Analog Science Fiction and Fact 04/01/11 Page 12

  “Their nervous system is entirely different—delocalized along a huge central cord with nodes along its length. They’ve let us do EEG studies using modified equipment, but so far we haven’t made much sense of the data.”

  Tomma Lee wanted to ask what it was like probing the electrical activity in the nervous system of a five-foot exoskeleton, but the image repulsed her. Instead she said, “Thank you, Adrian. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Adrian was looking for something among the clutter on his desk, finally holding up a photo. It was the two of them in Paris on their honeymoon. They had asked someone to take their picture against the flying buttresses at the back of Notre Dame. “Hey, Tomma Lee,” he said. “Remember this?”

  Tomma Lee saw herself in shorts and sunglasses, smiling broadly, her head on Adrian’s shoulder. He appeared to be saying something. The dead past caught in her throat and she looked away. “Good-bye, Adrian. Thanks again,” she said and hung up, staring for a full minute at the bare tabletop.

  XI

  Joe Greyfox had sat at the edge of the interstate, his chin on his knees, for nearly half an hour, watching the growing storm. The voice would talk to him from time to time, simpering with confused regret and sobbing accusations. “God, lady, what do you want?” he said at one point as lightning flashed in the distance. There had been no answer.

  Years ago, as a teenager, some of his friends had dared him to eat the sacred mushroom. Then, too, there had been lightning in the desert sky. He had heard the voices of his ancestors. Joe had read about flashbacks, but that had been, what, twenty years ago? His great-grandfather—a man who had died before his father had been born—had spoken painful, shameful accusations: “Why haven’t you reclaimed what is ours?” He had wept bitterly through a four-hour bad trip, his girlfriend holding his head in her lap and rocking him through most of it.

  But this was different. Hold me, Johnny! I know you didn’t mean it!

  “Get out of my head, lady,” he muttered, rubbing sore ribs. “I’m not Johnny!”

  It was fully dark now. Several cars had raced past him in the opposing lane, not noticing, or perhaps not caring to get involved.

  Eventually, he had remembered the old phone in the panel truck’s glove box and peered down into the darkness. He could dimly make out the truck, poised perilously, and imagined his weight pitching the truck in a tumbling roll into the steep ravine. Too dangerous. And he was hallucinating. No, it was better to stay here and thumb a ride, he thought. But traffic was light and mostly in the wrong direction.

  Maybe direction didn’t matter. He stood up with a painful grunt, determined to flag down the next approaching vehicle in whatever direction.

  That gun scares me, Johnny. Get rid of it, you don’t need that!

  “Jesus! Am I going nuts?” he said. “I’m Joseph Greyfox, and all I want to do is get back to my apartment in Phoenix!”

  If you go out with that gun I won’t be here when you get back!

  The headlights of an eighteen-wheeler were approaching in the near lane. The distant twin beams glared at him. With something like the effort of will that had finally stifled the voice of his great-grandfather, Joe pushed at the woman’s voice and felt it fade. He stepped out onto the asphalt, determined to stop the speeding trailer or be run down, as the first drops of rain began to fall.

  XII

  Tomma Lee had showered early and was in her pajamas by 8 P.M., finishing the Doc Challenger piece. She had incorporated enough of the technical background Adrian had supplied to satisfy her professional integrity while adding enough folksy superficiality to simulate the original Doc Challenger’s style. She had made the Neighbors’ purported lack of sleep the butt of a joke about their invention of a sleeping pill. Mimicking the “down-home” patois had been easy but distasteful, and she decided to ask Cliff to assign future columns to someone else.

  The feature story on the Neighbors was more problematic. She had wasted an hour reviewing old video of Friel in the Hive, chumming it up with what struck her as five-foot cockroaches. It wasn’t coming together, and her palms still itched. Sorting through notes from Friel’s anecdotes increasingly felt like they were all irrelevant fluff. She couldn’t shake the notion that there was a story—maybe a big story—here, but she hadn’t found it.

