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

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

I have this horrible feeling that her and Atherton are going to do something very, very stupid, stupid but brave now.

That feeling would be correct. And they won't be the only ones doing stupid but brave things.

You are the reason I keep coming back to Rosfic Kathy! What time period is the next book?

Aww, thank you! The next book takes place in 1989 when the podlings hatch. So it's all about how they're found, why they don't remember more, how Tess winds up with Nasedo/Ed Harding, why Michael winds up where he does, etc., along with doses of Pierce, Valenti, a little Lizzie Parker, a little Kyle Valenti, and of course our "narrarator" Dee.

AAAAAAaarrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhh vacation?? Ok, if you must I hope you have a great time!

Thank you for the well wishes! And this past weekend, I had something better than a vacation: MISHA CAME TO VISIT! She came aaaalllllllllll that way to see me, and we watched a pile of episodes together and spent 3 days talking Roswell It was so cool to actually get to meet her and watch the show with someone who else who loves it the way I do. Definitely the highlight of my Roslife!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE



October 31, 1959, 10:00 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell




"Are you sure you want me to just leave you here?" Anthony asked as he pulled the car over to the curb. "We could stay for a little while, at least."

"Philip's been cooped up too long; he needs to get out and run around," Dee answered. "And Mr. Parker said Courtney called in sick, so depending on how sick she is, I might be here awhile."

"Court Nee!" Philip chirped from the back seat.

"You can see Courtney later, honey," Dee said, unbuckling her seat belt. "Daddy's going to take you to Grandma and Grandpa's house now."

"Call me when you're ready to come home," Anthony called as she climbed out. "Either me or your dad will come to get you."

Dee headed up the front walk as the car pulled away. They'd borrowed the car from a friend at college whose own plans to go home this weekend had fallen through. Better her than me, Dee thought. Six weeks of law school had left her itching to get out of Albuquerque. Not that she was questioning her choice of profession; a lawyer was all she'd ever really wanted to be, and she knew she'd be good at it. The trouble was that her methods and attitudes were considered unorthodox by the establishment, even if they were effective. And gaining the right to be unorthodox meant obediently trudging through the halls of orthodoxy for four years which were shaping up to be the longest of her life. A break was definitely in order.

Mrs. Bruce came scurrying away from her television when she heard the front door open, her face lighting up when she saw who it was. "Mrs. Evans!" she exclaimed happily. "Why, this is a surprise! How are you liking law school?"

"Great!" Dee lied.

"I must say, I admire your initiative," Mrs. Bruce said. "I barely passed 8th grade arithmetic."

"I never liked math either," Dee admitted. "Fortunately you don't need it for law."

"And how's the family?"

"Good. They're off to my parents right now. I'm visiting Courtney."

"I'd imagine she'd be at work at this hour."

Dee shook her head. "Nope. We stopped by Parker's, and they said she'd called in sick."

"Really?" Mrs. Bruce said, glancing up the stairs. "Oh, dear. I do hope that's all it is."

"What else would it be?" Dee asked.

"Well, after all that drama with her father and him moving in across the hall from her, one can never tell," Mrs. Bruce answered.

Dee blinked. Drama? "Wait.....did you say her father moved in across the hall?"

"In your old room," Mrs. Bruce nodded. "Although they seem to be doing all right now. That certainly wasn't the case right after you left. But I'm sure you heard all about that."

Dee's heart began to pound. Courtney's father moving in could only mean bad news. "I'll go check on her," she said hurriedly. "It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Bruce."

"Stop back for a visit after you've seen Miss Harris," Mrs. Bruce called as Dee skipped up the stairs, glancing at her old room before knocking on Courtney's door.

"Courtney?" she called cautiously when two more knocks produced no answer. "It's Dee. Are you all right?"

Nothing. Dee tried the door, but it was locked. She was debating the merits of calling louder or picking the lock, either of which might attract the attention of Mr. Harris if he was indeed right across the hall when the door suddenly opened a crack, revealing one haunted eye.

"Courtney?" Dee whispered.

The eye disappeared, but the door remained open. Slowly, Dee pushed it wider. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and one sniff confirmed that it needed a good airing. A shape was leaning against the wall on the floor beneath the window, its arms curled around its legs.

"Courtney?" Dee said warily. "Is that you?"

"I wasn't expecting you," the shape said. "I thought it was one of them."

Them? It was Courtney's voice, but dulled, as though all the life had been drained from it. Dee hesitated only a moment before closing the door and striding to the window. Sunlight poured in when she pulled the curtains back, drawing a bleat of protest.

"Why on earth are you sitting here in the dark?" Dee demanded. "What's wrong? What...." She stopped, getting a good look at Courtney for the first time, taking in the vacant, swollen eyes, the tear-stained face. "What happened?" she continued more gently, kneeling down in front of her. "Is it your father? Are you fighting again?"

"Don't I wish," Courtney whispered. "I really wish that's all it was."

"Then what is it?"

For a moment, it looked like Courtney was going to answer; then her body convulsed, overtaken by great, wracking sobs that left her rocking back and forth. Nonplussed, Dee put her arms around her and rocked with her, uncertain of what to do. Proctor women generally got angry and yelled instead of crying, so this kind of meltdown wasn't something she was familiar with. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it," she said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. "We'll—"

"No!" Courtney wailed, words coming between sobs. "They've....got him, Dee! They've.....got him, and....it's all my.....fault!"

"Who?" Dee asked in alarm. "Who's got whom?"

"Nicholas! He has....Malik!"

Dee clutched Courtney harder, some of her friend's panic seeping into her. "Wait—you mean Nicholas is here in Roswell?" The blonde head near her shoulder nodded. "And he's captured Malik?" Another nod. "But how...."

"I'm 'how'," Courtney said bitterly, anger making her more voluble. "He was with me....and they caught him.....and I ran to get my father so we could get to him before Nicholas did.....and Mr. Anderson offered to help, but I turned him down.....and then my father wouldn't help! He said there was nothing he could do! And then Mr. Anderson wouldn't help because my father wouldn't, and if I'd just said yes in the first place, we could have had him out of there!"

"Hold on," Dee ordered. "I'm not following this. I had no idea Nicholas was here in town, or that Mr. Anderson had anything to do with this, or that your father had moved in here, and Mrs. Bruce said something about 'drama', and.....well, clearly I'm out of the loop. Get up."

"What?"

"Get up!" Dee insisted, pulling back the curtains on the other window. "If Malik has been captured, this is no time to be sniveling in dark rooms. Get up, and tell me what's going on."

"It's all my fault—"

"You said that," Dee interrupted sharply. "And it doesn't matter whose fault it is—it happened. And now we have to fix it, and that's not going to happen if you're parked on the floor feeling sorry for yourself. If you really think you caused this, then get up and do something about it instead of....."

Dee stopped short, having not intended to sound so angry. But her outburst had the right effect on Courtney, who scrambled to her feet looking much better than she had a minute ago. "Sorry," Courtney said self-consciously. "I just.....there wasn't anyone to talk to, or go to for help, or......" She paused, looking close to tears again. "Dee, I'm so glad you're here."

"Sit down," Dee said firmly, pushing Courtney down on the bed. "Start at the beginning, the very second after I left in August, and don't leave anything out."




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Yes, Your Honor, I understand that," Valenti said patiently. "I was just....I know that, but I was only trying to.....all right. Go ahead. No, I wasn't trying to cut you off...."

Valenti pulled the phone another inch away from his ear as the judge let loose with yet another stream of irritated invective. The town was currently divided as to their interpretation of yesterday morning's events at Parker's, with some calling his lockdown of the diner a "bold move" while others preferred to view it as "taking hostages". The judge was definitely leaning toward the latter given that he was listing into the territory of the "unlawful search".

"Look, I asked for everyone's cooperation," Valenti said hurriedly when the judge finally inhaled. "I told them why I wanted it, and I made it clear they could refuse......well, of course I told them they'd be under suspicion if they refused. Why wouldn't they be? If they had nothing to hide, why not let me look? I explained what I was doing and left it up them to decide how they would respond. And if people are telling you differently, they don't have their facts straight."

Having finished inhaling, the judge started up again. It was odd, really, that it had taken a full twenty-four hours to spark this reaction. When the first complaints had come rolling in yesterday morning, the judge hadn't paid much attention. But as more had accumulated throughout the day, and after speaking to people who had been at Parker's, including some who supported what Valenti had done, the judge had apparently decided to take a burn to it. It didn't help that he hadn't actually found anything. If he'd caught someone red-handed, his "stunt", as the judge was now calling it, would definitely have moved closer to the realm of the "bold move". That was the trouble with bold moves; they were crowned such only in retrospect after having achieved their goals, or at least achieved something. The confirmation that the weird red lights could flash even in the absence of any regular lights didn't count; that had been determined without locking down Parker's, so that fascinating bit of information which should be giving everyone pause wasn't even pinging the radar.

"I admit I pressured people," Valenti said upon the next inhale. "Of course I did; that's my job. I pressure people all the time.....no, not always people taken into custody. It might just be someone I'm questioning. And frankly, given what's been happening with these weird lights, everyone in that diner was up for questioning just because they were there. Yes, of course I'm familiar with 'innocent until proven guilty'; why do you think I gave everyone the option to leave? But I would have been remiss if I hadn't pointed out how that would have looked......"

Valenti broke off as the judge started up again, although he was starting to sound at least somewhat less shrill. Perhaps the best strategy was to just let him get it out of his system. That could take awhile, and Valenti hefted his empty coffee cup, desperately wishing for a refill.

As if on cue, Hanson appeared, dropping a note on his desk and giving his boss a sympathetic look. Valenti handed him his empty cup, and Hanson retreated as Valenti unfolded the note.

Andi called. Told her you'd get back to her.

"I disagree, Your Honor," Valenti said firmly. "You've seen what's going on around here. These lights are driving everyone nuts. We've spent the last month trying to politely figure out what's going on, and we're not getting anywhere; it was time for a different approach. Now, maybe you don't like my approach, and that's your call, but I have to ask—have you got any better ideas?"

There was a pause, followed by a much more mollified voice, and Valenti settled back in his chair with satisfaction. That's better. Breaking the rules could work for you or against you, and a lot of it was packaging. If he packaged this right, he might come out ahead instead of behind. Like I did with Andi, he thought, fingering the note. Her handy, if erroneous, connection between his frequent trips to another county and the weird lights had taken the wind out of her sails, and yesterday morning's events had only amplified that. Their phone had rung non-stop yesterday, and while she hadn't apologized or even spoken much to him, he knew where she came down on the "bold move" scale; causing such a public ruckus meant he was really worried. For some reason, the fact that she was wrong about his forays to De Baca County having anything to do with the lights wasn't sending him on a guilt trip. He certainly wasn't having an affair like she'd accused, and he certainly wasn't at liberty to tell her that he was working on the side for a rogue FBI agent. Given the circumstances, he was damned lucky she'd jumped to such a useful conclusion and happy to leave it unchallenged.

The judge was winding down, having not had any suggestions to offer about new strategies. After an interminable lecture about the need for caution and restraint and blah blah blah, he rung off. Valenti was just hanging up when Hanson reappeared.

"Wow. He gave up already?"

"Twenty-five minutes," Valenti said, checking his watch. "I've had worse."

"So what'd he say?"

"A lot of nothing. What could he say? I didn't technically break the law, just skirted it, so all he could do was yell and scream. The trouble is it's going to be hard to do that again, and I don't have an Act II."

"Maybe you don't need one," Hanson said thoughtfully.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we haven't received one report of weird lights since late yesterday afternoon."

"Really? Not one?"

"Not a single one," Hanson replied. "There were a few scattered reports earlier yesterday, almost as though it took awhile for news to spread, and then.....nothing."

Rising from his chair, Valenti stared out the window. "That would imply there's a bunch of people doing this, enough that it took time to reach them all and tell them to stop."

"Maybe," Hanson allowed. "But whoever's doing it apparently got the message. Whatever the judge says....good for you."

"Yeah," Valenti murmured. "Good for me. But who the hell is doing it?"

Hanson shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, sir. I don't know."




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




Outskirts of Roswell




A cloud of more than a decade's worth of bad luck surrounded Nicholas Crawford as he climbed out of the car outside the abandoned barn which had been pressed into service as a prison. From the magnificent coup gone sour by first too many bodies, then too few, to his betrayal at the hands of—what else—a Covari, to his exile in a damaged husk on this cesspool of a planet, to the frustratingly unfruitful search for justice, it had all gone from bad to worse, with the very worst arriving only hours ago. But that extraordinarily long swatch of bad luck had been broken by what lay inside this building, a gift which had appeared at the best possible time from the most unlikely source. A gift that was going to save his ass when the time came to call home, which it would very soon.

Another car pulled up beside him; doors opened, footsteps crunched behind him on the desert grit which seemed to cover every square inch of this section of the planet. "Well?" Nicholas said.

There was a pause. "There has been no sign of the ship, sir," Greer's voice replied. "It's not in orbit, and it does not appear to have landed anywhere else on this planet, its satellite moon, or any other planet in this solar system. Antar has so far been unable to track it; its locator beacon must have been disabled."

"So we're completely blind," Nicholas said, whipping off his sunglasses as he turned around. "The Warders snuck onto our ship, got past the alarm system meant to prevent just that, launched the sucker into space.....and we have no idea where it is?"

"On the contrary, the alarm system worked as planned," Michael countered. "It sent out a distress call—"

"Which we ignored!" Nicholas exclaimed. "For an hour! And then it took hours to get our people up there, by which time the ship was gone, gentlemen! Gone! Do you have any idea how this is going to sound? Would either of you like to chat with Khivar when we tell him that the ship has vanished, along with our next harvest, our supply of trithium, and a significant number of operatives?"

Two pairs of eyes dropped. "No, sir," Greer answered stiffly.

"Thank God for both of you I have a compensation prize, because without that, I'd be screwed," Nicholas fumed. "You'd be screwed. Let's go. I need something to make me feel better."

His second and third followed obediently as they entered the building, a typical dank place that befitted the bestial race which had constructed it. Inside, operatives stepped aside as Nicholas approached the cell, a square construct electrified on five of the six sides. Covari were notoriously difficult to hold. They could change their shape and slither through just about anything, so force fields were necessary to deter that. They were also difficult to torture because most torture, by its very nature, involved restraining the subject. Trying to restrain a shapeshifter was much like trying to hold running water in your hand, and it was easy to wind up dead in the process. Creativity was called for when dealing with Covari, so it was fortunate that Nicholas Crawford, a.k.a. Athenor, commander of Khivar's armies, was a very creative soul indeed.

The Covari had assumed the form of a relatively young human male, mid- to late twenties, perhaps, the very picture of innocence as it lay on its side in the center of the cell, curled in a fetal position. "What's its status?" Nicholas asked.

"It's still unconscious," the doctor replied, hastily shipped here from Copper Summit for just this occasion. "It will be several more hours before you can interrogate it."

Nicholas circled the cell slowly, examining it from all angles, nursing the hatred that had been strong to begin with and had only grown stronger with each passing day of exile. These things, these creatures were the authors of so much that was wrong with Antar. They had twice placed the wrong man on the throne, and now sought to do so again. It was Nicholas' considered opinion that they should be wiped from the face of the universe, but the very attributes that made them dangerous also made them useful. If the hybrids were found.....if the royal mark were recovered for its rightful owner.....all Covari would be bound to its bearer. Including this one, Nicholas thought with satisfaction. The notion of a Royal Warder forced to serve another master was almost enough to make him argue for their survival. Almost.

"Which one do you think it is?" Nicholas asked no one in particular.

"Which one would you like it to be?" Greer countered.

That's a tough one, Nicholas admitted privately, still circling. To have Jaddo, his counterpart and chief rival, at his mercy once more would be sweet.....but he'd already killed him once, so as the humans would say, been there, done that. Brivari, on the other hand, had eluded him on two different worlds. Brivari, who had placed Riall on the throne and assisted his baby-faced son to the dais upon the death of his father. Brivari, who had fled the scene of the coup so quickly that none could stop him, taking the royals' bodies with him and effectively preventing Khivar from finishing what he'd started. Brivari, the architect of their current misery in so many ways.

"It's Brivari," Nicholas announced. "The attack on the ship was a military move, so Jaddo would have done that. This must be Brivari."

"Is that who you would like it to be?" Greer asked.

Nicholas stepped closer, as close as he dared without touching the force field. "Oh, yes," he whispered. "I would like that very much. That would be good. That would be so good, it would almost make up for the loss of the ship." He glanced at the doctor, standing apprehensively nearby. To have the King's Warder helpless and in his power.....

"Lower the force field," Nicholas ordered.

The doctor blinked. "Sir?"

"I said lower the field."

The doctor and Greer exchanged glances. "You're unlikely to get very far without it being more aware than it is now," the doctor objected. "And if you inadvertently damage it—"

"Did I or did I not just give you a direct order?" Nicholas broke in coldly.

The doctor looked at Greer, who shrugged slightly. A moment later the force field evaporated, and Nicholas stepped closer to the Covari, nudged it with his toe. Its eyelids fluttered slightly, but other than that, it didn't move.

His heart pounding with excitement, he knelt beside it. The doctor was right; he was unlikely to learn much from it in such a sedated state. But the urge to try, to walk for a while in a Royal Warder's brain was so strong that he didn't care. Nearly alone among his race, Nicholas possessed a certain level of telepathy, strong enough to wrest someone's memories from them against their will. It was a dangerous process that could damage the subject's brain, tempered only by their level of resistance and tolerance for pain. A sedated subject like this would offer little of either, which is why the doctor was rightly concerned about damaging their prize. He would have to be careful.......

Grimacing slightly, Nicholas placed his hand on the Covari's head and reached out with his mind, initially finding only a gray fog consistent with its nearly unconscious state. He pushed harder, producing blurry images of various parts of Earth, scads of humans, a cat—a cat?—but little of interest. Harder, he thought. Even a tiny, fleeting image might help. His eyes were closed from the effort, but he felt the Covari begin to twitch at his feet. This was an imprecise process at best, similar to a human garage sale; you had to scrounge through countless useless items at countless sales before finding something of value because you never knew exactly where that something was, or even if it was there to be found. His extra effort produced a larger jumble of much the same images, nondescript and unhelpful....wait.....no, that one was familiar. Harder. Harder.....

"Sir! Sir, stop!"

Hands pulled him back, the images evaporating. "Get your hands off me!" Nicholas sputtered, shoving everyone away, scrambling back toward the Covari. A trickle of blood was running from its left eye, dripping slowly onto the ground.

"It's too soon," the doctor insisted. "It needs to be more awake."

"How long?" Nicholas asked impatiently.

"Late this afternoon, perhaps. Definitely by this evening."

"So we'll try then," Nicholas declared. "Have Courtney here too," he added to Michael.

"Courtney?" Michael echoed. "Why?"

"Because I was reminded of who I have to thank for my newest plaything," Nicholas said. "The only clear picture I got out of that thing's head was of your daughter, Michael, probably the last thing it saw before it was sedated. Bring her here. She'll have the honor of helping me interrogate it."

Michael hesitated. "Of course, sir," he said faintly. "She'll be here."




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




Mrs. Bruce's rooming house





"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Dee muttered. "Is there anything else I missed?"

Isn't that enough? Courtney thought. She still wasn't clear on the religious reference—was this the one about a human deity adopting a human body, or the one about three gods really being only one?—but as far as she was concerned, her friend was welcome to make all the obscure religious references she wanted. Dee's presence had been so unexpected, a blinding shaft of light in a very long, very dark tunnel. Not that anything was different now—it wasn't—but simply pouring out the story, being pressed for and having to dredge up details and watching Dee's reaction to the response had brought some much needed perspective to the whole situation. Dee had been through so much, some of it worse than this. If anyone could figure a way out of this, it was her.

"So all of this started right after I left....naturally," Dee said, her voice heavy with irony. "Brivari figured you out, you ran to my parents....nice of them to tell me, by the way......and then you moved back here when Nicholas came to town with his traveling light show, which yielded nothing until last night."

"And the ship," Courtney added. "Don't forget the ship. The loss of the ship is why my father wants to leave Malik captive, so he can distract Nicholas."

"Believe me, the ship is the least of my worries," Dee said, sounding genuinely worried. "What are they going to do to him, Courtney? I'm assuming they won't just kill him outright. They'll want information, and he won't give it to them."

"He may not have a choice," Courtney said.

"Why not?"

Courtney shifted in her chair, trying to figure out how to explain something that would certainly sound fantastic. "Nicholas has a talent that most of the rest of our race doesn't have. To a certain extent, at least, he can pull memories right out of your mind. I've never actually seen him do it, but I've heard my father talk about it."

"You mean he can read minds?" Dee asked.

"Not exactly. He's telepathic only up to a point, which is unusual for us. Most Antarians and Covari are capable of telepathic speech and can form telepathic connections, while most Argilians can't."

"So....you're not capable of telepathic speech?"

"No. Even Nicholas can't do that. Why?"

Dee hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing. Just getting my facts straight. So....you think Nicholas is going to do this to Malik? Can Malik fight back somehow?"

Courtney hesitated. "You have to understand that Covari are very difficult to hold captive," she said gently. "They can make themselves really small and slip through cracks, they can look like—"

"I know what they can do," Dee interrupted. "My Mama and I watched Malik turn into a flat puddle that slithered across our kitchen floor. Stop beating around the bush, and answer my question."

Courtney took a deep breath. "In order to prevent a Covari from escaping, you either have to keep it—him—partially unconscious or in a truly impregnable cell, usually some kind of electrified force field so they'll get zapped if they try to escape."

"Lovely," Dee grumbled. "So where are they holding him?"

"I don't know," Courtney answered, grateful that Dee hadn't realized that she'd dodged the question.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know'?" Dee demanded. "I would think that would be one of the first things you'd try to find out."

"Dee, I was barely holding it together!" Courtney exclaimed. "I was so sure my father would help, and then he wouldn't, and then he made me go upstairs and announce the capture to Nicholas so I'd get the credit for it, and....." She stopped, closing her eyes, her stomach turning at the memory. It had only been a few minutes—she'd been quickly dismissed so Nicholas could claim his new prize—but those few minutes had been sheer torture, torture she'd felt was deserved for bungling this whole thing every step of the way. If only she'd taken Mr. Anderson up on his offer to help instead of insisting on getting her father; the skill with which he'd removed her father from Nicholas' room could have been put to much better use removing Malik from harm's way. But that light had dawned too late, and she'd barely been able to look at Mr. Anderson's sad face peeking out from his own room when she'd rushed past him out of the rooming house last night. He'd looked every bit as upset as she had been, and that hadn't made her feel any better.

"All right then," Dee said crisply. "We have to find out where he is, and then go get him."

"Oh, it's that simple, is it?" Courtney said skeptically.

"You'd be surprised how simple some things are if you just refuse to make them difficult," Dee countered. "If—"

There was a knock on the door. "Courtney?" came Michael's voice. "It's your father. I need to speak to you."

Damn! "I'll get that," Courtney said, scrambling off her chair. "Get in the closet. You'll still be able to hear everything."

"I don't want to 'hear everything', I want to talk to him," Dee said darkly. "Actually, I have quite a few things to say to dear old dad."

Which is exactly what I'm afraid of, Courtney thought, not keen on angering her father further when she needed him as a link to Malik. "He won't like your being here," she insisted. "Please, Dee, just get in the closet."

"Courtney?" her father called, knocking again. "Are you in there?"

For a moment, it looked like Dee was going to comply. She was moving, she was turning.....and then she abruptly gripped the doorknob and opened the door. Michael stood outside, the hand raised to knock again slowly falling when he saw who had answered the door.

"What are you doing here?" he asked bluntly. "I thought you'd left town."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you," Dee said coldly. "Nice to see you, too, Mr. Harris. You and I need to have a little chat."




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


I'll be on vacation next week, so I'll post Chapter 80 on Sunday, June 28.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER EIGHTY



October 31, 1959, 11 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house,

Roswell




Courtney's heart sank when she saw the look on her father's face. So much for not angering him. And if she'd been of a mind to entertain any fleeting notions of Dee stepping back and not rocking the boat, those notions would have been dashed by the look on Dee's face, a virtual cloud of anger that at least matched and probably surpassed her father's.

"I thought you went back to school," Michael said coldly.

"I came home for the weekend," Dee answered with no less ice in her voice. "And lo and behold, what do I find but the so-called leader of the resistance doing absolutely nothing while one of those he's supposedly helping is held hostage. Hell, I hear he even passed up an opportunity to free said hostage. Imagine that."

"If that was an attempt at humor, it failed," Michael said flatly.

"It's called 'sarcasm'," Dee retorted. "Where is he?"

"That is none of your concern," Michael replied. "Your presence here is problematic. Please leave."

"I'm not going anywhere. Like I said, we need to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about," Michael answered. "I repeat: Please leave."

"This is Courtney's place, not yours," Dee said, never taking her eyes off Michael. "It's her call. Courtney, do you want me to leave?"

Courtney looked back and forth as the two most important people in her life squared off. She should have done this, should have stood up to him the way Dee was standing up to him now. Alone and in shock, she'd been far too upset to muster the wherewithal to do so last night, a lapse for which she was still kicking herself. But it wasn't last night anymore, and she was no longer alone. Perhaps Dee could make a dent in her father's intransigence because God knows they were a match for each other.

"No," Courtney said. "I want you to stay."

Her father's face darkened, but he said nothing as he closed the door behind him and faced the one he knew was his true adversary. "I regret what has happened," he said to Dee, "but I do not regret the timing. The Warders have taken our ship and sent it back into space, prompting questions about how they knew where to find it in the first place. I have a very good idea of the probable answer to that question," he added with a pointed look at Courtney, who looked away, "but regardless of how accurate I am, Malik's captivity is providing a much needed distraction."

"What does the ship have to do with it?" Dee demanded. "This is a war! The ship is fair game."

"I do not need you to remind me that we are at war," Michael said sharply. "I apparently do need to remind you that the taking of prisoners is something that happens during war, which means that Malik is also 'fair game'. Be grateful it was Malik and not a Warder."

"Forgive me if I'm not drowning in gratitude that one of my friends is being held hostage while his so-called 'allies' stand by and prattle on about convenient distractions," Dee said acidly. "And why should I be grateful it was Malik? Is he considered more disposable than usual?"

"Of course he is," Michael answered, "just like any lower ranking officer is more disposable than a higher ranking officer. I shouldn't have to explain that to you either. But we are wasting time," he continued before Dee could reply. "Courtney, your presence is requested at Malik's interrogation. You will, of course, attend."

Courtney's heart nearly stopped beating. " 'Requested'? Requested by whom?"

"Nicholas," Michael replied. "Officially he wishes to honor your service. Unofficially he wants details of how you managed to capture a Covari, details we will need to carefully construct so as not to draw attention to ourselves."

"So....he just wants to talk to me?" Courtney asked hopefully.

Michael's eyes flicked toward Dee. "No. He wishes you to assist in the interrogation."

Assist? "How can you even ask me that?" Courtney exclaimed in disbelief. "I stood by and let you cart him off, but I'm not doing anything else to hurt him!"

"What does that mean?" Dee interjected. "Assist how? I thought you said Nicholas could pull memories from people's heads. Why would he need you for that?"

"This is the second time in less than a day that you have involved a human in our business," Michael muttered. "Is there anything you didn't tell her?"

"Yeah, I didn't tell her how he intended to do that," Courtney retorted. "Go ahead, Papa, tell her. If you dare."

"Of course I 'dare'," Michael said impatiently. "Because Nicholas only possesses the skill to probe surface memories, he finds it useful to employ methods which make his captives more receptive to such probing."

"Gobbledygook," Dee declared. "What exactly does he do?"

"Pain," Michael said bluntly. "Pain is an excellent distraction for his purposes."

"And he wants me to help inflict it," Courtney said bitterly. "And I won't."

"Oh, yes you will," Michael countered.

"No, I won't!" Courtney exclaimed.

"Wait a minute," Dee said. "Why would you stand by and let Malik be interrogated? He could give away the king away if he knows where he's hidden."

"He cannot betray the king," Michael answered. "Covari are genetically incapable of causing harm to the king, either directly or indirectly. If Malik knows where the hybrids are hidden, he would be unable to communicate that in any way because he knows that doing so would mean the death of the king."

"Well, that's one bit of good news," Dee said. "But what about you? He could give you away too."

"Nicholas is not skilled enough to pull anything other than images from a mind," Michael said. "Almost anything he sees could be explained as Covari surveilling us. We are in little danger from Malik, and in far more danger without him, which would leave Nicholas free to concentrate on how the Warders found our ship."

"Danger or no danger, I'm not hurting him," Courtney insisted. "I've hurt him enough already."

Michael stepped closer to her. "Look at me," he commanded. "Courtney.....I said look at me!"

Reluctantly, furiously, Courtney complied. "You will obey all of Nicholas' orders without hesitation," her father ordered. "You will do nothing that will expose the resistance or jeopardize its mission, especially not for the sake of a Covari."

"So that's what this is about!" Dee said angrily. "Malik is just a Covari, so he doesn't count! You think what happens to him doesn't matter because he doesn't matter!"

That's exactly it, Courtney thought silently as Michael turned hard eyes on Dee, who returned his gaze unflinchingly. "I have indulged your fantasy that Covari are sentient beings at every turn," he said tersely. "I have encouraged my daughter to indulge this fantasy also because I knew it would please you. And it appears that was a mistake because it seems she now believes this nonsense herself. For the last time, Covari are not sentient beings. They are created for a purpose, they fulfill that purpose and that purpose only, and all your wishing otherwise will not make it so." He paused. "I came here with a mission," he continued as Dee glowered at him, "a mission that could save not just one world, but five. And if the price of success for that mission is one Covari, that is a small price, and one I am very willing to pay. Even the Warders would not risk themselves for Malik. And as you have already noted, this is war, and in war, one must make difficult choices."

He walked over to Courtney, fastened hard eyes on her. "I will be back for you when the time comes, and you will be ready. We will construct a suitable explanation as to why you were with a Covari, and you will deliver this information to Nicholas. You will comply with all 'requests' he makes of you no matter how personally distasteful you find them, and you will refrain from any complaint or indiscretion that would put your world or your fellow resistance members in jeopardy. And you," he added to Dee, "will stay out of our way and refrain from passing judgment on things you know little about."

Now what? Courtney thought as the door closed behind her father. They didn't know where Malik was being held, they probably couldn't get to him if they did, and she had an appointment to be his torturer, one she dare not miss. For all that she hated it, he was right: These were perilous times for the resistance. Sick as she was at what had happened, a lot more people would die if she lost her cool and gave them away. She was well and truly stuck.

But if Dee shared her hopelessness, she certainly didn't show it. "Stay here," she said briskly just as soon as Michael's footsteps had faded away. "You called in sick, so you can't be seen wandering around. I'll be back shortly."

"Where are you going?" Courtney asked, bewildered.

"To get help."

"From where?"

"Same place you tried," Dee answered. "Only now he's got me to deal with."




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




Alice Wentworth's rooming house




Flat on the floor, James Atherton pressed his head so close to the heat vent that it would have disappeared inside had the vent been large enough. It's grate stood propped against the wall courtesy of the screwdriver from his tool box, a futile attempt to make the murmurings from the room above a bit clearer. Alas, Nicholas was not yelling today; on the contrary, he seemed calmer and more focused than ever, befitting a military commander presented with his favorite things in this or any other world: A battle and a prisoner. The former had sparked a decent number of raised voices, although Atherton had only been able to figure out that something big had happened involving a ship, intelligibility still being a problem. The latter, however, had produced a calm so chilling that, when Atherton had seen Nicholas come down the stairs earlier today, he no longer resembled a sarcastic adolescent. No, the ice cold look in his eyes had made it easy to imagine a military commander trapped in a child's body, and for the first time since his arrival, Atherton had understood what Langley had been saying about how dangerous this assignment was. For the first time, he had been afraid.

