewis answered from behind his new desk. "You're late."

"And you're early," Del Bianco replied. "I'd assumed you'd be out with the lovely Mrs. Pierce."

"I dined with Daniel's weepy widow earlier tonight," Lewis replied, recalling how he'd hid his distaste every single time that emotional woman had burst into tears, which was, on average, every ten minutes. "She's still buying my story about my having been bosom buddies with her husband; fortunately there is no one to contradict it."

"So what'd you learn?"

"Nothing," Lewis sighed, "because she knows nothing. Helen Pierce is about as close to an empty vessel as you can get, a smart choice for a man who wanted to fill her with all sorts of tall tales. For our purposes, she is precisely useless."

"Maybe not," Del Bianco said thoughtfully. "She is carrying his child."

Lewis' eyebrows rose. "Meaning?"

Del Bianco opened a folder which contained several pages of hastily scrawled notes. "I took that will I found in his safe to one of our attorneys, and told him what I'd discovered at the county courthouse. Pierce was no fool. His marriage is legit, and so is the will. Both were executed in his real name."

"I thought we'd paid off officials in all fifty states to report any instances of a 'Daniel Pierce' trying to do anything other than breathe," Lewis said irritably.

"Apparently we didn't pay off the right people in De Baca County, population, 2,302," Del Bianco said dryly. "As far as they knew, Pierce wasn't 'Pierce', he was 'Pearson', a doctor who was working on a top secret project. Everyone spoke very highly of him, and although he told them he wasn't at liberty to divulge the nature of his work, he apparently let on that it had something to do with fighting the communists, a sentiment that would go over big with those in De Baca."

"Who naturally understood the need to hide his real name and happily helped him do so," Lewis said sourly. "I swear that communists are the all purpose excuse for just about anything, including cold-blooded murder."

"We've used them as an excuse ourselves, sir," Del Bianco chuckled. "The justice of the peace who married Pierce thought his last name was 'Pearson'," he continued hastily when Lewis scowled, "and recalled the marriage license as reading Pearson. But there's no Pearson on file, so something got switched afterwards, and that was probably done by the county clerk at the time, one Ina Sanchez, now deceased. I guess we aimed our bribes too high."

"Wonderful," Lewis deadpanned. "Is there any chance of proving the marriage illegal?"

"Possibly," Del Bianco said doubtfully, "but it won't do any good. Pierce anticipated that. His will names his wife by her maiden name, Helen Butcher, not by a married name or simply by the title of 'wife'. So even if the marriage is invalidated, she'd still be Helen Butcher, and she'd still inherit his estate lock, stock, and barrel."

"And somewhere in that estate is the serum," Lewis fretted. "But where? You're sure you took the house apart?"

"Down to the drywall. But I don't think that's where you'll find what you're looking for." Del Bianco tapped his notes. "Pierce left a safe deposit box in trust for his child at a bank right here in Santa Fe which he or she will inherit upon his reaching the age of twenty-one. That child also stands to inherit Pierce's entire estate upon Helen's death."

"That's it!" Lewis said triumphantly. "Oh, brilliant, Daniel, brilliant! Leave the serum to an unborn child who won't be old enough to inherit it for a couple of decades! Anyone there we can bribe?"

"No one on record, sir."

"I don't suppose we can break in?" Lewis asked hopefully.

"To the First National Bank of Santa Fe? We'd be better off nursing the bribe route."

"Right," Lewis agreed. "Who would—" He stopped, a horrible thought having occurred to him. "What happens," he said slowly, "if Helen Butcher's child doesn't survive?"

Del Bianco hesitated. "In that case, the will directs that the contents of the safe deposit box be destroyed immediately."

"Damn it," Lewis muttered, pushing his chair back from the desk, drumming his fingers on the arm. "Further proof that what we're looking for is likely in that box. Unless this is all just a ruse to point us in the wrong direction, something Daniel was quite capable of." He frowned as he rose from his seat, gazing out the window at the city lights. "Regardless, it would appear that we have a vested interest in the health and welfare of Daniel's unborn child. When is she due again?"

"September 18th," Del Bianco answered.

"And she'll needs lots of emotional support," Lewis murmured, "the kind that can only come from a dear friend of her dead husband who also happens to be a doctor."

"You're diabolical, you know that, sir?"

"Of course I am," Lewis said briskly, resuming his seat. "That's why I have this job, and why I'll soon have an even better one. Now that the aliens have reappeared, everyone will be interested in anyone who knows anything about them, and who knows more about them than me? No one, that's who. Anyone else 'in the know' is either dead or missing."

"What about the hospital staff?" Del Bianco asked.

"Almost as useless as Daniel's wife," Lewis answered. "Oh, that Burke is slippery, I'll give him that. Managed to remove every shred of evidence in the short time between Daniel's death and our arrival. Quick work, that, very quick; under different circumstances, I might offer him a job. But Burke was the only one who knew that the alien reproductive cells they were using to impregnate their inmates came from a live alien, and even he thought the alien had died, not escaped. No, that avenue is closed to interested parties, which only makes us more appealing, not to mention the fact that we have Pierce's body safely stashed in Washington."

"So what are you planning to do?" Del Bianco asked eagerly.

"First, you need to keep looking," Lewis said. "Yes, I know you already looked. Look again. Pierce could have hidden that formula virtually anywhere, from the safe deposit box to the back of an old grocery list. Intellectual capital is easy to conceal."

"But what about the box?" Del Bianco asked. "You can't exactly tell her what you're looking for, and a bank heist is risky, especially if what we're looking for isn't there. And we certainly can't sit around waiting for the kid to grow up."

"Who is the executor of Daniel's estate?" Lewis asked.

"Helen Butcher," Del Bianco answered.

"Then as executor, she will need to view the contents of that box prior to his estate being settled," Lewis said. "And when she does, I will see to it that she is accompanied by her husband's dear friend, who has graciously offered to stand by her during this confusing time."

Del Bianco smiled faintly. "Did I mention that you're diabolical, sir?"

"Yes," Lewis answered with satisfaction. "As a matter of fact, you did."




******************************************************




Mescalero Indian Reservation




Moonlight filtered through the trees as Brivari stood in the front of the cave which had sheltered him from his enemies for the better part of three years. He hadn't lived here in nearly a decade, hadn't even visited because there'd been no need to. But tonight, holding Quanah's letter in his hands, this had seemed the only appropriate place to read it. His feet crackled on the dry earth of the cave floor as he walked inside, recalling that night when the sweat had felled him and River Dog had found the healing stones and brought him back. Like they both had done for Quanah later that night after the hunters' attack had injured him. Like Brivari could have done for Quanah this time had he been here.

Brivari's heart felt like lead as he sank down on the cave floor and opened the letter. Quanah's scrawl was alarmingly weak and messy, punctuated here and there by jagged lines that probably indicated a coughing attack which had come on mid-sentence. It took him a full minute after opening the letter to work up the courage to read it.



Nasedo,

My illness worsens, and I have reason to believe my time grows short. If you are reading this, then my time has run out.

I know you, my friend. I know you blame yourself for my death, either because you were not aware of it or because you tried, and failed, to forestall it. Please know that I do not blame you in any way. I know you either did what you could or were prevented from doing so by lack of knowledge. Nothing happens without purpose, and our not knowing that purpose does not mean it does not exist. If my death serves some higher purpose, then so be it. I accept it willingly, knowing that death is not the end for my people, but merely the next step in the journey our spirits take. You know this too from your experience with the sweat, which showed you another world in spite of the danger it posed. Only my body has ended; I go on. River Dog will look for me in the spirit world the same way I sought my grandfather. Perhaps I will have a message for you just as your kinsman did years ago.

Do you remember the last conversation we had, when you told me that your greatest achievement had been destroyed and its repair delayed? I pray you do not allow your disappointment to define you, and that you follow the advice your kinsman gave you long ago: Do not forget how to live. Each of us is given only one chance upon this earth. We must not waste a moment of it because none of us knows when time will grow short. Do not waste your time mourning my death, but rather celebrate your life. What I am not there to enjoy, enjoy in my place. Perhaps you will live to see your greatest achievement reborn. And if you do, be certain the time you spent waiting for it was used wisely.




The signature was so badly scrawled that it was virtually illegible; Brivari set the letter in his lap and read it again, and then a third time. Perhaps you will live to see your greatest achievement reborn.... Quanah could not have known how pertinent that statement was. He had never known what Brivari truly was the way River Dog did, and neither father nor son knew his purpose here. Quanah had known so little, asked so little, yet his absence left a void in Brivari's life even larger than Valeris'.

