Alien Nation #7 - Extreme Prejudice Read online

George spat out a fierce Tenctonese curse and waded into the milling crowd, careful not to knock down any humans with his greater strength. As much as he sympathized with Sikes, he couldn’t allow his partner’s anger to trigger a riot—not here, where TV cameras could record the tragedy for the entire nation to see.

  “Matthew!” George heard the cursing first, then spotted the familiar leather jacket inside a struggling clot of denim. One good strong tug broke the knot of protesters apart and let him drag Sikes out of its center, back toward the clearer space of the sidewalk. Blows rained down on him from all sides, but George merely hunched his shoulders and ignored them. Unfortunately, he couldn’t enforce the same decision on Sikes. He had to grab his partner by the shoulders and throw him against the far rope to stop his furious attempt to dive back into the crowd.

  “It’s not going to do any good!” George held Sikes with a warning hand at his throat while police swarmed the protesters and started cuffing them. “You’re not a policeman here. You can’t arrest them!”

  “I don’t want to arrest them!” Sikes retorted, wiping blood off his chin with one hand. His hair and jacket were soaked with slush where he’d fallen. “Where’s Cathy? Is she all right?”

  “I’m fine, Matt. Just a little wet.” Cathy stepped forward, out of Susan’s steadying grip. There was an angry pink bruise across her temple, but no other marks of injury. The older linnaum with the scarred face hovered beside her, carefully shielding her from the hungry lenses of the TV cameras.

  “Oh, shit,” said Sikes, seeing the TV crews at last. He pushed at George’s hand, trying in vain to dislodge it from his neck. “Let’s get the hell out of here before we make the nightly news.”

  “Too late for that,” said the cold voice of the former Overseer. The stocky gannaum paused beside his wife, glaring at George in disgust. “It’s bad enough that we have to be taunted and attacked by humans. Did you have to grovel and lick up their abuse like the spineless sansol trash you used to be?” He snorted and grabbed his wife’s arm, pulling her away from Susan and Cathy. George felt the skin around his eyes burn with frustrated anger as the Overseer’s voice rose. “It will serve you right if the humans show your shameful actions to the rest of their species and decide that Newcomers should never be allowed out of Los Angeles again. Once a slave, always a slave!”

  “Well, shit.” Sikes stared after him resentfully, even though the insults hadn’t been meant for him. “Who pissed in his coffee?”

  George forced a deep breath past the cramping muscles of his throat. “No one had to,” he said, tasting the bitterness of anger in his dry mouth. “Once an Overseer, always an Overseer.”

  C H A P T E R 3

  SIKES HAD TOLD Cathy he’d be sleeping. Instead, he lay in the dark of their hotel room and listened to the music of Cathy in the shower.

  It wasn’t just the smooth, subtle rhythm of her singing or the pleasantly alien sound of her words. It was the hollow thrum of the overheated pipes, the steady percussion of the water against the walls that kept him pleasantly awake. He liked the sound of her private industry, the little things she did when she was by herself and didn’t know he was listening. It was like sharing his life with two different women—the public one and the private who complemented each other so beautifully that he couldn’t help being in love with them both. He sighed a long sigh of the spicy, steamladen air creeping out from under the bathroom door, and smiled a little in the darkness. This was almost as good as sleeping, he decided, and a hell of a lot more restful than the plane.

  Three precise thumps on the hotel room door broke across the sound of Cathy’s shower. Sikes pulled a pillow over his face and thought about ignoring it, but the knocks only sounded again—equally measured and firm—and he realized with a growl that it must be George with a bug up his butt about something.

  His partner didn’t even say hello when Sikes pulled open the door. “I hope you’re happy.”

  Sikes squinted at him, tangling one hand in his hair as he propped his elbow against the doorjamb. “Delirious, George—I haven’t slept in two days. What do you want?”

  “The entire nation,” George said with a deep breath of frustration, “now knows that you’re an ass.”

  So what was new? “Excuse me?”

  George stepped past him into the darkened hotel room, making a beeline for the television even as Sikes turned and tried to blink his eyes back into focus after the brighter hall. The door latched softly shut behind them. “Beatrice Zepeda just telephoned—”

  “Zepeda?” Sikes followed his partner back into the room. “What? Is something wrong at the station?”