The murmurings grew louder for a moment, and Atherton listened hard. Fear hadn't stopped him from signaling Langley and keeping a sharp eye on the many comings and goings to the upstairs rooms. There were six people up there at last count, including some he'd never seen before, and the few snatches of conversation he'd managed to catch suggested at least one of them was a physician of some sort. Langley had not yet reappeared, but when he did, Atherton expected to have a full report and to be ready to assist in whatever way he could.

There was a knock on the door. Langley! Atherton thought joyfully until he remembered that Langley never knocked, he just appeared. Who could that be? No one had left the room upstairs, no telltale creaks on the stairs, no closing doors, so presumably no one was coming after him....or were they? It suddenly dawned on Atherton that he had no weapon, no way to defend himself if one of the aliens decided to attack. Perhaps he should remedy that deficiency at his earliest possible convenience.

His visitor was a vaguely familiar looking, sandy-haired young woman wearing trousers and a no nonsense expression. "Mr. Addison?" she asked without preamble.

"Yes," Atherton said warily. "And you are.....?"

The young woman promptly pushed her way into the room without answering. "Close the door," she instructed.

"But—"

"I'm a friend of Langley's," the woman announced.

Atherton's eyes widened as he stepped back and closed the door. Was this another human ally? Then again, it could be just someone who knew Langley as Langley and nothing more. One mustn't jump to conclusions. "A friend?" he repeated. "How do you—"

"I'll make this brief," the young woman said. "I'm Dee Evans, and I've known Langley since his ship crashed when I was eight. I know you're really Mr. Anderson from this summer, and you're supposedly here at Langley's request."

Atherton blinked. Eight? "I.....well......"

"Is that the heat vent Courtney was talking about?"

Atherton followed her gaze, still trying to take in what she'd said. "Well....yes, but....."

But she was already on top of it, flattening herself on the floor without hesitation as no self-respecting woman would. Her head was smaller, and she actually managed to get further into the vent than he had. She listened for a full minute before withdrawing.

"Can't hear much," she frowned. "Too bad; this worked great in my house. Have you managed to hear anything useful?"

"A bit. I gather one of the.....er.....'people' upstairs is a physician brought in just for this occasion—"

"Oh yes," the woman said sarcastically. "Given what they're planning, they'd want a doctor on board."

"Planning?"

"Courtney brought me up to speed with what happened last night, and I just had a charming conversation with her father.....what are you staring at?"

"I'm sorry," Atherton said quickly. "I just....well, you have to understand what a thrill this is for me! Your existence has been theorized for years now, but—"

"My existence?" she echoed. "I'm not an alien."

"Exactly!" Atherton said delightedly. "I, my dear, am a serious alienologist, and within my circle, we have long suspected that the aliens had human allies who helped them escape the military's clutches. The existence of such allies is considered a virtual certainty by many of my colleagues, but others are not persuaded, mainly because it was assumed that any human allies would have eventually talked. And when no one ever did, we—

"Fascinating, but irrelevant," the woman interrupted. "Have you seen Langley?"

Atherton broke off reluctantly. If this young woman really had been eight when Langley's ship had crashed, that meant she had seen over a decade's worth of alien activity, and, oh, the talking she could do! He knew several people who had spent their lives looking for the aliens' human allies, and now one had come to him, sought him out. It was absolutely intoxicating.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't," Atherton answered, struggling to dampen his enthusiasm. "He's not in town because he has to be careful, you see; after that business with Miss Tate, he'd be recognized in a trice. We had a signal arranged....I leave the curtains in a certain orientation, and that means I need to talk to him....but we've never needed to use it before, and he hasn't responded yet."

"So no help there," she sighed. "At least not yet. And that leaves us."

" 'Us'?"

The woman straightened up, abandoning the heat vent. "Mr. Anderson—or Addison, or whatever you're calling yourself today—I need to get to Malik before they kill him, and I need your help to do that."

"But.....do you think that's wise without Langley?" Atherton asked. "He's told me over and over how dangerous this is, and that I shouldn't get directly involved, and—"

But the young woman held up a hand. "I've been 'directly involved' with all of this most of my life, and I'm not about to stop now," she said firmly. "I can do this without you, but it would easier with you. Are you in, or are you out?"

"In!" Atherton declared. "Absolutely! What do you want me to do?"

"I need to know where Malik is being held. Do you have any idea where they took him?"

Atherton shook his head. "Not here, I know that. I never saw him. All I've seen are people coming and going—I keep close tabs on everyone, for Langley, you know—but I have no idea where this 'Malik' is."

"Too bad. All right; they're planning on interrogating him tonight, so we'll just have to wait outside Courtney's place and follow them."

"And what do I do?" Atherton asked.

"You stay here and direct Langley when he shows up," she instructed. "We're driving a blue Chevrolet. He'll find it."

Atherton blinked. "He will? How? Miss Evans—"

"Mrs."

"Mrs. Evans," Atherton corrected, "don't you think I would be of more use going with you? If you plan to free this...individual, you'll need help."

"I'll have help," she answered. "Besides, I know from experience that this type of thing is best done with fewer people. And you're my only link to Langley, so you have to stay here. Tell him they're interrogating Malik somewhere around here and what kind of car we're driving. He'll find us. And if you hear anything useful through that vent, call Courtney and let her know."

She started for the door, but Atherton planted himself in front of her. "Mrs. Evans, I have only the utmost respect for your intentions, but I believe you have seriously underestimated your adversary. I have friends who have waited a lifetime, several lifetimes, for the chance to meet and assist alien life. With just a few phone calls, I could have a virtual army here in plenty of time to assist you this evening—"

"Absolutely not," she said firmly, walking closer, fixing him with a gaze that was most uncomfortable. "I know you're new at this, so let me explain something to you. Rule number one with aliens is that you never, ever, tell anyone else about them. Secrecy is their best defense. The more people who know about them, the more likely they'll be compromised. You can't tell anyone—anyone—about them, and certainly not a bunch of nut jobs who could make this much worse than it already is."

"Then what about the sheriff?" Atherton said desperately, ignoring for the moment the characterization of himself and his colleagues as "nut jobs". "He knows Langley is an alien; he pretty much told me so himself. He could look around, maybe—"

But the woman shook her head vigorously. "Not the sheriff. Maybe especially not the sheriff."

"Well, who, then?" Atherton asked, exasperated. "Do you really intend to march out to wherever and try to save the day all by yourself?"

She smiled faintly, as though he'd said something funny. "Wouldn't be the first time."




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



De Baca County




Valenti pulled his cruiser into the driveway outside the little white house and shut off the engine. It was ironic, really, that after his argument with Andi about his quiet visits here as a private citizen in the family car, he would have reason to come here as sheriff, even if he was taking a bit of a risk being seen in uniform. But Pierce's old house was now empty with a "For Sale" sign parked in front, the put-upon agents assigned to clean it out having apparently completed their task, and Agent Cates had told him that the FBI had largely written off De Baca County as a source for whatever means Pierce had devised to pass along his mysterious whatever. Which was all the better for him, because he was convinced that De Baca held the key. This is where Pierce had lived since his flight from the Army, so this is where the answer most likely lie.

The stone walk to the front door had a side walkway extending to the right, leading to another door beside which hung a sign reading, "Robert Angelone, Attorney at Law". Valenti took the side path and found a small anteroom inside presided over by a single secretary at a desk.

"Sheriff Jim Valenti," he said politely, removing his hat. "I have an appointment."

A white-haired man appeared in the doorway directly behind the secretary. "Sheriff," he smiled, extending his hand. "Robert Angelone. Please....come in."

"Thank you," Valenti said, following Angelone into his office, which was simply furnished. Angelone either didn't share Pierce's love of expensive furnishings or just didn't decorate as pretentiously as Pierce.

"Have a seat," Angelone said, waving to a chair in front of his desk. "May I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you; I'm on duty," Valenti answered. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I hope I'm not being too disruptive."

"Anything for the boys," Angelone said, settling into his own chair. "Local law enforcement are some of my best customers. So.....what brings Roswell's sheriff all the way out here? I'm the only lawyer for miles, but there are several in Roswell."

"I'm afraid I couldn't go to a Roswell lawyer," Valenti answered.

Angelone nodded knowingly. "I see. Something you don't want getting around?"

"Something only you would know," Valenti corrected. "About a client of yours named Daniel Pierce, although I'm told he didn't go by that name around these parts."

There was a pause. "Sheriff, you must know that I can't discuss anything that falls under lawyer/client privilege," Angelone said, his voice not quite so friendly as it had been.

"Is that what you tell all the FBI agents and military personnel who file through here on a weekly basis?" Valenti asked. "Or is it down to monthly now?"

Angelone gave him a penetrating look before rising from his chair. "Are you sure you don't want a drink, sheriff? I certainly need one." He pulled out a single glass and a bottle of whiskey when Valenti shook his head, poured himself a glass, and resumed his seat. "Daniel Pierce was AWOL from the Army, so I can understand the Army's interest in him. But the FBI....that's a different matter entirely. They're interested in something else."

"Actually, they're both interested in the same thing," Valenti said. "They're interested in whatever is going to be delivered to Daniel Jr. upon his thirtieth birthday."

Angelone's glass paused halfway to his lips. "How did you know about that?"

Valenti hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Let's just say that there are members of both organizations who aren't happy with the way their superiors are behaving. Superiors like Agent Lewis, for example."

The mention of Lewis' name had exactly the effect Valenti had been hoping for; Angelone's hands twitched and his face darkened dangerously. "Agent Lewis," he said tightly, "is a menace unparalleled by any but J. Edgar Hoover himself. He swept Pierce's widow off her feet for no other reason than to get at her child, and now he's spirited her off, only God knows where. I'm her lawyer, and I can't even reach her; I have to go through Lewis' henchman. I tried to warn her, but she was pregnant, and scared, and she wouldn't listen. Damn him!"

Excellent, Valenti thought. Hatred of Lewis made for a good bonding experience. "I know exactly what you're talking about, Mr. Angelone. Lewis went after me this summer, threatened my family; it took some fast tap dancing to head him off. Afterwards I was approached by one of his agents who has reason to believe that Lewis is responsible for the death of a colleague who questioned Lewis' behavior. His story checks out with the local police."

"None of which surprises me in the least," Angelone said. "But what does this have to do with me?"

Valenti leaned forward in his chair. "Lewis has his agents working overtime trying to find whatever it is that Pierce's son is due to inherit when he turns thirty. The agent I'm working with wants to prevent that. He enlisted me to help him find what Lewis is looking for so it can be kept from him."

"And what makes you think this isn't just another ploy by Lewis?"

"Because he's turned over too much information for Lewis to be behind it," Valenti answered. "And because I know he's not lying. You know what I mean, counselor. We're both in the business of figuring out who's lying. This agent isn't lying."

"Perhaps not. But once again, what does that have to do with me?"

"You were Pierce's friend," Valenti said, "perhaps his only friend."

"We socialized," Angelone allowed. "But I was mainly his lawyer, not his friend."

"That's not what it sounded like in your note on the back of that painting in his office."

Angelone regarded him levelly for several long seconds before breaking into an appreciative smile. "Very good, sheriff. You're thorough, unlike those bulls in a china shop. But I'm afraid your attention to detail hasn't gotten you anywhere. As I told Pierce's widow, I have no idea what legacy Pierce would have left his son other than that listed in the will. I don't even know where that child is."

"But someone does," Valenti said. "Pierce was a meticulous man, Mr. Angelone, a brilliant, paranoid, detail-driven man. He'd have to be to leave that letter in the safe deposit box, knowing that Lewis or someone like him would be there when it was opened. Who did he give it to? Who's orchestrating this?"

Angelone shook his head. "As you already know, there's been a steady parade of uniformed backsides sitting in that very chair where your uniformed backside is currently residing, and I've told every single one of them the same thing: Pierce never discussed this with me. I have no idea what it is that his son is supposed to inherit, or exactly how that will happen. And if you truly are trying to thwart Lewis, that's unfortunate because I'd love to bring him down. But I can't tell you or anyone else what I don't know."

"It has to be you," Valenti said bluntly. "You were his lawyer and his friend."

"All the more reason it can't be me," Angelone argued. "I'm much too obvious of a choice; witness the line beating a path to my door. I'm the last person Pierce should have told about his gift, and he was smart enough not to. I have to give him credit for that, even if it does ruin your day." He paused, gazing at Valenti speculatively. "You mentioned that it's our business to ferret out liars, sheriff. So what do you think? Am I lying?"

A clock ticked in the background overlaid by the tap, tap, tap of typewriter keys. "No," Valenti said finally. "You're not."

"Well, there you have it, then," Angelone said. "I'm sorry you made the trip out here for nothing. We could have discussed this over the phone."

Valenti shook his head. "Nope. Phones aren't safe. Have you checked yours?"

Angelone's eyebrows rose. "Not recently. I'll check again." He paused, examining his desktop. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you, sheriff. Naturally I've said the same thing to everyone else who's come here looking for answers on this subject, but for what it's worth....I mean it this time."

"Thank you," Valenti answered, rising from his chair. "I appreciate your time."

Five minutes later Valenti was back on the road heading south to Roswell. Angelone had been right; he wasn't lying. Which meant his last and best lead on whatever means Pierce was using to transmit his legacy had just gone bust, and the well was now dry. Maybe Andi didn't have to worry about the mileage on the car anymore after all.




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




8 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"This is a bad idea," Courtney declared. "The last thing I want is to be responsible for more people getting caught."

"So Malik is a person now, is he?" Dee murmured from her seat at the kitchen table.

"Not now," Courtney said wearily.

"It doesn't sound like you were 'responsible' for Malik getting caught," Anthony said with a pointed look at his wife. "It's not like you walked him into a trap, or even knew they were hooking the infrared up to the street lights. It just happened."

"Exactly," Courtney said. "I didn't know because I was locked in battle with my father—again. If I'd been talking to him, I might have known."

"If your father had told you," Anthony countered. "And he may not have given that even he was surprised this happened. Stop blaming yourself, and do something about it."

"I'd prefer something a bit less dangerous," Courtney said.

"Do you have a better idea?" Dee asked.

No, Courtney sighed inwardly. She had no ideas, good, bad, or otherwise. Her father would be here soon to take her to Nicholas, and Dee and Anthony planned on following surreptitiously in their borrowed car. What they were going to do when they got wherever they were going was unclear.

"You still haven't told me what you're planning on doing when you find him," Courtney reminded them.

Dee and Anthony exchanged glances. "That's because we don't know yet," he admitted. "But there's a possibility we can get some information from him."

"How could you do that?" Courtney asked, bewildered.

Dee dropped her eyes when her husband gave her a quizzical look. "She doesn't know?" he asked after a moment.

"It never came up," Dee answered.

"Doesn't know what?" Courtney demanded. "Look," she continued when no one said anything, "if we're all going to walk into the lion's den, shouldn't we all know what we're going in with?"

There was a pause before Dee answered. "I'm capable of telepathic speech," she announced. "If Malik is awake and I can get close enough....I can talk to him."

Courtney stared at her, stunned. "You....you can speak telepathically? But.....none of my race can! Even Nicholas can't do that!"

"I've been able to do it since childhood, when I found their ship," Dee said with a small shrug. "So could the nurse from the base. We're the only two I know of, though."

"So all this time you were having conversations with Malik and the Warders behind my back?" Courtney bristled.

"In the very beginning we weren't sure if you were who you said you were," Dee reminded her.

"And after that?"

"It just didn't come up," Dee said impatiently. "Talking to them telepathically is second nature for me, so I just didn't think to point it out. It wasn't necessary to mention it until now."

Second nature? Courtney thought incredulously. No wonder Riall and Zan after him had mined humanity the way they had; humans could do what Argilians could not. It was said that the Warders' fearsome abilities came from the human brain, but it was understood that humans themselves were not capable of using the treasure trove inside their own heads. Apparently they'd been wrong about that. Apparently some of them were.

"We can talk about this later," Anthony broke in. "What's important now is that we have a way to potentially communicate with Malik even while he's captive. That could be a huge advantage."

"And if the Warders should come back and Mr. Anderson sends them after us, you could talk to them too!" Courtney said wonderingly, a whole new set of possibilities opening up. "My God.....we might actually be able to rescue him!"

"Maybe," Anthony cautioned. "At least we can learn something."

Courtney bit her lip. "But....you're all by yourselves for now. I know why you didn't want to bring Mr. Anderson into this, but what about your father? He was in the military."

"No," Dee said firmly.

"Why not? He'd be—"

"He'd be in danger," Dee interrupted. "You're not the only one who doesn't want to be responsible for someone else getting caught."

Someone knocked on the door. Dee and Anthony instinctively retreated as Courtney looked at it helplessly, suddenly losing her nerve. If anything happened to them.......

"That's my father," she whispered. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"We've done this before," Anthony answered softly. "Fought off aliens, run from aliens, hidden aliens.....we spent three years of our childhood doing that. This is old hat."

"Courtney?" Michael called. "It's time."

"You could just stay here and wait for me to come back," Courtney said hopefully. "I'll tell you everything I saw, and—"

"Courtney?" her father called again. "Don't make this any harder than it is already."

"We can't just leave him there," Dee whispered. "We just can't."

No, we can't, Courtney agreed silently as she opened the door to find her father standing outside wearing a grave expression. She followed him wordlessly down the stairs and out to his car, reflecting that the only thing which could make this worse was to have someone else taken captive because of her, hurt because of her. So why was she grateful Dee and Anthony were coming? Why was she checking the mirrors to make certain their car pulled out behind her father's, breathing easier when it did? It was incredibly selfish of her, but having them with her made this bearable. Perhaps humans were right; perhaps misery really did love company.

She settled back in her seat, steeling herself for what she knew awaited her. And thus she missed seeing the second car pull out, forming a three car procession heading for the edge of town.



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


I'll post Chapter 81 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE


October 31, 1959, 8:45 p.m.

Roswell




*Thank goodness we hurried back,* Jaddo deadpanned. *The whole town is falling apart.*

*There was no longer any reason to stay,* Brivari answered. *Besides, aren't you the least bit curious as to the reaction here?*

A soft grunt was the only answer. Brivari smiled faintly as they walked down Roswell's Main Street, the evening air much warmer here than it had been in the mountains. Jaddo was trying hard to be sardonic and dismissive, but the truth was that he was in the best mood he'd been in since Pierce's death. Battle always satisfied him, and as most of their strategy with the Argilians had involved observation and invisibility, battle had been hard to come by. It had done Jaddo good to be able to finally indulge his lust to strike back at their enemies.....and what a strike it had been. The Argilians had been deprived of their ship, several operatives, their supply of trithium, and an entire crop of husks. They would be a long time recovering from a loss of that magnitude.

*Do you think they're still up there?* Jaddo asked.

*I'm sure they'll be up there for days to come,* Brivari answered, referring to the hordes of Argilians who had descended on the site where the ship had been only to find it had vanished. *Let them. Anything that draws them away from here is advantageous.*

*I still don't understand why you didn't let me kill them.*

*You killed almost everyone on the ship,* Brivari reminded him. *To which 'them' are you referring?*

*All of them,* Jaddo said peevishly. *The doctor, the patients in medical, the remaining bridge operatives.*

*They posed no threat to us,* Brivari answered.

*Perhaps not at that moment, but they certainly could in the future. They're not civilians, Brivari, they're soldiers, and as such, they're fair game.*

*Harvesting even fair game is not always wise.*

*It makes no sense to leave live enemies behind,* Jaddo grumbled.

*It makes no sense to take life when that is unnecessary,* Brivari countered. *Those patients had lost their husks and were confined to the ship indefinitely. Even humans have strictures against attacking the already wounded. What is essentially a field hospital is not 'fair game'.*

*All right, then, what's your excuse for the others? They weren't injured.*

*Didn't we go over this? I made a pledge to the operative who assisted us. A pledge from the king's Warder holds the same weight as a pledge from the king, and a monarch's word is his bond.*

*We don't have a monarch.*

Brivari stopped. *Is that what you think?*

Jaddo sighed heavily. *Of course not. It's just that sometimes it seems like you suffer from the same softness which brought Zan down. Which doesn't bode well for our attempts to restore him.*

*And you often suffer from the same myopia which caused so much friction between our Wards,* Brivari noted. *One's word should never be either given or broken lightly. I made a business arrangement with the operative in question: Her assistance for her life and the lives of those she designated. She lived up to her end of the bargain, and gave me no reason not to live up to mine.*

*And what of the rest of it? Why does it feel like we've just handed Khivar a victory?*

Brivari resumed walking, Jaddo falling in step beside him. *Because, in a sense, we have.....although it will do him far more harm than good.*

*You're certain of that?*

*Even the best military commanders recognize there are many different forms of combat,* Brivari answered. *You excel at the brute force variety. My forte is the war of words, of ideas, of hearts and minds. Both are needed to maintain a throne; it would be a mistake to eschew one for the other.*

*Rath told Zan the same thing many times,* Jaddo replied. *Would that he had listened.*

*Would that Rath's Warder would listen now,* Brivari said pointedly. *You heard Larak; the situation is untenable, especially given the larger amount of time that will pass before the king's return. He needs something to return to, Jaddo, and I will preserve that something by whatever means necessary, including handing Khivar a Pyrrhic victory. It would be of little use to survive this only to find one's domain in ruins.*

*I still say this smacks of weakness,* Jaddo muttered.

*Patience is not weakness,* Brivari answered, praying for some patience himself. *Mercy is not weakness. Forgoing the immediate for the greater good is not weakness. On the contrary, it takes more strength to restrain oneself than to simply let loose. Those who hear our message when the ship arrives will realize this, will contrast our behavior—the king's behavior—with Khivar's....and Khivar will be found wanting.*

*Let's hope so,* Jaddo said. *I was never much good at public relations.*

*I would never have guessed,* Brivari said dryly, pausing as they passed Parker's, the bar side of which was noisy on a Friday night. *Is it my imagination, or are there no Argilians out tonight?*

*Now that you mention it, I haven't seen any. Do you suppose they've withdrawn?*

*I doubt we're that lucky,* Brivari replied. *But let's find out.*

Atherton's rooming house was a ways further down the street, and Brivari stopped when it came into view. *What?* Jaddo asked.

*The curtains,* Brivari whispered. *They're half closed.*

*So?*

*So that was our signal for if he needed to speak to me before our designated meeting time. Curtains half closed and light on, regardless of the time of day.*

They approached the house cautiously, carefully inspecting the upper floor where Nicholas held court. But the second floor was dark, unlike Atherton's room, which was glowing brightly. Minutes later they stood in his room, his empty room, as it turned out, puzzling.

*If he's summoned you, then where is he?* Jaddo asked.

*I don't know,* Brivari admitted. *He's never had cause to summon me before, but that is the designated signal......*

*I'm going to check upstairs.*

*Be careful,* Brivari warned. *Nicholas has probably wired the infrared into the lights.*

Circling the room, Brivari noted several worrisome things. The entire apartment had an unkempt appearance, very unusual for Atherton. A dark coat and a pair of boots were missing from the closet. The pile of dishes in the sink suggested he'd eaten but been too busy to clean up afterwards like he usually did. And the grate, he added silently, kneeling before the open vent, it's covering propped against the wall. So Atherton had been listening again. Had he heard something else? Then why wasn't he here? But why would he have signaled and then left? There was no note, no indication of a message.

Jaddo reappeared. *There is no one upstairs,* he reported. *Only the landlady is present.*

*Any indication of where they went?* Brivari asked.

Jaddo shook his head. *None.*

Brivari glanced around the room, growing more worried by the minute. Anything that could have caused both Nicholas and Atherton to vanish at the same time could not be good news.

*What happened, James?* he murmured. *Where are you?*




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




Fitting, Courtney thought when her father pulled up beside a dilapidated structure outside of town, its bulk a silhouette against the night sky. Nicholas would of course skulk out here in the shadows, away from prying eyes or ears. So even the faint hope of arousing the suspicion of humans was now lost, as was the hope of any help from her father, who had been completely silent on the drive here. He looked at her now, his expression a mixture of concern, stubbornness, and.....pity? No. That would be too much to expect.

"Talk to me," Michael commanded.

"About?" Courtney said tonelessly.

"You didn't say a word on the way here."

"Neither did you."

"Courtney, tell me you're not going to do or say anything to draw attention to us just for the sake of a programmed creature."

"I'm not going to do or say anything to draw attention to us," Courtney answered. "And he's not 'programmed' or a 'creature'. He's a person, every bit as much as you and me."

Her father sighed the heavy sigh of the wearily resigned. "I should have anticipated this."

"Anticipated what?" Courtney demanded. "That I'd learn we were wrong? That I'd adopt an opinion that differed from yours? That I'd discover something you didn't want discovered?"

"That you'd buy into the illusion," Michael corrected. "That you'd spend so much time with that illusion that the illusion would become reality. It's happened before, you know."

"What's happened before?"

Her father was quiet for a moment. "Very few spend any real amount of time with Covari, but those who do invariably wind up believing the lie, the very lie they helped create. It was said that Riall himself regarded Brivari as more of a confidante than a Warder, especially toward the end of his life."

"And Zan's father was no fool," Courtney noted. "Neither am I."

"Of course you're not. But you are young and impressionable, a perfect target. Eliciting sympathy from their creators is one of the ways Covari have survived as long as they have."

"Like children do with their parents," Courtney said. "And subjects with their monarch. And captives with their captors. Does that mean all those children and subjects and captives aren't real people? Doesn't the ability to seek out sympathy, to know what that means and actively pursue it, make the pursuer 'real' by definition?"

"I'm not here to debate philosophy with you," Michael said. "I was merely pointing out that many have fallen for the illusion, and I was concerned you would do just that."

"And what does that tell you, Papa?" Courtney asked softly. "If so many have 'fallen for it', have you not considered that they might be onto something? Are they buying into an illusion, or are they discovering that the so-called illusion isn't an illusion after all?"

Her father shook his head. "At this point, it doesn't matter," he said sadly. "This is my fault for leaving you here when I knew this could happen.....and now this will be all the harder for you." He paused. "I'm sorry."

So am I, Courtney thought as she climbed out of the car. Had this happened back when she'd first met Malik, she wouldn't have blinked had he been captured, nor objected to anything done to him, nor flinched from participating except perhaps on the grounds that doing so was generally distasteful. Back then she'd considered him to be pretending, pretending magnificently, perhaps, but pretending all the same. What had changed? I changed, she thought. What she knew of Malik's years here simply didn't fit the usual definition of a Covari merely going through the motions. Was it possible to pretend for so long that the pretending became real to the pretender? And if so, what made it real? Sheer longevity? One's own beliefs? The perceptions of others? All of the above?

She hadn't come up with an answer by the time they arrived at the building, or at least not one that would have stopped her shivering or stilled her pounding heart. The interior was well lit and packed, every operative in Roswell ringing a cell constructed of shimmering forcefields in the center of the structure. And in the center of that, huddled on the floor in a fetal position, lay Malik, eyelids fluttering, moving slightly. The curse of those who would use Covari was that, even if one managed to capture them, getting useful information out of them was exceptionally difficult. Leave them conscious, and they'd kill you or escape; sedate them enough so they were safe to approach and you rendered them essentially useless. Unless you were Nicholas, of course, willing to rape a mind of whatever he could get his hands on. Such behavior was illegal on Antar, even with Covari, but no one would stop him here.

"Michael! Courtney!" Nicholas said, stepping out from the small crowd nearest the cell. "Welcome! And congratulations on a job well done."

The assembled operatives broke into applause as the members of Nicholas' senior circle offered congratulations to his third. Her father would enjoy quite a boost from this, as would she, if she were of a mind to enjoy it. Courtney's eyes swept the crowd, saw Robert and Angela clapping vigorously, Nathaniel and other members of the resistance clapping gravely, Paul and Allen clapping reluctantly, no doubt peeved at being deprived of the glory of Malik's capture. It was surreal to be lauded for something that sickened her, and it took a warning glance from her father to put a smile on her face and make her nod graciously. Thank goodness she hadn't had anything to eat recently, or she might have lost it right then and there.

"I've called you all here to witness this because this was a group effort," Nicholas continued, speaking to the crowd at large. "It was our combined efforts that netted us a Warder, so it's only fair that everyone gets to witness the results."

Wild applause greeted this completely insincere statement. Since when did Nicholas care about "fairness"? He just wants an audience, Courtney thought sourly, not to mention that watching him torture someone, anyone, would prove a deterrent to his own forces. This was Rome all over again, with a Christian thrown to a lion and a cheering crowd. So much for Argilians being the superior species.

"And this is the place of honor," Nicholas was saying, gesturing expansively to a set of controls off to one side. "Come have a seat, sweetheart."

More applause. Courtney allowed herself a moment's relief that she wasn't expected to actually go into the cell. Well, of course not; Paul and Allen had been horrified that she'd actually touched Malik, and no one would expect her to get close to a Covari. She took a seat on the proffered stool as a medical technician slid up beside her, present, no doubt, so that no one made the mistake of killing their captive prematurely. "Your job," he told her, "is to charge the sixth side of the cube. At this point, only the four walls and ceiling are powered. Charging the floor will deliver a shock to the Covari."

"Won't that also deliver a shock to Nicholas?" Courtney asked hopefully.

"Er.....no. He'll be safely on an insulated base which will block the charge, but still get him close enough to touch it. Try it," the tech suggested, indicating the switch. "Let's make sure it works."

It was only then that Courtney realized a hush had fallen over the crowd. Nicholas stood outside the forcefield, gazing hungrily at his prey while the crowd leaned forward eagerly, every bit as hungry as he was. They had all endured so much to get here, and every bit of that pent-up frustration and anger was now directed at their captive. They wanted revenge, and they wanted it now.

"Go ahead," the tech urged. "Give it a go."

Courtney glanced at her father, who nodded. Her hand gripped the switch so tightly, her fingers turned white.

The effect was immediate....and heartbreaking. The floor of the cell flared to life, sending Malik into a violent convulsion. His whole body thrashed and.....moved, shifted, blurred around the edges, melting slightly, then reforming. Horrified, she switched it off, the thunderous applause of the crowd jarring in her ears. Even the medical staff was clapping as though she'd done something miraculous.

"What just happened?" she demanded.

"That's what they do when they're in pain," the tech explained calmly. "They change their shape in a bid to escape whatever's hurting them. Of course this one can't do that because it's not fully conscious, but it instinctively tries anyway."

"Let's get this show on the road!" Nicholas called enthusiastically. "Lower the forcefield."

The shimmering cell disappeared. Nicholas stepped onto a low platform which was placed right next to Malik. Placing one hand on Malik's head, he closed his eyes for a few seconds; Malik twitched slightly, but nothing like he had before. "Nope," Nicholas said, shaking his head. "Nothing much. Give it a jolt, Courtney."

"Explain to me what this does again?" Courtney asked the technician, desperately stalling for time, even a little bit of time.

"It's a balancing act," the technician answered. "We can't have it too conscious or it could attack us or escape, and but render it unconscious enough to be safe, and its thought processes become dulled enough to compromise Nicholas' ability to get anything out of it. Pain jolts the mind much the same way it jolts the body, giving Nicholas something to grab on to. Or so we hope. It's the best we can do under the circumstances. These creatures are extraordinarily tough to work with, no doubt about that," he added regretfully as though he were referring to a balky machine.

"What's the hold up?" Nicholas called peevishly. "I'm ready!"

"Sorry, sir," the tech said hastily. "I was just explaining to Miss Harris how this process works."

"The only part of the 'process' she needs to know about is the part where she flips the switch," Nicholas retorted.

The tech nodded, stepping back and gesturing toward the switch in question. Nicholas waited impatiently on his platform which unfortunately shielded him from the effects of the aforementioned switch. Courtney fastened her eyes on Malik. She would be a witness to this, would suffer along with him as the only person here who knew what he truly was. It was the least she could do.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as her hand went to the switch. "I'm so sorry."




