) CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
December 12, 1947, 3 p.m.
Copper Summit, Arizona
His hand poised over the handprint lock to the lower basement level, Malik hesitated, still uncertain. He had been nothing but a walking tornado of emotions since the arrival of Orlon and the others, unable to decide how he felt about this latest development. He'd expected a delegation of Covari at some point, but this? This he had not been expecting. This could change everything, tipping him sideways on that delicate middle line he'd been treading ever since the pursuit of the Royal Warders had begun.
Pressing his hand to the handprint, the door rumbled open and Malik descended the steps to the lower level. Light from the tanks gave off a soft glow, the forms inside moving gently as they always did as emergence neared. He found her leaning against one of the tanks, staring at the figure inside, lost in thought much as he had been only moments before.
"These were our payment," Malik said, leaning against another tank. "This is what we demanded in exchange for helping Khivar."
"I'm amazed anyone would even attempt this," Marana answered. "But they appear to be growing nicely. All the indicators are within normal range." As she spoke, she pointed to the display on the nearest tank, stopping to stare at her tiny human hand.
"I just can't get used to this form," she said wistfully. "I'm a bioscientist; my job doesn't require me to shift much. Now my hands are so small I can't seem to do anything with them. I can't see as well because human eyes are too small to allow for our normal peripheral vision. I altered my lungs to accommodate this thinner atmosphere, but I'm still feeling a little light-headed. And what's with these?" she added, kneading the soft protrusions on her chest. "I'm bumping into everything."
Malik suppressed a smile; from what he'd heard, a lot of human women would love to have breasts that large. " 'Those' produce food for human young," he noted, "and you could always make them smaller. You can also elongate your eyes just a bit when you need to. I do it all the time. No one notices."
"I noticed," Marana said glumly, "and I'm just not that good at it. At least I'm not good at doing it so that some human standing nearby doesn't scream and run for cover."
"You'll get used to it," Malik said kindly. "Give yourself some time. You just got here."
Marana raised her eyebrows. "Like you 'got used to it'? You seem very comfortable here. Very comfortable." She paused a moment, dropping her eyes. "We thought you were dead."
"We almost were," Malik said quietly. "For the second time."
"I haven't had a chance to tell you this," Marana said in a low voice, glancing back toward the door as if afraid she'd be overheard, "but I did some checking. When you ran....when you thought you were being sent to the labs....you were never in any danger, Malik."
"I was never in any danger?" Malik echoed. "What about the rest of us?"
"You would have been fine," Marana replied, sidestepping his question. "After the surgery, you would have been able to do at least some of the things the Warders can do."
"You didn't answer me," Malik said pointedly. "What about the others? What about Amar? What would have happened to them?"
Marana looked him directly in the eye. "What do you think?"
Malik felt his throat tighten. He'd known, of course. He'd known that Zan, and his father before him, had broken their promises and ordered troublesome Covari to the labs, effectively a death sentence. To know was one thing; to hear it confirmed, and so casually, was another.
"You don't sound like you disagree with the practice," Malik said accusingly.
"Think of the alternative," Marana said. "Given the choice, which would you pick? Labs...or hunters?"
Hunters. The word hung in the air like smoke, every nerve in Malik's body protesting the presence of the four in his living room, staring into space, bereft of an assignment....for the moment. "Enough small talk," Marana said softly, her eyes fastened on his. "That's what you came down here to talk about, isn't it?"
Malik hesitated only a moment before taking the plunge. "Marana, how could you go along with this? Do you actually agree with having those...those things up there?"
"Hold it," Marana said firmly. "In the first place, I am in no position to agree or disagree with anything. I'm not in charge here. I don't make those decisions. I don't like them any more than you do, but under the circumstances, I don't see another way."
"Oh, I see," Malik said, his temper rising. "You're not 'in charge', so you expect absolution, but it's clear that were you in charge, you'd do exactly the same thing."
"In the second place," Marana continued, ignoring him, "you know better than any of us what we're up against. Our people are nearly impossible to hold captive, and with the Warders' enhanced abilities, we won't even get close enough to try. This is the only way."
"Hunters kill," Malik argued. "Even Amar would realize the futility of killing the Warders before we've discovered the location of the hybrids."