  At eleven she gave up in frustration and began scanning the news channels. The BBC was covering breaking news—a bombing of the UNERCO headquarters in Paris that had occurred only hours ago. She killed the mute key: “. . . a stolen traffic helicopter loaded with high explosives crashed into the roof of the UNERCO Headquarters Building at the Place de Fontenoy . . .” the reporter was saying, as in the distance police floodlights played across the smoking ruin, encircled with the blinking red lights of fire trucks and police cars. “In a recorded message, Holy Alliance leader Liam O’Brian claimed responsibility for the attack, in which thirty-one are known dead and over two hundred have been taken to the hospital, some with life-threatening injuries . . . ”

  Tomma Lee stared at the still night-darkened recorded scene, shaking her head absently. The Holy Alliance were a group of strange bedfellows who had temporarily stopped hating each other in order to focus their collective hatred on the aliens and the people who worked with them. This would mean tightened security around the UNERCO Institute in New York. She found herself wishing desperately for Adrian to remain safe.

  The terrorist attack would, of course, now dominate the Reflecting Pool special issue, but she would still be under the gun to compose a human interest feature on Neighborly contacts. The networks and wire services would be full of this story for days. Hundreds of political and religious leaders would be badgered for comment. Dialing through the channels she already saw several interviews were running—the politicos vowing support for UNERCO and hinting at the search for a scapegoat for the security breach, the religious leaders all distancing themselves from the terrorists.

  Tomma Lee wanted espresso, but fear of another sleepless night led her to the refrigerator, where she stood for a moment frowning at its meager contents. With a shrug of resignation she grabbed a plate of cooked shrimp and a bottle of tomato juice. She poured some juice and carried the shrimp back to the sofa. Tucking her legs under her she dialed through a second menu of news channels.

  Even the secondary sources were hitting the terrorist bombing. One was rerunning a documentary on the Holy Alliance. The theater table filled with file footage of early group rallies in Cairo, Rome, and Dublin. There was lots of yelling, placards depicting the Neighbors with their stubby antennae enhanced into devil horns. Crosses, lunar crescents, and six-pointed stars were all in evidence.

  A local channel was showing a recent meeting of a U.S.-based splinter group: the Holy Union. By publicly renouncing violence they were considered legal, but on several government agencies’ “watch lists.” In one scene the milling throng had taken up a chant, raising and lowering their placards with the refrain: “Godless! Godless!” The speaker at the podium—a clean-shaven cleric of some sort with white hair and wire-rim spectacles—shouted them down: “It had two horns like a lamb,” he was saying, “but it spoke like a dragon!” The chanting subsided. “It deceived the inhabitants of the Earth with the signs it was allowed to perform! Soon no one could buy or sell except those who bore its evil number!”

  Tomma Lee recognized the paraphrase from the Book of Revelation, but she also recognized a familiar face in the crowd of enthused believers. She sipped the tomato juice and chewed a shrimp thoughtfully. Yes, it was Avery, the kid from photography. He was holding a placard that read, “They Are NOT My Neighbor!” and was listening to the speaker with rapt attention. A mop of auburn hair had fallen on his forehead, and he seemed eager to restart his chants.

  He was soon given his chance. The speaker leaned toward the crowd over the podium. “Shall we let these minions of that Evil One, the Lord of the Flies, despoil this Earth that God has sanctified?”

  The chorus of “No!” soon melded back
to “Godless!”

  Tomma Lee spun the dial but found nothing else of interest. Hard news had driven out most of the Silly Season, except for the white kitten in zero G. Some ad agency had already adapted it for a soft drink commercial. Some new ghost voice stories had appeared, but that was likely copycat hysteria—a reflection of world tensions. She drained the juice glass and snapped off the table.

  Tossing the shrimp remains in the disposal, Tomma Lee peered out between parted drapes at the delicate array of light pinpoints that was the Seattle skyline. She scratched her left palm. There was a Neighbor story for her somewhere. Possibly that local splinter group. She could talk to Avery tomorrow, get some names of the leaders. She would keep it confidential since Cliff would likely fire the kid if he knew about his playmates. Tomma Lee grimaced at the thought of a sub rosa tête-à-tête with the concupiscent dweeb, but right now it was the only new approach she could think of.