An hour passed before Brivari left the cave. A short time later he had noiselessly unlocked the door to a rooming house similar to Malik's and climbed the stairs, knocking on a door as quietly as possible, hoping no one else would hear him. A minute later a very sleepy Atherton opened the door, tying a robe around himself and gaping when he saw who stood outside.

"Langley!" he exclaimed. "Wherever have you been? And what are you doing here in the middle of the night? You look....." Atherton blinked, peering harder. "My God, man, you look awful! What's happened?"

"A....a good friend of mine has died," Brivari said haltingly. "May I come in?"




******************************************************




Copper Summit, Arizona




The basement door slid open, and Michael stepped inside, nodding to the operatives manning the surveillance equipment before heading straight for the door to the lower level. Initially closed to him, it had not stayed that way for long; his assignment to abduct human children for Nicholas' experiments had necessitated making the lower level available to him as well. Unfortunately, he thought as he pressed his hand to the second lock. This newest assignment was one of the most distasteful he had ever had, and at his age, he had quite a few to choose from. He didn't believe for a moment that Nicholas intended to share anything he learned from these experiments, and if he succeeded in replicating the purported powers of the Royal Warders, he would become more powerful then Khivar, a frightening thought if ever there was one. Many a resistance meeting in the last two weeks had ended in frustration as its members struggled to find a way to sabotage this latest bid for power. The problem was that only a handful of operatives knew what was happening; any countermove from any source would mean that someone on that very short list had talked. They had come up with a few stalling tactics, but those would be short-lived at best. His being summoned here by Nicholas today most likely meant that the first stalling tactic had been discovered. Two weeks, Michael thought heavily. It only lasted two weeks. Which was better than nothing, but not by much.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase which led to the lower level, Michael took his time walking through the maze of cubicles as he always did, looking inside each as he passed, trying to learn anything he could. The cubicle which had held the spare husks for Nicholas and his family was now empty; Michael's discovery of that which was not supposed to exist had apparently prompted their relocation. Most of the rest were filled with machinery and manned by technicians engaged in some sort of testing. "Intake", as Nicolas euphemistically referred to the tissue harvesting area, was in the very back, probably so that anyone who gained unauthorized access to this room would have to traverse its entire length before they could get a clear picture as to what exactly was being done here. It was a long walk which ended much too soon, and Michael braced himself for a tongue-lashing.

"Harder," came a breathless voice from behind the curtain. "Harder.....harder......"

Pausing just outside, Michael peered cautiously around the curtain. Vanessa was leaning over the end of the table with Nicholas behind her, and....well....the humans had a term for this in one of their major languages: In flagrante delicto. He held his breath, watching with guilty fascination. The human method of mating had proven a huge distraction for the Argilian contingent. Primitive species relied more on raw senses for information and stimuli than more advanced species; what humans lacked in their brain evolution was more than made up for in those deliciously sensitive places on the human body, so exquisitely sensitive that they were almost painful to a race not accustomed to such a highly developed sense of touch. The irony was that, although the husks they wore were fully functional in every way, Khivar's sabotage of Nicholas' husk meant that his was the exception; intervention from their technicians had been needed in order for him to perform the act, and even then, he could feel nothing. So why do it at all? Michael wondered, as the pair heaved and sweated. This could only be for Vanessa's benefit, and Nicholas was not given to participating in anything from which he did not receive a direct benefit. Then he caught a glimpse of his master's face and discovered the answer; watching his lover enjoy herself was as close as Nicholas could get to this particular human sensation, which he had to admit appeared absolutely intoxicating....

Michael looked down in horror as he felt his own husk responding to what he saw with an uncomfortable stiffness he had experienced only once before. Then he moved slightly and got a better look at the table; while Vanessa and Nicholas enjoyed themselves in their respective ways at one end, one of the unfortunate human children Michael had delivered lay at the other, tethered and unconscious, the upper half of his skull removed. The sight filled Michael with such disgust that his stiffness vanished almost instantaneously. Interesting how the human body responded so quickly and fiercely to emotion. Antarians had long since severed that link.

"Ahem, Michael coughed.

The resulting tableau was priceless as Nicholas stumbled backwards off the box on which he'd had to stand in order to service his lover, affording Michael a full view of her husk's hindquarters before she spun around in shock, her clothing falling into place. "What the hell are you doing here?" Nicholas demanded, yanking his pants up.

"You summoned me," Michael answered.

"That doesn't mean you can go barging in on people!" Vanessa sputtered, her husk's face reddening in yet another human response to emotion.

"My apologies," Michael said smoothly. "I had no reason to think anyone was engaged in private activities. In future, how would you wish me to respond? Should I interrupt, or wait until you're finished?"

"Finished with what?" barked a voice behind him.

Michael suppressed a smile as Ida Crawford blustered into the cubicle, taking in Vanessa's red face and Nicholas' sweaty indignation in one glance. "Were you......were they?" she demanded, spinning around to face Michael. "Don't lie to me, Michael. Were they mating?"

"Yes, ma'am," Michael answered promptly.

"Why, you idiots! Get out of here!" Ida ordered as Vanessa scurried away, her eyes brimming with hatred. "And you should know better!" she continued to her son, who wisely backed up. "Haven't I warned you a million times about what it looks like for a grown woman to be doing that with a child?"

"Which is why we were down here," Nicholas said in exasperation, "where no human could ever see us! God, Mom, when do I ever get to have any fun?"

"When you finish the job you came here for," Ida snapped. "That's the only thing I want to see you trying to 'finish', is that clear?"

Ida stalked off, ignoring Michael and having spared not even a glance at the human child on the table. Michael waited, knowing he wouldn't be chastised for tattling; even Nicholas would never dare lie to his mother. If anything Michael's interruption had been beneficial; a minute later, and Ida wouldn't have needed to ask what they'd been doing, which would undoubtedly have made her even angrier. "You wanted to see me?" Michael said, ignoring his master's discomfiture.

"Yes, I did," Nicholas said tersely, gesturing toward the table. "This one's too old. They're all too old. Where did you get them?"

"From a human organization known as a 'scout troop'," Michael answered. "They were camping in the woods; the disappearance of several of their party was attributed to wild animals, I believe."

"Good cover, bad specimens. They need to be younger. These are eleven or twelve at least, and the parts of their brains that we need have atrophied. Get younger ones, much younger ones. No more than five or six."

"That will be difficult," Michael said. "Human children that young are watched very closely. It's only when they're older that they go off by themselves and become easier to obtain."

"I don't care if it's difficult, just do it," Nicholas said irritably.

"I'll need to consult with Greer about the least risky way to acquire younger children," Michael replied. "Being caught would be catastrophic."

Nicholas swore loudly as Michael stood passively by. When Riall and Zan had sent their operatives to do exactly what Nicholas was trying to do now, they'd had Covari who could take the shape of virtually anyone, including the child they were taking or the child's parents; Argilians had no such advantage. Michael intended to emphasize that point with Greer and make it as difficult as possible to obtain younger children. He wasn't certain how long he could keep that up, but any delay would be welcome.

"Sir?"

"For the last time, don't call me 'sir'!" Nicholas exploded at the terrified operative behind them. "What?"

"I....it's in the surveillance room," the operative stammered. "You'll want to see this."

Nicholas stormed out and Michael hastened to follow, curious about what was so important. And important it must be judging from the knot of operatives gathered around one of the consoles, jabbering excitedly. They scrambled aside as Nicholas approached, waiting in eager silence as he scanned the incoming message....and broke into a wide smile.

"At last," he whispered. "At long last. Where did you get this?"

"From our usual contact," an operative answered.

"Did you notify the nearest operative?"

"Yes, but he hasn't responded yet."

"Keep trying. Let me know the minute you hear from him."

"What happened?" Michael asked, unable to contain himself any longer.

"Go upstairs," Nicholas told him triumphantly, "and tell that hellion of a mother of mine that I just got a lot closer to finishing 'the job I came for'."




******************************************************




July 4, 1959, 3:30 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



The phone jangled Courtney awake; she reached for it without opening her eyes, her hand missing three times before she managed to pull the receiver off its cradle. "Hello?" she mumbled.

"Courtney? Wake up," her father's tense voice answered. "Mark hasn't checked his communicator for hours, and I need to talk to him right away."

Courtney's eyes flew open as she sat up so quickly that she was momentarily dizzy. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I need to talk to Mark," her father insisted.

"He's....not here."

"Not there?" her father echoed sharply. "Then where is he?"

"At work," Courtney said quickly.

"At this hour?"