"Correction," Marana countered. "Hunters follow instructions. They acquire a target, in whatever way they've been ordered to. And these hunters have been ordered only to retrieve."
"And then what?" Malik asked. "We still have no way to contain them. That's precisely why Amar and I were ordered not to pursue them in the first place. What are you going to do? Put them in stasis and ship them back home? What will that accomplish?"
"Probably nothing," Marana admitted, "which is why stasis is a last resort."
"So what's the 'first resort'? Amar's device isn't workable yet, and—"
"I'm not talking about Amar's device," Marana interrupted. "I'm talking about the serum he told us about."
Malik went cold. "What?"
"I'm not quite sure how it works," Marana continued, "and I doubt the humans are either, but I know what it does: It blocks the Warders new abilities."
"It does more than that. It also prevents them from shifting."
Marana looked away. "I know," she said quietly.
"You 'know'?" Malik repeated in disbelief. "You know? Do you mean to tell me that you're willing to trap two of your own in one form?"
"What other choice do I have?" Marana objected, her voice rising. "You know how dangerous they are!"
"How would you like to be trapped in this form?" Malik demanded, grabbing Marana's tiny human hand and holding it in front of her face. "Is that something you'd want done to you?"
"Of course not!" Marana exclaimed, pulling her hand away. "That's not the point! The point is that Brivari and Jaddo came down on the wrong side of a political coup. Orlon tried to reason with Brivari after their escape, and he would have none of it. That's a choice he made, and it turns out it was a bad one."
"That still doesn't make it right."
"Then what do you think we should do?" Marana asked, exasperated.
"Since neither side is in a position to win by force, the only option left is to negotiate a truce," Malik said.
"Are you crazy?" Marana exclaimed. "Brivari isn't going to 'negotiate'! He doesn't have to! Assuming even one Zan hybrid survives with the mark, all he has to do is wait. And when Zan reappears, every single one of our people will be his to command. Including me. Including you. Is that what you want? I'm guessing it isn't, or you wouldn't have run."
"Negotiating has a better chance of success than your approach," Malik argued, ignoring her question. "Even if you manage to cripple the Warders, they'll never tell you where the hybrids are."
"Maybe not willingly."
Malik's eyebrows rose. "Meaning?"
"Meaning there are many ways of making people talk," Marana answered.
Malik stared at her for a moment in silence. "I can't believe you just said that," he whispered. "First it's acceptable to simply get rid of those you don't want, and now it's acceptable to torture your own people. Perhaps Amar was right. Perhaps bioscientists really are nothing but animals at heart."
"Don't try to pin this on me!" Marana exclaimed angrily. "If you don't like what's happening, then find the hybrids. That's what Khivar really wants; if he had the hybrids, he wouldn't care about the Warders. Zan is the key to all of this. Whoever controls him controls the future."
"And how am I supposed to find what is probably the biggest secret on this planet?"
Marana walked closer, her humans eyes boring into his own. "I know you, Malik. You're not like Amar. You don't blunder around like an idiot, ruining everything in your path. You're quiet. You're patient. You watch and listen. If anyone had caught even a whiff of the hybrids' location, it would be you. Are you sure you don't know where they are?"
Malik stared at her, hoping she couldn't sense his heart pounding as images of the old laboratory chamber swam before his eyes, with the hybrids floating peacefully in their sacks. He'd promised her he'd tell her first if he ever discovered their location. When they'd been communicating secretly and she'd sounded critical of Khivar, he'd thought that might not be a bad idea were the occasion ever to arise. Valeris was dead, and the hybrids had no keeper knowledgeable about the process they were undergoing. Now, hearing what she was willing to do, he could hardly believe he'd even considered it.
"I told you I don't know where they are," Malik answered, his voice cold. "And frankly, after what I've just heard, I'm not sure I'd tell you if I did."
Marana's eyes widened. "Don't let Orlon hear you say that."
"Are you going to tell him I said that?"
She held his gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes. "No."
"Good," Malik said flatly, heading for the door, certain he'd strangle her if he stayed a moment longer. Marana caught him, spun him back around.