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




"Charming," Dee muttered.

"You were expecting the Ritz?" Anthony asked.

Stepping carefully, they approached the barn in front of which Courtney's father had parked, now little more than a looming shape in the darkness. They'd parked their own car a ways away, pulling far enough off the road that no one would see it and covering the remaining distance on foot.

"Just like old times," Anthony remarked. "We haven't skulked in a while, you and I."

"And it's Halloween," Dee said. "Again. What is it about aliens and Halloween?"

"I think they're overdoing the 'tricks' part this year," Anthony said as they passed Michael's empty car. "How long do you think they've been inside?"

"Couldn't be more than few minutes," Dee answered.

The dull roar of applause erupted inside the building. Dee's stomach clutched as she registered the tone; that was the kind of noise you heard from a crowd that wanted blood. "Charming," she muttered again. "And they call us the primitive ones."

"Over here," Anthony called softly.

They were along the side now, where Anthony had found a door which he opened a crack. She was about to chastise him for being so reckless when another roar erupted from inside, louder this time as it filtered through the opening. She needn't have worried; no one would have heard a thing over that din. "Stay down," Anthony advised, dropping to his knees. "If anyone looks over here, they're likely to look at eye level."

Dee joined him on the ground, agreeing with his logic but wondering if they'd be able to see anything from down here. At first all she saw was a shifting forest of legs; everyone was standing in what looked like a wide circle. But they were only one layer deep, which made it possible to peer between the legs and see what they were looking at—a cube of shimmering light, in the center of which lay a lump that wasn't moving.

"Is that him?" she whispered.

"Looks like," Anthony replied.

"What is that thing they've got him in?"

"My guess? A jail cell. Looks like it's mostly made of energy, so it would be nicely portable. I didn't say I liked it," Anthony added when she shot him a withering look. "Just commenting on the practicality."

"Fine time to be interested in practicality," Dee said crossly. "How in the world are we going to get him out of that?"

"If it's made of energy, that energy must have a source," Anthony reasoned. "Take out the source, and you take out the cell."

"Then that's for later," Dee said. "We can't do it with all these people around. I can't see anything that looks like a 'source', but we'll be able to see better after everyone leaves."

"What about Malik?" Anthony asked. "Can you talk to him?"

Dee closed her eyes. *Malik? It's Dee. Can you hear me?*

She waited, reaching out with her mind for the slightest telepathic twitch; there was something there, something very faint. She called again, louder this time, although "louder" wasn't precisely the right word; telepathic speech didn't deal in sound. This time she got an answer, whisper quiet....damn, but she just couldn't ditch those sound metaphors....but there nonetheless.

"He's alive," she reported, "but..."

"But what?" Anthony asked.

But not alone. Dee stiffened as she felt something else in their telepathic connection, muscling in, taking control....or trying to. Images flashed by, blurry, random images which were hard to identify. He can pull memories right out of your mind, Courtney had said. This must be what was happening: Nicholas was probing Malik's memories, looking for something he could use. Oh, no you don't, buster, Dee thought grimly, pushing back against the intrusion. Malik was too weak to offer much in the way of resistance, but she suffered from no such handicap. She imagined a wall in front of the memories and was overjoyed when the intruder tried unsuccessfully to get past the barrier several times before withdrawing.

"Dee, what's happening?" Anthony's voice asked anxiously. "You're just sitting there with your eyes closed. Talk to me."

"He was in his head," Dee said, opening her eyes, a bit disoriented to find herself outside in the cool darkness. "Nicholas, I mean. Mr. Harris said Nicholas could pull memories out of people's minds, and that's what I saw—Malik's memories. They were all mixed up and blurry, and I didn't recognize a lot of them, but that's what they must have been."

"So....Nicholas was digging while you were trying to talk to Malik, and you got dragged along for the ride?"

"More than that. I stopped him."

" 'Stopped him'?" Anthony echoed. "Stopped him how?"

"I...I'm not sure," Dee admitted. "I was trying to talk to Malik, and then I felt....something else there, someone else. And I saw Malik's memories going past like pictures in a photo album, and then I just....stopped him. I blocked him."

"I didn't know you could do that," Anthony said uncertainly.

"Neither did I. But this means we have a weapon," Dee continued with satisfaction. "Malik is only half conscious and can't put up much of a fight, but I'm a different story."

"Are you sure that's wise? You said yourself you've never done this before."

"But I just did, and it worked! We can't get him out of there right away, but I can throw a roadblock in Nicholas' path."

"But what if Nicholas finds you in there?" Anthony said worriedly. "Maybe he can do to you whatever he's trying to do to Malik. Maybe—"

"And maybe he can't," Dee interrupted. "Look, the last time I was around when an alien was captive, it was Valeris, and he wound up dead. I was eight years-old, and there was nothing I could do about it but run back to my father. I can do something about this, Anthony. I can fight him. Let me fight him. Pull me out if it goes bad, but I can't just sit here and do nothing when I know there's something I can do."

Anthony was quiet for a moment. "All right," he said finally. "But at the first sign of trouble, I'm taking you out of here."

"Fair enough," Dee agreed, diving right back into Malik's mind. He was still largely out of it, still largely unaware of what was happening, and maybe that was a blessing. She said comforting things, tried to think comforting thoughts as she waited eagerly for the next round. She'd enjoyed shoving Nicholas out of there, and she was, perhaps selfishly, enjoying the thought of shoving him out of there again.

A moment later, she wasn't. Something mentally slammed into her with the force of a moving vehicle, making her gasp for air as pain exploded through her body. It continued for several agonizing seconds before it stopped abruptly, followed by another intrusion, one she was powerless to fend off. A dizzying series of images swam through her mind at high speed, much sharper this time....trees, sunsets, desert vistas, a table full of appliances, various scenes from town including Parker's and Sheriff Valenti.....and herself, smiling, with Philip in his stroller gazing up at....

"Dee! Wake up! Are you all right?"

The images faded. Dee opened her eyes to find herself crouched on her knees, palms flat on the ground, panting heavily as Anthony rubbed her back. "I.....don't know," she said breathlessly. "What happened?"

"You just keeled over," Anthony answered. "Like you were in pain, or something."

"I was," she whispered. "Or he was. What did they do to him?"

Anthony hesitated. "I only saw a little before I had to take care of you, but it looked like they were giving him some sort of electric shock. The ground underneath him lit up, and he started jerking around....and so did you."

"I felt it," Dee nodded, privately noting that she was still feeling it as she pushed herself into a sitting position against the wall of the barn. "It hurt like hell. And it worked."

"What does that mean?"

"I couldn't push him away this time," Dee said angrily. "They're doing this to lower Malik's resistance, that and because it seems to make the memories come faster. And Anthony....I was in those memories. Me and Philip."

"What about Courtney or her father?"

"I didn't see them, but if that's what he can do, it's only a matter of time." She glanced back at the opening. "Let me try again. I need to see what that weasel is seeing."

"No way!" Anthony objected. "You can't keep going through that. Besides, you said you weren't able to fend him off, so what's the point?"

A buzzing noise drew them both back to the door. Dee's stomach clutched when she saw Malik twitching, blurring around the edges, trying to change his shape as Nicholas hovered beside him, safe on some sort of platform, waiting. When the buzzing stopped, Nicholas reached out, put a hand on Malik's head....

.....and Dee dove back into Malik's mind. He was slightly more awake now, as though the pain was waking him up. But the electric charge or whatever they were using had been turned off, and she was unaffected this time. She threw up a mental wall in front of Malik's jumbled thoughts, catching fleeting glimpses of them even as she shut Nicholas out. When he finally let go, Dee opened her eyes to find Anthony watching her anxiously.

"That's it!" she said triumphantly. "If I connect with him while the power's off, it doesn't hurt me, and I can still block almost everything."

"It's not worth the risk," Anthony said firmly. "Malik can't hurt the king, and Mr. Harris didn't seem to think he could expose the resistance either."

"I'm not so sure about that," Dee said worriedly. "I mean, it wasn't at all clear who I was or what I meant to Malik, but suppose someone kept showing up over and over again, whether that was me, or Courtney, or Mr. Harris? Wouldn't that be of interest to Nicholas? If I do this right, he'll never know."

"And if you do it wrong?" Anthony demanded. "You didn't have the pleasure of watching yourself collapse, Dee!"

"If I time it right, that won't happen," she insisted. "Nicholas puts his hand on Malik's head; he must have to touch him, and he won't touch him while the power's on. As soon as I see that hand move, I'll go in. I have to," she continued when Anthony began to protest again. "I remember what happened to Daddy when Jaddo used a telepathic connection to tell him he'd hidden the hybrids in a culvert in the creek. You watched us drive away that night, remember? And afterwards Daddy had all these things in his head, some of which he never made much sense of. But some of them led to Charles Dupree and what happened to him, and that's why Mama got mad at Brivari. Nicholas may only be able to pull images from people's minds, but he's no fool. Daddy pieced it together; do you really think Nicholas can't do the same?"

Anthony hesitated, clearly torn. More buzzing came from inside, and Dee looked imploringly at her husband. "Please let me try," she begged. "I need you here in case anything goes wrong, but I have to try. I'm his only chance."




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




With a grunt of impatience, Nicholas let go of his captive's head. Damn. This wasn't working the way he'd intended, the way it was supposed to. "Again!" he barked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Nearly half of his troops were here watching; it wouldn't do to let them think their leader was failing. And what the hell was taking so long? He would have sworn Courtney was falling asleep at the switch, taking longer and longer to activate the field when he called for it...

The field activated. Nicholas allowed himself the exquisite pleasure of watching his enemy writhe in pain for a few seconds before positioning one hand over its head. As soon as the power was off, his hand clamped down, and the work began....and the same thing happened, the same thing which had happened virtually every time he'd tried this: Pain produced a gratifying rush of memories for only the first two or three seconds, and then the stream was narrowed as though it had hit a roadblock, letting only a trickle through. And that trickle was largely useless junk, mostly images of human domestic bliss that were hard to reconcile with the notion of a Warder. He had no idea how because it was only half conscious, but this thing was resisting him, blocking its thoughts, pushing him away with a determination that showed no sign of flagging. That shouldn't be happening; sedation should slow everything about it, its resistance level, its reflexes, its.....

"Again!" Nicholas ordered, something suddenly occurring to him. He waited what seemed like forever for the blast of energy, probed memories only until the bottleneck occurred, then removed his hand. "Again!" he called. "Again! Again!"

It's working, Nicholas thought triumphantly. The rapid fire attacks were harder for it to handle than the slower, more methodical approach he'd been using. He tried over and over, the bottleneck appearing a bit later each time, until finally, one pertinent bit of information snuck through.

Shit.....

Dismayed, Nicholas pulled his hand away. "Stop!" he ordered. "Let me out of here."

One wall of the cell evaporated. Nicholas rose to his feet and had to pause as the world seemed to sway in front of him. Rapid fire attacks had lowered the Covari's defenses, but they had also taken their toll on him. He was weakening, tiring, and that must not happen, not in front of an audience, not ever. When it felt safe to move, he strode out of the cell and motioned impatiently to his second and third. "You, too," he barked at the lead doctor. "With me."

The four of them huddled off to the side while the assemblage waited. "This isn't working right," Nicholas fumed to the doctor. "It's fighting me a lot more than it should be able to. Why?"

"I.....I have no idea," the flustered doctor answered.

"Perhaps you're asking the wrong questions," Michael suggested. "All Covari are genetically incapable of harming the king in any way, even obliquely, so it would be unable to divulge his whereabouts—"

"I know that!" Nicholas interrupted in exasperation. "Don't you think I know that? This is more than that; all I'm getting is useless trivia. How is it doing that?"

"I don't know," the doctor objected. "Maybe it has something to do with the Warders' enhanced abilities—"

"It's not a Warder."

Silence. Three pairs of eyes blinked at him. "It isn't?" the doctor ventured.

"No. That's the only bit of helpful information I've managed to wrench out of it. This isn't Brivari or Jaddo, it's one of the rogue Covari who were our allies before they betrayed me."

"Which one?" Michael asked.

"I don't know," Nicholas said impatiently. "I wasn't even able to find that out. How in the hell is that thing blocking me?"

"As I said, I don't know," the doctor answered. "We could try to revive it more—"

"And get me killed?" Nicholas snapped. "No, thank you! If that's what it can do sedated, what the hell do you think it will do if it's more awake?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what else we can do," the doctor protested. "If...."

Behind them, the cell flared, buzzed.....then vanished, disappearing into oblivion with a loud snap. Everyone instinctively backed away, retreating from the now unencumbered Covari on the floor.

"What happened?" Nicholas bellowed furiously. "Who let that thing loose?"




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



I'll post Chapter 82 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

I have a feeling that in the next couple of chapters we are going to have way more heartbreak, and that Brivari and Jaddo will be finished for good!

Let's just say that Brivari and Jaddo disagree mightily on two issues (they disagree all the time, but these are whoppers), one in this book and one in the next, which will seriously impair the prospects of any functional working relationship between them.

Made my day. "The family that skulks together ... "

I imagine skulking together requires staying together just because of the nature of skulking.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO


October 31, 1959, 10 p.m.

Outskirts of Roswell




"Took you long enough," Nicholas said irritably as the operatives assigned to repair the malfunctioning forcefield approached him. "Is it fixed? And find out who set it up in the first place. I want a word with them."

The operatives exchanged frantic glances until one of them stepped forward, apparently the spokesperson for the group. "It didn't malfunction, sir. It appears to have been.....sabotaged."

" 'Sabotaged'?" Greer echoed sharply. "How?"

"The power cell is missing," the operative explained. "We searched the entire area outside, and didn't find it. No sign of other Covari either."

Standing to one side, Michael watched sympathetically as the operative, having delivered her unwelcome message, stepped back into the perceived safety of the group as Nicholas' eyes narrowed. Behind the them milled the rest of the troops, tensely awaiting an update while Courtney remained at her console, obviously relieved to have been relieved of its use, at least for the short term. My poor daughter, he thought sadly. She had been utterly unprepared for this; a more seasoned operative would not have fallen for the fallacy the Warders' human allies had foisted on her. She had learned a lesson tonight, a good lesson if a hard one. War always made one grow up fast.

"Well?" Nicholas demanded. "What are you waiting for? Get another power cell!"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, sir," Greer answered. "Given human means of transport, it will take some time for a new cell to arrive from Copper Summit."

"Do you mean to tell me you don't have a spare?"

"Not one large enough," Greer replied. "A forcefield of this magnitude draws a huge amount of power. And then there's the question of whether this is the wisest use of the few cells we have left. Most of our spares were on the ship."

Which is now gone, Michael thought with satisfaction as Nicholas' face clouded. Things weren't going well for Khivar's second what with the loss of the ship, the unexpected resistance of his captive, and now their apparent discovery by the Warders, who had understandably declined to risk themselves rescuing a lesser Covari and settled for destroying its jail cell in the hopes that it might affect its own escape. Which it very well might. Michael had no idea how Malik was able to fight back in the state it was in, but he was impressed nonetheless.

"Of course it's a 'wise use'!" Nicholas snapped. "This is our very first captive, and even if it's not a Warder, it's still a Covari. That should count for something. Have the spare cells sent up here."

"And in the meantime?" the doctor ventured. "That still leaves several hours before it can again be safely contained."

"Yes, it does," Nicholas agreed, "and we're going to put that time to good use. I told you to bring them with you. You did, didn't you?"

The doctor blanched. "Yes, but....that's experimental! We've only ever used them in the lab—"

"And they proved extremely promising," Nicholas said. "We know they work because they worked on the Warders' brains; that's how the humans were able to develop something to block them."

"But those were Covari," the doctor objected. "That doesn't mean our physiology would be compatible with—"

"Then we should find out," Nicholas declared.

"But sir, we have no idea what effect that will have on you!" the doctor exclaimed.

"If I may....what exactly are we talking about?" Greer asked.

"Do you really expect me to hang around here for hours while that thing rests up and recovers?" Nicholas exclaimed, ignoring him. "No! We have to hit it now, and hit it hard, and since what I was doing before wasn't working, we need to try something else. Get it ready."

"Get what ready?" Greer demanded.

"Human neurotransmitters," the doctor sighed, "chemicals recovered from our test subjects that make the human brain function correctly. Humans innately possess the ability to utilize telepathic speech and possibly much more than that, but it remains undeveloped in their species. We've been investigating the possibility of using those neurotransmitters to give our own people abilities similar to those of the Warders—"

"Yes, yes, you can teach school later," Nicholas said impatiently. "I need them now."

"What exactly would these 'neurotransmitters' do?" Michael asked warily.

"Well....theoretically—and it is just theoretical," the doctor added with a pointed look at Nicholas—"they would enhance Nicholas' own telepathic abilities by—"

"They would let me find more than just a filmstrip of cookies and cats and cantaloupe for breakfast," Nicholas broke in. "I might be able to look for specific memories and see them in much more detail."

"Theoretically," the doctor cautioned. "I must warn you, sir, that having the ability and knowing how to use it are two different things. Even if they work the way you want them to, it will take you some time before you become adept—"

"I'm a quick study," Nicholas announced. "Let's go."

"Sir, this is extremely risky," Michael said quickly as Greer nodded in agreement. "Not only is there danger to yourself if anything should go awry, but using these substances will likely take practice, as the doctor said. Which means you could fail in front of your troops, something I'm certain you don't wish to do."

"I'm already failing in front of my troops, Michael!" Nicholas exclaimed. "The only useful bit of information I've managed to get is that I didn't capture who I think I captured, who they think I captured! And to top it off, it looks like we've been sabotaged? I need this turned around, and fast!"

"Lie," Greer said promptly. "Say you're withdrawing to consider the wealth of information you've obtained, and you'll interrogate the subject further in the future. Then do it privately, when the risk of failure is not so devastating."

For a brief moment, it appeared Nicholas would follow this advice...but it was only a brief moment. "No," Nicholas said, shaking his head firmly. "The missing power cell means we have a Warder hovering around here, and that requires a response, both to the Warder and to them," he added, nodding toward the anxious operatives still waiting for information. "Get your potion ready. The show must go on."

The doctor made a strangled sound of disbelief as Nicholas' abrupt departure made it clear the conversation was over. "Talk to me," Greer commanded just as soon as his superior was out of earshot. "What effect will this have on him exactly? Is it dangerous?"

"Oh, it's most certainly dangerous," the doctor said bluntly. "Any untried cross-species transfer would be. And the exact effect? That depends. I'll have to guess on the dosage. If it's too low, nothing will happen. If it's on target, Nicholas will find himself with some kind of enhanced telepathic powers that he may or may not be able to use, at least not right away."

"And if it's too high?" Michael prompted.

The doctor hesitated. "If it's too high, it could overwhelm his brain and kill him."

"Jesus," Greer muttered, upset enough to invoke a human deity.

"Even success will likely come with a price," the doctor continued. "Telepathic abilities usually develop slowly over a period of time. Introducing them quickly could produce physical symptoms ranging from simple headaches to a complete mental breakdown. I want it on record that I felt this was a very bad idea."

"Noted," Greer said. "And agreed, for what it's worth."

"What are we going to do?" Michael asked after the doctor had left. "We can't let him do this!"

"We also can't stop him," Greer said, "at least not unless it reaches a point where we can intervene without it costing our heads. We just lost our ship; we can't afford to lose our leader. Let's just hope he doesn't go and get himself killed."

Speak for yourself, Michael thought, glancing at his daughter. He'd assured her that the resistance was safe from Nicholas' mind probes; if these "neurotransmitters" worked, that might not be the case. There were several resistance operatives here tonight, most of whom Malik did not know....but no matter. He knew the leader of the resistance, and that one piece of information could be enough to bring it down.




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



"He's conferring with Courtney's father and a few other people," Anthony reported, peeking through the slightly open door. "He's nowhere near Malik, so I think you can take a breather."

Thank God, Dee thought gratefully as she leaned against the side of the barn. Unfortunately the reason Nicholas was "conferring" was because he'd probably learned something. She'd been utterly unprepared for that series of rapid-fire attacks and consequently less effective than she had been. She knew some things had slipped through, and she could only hope it wasn't something important.

"Are you okay?"

Anthony was looking at her with concern. "Yeah, I'm just....he just caught me off guard. The rat," she added darkly. "I'd like to pound him into the ground like a tent peg."

"I wouldn't expect the leader of an enemy alien army to be a sweetheart," Anthony said dryly. "But that's not what I mean. You look a lot worse than just 'caught off guard'."

"I'm okay," Dee assured him. "Go back to watching. We don't want to miss anything." And I need to recover, she added silently, closing her eyes just as soon as Anthony wasn't looking. She felt out of breath, like she'd been sprinting, and had the beginnings of one mammoth headache. Frankly she wasn't certain how much longer she could do this, although she would never have admitted that out loud. She hated to lose, had ever since childhood, and the thought of losing to that little twerp was unbearable. She'd keep going until she dropped or Anthony threw her over his shoulder and carried her away.

"Whoa!" Anthony exclaimed softly.

Dee's eyes flew open as a wave of raised voices floated out of the barn. "What? What happened?"

"Malik's cell just.....disappeared."

" 'Disappeared'? What does that mean?"

"It....turned off," Anthony replied. "Like someone shut it off. There's nothing holding him now."

Doesn't matter, Dee thought. Malik was still largely out of it, which had been a blessing to her way of thinking, except that he was now unable to take advantage of a way to escape.

"Everyone's taking out their generators," Anthony reported. "They must be looking for Warders." A faint pink glow escaped from the door for nearly a minute, and Anthony pulled back until it passed. "I can't see Courtney," he went on, back at the door, "but.....oh, shit. They're coming out here. Inside," he ordered, opening the door further and pushing her toward it.

"Inside?" Dee echoed in disbelief. "Are you crazy? If they find us—"

"At the moment they're more likely to find us out here," Anthony argued. "It's safer in there. Trust me."

He was right. They slipped through just in time to see a group of operatives leaving through another door and clambered into a dark corner without a soul noticing, so intent was everyone on the still form lying on the floor several feet away. He's so close, Dee thought sadly. So close, yet she couldn't have reached him in this crowd without divine intervention....or royal intervention. Had the Warders found them? Had Mr. Anderson delivered her message? Is that why the cell had fizzled out? She sent out a tentative telepathic call, but got no answer.

"There's Nicholas," Anthony whispered. "He looks mighty pissed."

"Good," Dee said flatly. "He can't be pissed enough to suit me."

"Mr. Harris is on the right," Anthony went on, pointing, "and....." He leaned far left, hesitating. "There's Courtney."

Dee followed his gaze. Courtney was seated at some sort of control panel, and even from this distance, she looked utterly miserable. As they watched, people who looked like technicians or repairmen tinkered with whatever controls she was sitting in front of, looking over at Malik and frowning.

"Are those the controls for the cell?" Dee whispered. "Maybe Courtney did do it."

"I doubt it," Anthony answered. "She's not technically inclined, and there are too many people around. More likely Nicholas gave her the 'honor' of administering the shocks."

Bastard, Dee thought furiously. She was feeling stronger now, and her headache had dulled, leaving her irrationally eager to do battle again. Maybe she and Anthony should stay in here when the "fun" began again. Maybe being in closer proximity would make things easier. Maybe.....

The door through which the search team had left opened again; they were back, and they did not look happy. Just as the last of the group entered, Dee saw a dark figure flit by the partially open doorway.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"What was what?"

"Someone's out there. I just saw them run by the door."

"Probably more of the search team."

"Nope. Ten went out, ten came back. It's someone else."

"Like who? What could....Dee? Dee, where are you going?"

But she was already moving, taking advantage of having everyone's attention focused on the returning search team to creep back to the door through which she and Anthony had entered and slip out. Whoever she'd seen had been running in this direction, and it wasn't a Warder; they wouldn't have been seen at all. The dark outside was momentarily intense as her pupils adjusted; she heard them before she saw them, off to the left, and she took off after them at a run.

"Dee!" Anthony called behind her in a frantic whisper. "Wait! Where are you going?"

She ignored him, intent on catching whoever else was skulking around here. That whoever wasn't moving terribly fast and didn't hear her coming until it was too late; she tackled them, crashing to the ground just as Anthony scrambled up behind her and pulled out his flashlight, training the beam on a completely unexpected face.

"Mr. Anderson?" Dee exclaimed as he blinked in the light. "What in blazes are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are," Mr. Anderson answered, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Do you mind......?"

Anthony switched off the beam. "I thought I told you to wait at your apartment!" Dee said angrily as Anderson pushed himself to a sitting position. "I was very clear!"

"Are you ever anything but?" Anderson asked with that maddening chuckle of his that seemed completely out of place at the moment. "I did wait, my dear; I waited all day and into the evening, and when Langley did not appear, I followed you here. There was no way I was going to let you come out here alone, although I didn't realize you'd have a bodyguard."

"Husband," Dee corrected irritably. "Anthony is my husband. And what if Langley came back while you were gone? Did you leave him a message or any way to find us?"

"Of course not," Anderson said calmly. "Couldn't leave something like that lying around. I waited as long as I could, and then it was time to act. I trust you're pleased with the action I chose. They are now unable to torture your friend."

It took Dee a moment to work out what he was getting at. "You broke the cell?" she demanded.

"How?" Anthony added.

Anderson reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew something. Crouching down, Anthony cautiously switched on the flashlight again to reveal a tubular shaped silver object that vaguely resembled a tall thermos bottle. "What is it?" he asked.

"The battery, if you will, for your friend's cell," Anderson said cheerfully. "The power generator, or whatever they call it, was very near the wall, so I was able to sneak in and remove it. And as I heard one of them say they don't have a spare, I have effectively shut down their little operation for the time being."

"How were you able to take that and get out of the barn without being caught?" Anthony asked skeptically.

"Because I, young man, am good!" Anderson announced proudly. "I've been telling Langley for ages that I'm capable of much more than he has me doing, and this should prove it to him."

"Is that what this is about?" Dee exclaimed. "Your reputation? Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"Of course I do," Anderson replied. "I have removed the enemy's ability to torture their captive, at least for the short term. I should think that would make you happy."

"You've also put them on high alert," Anthony said as Dee made a strangled sound, too angry to respond. "They think Langley did it."

"So what?" Anderson asked. "If they think he's near, perhaps they'll re-evaluate their strategy."

"That's just it!" Dee ground out. "They might do something desperate in anticipation of a possible rescue, like kill Malik rather than allow him to be rescued! And this was all so unnecessary because Anthony and I already thought of destroying the power source for the cell, but we were waiting until everyone was gone and we might actually be able to get him out of there."

"You know perfectly well your friend may not have survived that long," Anderson answered. "It's a calculated risk either way. I simply chose a different way."

"By what right?" Dee demanded. "What right do you have to decide what happens here?"

Anderson pushed himself to his feet. "My dear," he said in a voice which had lost its customary cheerfulness, "my colleagues and I have been looking for aliens since long before the crash, since before you were born, even. I have every right."

"And I've spent more than half my life actually helping aliens," Dee retorted. "But who's counting?"

"Then we are, at the very least, equal, and unable to command the other," Anderson said calmly. "Now, I'd really love to chat longer, but I have work to do. Waiting around and doing nothing just isn't my style, especially while someone's being tortured. Best of luck freeing your friend. It should be easier now, thanks to me."

He walked away, and Dee started after him until Anthony pulled her back. "Let him go," he said quietly. "There's no getting through to him, and what's done is done. We need to get back to Malik. Whatever Mr. Anderson thinks, you and I both know Nicholas isn't going to let a missing battery stop him."




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




"Are you ready, sir?" the doctor asked.

"Of course I'm ready," Nicholas declared. "I've been ready ever since we learned about this. Do it."

The doctor hovered uncertainly while Greer and Michael looked distinctly unhappy. Behind them the restless operatives waited, having been told that their senior officers were conferring on the problem and nothing else. It wouldn't do to announce they were trying something new only to have that something fail.

"I have a sedative here," the doctor continued. "If necessary—"

"You won't use it," Nicholas interrupted sharply. "Under no circumstances will you interfere unless I order you to do so. Is that clear?"

"But, sir....you may not be in any shape to protest," the doctor pointed out. "And if you're incapacitated, decisions of that nature fall to your second."

Nicholas' jaw tightened as his gaze swept the three faces in front of him. "Then I should make myself clear to all three of you," he said tersely. "Under no circumstances are any of you to interfere unless there is no other option. I want everything I can get out of this thing before we kill it, which we'll have to now that Warders are lurking. One less Covari is still good news."

"Why haven't they attacked?" Greer muttered, glancing around uneasily.

"Perhaps there are just too many of us," Michael suggested.

"Whatever it is, I'm not waiting around to find out," Nicholas said. "Do it. Now."

The doctor hesitated for only a moment before administering the injection. "You won't feel anything right away," he cautioned. "The neurotransmitters will need to travel through the husk first before they reach your brain, and then there will be an acclimation period while your brain decides what to do with them. Which hopefully won't be anything dire."

Nicholas pushed them away impatiently and retreated to a corner, pacing back and forth, waiting. Ever since they'd learned what the Antarians had been up to, enhancing their race with human abilities even humans didn't know they possessed let alone know how to use, he'd been green with jealousy. This would be the first attempt to enhance an Argilian in a similar fashion, and it must not fail. With Khivar only steps from the throne, this was their chance to turn the tables, to take Zan's and Riall's pet project and use it against them. If they could pull that off.....

His vision abruptly dimmed. Staggering, Nicholas made it to a wall, leaned against it. An odd buzzing noise sounded in his ears, and he slowly slid to the ground, nearly blind and deaf to all but the buzzing. Hands grabbed him, and when they did, visions flashed through his mind. He saw the doctor receiving the communication to come to Roswell, Greer giving orders to those setting up the holding cell, Michael knocking on Courtney's door....and it was all so clear. No soundless snatches of events this time; it was like he was actually there, hearing Michael's fist knocking on the door, smelling the rank odor which had greeted the first of his troops who arrived at the barn, hearing the click of the doctor's case as he packed what he needed to contain a captive.....

With a roar of triumph, Nicholas shook off the hands which held him and stumbled forward. Some of his sight had returned, so he was able to navigate toward the body on the floor, sinking to his knees beside it and placing his hand eagerly on its head. Anyone else would have needed time to figure out how to use this newfound treasure, but he was partly telepathic; he already knew what to do. Yes! he thought eagerly as images swam through his mind almost too fast to process with nothing blocking him this time. He pushed harder, probing for what he wanted, trying to sift through the torrent for specific information. It wasn't easy because it was all coming so fast; he could extract it, all right, but controlling the flow was proving challenging. Tell me what I want to know! he screamed silently, impatient for victory; not caring what the consequences were for achieving it.....

What?

Startled by what he'd just seen, Nicholas let his concentration slip for just a moment. And in that moment, something threw up a roadblock that remained firmly in place when he began anew only seconds later, keeping him from confirming what he'd learned or discovering anything more. "Damn it!" he bellowed, scratching and clawing at the wall which blocked him, slamming a telepathic shoulder against it again and again and again........




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



"Something's happening," Anthony reported. "Nicholas looks sick....he's got his eyes closed....they're all around him....."

I'd wish for him to die, but I'm not that lucky, Dee thought darkly from their post beside the barn door which they'd resumed after Anderson's departure. Nicholas had been huddled with his advisors when they'd returned, locked in some sort of argument with them, and they had waited tensely for the verdict, neither having confidence in Anderson's assertion that Malik was safe for the moment. "He looks bad," Anthony went on. "They're picking him up, carrying him away....."

Excellent, Dee thought. She had no idea what would have put Nicholas in such a state, and she really didn't care. If he was out of the picture, maybe Malik really would survive until they could get him out of there, especially with no cell to contend with.....