"He.....had a car come in from a wealthy client, and....they wanted it fixed right away," Courtney stammered, her sleepy brain groping desperately for a rational explanation as to why a car mechanic would be working at this hour. "I guess he's getting paid a lot of money to work on it all night," she added, crossing her fingers that her father would buy that. She hadn't had to deal with Mark's absence since she'd moved in, hadn't even given it a second thought after successfully lying to her father two weeks ago. Obviously that had been a mistake.

"Oh," her father said, disappointed. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Not for a while," Courtney said evasively. "What's wrong, Papa? Something must be wrong if you're calling me in the middle of the night, or calling me at all, for that matter. You hate telephones."

There was a brief conversation wherever her father was. Courtney strained to hear, but he must have had his hand over the mouthpiece because everything was muffled. What was going on? Had her father's rebel status been discovered? But then why would he be on the phone to her?

When her father spoke again, he sounded resigned. "I need you to listen to me very carefully," he said intently. "Get the trithium amplification generator I gave you, and come back to the phone."

"The what?"

"The five-sided device," her father clarified. "Go get it."

"But....you said that was to block the Warders' powers," Courtney said in alarm. "Why do I need it now?"

"Because you were right," her father said, fear lacing his voice. "They're there, Courtney. The Warders have killed a man just north of Roswell."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 17 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


July 4, 1959, 3:40 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell



Courtney's hands shook as she dug her fingernails into the loose floorboard inside her closet beneath which she'd hidden the device her father had given her before she left Copper Summit. He'd told her to keep it with her at all times, and she had done nothing of the sort, hiding it first in one of the bureau drawers and then here after she'd found the loose board and Mark's communicator beneath it. Dee and her little boy visited a lot, and one of Philip's favorite activities was emptying cupboards and drawers. Not that Dee would know what it was if he found it, of course, but it was best if no one ever saw it, especially since she still didn't know what any of the numbered buttons did other than the one that activated the energy field which blocked the Warders' powers. "Okay, I've got it," she said breathlessly into the phone, her finger on the one button she was familiar with.

"Press number three," her father instructed.

"But....that's not the one you showed me," Courtney said. "Shouldn't I be blocking their powers? Isn't that why you called me?"

"We just want to send you a transmission," her father clarified. "As far as we know, you and Mark have not been compromised and are in no immediate danger. That device is also a communicator. You activate it with the third button."

Courtney sagged back against the bed in relief, nearly dropping the phone in the process. She'd thought they'd found her, that Royal Warders were lurking outside her door at this very moment and her father had called her to warn her so she could use the one defense at her disposal. And all he'd wanted to do was send a transmission. Why hadn't he just said that right away?

"Courtney?" her father asked sharply. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Papa," Courtney said quickly, pressing the indicated button. "It's on. Go ahead."

A hologram promptly shot up from the center of the device, in vivid color and a meter square. What it showed her was not pretty, and she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them as the images rotated by. All were of a man lying on the floor with a silver handprint emblazoned on his chest...no, into his chest, a look of absolute terror etched on his dead features. She set the phone back in its cradle when her father's face appeared in the lower right corner of the image. "When did this happen?" she whispered, relieved to have a face to talk to instead of a disembodied voice.

"Yesterday afternoon, at some kind of hospital several miles north of Roswell," her father explained.

"Did they kill anyone else?"

"No. The man in the image is Doctor Daniel Pierce, one of two commanders who held Jaddo hostage. The other was killed shortly after Jaddo escaped."

"They're persistent," Courtney murmured. Jaddo had no doubt hunted this "Pierce" since his escape in 1950. It had taken him nine years, but he'd had his revenge.

"Royal Warders are noted for their persistence and ruthlessness," her father answered. "The point is—"

"The point is that you were right," another voice interrupted as a different face replaced her father's in the lower right corner.

Nicholas. Courtney sat bolt upright, fully awake now. "Right about what?" she asked cautiously.

"You argued that they were near Roswell, and it looks like they are," Nicholas said. "This is the first time they've shown their faces in nearly ten years. I knew they'd slip up some time."

"I wouldn't call this 'showing their faces'," Courtney said doubtfully. "And even if they had, it wouldn't mean a thing—they're shapeshifters."

"You know what I mean," Nicholas said, sounding a tad annoyed. "Now, I want you and Mark to get off your rear ends and find them."

"Are you sending more operatives?" Courtney asked, suddenly flooded with panic. Even one more operative meant she couldn't keep the news of Mark's death secret any more.

"Not yet," Nicholas answered. "Too many of our people up there before they've been identified might tip them off. Find them first. Start with any unexplained deaths or unexplained miracles. They're very likely living right there in the community, maybe even in a position of prominence. You know how Warders like to lord it over everyone."

"You mean like you?" Courtney said before she could stop herself.

But Nicholas wasn't about to let anything rain on his parade. "Always the joker," he laughed as Courtney imagined her father cringing. "Just find the murdering bastards so we can go home."

"Understood," Courtney said. "Can I talk to my father again?"

There was a pause before Michael reappeared. "Listen to me," he said intently. "If you find them, do not engage them. Just find out as much as you can without drawing suspicion, and let us know."

"Right, Papa," Courtney said, knowing full well that her father really meant "let the resistance know". "I'll let you know the minute I—we—find anything."

"Check your generator frequently for messages," her father added. "The indicator will blink, just like with a regular communicator. If Mark is working odd hours, you may be the first to hear of anything that's happening. Good luck, sweetheart, and be careful. I love you."

"I love you too, Papa," Courtney said wistfully. "Goodbye."

Her father's image melted away, the transmission still hanging in the air above the generator showing a gruesome death which had arguably been richly deserved if any of the tales of Jaddo's captivity were to be believed. The Warders had targeted the one man with whom they had a score to settle and left everyone else unscathed. That hardly qualified them as "murdering bastards", to her way of thinking. Not that they'd thank me for that assessment, she thought, shutting off the imager and replacing the generator beneath the floorboard before turning off the light and climbing back into bed. No, one glimpse of who she really was, and she could wind up just like this "Pierce" before she'd even had a chance to say a word.




******************************************************



7 a.m.

Parker's Diner




"In you go," Atherton said firmly, holding the door to the diner open.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," Brivari grumbled. "I didn't want to go anywhere."

"Nonsense," Atherton scoffed. "Getting out will do you good. At a time like this, it's important not to hibernate."

"People don't 'hibernate'," Brivari noted. "Fauna do."

"That's where you're wrong," Atherton declared. "People do hibernate, and the results are typically disastrous. Have a seat, and we'll order some coffee."

Brivari obediently slid into their usual booth, secretly grateful to be looking at something other than the four walls of Atherton's room. Atherton had been nothing less than conscientious, staying up with him for several hours and listening patiently to an abbreviated version of Quanah's death while saying very little, something of a surprise given how chatty he usually was. Both of them had fallen asleep on the couch, awakening about an hour ago, and Atherton had insisted on going to the restaurant where they usually met. The morning sunshine had made Brivari feel marginally better, and he had agreed, only to regret it as they walked the short distance from Atherton's rooming house to Parker's. To walk in a world that Quanah no longer inhabited was painful, so painful that he had briefly considered attempting a sweat again for a chance to see him one last time. The thought that Quanah would not be there the next time he visited the village was simply unbearable.

Courtney appeared, pad in hand. "Good morning! You're early today. And you're back, Mr. Langley. What—" She stopped, eyeing him closely. "You don't look so good. Is something wrong?"

"Mr. Langley has suffered the death of a close friend," Atherton explained.

"Oh....I'm so sorry," the waitress said. "That's awful. Were you close?"

"Quite close," Atherton answered when Brivari remained silent, having dreaded just this type of questioning. "May we have some coffee, please? A pot would be nice. You don't look so good yourself," he added. "Are you all right, dear?"

"I didn't get much sleep last night," she admitted.

"Anything wrong?"

"I just got an unexpected phone call in the middle of the night."

"Ah, the middle of the night phone call," Atherton nodded. "I've had a few of those myself."

Courtney went to fetch coffee as Atherton leaned across the table. "I didn't mention this last night because of the state you were in, Langley, but how old did you say your friend was?"

"I don't know exactly. In his fifties, I think. Why?"

Atherton began to answer, but Brivari wasn't listening. Jaddo had walked in, and he glanced briefly at the two of them before taking a seat in a booth directly behind Atherton.

*He never shuts up, that one,* Jaddo commented.

*Good morning to you, too,* Brivari said sourly.