  “No. In fact, she was absolutely delighted because she and Sergeant Dobbs just finished watching the cable news.” The television screen sprang to grainy life while George played with the dial. The Newcomer’s face looked angular and too white in the dim lighting. “Ah, here we are.”

  George stepped back with a flourish as a grim announcer’s voice said, “—symposium in Pittsburgh today when a Newcomer guest attacked a human protestor outside the convention housing.” A video clip of a suited Newcomer throttling a snow-damp, struggling human monopolized the screen, and it took Sikes a moment to realize it was he and George from just a few hours ago. The grim Overseer’s inset image scolded, “It will serve you right if the humans show your shameful actions to the rest of their species and decide that Newcomers should never be allowed out of Los Angeles.”

  “Gee,” Sikes said, unimpressed, “they’re right—you do look ten pounds heavier on TV.”

  George turned off the television with a slap of his hand. “It’s not funny.”

  “I dunno, George.” Sikes turned back to his bed with a shrug. “Our buddy the Overseer certainly seemed to be having a good time.” He flopped amid the rucked-up covers and wished George would go away.

  “That’s exactly my point. What if humans who know nothing about Newcomers listen to him and believe the things he says? Confining us to Los Angeles would be just like making us slaves again.”

  Sikes opened one eye to peer up at his partner. “Nobody’s gonna confine you to L.A. Most of us don’t even wish that on each other.”

  George’s nose was wrinkled with concern, and it occurred to Sikes with some surprise that the Newcomer really was afraid of all the things the Overseer suggested. He pushed up onto his elbows, nudging George with his toe.

  “Hey, George, it’s just five minutes of news.”

  “Five minutes of news,” George said without looking at him, “that people will talk about for days.” He slid an unhappy look at Sikes. “This kind of exposure is important to us. I thought it was important to you.”

  Sikes felt a little sting of embarrassment mixed with his resentment but wasn’t sure why. “I’m just a guy who traveled cross-country with his girlfriend, George. I didn’t come here to be anybody’s good example.”

  “But you came here as my friend.” A little of the tightness eased around his eyes, and George looked suddenly fragile and afraid. “I’m asking you as my friend. Please, don’t give them any more reasons to hate us.”

  Sikes bit down on the back of his jaw. “In other words, behave.”

  “Please,” George said again, and whatever little knot of dissension fueled most of Sikes’s anger melted into regret.

  “All right,” he sighed, falling flat on the bed again. “I’ll try.” He halfheartedly tossed a pillow at George. “It’s not gonna be easy.”

  George caught the pillow against his chest, and smiled. “If this was going to be easy, Matthew, I wouldn’t even have had to ask.”

  An hour and a half of almost sleep helped a little, although eight or nine of the real thing would have been better. Still, in his line of work you learned to take what you could get, and Sikes was pretty sure he could function at least long enough to muddle through a press-sponsored dinner and the associated gushing. Waiting with Cathy for the Franciscos, he stole a glance at himself in the mirrored panel between the el
evator doors. He’d barely made eye contact with his image before having to clap both hands over his face in an effort to contain a monstrous yawn. Oh, yeah, he’d be fine.

  Cathy slipped her arm inside his suit jacket and fitted herself beneath his shoulder. “You don’t have to come,” she told him, somehow making it sound just as sincere as the first time she’d said it twenty minutes ago. “Why don’t you stay up in the room and sleep? I’ll bring you something from dinner.”

  “Knowing what you guys eat, I’d rather not take my chances.” Sikes let one arm fall across her shoulders while he scrubbed at his eyes with the other. “I wanna come,” he said around another, smaller yawn. “I came here to be with you. I don’t want to waste any of our time.”

  Cathy tipped her head and touched her cheek to his without commenting. Sikes knew that was as good as a kiss and a smile.

  “Oh, good heavens, I can’t believe what I see!”

  Sikes felt a burn of annoyance start in his stomach, but kept himself from saying anything until he’d turned to face the linnaum approaching from behind. She tossed her smooth, spotted head, and flashed him a flawless, overly perfect smile. “Detective Sikes, isn’t it? My goodness, but it is a small world!”