"Wait....he's up!" Anthony said. "He's going for Malik....he's going to try again, Dee! He looks crazy, almost like he's not all there...."

But Dee didn't hear the rest; she reached out with her mind, searching for Malik, found that faint response she'd gotten before, and then.....and then something as large as a telepathic freight train slammed into her, flinging her aside like a pebble on the track as it thundered past. And to her horror, in its wake came a flood of memories, the very memories she'd worked so hard to dampen. She tried like mad to stop them, pushed so hard she thought her head would burst from the effort, but there was no stopping Nicholas this time. Something had changed, something massive, and she was now no match for him. Which meant he'd find out everything, about the resistance, about her and her family, about....

The flood of memories stopped abruptly; a wall had appeared out of nowhere, cutting them off, and Nicholas' howl of protest was music to her ears. *Brivari?* she called excitedly. *Jaddo? Is that you?* There was a moment's hesitation before an answer came.

*It's me.*

Dee's breath caught in her throat. *Malik? You're awake?*

*I have been for awhile now.*

His "voice" was strained, as though he were mentally panting under the weight of some great effort. He's doing it, Dee realized. Malik was holding Nicholas back, and he wouldn't be able to do it for long. *What's happening?* she asked urgently. *He's different now. I blocked him before, but—*

*I know,* Malik answered. *And I let you. You were magnificent, Dee. Thank you.*

*But what's different now?* she persisted. *Why is he so strong?*

*I don't have time to explain,* Malik replied. *But you won't be able to stop him now, and neither will I. He'll rifle through every memory I have if he gets the chance.....and I need to make certain he doesn't.*

There was something about the finality in his tone that frightened her. *What does that mean?* she demanded. *What are you going to do?*

*I don't have a lot of time, so please.....just listen,* Malik said, sounding weaker with each passing sentence. *Tell the Warders not to give up. Tell Michael I did it for him, for the resistance. And tell Courtney I don't blame her. None of this is her fault.*

*Tell her yourself,* Dee said as a wave of panic washed over her. The last time someone had sent a message through her, it had been Valeris, and that hadn't turned out well. *Look, you just need to hang on a little longer—*

*I can't,* Malik answered, sounding alarmingly weak now. *And I can't let him have what he wants. I always knew it might come to this. We all did.*

*Wait!* Dee cried. *Don't do anything stupid! The Warders could be back any time now—*

*They're....with the ship,* Malik said, his "voice" quavering a little, as though speaking to her was costing him dearly. *...important..... military target.....much more important....than me.*

The wall was crumbling. Little by little bits of it fell away, and wherever that happened, Nicholas pounded away at the other side. *Malik, listen to me,* Dee said desperately. *I'll help. Maybe you or I can't do it alone, but we're not alone—we have each other. If we both push back, if we both—*

*Give my....love to....everyone,* Malik said, his voice very faint now. *You all meant so much to me......so much......*

Suddenly the wall fell, and Nicholas came crashing through.




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




No one noticed as Courtney slid out of her seat and worked her way through the crowd toward her father, so fixated were they on the drama on the floor in front of them. Her father was standing in the front row with Greer, both of whom looked very concerned, and she came up behind him, careful to position herself so she didn't have to see what commanded everyone else's attention. She'd died a little every single time Nicholas had ordered her to throw that hated switch, and it was no better watching it even when she wasn't actively involved.

"Papa, what's going on?" she whispered. "What were you all arguing about? Why is Nicholas all weird? What's he doing?"

Her father pulled her aside, his face a mask of worry. "He's using human neurotransmitters—brain chemicals—to increase his telepathic abilities."

Courtney blinked. "Increase? You mean.....do you mean....."

"Yes," Michael said gravely.

"But....does that work?" she asked desperately. "Can he actually do that?"

"We're not sure. We'll know in a few minutes."

Oh, no, Courtney thought wildly. No wonder Nicholas looked so strange—he'd gone and shot himself up with the equivalent of an illicit drug. Fear for Nicholas was no doubt driving Greer's look of concern, but for her father, it was another matter entirely. So much for only being able to gather stray images. If Nicholas was stronger telepathically, the entire resistance could go up in flames in a matter of seconds.

But it was Nicholas, not the resistance, which went up in a flames, with a roar of anger which commanded the attention of virtually everyone in the room. And everyone in the room recoiled in horror as the Covari at his feet suddenly melted, collapsing into a puddle that spread across the dirt floor with sickening speed.

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


I'll post Chapter 83 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Sigh* I'm with you.

BTW, I got your e-mail, and I'm speechless. You're actually willing to come back here? Even with basements and airbeds and beeping power failures? Yes, yes, YES!

Please tell me that Nicholas's roar was a roar of PAIN!!

Unfortunately it was mainly the pain of frustration. But I just couldn't let him off easy. Read on.

Atherton is cute as a button, and also so obnoxious, I want to kill him myself.

You and me both. So earnest, so sincere, so enthusiastic, so proud of himself, and so wrong. Why, if there were dangerous aliens running around, I might be concerned he'd get himself killed.

I'd better shut up now because the urge to divulge spoilers is almost overpowering!







CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE


October 31, 1959, 11 p.m.

Outskirts of Roswell




"What happened?" Nicholas shouted, staggering back from the spreading puddle at his feet. "Where'd it go? Get it back!"

For a moment, no one moved. Everyone was transfixed, blinking at the spot where their captive had once been, looking left and right as though expecting to find him somewhere else. Then......

"Find it!" Greer roared, apparently assuming it was some kind of trick. There must have been general agreement with that assessment because general bedlam ensued; trithium generators popped on, bathing the barn in a pinkish glow as every operative scrambled over, around, and into each other for the honor of bringing the Covari to heel. Every operative but Courtney, that is, who remained frozen beside her father, a horrible suspicion dawning. She'd seen Malik change his shape, but this was different. Not to mention that the only thing sporting an infrared signature was the puddle on the floor.

"Daughter," Michael whispered, pulling her away from the fray, "do you know what's happening? Have you seen this before?"

Courtney shook her head. "No. But I think....."

"You think what?"

"I think he's.....dead."

"Dead?" her father repeated. "Did Nicholas kill it?"

"Either that, or Malik killed himself."

"It couldn't have," Michael protested. "Covari aren't programmed for suicide."

The ruckus continued as everyone tried to locate their supposedly missing captive. The doctor hovered over what was left of Malik, his expression making it clear that he was rapidly arriving at the same conclusion as Courtney, even as he tried to follow his master's shouted orders to "bring it back". That master still hadn't quite reacquired his balance, and as he staggered around, he stumbled into Courtney, grabbing her by one shoulder.

The effect was immediate. Horrified, she watched the events of the past hour march by in seconds, watched herself reluctantly take a seat at the console, flip the switch for the first time, saw Malik's body convulse, relived her disgust at what was happening, wondered if Dee was nearby.....

No! In a panic, Courtney wrenched her arm out of Nicholas' grasp; he looked at her in surprise, whether because she'd withdrawn or because of what he'd seen, she couldn't tell. It worked, she thought frantically. Whatever Nicholas had done to himself had worked; he'd pulled those memories from her mind without even trying, and he mustn't be allowed to see more, whether from her or any other resistance operative he may chance to grab onto. Like her father, who reached out to catch Nicholas as he stumbled again....

"Don't touch him!" Courtney shouted, pushing her father out of the way. "He's dangerous!"

Voices died down; heads turned her way. Her father gaped at her; Greer, who had caught Nicholas before he hit the floor, scowled. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Courtney swallowed hard as everyone stared at her. "He....he just touched me, and it felt like my heart was going to stop," she lied.

"Nothing happened to me when I touched him," Greer noted.

"Then maybe....maybe that means he can't control it," Courtney argued. "What if he's the reason that thing is dead?"

"Bullshit," Nicholas protested, his speech a bit slurred. "I'd enjoy killing it, so I'd remember if I'd done that."

Greer looked at the doctor, who wore an expression of alarm. "Let's not overreact," he cautioned. "I'm not familiar with Covari physiology, so I think it would be premature to call it 'dead'. It might merely be in a liquid state."

"But you don't know," Courtney persisted. "What if it was an accident? What if he can't help himself? He could kill one of us if we're not careful."

Courtney held her ground as both Greer and her father watched her suspiciously. It was no small matter to call out one's commander in public, and she had no way to prove her assertions. The doctor had a vested interest in not appearing responsible for the death of their captive, so she was unlikely to find help there, and there was no way to warn her father of what could happen if he let Nicholas touch him. Malik may be dead, but the entire resistance could be only seconds away from discovery.....

.....until the puddle of goo that had once been Malik abruptly collapsed into a pile of dust.

"My God," the doctor whispered in the shocked silence that followed. "It is dead."

"Well, don't look at me!" Nicholas exclaimed as everyone did just that. "I didn't kill it! Why would I kill it? I was trying to interrogate it! You can't interrogate a corpse. Or a pile of dust."

"But she has a point, sir," the doctor said reluctantly. "We didn't know what effect this would have—"

"I'm telling you, I didn't kill it!" Nicholas said angrily.

"And I'm telling you I felt like I was dying when you just touched me!" Courtney retorted. "Is there a way to counteract this, to turn it off? Just to be on the safe side?"

"Yes," the doctor said reluctantly.

"No!" Nicholas exclaimed.

"Then you should use it," Courtney persisted. "Use it now, before something else goes wrong."

"No way!" Nicholas exclaimed.

"Courtney!" her father admonished.

"But what if he kills again? It's for his own good!" Courtney persisted, addressing Greer directly because, as Nicholas' second, it would ultimately be his decision. "He already lost the prisoner. Do you really think he's going to look better if he takes out some of his operatives too? Is that a risk you want to take?"

"No one touches me!" Nicholas shouted. "Now get that thing back so I can finish what I started!"

As he spoke, Nicholas started forward, weaving slightly like a human who'd had too much to drink, and Courtney noted that a few nearby operatives backed up. Good. She'd managed to sow the seeds of doubt. Whether or not they'd grow fast enough to do any good was another matter; the resistance could still be just a stray thought away from oblivion. "Don't let him touch you!" she called, the panic in her voice real even if few understood its true source. "Stay out of his way! If he touches you, there's no telling what'll happen!"

That did it. The crowd tipped over the edge, and the room erupted. Everyone scrambled backwards, and there was a great deal of shouting; Michael shouting at her, the doctor shouting that he couldn't be blamed for this, Nicholas shouting at anyone and everyone. Only Greer was quiet, his gaze straying from Courtney to the pile of dust on the floor to the operatives who shied away when Nicholas veered toward them. She watched him nod to the terrified doctor, whose hand shook as he produced a syringe, the sight of which sent Nicholas into a rage.

"No!" he screamed, trying to escape Greer's grip. "I forbid it! Stop! I order you to stop!"

But Nicholas' tiny husk was no match for Greer's, and a moment later, Khivar's second lay unconscious on the floor alongside the dust of his Covari prisoner.




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




Proctor residence




Anthony pulled the car into the driveway and turned off the engine, sitting quietly in the darkness for a moment, gazing out the window at nothing in particular.

"You can't blame yourself," he said gently. "You did everything you could, even things you didn't know you could do."

"And it wasn't enough," Dee whispered. "Just like last time."

"You were just a kid last time—"

"Exactly," Dee said fiercely. "I was just a kid then, but now I'm not. Fat lot of good that did me. Fat lot of good that did Malik."

"I refuse to believe that it did him no good to have you there at the end. No matter how it turned out, he was better off with you there."

" 'Turned out'?" Dee echoed. "He's dead, Anthony! Dead! That's how it 'turned out'!"

"I know what 'dead' means, Dee," Anthony said levelly. "And I still maintain it was better for him to die with you than without you. No matter how hard it was for you."

Too hard, Dee thought, squeezing her eyes closed to keep the tears from spilling. Her father had whisked her away all those years ago before Valeris had been gunned down, and Urza had simply faded in a dream, but there had been no such buffer this time. Malik had simply.....stopped. One minute she'd been talking to him, connected to him, and the next, he wasn't there. She'd realized what he'd done even before the puddle he'd collapsed into crumbled into dust, but she'd stayed until it had, refusing to leave until she was absolutely certain there was no hope. Anthony had pulled her away then, and she had followed numbly, not even caring that Courtney might be in trouble judging by the uproar in the barn, leaving his dust behind....

"We have to go back," she said suddenly.

"What? Now?"

"We left him there!" Dee exclaimed in anguish. "We couldn't save him, and then we just left him there!"

"We'll go back tomorrow," Anthony said soothingly.

"He'll be gone tomorrow!"

"Not necessarily. With the way they feel about Covari, they may just leave him there."

"We have to go back now," Dee argued. "I couldn't save him, but I can give him a proper funeral if I have his dust."

"Not if you're dead," Anthony said. "It's too dangerous to go back now."

"Anthony, I need to do this," Dee insisted. "It may be the only good thing I can pull out of this mess!"

"I understand that, but it's much too risky," Anthony argued. "It's just dust, Dee; Malik wouldn't expect you to risk your life over his remains."

"There shouldn't be any remains!" Dee exclaimed. "We were right there! We should have been able to do something!"

"We did do something," Anthony countered. "We did everything we could—"

"And it wasn't enough!" Dee shouted, pounding a hand on the dashboard. "It wasn't enough!"

Anthony wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug. "No, it wasn't," he whispered. "And I'm sorry about that. You have no idea how sorry I am. But that still doesn't make it your fault. This is a war, and people die in wars. Ask your Dad."

I don't have to, she thought, burying her face in Anthony's shoulder and letting the hated tears come at last in great, wracking sobs that would have shaken the car had he not been holding her so tightly. She remembered the nightmares her father had after coming home from the war, remembered how her Uncle James had survived only to take his own life when his demons followed him home. She'd watched Valeris kill the first soldiers who'd attacked him, hunters invade their house, Amar take a bullet meant for Malik. She'd seen the effects of war, both human and alien, but she'd only been a child; now she was an adult, and she felt personally responsible for what had happened tonight. Is this what her father felt like? How did he live with it?

"Now I know what Captain Spade meant," she whispered into Anthony's shoulder.

"How so?"

"The night we rescued the pods from the Army. Spade was there. He told me what happened to Valeris, how he tried to stop the soldier who fired.....and I asked him what went wrong, what I'd done wrong. I'd told Valeris what to do, how to hold his hands up and say, 'I surrender', and when it didn't work, I thought I'd told him wrong."

"What did he say?"

"He said that I'd told him just right, and Valeris had done everything just right. But that even when we do everything right....it can still come out wrong."

"Yup," Anthony murmured. "And that stinks, but there you have it."

Dee was quiet for a moment before abruptly pulling away. "But it wasn't just us," she said, her voice hardening. "Mr. Anderson was there too. None of this would have happened if he hadn't tinkered with that power supply."

"Maybe," Anthony allowed. "Or maybe Nicholas would have gone ahead with whatever it was he did. He was clearly getting frustrated even before Anderson intervened because you were blocking him."

"So you're saying this is my fault?" Dee demanded.

"No!" Anthony protested. "No, of course not. Anderson was a fool to blunder in like that, but I'm not convinced he can be held responsible for Malik's death. And it's worth noting that he had the same idea we had, just different timing."

Dee stared at him a moment before dropping her eyes. "Maybe. I'm just.....upset." She paused. "We should go in."

Anthony looked relieved as he climbed out....and she had slid over into the driver's seat, closed the door, and locked it before he realized what she was up to.

"Where are you going?" Anthony called in alarm, tugging on the door as she started the car. "Dee! What are you doing?"

Looking for someone to blame, she admitted silently as she backed the car out of the driveway and took off even as Anthony continued shouting at her. Malik may very well have died anyway, but there was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Anderson's shenanigans had hastened his death. Whatever Nicholas had done, he would not have done it so quickly, or may not have done it at all had Anderson not bumbled in there with his drivel about "helping" when all he'd really been after was self-aggrandizement. Just thinking about it made her furious, and anger was old, familiar territory. She'd worked up a good head of steam by the time she reached Roswell and Anderson's rooming house, charging up the front steps and through the front door.

No one was there. The upstairs was silent, Mr. Anderson's room empty. She stood in the center of it, letting the rage, wash over her, furious that he wasn't here to yell at, to blame, to be the focal point for her helplessness and guilt. "Damn it!" she exclaimed, sweeping the contents of a table onto the floor, books landing with a thunk, papers flying everywhere. "Where the hell are you?"

Something moved behind her, and Dee whirled around.

"What has happened?" Brivari asked.





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



November 1, 1959, 5:30 a.m.

Alice Wentworth's rooming house




"He's coming around," the doctor said, the relief in his voice almost palpable.

"Finally," Greer murmured.

Shit, Courtney thought silently as Nicholas' eyelids fluttered. She'd been hoping against hope that he'd never recover, that those human neurotransmitters had fried his brain or damaged him in some dramatic and oh-so-satisfying way. And while she'd been hoping, the others had been fearing just exactly that, hovering anxiously for the past several hours, waiting for some sign that their commander lived. The doctor especially was on pins and needles, having administered the neurotransmitters himself; the fact that he'd done so over his own objections and only when ordered to would mean nothing if Nicholas was injured or did not survive. While his master slept off the effects of the sedative, he had satisfied his need to do something by conducting exhaustive tests on herself and Greer, the only two people to have touched Nicholas while he was "under the influence". She had successfully shut Nicholas down by convincing everyone that he might be dangerous, but the price for that had been being trapped in this room, unable to tell her father what had really happened or contact Dee to see if she knew anything. Not that it matters, she thought bitterly. Whether Dee had followed her or not, whether Nicholas recovered or not, whether her father believed her or not, Malik was dead, and would be no less dead when all was sorted.

"Who......" Nicholas whispered.

"He spoke!" the doctor exclaimed joyfully. "I told you he'd be all right!"

"We still don't know what happened to her," Greer said with a suspicious glance at Courtney.

"Perhaps we'll find out," the doctor said, gently shaking his commander. "Sir? Sir, wake up!"

Courtney felt her father's eyes on her and deliberately avoided his gaze. Like the doctor and Greer, he wasn't certain what to make of her assertion that Nicholas had been a danger to them, and as she hadn't had so much as a moment alone with him since it happened, she'd been unable to tell him how very close they'd come to being compromised. Until she was able to explain, she'd just have to put up with his doubtful looks.

Nicholas said something else that was unintelligible and tried to sit up, with "tried" being the operative word; he was flat on his back seconds later, moaning, both hands to his head. "The headache will be quite severe," the doctor said apologetically. "I'm afraid that can't be helped. That's why I have the room darkened. It would be best if you lie as still as possible."

As if on cue, Nicholas began thrashing, with Greer, Michael, and the doctor struggling to keep him still. Typical, Courtney thought darkly. The quickest way to get Nicholas to do anything was to tell him not to. The thrashing was accompanied by various utterances which did not seem to make sense to anyone at first. But then all three froze briefly before turning toward.....her.

"What?" she asked warily.

"He's asking for you," Greer announced. "Come here."

Courtney's heart began pounding so hard she would have sworn it was audible as she rose from her seat in the corner of the room and walked slowly toward Nicholas. His eyes were open now, and he was staring at her avidly, almost hungrily, one hand outstretched to touch her. NO! she thought frantically, slowing further, bracing herself to fend off the flow of memories even though she had no idea how to do that. Finally Greer grew impatient and hauled her the rest of the way, Nicholas' clammy hand clamped on her own, and......

.....nothing. Surprise washed over Nicholas' features, followed by disappointment; he tightened his grip as though willing what had happened before to happen again. Courtney kept her face carefully blank, all hopes that Nicholas had been too out of it to realize what had happened evaporating. He knows, she thought with a rising tide of panic. He remembered what he'd done, remembered enough to ask for her with his waking breath. Why? What had he seen when her mind had spilled open to him? What had he learned from Malik?

"Well?" the doctor asked anxiously. "Are you feeling ill again?"

"N-no," Courtney stammered. "Are those neuro-whatevers still working?"

"They shouldn't be," the doctor answered. "They were only temporary, thank goodness. We'll need to do a great deal more research before attempting to use them again."

Thank goodness, Courtney echoed as Nicholas gave up and released her. If nothing else had come of this, at least her fellow operatives would have a reprieve before their commander raped their minds on a regular basis.

"You should rest, sir," the doctor said firmly as Nicholas tried to reach for Courtney again. "And the rest of you should leave. He'll recover faster in a dark, quiet place, and we seem to be agitating him."

The feeling is mutual, Courtney thought, backing quickly away, catching Greer's raised eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that," she said defensively. "The last time he touched me, it felt like my heart was stopping. Do you think I'm eager to have that happen again?"

"I'm just curious as to why it didn't happen to me," Greer said.

"It could be that Miss Harris is more susceptible to telepathic intervention," the doctor suggested. "That would explain your differing experiences. Now, out," he added authoritatively, his confidence returning now that it was clear he hadn't killed his commander. "He needs rest."

Greer left reluctantly, followed by Michael, followed by Courtney doing her level best not to run out of the stifling apartment. After a brief conversation with her father, Greer remained behind in the rooming house's living room, leaving her alone with her father for the first time since last night. It was early morning outside, and Roswell had not yet begun to stir.

"Tell me," Michael said tersely, "that you had a reason for publicly humiliating our commander other than the simple fact that the opportunity presented itself."

Courtney blinked. "Is that what you think?"

"What else should I think? You certainly harbor no small amount of hatred toward him."

"Neither do you," Courtney retorted. "And toward me as well if you think I'm capable of compromising all of us out of sheer spite."

"What, then?" Michael demanded. "What could possibly have induced you to do something like that? I know you were angry at having to participate in the interrogation—"

"When Nicholas touched me, he pulled memories of last night out of my head without even breaking a sweat," Courtney interrupted. "And not just images, Papa. What I'd done, what I'd thought, what I'd felt....all of it. He touched me, and it just came pouring out. I couldn't stop it. It would have gone right on pouring if I hadn't pushed him away, and God only knows what he would have discovered if I hadn't convinced everyone he was dangerous."

"But....that can't be," Michael protested. "The doctor said Nicholas wouldn't be able to control it, that—"

"I don't care what he said," Courtney broke in. "I only know what happened. And for what it's worth, Nicholas couldn't control it. He didn't induce it, it just happened. Would that have been a comfort to you when he uncovered the resistance? Because he would have if I hadn't stopped him."

"That's impossible!" her father insisted.

"Then why did he ask for me the moment he woke up? You saw him! He asked for me, reached for me, because he remembered. He knew what had happened even if he didn't have control of it, and he wanted more."

"Then why didn't it happen to Greer?" Michael asked.

"I don't know," Courtney said impatiently. "Does it matter? What matters is that we were very nearly exposed! You almost caught him when he stumbled last night. What if the same thing had happened to you? I couldn't let that happen, no matter what the cost. He can't use those transmitters again, Papa. It's way too dangerous for us. And he's going to want to, so we're going to have to find a way to stop him."

Michael turned away, his face in turmoil. "This can't be," he said finally. "Those neurotransmitters were taken from human children, not adults. They couldn't have been that potent, couldn't have caused—"

"Dee is capable of telepathic speech."

Her father stopped. "She's.....what?"

"Capable of telepathic speech," Courtney repeated. "Has been since she first met the Warders. If she could do that as a child, then whatever Nicholas used could have had the same effect."

"My goodness," Michael said irritably. "You're just full of fantastic claims today, aren't you?"

"Because Dee can do that, she and Anthony followed us last night so she could try to talk to Malik," Courtney continued, ignoring him. "I have no idea if they managed to get through to him before he died, but I'll leave you to all your protests while I go over to her parents' house to find out. "

"You're not going anywhere," Michael announced flatly. "I still find this story about Nicholas hard to believe, and pulling humans into this—again—was downright reckless. Once again you're jumping to conclusions, lashing out without thinking and risking all our lives in the process!"

A cold anger stirred in Courtney's stomach as she walked up to her father, looking him directly in the eye. "Do you know what I find hard to believe? I find it hard to believe that you think me so shallow and self-centered that I would endanger the entire resistance just for a few cheap thrills. I find it hard to believe that you won't even consider your own daughter's testimony just because it doesn't square with previous information which was sketchy in the first place. I find it hard to believe that you haven't shown the slightest bit of interest in the fact that one of our staunchest allies is dead and another is far more advanced than we thought, more advanced than we are. Who's reckless now, Papa? Who's jumping to conclusions? Me.....or you?"

She waited a moment while he stared at her in stunned silence before turning on her heel. "I'm going to Dee's," she announced. "Are you coming?"




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




Proctor residence




"And then he just.....disappeared," Dee said. "Vanished. One minute he was there in my mind, and the next.....he wasn't. We waited until he turned to dust just to be sure, but I already knew he was dead." She paused, staring into her empty coffee cup. "I tried to stop him. I told him we could fight Nicholas together, that maybe both of us could do what one of us couldn't, but....."

"But he realized it wouldn't work," Courtney finished sadly. "Judging from what happened when Nicholas inadvertently touched me, I can only imagine what would have happened if he'd been actively going after me. Do you think he got anything out of him?"

Dee hesitated. "Possibly," she allowed, "but it couldn't be much. It was only seconds before Malik blocked him. And it's a good thing he did because I wasn't having any luck at that point."

"It's amazing you had any luck at all," Courtney said. "I had no idea either of you were capable of that."

"Neither did I," Dee sighed. "For all the good it did us."

"Right," Courtney murmured.

"More coffee?" David suggested.

Heads nodded. David collected cups and rose from his chair, grateful for the chance to turn his back. What a long, strange night this had been, beginning with Anthony's awful news and fear for Dee, who had disappeared with the car, followed by her reappearance amid anger and guilt, and topped off by the arrival of Courtney and her father, the latter sitting silently off to one side, listening but not saying a word as the two young women recounted their stories to each other. And what stories they were, dredging up demons David hadn't faced in years, memories of failed missions and lost men, of letters written to grieving parents and footlockers shipped home with the possessions of the deceased. This was another war, another battle, and another soldier had been lost, but there was no one to write this time, nothing to pack. Just that awful, all-too-familiar emptiness when suddenly confronted with a hole in one's world, a blank space where someone should have been.

"He gave me messages for everyone," Dee said behind him.

David set the coffee pot down abruptly lest he drop it. He'd delivered deathbed messages. It was always jarring to hear someone after they weren't around to speak for themselves, and a few times the messages were such that he'd decided against delivering them at all.

"He said," Dee continued, "to give his love to everyone. And to tell the Warders not to give up. And to tell you, Courtney, that he didn't blame you, that none of this was your fault. And to tell your father that he did it for the resistance."

A chair scraped. David turned around just as Michael walked out of the room, leaving his stunned daughter at the kitchen table with a hand to her mouth and tears streaming down her face. "He meant it," Dee said gently, reaching across the table to rub Courtney's arm. "He didn't blame you, and he shouldn't have. You didn't do this. It just happened."

"That's not the way you feel about yourself," Courtney said in a brittle voice. "You blame yourself. I know you do."

"And neither of you should," David interjected.

Two pairs of startled eyes turned toward him as though they'd forgotten he was there. "Look, I oversaw a lot of missions during the war," David said. "Sometimes they were successful, sometimes they weren't. Sometimes we knew why they'd failed, sometimes we didn't. Sometimes someone had messed up, and sometimes no one had." He hesitated, trying to decide the best way to frame this. "A crisis like this is like a wave; you ride it as best you can. Both of you did everything you could, fought to the very end....and that's all you could do. And sometimes all we can do just isn't enough."

"So what do you do?" Courtney whispered. "How do you forgive yourself?"

"Sometimes you don't," David admitted. "You learn to live with it because you have to. Because there's still work to be done, and you don't want that person's sacrifice to have been in vain." He paused, glancing at the door through which Michael had just left. "Have you talked to your father about what happened?"

Courtney shook her head. "Not unless you call having another fight 'talking'. Believe me, I'm the last person he wants to talk to."

Dee shot David a hopeful look.

"I'll have a go at it," David said.

He found Michael on the back porch, hands clasped in front of himself, staring into space. He looked disturbed, a marked departure from his earlier demeanor which had more closely resembled at least annoyance if not outright anger. David took a seat in a nearby chair and waited.

"You have a talented daughter, Mr. Proctor," Michael said at length.

"So do you."

Michael gave a soft snort, but did not elaborate. "How long has she been capable of telepathic speech?"

"Since the crash," David answered, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Ironically it first happened when Malik and Amar were here in disguise, looking for the Warders. They were enemies then."

"In service to Khivar," Michael nodded. He was quiet for a moment. "What she did was nothing short of remarkable. Holding Nicholas at bay like that.....no wonder he was so frustrated."

"She had one hell of a headache last night," David said. "It's better now, but aspirin didn't touch it."

"She is in much better shape than Nicholas," Michael said dryly, "even though she reached as far as he did." He shook his head. "A human capable of telepathic speech. I never would have believed it."

"She wasn't the only one. The nurse from the base who took care of Jaddo when he was captive could also use it."

"Indeed?" Michael murmured. "Is there some significance, do you think, to the fact that both are females?"

"I don't know. My wife never picked it up."

"Where is your wife, Mr. Proctor?"

"Asleep," David answered, "along with Dee's husband and son. And I'm not in any hurry to wake them."

"No, of course not," Michael agreed. "Let them enjoy their oblivion while they can."

David gave him a level stare. "So tell me.....what's eating you? By all measures, you dodged a number of bullets last night and suffered virtually no losses. You should be dancing a jig."

"So many metaphors," Michael sighed. "I gather you feel I should be grateful we were not discovered, and I am. We came much closer than I realized."

"But?" David prompted.

"But," Michael said slowly, "if your daughter is to be believed......it sacrificed itself for us."

"Is there some reason you wouldn't believe her?" David asked.

"Please understand, I mean no disrespect to your daughter," Michael said. "She is interpreting what happened in light of the little she knows about Covari. But I happen to know that Covari are not capable of such a conscious act. Perhaps it had something to do with their genetic encoding to protect the king."

"If he had been protecting the Warders, I might agree," David allowed, "but how is protecting the resistance protecting the king? You haven't been entrusted with anything. The resistance could go under without affecting the king....but apparently Malik felt otherwise and consciously chose to protect you."

Michael shook his head. "They are simply not programmed for either self determination or self destruction."

David smiled faintly. "I just can't figure out how an advanced society like yours could create an entirely new species, yet understand them so poorly and cling to those misunderstandings so stubbornly even when evidence to the contrary is staring you in the face. Doesn't sound very advanced. Sounds positively.....primitive."

"I don't expect you to understand, Mr. Proctor—"

"Then allow me to disappoint you because I do understand," David broke in. "I've seen hunters, so I've seen 'programmed'. I don't dispute that it's possible to make them that way. It's just that none of the rest of them are like that. You could argue that the Warders are different, but Malik, Marana, Orlon, Amar....they weren't Warders, and they were no less self aware. Malik switched sides, for heaven's sake. How much more self aware can you get?"

"Of course it switched sides," Michael said calmly. "Its side lost, so it took up with the winning side."

"A very self aware move to make," David noted. "And what about before that? Malik tread a very fine line for years, warning the Warders of what was coming without actually supporting them. Amar took a bullet meant for Malik even though he disagreed with Malik's leanings. You're suggesting they're only capable of binary, this-or-that actions, but their behavior proves otherwise. How do you explain that?"

Michael frowned. "I can't. I confess it is a puzzle. I simply haven't reached the same conclusion you have."

"And the same conclusion your daughter has," David added.

"However the Covari died, it is dead," Michael announced, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "The exact mechanism may be of interest, but is ultimately irrelevant. Of far more relevance is the whereabouts of the Warders. Since your daughter made them aware of what happened, I would have thought they would have at least attempted to contact us."

"Believe it or not," David said slowly, "Brivari was of the opinion that someone other than Nicholas posed the larger threat."




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation




River Dog shambled from the bedroom, uncertain as to what had awakened him at this early hour....but only until he reached the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, gaping.