*We were supposed to meet at the base last night,* Jaddo continued, ignoring Brivari's sarcasm. *Where were you?*

*Quanah is dead,* Brivari announced. *Does that answer your question?*

There was a long pause. *I'm sorry to hear that,* Jaddo said finally, *but I believe I warned you about starting relationships with humans. Several times.*

".....and an Indian's life expectancy is only about sixty, considerably less than yours or mine," Atherton was saying, oblivious to the fact that a second conversation was taking place right in front of him. "Your friend actually lived to a ripe old age."

"This isn't about his age," Brivari said sharply. "It's about the fact that I didn't know, that perhaps I could have done something to help him had I known."

"How could you have known?" Atherton asked. "And what could you have done? Well, I suppose you could have financed medication for him. Or......"

*Do you mean to tell me that you would have actually considered using a healing stone?* Jaddo demanded. *If you'd done that, they would have wanted everyone they knew healed! You would put us at risk for a human friend?*

*Ally,* Brivari corrected, *an ally who gave me shelter when I was hunted and took down a hunter single-handedly, if you remember. An ally every bit as valuable as the Proctor's child or the Healer, both of whom we saved with healing stones. And you're a fine one to talk about 'putting us at risk' after the stunt you pulled yesterday. We agreed not to leave a trail, so of course you planted a handprint on Pierce.*

*What difference does it make?* Jaddo said. *They can't find us. Let them trip over themselves hunting. Besides, it was a worthwhile price to pay for giving Pierce exactly what he deserved.*

*There were dozens of other ways to kill him that wouldn't have set off a locator beacon!* Brivari exclaimed. *And you didn't seem to think it was a price worth paying before we went out there, when you agreed we should not leave a trail. Or are you rewriting history now?*

".....but in the end, it may have been too late," Atherton said. "Once pneumonia has advanced to a certain stage, I'm not certain even medication would have worked. I suppose he could have been hospitalized, but most Indians won't go to a hospital...."

*You're upset,* Jaddo said calmly, *so I'll ignore your temper. Let this be a lesson to you not to get overly involved with humans, Brivari. They're a fragile race. And I, for one, am delighted you didn't know about this Quanah's dilemma so you wouldn't be tempted to risk exposure by healing him. If you had—"

*If I had,* Brivari interrupted, *he would be alive right now, and I would have been free to meet you at the base to assess the damages you caused by losing control.*

*I earned that!* Jaddo snapped. *I earned every single second it took his puny human body to die; if the price of that is some stirrings at the base, so be it. And if the price of our cover is Quanah's death—"

Brivari slammed his hands on the table as he rose abruptly, startling Atherton into silence. *Get out!* he ordered.

But Atherton, of course, couldn't hear. Neither could the waitress, who was hovering nearby, wide-eyed. "Whatever is the matter?" Atherton asked, bewildered, only to turn around when Jaddo rose from his seat behind him and turned hard eyes on Brivari.

*Now who's lost control?* Jaddo asked coldly.

*Get out,* Brivari said flatly.

Atherton watched in utter confusion as Jaddo stalked out the door. "I....brought you some coffee," Courtney said carefully, "and a plate of your favorite breakfast. On the house. Mr. Parker said so."

"Thank you," Brivari said quietly, resuming his seat as she deposited a plate of pancakes and eggs and left, throwing an inquisitive glance Atherton's way.

Atherton, for his part, was still looking back and forth from Brivari to the door. "What was that all about? Do you know that man, Langley?"

"No," Brivari answered, "and I have no idea."




******************************************************



Eagle Rock Military Base




"Bernard!" General McMullen exclaimed. "Good to see you! Come in, come in."

"Thank you, sir," Agent Lewis said, "and thank you for seeing me."

"Of course," McMullen smiled. "We go back a long ways, you and I. I keep having to remind myself that it's 'agent' now, not 'major'. Have a seat," he continued, indicating a chair and opening the liquor cabinet. "Whiskey?"

"Please," Lewis answered.

"So how's the FBI treating you, Bernard? Has J. Edgar been good to you?"

"Director Hoover has been quite good to me," Lewis replied, accepting a glass. "Although not as good as the Army."

"I'm surprised you went with the FBI," McMullen said. "Given how you felt about the Army, I would have thought you'd prefer to thumb your nose at our preferences and go with the CIA. We've never liked the CIA."

"I had no quarrel with the Army," Lewis noted. "It was the Army that had a quarrel with me. Besides, the CIA is merely an intelligence gathering organization which lacks police powers. I'm a man of action, and so are you.....or you were, at least. I certainly hope you still are." He paused when McMullen looked down at his glass. "Well? What did they say to my proposal?"

McMullen hesitated a moment. "The Army is not prepared to offer you an alien-hunting task force at this time."

Lewis' eyes widened. "But....but they resurfaced!" he exclaimed. "You always said that if they ever came back, I could come back. And they not only came back, they killed Daniel!"

"Don't you think I'm aware of that?" McMullen replied. "I saw the pictures; I read the report. And that's part of the problem—this was clearly a vengeance killing. Only Pierce was affected when the aliens could easily have killed off everyone in that hospital."

"What difference does that make?" Lewis asked angrily. "All I've heard for the past nine years is, 'no one's seen or heard from them. They probably went home'." But I knew that wasn't true, and so did Sheridan....and so did you, George. We knew they came here deliberately, so it's no surprise that they're still here a decade later!"

"And yet we haven't seen hide nor hair of them in all that time," McMullen noted. "And when they do finally rear their heads, it's to kill their former captor."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Lewis demanded. "They didn't go home, they're here. Why are they still here? Because they're gathering information, that's why! It's why they came here in the first place; that business about their ship crashing was nothing but rubbish—"

"Anyone who saw that ship could tell it had crashed," McMullen interrupted. "Even you."

"So they crashed," Lewis said crossly. "They're bad drivers, or they never learned to parallel park. The point is that they came here deliberately, and the reason they came here deliberately can't be good news for us. They have to be found. They have to be stopped!"

McMullen sighed and took a sip of his whiskey. "I'm not saying I disagree with you, Bernard, but you have to realize what a delicate position we're in. Those of us who knew about the alien prisoner willfully kept that information from the president. And even though a number of that coalition have died, there are still some left—myself, General West, and General Andrews to name a few—who could be court-martialed if word of that leaked out. Pierce's death dredged up a lot of things that might best have remained hidden. Discrepancies are being noted and questions asked that are making a number of us mighty uncomfortable. Even you aren't exempt; the circumstances surrounding your own resignation came up just yesterday."

"Didn't General Ramey came up with a suitable ruse for what happened here? If it worked then, why wouldn't it—" Lewis stopped, staring at McMullen. "That's not it, is it? It's not that you don't want the task force, it's that you don't want me leading it."

"You must admit it would look odd," McMullen replied. "A former Army major allegedly involved in a top secret mission resigns under suspicious circumstances, then returns years later to head a task force related to that mission? And there's the credibility issue."

" 'Credibility'?" Lewis echoed. "What could possibly be wrong with my 'credibility'? I was directly involved in the project, for God's sake, not watching from afar like the rest of you! Ramey's dead, Sheridan's dead, Daniel's dead; I'm one of the few left who has any 'credibility' at all!"

"I was referring to your last alien encounter," McMullen clarified. "I seem to recall they subdued you rather quickly."

Lewis flushed, the redness blazing all the way to his chest. "They shot me with a tranquilizer dart! And while we're on the subject of being 'subdued', may I remind you that you and a number of other brass were locked in the observation room? You weren't any more helpful than I was!"

"But I'm not the one angling to lead an alien-hunting task force," McMullen pointed out as Lewis fumed. "No, Bernard, I'm afraid there's no getting around the fact that you never captured an alien like Sheridan Cavitt, or allowed us to hold an alien like Daniel Pierce. Perhaps you would have had you been given the chance; we'll never know. What I do know is that all anyone remembers about you is that you defied a decision made by the coalition and intended to keep the alien alive despite a direct order to terminate it—"

"Only for a short while, to study it!" Lewis objected.

"—you attacked a female lieutenant—"

"She was insubordinate!"

"—and the aliens removed you the same way one would flick a bug out of the way. You then resigned with allegations of misconduct hovering over your head. And to make matters worse, you've confiscated Pierce's body, which has caused all sorts of caterwauling because an AWOL officer's body should be the province of the Army. Even if we weren't worried about our participation in the project being discovered, all of that would be enough to make us choose someone else to lead the kind of task force you've proposed."

Lewis stared at McMullen, stunned. " 'Someone else'? I thought you said the Army didn't want a task force."

"At this point in time, we don't. But if that should change....well.....I said the Army wasn't prepared to offer you a task force. I didn't say it wouldn't ever offer it to anyone."

There was a long pause as Lewis gripped the arms of his chair hard. "Who?" he demanded finally, his voice thick with rage. "Who would you offer it to?"