"Don't be so quick to judge," she said, her voice catching. "This isn't an easy situation for any of us. We've all had to make some hard decisions, and we'll likely have more to make in the future." She paused, stepping closer. "We're going to get them tomorrow night. Orlon and Amar are upstairs now going over the layout of the base and Brivari's hiding place. If you really think it's possible to negotiate with them, I'll see to it that you get your chance."
We're going to get them.... Malik shivered at the certainty in her voice, the absolute conviction that they would succeed. And why wouldn't they? With four hunters, no warning, and human vision compromised after dark, both Warders would be easy targets. Once they were captured, they would have two choices: Give Zan up, virtually assuring both his death and theirs, or remain captive and tortured as long as they remained alive. And with the human serum, that could be a very long while indeed. Regardless, the Warders' capture would make the pendulum of power swing sharply in the opposite direction.
"Thank you," Malik said to Marana, who was waiting expectantly for him to say something. "I'd appreciate a chance to talk to them."
"You'll get it," Marana promised.
Not like this, I won't, Malik thought as he left the room. Not if I have anything to say about it. He'd managed to hover in the middle for quite some time now. But sooner or later, anything that hovered had to land.
******************************************************
9 p.m.
Klassy Kat Tavern
David Proctor eased onto the barstool next to Charles Dupree just like he had every Saturday night since the day after Halloween. Only difference was that tonight wasn't Saturday, it was Friday—Mac and Rose had left town for a short trip and wouldn't be back until late tomorrow. David had been secretly relieved and excited when Mac had told him he needed to cancel their usual Saturday outing....and guilty for feeling that way. His relief stemmed from the increasing difficulty he was having dodging questions about the fact that he always stayed later than Mac, and the excitement because this presented a rare opportunity to meet Dupree when he was sober instead of extremely well-oiled.
It turned out that well-oiled hadn't been working. For six weeks David had sat next to Dupree for well over an hour, always greeting him courteously and buying him at least one beer, waiting for him to say something else. But Dupree hadn't spoken since the night after Halloween, save for the occasional grunt of thanks when a new beer was presented to him. He'd shut down after recognizing the swirling alien symbol David had drawn on a napkin and making his cryptic comment about the aliens wanting children. That comment, and the fear it engendered, was the reason David had been willing to sit on a barstool in silence week after week, patiently waiting for more information.
After Dupree had literally fallen asleep on the bar last week, it had occurred to David that perhaps approaching him after that much beer wasn't the best idea. The booze he'd hoped would loosen Dupree's tongue appeared to be having the opposite effect. The helpful bartender, who'd been watching this drama with increasing interest, had readily supplied the time Dupree usually arrived—between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. on Friday evening, at which point he was sober. Friday's intake of alcohol carried over to Saturday, meaning that by the time David usually got to him, Dupree had already slid into a morose, semi-inebriated funk. Tonight was the first opportunity to approach him before he reached that point.
"Evenin', Dave," the bartender said as David settled onto his stool. "The usual?"
"Yes, thanks," David replied, glancing sideways and nodding to Dupree, his usual greeting. Dupree was notoriously jumpy—he didn't like anyone looking directly at him, and was suspicious of anyone who spoke to him. Despite his brief success with conversation last month, David had been careful not to make eye contact and restricted himself to nonverbal communication.
"Name's Dupree. Charlie Dupree."
David's eyes widened. Spontaneous conversation and an introduction, all in one sentence? Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. A beer slid in front of him, the index finger of the hand holding it extended. David looked up to see the bartender giving him a knowing look; he tapped on David's beer, deliberately eyed Dupree's, and brandished the single finger again before moving on to another customer. He's on his first beer, David thought, deciphering the code. That first beer was only half drunk, so Dupree was now as sober as David was likely to find him. And more talkative, from the sounds of things.
"David Proctor," David replied, not extending his hand, knowing it wouldn't be taken.
"Where's your friend?" Dupree asked still looking into his beer.
"Out of town," David replied, surprised that Dupree knew David usually came here with someone else. Perhaps he wasn't as out of it as he appeared.
Dupree returned silently to his beer. David sipped his own, wondering if his luck had run out just as suddenly as it had begun. The bartender moved away, pouring drinks for other customers. The tavern wasn't busy at this early hour, so it wasn't long before he was back, straightening the bar, polishing glasses, and tallying tabs from the dog-eared book he kept in his pocket, all within earshot of David and Dupree.