"Did I wake you?" Mr. Anderson asked, only slightly quieter than he usually was.

"Keep your voice down," River Dog whispered firmly. "My wife and children are still asleep. What are you doing here? Has something happened to Nasedo?"

"Something has happened, but not to Nasedo," Mr. Anderson said cryptically. "I need your help."

River Dog's eyes narrowed. "What kind of help?"



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


I'll post Chapter 84 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR


November 1, 1959, 6:30 a.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




"I merely need a venue," Anderson explained, "neutral territory for a gathering, and I can think of no better place than this. We both know Nasedo, we both know his secret, we both want to protect him. It can't be done in Roswell, and for reasons too complicated to explain, it can't be done at my house either. This is far enough way from either to avoid attention from unwanted parties. What do you say?"

To what? River Dog wondered in bewilderment, not having the faintest idea what Anderson was talking about. The excitable man Nasedo had saved from pursuers months ago had been talking—fast—for the past five minutes, but was making no more sense now than when he'd started.

"Slow down," River Dog ordered. "What kind of gathering? And what do you mean by 'unwanted parties'?"

"Those chasing Nasedo, of course," Anderson replied. "Naturally we don't want to attract their attention."

"Nasedo is pursued?" River Dog asked sharply. "By whom?"

"I'm afraid our Nasedo will always be pursued," Anderson said gravely. "And the list of who's doing the pursuing is too long to recount. If—"

"But are they flesh?" River Dog asked intently, taking Anderson by the arm. "Or are they spirit? Do they change their form, or are they trapped in one form like any other mortal?"

Anderson blinked twice. "I.....they're.....'flesh'. And they certainly don't 'change their form'. They're rather stuck in one form, as I understand it."

"You're certain?" River Dog pressed.

"Absolutely. I've spent a great deal of time with them, undercover, of course, and I can assure you they're flesh, not spirit. If I may ask.....what happened in the past that would make you ask such a question?"

River Dog released his arm, the awful specter of skinwalkers fading away. "If they are flesh, it does not matter. Why does this concern you? Nasedo is more than capable of eluding flesh and blood."

"That's where you're wrong," Anderson said stoutly.

"Is he ill?" River Dog asked, that being the only time in memory where Nasedo had genuinely needed assistance.

"Not at all," Anderson answered. "I merely wish to make a pre-emptive strike." He moved in closer. "I, my friend, am a serious alienologist," he confided in low tones, "and I'm not the only one; there are others, many others, who have lived for the chance to meet and assist a visitor from another planet. There is an extensive network of support available, and after watching what happened recently in Nasedo's absence, it's clear to me that the time has come to render assistance. He can't be everywhere at once. He needs help, and I intend to provide that help."

"How?" River dog asked warily.

"By contacting my colleagues," Anderson answered, "and gathering them together to brainstorm ideas."

"Does Nasedo know you intend to do this?"

"Well....no," Anderson allowed. "Although God knows I've offered. Dozens of times."

River Dog stared at him a moment, unblinking. "Do you mean," he said slowly, "that you intend to tell others about Nasedo against his wishes?"

"Not just any others," Anderson objected. "These are serious scholars of extra-terrestrial life, just like myself. Men who understand and wish to help. Men of the utmost character and discretion."

"How is it 'discretion' to give away Nasedo's secret?" River Dog asked.

Anderson's mouth opened and closed. "Well....I'm not giving anything away, not really. These people already know extra-terrestrial life exists. I'm merely securing their assistance, assistance Nasedo badly needs—"

"You should not do this."

Anderson's eyebrows rose at this bald statement. "Since you don't know all the details of what's happened, I hardly think you're in any position to pass judgment. If you were to—"

"I am in the perfect position to pass judgment," River Dog interrupted. "I have known Nasedo since boyhood, yet I am the only one who knows he comes from the stars. Even my wife does not know. Even my father did not know."

"You mean Quanah didn't know?" Anderson asked incredulously.

River Dog shook his head. "I never told him. I never told anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because Nasedo's survival required my silence."

"But your father wouldn't have—"

"Would not have cared what he was," River Dog agreed. "But for every man like my father, there would have been two or three others who felt differently. You say I do not know all the details of recent events, yet you do not know the details of past events. I saw how my people reacted, even people whose support I expected. You claim these 'scholars' will be discreet, but you can't know that. No man can say for sure how another will react."

"Are you suggesting my colleagues will turn him in?" Anderson demanded. "That's ridiculous!"

"I'm saying you should not do this," River Dog said. "Speak to Nasedo first if you feel this is wise, but if he does not agree, step aside."

"He won't agree," Anderson said, "which is why I'll have to do it for him. His fear of being exposed is costing him, and it needn't; none of my number would ever reveal him."

"It is not your secret to tell," River Dog insisted.

"But I'm not 'telling secrets'!" Anderson said in exasperation. "I have no intention of telling my colleagues everything, only the minimum they need to know to be of service. And of service they shall be, and gladly, despite your worries to the contrary. These are men of learning, not simple peasants. No offense," he added hastily.

River Dog walked closer. "Listen to me," he said firmly. "I know what it is to be alien. To be outcast. To be looked upon with suspicion wherever I go. And if that is how it is for me, an alien on my own world, in my own land, how much worse would it be for Nasedo? His best defense is his anonymity. Take that way, and you have done him great harm. I have kept his secret these many years because I know what would happen if I did not. He trusts you, Anderson. Do not betray that trust, or I fear you will regret it."

"Regret it how?"

"I saw many things when I was young," River Dog answered. "Things my father did not see. Nasedo has only been a friend to us, but he is also a powerful creature you do not wish to anger."

Anderson's eyes widened. "You think he would harm me? Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "First you insinuate my colleagues will blow him in after spending a lifetime searching for someone like him, and now you think he'd hurt me? My friend, I'm afraid you suffer from an over-active imagination! I've done nothing but help Nasedo, and that's all I'm trying to do now! Even if he disagrees with my course of action, surely he'll see that."

"I can be sure of no such thing," River Dog said. "And neither can you."

"Well.....I am," Anderson said after a moment's hesitation. "He saved my life! He wouldn't harm me. And why should he? I've hidden him, spied for him, aided him in every way I could....."

River Dog's patience grew thin as Anderson droned on with a list of self-bestowed invaluable attributes. As he spoke, he shifted slightly, and the collar of his shirt opened to reveal a pendant around his neck which bore a familiar swirling symbol, a sign which had burned in the sky over the place where the skinwalkers fell. Death, River Dog remembered. That symbol heralded death. It must also herald something else, it being unlikely that the sign of death would be fashioned into jewelry and given to a friend. Whatever its meaning, seeing it around Anderson's neck was not encouraging; while it was clear that Anderson was aware of Nasedo's uniqueness, it was also clear that he had either missed or chosen to ignore the power that was an important part of that uniqueness. Power demanded respect and restraint, the latter of which did not appear to be high on the list of Anderson's desirable qualities. Still, it was clear there would be no swaying him. He would do what he would do no matter what anyone said.

"I hope for your sake that you're right," River Dog said when Anderson finally quieted. "The woods south of here would make a good meeting place. Stay to the northern edge, which is furthest from any roads. But I still think this is folly."

"Chin up!" Anderson said cheerfully. "You're worrying about nothing. I've already left a sign for Nasedo that I need to speak to him, so after I've conferred with my colleagues, I'll catch up with him and make the introductions. And along the way," he added with a wide smile, "I will make a name for myself that will make subterfuge unnecessary for the first time in years."

River Dog stood in the kitchen for several minutes after Anderson left, troubled. He had no idea what "subterfuge" Anderson was talking about, but the rest of his intentions were unfortunately clear. Twenty minutes later, after packing enough food for several days and leaving a note for his wife, he crossed the tree line into the forest.

Anderson was not the only one who knew how to contact Nasedo.





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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house,

Roswell




"Are you certain those were his orders?" Michael asked.

"Quite," Greer answered.

"Was he coherent?"

"Much more so than when he wakened earlier, but....."

"But?"

Greer hesitated, obviously unwilling to paint his commander in a bad light even when he wasn't present. "But he was still confused," he admitted. "I had to remind him of several details."

"Then ought we to be acting on the orders of a compromised superior?" Michael ventured.

"I don't see how it would do any harm to comply," Greer answered. "If it turns out that he doesn't remember giving the order when he wakens again, I'll rescind it. Do you see any reason not to carry it out?"

None I can voice, Michael thought heavily, shaking his head in silent answer. A few minutes later he was climbing the stairs to his own room for some much needed sleep, glancing at Courtney's empty room on the way. He had left her at the Proctor's and gone in search of Greer to see if anything new had transpired in his absence. Unfortunately something had, something that underscored her fears, fears which had proven to be valid. But the satisfaction that she had been correct in her assessment about Nicholas' performance last night and her subsequent quick action had been outweighed by the fact that she had involved not only one, but three humans in their affairs, and one had proven untrustworthy. It always seemed to be one step forward, one step back with his daughter, her flashes of insight juxtaposed against poor judgment and misplaced loyalty. Then again, never had a such an inexperienced operative been placed in such complex situations so quickly. Perhaps he was expecting too much of her precisely because she was his daughter. Would he have expected as much of any other operative?

That question on his mind when he opened his door, he never saw or heard it coming. The swiftness and silence of the attack was literally breathtaking as something invisible wrapped around his throat and the door closed behind him.

"Explain yourself," a voice hissed in his ear.

"There was nothing I could have done," Michael argued, no longer needing to wonder about the whereabouts of the Warders. "I had no idea they were ready to deploy the infrared more widely, so I couldn't have—"

"You could have told us they were working on it," the voice objected, the speaker unseen. "Why didn't you?"

"How could I?" Michael demanded. "It's not as though you're available, or we meet regularly."

"I was here only days before Malik was captured," the voice reminded him, "and you said nothing."

"You didn't let me!" Michael exclaimed. "You appear, and then you disappear, and now you're complaining that you weren't completely advised? If you've decided you want my help, you're going to have to alter your behavior!"

The pressure around Michael's throat increased abruptly. "And why would we want your help after one of ours was killed, and you did nothing?"

"There was....nothing I could....do!" Michael ground out, finding it difficult to breathe. "The Evans girl.....should have....told you that!"

The room was growing dimmer, sound was fading, and for one awful minute, Michael thought he was going to black out....or worse. What had ever made him think he could survive this? The resistance was considered traitorous by both Khivar and the King. It was something of a miracle he'd lasted this long.

The pressure around his throat abruptly subsided, and Michael fell to his knees, coughing. When he finally caught his breath, he looked up to find both Warders facing him on the other side of the room.

"Explain to us," Brivari said coldly, "how Nicholas acquired the means to rape memory."

"You should know that," Michael answered, climbing slowly to his feet. "Nicholas only did what the king had already done. You are living proof of that."

"So....Nicholas is conducting his own experiments?"

Michael nodded heavily. "On children, just like you did. I was tasked with providing them. One of the most distasteful orders I've been given, and believe me, I have quite a list."

"But human brain chemistry should not be compatible with Argilian physiology," Jaddo argued.

"It isn't....at least not directly," Michael replied. "But our husks are engineered from human genetic material and serve as a bridge between the two species."

"Like gandarium," Jaddo murmured.

Michael blinked. "Like what?"

"Irrelevant," Brivari said with a sharp look at Jaddo. "What is relevant is that this is one more thing the much vaunted resistance neglected to tell us about."

"The experiments had been suspended!" Michael said in exasperation. "And we were nowhere near ready to implement the technology, a fact attested to by the doctor in attendance who argued forcefully that we shouldn't risk it and who will fortunately see to it that it isn't used again at any point in the near future."

"Suspended or not, the fact remains that there were two threats to our existence which you neglected to apprise us of," Brivari said. "Is there anything else you haven't told us?"

Michael stood rooted to the spot as both Warders began to slowly circle, never taking their eyes off him. "I didn't tell you about the human genome experiments because I believed implementation was a long ways off, and we had more pressing concerns," he answered. "I did tell you about Nicholas' reinvigorated push to locate the hybrids because I perceived that to be the most pertinent threat. Fortunately I managed to convey that information before you stalked out, which prevented me from passing along the efforts to expand the use of the infrared. It's worth noting that terminating our conversations prematurely hampers my ability to 'apprise' you of anything. And I'm not the only one who has failed to 'apprise'. I would have appreciated some warning of your intent to destroy our ship."

"So you could warn Nicholas?" Brivari asked softly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Michael snapped. "I merely want the same consideration you want from me. Isn't that how allies behave?"

"What makes you think we destroyed it?" Jaddo asked.

Michael gave him a withering look. "Do you really think me that stupid? What else would you have done?"

"A more 'pressing concern'," Brivari broke in, "is if there is anything else we should know, whether or not such information is considered 'pressing'."

Michael hesitated. "Yes. Nicholas has called the majority of his troops to Roswell."

Both Warders advanced on him so quickly that Michael would have backed up if he hadn't been boxed in, one Warder in front and one behind. "Why?" Brivari demanded.

"He saw something, didn't he?" Jaddo said. "Something in Malik's mind?"

"That is one explanation," Michael allowed. "He could also have seen something in Courtney's. He brushed against her after Malik died, and she claims he pulled memories of at least part of the evening out of her without even trying. She broke contact as quickly as she could and convinced the doctor to sedate him, but it's clear that he remembers something happened, although he doesn't seem to recall anything specific. Yet."

Michael paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he weighed his options and decided to make his pitch one more time while he had their attention. "This entire incident illustrates why it is so dangerous to have only you as the Royal Four's custodians. Malik is dead. What if that had been one of you? Or both? Nicholas used what everyone including his own second thought was an out-of-reach technology and may have profited from it. What if that has left you compromised? It's madness to have the fate of an entire planet rest with so few. If you won't share custody of the hybrids, I beg you to at least share the knowledge of some of their hiding places. None of us can predict or forestall everything that could happen, which is all the more reason to make certain that if both of you are captured, the entire endeavor isn't compromised. If—"

Michael stopped abruptly. He'd been turning slowly from one Warder to another, but as he turned away from Jaddo to Brivari, Brivari wasn't there. Whirling around, he found Jaddo gone too. He fumbled in his pocket for his generator, but the red wash made it clear he was alone.

This particular audience, it seemed, was over. And far too soon. Just like the rest of them.




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




*We can ill afford to be myopic any longer,* Jaddo argued. *He has a point.*

*Yes, how terribly convenient that the one who could have set the whole thing up should have a 'point',* Brivari said flatly.

*But Michael didn't know our plans for the ship, so he couldn't have set it up,* Jaddo pointed out. *And Dee said his daughter was devastated—*

*Or claimed to be,* Brivari interrupted. *Even if that is true, that is no proof of her father's intentions. And I find it very interesting that Malik was captured the moment we left town.*

*Malik isn't captured, he's dead,* Jaddo said severely.

*Yes, I heard!* Brivari snapped. *Are there any other glaringly obvious observations you'd like to make?*

Jaddo fell mercifully silent as Brivari marched ahead of him, his head spinning. They had returned from their triumph with the ship to find their world in shambles with Malik dead and Atherton missing. Dee's report of last night's events had been nothing short of shocking, and the fact that they had spent the evening waiting in Atherton's apartment, unaware of what was happening only a few miles away only made things worse. And now to top it off, the specter of "sharing" the hybrids with the resistance had once again reared its ugly head.

Brivari stopped short as Jaddo abruptly appeared in front of him, blocking his path. *Running away from it won't help,* he said deliberately. *We must consider the possibility that the hybrids have already been compromised. Who knows what Nicholas gleaned from Malik's mind?*

*Malik couldn't have divulged the hybrids' location, assuming he knew it, because we are all genetically incapable of endangering the king.*

*He must have learned something,* Jaddo argued, *if not from Malik, then from Courtney. Why else would he have increased his forces?*

*Because now he knows there were Covari here,* Brivari answered impatiently. *Even if he thinks only Malik was stationed here, he will certainly expect his death to draw us back. This need not have anything to do with anything he saw in anyone's mind.*

*But what if it does?* Jaddo persisted. *What if the resistance itself was compromised?*

*What if it was?* Brivari said coldly. *That is no concern of ours.*

*An odd viewpoint from one who argued so forcefully against needlessly executing the king's subjects,* Jaddo noted.

*How is it 'odd'?* Brivari asked. *I did not casually execute the ship's inhabitants, but I would not have objected if Nicholas had. I will not casually execute the resistance either, but I have no quarrel with Nicholas if he chooses to.*

*And you should,* Jaddo argued. *At this point, we need all the allies we can get.*

*At this point, we need to keep very, very quiet and stay completely out of sight,* Brivari countered. *And that includes telling the resistance nothing.*

*Does that also include telling your friend Atherton nothing?*

Brivari smoldered in silence as Jaddo eyed him, waiting for an answer. Atherton's bizarre behavior was worrisome and more of a shock than Malik's absence, which was too new to have begun to sink in. His efforts to intervene in Malik's imprisonment were not difficult to understand, but his subsequent absence was. He hadn't returned to his apartment, he wasn't at his house....where was he? What was he doing? Had he finally grown weary of the watch and wait approach that had been their best defense? And if so, what did he intend to do with what he knew? Atherton's knowledge had been kept to a minimum, so there was little he could divulge that would do them any harm, but still.....the notion of his friend even inadvertently betraying him was not a pleasant one.

*Well?* Jaddo demanded, still waiting for an answer. *You know Atherton is a threat; that's why we looked for him first. What if he's gone to Nicholas?*

*Did it sound like he was going to Nicholas?* Brivari asked sharply. *And besides, what would he tell them? That we're here? Nicholas knows that. He has not gone to Nicholas.*

*Then where is he?*

*I don't know, but when I find him, I will deal with him myself.*

*You are far too trusting, Brivari.* Jaddo sighed. *Your 'friends' get us into trouble.*

*You have gotten us into more trouble than any ally we've made,* Brivari grumbled. *And you should talk, given that you're trying to convince me to trust the resistance with our very reason for being.*

*Let me ask you something,* Jaddo said. *Did you trust Malik?*

*What?*

*Malik,* Jaddo repeated. *Did you trust him?*

Brivari paused. *Yes. With my life. Several times.*

*Then it's worth noting Malik's view of the resistance. He took his own life to protect them, and not a moment too soon, from the sounds of things. If you don't place much stock in my opinion, perhaps you'll feel differently about his.*

Damn it. Brivari smarted in silence, privately admitting that Malik's instincts had always been sound. If he had found the resistance worth dying for.....

*Where are you going?* Jaddo demanded when Brivari walked around him.

*To find Atherton,* Brivari answered. *I can't solve the riddle of the resistance, but I can solve that one.*

*And what if you don't like what you find? Will you be able to do what's necessary, or should I plan on finishing the job for you?*

Brivari spun around to face him. *I am always able to do what's necessary to protect our Wards,* he said furiously. *Stay out of this, Jaddo, or I swear I'll make you regret it.*




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



10 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation





The autumn night was clear and chilly, the stars peaking through the canopy of trees that hid the forest floor so well. River Dog had just reached for another log to throw on the fire when his ears pricked.

"You came sooner than I thought," he said without turning around.

Nasedo took a seat across from him, smiling faintly. "Your father could always hear me long before he should have been able to. I see you are no different."

River Dog shrugged. "The ears grow weak for those unattached to the earth. Or perhaps they just grow weary of the city noise." He set the log on the fire, sparks leaping into the air. "I was not certain you were still watching the cave."

"I've watched regularly since...." Nasedo glanced at the cave opening, a black hole in the distance. "....since you waited for me here when your father was ill," he finished. "Would that I had remembered then."

"You know how I feel about that," River Dog said gently. "You were not meant to save him."

"Of course not," Nasedo replied, sarcasm fringing the edges of his voice. "Your 'creator' prevented me."

"I do not wish to have this argument again," River Dog said. "We feel differently about what happened. Can we not leave it at that?"

"I suppose there's no point in revisiting the subject," Nasedo agreed, "although I have always been curious as to whether your father shares your opinion. Do you speak to him the way he spoke to his grandfather?"

River Dog shook his head. "I have entered the sweat many times and seen my great-grandfather on several occasions, but never my father. Perhaps he was at peace and had no reason to linger."

"So your great-grandfather was not at peace?"

"My father always said his grandfather never knew when to shut up," River Dog chuckled. "I gather that is true in the afterlife as well."

"And your father always did," Nasedo murmured. "Know when to 'shut up', that is." He paused. "I miss your father."

The voice was flat, expressionless, yet so full of raw emotion, it was painful to hear. River Dog was about to say that he missed his father too when a flicker of firelight illuminated Nasedo's face, awash with a grief so fresh, it bled still.

"This isn't about my father," River Dog said. "What has happened?"

Nasedo was quiet for so long that River Dog had decided he wasn't going to answer. "A friend of mine was killed," he said finally. "Tortured. Executed."

The fire crackled and popped between them as River Dog sat frozen beside it, too stunned to speak. "I....I'm sorry," he said finally. "Anderson said you were pursued, but he did not mention your friend's death."

Nasedo's head snapped up. "Anderson was here? When?"

"This morning," River Dog answered. "He said you were in trouble, that you were pursued, and he wanted to help you."

"Help me how?" Nasedo demanded.

River Dog shifted uneasily. "He claims he has friends whom he wished to gather for the purpose of supporting you, with the forest as a meeting place."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That he was unwise to divulge your secret to anyone without your permission. But when he would not be swayed, I suggested the northern edge of the woods as a meeting place and waited here to contact you."

Nasedo was quiet for several minutes. River Dog said nothing, stirring the fire in silence. "Anderson has frequently offered his colleagues' assistance," Nasedo said at last, "and I have always turned him down."

"He said as much," River Dog allowed.

"Recent events would no doubt induce him to renew his arguments on that subject."

"He did not sound like he intended to argue the point with you," River Dog said, "but merely to act, regardless of your feelings on the matter."

Nasedo rose slowly, almost reluctantly. "The northern edge of the woods?"

"Yes. That is the furthest from any roads."

"Thank you for alerting me," Nasedo said. "I'm sorry you were pulled into this."

River Dog was about to reply, but when he looked up, Nasedo was gone; there was no sign of him, nor was there any sound that would indicate which direction he'd taken. He waited a few more minutes before dampening the fire and gathering his things, his task completed, veering east toward the road. This was the long way around; he had no idea if Nasedo would find Anderson tonight, but if so, that was a meeting he would just as soon avoid.

But walking nearer the road meant he was more likely to run into others. These woods were popular with campers, and twenty minutes into his walk he heard them before he saw them, a group of hikers who had set up camp for the night. Their fire was pitiful compared to the one he had lit only hours before, so dim he nearly missed it. There were six of them, all huddled in a circle having an animated conversation. No one heard him as he passed mere yards from their campsite, but he heard their voices quite clearly.

"They looked like they were arguing," one of them said.

"Who?" asked another.

"Two men," the first answered. "And what's weird is that they don't have any equipment with them, no food, or tents, or anything."

A short ways past the campsite, River Dog stopped and crouched down, the meaning of that overheard snatch of conversation now clear. Nasedo and Anderson stood in the distance, too far away to hear, but their posture and demeanor betraying the fact that they were not having an entirely friendly exchange. And then a shaft of moonlight filtered through the trees, and the hair on the back of River Dog's neck prickled when he saw Nasedo's expression. There had been moonlight on another night years ago which had shown him all manner of strange things. Things he had never forgotten. Things that haunted his dreams even now.

Anderson walked closer to Nasedo, very close. He seemed to be pleading with him, begging....and it seemed to be working. Nasedo closed the distance between them, placed a hand on Anderson's shoulder as he spoke to him.....and then raised his other hand and placed it on Anderson's chest. Anderson stiffened....

.....and there was a brief moment of eerie stillness before he slumped to the ground at Nasedo's feet.



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


I'll post Chapter 85 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE



November 1, 1959, 10:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




For the fifth time in the last half hour, James Atherton checked his watch, waiting impatiently for a flicker of moonlight to escape the trees so he could see its face. He'd been pacing this small patch of woods for over an hour now, forest detritus crunching beneath his feet as he walked back and forth, back and forth. He'd never been so excited in his life, not even when his book had sold enough copies to finance his alter ego. He'd never been so anxious either, not even on his first dry run of that alter ego when he'd been on pins and needles wondering if his disguise would work. This was the crowning moment of his life, even more so than when he'd first discovered who Langley truly was. He had an incredibly important job ahead of him, that of introducing his colleagues to their very first extra-terrestrial life. Reactions on the phone when he'd made a round of calls earlier today had been mixed, ranging from euphoria, to caution, to anxiety. But not disbelief; no, there was not an unbeliever among them, no one who questioned his conclusions, his methods, his goals, or his intentions. As he hoped Langley wouldn't when he finally caught up with him.

That last was one of the reasons for the anxiety which had him wearing a rut in the forest floor. River Dog's warning had given him pause, making him reconsider long enough that he'd actually delayed his phone calls by several hours before finally coming to his senses. Yes, perhaps Langley would be angry that he'd acted without consulting him, but what else could he have done? It was clear that Langley couldn't always be there, and further clear that tragedy could strike when he wasn't; one need only witness the death of River Dog's father to see that. Just think what could have been done for the most recent alien captive if there had been more than just him and that girl to help! Things would have gone so much better if only his colleagues had been in the know and on call. They could have disabled the cell, created a distraction, rescued the alien.....why, they might have been able to take out Nicholas himself!

The thought of vanquishing an alien warlord put the smile back on Atherton's face and the spring back in his step. He was doing the right thing; he was certain of it. Perhaps reconnaissance had been the best approach when Nicholas and his minions had first arrived in Roswell, but now that they had begun taking hostages, things had changed. Who could merely sit back while that happened? Who would expect him to? Especially when he had the means to affect what was happening, to marshal support, to even the score. His colleagues had been kept in the dark too long as it was, and doing so had been so difficult; every phone call, every meeting had been pure torture as Atherton had struggled to keep his amazing discovery to himself. One of the fringe benefits of working for Langley these past few months had been a reduced exposure to his colleagues which had not only made silence easier, but had served to lend credence to his revelations on the phone today.

And now I no longer have to lie, Atherton thought with satisfaction. After establishing his credibility with his colleagues, he would reveal his true identity and the reasons for it, bringing the era of the alias to an end. He'd already begun the process by leaving cryptic messages with his publisher that he was onto something, something big. A huge understatement, that, but more than enough to capture the attention of those who had the power to green light another book. Naturally he couldn't put anything about Langley in print; only his fellow alienologists could be trusted with that information. But perhaps he could finally write the kind of book he wanted to write, a serious effort aimed at the serious, not the ridiculous claptrap which sold so well to the uneducated masses. How he would get the go-ahead for such a project without revealing Langley's identity to his publisher had been neatly solved by the acquisition of the power supply. Once examined, it would be clear that it was not of terrestrial origin, providing all the proof he required without the necessity of compromising Langley's secret to the uninitiated.

A flicker of moonlight appeared, and Atherton hurriedly checked his watch; only two minutes had gone by. Patience, he counseled himself. He was behaving like a child on a long car trip, constantly asking, "Are we there yet?" when the earliest arrival couldn't be expected for at least another half hour. River Dog had suggested the northern edge of the woods because it was furthest from the road, but Atherton had deemed that too far; these were scholars, not hikers. He didn't want anyone to have a heart attack whilst racing to the most exciting moment of their lives. And that includes you, Atherton told himself severely, feeling his own heart beating rapidly with excitement. He'd waited a lifetime for this. Certainly he could wait a few more minutes.

"James?"

Atherton whirled around. A figure stood several yards away, a silhouette in the darkness. "Langley?" he said nervously. "Is that you?"

When no answer came, he crept forward, watching carefully. "It is you!" Atherton exclaimed in relief, when he'd managed to get a decent glimpse of the face. "Why didn't you say so? My goodness, but you gave me a scare!"

"What are you doing here, James?"

The voice was quiet, controlled, with an undercurrent of something much less so percolating beneath the surface, and for a moment, Atherton hesitated, unsure of himself. Then he remembered that his friend may not be quite up to speed on current events. "Langley, I don't know when you got back, but something terrible has happened," Atherton said intently. "One of your own was taken prisoner by Nicholas, and—"

"I know," Langley said. "He is dead."

Wind rustled the trees as Atherton stared at him, dumbfounded. "Dead?" he echoed. "Dead? But.....but I disabled his cell! And that girl was there with her husband, the one who......what happened?" he finished fearfully, recalling the girl's prediction that Nicholas would kill the prisoner all the faster after Atherton's intervention. "Did Nicholas execute him?"

"No. My colleague took his own life to prevent Nicholas from getting what he wanted."

Atherton blinked. "Oh," he whispered. "Oh, my." He shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly awkward. "I'm sorry. I.....I'm so sorry."

"As am I," Langley said. "He......." He stopped for so long, the silence became oppressive. "He will be missed."

All of Atherton's reservations about the choices he'd made fell away as he heard that voice, so heavy with regret. This was the second time he'd heard that tone from Langley, the first being after River Dog's father had died. Two deaths in such a short time. Two losses, two preventable tragedies, and all because Langley had not been there to affect the outcome. It was very clear that his latest efforts could keep that list of tragedies from growing.

"Langley, I can't tell you how sorry I am about your colleague," Atherton said earnestly. "I did my best to keep that from happening. I assisted Miss Harris when she came to me with news of his capture, and I disabled the device they were using to hold him. I left the signal for you, and—"

"And yet you were not there when I responded," Langley noted.

"I waited all day!" Atherton exclaimed. "And you know I don't wait well. When you didn't show up, I decided I had to act. Someone had to do something!"

"And what exactly was the 'something' you decided to do, James?" Langley asked softly.

"I called for help," Atherton said. "Look at what's happened in your absence! Face it, my friend, for all your magical powers, you just can't be everywhere at once. I did my best, and I'm sure the young woman and Miss Harris did too, but clearly it wasn't enough. You need help, Langley. We need help. Just think what could have been accomplished with extra eyes and hands! And you have a willing army of eyes and hands, people who would give anything to know you, to help you. It's a huge resource, untapped till now, and it's time you used it. You can't afford to lose anyone else you care about. Haven't you suffered enough?"

There was a pause before Langley spoke again. "What have you done, James? Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help," Atherton said, "to—"

"No, why are you here? Why are you standing alone in a forest at night, waiting? What are you waiting for?"

"Not what—who," Atherton corrected. "I've told you many times about my fellow alienologists. I needed a secluded place to meet, and River Dog suggested this one. The first of them should be here within the hour."

Langley took a step closer. "So you.....told others about me?"

Atherton pressed his heels into the ground, resisting an urge he'd never felt before, the urge to take a step back. "Only the basics," he qualified. "Nothing specific."

"But you made a compelling enough case that they were willing to meet you in a dark woods in the middle of the night?"

Beads of perspiration formed on Atherton's neck even though the night was chilly. "Well, of course I had to tell them enough to pique their interest," he answered. "These are men of science, of learning; they're all too familiar with the nonsense out there. I had to make it clear this was serious."

"You should not have done that, James," Langley said gravely.

"But I had to!" Atherton protested. "Langley, I've watched you for months now. I know how you invest in people; your people, my people. I saw what you went through when River Dog's father died, and that was only one loss. You've lost your ship, your colleagues, your friends....and that was before your enemies descended in droves. Now you've lost another colleague, and all because you've been operating alone." He paused, walking closer to Langley, stopping within a couple of yards. "I can change all that," he said earnestly. "My colleagues can change that. Let me change that. Let me lower the odds that you ever have to go through this again."

After a few seconds of silence, Langley closed the space between them. Atherton held his breath as he approached, fearing what he'd see on Langley's face when it finally became visible. But Langley didn't look angry, just....sad. Very, very sad. Perfectly understandable, given what had just happened. "I'm grateful for your efforts, James," Langley said. "I know you meant well."