"Does it matter? If it makes you feel any better, it wouldn't be anyone you would know. We would need to go with people who didn't know about the prisoner, who wouldn't blow our cover with their mere presence."

"So you'd rather have some wet-behind-the-ears grunt?" Lewis demanded. "Men who don't know their asses from holes in the ground, who—"

"I assure you they would know plenty," McMullen interjected. "If it proves necessary, we're prepared to let on that the two dead aliens everyone who's anyone knows about actually lived a short time before they died, which gives us leave to impart certain information that might otherwise be difficult to explain how we came by. We have all the intelligence you have."

"But you don't have me!" Lewis exclaimed, slamming his glass on the desk, spilling the contents in the process. "You don't have anyone with experience dealing with these monsters! Jesus, George, why would you throw that away? You know as well as I do that the best hunters to set on a trail are experienced hunters!"

McMullen drained his own whiskey and threw a longing look at the liquor cabinet. "I know you're upset, Bernard, but try not to take this personally. It's not personal—it's business. More than that, it's politics. We all know how the game is played. Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose."

Lewis gazed at McMullen blankly for several long seconds before abruptly rising from his chair. "You're right, sir," he said, sounding much more calm. "I let my personal desires get the better of me. The important thing is that the Army is addressing the problem. I should never have allowed personal vanity to cloud my judgment."

"Bullshit," McMullen said casually. "Don't pull that crap with me. I know you plenty well enough to know that you don't believe a word of that."

"Thank you for your time, sir," Lewis said. "And please tell the others I appreciate their consideration."

McMullen's eyes narrowed as he rose from his chair. "What are you up to?" he asked suspiciously. "Don't think for a minute that I'm buying this shtick."

"Do have yourself a good afternoon, sir," Lewis said pleasantly. "I'll let myself out."

"Bernard!" McMullen called sharply. "Whatever you're planning, don't."

Lewis kept walking, and McMullen's protests died away as he descended the stairs to the first floor, where Agent Del Bianco was waiting for him. "How'd it go?" Del Bianco asked.

"It didn't," Lewis said shortly.

"They said no?"

"Just like they have for the past nine years."

"Even with 'you know what' out there?" Del Bianco asked, shaking his head in disbelief as he scurried to keep up with Lewis' long strides. "So now what?"

"Now I do exactly what the good general suggested," Lewis answered. "I 'play the game'. I should thank him for reminding me what a very good player I am."

"What exactly does that mean?" Del Bianco asked as they climbed into their car. "Where are we going?"

"Onward and upward," Lewis said grimly. "The Army has dismissed me for the last time."




******************************************************



1 p.m.

Parker's Diner



One more hour, Courtney thought, easing her weight from one tired foot to another as she poured her umpteenth cup of coffee for her umpteenth customer. At least she was working the counter now, a prime location all the waitresses fought over because it was less work; all that walking and carrying was greatly reduced. Nancy tried hard to be fair to everyone, so after a morning spent scurrying out to the booths and back, the counter was a luxury.

The door dingled, and Courtney was delighted to see Carl coming in. "Hi there!" she called, pointing to an empty stool at the end. "Long time, no see."

"I'm so sorry I ran out on you at the festival," Carl said. "Something really important came up."

"I heard," Courtney replied. "So that guy's dead?"

Carl blinked. "What?"

"Someone died," she clarified. "At least that's what Mr. Langley said."

"Mr. Langley told you that?"

Courtney nodded. "He was very upset this morning. Got into some kind of fight with someone who stomped out of here all mad. I didn't hear exactly what happened, but—"

"Wait," Carl broke in. "Mr. Langley told you—told you—that a man died?"

"Sure," Courtney answered, mystified. "That Indian friend of his."

"Indian....oh!" Carl said, his eyes widening. "Okay. Right."

"Well....isn't that where you both went the other night when you ran off together in such a hurry?" Courtney asked.

"Yes," Carl nodded, "yes, that's....that's where we went. So sad."

"Mr. Langley certainly thought so," Courtney said. "He seemed to think he could have done something to help his friend if he'd known he was sick. I think Mr. Anderson was trying to make him feel better."

"Mr. Anderson?"

"Mr. Langley's friend."

"His 'friend'?" Carl repeated blankly.

"Honestly, what is it about that guy?" Courtney chuckled. "Dee said the same thing. It's pretty clear the Indian who died was his friend. Anyway, Mr. Langley and Mr. Anderson have been eating breakfast together for the last couple of weeks. I gather they were up all night because Mr. Langley was so upset. I was up all night too," she added. "We should have all gotten together and commiserated."

"Why were you up all night?" Carl asked. "Is something wrong?"

Courtney excused herself to wait on another customer, barely hearing what was ordered, she was so preoccupied. Should she answer that question? The urge to do so, to share some of the burden, was overpowering; it had been so when the Warders' presence in the area was merely hypothetical, and was even more so now that it had been confirmed. She was accustomed to at least having her father to talk to and usually several other members of the resistance besides, making her long for someone to consult with, to advise her, even to just listen. She'd almost spilled her secret to Carl two nights ago when that soldier had interrupted. Spilling had arguably been a bad idea, but perhaps she could manage something a little less drastic.

Carl was looking at her inquisitively when she came back. "Remember how I told you that I came here to do something important?" she asked in a low voice.

"Sure," Carl replied. "You're looking for someone you said doesn't want to be found. Some kind of family feud, if I recall."

"Right. Well, I wasn't sure that the one I was looking for was here. But now I know he is. He's definitely here."

"So it's a he?"

Or a she, or just about anything else you can think of. "Yes," Courtney answered, keeping it simple. "But he doesn't know I'm here, and he won't be happy if he finds out."

"You mean he hasn't seen you yet?"

"Not yet. So now I have to figure out how to find him without him finding me so he doesn't kill me."

"Kill you?" Carl echoed. "If it's that bad, I think you need the sheriff."

"Well, not 'kill me' exactly," Courtney said hastily. "He....I....he's just going to be really mad if he finds out I'm here. I'm sorry," she sighed. "I know this sounds crazy. Do you have any idea where I could get my hands on some old newspapers? They might help me find who I'm looking for."

"The library," Carl said promptly. "You're in luck; they just finished a brand new building with a lot more space, so finding things should be easier."

I could use a little luck right now, Courtney thought, feeling guilty for even thinking that. She'd had a great deal of luck already, from Mark's death not being discovered, to the sheriff being kept at bay, to all the people who had helped her make her way here. The kind of luck that would not only find a Royal Warder but keep her own presence a secret was probably too much to ask for.

"Everything okay here?"

Courtney hastily grabbed a coffee pot as Nancy hovered nearby, looking at Carl curiously. "Of course," she said, pouring him a cup of coffee he hadn't asked for. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," Carl answered, playing along.

Nancy gave him a wry smile. "I know she's pretty, but she's working. Chat her up when she gets off, okay?"

"When do you get off?" Carl asked after Nancy walked away. "I could take you to the library, if you want."

"You could? I'd love that! I'm off at 2 p.m."

"And....well, I was wondering if I could make up for last night by taking you to the Fourth of July fireworks tonight at the festival in Corona," Carl continued.

Corona. Where Dee lived.....and where Mac Brazel lived. The Mac Brazel who had found the Waders' ship. "I'd love to go to that too," Courtney answered, unable to believe her good fortune.

"Good," Carl said, sliding off his stool as Nancy walked by, throwing them a pointed look. "Oh....one more thing," he added, leaving some coins beside his coffee cup. "If you find whoever you're looking for, I'm willing to talk to him on your behalf."

"That's generous of you," Courtney said gratefully. "Really generous. But I can't put you in that position."

"Why not?"

Because it could get you killed. "It could get.....complicated," Courtney said.

"Trust me, I'm used to complicated," Carl replied.

"Okay, then it could get messy."

"Ditto on messy."

"It could be dangerous," Courtney persisted. "Are you used to dangerous?"

"You might be surprised how very used to that I am," Carl said dryly.

"Why would a repair man be used to dangerous?"

"It's.....complicated." Carl smiled faintly as she raised her eyebrows. "Look, the offer stands. See you at two."

"So," Nancy commented slyly as Courtney carried Carl's cup and saucer into the back. "You and the handyman?"

"You know Carl?" Courtney asked.

"Everyone knows Carl, hon," Nancy chuckled. "He's the ultimate fix-it guy. Carl can fix anything, and I mean anything. And he's a sweetheart to boot; I'm a little surprised no one's hooked him in all these years. "

"How many years?" Courtney asked.