"Live around here?" Dupree asked suddenly.
"All my life."
"You get nightmares?"
The bartender's pencil stopped skritching. David risked a glance sideways. Dupree was still staring into his beer like he hadn't said a word.
"Yeah," David answered. Granted, he hadn't had many nightmares recently, and most of those had belonged to someone else, but Dupree hadn't been specific.
"We all do," Dupree whispered, his finger tracing the rim of his beer glass. "Everyone who got taken, like we did. What do you hate most about the nightmares?"
That one was easy. "The faces," David said truthfully, thinking of Christianson's face as he fell back into the hands of the Japanese, his daughter's face covered in blood, and Dupree's own young face, contorted in terror.
"You dream a lot?" Dupree continued. David caught a glimpse of the bartender's surprised face. He'd probably never heard Dupree talk this much.
"Not so much anymore," David admitted, "now that the war's been over for awhile."
"You in the war?"
"Yup."
"Grunt or officer?"
David smiled faintly. "Captain."
Dupree nodded knowingly, as though David had just confirmed some suspicion of his. "I never went. Number never came up."
"You were lucky," David commented.
"No," Dupree said, shaking his head. "My number just came up somewhere else." He took a gulp of beer, downing at least half of what was left.
"I guess mine came up twice then," David said. The bartender finished his tallying, tucked his pad into the pocket of his apron, and busied himself rearranging the bottles along the back, still close enough to hear. "What do you think they wanted with us, anyway?"
Out of the corner of his eye, David watched Dupree shake his head slowly. "Dunno. Something inside us—I know that much. But I don't know what it was, or what they wanted it for."
"How do you know they wanted something 'inside'?" David asked, mentally castigating himself a second later for blurting out another question so quickly. His excitement at finally getting somewhere after weeks of waiting would be short-lived if he scared Dupree off.
A glass thumped on the bar. "I need another," Dupree announced to the bartender, shoving the glass across the bar. A moment later, David felt something beside his right arm, and was startled to find Dupree leaning in closer to him. "I know," Dupree said, still not looking directly at David, "because I figured out how they got me, and how to work around it."
"How?" David asked, the bartender's gaze drifting his way again as he refilled Dupree's beer glass.
"Know why you don't remember?" Dupree asked. David shook his head. "They gave us something to make us sleep. Something we breathed in. It smelled good. Smelled sweet. Knocked us out cold."
Another beer appeared. David waited impatiently as Dupree drained a quarter of the glass before continuing. "One night I held my breath as soon as I smelled the sweetness. I held it as long as I could. Must've not gotten as much as they wanted me to, 'cos when I woke up, I was....." Dupree stopped, his voice growing shaky. "When I woke up, I was with them. They were putting me back into my bed."
"Did you tell anyone?" David asked.
Dupree gave a bitter snort. "Sure I did. But nobody listened. Everybody said I'd had a bad dream. They were right about that," he added darkly. "Like I said before, nobody listens to kids."
Like I almost didn't, David thought, remembering his reaction to Dee's fanciful tale that night she'd made the stick design in the backyard. Thank God he'd had the sense to check out her story every way he could instead of just dismissing it.
"So what'd you do?"
"I practiced holding my breath," Dupree said, draining another quarter of his glass. "A lot. The longer I held it, the less I got of whatever they were trying to give me, and the sooner I woke up. The next time, I woke up while they were carrying me back to my house. Time after that, I was out in the desert. I never budged. I didn't want them to know I was awake."
This time Dupree sucked his glass dry, pushing it across the bar toward the bartender for a refill with a hand David noticed was becoming unsteady. That was beer number two, and they were starting to take effect. Better talk fast. "And?" David prompted.
"And then I woke up while they were still working on me," Dupree said, his voice sounding far away. Throwing caution to the winds, David looked directly at him, recognizing those wide eyes, glazed with the horror of memory. He'd seen those eyes, that expression, before......
"And you panicked," David said. "I remember now. You panicked, and jumped off the table, and they all tried to hold you down, to—"
David stopped as Dupree swung his head around to stare at him just as a third glass of beer appeared. His eyes were still wide with shock, but it was a different kind of shock this time.
"How did you know that?" Dupree demanded. "You weren't there!"