Relief flooded over Atherton as he relaxed for the first time in hours. How silly he was to have worried. Of course Langley understood his motives, knew he was only doing what was best for him. "Oh, you're most welcome!" he exclaimed happily. "I only wish I could have done more."

"You've done quite enough," Langley said quietly.

"Not nearly enough," Atherton protested "There is so much more I can do for you, that I'm dying to do for you!"

"Tell me," Langley said, one hand coming up to rest on his shoulder.

"Well, for starters, you need more eyes on the ground," Atherton said promptly, having spent a great deal of time thinking about the order in which things should proceed. "And then......"

He went on with his list, barely noticing when Langley's other hand rose to rest on his chest.




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





River Dog froze as Anderson's body slid to the ground, making no sound as it collapsed at Nasedo's feet. For a moment he wondered if Anderson was merely ill because he'd heard no cry, no scream, no sound of distress. But the way Nasedo stood over the body for almost a full minute, gazing at it without moving a muscle, suggested otherwise. He killed, River Dog thought, simultaneously shocked....and not. Although unable to overhear their conversation, he could hazard several guesses as to why Nasedo had done what he'd done. He'd warned Anderson, and he had been right.

Noises behind him made him turn. Nasedo was kneeling beside Anderson's body now, and he heard them too, his head lifting like that of a hunted animal. The campers, River Dog thought, recognizing at least one of the voices. They had already seen Anderson and Nasedo, and commented that they'd looked like they were arguing. The voices were definitely coming closer, accompanied by the bobble of flashlights; they were coming to watch the conflict, unaware that it was over and in the worst possible way. Nasedo spent only a few seconds looking in the campers' direction before pulling the necklace he'd given Anderson off his neck and melting into the trees, walking away from River Dog, his passage, as ever, causing no sound.

He was long gone by the time the campers arrived. In the dark of the forest they nearly tripped over Anderson before they found him. One of the women gave a little scream, and everyone scrambled backwards, then held position as they trained their lights on the ground in front of them. River Dog crept closer; his view was blocked by the ring of campers, but now he could hear.

"Is he.....dead?" the woman who had screamed asked fearfully.

One of the men edged closer, crouched down. "He's not breathing," he reported.

"What's that on his chest?" another asked.

Now everyone crept closer. "Jesus H. Christ," one of the men muttered. "What is that?"

"More important, where's the other man, the one this one was arguing with?" the woman asked.

Heads snapped up, and flashlights swung in a frantic search of the area. River Dog ducked further behind a tree as the beams passed him by. "You mean there's something out here that can kill a man and leave a mark like that?" a camper whispered.

A minute later they were all running, crashing through the forest, knocking each other over in their haste to get away. River Dog rose to his feet as they fled and slowly walked toward Anderson's body. It was no longer in the heap in which he'd fallen, but stretched out on the ground, his hands folded neatly on his chest as Quanah's had been at his burial. And above those hands he saw what had so frightened the campers, shining even in the darkness: A silver mark in the shape of a hand.

His breath caught in his throat, River Dog knelt beside Anderson's body to examine the mark. It was right where Nasedo had touched his chest, although the shoulder he had also touched bore no such imprint. There were no other marks on the body, no blood, no sign of injury. Even Anderson's face was peaceful. He had never seen it coming.

And Nasedo did not wish to do this, River Dog thought sadly. Years ago when the skinwalkers had come, death had been noisy, violent, painful. Tonight it had come softly, quietly, so much so that its victim had been unaware of its approach. He had seen Nasedo kill twice now, and the fact that he had chosen to kill this way made this a death of necessity, of regret. "Would that you had listened to me," River Dog whispered. "It would have spared the both of you."

Scuffling noises echoed through the woods. The campers had apparently recovered from their fright and were returning, although judging from the footsteps, there were fewer than before. No doubt someone was notifying the authorities, and he should be far from this place when the body was discovered. He rose to leave, then stopped as a gleam caught his eye at Anderson's left elbow. Bending down, he found a small piece of metal, and it took him a moment to place it: it was a fragment of Nasedo's necklace, the one with the swirling symbol which had burned the night sky when the skinwalkers had come. The necklace must have broken, and Nasedo had taken it without realizing a piece was missing.

River Dog gazed at the broken piece of necklace in his hand for a moment before pocketing it and hurrying away. Years ago Nasedo had told his father that the swirling symbol foretold death. It certainly had when the skinwalkers had come, and tonight, it had again.




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




One hour later




Jim Valenti pulled his cruiser over to the side of the road and climbed out. It was nearly midnight in the woods south of the Indian reservation, and what a beautiful night it was—clear, cool, the stars bright overhead. They all but disappeared as soon as he crossed the tree line, but the woods held their own charm at night, which made them popular with campers year round. It was some of those campers who had reported a dead body, and Hanson who had called Valenti to come take a look because, in his words, things were "weird". Having had had enough of "weird" this summer, Valenti suspected that Hanson had too and was easily spooked by dead bodies, any dead bodies. At this time of year it was probably a camper who'd come unprepared or been unlucky, and after he confirmed that, he could go home and go back to bed.

He was about a quarter mile from the road when a cluster of bright lights became visible through the trees. His deputies had blocked off the area around the body, and a group of shocked campers huddled off to one side, watching. Hanson jogged toward him, his flashlight bobbing up and down like a spastic firefly.

"Sir," he nodded, his voice tense. "Thanks for coming. You need to see this."

"Cause of death?" Valenti asked, ducking under the yellow tape.

"One thing at a time, sir," Hanson answered.

Curious now, Valenti quickened his steps; whatever this was, it wasn't merely a case of "spooked". The body was covered with a sheet, which Valenti reached for as Hanson ran down the stats. "White male, approximately fifty years of age.....and he looks familiar. See for yourself."

"Jesus!" Valenti exclaimed as he lifted the sheet. "That's James Anderson!"

"That's what I thought," Hanson said, sounding relieved that he'd been right. "Isn't he the guy the Special Unit was chasing last summer?"

"That's the one," Valenti nodded. "He and an accomplice got away, and no one's seen him since."

"Poor bastard," Hanson said, gazing at the body. "I guess the FBI was right."

"What makes you think that?"

Hanson's eyes flicked up. "Pull the sheet down further, sir."

Valenti hesitated for a moment before complying. "Holy shit," he breathed. "What the hell is that?"

"Cause of death?" Hanson said quietly, looking over Valenti's shoulder. "You tell me."

The sounds of the crime scene faded as Valenti trained a flashlight directly on the gleaming silver mark on Anderson's chest, a mark in the shape of a hand, a man's hand judging from the size. "Is it paint?" he wondered, touching it gingerly.

"No, sir. It doesn't smell like paint, and it doesn't come off. It appears to be part of the skin, like a tattoo."

"Maybe it is a tattoo," Valenti allowed. "I didn't see Anderson's chest when I spoke with him, so he could have had this then. What kind of injuries does he have?"

"None," Hanson answered. "No broken bones, no signs of struggle, not even a scratch."

"Well, then what was he doing out here? Was he camping?"

"Didn't appear to be," Hanson said. "We found no evidence of a campsite or camping supplies."

"So....what, he was out here all alone in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, for no reason?"

Hanson shook his head. "Not alone, sir. The campers who called this in reported seeing Anderson arguing with another man just minutes before they discovered the body. Apparently some of them saw them arguing, and then all of them came back to watch....and that's when they found the body."

"Guess watching people argue is the new outdoor sport," Valenti muttered. "Anybody get a good look at the other man?"

"It was dark, so no, sir. And there's no evidence of anyone else here, no footprints or such like."

"Did you find the body like this?"

"Just exactly like that, sir. We haven't moved a thing."

Valenti pulled the sheet all the way off the body and sat back on his heels, puzzled. Anderson was laid out neatly, almost reverently, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed, his expression peaceful as though he were merely asleep and would awaken any moment. How on earth had he gotten into this position? There was no evidence of murder here, but there was also no reason why Anderson would have laid down in the middle of the woods, crossed his arms, and died.

"All right," Valenti said to Hanson, straightening up. "Get the body back to town. I'll have Dr. Blake look at it in the morning."

"But what do you think it is, sir?" Hanson asked. "Do you think....'they'......finally caught up with him?"

"What makes you think 'they' are responsible for this?" Valenti asked, smiling faintly at Hanson's reluctance to use the "A" word.

"Well....that.....tattoo, or whatever it is....."

"Is strange, I admit," Valenti said, "as are the circumstances. If he'd clearly struggled with someone, I'd understand it. If he'd been out camping and died like this in his tent or in front of a fire, I'd understand it. But to be out here all alone with no equipment, all politely laid out like he was in some funeral home.....that's weird. But everything weird doesn't have to be 'them'."

"No, sir," Hanson said, abashed. "I'll be sure and....wait. Who's that?"

Someone else had joined the campers at the edge of the crime scene, a middle-aged man with thinning gray hair who blinked in bewilderment as flashlights wavered around him. "He just showed up," another deputy explained when Valenti came abreast of them. "Said he parked on the road."

"Good evening," Valenti greeted the newcomer. "I'm Sheriff Valenti. Who might you be?"

"Dr. Robert Valentine," the man answered, his eyes wide.

"Medical doctor?"

"PhD," Valentine answered. "Anthropology. I teach at the University of San Diego. I was supposed to meet someone here, someone.....sheriff, what's going on?"

"Meet who?" Valenti asked.

"A friend of mine," Valentine answered.

"Do you always meet your friends in the woods in the middle of the night, Dr. Valentine?"

"Given the subject under discussion.....yes," Valentine said firmly.

"And that was.....what?"

Valentine glanced at the expectant faces waiting for an answer before pulling Valenti further away from the group. "I was here to meet a colleague of mine, a Mr. Anderson," he said furtively. "He had some very important information for me."

"Such as?"

"Sheriff, you still haven't told me a blessed thing," Valentine pointed out. "What's going on? Is Mr. Anderson here? I'm not telling you anything more until I get some answers," he added stoutly.

Valenti considered a minute. "Mr. Anderson is dead," he said finally. "I'm sorry."

Valentine's face went so white, it would probably have been visible without the aid of a flashlight. "Dead?" he whispered. "How?"

"We're not sure," Valenti admitted. "Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill him?"




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




Atherton residence

Marathon, Texas




"It's not in the house," Jaddo called as he entered the domed structure behind Atherton's official residence. "It must be over here. Have you found it?" He paused, moving from one room to another. "Brivari? Where are you? Have you.....oh. There you are. Have you found it yet?"

Blinking, Brivari pulled himself out of his thoughts. "No."

"Then we need to move on," Jaddo said. "If it's not here, he must have hidden it elsewhere—"

"It's here."

"I thought you just said it wasn't here," Jaddo reminded him.

"Not here; there," Brivari said, pointing to the floor.

"You're not making sense," Jaddo sighed. "What do you mean by 'there'?"

Wordlessly Brivari held his hand over the trap door in the floor, which whuffed open with a rush of air from below.

Jaddo's eyebrows rose. "I see."

Pulling the door open all the way, Jaddo started briskly down the stairs, Brivari following slowly, so slowly that Jaddo was already on the other side of the room when he reached the bottom. "What's all this?" Jaddo asked, rifling through a box. "Wait a minute—this is from the compound."

"I told you about this," Brivari said, sinking slowly into a chair. "It's everything he and his fellow 'alienologists' could collect about the crash and your captivity."

"I thought the Army destroyed everything," Jaddo said, opening another box. "Although some of this looks partially destroyed. Oh, look," he added darkly. "Cavitt signed this one. And this is from Pierce. Too bad I never wanted his autograph." He frowned as he inspected another. "This looks like the Healer's signature. Why would she.....wait."

Jaddo dropped the sheaf of papers he'd been holding and squatted down on the floor behind the box; a moment later he rose, holding the small portable power supply that Nicholas had used to hold Malik hostage. "This is it. It was just sitting here on the floor. He didn't make much of an effort to hide it."

"This room is hidden," Brivari noted.

"Well, we have it now, so we can leave," Jaddo said. "After we destroy all this, that is."

"No."

" 'No'?" Jaddo echoed. "We can't just leave it here—"

"It stays."

"What for?" Jaddo demanded. "If it's found—"

"It won't be," Brivari said. "I disposed of his car, and Atherton was using an alias. They won't be able to identify his body or track him back here."

"You can't be certain of that," Jaddo protested. "What if—"

"It stays."

Jaddo eyed him briefly before setting the generator down and taking a seat beside him. They sat for several minutes, the only sound that of the occasional breeze wafting through the pipe that was Atherton's unfinished escape hatch.

"You should have let me do it," Jaddo said finally.

"No."

"Yes, you should have. It was too difficult for you."

"I did what needed doing."

"Of course you did," Jaddo said patiently. "But look what it's cost you. If I'd done it—"

"I had to do it myself," Brivari said tonelessly. "I owed him that."

Jaddo sighed heavily. "If you say so. I just...." He stopped, his fingers tapping against his legs. "I just wish you would stop doing this to yourself, Brivari. You involve yourself emotionally with humans, and then they betray you. Let me finish," he added when Brivari began to protest. "Perhaps he didn't mean to betray you. Perhaps his intentions were good. But there is no denying that his actions had a high probability of being disastrous for us, and all the good intentions in the universe will not help us if we wind up captured or worse. Humans are simply too primitive to expect them to interact with us without fear or avarice or simple ignorance driving their behavior."

"Is that how you feel about the Proctors?" Brivari demanded. "The Healer? Captain Spade?"

"There are, of course, exceptions," Jaddo allowed. "But we must remember that they are exceptions. Expecting all humans to behave like the few loyal allies we have is folly."

"We don't expect 'all' humans to behave that way," Brivari said sharply. "And James was not just any human. He provided a great deal of assistance to us and displayed the utmost discretion."

"Until he didn't," Jaddo said pointedly. "And you said yourself that you had to rein him in, that he was eager to do more than simply sit there and gather information. It was inevitable that his eagerness would one day become impossible for him to ignore."

"My, but he sounds just like you," Brivari said sarcastically. "At least he thought he was helping. He left me our signal and waited, and when I didn't come—"

"He took matters into his own hands," Jaddo finished. "Malik would likely have died anyway, and it may well have been worth it to let Atherton live if all he'd done was attempt to intervene in that situation. But he didn't stop there. He exposed you, Brivari, exposed us, and after you'd explicitly told him not to. He was too much of liability to be left alive."

"I'm aware of that!" Brivari snapped. "Why do you think I handled the situation? Lecturing me about the need for consequences after I've pronounced sentence seems a waste of time."

"I wasn't trying to 'lecture' you," Jaddo protested. "I was trying to relieve some of your guilt, to make you—"

"You can't," Brivari interrupted, rising abruptly. "I can't. No one can. Stop trying."

"No," Jaddo said stubbornly. "I won't stop trying. You met him yourself, you did your best to make it as painless as possible. He got more than he deserved from you, and yet here you are blaming yourself as though you're the one who did something wrong."

"I did. They will have discovered the body long before the handprint fades."

"An accident," Jaddo said dismissively. "What were the odds you would be observed at that hour in the woods?"

"It'll light up like a Christmas tree," Brivari murmured. "Nicholas....the FBI......Valenti......everyone."

Jaddo was quiet for a moment. "It will," he agreed. "Perhaps it would be best if we left town, for awhile at least, maybe start some false trails elsewhere. With Nicholas pulling in more troops, and now this...." He paused. "And perhaps it's time to consider what Michael asked us, what we would have done if it had been one of us and not Malik. His offer to shelter some of the hybrids is sounding more plausible by the—"

"No."

"He makes a valid point," Jaddo argued. "If we both die, what will happen to them? If—"

"I said no," Brivari said sharply.

"Brivari, you're not thinking clearly—"

"No, I'm not thinking clearly!" Brivari exploded, whirling around. "I just had to execute a friend of mine! Why the hell would I be thinking clearly?"

"Which is precisely why it is a poor idea to make 'friends' in the first place," Jaddo said softly. "It interferes with one's judgment, often at the worst possible time."

Brivari closed his eyes and turned away. "Get out."

For once Jaddo didn't argue with him, ascending the stairs without another word. Brivari stood there for a very long time contemplating the cascade of bad luck that had left him numb and heartsick. First Quanah, then Audrey, then Malik....and now James. And not only that, but circumstances had conspired to send up yet another flare to their enemies, something he was noted for berating Jaddo for doing and which he was now guilty of himself. Perhaps Jaddo was right. Perhaps friendship was too much of a liability to risk....because their endings were too much to bear.

His hand strayed to his pocket where he'd stashed the pendant he'd pulled from Atherton's neck, the one Rath had given Vilandra. He hadn't noticed a piece was missing, probably shattered by the force of the energy he'd sent into Atherton's chest. Fitting, he thought darkly. Vilandra's impending marriage to Rath is what had started all this, and now his gift to her was a perfect representation of the state of just about everything since: Broken.

Pulling the pendant from his pocket, he hung it on a nail beside Atherton's favorite map.

"Goodbye, James," he whispered.




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




Alice Wentworth's boarding house,

Roswell




"For God's sake, get that," Nicholas whispered irritably to Nathaniel. "And tell whoever it is not to be so damned loud!"

Nicholas held his pounding head in both hands as Nathaniel scurried to answer the door. He was awake and ambulatory, but the headache induced by the human neurotransmitters showed no signs of abating. The doctor had no good explanation for this except to babble that they'd never tried this before, and Nicholas would have had him executed if he'd been able to give the order without it feeling like he was bashing his head into a wall. The slightest sound set his head pounding even harder, the worst offender being the sound of his own voice, an irony which he wasn't yet well enough to appreciate.

"Sir?"

It was Greer and Michael, both earnest and concerned, or at least he thought so from what he could tell while looking through his fingers. "I thought I told you not to disturb me," Nicholas said, injecting as much annoyance as possible into his whisper. "This better be good."

There was a pause before Greer answered. "It's important."

Nicholas risked a worse headache to look up hopefully. "You caught another one?"

Greer and Michael exchanged glances. "No, sir. Our ship....it wasn't destroyed. It's still out there, and it's broadcasting a message to the five planets."

Nicholas' eyes narrowed painfully. "What kind of message?"




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


I'll post Chapter 86 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX



November 2, 1959, 12:30 a.m.

Alice Wentworth's boarding house, Roswell




Nicholas Crawford had experienced a dizzying string of massive ups and downs in the past several days. From losing their ship, to capturing a Covari, to having it annoyingly resistant to his attempts at interrogation, to the euphoria of those glorious human neurotransmitters followed by the creature's sudden death, it had been, as humans would say, one hell of a roller coaster ride which had stopped far too fast, slamming him into a wall, or making him feel that way, at least. His head felt two sizes too big as his headache pounded away, hampering vision, hearing, speech, you name it. And memory, he added, feeling the frustration rise again. He'd seen something, something in the Covari's mind only moments before it died, something fleeting, something hugely important, something that danced around the edges of his memory, taunting him, slipping away every time he got close. Did it have something to do with Courtney? Is that why she kept appearing in his memory, but he didn't know why? He'd grabbed her hand earlier today in the hopes that even the smallest connection would produce the spark that would bring it back to him, but even that feeble effort had knocked him flat for several hours. Now he had the opposite problem, having been awake for the past several hours but unable to sleep because his head hurt too much. The doctor had pleaded with him to take something to put him out, to let the effects of his wild night wear off as he slept, but it was Nicholas' opinion that he'd been out long enough already. Besides, ups and downs had been alternating, and he was due for an "up". He didn't want to miss it.

But the looks on Michael's and Greer's faces made it doubtful that they came bearing good news. "You said the ship broadcast a message," Nicholas repeated, forgetting to keep his voice down and instantly regretting it. "What kind of message? And where the hell is the ship?"

"It's still on course," Michael answered.

"For where?"

Greer's eyes dropped. "It appears to be headed for Larak....and the message confirms that."

Nicholas snorted, remembering at the last minute to do so softly. "They went to all the trouble of sending it to Larak? What the hell for? What's he going to do with it? Have a bonfire and dance around it? Never mind; it doesn't matter," he added irritably when Greer began to answer. "If they weren't smart enough to finish the job, we'll do it for them. Access the self-destruct remotely, blow it, and blame it on the crown. Case closed."

Greer hesitated. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, sir."

"Why not?" Nicholas snapped, clutching his head harder as his voice bumped around inside his head like a billiard ball all the way through Greer's ensuing hesitation.

"There are still operatives alive aboard the ship," Greer said finally.

Nicholas blinked, a painful gesture. "What?"

"Most of the crew is dead, and the crop of husks destroyed....but they left everyone in medical alive," Greer answered, "along with the ship's doctor and two bridge operatives."

"But.....why?" Nicholas asked, bewildered. "What, are they maimed? Tortured? Why would they leave enemies behind? Jaddo isn't stupid enough to do that."

"You'd better tell him," Michael murmured.

"Tell me what?" Nicholas demanded.

Greer hesitated again before stepping forward and clearing his throat as though preparing to give a proclamation. "The message broadcast was from Brivari and Jaddo, although the former did most of the talking. They assured everyone of the king's survival, retention of the royal mark, and eventual return, and advised them to protect themselves by resisting Khivar as little as possible, claiming the king's love for his subjects compels him to take extraordinary measures to safeguard his people even to the point of cooperating with his usurper. They promised Khivar would be dealt with when Zan regains the throne, and guaranteed amnesty to those who work to preserve his realm in his absence regardless of any service they may have given Khivar. The ship and its remaining crew were presented as evidence of the king's mercy. Larak will take custody of both."

Nicholas gaped at his second and third. "And the reaction to this was......what?"

"Immediate," Michael answered. "Tensions eased, at the very least; some groups actually laid down their arms. Negotiations between various factions suddenly commenced or moved forward. Attack plans were cancelled, prisoners exchanged or released. And that was just the military response."

"What do you mean 'just'?" Nicholas asked warily. "What else happened?"

Michael glanced at Greer, who reluctantly answered. "There is rejoicing all over, sir," he said gravely. "The myth of Zan's return has always been only a myth, but now.....now the Warders have shown themselves to everyone. The King's Warder has spoken. Rath's Warder has urged the militaries of the five planets to use caution before engaging. It's no longer a myth....and the people are responding accordingly."

"But they're not back yet!" Nicholas exclaimed. "And they won't be for years! Their stupid hybrids may not even be viable!"

"All true," Greer agreed. "But the tidal wave of emotion sweeping the five planets doesn't care. Brivari named the citizens of each world stewards of Zan's realm, charging them with its safety as far as they're able to affect it and promising the king's gratitude toward those who are the most successful. That has them feeling not only hopeful, but important and necessary, even if it is an illusion."

"Damn it!" Nicholas exclaimed, wincing.

"There's more," Greer said reluctantly.

"You mean it gets worse?" Nicholas said sarcastically. "Did they send milk and cookies along with the fairy tale?"

Greer shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. "The two bridge operatives left alive....one executed the other. He tried to blame the Warders, but the victim's sister, one of the patients in medical, disputed that, saying her sister was alive when the Warders launched the ship. After the extraordinarily merciful gesture of sparing the sick, it made Khivar appear...."

"Cruel," Nicholas finished angrily. "Spiteful. Weak. And this in spite of the fact that had Zan or his father been alive, they would likely have torched the damned ship and everyone on it!"

"Probably," Greer agreed. "But they're not....and the Warders didn't. Which leaves Khivar—"

"I know how it leaves Khivar!" Nicholas snapped. "Any other wonderful news to report, or is that it?"

"That's a summary," Michael said calmly. "If you'd like to hear the message yourself—"

"Later," Nicholas said shortly. "Get out."

"Sir, now that Khivar knows the ship was taken, he seeks a response from you—"

"Later!" Nicholas bellowed. "Get out!"

There was a pause before footsteps faded behind him, and a door closed. Nicholas curled on his bed with his head in his hands, his headache worse than ever. In refusing to deal a decisive blow, the Warders had done far more damage than if they'd simply destroyed the ship and executed its crew. Khivar's life would be easier now, but not because of anything he'd done. The people would be easier to rule now, but not because they accepted him as ruler. Zan's shadow, overpowering on a good day, was now a monster that would eclipse Khivar on each of the five planets. The Warders had managed to make him look like a petulant pretender who was to be tolerated only until Zan, merciful, beneficent, and wise, had been resurrected.

In one blow, they had made it easier for Khivar to rule by moving him further away from the throne than ever.




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



9 a.m.

Dr. Raymond Blake's office




"Morning, Maureen," Valenti said, removing his hat as he entered the office. "Where's the doc?"

Maureen stopped typing. "In the back," she answered, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Anything wrong?" Valenti asked. "You look upset."

"Well, wouldn't you be?" Maureen said with a nervous glance down the hall. "What was that thing, sheriff? Everyone's saying it must be an animal attack because it was in the woods, but what kind of animal leaves a glowy human handprint?"

"None that I know of," Valenti said calmly. "Most likely it's paint, or something like that."

"But why?" Maureen pressed. "What kind of sicko wants to mark their victim like that?"

"We need more information before we go jumping to conclusions," Valenti said gently. "Dr. Blake called and said he has something for me, so let's see what he has to say."

Maureen hesitated, then nodded reluctantly and went back to her typing as Valenti continued down the hall to the surgery and the third weird death this year to grace that room. This drill was becoming all too familiar. Ray was bent over a microscope near James Anderson's body, which was covered by a sheet.

"I was surprised to hear from you this morning," Valenti said. "I didn't think you'd come up with something so quick."

"Turned out the cause of death wasn't hard to find," Ray said.

"It wasn't?"

Ray rose from his chair and unceremoniously pulled back the sheet. Valenti grimaced at the incision running the length of Anderson's torso.

"Ever think of warning someone before you do that?"

"I'm just getting started," Ray said calmly, grabbing a couple of instruments.

"Jesus!" Valenti exclaimed, throwing an arm over his nose. He'd noticed an odor when he'd entered the surgery, but it had just gotten worse as Ray opened two flaps on Anderson's chest like a book to reveal a mass of blackened flesh. "What the hell is that?"

"You mean what the hell was that," Ray corrected. "Those were the lungs, past tense intentional. They're completely cooked."

" 'Cooked'?"

"Burned," Ray explained. "Don't they look it?"

"Yeah," Valenti agreed. "But how? This guy didn't stink last night."

"Beats me," Ray said. "There are no injuries, no wounds, no signs of trauma or struggle. If it weren't for the fried lungs and the weird mark, I'd say this guy just laid down and died."

"You mean there's nothing else wrong with him?"

"Nothing other than thinning hair and a bit of a paunch."

"Well....what about his heart?" Valenti asked, perplexed. "Did he have a heart attack?"

"His heart is in good shape, and that still wouldn't explain the fried lungs."

"Of course it wouldn't," Valenti said impatiently, "but....wait. Does that mean his heart wasn't fried?"

"His heart was just fine," Ray replied.

"So....how did somebody fry his lungs, but not his heart?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Ray answered. "I haven't the faintest idea how the lungs were fried in the first place. Like I said, there are no wounds, no broken bones.....nothing but this handprint."

"Which is.....what, exactly?"

"Damned if I know," Ray said. "It's not painted or drawn on; it's part of the skin."

"You mean like a tattoo?"

"Nope. It's not any ink I've ever seen."

"Then what is it?"

Ray removed his glasses and sighed. "I just don't know, Jim. What I do know is that this is the third unexplainable death to cross my surgery in the past three months....and frankly, it's one too many."

Valenti's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we need to put aside your differences with the FBI and call them in."

"We....what?" Valenti demanded incredulously. "What for? You think this was aliens too?"

"What else could it be? You said this guy was an 'alienologist', and now he turns up dead by who-knows-what means. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"Is he an alien?" Valenti asked. "Did you find any of those strange cells you found on Mark Green?"

"No, but—"

"Then how did you get all the way to aliens?" Valenti interrupted. "And while we're on the subject, what brought up aliens, anyway? This doesn't fit the MO of either of the other deaths."

"What about the lungs?" Ray asked. "They're burned, just like Audrey Tate's body was burned."

"Exactly," Valenti said. "Her whole body was burned. Only this guy's lungs were burned."

"And I'm every bit as much in the dark as to how that was done," Ray persisted. "How do you cook someone's lungs without leaving scorch marks on the outside of their body? For that matter, how do you cook someone's lungs without cooking anything else, not even an organ nestled between the lungs? If this isn't aliens, then I'm Marilyn Monroe!"

"I don't believe this," Valenti muttered angrily, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room. "I just don't believe you want to drag the FBI back in here after our charming experience with them last time."

"Doesn't it bother you that they've killed again?" Ray demanded. "This is the third time, Jim. The third time!"

"I can count, thank you very much!" Valenti snapped. "And this is different. They were all different. Green's death was a stabbing, Tate was.....fried, and now this guy—"

"Is fried," Ray finished. "Just inside instead of out."

"But it's not the same," Valenti insisted. "Tate was sprawled in an alley. Green was left behind a building. This guy was all laid out neatly on the ground; it was almost....funerary. Why would an alien do that?"

"I don't care if they sent flowers and signed the guest book; he's dead," Ray declared. "And he's no less dead if some alien laid him out for a viewing. Look, I waited last time," he continued when Valenti tried to interject. "I waited on Green, and someone stole all the evidence. I waited on Tate, and then I let you talk me into a vendetta against Lewis. Which I completely understand, Jim, but the point is that the feds haven't gotten a look at any of this. We're on number three—how many more people have to die before we let someone else weigh in?"

"So what you're saying is that I'm incompetent?" Valenti demanded. "Unprofessional?"

"Near-sighted," Ray corrected. "I know you hate the FBI, but we need them. Roswell needs them."

"Bullshit we 'need' them!" Valenti exploded. "Have you forgotten what the wonderful FBI tried to do to me the last time they graced us with their presence? They nearly kidnapped my family! Did you want that to happen?"

"Of course not," Ray said patiently. "But there's more to the FBI than just Agent Lewis. There has to be someone else there we can call—"

"There's no one else there we can call and not tip off Lewis!"

"Then we'll have to tip him off," Ray argued. "We don't have a choice anymore. We can't just stand around and wait for someone else to drop."

"And I won't stand around while Lewis hauls my family off to God knows where," Valenti retorted. "Jesus, Ray, we've known each other for years!"

Ray gazed at him steadily for a moment before dropping his eyes. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, we have. And this is the first time I've felt that you were so close to something that it was affecting your judgment, and not in a good way." He paused. "Wait....where'd it go?"

It took Valenti a moment to realize what he was referring to. Ray had just closed Anderson's chest.....a chest which was conspicuously missing something. The silver handprint had completely disappeared.

"What happened?" Valenti demanded. "Where is it?"

"I.....I don't know," Ray replied, dumbfounded. "It was here just a minute ago, and....now it's not."

"But how can that be? Things don't just disappear!" Valenti exclaimed. "There must be something of it left."

"Nope," Ray answered, running a hand over the cold flesh. "Not a trace. It's like it was never there. Except for the fried lungs, of course." He pulled the sheet over the body. "So now we have a handprint that fries your insides and then conveniently disappears. Still want to argue we should keep this to ourselves?"

Valenti stared at him a moment before turning on his heel and walking out without another word. "What'd you find out?" Maureen called as he marched by. "Was it an animal? Oh, God, I hope so!"

The only answer she got was the sound of the door banging closed behind him.




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




Santa Fe




"Good morning, sir," Agent Del Bianco said when the door opened. "I—" He paused, his eyes widening. "Is this a bad time, sir?"

"Of course it's a bad time!" Agent Lewis snapped, grabbing Del Bianco by the arm and hauling him into the house. "These days it's always a bad time. Stop staring like an idiot and help me."

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco said quickly, dropping his briefcase and scrambling up the stairs behind Lewis, whose nose was wrinkling at the smell of the baby-spit up prominently displayed on the left shoulder of his suit coat.

"Damn it," Lewis muttered as he shrugged off the coat. "I'm going to need a clean shirt too. It went straight through."