Nancy thought a moment. "Nine. He got here in 1950, right around this time of year. Good catch," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Courtney stared after her as she left the kitchen. 1950? That was when the Argilian contingent had arrived....and right around this time of year. Carl can fix anything..... Could it be? Is that why he was used to "complicated" and "dangerous"?

You're nuts, she told herself firmly, shaking off the preposterous notions flying through her head as she deposited Carl's cup in the dirty dish bin. There was no way Carl could be a Covari, never mind a Warder.

He was much too human.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 18 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


July 4, 1959, 4:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




It was late afternoon when Quanah's family emerged from his house with his body in tow, heading for the woods. Malik watched from a distance as the entire village followed with the exception of one he'd been certain would be joining them. Brivari had been keeping vigil outside Quanah's house, and now shook his head in response to a brief question from Quanah's eldest son. The son looked uncertain but continued on with the family, leaving Brivari to watch the procession file past him, almost everyone nodding to him as they passed. Brivari was obviously well liked, making it all the more odd that he wasn't attending the funeral. But that was a question for later; Brivari was not in a good mood, if Courtney was to be believed, and Malik was in no hurry to cross his path. Best to stay hidden.

*Did Jaddo send you here?* a sharp voice rang in Malik's mind.

So much for hidden, Malik thought with a sigh of resignation. Dealing with difficult people seemed to be his lot in life, although he had to admit he seemed to have a knack for it. Which is why he found it so amusing that Courtney had been reluctant to accept his offer of assistance in approaching whoever she was searching for. Having dealt with a lethal Royal Warder tended to put things in perspective.

*The waitress from the diner told me what happened, or enough that I could figure it out,* Malik said when he reached Brivari. *I'm really sorry. I know you were close to him.*

Brivari gave a snort of derision. *Are you here to lecture me about the folly of consorting with humans?*

*No.*

*Perhaps you would like to regale me with the brief nature of the human lifespan and the futility of protesting that?*

*No.*

*Then why are you here?* Brivari demanded.

*To pay my respects to an ally,* Malik answered, *one without whose help I would not have found you the night Lieutenant White nearly died.*

Brivari relaxed a fraction, having clearly been spoiling for a fight. *He also killed a hunter with his weapon and his bare hands while I took on the other in this very forest. I would never have succeeded without him.*

Malik kept his eyes on the group now disappearing into the trees, masking his surprise. One of the unwritten rules of his association with the Warders was that they never confided in him unless they had to, and following Jaddo's successful escape years ago, they hadn't had to. Consequently he knew precious little about anything that had happened prior to Brivari's accepting him as an ally. To have information, any information, volunteered like this was unprecedented.

*At least you understand the concept of an 'ally',* Brivari continued, *something which appears to be lost on Jaddo.*

*Jaddo understands alliances,* Malik answered. *What he doesn't understand is friendship, which is really what you had with Quanah these past several years, more so than an alliance. I'm here to honor an ally. You're here to honor a friend.*

*Do you have a problem with that?* Brivari challenged.

*Of course not. Although I am a bit curious as to why you're not attending your friend's funeral.*

*Because there shouldn't have been a funeral!* Brivari said angrily. *Because I could have saved him had I known. Because I'm tired of excuses, of primitive explanations meant to make death acceptable, even desirable. Tired of the idiotic notion that a misguided deity prevented me from rendering aid for some cosmic greater good. Tired of the way these people simply accept this superstitious nonsense without question when I know they're smarter than that.*

*Many cultures with limited medical technology have such superstitions,* Malik noted. *That's how they stay sane, by finding meaning in that which they can't control.*

*The time they waste looking for 'meaning' would be better spent searching for cures for their common illnesses,* Brivari said irritably.

*Agreed, but does that matter now?* Malik asked. *Funerals are for the living. Don't begrudge them what little comfort they can find.*

*There is no 'comfort' in death!* Brivari exclaimed. *Only emptiness. Only failure. I could have saved them,* he whispered, to himself more than Malik. *If I had been there.....if I had been paying attention....I could have saved them both.*

Both. For a moment Malik thought he'd miscounted and two people had died in this village until he realized there was another reason for Brivari to speak in the plural. *You can't be everywhere at once,* he said gently. *Not here, not on Antar.*

*But I was there!* Brivari snapped. *I was right there, with Khivar's affair with Vilandra happening right under my nose, with her dispute with her brother over her betrothal to Rath and her subsequent tantrum right in front of me. I was there, I saw it....and I misinterpreted it. I underestimated it. I underestimated her. I had no idea she'd go so far.*

Malik blinked. *'Go so far'....what are you saying? Do you mean Vilandra had something to do with Khivar's coup?*

*She had everything to do with Khivar's coup,* Brivari said bitterly. *She was Khivar's coup. She allowed him into the capital thinking he intended to ask for her hand in marriage. The fool learned otherwise, but not before a world had fallen.*

Malik was speechless, stunned into silence by more than just another offering of information. He and Amar had known Khivar thought himself in love with Vilandra, but for all their speculation on how he'd managed to prevail, they had never once looked Vilandra's way. His own sister, Malik thought sadly. Zan had not been undone by military might, political upheavals, or even a conventional spy, but by his own sister. The theft of Antar's throne hinged on nothing more than a family dispute over who a princess would marry.

*I....I had no idea,* Malik said faintly, still flabbergasted. *I....we knew Khivar was having an affair with her, but I never dreamed....but how could you have stopped her? I never would have thought her capable of that, and so never would have thought to prevent it.*

*I was there,* Brivari repeated, quieter now, though every bit as angry. *I saw it, saw it all, yet I did not draw the proper conclusions that would have prevented her idiocy. And history has repeated itself. I knew Quanah was ill, yet I stayed away. I did not check to make certain he was recovering. Now he is dead.....and it is my fault. My fault!*

Brivari stalked off suddenly in the direction of the funeral procession whose footsteps had long since faded. Malik made no move to follow. There was no consoling a grief that was wide enough to encompass two fatal mistakes on two different worlds in two different parts of the galaxy.




******************************************************




7 p.m.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt School, Corona




"It looks a lot smaller," Dee commented.

"I think we're just older," Anthony smiled.

Dee shielded her eyes from the sun as they stood on the outskirts of the Independence Day festival that Corona hosted every year. Behind the festival was their school, which Dee had attended since kindergarten and Anthony since fourth grade, both appearing not only smaller but a good deal more weathered than she remembered. This festival had been one of the highlights of the year, looked forward to by every child in Corona; now the booths were showing signs of age, while some of the rides looked rusty or just plain silly. Even the Ferris wheel that Urza had found so captivating was nowhere near as tall as she remembered.

Urza. Dee's eyes strayed to the school's roof as she and Anthony walked along, then to the tree line beyond. So much had happened here; she'd taken an alien to this very festival, almost gotten killed, been healed by aliens, and been chased by another a year later. "I'm surprised they still have this," she said. "Roswell has become such a tourist destination, you'd think they'd have their own festival for the Fourth."

"Not with the Crash Festival only two days before," Anthony said. "There's talk of moving that to another time of year so Roswell can celebrate the Fourth."

"And if that happens, this one will probably die," Dee said wistfully, feeling suddenly protective of that which had seemed old and worn out only moments before. "Good thing we came tonight. Might be the last time."

"You surprised me when you agreed to come," Anthony said. "I didn't think you'd want to leave Philip with your mother."

"I surprised you?" Dee said, giving his arm a playful punch. "Look who's talking! I can't believe you actually told my mother off. That's usually my job."

Anthony shrugged. "You know I usually try to let you and your mother work out your own differences, but this time, she needed to hear it from me. I'm still not sure why you were okay leaving Philip with her tonight."

"Because Mama's still in shock, Daddy's home too, and Philip's in bed," Dee said. "Might as well take advantage of it while we can."

"True," Anthony smiled, putting an arm around her. "I know you'll want to watch the fireworks from the roof like we usually do, but they won't start for a couple of hours at least, so what's first? Cotton candy? The Ferris wheel?"

Dee was about to answer when she spied a group of soldiers in uniform coming toward them. They passed by, heading for one of the game booths, and she immediately felt foolish. Soldiers from the base had always loved this festival, but the sight of a military uniform still made her stiffen, a legacy from all those years they'd feared the sight of the military on their doorstep.

"Still worried?" Anthony asked.

"If what Courtney overheard means what I think it means, then we should be worried," Dee said, suddenly aware of just how many soldiers were here. "If Pierce dies, it could start everything up all over again."

Anthony smiled faintly. "Isn't that your mother's line?"

"I just want to protect our baby," Dee said, flushing as she recalled her mother's amusement at her concern. "Don't you?"