  Sikes took her extended hand and shook it once, trying to seem pleased. “I guess there’s no point in asking what you’re doing all the way out here.”

  Emma Bovary laughed a polyester laugh, and Cathy said stiffly into Sikes’s ear, “Matt, who’s your friend?” proving, perhaps, that women were women regardless of their species.

  “Not a friend,” Sikes said, releasing Emma’s hand to reach for Cathy’s, “just someone from a case about a year ago. Emma Bovary, this is my . . . friend, Dr. Cathy Frankel.”

  “A doctor! How charming.” Emma exchanged a hand touch with Cathy so quickly that Sikes wasn’t even sure if they’d made contact. “I’ve always loved the sciences,” she said, quite earnestly. “But modeling just keeps me so busy that I don’t know where I’d find the time.”

  “A model.” Cathy rolled wise aqua eyes toward Sikes. “How charming.”

  “Business,” he assured her.

  “Mmm hmm.” But she was smiling, which meant she was torturing him for the simple pleasure of it, not from any real uncertainty. “We can talk about this later.”

  Sikes smiled. “Promise?”

  Then Emma Bovary declared, “Oh, you both are so cute!” and ruined the moment. Sikes went back to studying his reflection in the mirror while Emma told them all about the summer she’d spent counseling Chuck and Di in the south of France.

  “Oh,” Susan said, quite softly. “I had no idea there would be so many people.”

  Neither had Sikes.

  People turned out like pigeons at a peanut stand for all kinds of human suffering—television reporters at big court trials, protestors and do-gooders at prisoner relocations, all kinds of idiots at every accident or shooting you could name. But stage something optimistic or intelligent, and you couldn’t pay people to so much as poke their noses through the door. So when the elevator doors hushed open on the hotel’s ballroom level, and the busy wall of white noise rolled over them, the Newcomers weren’t the only ones who winced. Sikes felt suddenly a little sick to his stomach and wished he’d stayed upstairs to sleep after all.

  “Well, come on, boys and girls.” Emma Bovary patted a playful hand on Sikes’s bottom, and he jumped. “We’re not getting anywhere standing in the elevator. There’s work to be done!”

  Sikes crammed his hands in his pockets, but let the general pressure of everybody else’s movement squeeze them all out into the vestibule. Emma made prissy faces in the elevator mirrors, checking her makeup, while George slipped up between Cathy and Susan to take Susan’s hand in his own. “Is that actually a network news team?” he asked, watching a small group of humans, tied together by wires and equipment, scurry by. It encouraged Sikes a little that George sounded just as uncertain as he felt.

  “You bet it is, hon.” Emma didn’t even turn to look at the bustling crews. Snapping closed her compact, she turned with expert smoothness and flashed a brilliant smile for anyone who happened to be watching. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—it’s show time.” She slipped into the flow of cameras and people without even saying ta-ta. Sikes bid her a silent good riddance.

  “Well, she was certainly a colorful girl.” No doubt Susan’s way of doing the same. Sikes snorted a little laugh but didn’t comment when Cathy glanced curiously over at him.

  “Where do you suppose we’re supposed to converge?” George asked, neatly deflecting the conversation to more practical concerns. He kept both hands very stiff and close to his sides, a sure sign he was nervous and trying to conceal it.

  “I dunno.” Sikes wondered what it was like to care this much about something you couldn’t really have any control over. It probably sucked. “Can’t you guys smell the food from here?”

  Cathy wrinkled her nose. “I can’t smell anything past all these humans.” Then, apparently realizing what she’d said, her eyes flashed dark with embarrassment and she slipped her arm through Sikes’s. “Oh, Matt, I’m sorry! You know what I mean.”

  “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean.” He smiled, and laced his fingers with hers. “So where does that leave us? With—” He pantomimed shying away from the crowds with a gasp. “—exploring?!”

  George only had time to peer at him like a grade school teacher before a woman’s voice interrupted from behind, “Excuse me—Mr. Sikes?”

  They turned as a unit, Sikes disentangling from Cathy as he did so. “Yeah?”