"Babies do that, sir," Del Bianco said cheerfully. "My sister's first kid, I swear he barfed up half of what he ate the first day he ate it, and the other half the next day. Smelled like it, too. Looked like a linebacker even then, and we never could figure out how he gained weight with all the upchucking. But don't you worry about little Daniel, sir. Pierce was pretty solid, so it stands to reason that....."

Del Bianco's voice trailed off when he saw the look on Lewis' face. "If you're quite finished with your happy camper routine, I'd appreciate some assistance," Lewis said coldly. "Since you have so much experience, perhaps you could work on the stain?"

"Of course, sir," Del Bianco said hastily, grabbing the soiled coat. "How is Mrs. Lewis, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do. Stop talking, and start working."

Del Bianco opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it, and disappeared into the bathroom. Finally, Lewis thought. Someone who can follow verbal instructions. There were precious few who fit that description around this house, that was for sure. Pierce's brat was nearing two months old, and those two months had been a study in hell. Infants produced staggering amounts of shit, stuff, and laundry as evidenced by the reeking diaper pails, mounds of baby paraphernalia, and overflowing laundry baskets he seemed to trip over everywhere he went. And then there was the noise, keeping him up at all hours of the night, drowning out phone conversations and making the average jackhammer sound positively quiet by comparison. If "little Daniel" hadn't been the key to subduing alien life on this planet, Lewis would have dropped him on his head long ago.

But little Daniel was just exactly that, so little Daniel got what little Daniel wanted....and more. The precariousness of his situation had hit Lewis shortly before Helen and the baby had been discharged from the hospital and right after Del Bianco had pointed out that someone somewhere was keeping an eye on little Daniel because someone somewhere was set to deliver the formula for the serum in three decades time. If anything fatal should befall Pierce's son in that time period, whether from a pedestrian spill off a bicycle or an outright attempt at assassination, all would be lost. So he had moved his new family to a location known only to himself and certain members of his unit, and taken various other precautions to keep their whereabouts secret. Predictably, Helen had balked; she didn't want to use the field office as their mailing address or meet her family members elsewhere instead of inviting them to the house. Even noting that Pierce had enemies who might come after his son hadn't quieted her.

"I think I got it," Del Bianco reported, rubbing a towel over the stain.

"Thank goodness I have a clean shirt," Lewis said, whipping his tie around the collar of a fresh one. "Most are at the drycleaners."

"Your meeting with the Director today is over the phone, so it wouldn't have mattered," Del Bianco pointed out.

"Irrelevant," Lewis answered. "When one is talking to J. Edgar Hoover, one needs to be at the top of one's game no matter if it's in person, in writing, or via phone, and that includes one's clothing."

"So no wearing your jammies while writing him a memo?" Del Bianco chuckled. "Sorry, sir," he added hastily when Lewis frowned. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

"Best of luck with that," Lewis retorted. "Not only do I live in a mad house with a woman who dotes over my sworn enemy's child, I have absolutely nothing to tell the Director today. Is that finished?"

Flying into the hallway with his cleaned coat slung over one shoulder, Lewis nearly collided with Helen. "There you are!" she exclaimed, little Daniel burbling in her arms. "I'm so sorry he spit up on you, darling....you only held him for a minute."

"Yes, well that seems to be all it takes," Lewis said sourly.

"Just give me the coat, and I'll get it out," Helen said. "It was only formula."

"Del Bianco took care of it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for—" Lewis stopped, his eyes on the baby's room across the hall. "What's this?"

"Do you like it?" Helen asked with a wide smile. "I was up so much with Daniel last night...mind you, I'm not complaining, I know you have to get up early for work, and I don't....but I used the time to do a little redecorating."

A "little"? Lewis thought incredulously. Framed snapshots of Pierce and Helen were now prominently displayed around Daniel's room, on the dresser, on the walls, even on the back of the door. "Where on earth did these come from?" he asked sharply.

"From my old house," Helen said. "I thought it would be nice for Daniel to grow up seeing his father's face—"

"Take them down," Lewis ordered.

"Why?" Helen asked, bewildered. "We agreed we'd tell him who his father was—"

"That doesn't mean I want to see that father every single time I walk into the nursery," Lewis replied.

Helen's eyes hardened slightly. "Then I don't see the problem, because you hardly ever do."

"Caring for children is women's work," Lewis announced. "You know that."

"Then why do you object to other women helping with my 'women's work?" Helen demanded, exasperation wreathing her voice. "Honestly, Bernard, you're trying to turn me into a hermit! You come and go as you please—why can't I?"

"I've explained the reasons for that; do try to keep up," Lewis said impatiently.

"And you're wrong," Helen said stubbornly. "The past month proves that."

Lewis came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway "And just what, exactly, does that mean?"

Helen hesitated, looking suddenly less sure of herself. "I was going to tell you later, but I think a month was a good test."

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "A good test for what?"

"My family has been coming here," Helen answered. "Just my mother and my sisters. Bernard, I need them!" she exclaimed as Lewis' eyes flashed. "I need help! I need companionship! And I certainly don't get either from you. And look—nothing's happened. No one's tried to kill us, or broken into the house, or even found us. And I told them they'd have to keep our address secret, and they have—"

"Do you mean to tell me," Lewis said in a strangled voice, "that you disobeyed me? That you defied me?"

"Stop making it sound like I'm a child," Helen said crossly. "Daniel is the child, not me. And you can't hold us hostage here; I won't have it!"

Silence. Everyone stood frozen in place, including Del Bianco in the bedroom doorway behind them. "No," Lewis said, swallowing the rage building in him. "It appears I can't. How very unfortunate."

"What does that mean?" Helen asked suspiciously.

"Irrelevant," Lewis said. "I'm late; I'm leaving."

"Aren't you always?" Helen sighed.

I'm not the only one, Lewis thought, going briskly down the stairs. It was regrettable, really, that it had come to this, but then he'd always suspected it would. Too bad it couldn't have come later, after the horrors of infancy had passed, but there was nothing for that. Inconvenient, perhaps, but unavoidable. The alternative was far worse.

The phone rang. "Get that," Lewis ordered Del Bianco, who was trotting down the stairs behind him. He was halfway to his car when Del Bianco called him back.

"Sir? You're going to want to take this."




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



4:30 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




Jim Valenti climbed out of his cruiser and leaned wearily against the door. He'd been out all day, having never made it back to the station after his confrontation with Dr. Blake. Perhaps that was best because it had prevented him from stewing about it, something he started to do right now. How on earth could Blake even consider contacting the FBI after the way they'd behaved this summer? Was he bucking for a reward? Scared he'd be next? Just plain nuts?

Or maybe he's just right, Valenti admitted grudgingly as he made his way into the station. But what was he supposed to do—step back and let the FBI walk all over his family? Was he really too close to this to make a rational decision? Nonsense, he scoffed. Ray was the one who was being near-sighted, looking only at the body in front of him and not taking into account the repercussions of notifying the feds. Of course Ray didn't know that Valenti was working with one of Lewis' agents to undermine him, an agent who had given him information that might alter Ray's opinion of Lewis and his precious unit. Ray didn't have all the facts, so he wasn't the one to be making this call.

"How are things, Hanson?" Valenti asked when he reached the front desk, feeling better already. "Anything happen while I was out?"

Hanson's head jerked up; actually, everyone's head jerked up. "You could say that," Hanson said carefully. "Do you want the bad news or the really bad news first?"

"That bad?" Valenti said dryly. "Okay, I'll start with the merely bad."

Hanson pulled a sheet of paper from the bottom of one of many stacks on his desk. "I spent all day on this," he said in a low voice, handing it to Valenti. "Your 'James Anderson' doesn't exist."

Valenti blinked. "What?"

"There is no 'James Anderson'," Hanson explained, "or at least none who meet that description. No birth certificate, no driver's license, no record of employment....nothing. I'll keep looking, but for the moment, our victim is a John Doe."

"But....he was here for weeks," Valenti said, perplexed. "Lots of people knew him, I had him in my office...."

"Apparently under an assumed name," Hanson nodded. "He had no identifying information on him either, which was curious—no wallet, no pictures. Nothing but....this."

Hanson's voice had dropped even further, and he glanced sideways before sliding his hand toward Valenti. "Take it, sir," he said urgently. "Quickly."

Mystified, Valenti palmed the gold key on the counter. "That's it? A single key? No key ring, or car keys, or anything else?"

"Nope. Just that."

"What the hell does this go to?" Valenti muttered, staring at the key as though hoping it would talk. "And why the hell are you so jumpy?"

Hanson's eyes fell. "I have no idea what that goes to, sir. The answer to your other question is in your office. Better have a look at this before you go in there."

Truly worried now, Valenti took the plain manila envelope from Hanson and ripped it open. Inside was a note in Dr. Blake's handwriting.


I made some copies for you. Just in case.


Ray


Beneath the note were several photos of James Anderson's—or rather, John Doe's—body, with the silver handprint and without, along with his autopsy notes. Just in case? "Shit," Valenti muttered, the meaning of Hanson's "really bad" news becoming all too clear as he hurried down the hall. The door to his office was closed, and he threw it open without knocking.

Agent Lewis was sitting at his desk, his feet crossed on the blotter, thumbing through a file. "Afternoon, sheriff," he said casually. "We meet again."

Valenti closed the office door behind him, the cold rage in the pit of his stomach nearly strangling his tongue. "What in the name of God are you doing here?" he ground out.

"Fascinating, don't you think?" Lewis continued, ignoring him as he turned the file toward him, revealing another photograph of Anderson's—or whoever's—body, the silver handprint vividly displayed. "I've seen this before. There were soldiers in the forties who died bearing this mark. Their internal organs had been literally cooked inside them."

Like Anderson's lungs, Valenti thought, information momentarily trumping rage. But only momentarily.

"So did you come back to finish the job?" Valenti demanded. "Should I go say goodbye to my wife and son, or have you already rounded them up like cattle and shipped them off to God knows where?"

"So dramatic," Lewis sighed. "No, I'm afraid any attempt to haul off you or yours without cause would be a public relations nightmare for the FBI. Not that I wouldn't love to, of course, but I have to be practical. I'm not here for you; I'm here because I was summoned."

"Dr. Blake," Valenti said tonelessly.

"The same," Lewis agreed. "A patriotic man who did his duty. Told me all about your recent murder victim including the condition of the body, which I took safely into my custody the very moment I set foot in town. A slight breach of protocol, perhaps, not talking to you first, but.....well......given what happened the last time.....you understand." He smiled faintly when he saw the look on Valenti's face. "Did you really think you could keep James Anderson from me?"

He doesn't know, Valenti realized. Hanson, God bless him, hadn't forked over the latest info. He'd find out, of course, or his agents would when they started digging. "I questioned Doctor Blake as to why he made the call instead of you," Lewis continued. "He assures me that the two of you agreed to contact the Bureau, and that you had him make the call because he was best equipped to answer questions about the condition of the body." Lewis paused, examining his neatly manicured fingernails. "Is that true?"

Valenti said nothing, not trusting his voice. Ray was trying to protect him, of course, but any gratitude he felt for that gesture was currently warring with his anger that he'd made the call in the first place. "You're wise to be careful how you answer that," Lewis said softly, rising from the chair, his eagerness almost palpable. "Because even though Sheriff Wilcox's dog and pony show with the press is still casting a pall over my desire to bury you for the trouble you caused me, all it would take is one complaint, one moment of balkiness, hell, one cough to give me probable cause to finish the job. And I imagine you're going to have plenty of reasons to cough as you hand over all, and I do mean all information you have on this case and offer your full cooperation to the agents I've brought with me. I'll introduce you to them before I leave. It's the courteous thing to do, and I do think it's so important for those of us in law enforcement to be courteous to one another, don't you, sheriff?"

And none of those agents will be Owens, Valenti thought darkly, because you killed him. He knew more about Lewis than Lewis dreamed of courtesy of a disgruntled subordinate, and he couldn't breathe a word of it. He also couldn't win this one...but he could make certain that Lewis didn't walk away with everything he wanted.

"I'm glad Doctor Blake called you promptly, and delighted to see the Bureau respond so quickly," Valenti said in his best public relations voice. "My men will get you anything you need. If there's anything else I can do to be of assistance, please...let me know."

Lewis's eyes narrowed. "I'm so glad to hear that," he said, the disappointment in his voice belying his words. "After our last encounter, I wasn't sure what to expect."

"Interesting," Valenti answered, "because I always know just exactly what I can expect from you."

Lewis smiled. "I'm sure you'll agree that consistency is a virtue we all should cultivate."

"Absolutely," Valenti assured him. "For example, I think we can agree that I'm consistent in my efforts to protect the people of this town in any way I can from all, and I do mean all threats to their safety. Even those that come from places they'd least expect."

Lewis' smile vanished. "As always, I've enjoyed chatting with you, sheriff," he said coldly. "I'll certainly let you know if I need anything else."

Valenti sank onto the desk after he'd left, the sounds of file drawers being opened wafting down the hallway. Lewis' disciples would cart off anything they could find, and given that he hadn't taken the precaution of relocating James Anderson's file, they would find a great deal indeed, including photographs and the negatives they were made from. They'd undoubtedly already cleaned out everything Raymond Blake had, which is why Ray had sent over the manila envelope still in his hand. Without that, every speck of evidence concerning the death of the alleged James Anderson would have completely disappeared.





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




Ruth Bruce's boarding house




Michael Harris climbed the stairs to his room with a heavy tread which betrayed both his exhaustion and his sense of foreboding. Having spent the entire day delaying the inevitable, Nicholas had finally been unable to stall Khivar any longer, the latter having been unamused with the preliminary communications he'd received first from Michael, then from Greer. Khivar's finally demanding to speak to his second directly meant there would inevitably be questions about not only the ship but Nicholas' less than stellar physical condition and the reason for that, namely the loss of a Covari prisoner without having extracted anything of value from it. They had left Nicholas alone at his request, sitting in front of his communicator, trying to muster the wherewithal to activate it. Humiliation was always magnified by the presence of witnesses.

Closing the door behind him, Michael reached for the light switch....only to have the lights blink on before he touched it.

Rath's Warder was seated in a chair on the other side of the room. "If you're here to kill me, I'm surprised it took you so long," Michael said wearily. "I'd not thought Royal Warders so hesitant."

"If I were here to kill you, you'd already be dead," Jaddo answered.

"Then you're here for a report? Our ship broadcast your communication," Michael continued, not waiting for an answer. "A smart move. Very political. It has Brivari written all over it."

"There's a reason he was able to elevate Zan's father to the throne," Jaddo noted.

"And now he has effectively elevated Zan to the throne even though he won't reappear for years," Michael said. "A good trick, that. As I said, a smart move, even though making Khivar that unhappy makes more work for me."

"I'm not interested in Khivar's happiness or your work load," Jaddo said. "I'm here to open negotiations regarding your offer of assistance in safeguarding the hybrids."

Michael blinked. "Without the King's Warder?"

"Brivari is unable to join us. It doesn't matter why," Jaddo added, rising from his chair as Michael began to ask just exactly that. He walked closer, his eyes boring into Michael's.

"Is the offer still open?"



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


I'll post Chapter 87 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Jaddo, if you can hear me over the sound of your rapidly inflating ego...

When I started to type, it was a Freudian typo: I actually typed "Jasso".

Well, the "D" and the "S" are right next to each other.....

Jaddo sincerely believes he's doing the right thing, the best thing. In that respect he's doing an Atherton, who also sincerely believed he was doing the right thing. Then again, so did Hitler. IMO, sincerity is overrated.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN



November 2, 1959, 5 p.m.

Proctor residence



"I said 'no', Anthony, and that's final!"

"But, Dee, we have to. We're expected back tomorrow."

"I don't care. I'm not leaving."

"Well, then, how long are you planning on staying?"

"As long as it takes. However long that is."

Pausing outside Dee's old bedroom, Emily Proctor kept carefully out of sight as she eavesdropped on the argument between her daughter and son-in-law. She'd come upstairs to tell them dinner was ready only to find herself standing in the hallway, simultaneously fascinated and embarrassed. After arguing with her daughter practically from birth, it was something of a guilty pleasure to find someone else in the same position, especially her usually unflappable son-in-law.

"We can't just stay indefinitely," Anthony was saying in his trademark oh-so-reasonable tone. "We're both enrolled, we both have papers due—"

"Which we can work on here," Dee interjected.

"Oh, right," Anthony said in a deeply skeptical voice. "Like you're going to just drop into a chair and immerse yourself in legal statutes. You're way too distracted to do that."

"And what makes you think I'll be any less distracted in Albuquerque? A friend of mine just died, Anthony! And not just died, but was murdered, for all practical purposes. I was there, I tried to stop it, and I couldn't. That'll serve as a 'distraction' no matter where I am."

"I know what happened," Anthony said calmly. "I was there too, remember? I just don't see how messing up our college careers is going to fix that. We're already halfway through the semester, we can't get our money back, and if we're out too long, we'll end up with 'incomplete's' and have to repeat everything."

"I don't care," Dee said stubbornly. "I didn't want to leave at the end of the summer because of everything that was going on, and look what happened right after we left. And now you want me to leave in the middle of all this? First Malik, then Anderson....who's next?"

There followed an uncomfortable silence. They had learned of Anderson's death through Michael, of all people; Nicholas was very careful to have his ear to the ground for any news, and the discovery of a body bearing a silver handprint certainly qualified as news. Dee hadn't said anything, but she was probably feeling at least somewhat responsible for this latest death, although she shouldn't. She'd warned Anderson, and it was a good bet that he hadn't heeded that warning.

"I'm not taking it for granted there will be a 'next'," Anthony was saying, "and neither should you. When we left the first time, the alien war marched cheerfully along without us, as I imagine it will if we leave now."

"If you want to go back, go ahead," Dee said. "I won't stop you. Leave Philip here with me. You'll be able to concentrate better without us around."

"That's not what I meant. I'm not trying to get rid of you—"

"I just can't go back to school like nothing's happened and trot from class to class, taking notes and doing homework like that's the only thing that matters," Dee objected.

"I never suggested nothing else mattered," Anthony said, his hyper-calm tone laced with just a tinge of resentment. "We can stay in touch by phone. We can come back next weekend. I just think there's a happy medium here—"

" 'Happy' medium?" Dee interrupted. "What's 'happy' about any of this?"

"It's just an expression," Anthony said, audibly frustrated now, "and—"

"There you are!" Emily said brightly, moving into the doorway. "Dinner's almost ready. Ten minutes, tops."

Two heads swung toward her; Dee eyed her warily, knowing full well her own propensity for eavesdropping, while Anthony looked relieved. You're welcome, Emily thought privately. When Dee got to the point where she was arguing semantics, it was time for a recess. She knew better than anyone that the bell would always ring later, and the fight would recommence.

"I'll go get Philip," Dee said, leaving the room with a dark glance at her husband.

Emily stepped back to let her leave, then looked at Anthony, whose expression made it clear that he knew exactly what was going on. "Sorry," she said self-consciously, deciding it was better to fess up than try to play dumb. "I just....I know how she is when she gets like that. You can't talk to her, so you might as well stop trying until she's in a more reasonable mood."

"You mean that actually happens sometimes?"

Emily smiled faintly. "Eventually. Although.....I learned my lesson about unsolicited advice this summer, but I do know where she's coming from. If you want to hear it, that is."

"Shoot," Anthony said promptly.

Emily took a seat on the end of the bed. "She won't get more reasonable this time because she can't. She's seen so many people die....the soldiers when they discovered the ship, the other two Warders—"

"She was only eight years old," Anthony broke in. "That was hardly her fault."

"I know," Emily answered. "But it still affected her, and this time, with Malik, she wasn't only eight years old. And even though she tried, and you tried, and there's no way she was responsible for what happened, a part of her still feels responsible. I know; I've been there. David and I felt exactly the same way when his brother died."

"Uncle James," Anthony nodded. "The one she named Urza for."

"We tried for months to pull him out of his depression," Emily said sadly. "That was before we realized no one can pull someone else out of a depression; they have to do it themselves. But when he died, when he...." She stopped, closing her eyes against the memory of messy, self-inflicted gunshot wounds. "When he committed suicide, we blamed ourselves. We thought we hadn't done enough, or done it soon enough, or well enough, or....well....you get the idea."

"Boy, do I," Anthony agreed.

"And then David's mother died shortly after," Emily continued, "and even though it was officially a heart attack, we both knew that wasn't it. She'd worried all through the war that her sons wouldn't survive, they both did....and just when she'd relaxed, when she thought they were all safe, she lost one anyway, right here on her home soil. She never recovered from that, and we blamed ourselves for that too."

Anthony took a seat beside her. "Good Lord, Emily, you can't be held responsible for everyone else's actions, or the effect those actions have on others."

"Of course we can't," Emily agreed. "And we figured that out....eventually. But it took time, and Dee hasn't had time. She needs to finish this. If she goes back to school now, it won't do any good because she won't do her best work, or even passable work. That's no better than not going back at all, maybe even worse. There must be some kind of accommodations in place for students who need to take a leave of absence because of illness, or a death in the family, or something like that. Why not look into it? It wouldn't hurt to ask."

"A death in the family," Anthony murmured. "You could call it that." He paused. "How are they going to get along without Malik, Emily? He was the glue that held them together."

"I know," Emily sighed. "And I don't know. I just know they'll have to. That's what we all have to do when someone dies." She rose from the bed. "I suppose we should go down to dinner before Dee get suspicious that we're up here conspiring against her."

"Right," Anthony chuckled. "And won't she be surprised when she finds out it was you who agreed with her." He fell in step beside her as they headed for the stairs. "I'll call the university tomorrow and see what they can do for us. Maybe if we're not gone too long, we can still finish the semester."

"You could take her up on her offer and have her and Philip stay while you go back," Emily suggested. "Or you and Philip could go back. That would at least get your son out of harm's way. I know that's part of what's bothering you," she added gently. "I've been in your shoes."

"That's tempting," Anthony admitted. "But you survived it, and we will too, the same way you did—together."




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




Parker's Diner




*Did you see him?* Jaddo asked as he slid into a seat beside Brivari.

*Yes,* Brivari said quietly.

*He's one of several,* Jaddo reported, *perhaps five or—*

*Six,* Brivari corrected. *At last count. There may be more.*

*They can't find us, so it makes no difference,* Jaddo said dismissively.

Easy for you to say, Brivari thought, casting a sidelong glance at the FBI agent at the far end of the counter. You didn't bring them here. How terribly embarrassing to have called their enemies right to them after all the times he'd accused Jaddo of doing just exactly that.

*You didn't cause this,* Jaddo said, knowing full well what he was thinking. *You intended to dispose of Atherton's body. There was no way to know you'd be interrupted.*

*Certainly I caused it,* Brivari said. *And my intentions are irrelevant.*

*Really?* Jaddo said dryly. *You never seem to think my intentions are irrelevant.*

*Can we not do this just now?* Brivari said irritably.

For once Jaddo obliged, lapsing into silence as they both nursed their coffee at the diner's counter. After all the time he'd spent here with James, it had been hard to return knowing James would never be here again, and sitting at the counter instead of their usual booth was having little effect on that empty feeling which was becoming all too familiar. The presence of the FBI agent wasn't helping, one of half a dozen stationed at various places around town in response to the discovery of Atherton's body and its prominent handprint. Agent Lewis knew about handprints, of course, because the Army knew, having used paint to fake a couple of their own in order to cover the execution of soldiers who knew too much and provide yet another accusation against their alien captives. Given Valenti's antipathy toward the FBI, it was hard to believe he'd willingly contacted them. Then again, this was the third odd death this year. Perhaps even Valenti had his breaking point.

*Have you given any thought to our leaving?* Jaddo asked.

*I think we should. But I would like to put some safeguards in place. Just in case.*

*As would I,* Jaddo answered, *although I would imagine mine are more involved than yours.*

*Meaning?* Brivari asked warily.

Jaddo glanced at him briefly before returning his eyes to his coffee cup. *Whether or not you like the idea, it's time to consider Michael's offer to help safeguard the hybrids.*

*I have already told you—*

*Yes, you have,* Jaddo interrupted. *And now I'm telling you that circumstances have changed. We're leaving, Brivari. What will happen to them if something happens to us? It's no longer wise to be the only ones who know their whereabouts. Sit down,* he said severely when Brivari was about to explode off his stool. *The last thing we want to do is call further attention to ourselves, which is precisely why I chose a public place for this discussion; it's harder for you to stalk off in a huff.*

*Says the one who has spent half his life stalking off in a huff,* Brivari muttered.

*Says the one who is always upbraiding me for doing so. Perhaps I've learned my lesson. Doesn't that please you?*

*It will be a cold day somewhere before you learn any of your numerous unlearned lessons,* Brivari retorted. *And I won't be pleased until you drop this ridiculous subject once and for all.*

*Then you shall remain displeased,* Jaddo said firmly. *Because my duty is not to please you, but to do what's best for our Wards. And in order to do that, I need to explore every available possibility, no matter how unlikely the odds I will choose it. If you view our mandate differently, do fill me in.*

*Jaddo, there is no way Nicholas could have learned the location of the hybrids, from Malik or any other source,* Brivari argued.

*I'm less clear on the 'any other source' part, but for the sake of argument, let's assume you're correct. But what of the future? The Proctors, for example. That information could easily be extracted from them. And, no, I don't think any of them would ever willingly betray us. But you heard what Nicholas is capable of, what he'll likely be capable of in the future. They wouldn't have a choice.*

*First you complain we must not be the only ones who know the hybrids' whereabouts, and then you admit we're not the only ones who know the hybrids' whereabouts,* Brivari said. *I would trust the Proctors with the hybrids long before I would trust the Argilian resistance.*

*Believe it or not, I agree,* Jaddo said soberly. *But is that something we can realistically ask of them, or expect them to carry out even if they agree? Expecting even the most loyal of humans to shepherd the Royal Four through their adjustment to their new bodies, their new abilities, and all the way back to Antar seems overly optimistic at best, desperately selfish at worst. Besides, by your pessimistic estimations, none of the Proctors may be alive when the hybrids emerge, making this discussion moot. The resistance, on the other hand, possesses the necessary lifespan to still be of use—*

*Their husks do not enjoy a similar lifespan,* Brivari reminded him. *And we just destroyed their new crop.*

*They will grow another,* Jaddo shrugged. *We both know that.*

*And what assurance do we have that the resistance won't have been discovered and wiped out by the time our Wards emerge?*

Jaddo didn't answer immediately, sipping his coffee as he eyed the agent at the other end of the counter. *None,* he said finally. *But that means nothing because we have no assurance of anything. Nothing, that is, except that which we already know all too well—that things can go awry when we least expect them to and in ways we never expected. Other than that, we do what we always do, have always done: We make the best decisions we can based on the information we have at the time, and hope we chose well.*

*Then let me shorten the process for you,* Brivari said flatly. *You're not choosing well.*

*I haven't chosen anything,* Jaddo replied. *I'm merely exploring a possibility. Now, the way I see it, we have two options were we to accept Michael's offer: We can divulge the hybrids' current location, or we can hide one or both of the extra sets in a separate location of our choosing which we share with the resistance. The first option is unattractive for obvious reasons, not to mention logistically difficult because the lock is keyed to ourselves and the hybrids. The second is my preference, but we would need a second, secure location. Do you have any in mind?*

*Of course I don't have any in mind,* Brivari said acidly, *because I refuse to consider this at all. If you're so concerned about what Nicholas will be able do in the future, then why aren't you concerned about him extracting the whereabouts of the hybrids from the minds of his own operatives?*

*I am,* Jaddo answered, *just as I'm concerned about both of us dying with no one knowing where they are. It's a calculated risk either way.*

*Then you and I are using different systems of mathematics,* Brivari said sharply, setting a stack of coins beside his coffee cup. *Allow me to provide you with a simple equation we can both agree on: Two minus one equals one.*

This feels distressingly familiar, Brivari thought as he left the diner, the door slamming behind him. Familiar, yes, but backwards; it was usually Jaddo who left. This nonsense about gifting the resistance with either the hybrids or their whereabouts was just exactly that—nonsense—but at its core, it was Jaddo's way of dealing with Malik's death. That would always be Jaddo's reaction to emotionally upsetting news, not sadness or withdrawal, but a frantic attempt to correct the situation. He should know that by now. He should have handled things differently. Perhaps it was time to consider alternatives for at least one set of hybrids that did not involve the resistance, if only to coax Jaddo off this dangerous path.







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





Ruth Bruce's rooming house





The gas flame flared high, then settled as Courtney adjusted the burner on the stove beneath a pot of soup, her hand stiff on the dial. The Proctors had offered to have her stay for dinner, but she felt badly about having been over there so much. So she'd declined, only to dissolve in tears when she'd come back to her room, turned on a burner, and remembered that it had been Malik who had first taught her how to use this. Idiot, she'd thought severely, opting for a cold sandwich instead. If this were Antar, she'd be thought mad for feeling the way she did about the death of a Covari, which is precisely why she'd spent so much time at the Proctors, with those who knew Malik and felt his death more keenly than she did. They were the only ones with whom she could be sad, who would understand that she'd finally lit the stove because she'd wanted to remember, no matter how much it hurt. He's not coming back, she thought as she had countless times since his death. Not that she'd seen him much these past few weeks, but at least she'd known he'd been out there somewhere. She'd never realized how much she'd depended on his presence, his advice, his.....

Courtney put her head in her hands, the irony so biting, it could have drawn blood. If she'd be thought mad for mourning the death of a Covari, opinions would be even worse were any of her people to learn she'd actually counted one as a friend. But too late, she thought sadly. Malik hadn't lived long enough to learn that she'd finally come to her senses, that she'd never refer to any of them as "it" again. Maybe that had been impossible; maybe it was his death that had finally gotten through to her, meaning there was no way for him to know. Yet another cruel trick played by an unforgiving universe.

Somewhere, a door closed. Courtney opened her own to find her father in the hallway.

"Go back inside," he said shortly.

"Why? Did something else go wrong?"

"No. Go back inside."

"But why?" Courtney persisted.

Michael gave her that all-too-familiar exasperated look he adopted when she was being difficult, which seemed to be most of the time. "I would rather you were out of sight," he answered. "You saw what happened when Nicholas first woke up. If there's anything to remember from his linking with you, I'd prefer he remember it later than sooner. Go back inside."

Courtney made as if to obey as her father headed down the stairs, returning to the landing when he was safely out of sight. What was all that about? Nicholas wasn't even here, and neither was Greer, both being in the throes of reporting the latest excitement to Khivar, something she dearly wished she could witness. So what was her father up to all by himself? A glance out the window caught him just as he was closing the trunk of his car, after which he trotted back up the stairs and disappeared into his room again. An ear to the door told her he was on the telephone, meaning this had something to do with the resistance.

And I'm part of that resistance, Courtney thought stubbornly as she crept down the stairs and stepped onto the front porch. It was dark out and remarkably chilly, and she shivered on the way to the car, pausing in front of the trunk with a paper clip in her hand. Human locks were ridiculously easy to defeat, but the click as the lock gave way sounded unusually loud. Fortunately there was no one around to hear it, and the trunk lid began to rise.....

......only to slam back down, narrowly missing her fingers. Courtney yelped as she jerked her hand away, then jumped a foot when she found Jaddo standing directly behind her.

"Jesus, you scared me!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"You always know you've been somewhere too long when you start invoking local deities," Jaddo answered. "And I might ask you the same question. Does your father know you're here?"

"I might ask you the same question," Courtney retorted.

To her surprise, Jaddo smiled faintly, as though she'd said something funny. "Yes, he does. Your turn."

Courtney dropped her eyes. "No. He wants me to stay in my room."

"Don't waste your time feeling guilty," Jaddo said. "Good operatives don't learn a blessed thing by staying in their rooms."