"Of course I do. But I can't help but notice that you're sounding exactly like your mother did when we were kids."

"That was different," Dee insisted. "I was older, and far more capable than Philip is."

"You certainly were," Anthony agreed. "You were awfully capable of getting yourself into trouble, some of which I pulled you out of. Look, I'm not trying to start an argument," he continued when Dee looked likely to do just that. "It's not worth arguing over. Even if Pierce is dead, that doesn't mean they'd know what killed him. And even if they do, I can't see them finding their way back to us after nearly ten years."

"I just wish I could find out what happened," Dee fretted. "I haven't seen any of them for days now. That can't be a good sign."

"There's a good sign now," Anthony said. "Go find out what happened."

Relief flooded over Dee as she followed his gaze and saw Courtney and Malik playing a ring toss game at a booth in the distance. "Finally," she breathed, taking off at a trot, Anthony hurrying to keep up with her. She reached the booth just as Malik landed a ring over the neck of a bottle.

"Grand prize!" announced a baffled Mrs. Chambers of Chambers Grocery, presenting Malik with a large stuffed dog which he promptly handed to Courtney, who looked at it curiously.

"Congratulations!" Dee said. "That's a hard game to win."

"Hi," Courtney said to Dee and Anthony. "You should see Carl play this. He's very good at it."

*Shall we tell her why?* Dee asked dryly.

*I didn't cheat,* Malik protested uncomfortably. *I just have better coordination than humans.*

*Relax,* Dee chuckled. *Mrs. Chambers cheats. Everybody knows she weights those rings so they don't throw well.*

"Where's Philip?" Courtney asked.

"Home with Mama, and for the last time," Dee answered. "We're moving out; we'll be looking at rooms in Roswell on Monday."

"The man across the hall from me just moved out," Courtney said hopefully.

Excellent, Dee thought, seeing a double opportunity. "Courtney, I need to talk to Carl for a minute. I've seen your rooming house, but Anthony hasn't; why don't you tell him about it while he shows you some of the other games, and we'll catch up in a few minutes. Try the dunking booth," she suggested. "I heard the mayor agreed to be in it this year."

Anthony and Courtney walked off, Courtney lugging her stuffed dog and asking what a dunking booth was. *Subtle,* Malik deadpanned. *No one would ever guess you didn't want her around.*

*I'm not interested in 'subtle',* Dee said impatiently. *What happened with Pierce? Did you find him? Don't look at me like that,* she continued when Malik's eyebrows rose. *Courtney told me what that soldier said to you at the Crash Festival, and that could only mean Pierce. So what happened?*

*He's dead,* Malik answered.

*You found him dead?*

*No, Jaddo killed him,* Malik clarified. *And I imagine the women Pierce was experimenting on just like he did with Lieutenant White would thank him for that.*

*He was doing the same thing to other women?*

*Has been for the last nine years, if our information is correct,* Malik replied. *Trust me, he's no loss to human society.*

*Absolutely not,* Dee agreed soberly. *But does anyone know aliens killed him?*

*Unfortunately, that didn't work out the way we'd planned,* Malik answered. *Jaddo lost his temper as only Jaddo can and left a silver handprint behind.*

Dee felt her stomach clutch briefly, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy suddenly making her nauseous. She'd seen silver handprints before, when Valeris had killed the very first soldiers who had found the ship, and she remembered it clearly....the smoke, the smell of burning flesh, the screams..... *So they do know,* she said, pushing those memories aside. *They know for sure that an alien killed him.*

*Yes,* Malik sighed, *and believe me, Brivari isn't happy about that. But it's done, and I really can't see what anyone can do about it. The Warders are free, and Jaddo won't dare leave a calling card like that again. It was an unfortunate lapse, but I don't think anything will come of it.*

*But you can't be sure of that,* Dee said, feeling suddenly exposed as another group of soldiers walked by. *They could start hunting you all over again, and if they do, they might come back to my family.*

*Is that what this is about? I don't think you have anything to worry about, Dee. Jaddo spent the day at the base, and while there was certainly some scurrying around, most of those who were involved in his capture are either dead, missing, or want to keep what they know a secret because it was kept secret from your president. Oh, I'm sure they'll make a show of doing something, but Jaddo feels they're all so busy covering their backsides that it won't amount to anything.*

*I hope not,* Dee said doubtfully. *What about Brivari? Does he feel that way too?*

*Brivari is a bit preoccupied at the moment,* Malik said. *One of the allies who hid him while the hunters were chasing him died while we were dealing with Pierce, and Brivari took it hard.*

*Oh, no,* Dee whispered. *He was just talking about that. About how he'd have to watch everyone he cared about die around him because our lifespans are so much shorter.*

Malik gave her a quizzical look. *Why would that happen? He's only got another ten years or so before the hybrids emerge.*

The bell on a nearby merry-go-round dingled a last call, and Dee watched it slowly begin turning, the horses starting their up-and-down rhythm.. *There's some kind of problem with your hybrids,* she said finally. *They're not growing as fast as everyone expected them to. You didn't know?*

Malik shook his head. *Like I said before, the Warders don't tell me much of anything. What exactly does 'not growing as fast' mean?*

*Brivari said they look like they're about two years old.*

Malik's eyes widened. *Two years? They should be about ten years old by now! That means they won't reach adulthood until.....until.....*

*Until everyone you know is dead,* Dee said sadly. *The humans, that is. That's what Brivari was upset about. He said they looked healthy and everything, but they were just really small. Any idea why?*

Malik shook his head. *Not my area of expertise. Even Marana probably couldn't have answered that question. Those are the first Antarian-Human hybrids we've tried, and every hybrid has it's own quirks that you don't discover until you actually make one and see what happens. So if it turns out their gestation period is a lot longer than expected, well....I guess we'll just have to deal with that.*

*Yeah, I guess,* Dee said glumly.

*Don't worry about Brivari,* Malik advised. *You don't get to be a king's warder by being the sort who gives up easily. He'll bounce back. And I have some good news,* he continued. *I found out why Courtney's here: She's looking for someone. I took her to the library today and she went through a bunch of old newspapers without finding anything, but it sounds like some kind of family argument. Nothing Valenti would be interested in.*

Dee relaxed slightly as two major worries receded a bit into the background. It certainly wasn't good news that the military had just been reminded that aliens existed, but it sounded like they weren't pursuing it, at least not yet. And if there was nothing for Valenti to find on Courtney but personal matters that didn't concern him, that was good news too. Brivari's misfortune was another matter, but one thing at a time.

Then another group of soldiers passed by, one of them throwing her an appraising look as he passed. *Easy,* Malik said gently when she tensed again. *He was just looking at the pretty girl. Handprint or no handprint, I don't think we have anything to fear from the Army.*




******************************************************


10 p.m.

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.




"Step into the elevator, please."

Bernard Lewis hesitated, having rarely found himself in situations where he needed to mask fear. Impatience, perhaps, or contempt—definitely contempt. But fear was not an emotion he was accustomed to, and it was most uncomfortable now, surrounded as he was by armed guards who had appeared out of nowhere in the deserted lobby of the Justice Department building which housed the FBI headquarters.

"Gentlemen, I don't quite understand," Lewis said, trying to sound puzzled instead of alarmed. "I'm here for a meeting with—"

"We're aware of your meeting, and have orders to escort you to the appropriate office," one of the guards interrupted.

"That won't be necessary—"

"I'm afraid it will," the guard broke in again. "Access to that office is restricted. If you'll step into the elevator, please."

Lewis glanced at Agent Del Bianco, who was doing a somewhat less convincing job of hiding his own alarm. "Of course," he said, his tone making it clear he was not amused. The guards didn't seem to care, two going in ahead of him and two behind, one of whom pushed Del Bianco back when he tried to follow.

"Agent Lewis only," the guard said. "You wait down here."

Del Bianco backed off. The doors to the elevator slid closed, leaving Lewis packed like a pickle in a guard sandwich. The ride was short but seemed interminable, and he was very glad when the car came to a halt, waiting eagerly for the doors to open.

But they didn't. One of the guard inserted a small key into a keyhole on the panel and turned it; the car lurched upward again, only a short ways this time before the doors opened and the two front guards stepped out. "This way," they motioned to Lewis.

Lewis stepped out of the elevator with all the confidence he could muster, which wasn't much. He was standing in a tiny hallway, little more than an alcove, really, which came complete with two more guards. A total of six now surrounded him, the four he came with plus the two already there, one of whom walked up to Lewis and held out his hand.

"Your weapon, please."