  The elegant older woman behind them smiled, motioning her younger companion to follow as she stepped up and stretched out her hand. “I’m Nancy Thompson, the symposium organizer.” She fidgeted one-handed with a long string of pearls around her neck. “This is Kathleen Westbeld, the program director for WQED.” The dark-haired younger woman bobbed forward to shake down the line of hands while Thompson explained, “Ms. Westbeld’s television station supplied most of the funding for the symposium and will be providing continuous coverage throughout the week, not to mention a feed to the cable news stations. That means a lot of good publicity for us all.” Thompson beamed gratefully at Westbeld, who combed back a mass of shining brown hair with one hand and smiled.

  “This is a pretty big coup for Pittsburgh all the way around,” the executive admitted. “I’m happy to be a part of it.”

  “Kathleen, meet Matt Sikes and Dr. Cathy Frankel,” Thompson let off toying with her necklace long enough to reach out and draw Susan a few steps forward. “And Susan and George Francisco.”

  George nodded in acknowledgment of Westbeld’s bright “Pleased to meet you,” looking, if anything, even more nervous. “I’m impressed, Ms. Thompson. I hadn’t realized you were so familiar with your symposium attendees.”

  “Well, we try,” Thompson said with a little blush. “Admittedly, your group is a little easier to pick out than some.” She slid a shy, self-conscious glance at Sikes, and he knew what they were talking about even before she felt the need to tell Westbeld, “Mr. Sikes and Dr. Frankel are our only mixed couple at the symposium.”

  Westbeld’s ears perked up like a K-9 over a kilo of cocaine. “Oh, really?” Never taking her eyes or her smile off their group, she backed up a few steps and motioned to someone around the corner whom Sikes couldn’t see. “Are you just friends, or actually, you know, involved?”

  Cathy’s eyes widened a little with surprise, and Sikes stated bluntly, “None of your damn business.”

  Westbeld cocked her head in an obvious effort to show no malice of intent. “Come on,” she cajoled as one of the roving camera crews rounded the vestibule to join her. “You know what I mean—”

  Sikes resisted an impulse to shove Cathy behind him and cover her retreat. “I know exactly what you mean, and it’s none of your damn business.” He glowered at the technician who was busy mounting a camera on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go
talk to Emma Bovary? She’ll tell you more about her than you’d ever want to hear.”

  “Look, Mr, Sikes,” Westbeld said, “you really don’t have to worry. I like Newcomers, I’m on your side.”

  “Then that’s where you’re wrong,” Sikes told her, “ ’cause I’m not on anybody’s side.” The cameraman scooted a good three feet closer, and Sikes clapped a hand over the lens sharply enough to make the technician yelp. “You either put that thing away, or I’m gonna stuff it straight up your ass.”

  Westbeld locked stares with Sikes for nearly a minute, then looked away and sighed. “Do it, Adam.”

  The technician already had the lights turned off and the camera cradled against his chest. “Hey,” he said, peering at Sikes, “aren’t you the guy who got pounded by one of the Newcomers this morning?”

  “Yes.” George sounded particularly aggrieved. “I’m the one who was beating him.”

  “It happens all the time.” Sikes, taking Cathy by the elbow, slipped back between the Franciscos to exit the other side of the vestibule. “We were fighting about a girl.”

  “. . . and certainly you recognize the handsome fellow over there with Geraldo? That’s Scott Free. He and his wife, Sandi, write together under the nom de plume L. A. Graf—the most marvelous science fiction novels about all the places they visited while on the spaceship and the significance of their experiences here on Earth. They’re naming a character after me in their next book. A darling couple, just darling, and so honest . . !”

  Sikes wasn’t sure about the Newcomer definition of darling, but the weedy gannaum with the vest and sweater looked more nerdy than darling to him. His wife was as unremarkable as pudding.

  “Writers?” Susan pushed the remnants of what might have been lizards or squids or something equally grotesque to the edge of her plate and politely looked where Emma pointed. “Have you known them long?”

  Oh, Susan, don’t talk! Sikes silently groaned. You’ll just encourage her! His own food didn’t look a whole lot better than the Newcomers’. It was cooked, but he still wasn’t sure what the gray mass in the middle was supposed to be. He’d actually started envying Cathy her salad plate.