"They also don't learn anything when trunk lids slam closed on their hands," Courtney muttered.

"I haven't see you lately," Jaddo went on, ignoring her remark. "Where have you been?"

"With the Proctors, mostly. I can't very well tell my own people how upset I am about Malik."

"Why would you be upset about Malik? You'd never even met him."

Damn, Courtney sighed. She was half tempted to own up to how long she and Malik had known each other now that they couldn't take it out on him, but doing so might make the resistance seem duplicitous. "I get upset when I see people tortured," she answered, "and even more upset when I'm forced to participate. I guess I'm weird that way."

"I'm glad to hear that," Jaddo said.

"Why? Aren't you going to give me a lecture about how I need to be tough, and strong, and practical, and all that happy stuff?"

"Good traits, all," Jaddo agreed. "But so is being repelled by violence. However necessary it may be—and, mind you, I often find it necessary—it should never fail to disturb us. Those who find themselves undisturbed have died in a way that has nothing to do with physical death. What?" he added when he saw the look on her face.

"I.....I just wasn't expecting to hear that from you, of all people," Courtney admitted. "You killed Pierce, you killed that actress, you killed Anderson—"

"All of those people were executed for a reason," Jaddo said. "Brivari and I may disagree on the method or the necessity, but we are both certainly aware that necessity sometimes exists. Which is why he executed Anderson, although I offered to spare him the burden."

Burden. Courtney suppressed a wild urge to laugh at the notion that a Covari, and a Warder, no less, would find execution a burden. They could, of course, and she knew Brivari would, having been quite close to Anderson. But to everyone else on her planet, the idea would be ludicrous.

"So are you going to look inside?" Jaddo asked.

Courtney blinked. "What....you mean the trunk?"

"Of course I meant the trunk. What else would I mean?"

"Didn't you just stop me from doing exactly that?"

"I've changed my mind," Jaddo said. "I think you should know."

He raised a hand, and the trunk clicked open. So much for paper clips, Courtney thought, hesitating only a moment before slowly raising the lid.....and closing it again quickly.

"I thought Brivari was dead set against this. Does he know about this?"

"He is, and he doesn't," Jaddo replied. "Will you tell him?"

"What difference does that make? He'll find out anyway."

"Then why not tell him?" Jaddo asked. "He has a dim view of the resistance already, and that view will not improve once he discovers your father has made arrangements without him."

He'll have a dim view of you, too, Courtney thought, wishing she could be in another galaxy when the inevitable fallout from this hit. But Jaddo had a point; the resistance was now taking a side, and against the King's Warder.....

"No," Courtney said, "I won't tell him. I understand his objections. I understand he doesn't trust us, and I don't blame him for that. But I know what our intentions are, and it has to be done. For safety's sake, it has to be done."

"I thought your instincts were sound," Jaddo said approvingly. "It's a pity your father tries to exclude you. Were I you, I wouldn't let him....but then, it appears you haven't. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to do the rest of my part."

"Which is.....?"

Jaddo smiled faintly. "Drawing attention. Something at which I'm told I excel."

Courtney leaned against the car after he left, her heart beating rapidly. Fortunately Jaddo's recognition of her instincts didn't include her instincts concerning him. He'd "changed his mind" because he'd been testing her, and her father and the entire resistance by proxy. Saying she'd warn Brivari would have been a death sentence, so she'd voiced the counterargument, knowing that's what Jaddo wanted to hear.

Now she had to decide if she really meant it.




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



Valenti residence




"So now that the lights have stopped, you won't need to be going out of town so much, right?"

"I don't know. They've only stopped for a few days. I think it's a bit premature to assume they're gone for good."

"But Jim—"

"Andi, you know I can't make predictions about things like that. Stop asking me to."

His head leaning against the stair banister, Jimmy Valenti closed his eyes as the terse conversation between his parents blossomed into a full scale argument—again. This had become a regular occurrence, when his father was home, that is, which wasn't much. While his job had always kept him busy, it now consumed most of his waking hours six days a week, the one exception being Sunday when custom made it impossible to do much anyway. Even then his father was brooding and withdrawn as he was almost any time he was home, and his usually cheerful mother had grown tense and silent with the exception of the aforementioned arguments. Add to that the continued teasing from classmates over "Sergeant Martian", and life hadn't exactly been a picnic.

"Then tell me this," his mother was saying in exasperation. "Dr. Blake called the house three times today saying you wouldn't return any of the calls he made to the station. Why not?"

"That's business," his father said shortly.

"Of, of course. 'Business'. The handy code word for, 'Shut up, Andi'."

"I did not tell you to shut up! The least you could do with everything that's going on is stop putting words in my mouth and give me a little space!"

" 'Space'? Good Lord in heaven, Jim, if I give you any more 'space', I'll be alone in the middle of the desert! And what do you mean about 'what's going on'? I didn't know there was anything else 'going on'."

"You knew we found a dead body in the woods last night," his father said.

Jimmy's ears pricked. Another body? Another death? He couldn't ever remember hearing about this many dead people in such a short time.

"You mean the vagrant? You said you couldn't even identify him. What about it?"

"We couldn't identify him, but it wasn't a vagrant. And it was more than that. There was something.....weird.....about the way he died."

A deep sigh floated out of the kitchen. " 'Weird'," his mother repeated wearily. "Code word for 'alien'. Tell me you're not hopping back on the alien bandwagon, Jim."

"Aren't you even going to ask what was weird about it?" his father demanded.

"What difference does it make?" his mother retorted. "Whatever it was, it automatically means aliens! Honestly, what has gotten into you? You never used to be this credulous, this....."

Jimmy didn't hear the rest of it. He'd just remembered that his father had been working in his office right after he'd come home, and was wondering if he'd left anything interesting on his desk. The argument faded into the background as he walked quietly down the hallway, his tennis shoes making little sound on the hardwood floor. The door to the office was open, and he paused just shy of the threshold, wondering if he really had the nerve to go in there and rifle through his father's things.

The pile of folders on his father's desk settled that one. After a brief glance toward the kitchen and the ongoing argument, he was behind the desk and flipping open the first folder to find a pile of typewritten reports. Boring. The next folder held the same. And the next. And the....

No, Jimmy thought, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of the man lying prone with a mark on his front that looked like a handprint, the words "John Doe" carefully lettered on the back. Was this why Dr. Blake had been calling so often? But then why hadn't his father called him back?

"What are you doing?"

Jimmy slammed the folder closed and backed away. Unfortunately he forgot to set the folder down, so he found himself facing his beady-eyed father with the forbidden folder clutched to his chest. Fat lot of good closing it had done.

"Put that down," his father said sharply. "Those are precious. Until I make copies, those are the only prints I have."

"I....I was just.....curious," Jimmy stammered, dropping the folder on the desk. "I heard you tell Mom there was something weird about whoever you found last night, and I wanted to know what was weird. Is this....is this him?"

Wordlessly, his father picked up the folder and stared at the photograph much the way Jimmy had only moments ago.

"What is that, Dad? What is that mark?"

His father sank slowly into his desk chair. "Just what it looks like—a handprint."

"But....why is it silver?" Jimmy asked, pushing the surprise that he'd actually gotten an answer aside for later inspection. "Is it paint?"

His father shook his head. "It's not paint. It's also not there anymore; it disappeared. Dr. Blake doesn't know what it was, or why it went away. Neither of us has ever seen anything like it."

"That is weird," Jimmy said. "Do you think it's....." He paused, reframing his question. "What do you think did this?"

"I have no idea," his father sighed.

"Has Mom seen this? Did you show it to her?"

"No."

"But....why not? I mean, I know you can't go around telling just everyone, but you could tell Mom."

"No," his father said firmly.

"But that would help," Jimmy said. "She's all mad at you for calling this weird, but if she saw this, she'd know you were right."

"Don't be too sure about that," his father muttered.

"But how do you know unless you try?" Jimmy persisted. "Why not show her, and—"

"Because she's made it clear she doesn't want to hear it!" his father exclaimed. "And because I shouldn't have to. I'm tired of having to defend myself to the one person I shouldn't have to defend myself to. I shouldn't need to present evidence for my own wife to take me seriously!"

The phone rang. Valenti grabbed the receiver as Jimmy shrank back against the wall. "Hello?" Pause. "I've got it, Andi. Get off the line." Another pause. "Where?" his father demanded. "When? All right...I'm on my way."

His father set the phone down and slapped the folder on his desk. "I have to go. You," he said firmly to Jimmy. "Out."

Jimmy obediently scuttled out of the office, watching helplessly as his father grabbed his coat and left the house, walking right by his mother without even acknowledging her presence. He'd never heard his father talk to his mother like that, never seen him ignore her like that. And judging by the look on her face, she'd never seen that either.




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



Mescalero Indian Reservation




River Dog bolted out the front door of his house; he was late, as evidenced by the fact that the entire village was already outside, gazing southward toward the woods.

"What happened?" he asked sharply. "What did you see?"

"A bright light!" someone exclaimed.

"Where?" River Dog demanded.

"It was just there," another said, "and then it disappeared."

"What did it look like?"

"It was round," someone called. "A circle, or maybe an oval....."

"No, it was coiled," another added. "Like a serpent, or....there! There it is again!"

River Dog's eyes widened as a swirling symbol appeared in the sky just above the treetops, impossibly high, impossibly bright.

"I know that," he whispered. "I've seen it before."



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


I'll post Chapter 88 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT



November 2, 1959, 10:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




For the second night in a row, Jim Valenti parked his cruiser along the side of the road which skirted Frazier Woods, the forest just south of the reservation. Hanson was already here, trying to herd a knot of bystanders that ranged from curious to agitated to downright frightened. His phone call hadn't been terribly specific, but coming when it had, Valenti hadn't cared; he'd been all too happy to leave his house and his distrustful wife behind. But not Jimmy, he thought guiltily. Jimmy hadn't been distrustful, just bewildered as to why he hadn't given Andi all the facts. Showing her the photo of the silver handprint probably wouldn't do it because, much as she'd humored him these past months, she'd never really believed him. She just didn't want to hear it, and when people didn't want to hear it, all the evidence in the world was unlikely to sway them. Which meant he'd need to be careful what he told her in the future, that he was no longer free to confide in his own spouse. There really wasn't anyone he could confide in. Not anymore.

"All right everybody, calm down," Valenti ordered as he made his way through the crowd. "Just back off a bit and let us take a look. Hanson.....over here."

The crowd complied, and Hanson shot everyone an annoyed look. "I've been trying to get them to settle for the past twenty minutes, and now you show up, and they lay down and wag their tails like puppies," he complained.

"Yeah, well, at least someone still listens to me. What've you got?"

"No bodies, thank goodness," Hanson replied.

"Yet," Valenti amended.

Hanson blinked. "Right. We got a slew of reports about half past nine that there'd been a bright light in the sky over the woods. A lot of those people in the crowd saw it."

"A 'bright light'?" Valenti echoed. "That's it? Nothing more specific?"

"Well....most reports said it was a very bright light, and in some sort of pattern, although no one could describe it as anything other than 'circular'. So a number of callers jumped to the conclusion that—"

"It's an alien ship of some sort," Valenti finished. "No doubt landing in the woods and disgorging legions of little green men armed with ray guns, or suntan lotion, or whatever else little green men carry with them on vacation."

"Basically," Hanson admitted. "But given that we found a man dead here just last night, I figured we'd better check it out."

"The question is where do we 'check it out'? Do we have anything even vaguely directional other than 'bright light over forest'? Was it over a certain part of the forest?"

"I'm afraid the reports all differ on that, sir," Hanson answered, "and in their defense, it's hard to tell from a distance. But I imagine we could start....." He paused, gazing over Valenti's shoulder.

"....there," he finished sourly.

Valenti turned around. Agent Lewis was plowing his way through the crowd, or trying to, anyway, as they weren't being very cooperative, not for Lewis or any of the agents who attempted to follow him. "Maybe you'd better go rescue him, sir," Hanson said, his tone thick with sarcasm. "I'm sure he'd be eternally grateful."

Valenti smiled faintly, careful to drop that smile by the time he reached the crowd. "People, people....please. Step back. These are FBI agents, and I'd appreciate it if you showed them the same respect and courtesy you show myself and my men."

The crowd settled again; reluctantly, perhaps, but it settled. "Good evening, Agent Lewis," Valenti said serenely. "Agents," he nodded to the men behind him, who cautiously nodded back. "Where've you been? I expected you sooner."

"Very funny," Lewis snapped. "Perhaps you could have your staff inform us of reports such as this in a more timely manner, which they obviously failed to do."

"Well, someone must have informed someone because you're here," Valenti noted, "and only minutes after me. Besides, I thought you had an agent at my station, so how could you possibly miss anything that's going on?"

"A very good question," Lewis replied. "How is it that my agent learned of the sighting only after you had a detail dispatched?"

Valenti shrugged, as though he hadn't set up an elaborate procedure with Hanson to make certain Lewis was the last to learn anything. "Beats me. Are you sure your agent was awake? Must be boring, standing around doing nothing."

"Of course he was awake!" Lewis exclaimed. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or shall I haul you off for obstructing justice?"

"You know, the more you use that threat, the less threatening it becomes," Valenti said calmly. "You might want to trot it out a bit more sparingly, say, only for the really important things. I wouldn't want you to look foolish. Now, I realize that the almighty FBI moves in circles which the likes of me, a small town sheriff, can only dream of," he continued as Lewis' face darkened, "so let me introduce you to a facet of local law enforcement with which you might be unfamiliar. And that would be the 'alien call', a prominent feature of life in Roswell for the past decade. This consists of a breathless citizen assuring you that he or she has seen an alien, or an alien ship, or an alien baby, or an alien dinner party, or something of that nature, but when you go to investigate, you find zip. I think that's what we've got here tonight."

"What do you have here tonight?" Lewis demanded impatiently. "You still haven't told me a blessed thing!"

Valenti gazed at him with mock surprise. "What, you mean you didn't hang back behind the crowd and eavesdrop? Dang, agent, that is the single best way to learn anything! Every small town sheriff knows that! Oh.....wait," he added in mock dismay. "You're not a small town sheriff, so you wouldn't know that. My apologies. "

"Would you please give me a report!" Lewis exploded. "If you stand in the way of my investigation, I swear to God, I'll—"

"All right, all right, keep your pants on," Valenti said casually. "We got a bunch of reports of a light in the sky over the woods. End of story."

Lewis' mouth opened, then closed. "That's it? A light over the woods? Where? What kind of light? Was it—"

"Just a light over the woods," Valenti repeated. "No one knows where over the woods, just over the woods. No one knows what kind of light, just a light. Whenever folks around here see a light in the sky they can't identify, they assume it's aliens and call me. And now, by extension, you. Happens a lot. Get used to it."

"There must be more to it than that," Lewis protested.

"Oh, sure there is," Valenti said. "I'm sure every single one of those bystanders has different details to offer, and you're more than welcome to interview them."

"Interview them?" Lewis echoed in disbelief.

"Sure," Valenti said. "Isn't that what law enforcement does? You're also welcome to join us as we walk through the woods and check things out. Mind you, I don't put much stock in this, but we did find a man dead here last night, so it's best to check it out, don't you think? What say you and yours go south, while me and mine go north?"

Lewis glanced down; his dress shoes and impeccable suit pants were already caked with mud. "I have no intention of tromping through the woods," he said disdainfully, "nor do I have any intention of interviewing those rednecks. That's your job."

"And I'm doing my job," Valenti said. "And since interviewing and 'tromping' are part of investigating, they're also your job."

Lewis' face reddened visibly even in the low light of car headlights and flashlights. "I'm quite certain you and your staff are better equipped to handle this particular matter," he said stiffly.

"Why, Agent Lewis," Valenti smiled. "I appreciate the vote of confidence—really, I do—but I wouldn't dream of standing in the way of your investigation."

Lewis made a strangled noise as Valenti walked off, catching up with Hanson several yards away. "Are you sure that was wise?" Hanson asked in a low voice. "He did threaten to finish what he started last summer if you got in the way."

"Who's in the way?" Valenti asked. "I gave him an update, offered to work with him, shared some tips. No sir, the mighty Agent Lewis hasn't a thing to complain about. Except, of course, the fact that all he is is a desk pansy who wants to sit on his ass while everyone else does the real work. Well, tough shit. If he's going to bust his way into my station and swagger around like he owns the place, let him own the place....and all the work that comes with it. And that includes all the mud. Let's go."

"With pleasure, sir," Hanson said, wearing a wide smile as he followed Valenti into the forest.




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




"Have you found anything yet, Del Bianco?"

"No, sir, and I don't think we're going to. Perhaps we'd best write this one off as a classic 'lights in the sky', and call it quits."

"After a dead body with a handprint was found here last night? Absolutely not! Keep looking. I want.....damn it!"

Standing motionless in the shadows nearby, River Dog shook his head in amusement as the speaker's shoes sank deep into a puddle of mud, covering his feet nearly to his ankles. Some of the people prowling the forest tonight were prepared to do so and dressed accordingly; others were dressed as white men would for an office and lacking even the most basic equipment, such as flashlights, which they'd borrowed from others who were better prepared. He'd been tracking them for the past forty-five minutes, moving so quietly that he was able to come close enough to touch some of them, yet they never knew he was there. They, by contrast, were easy to follow, thrashing and crashing through the woods so noisily that wildlife fled. Finding them was simple; less simple was discovering why there was such an assortment of hunters here tonight, hunters who seemed to be unhappy with each other and at cross purposes.

"Shockingly ill-prepared, are they not?" a low voice said behind him.

River Dog held himself perfectly still, not needing to see the speaker in order to identify him. He hadn't heard him coming, but then that was no surprise. The man in the suit extricated his foot from the mud and moved off, muttering expletives.

"Are you chasing the lights in the sky as well, Nasedo?" River Dog asked.

"You could say that," Nasedo answered. "How long have you been out here?"

"A little less than an hour," River Dog replied as they eased out from behind the tree in the now empty section of woods. "You?"

"I have only just arrived. Would you care to fill me in?"

"Certainly. There are three kinds of men who walk the forest tonight. The first are sheriff's deputies, whom I recognize. The second are men dressed like those we just saw who wear thin, shiny shoes that sink into the mud and long coats which catch on trees. The third claim to be campers, but I doubt that."

"Why?"

"Because they have no camp or camping supplies, and because they are lying," River Dog said. "I can tell."

"They are indeed," Nasedo agreed. "You are observant, as always."

"So you know who these men are?"

"Unfortunately. They are all hunting me."

"Because you made the light in the sky?"

"No. But they think I did, and that drew my enemies here."

"You have a wide variety of enemies," River Dog noted, "although all are preferable to skinwalkers."

"No argument there," Nasedo replied. "Those we just saw are from the 'FBI', which has formed a group of men dedicated to hunting me. Roswell's sheriff is also at least somewhat aware of my presence, hence the deputies."

"And the false campers?"

Nasedo hesitated. "Are more of my kind who hunt me also," he said finally. "Not skinwalkers, but certainly more dangerous to me than the other two, and far more numerous."

River Dog was quiet for a moment. "The deputies and the FBI....if I'm not mistaken, they appear to be at odds with one another."

"You are not," Nasedo confirmed as they moved through the forest, neither set of feet making a sound. "The one saving grace is that they get in each other's way."

"And what happens if they ever stop getting in each other's way?"

Nasedo stopped, gazing into the distance. "If that day ever comes, I will be in trouble. Thank goodness for allies like you."

Allies. "And what of Mr. Anderson? Did you ever find him?"

Nasedo began walking again. River Dog fell in step beside him, wondering if the reply would be truth or fiction. They walked quite a ways in silence, but still he waited. Killing a man was no small matter, nor was admitting it....or choosing not to.

"Mr. Anderson," Nasedo said finally, "has moved on."

River Dog nodded, accepting that answer at face value. Neither a lie, nor the whole truth....but Nasedo owed him no explanations, was not even aware he'd been a witness. "So tell me, if you did not make the light in the sky....who did?"

"I have no idea."

"But it must have been one of your people because I recognized the symbol."

Nasedo stopped abruptly. " 'Symbol'?"

"The swirling symbol," River Dog explained. "The same symbol you sent into the sky when you and my father fought the skinwalkers."

Nasedo took a step closer. "You saw that?" he asked, staring at him intently. "In the sky? Over these woods?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain that's what you saw? Perhaps it was a trick of the light?"

"It was no trick," River Dog answered. "I know what I saw."

Nasedo's eyes fell. "Of course you do."

"Is this bad news?" River Dog asked gently.

"I'm not sure," Nasedo answered, clearly caught off guard by this information. He stepped back, gazing at the forest around him with renewed suspicion. "We must part here. You should leave this place; if the FBI finds you, it will not go well for you."

"They will not find me," River Dog promised. "I could hide from them with my eyes closed."

"No doubt," Nasedo agreed. "But please.....indulge me. I have...." He paused. "I have lost too many of late. I will not lose you as well."





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




Excellent, Jaddo thought as he watched deputies, FBI agents, and Argilians comb the forest, desperately searching for.....something. Only the Argilians actually knew what they were looking for and possessed a tool that would help. But they were hampered in their use of the infrared wash by the presence of the sheriff's deputies, who would have reported any sightings of the red lights to the sheriff, the same sheriff who had proven to be his usual persistent self in his pursuit of their cause. The fact that any captured operatives could wind up in the hands of the FBI was further constraining them. Just this once, it was almost worth it to have so many enemies if only for the pleasure of watching them all try to cannibalize each other.

*What exactly do you think you're doing?*

Jaddo glanced around the forest, but his fellow Warder was well hidden. *Good evening, Brivari. Did you come to join the party?*

*If this is an attempt to be humorous, you're failing miserably,* Brivari said sharply.

*I may be 'humor-challenged', but I'm not that bad off,* Jaddo said dryly. *Besides, I never joke where our enemies are concerned.*

*Then why do you sound like you're enjoying yourself?*

*Because I am,* Jaddo admitted. *Watching our various nemeses irritate each other is immensely satisfying.*

*You sent that light up, didn't you? River Dog saw Antar's symbol in the sky.*

*My goodness, but those Indians don't miss a thing,* Jaddo said casually. *No wonder you've always been so taken with them. And no, I'm not trying to be flip. Just making an observation.*

*Then what are you trying to be?* Brivari demanded. *After all our discussion about sending up flares—*

*It occurred to me that we could turn that to our advantage,* Jaddo interrupted. *So I sent up a flare. And just look at them—they come flocking like puppies to a food bowl. Oh, for heaven's sake, settle down,* he added with a touch of impatience as Brivari began to object further. *Do you really think I did that without a good reason?*

*A reason I can't wait to hear,* Brivari muttered.

*It's simple,* Jaddo said. *We want to lead them away from this place, and this is how we do it. All we need do is something, anything, to attract their attention, and they will promptly go wherever that is, at which point we move on while they hunt and fret and trip over each other. When they get bored, we drop another bone in another place. We could keep them busy for years. I suspected as much. This was merely the test run.*

*'Test run'?* Brivari echoed. *Is this why you've championed our leaving? So you can set up an obstacle course for everyone down there?*

*I prefer to think of it as a 'treasure hunt',* Jaddo replied calmly. *But, yes, this is exactly what I had in mind. Why? What did you think we'd do? Find a hole to crawl into and stay there until our Wards emerge?*

*And why not?* Brivari demanded in exasperation. *We don't seem to be able to stay here without repeatedly attracting attention, but if we disappear completely—*

*And what makes you think we can do that? Valenti is confined to this place, but the FBI is not. Nicholas is not. Wherever we go, we will likely attract attention just as we've done here, and they have the resources to follow. We may as well use that to our advantage.*

*I know we can disappear because we already have,* Brivari said. *We lived in silence for a decade, and now we can't seem to.*

*Things changed,* Jaddo answered. *For ten years I hunted Pierce, and when I found him....* He stopped, recalling the rush of joy as Pierce had suffered again, and again, and again *.....when I found him, it unleashed something in me I found difficult to control, and which I admit attracted the wrong kind of attention. And you had no 'friends' but those allies whose loyalties had already been tested, then suddenly decided to expand your social circle and share far too much with strangers.*

*I shared nothing with Audrey.*

*Perhaps not. But your relationship with her and her suitor's subsequent objections set off an unfortunate chain reaction which helped bring us to where we find ourselves now. And you can hardly argue that you didn't 'share' with Atherton. He knew more about us than your Quanah, and misused it besides.* Jaddo paused. *If we move from one place to another and leave a false trail, we will accomplish the twin objectives of leading our enemies away from Roswell while discouraging you from forming the kinds of bonds which get us into trouble. It will be better this way.*

*Oh, of course—it's all my fault,* Brivari said acidly. *Even if I couldn't, experience should have taught you that the more of a 'trail' we leave, the more we fuel our enemies' determination to pursue us.*

*It's too late to affect that,* Jaddo said. *You know perfectly well that Nicholas will never stop looking under any circumstances. And do you really think Lewis will stop looking now that he has his own 'special unit' and evidence to bolster its existence? Even if he never hears of us again, he will hunt us until the day he dies. I wouldn't be surprised if Valenti does the same. No, the days when our absence would have discouraged anyone have passed. It's time for a new approach.*

Something moved nearby, and Jaddo suddenly found himself face to face with the king's Warder. *If you wish to argue for a 'new approach', so be it,* Brivari said severely. *But you're forgetting that we operate as a team. We may disagree, we may argue, we may have a mighty row, but whatever we do that concerns our Wards, we do together. You never breathed a word of this to me, and that was a mistake, one you would be well advised not to repeat.*

*My apologies,* Jaddo said smoothly. *I thought you too upset over Atherton's death—*

*I am never so 'upset' that I cannot fulfill my obligations,* Brivari broke in. *Don't ever make a move like this again without consulting with me first.*

Jaddo stared at him for a long moment before nodding slightly.

*As you wish.*





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




Walker Air Force Base,

Roswell





"Need help with that?" an airman called. "I've done my load."

"No, thank you," Michael replied quickly. "We've got it."

"You sure? Those are big ass crates, and we're taking off soon."

"We will be ready," Michael assured him. "Thanks for the offer."

The airman shrugged and ambled off as Michael and Nathaniel continued hoisting the crates into the belly of the cargo plane. "These are bloody heavy," Nathaniel grumbled as they heaved and sweated. "Another pair of hands would have helped."

"Another pair of hands comes with another pair of eyes," Michael reminded him. "The human military has already captured these once. Would you like to tell the Warders they've captured them again?"

Nathaniel dropped his eyes. "Of course not," he answered. "When you live right next to Nicholas, I guess you pick up his habit of bitching all the time."

"Not to mention his poor language," Michael said dryly.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly in a church," Nathaniel reminded him. "I've picked up more profanity here in an hour than I have in my entire time on Earth."

"Impressive," Michael deadpanned. "Let's get the last one."

Ten minutes later they slid wearily to the floor of the plane, leaning against one of the crates. "Do you have your written orders? Good," Michael said approvingly when Nathaniel produced the false "orders" from his pocket. "And you remember the name of your unit, your commanding officer, and—"

"I've got it," Nathaniel interrupted. "We've been over this a million times, and I promise you, I've got it."

Michael gave him a conciliatory nod. "Yes, of course you do. I'm just....anxious."

"Why? Our military operative took meticulous care to make all the paperwork legitimate—"

"I know she did," Michael said. "And it's nothing short of a miracle that we even have a resistance operative in such an advantageous position. I fought tooth and nail to get her placed there when we first arrived because I thought it might come in handy someday, but I never dreamed....." His voice trailed off as his eyes came to rest on the nearest crate. "I never dreamed we'd be using it this way," he finished. "This was....unexpected."

"And everything we wanted," Nathaniel added. He pushed himself to his feet, running a hand over the crate they'd been leaning against. "Have you looked at them?"

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"I....just haven't."

Nathaniel glanced out the open doors of the plane to the hangar beyond. "I want to see them. There's no one near. Not even close. We don't have to take the lid all the way off; just lift up a corner, and that'll be enough. We have fought so long and so hard for this....is it too much to ask just to look?""

Michael considered a moment, his own desire to see, to set eyes on what all of Antar was fighting to obtain for one reason or another warring with his desire to keep that same thing safe. "All right," he said finally. "Find a crowbar. But only one corner on one crate. I won't risk more."

"Done!" Nathaniel exclaimed, taking a minute to produce the tool. The crate's lid creaked loudly as it was pried loose, causing a moment of anxiety until they realized it had drawn no attention. A moment later, they lifted one corner.....and gasped when a shaft of soft light spilled from the opening.

"Good Lord," Nathaniel breathed, peering into the crate. "I can see....."

"I see it too," Michael whispered.

Both stared for what seemed like a very long time until their heads swung toward each other, and, as one, they began prying the opposite corner loose. A few seconds later, they lifted the entire lid and gazed in fascinated wonder at the contents.

The entire crate was filled with what bore a strong resemblance to a water balloon. It was nestled in straw, a large, liquid-filled sac which gave off a soft, pulsing glow, intensifying, then dimming, then intensifying again. And in the midst of that sac was a human child, a female with longish hair, small hands, and those impossibly small eyes. The child moved slightly as they watched, as though aware of the scrutiny.

"Which one do you think it is?" Nathaniel asked.

"It's female, so it's either Ava or.....look at that," Michael finished, brushing aside some straw to reveal an inscription in one corner.

"Vilandra," Nathaniel read. "Hard to believe that this tiny thing was the cause of all this. She looks so....innocent."

"She was innocent," Michael sighed. "A bit too innocent. That was the problem."

"Do you really think Khivar would love her in this new form? She'll be so different from him, much taller when full grown. I can't imagine he'd enjoy that."

"A moot point," Michael replied. "When Vilandra emerges, I doubt she'll be harboring tender feelings for the man who betrayed her and murdered her brother."

"What do you think she'll do to him?" Nathaniel murmured as the hybrid rolled lazily in its sac. "We've seen what the Warders can do. These will be able to do all that too."

"And more, supposedly," Michael answered. "These have fully human brains. They will be beings of unprecedented power."

"Then....." Nathaniel hesitated. "Then are we doing the right thing by bringing them back like this? What if we can't control them? What if even their Warders can't control them? What if they're so angry about what happened that they—"

"Enough," Michael said firmly. "We can play the 'what if' game for the rest of our lives and never guess the right answer. We can only do what seems best based on what we know right now, and we know that Khivar is the wrong choice to rule Antar, with Nicholas even worse. But you raise a valid point, and that is why it is imperative we protect the Warders too because only they will be able to challenge them."

Voices sent them scrambling for the lid. "Good luck," Michael whispered before he climbed out of the plane. "And remember, use the telephone."

Michael waited until the plane was safely in the air before driving back to Roswell. The past few hours had been a whirlwind of activity, so much so that he hadn't had time to fret. Now, with the last operative gone, it was a waiting game until he heard from them, which unfortunately provided him with plenty of time to worry. And so it was that he approached his scheduled meeting with Nicholas with less disgust than usual because it would at least serve to take his mind off things, especially since the purpose of the meeting was to discuss Khivar's reaction to what had transpired here of late. Watching Nicholas be taken to task had its recreational benefits.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Michael said when Greer opened the door to Nicholas' room. "My watch stopped." He paused, taking note of the unusual number of people in the room.

"What's this?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"





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



Ruth Bruce's boarding house




The light snapped on. Startled, Courtney jerked awake, blinking in the glare.

"Get up," a stern voice commanded.

I'm being robbed, Courtney thought desperately. She'd heard about this, especially with young women who lived alone. She'd also heard that their valuables weren't the only thing they were robbed of. Instinctively she backed away from the still-blurry figure, planning to tumble out the other side and have the bed between them.

Rough hands cut that plan short. Panic or shrinking pupils cleared her vision, and when it cleared, she discovered it was worse than she'd thought. Far worse.

"Get dressed," Greer ordered. "You're coming with me."



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


I'll post Chapter 89 next Sunday.