Fuming, Lewis handed over his gun and was then subjected to a pat down. "Is there a particular reason I'm being treated like a criminal?" he asked tightly.

"Director's orders," one of the guards said. "He's clean. Open the door."

A moment later Lewis found himself at the far end of a long, dimly lit office, the other being occupied by a large, imposing desk behind which sat a not so large but definitely very imposing man. "Leave us," the Director ordered the guards, who promptly obeyed.

The ensuing silence was pure torture. Lewis waited for leave to approach, his fingers clasping and unclasping as he debated what to do with his hands. The Director seemed in no hurry to alleviate his suffering, thumbing casually through a pile of reading material on his desk without so much as a glance at Lewis, who ultimately couldn't stand it any longer.

"Sir, I want to thank you for agreeing to see me. I only made the request this morning, so I'm especially surprised and grateful that you would respond so quickly, and on a national holiday, no less. I—"

"And why wouldn't I see you after perusing the....'reading material' you sent me?" the Director interrupted. "Very interesting, Agent Lewis, very interesting. Sit," he added, indicating a chair in front of the desk.

Lewis hesitated for only a moment before willing his legs to work, to carry him to the chair and seat him gracefully before giving out from under him. Up close, J. Edgar Hoover was much less imposing than from a distance, more of a middle-aged man with a paunch and obviously thinning hair, a portrait which belied the Bureau's perception of him as a terrifying, ruthless man who was spoken of only as "the Director", and then only in whispers. The public loved him, seeing in him a man who gave no quarter to the enemies of the United States, chief among them the communists. Within the Bureau Hoover was noted for his tendency to ruin the careers of agents who had displeased or upstaged him, or even to randomly fire agents for no discernable reason. He had also been accused of exceeding his authority on many occasions and abusing it on many more; less clear were reports of his homosexuality or penchant for women's clothing. Whatever the Director's personal demons, he remained a man of incredible power who was not afraid to wield that power, and to his own advantage, if necessary. The trick now, having just dropped something into his lap which could make him more powerful than ever, was to convince J. Edgar—or "J. Edna" as some wags referred to him—that he could not succeed without the special talents of one Bernard Lewis.

It was hot on this top floor, the humid summer air coming in the open windows only making things worse. Lewis resisted the urge to loosen his tie as he waited for Hoover to speak again, determined not to babble as he had a moment ago. Unlike the previous silence, this silence was actually welcome; the evidence he'd sent Hoover was damning, very damning indeed, and he'd have to answer for having stolen that evidence, not to mention having kept it from the FBI. Reviewing his reasons for doing so was not a bad idea, and he'd made it only halfway through the list when Hoover spoke again.

"So," Hoover said, indicating the large file on his desk in front of him, "the Army held a live alien for three years."

"Yes, sir," Lewis answered.

"You actually met this alien?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the alien escaped in 1950?"

"Yes, sir."

Hoover tented his fingertips. "You joined the Bureau in 1950, did you not?"

Lewis' hands twitched in his lap. "Yes, sir."

"So all this time, you've known that a live alien escaped in our country....and you're only getting around to telling me about it now?"

"I had signed a non-disclosure agreement, sir," Lewis said smoothly.

"Which apparently means nothing to you now," Hoover noted.

"With all due respect, sir, that is incorrect," Lewis said firmly.

Silence. The sweat trickling down Lewis' back turned into a river as the Director's eyes bored into him. "My goodness," Hoover said softly after a full minute had passed and Lewis' shirt had become very damp indeed. "I am rarely, if ever 'incorrect'. Explain to me if you would, Agent Lewis, exactly how I am....'incorrect'."

This is it, Lewis thought. Show time. The only way to survive the lion known as J. Edgar Hoover was to roar every bit as loudly as he did. Granted one might still wind up eaten, but any sign of fear, of timidity, and the show was over. The one thing Hoover couldn't stand was a wimp.

"Sir, I have kept my silence since the alien's capture in 1947 even though I have long suspected the military is not acting in our country's best interests. Recent events have confirmed that suspicion; honoring that non-disclosure at this point would be tantamount to treason."

"And I would agree, judging by the evidence," Hoover remarked. "Smuggling this out must have been difficult. An operation that covert wouldn't have left much of a paper trail."

"None, actually," Lewis replied, hoping he'd managed to hide the relief he felt at Hoover's instant acceptance of his argument. "What little existed was destroyed following the alien's escape in 1950. I took what I could prior to that because I had grave misgivings about the way the prisoner was being treated by command. The late Sheridan Cavitt and myself were of the opinion that the aliens' presence here was no mistake. They knew far too much about us; this couldn't possibly have been their first visit here. Despite that, command seemed more interested in coddling the prisoner than pressing it for answers. Three years went by in this fashion, with little of note learned about the aliens themselves and next to nothing about their motives."

"Except the repaired ship," Hoover noted.

"Which the prisoner promptly sealed shut just as soon as it was finished repairing it," Lewis pointed out. "No one's been able to access it since. It was clear to me that the time would come when the threat the aliens posed became undeniable, and when it did, it would be necessary to have a record of the prisoner's captivity."

"So now they've killed again," Hoover murmured, gazing at one of the photographs of Pierce's body.

"Yes, sir. After a nine year hiatus, Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Pierce, a medical doctor and co-commander of the compound in which the alien was held, was found dead with the aliens' trademark silver handprint on his chest. His internal organs had been heated to a very high temperature while leaving his skin unmarked aside from the handprint. That's one of the ways they kill."

" 'One of the ways'?" Hoover echoed. "What are the others?"

"They have several," Lewis answered vaguely. "My point, sir, is that the aliens are still here. The military assumed they returned to their own planet, but nine years after the prisoner's escape, at least one of them is still here, quite likely more. I'd like to know why. Wouldn't you?"

Hoover sat back in his chair, eyeing him appraisingly. "Cut to the chase. What do you want?"

"A special unit, led by me, whose sole mandate is the capture and interrogation of aliens," Lewis said promptly.

Hoover opened another file on his desk. "And why, exactly, would I grant oversight of such a unit to someone who was nearly court-martialed back in 1950? For disobeying orders, no less, not to mention the assault of a fellow officer? Oh yes," he continued softly, "I have a file on you, Agent Lewis. I have a file on everyone. Do you deny that you resigned your commission to avoid prosecution?"

"I do not," Lewis answered promptly, "and I offer no apologies for my behavior, no more than you do for yours. The security of this country was, and remains, at stake, and I will do anything—anything—to stave off the threat these creatures pose. You should give me command of this unit because I am the only living person left who is willing to stop them and has had direct experience with the prisoner. The little evidence I managed to scrounge doesn't even begin to tell the whole story. The rest is up here"—he tapped his head—"which is why you need me."

"And of course you want the FBI's resources," Hoover said.

"I want more than that, sir," Lewis said intently, sitting forward in his chair. "I want you. I need you. I need a man with your vision, someone unafraid to pursue these creatures and do whatever is necessary to wring from them the truth of their presence here. The Army was only willing to placate them. Roger Ramey called the prisoner a 'guest'. Can you imagine what would happen if that 'guest' made an alliance with the Soviets? These aliens can look like anyone, sound like anyone; the damage they could do is incalculable. But those in the Army with knowledge of this situation are too afraid their former duplicity will be revealed, too close to retirement to rock the boat. Oh, they say they'll do an investigation, but it will be led by people who haven't been told the whole truth and never will be. They don't know what they're chasing. I do."

"And if I give you your unit," Hoover said slowly, "how do I know you're not planning to double cross me exactly like you've done to the Army?"

Lewis sat back in his chair and looked Hoover directly in the eye. "You don't."

Lewis held his breath and Hoover's gaze as the two men stared each other down across the desk. Agents had been fired for saying much less, but it took a certain display of hubris to play ball with J. Edgar. Having shown his cards, Lewis knew he'd made himself too valuable to dismiss; the question now was whether Hoover would give him what he wanted or lock him up in a very dark place until he coughed up what he knew for someone else's use. He would either walk out of here with what he wanted or walk out of here in custody. Based on past experience, it could easily go either way.

At length, Hoover rose from his chair. "Agent Lewis?"

"Yes, sir?" Lewis said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"Get me that thing's head on a platter."

It took a moment for Lewis to process that sentence, and another to quell the eruption of thanks which Hoover would not have appreciated. "Yes, sir," Lewis said briskly. "Is that all?"

"No," Hoover said flatly. "If I so much as think that you're doing to me what you did to the Army, it will be your head on that platter. Have I made myself clear?"

Lewis forced himself to look Hoover in the eye without blinking. "Absolutely clear, sir."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 19 next Sunday.