"I.....I must have been," David stammered, kicking himself for spitting out a borrowed memory so carelessly. "How else would I remember?"
"There was only one other kid there that night, and it wasn't you!" Dupree exclaimed, still staring at him. "Which can only mean one thing."
Before David could ask what that "one thing" was, Dupree grabbed his beer glass, smashed it on the bar, and scraped a piece of ragged glass across David's exposed forearm. Red blood poured from the cut, reddening the puddles of beer on the bar and staining David's shirt.
"What the hell are you doing?" exclaimed the bartender, launching himself over the bar at Dupree, pushing him away from David. Two other patrons dragged Dupree off his stool, staring at David's arm as they held Dupree in a hammerlock. "Jesus, what'd he do to you?" one of them asked. Beer covered the bar, dripped onto the man's shoes as he spoke.
"You two have a fight?" asked the other.
"This here's a loony," announced one of the bystanders who'd gathered, lured by the excitement. "Thinks aliens got'im."
The bartender had hastily handed David a rag, and as he held it to the cut, David looked at the faces surrounding them. Derisive faces, laughing faces, angry faces—all but Dupree's. He had made no effort to resist; he was just staring, staring at David's arm as the red blood welled up and stained the white rag.
"You need a doctor?" the bartender was asking.
"I don't think so," David said, surprised to find his voice a bit on the shaky side.
"Want me to call the Sheriff?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure," David said. "Let him go," he added to the patrons holding Dupree.
"Mister, are you nuts too? This guy just attacked you!" one of them protested.
"He won't do it again," David assured them. "It was just a misunderstanding."
The patrons turned to the bartender for support, but the bartender just shrugged. Reluctantly, they released Dupree, muttering under their breaths about nutcases and those who tolerated them.
Still staring at David's arm, Dupree leaned against the bar, shaking violently. "I'm sorry," he said in a ragged voice. "But I had to know." He pulled out his wallet and threw a five dollar bill on the bar. "Keep the change....for the glass," he muttered to the hovering bartender, who glared at him. Then he paused, leaning in toward David.
"They don't always look like aliens, you know," he whispered, looking David directly in the eye for the first time. "Sometimes they look like us."
Dupree walked away, a smattering of jeers and catcalls following him to the door. The bartender snorted with disgust before he was even out of earshot. "Damned fool," he muttered. "I'd never heard his spiel, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Had me going there for a while, with that tale about waking up early and seeing things. And now he goes and attacks you for no good reason? Jesus Christ Almighty!"
"He had a reason," David said, wincing as he pulled the rag off the wound.
"He did? What?"
David hesitated, wondering if perhaps he'd be branded a "loony" if he answered. "He wanted to know if I was an alien."
"You?" the bartender exclaimed in disbelief. "Now I know he's crackers! Jesus! If—"
"I need to wash this off," David interrupted, cutting the bartender's rant short.
"Sure thing. Back here," the bartender said, indicating the door to the back room. "That's cleaner than the bathroom'll ever be."
Walking around the bar and through the swinging doors, David held the rag over his cut, feeling curious stares follow him all the way. There was a utility sink in the back room, and he held his arm under cold running water, washing away the blood. Some of it had dried already, so dark it was almost black....but not as black as Brivari's had been that first day he'd arrived at their house with a broken leg. Not as black as the stain on Dee's sneaker that Valenti had waved under his nose. Aliens did not bleed red, and Charles Dupree knew that.
David turned off the faucet with his elbow. The cut was neither wide nor deep, and the alcohol had probably sterilized it. He dried his arm with a clean end of the rag, watching through the window as the bartender cleaned the beer and blood off the bar and swept up the shattered glass. A minute later he appeared in the back room with a dust pan full of glass, sending it tinkling into a nearby trash can.
"You need stitches?" the bartender asked.
"No," David answered. "It's not deep."
"Mighty nice of you not to press charges," the bartender said. "Sure as hell, I would."
"It's not Charlie's fault," David said quietly.
"That so? Then whose fault is it? The 'aliens'?"
I'm not sure, David thought to himself as the bartender left, chuckling, but I intend to find out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll post Chapter 64 next Monday, December 26th. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday!
They are just creepy, those hunters, I'm telling you, creeeeeeeeeepy! 