  She had better try to get some sleep. The deadline was approaching and tomorrow was likely to be a long day. She shut off the apartment lights, and in a few minutes climbed into bed.

  Two hours later, Tomma Lee was still awake. She was sweating and her hair was matted. Men’s faces kept intruding on her thoughts: Adrian, Friel, Avery, Cliff, even Scott Narvick. This is nuts, she told herself, I’ve got to get some rest. She threw back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed, peering blearily at the time: 3:10 A.M. Blinking at the darkened bedroom she felt herself coming fully awake. I’ll be walking around like a zombie tomorrow. There was too much on her plate right now for this. She stood up and padded across the rug, snapping on the bathroom light. Tomma Lee yawned at her pale image in the mirror.

  And there it was. Still in the sealed box Cliff had given her when he turned over McDermott’s notes and the half-finished “Doc Challenger” column. Tomma Lee picked it up and squinted at the cityscape logo with the shadowy bird in flight.

  It took almost a minute to get past the box and bottle seals. Then she spilled two tiny yellow pills onto her palm. Inexplicably, they frightened her a little; she had never taken any sleeping pills. If they worked she would get to work by noon, catch Avery at lunch, and maybe have the leads for a feature on anti-Neighbor hate groups in America.

  Adrian and the USFDA said they were safe. She filled a cup with cold water, popped the pills with a shrug, drank, then crawled back into bed.

  XIII

  Mr. Wong let Betty store her shopping cart in a pantry closet in the Heavenly Panda’s kitchen. The kitchen staff had been busily preparing dim sum for the lunchtime crowd when she staggered in the restaurant’s back door, still struggling to push away the woman’s voice, which came and went in intervals. Betty had decades of practice in acting natural as the voices whispered to her; it was the technique that had won her release from the hospital. That and the patches. She had checked that her patch was still on her shoulder several times during the tiring climb into Chinatown, because this voice was new and different—loud and insistent.

  Mr. Wong smiled at her from across the steam-filled kitchen as she and her cart had appeared framed in the alley doorway. “Betty,” he said, “you long face. You come, I give you nice chicken lo mein with fresh egg noodle!” They quickly set up a place for her at the end of a counter and brought hot food and tea. Mr. Wong barked some orders, then came over to her and leaned on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. “It go pretty rough for you?”

  She nodded, picking at the steaming food. The woman’s voice was sobbing just then, and the sound of it made her sad.

  Mr. Wong studied her face for several minutes. “Betty, you sick? Need doctor?”

  She shook her head, but a tear squeezed out of her left eye and rolled down her cheek as she sipped the tea.

  “I bet those hoodlum teasing you again. You stay here tonight. I make bed for you in one of the booths when we close.”

  The voice made some muffled sobs, but it was fading. It was going away now finally, she somehow knew, as a familiar voice began whispering in her ear.

  “I mus go,” Mr. Wong said, patting her shoulder. “We open now. You eat. We talk later.”

  Betty stirred the bowl of noodles with her fork. The old voices were back, but the patch kept them from hurting. It was somehow comforting.

  Life was good.

  XIV

  They had left the Saturday afternoon crowds at the Louvre and strolled along the shaded quai des Tuileries with the placid Seine on their right. It was a warm day in late July, and couples and families were enjoying the weather and the view. Some sat on the grass watching the light river traffic. Others milled around the stands of the street vendors. The great museum stretched out on their left across a stream of taxis, Smart Cars, and bicycles. Eventually, they reached the Pont Neuf, the oldest “new” bridge in Paris, and walked across to the Île de la Cité, pausing several times to watch tour boats glide up and down the waterway. Descending the steps behind King Henry IV’s statue, they followed the crowds down the island’s streets to Notre Dame. There they joined the queue on the Place du Parvis to enter the imposing cathedral at its Portal of the Last Judgment.

  Once inside the cavernous church, Tomma Lee looked back from the nave aisle at the immense west rose window over the portal they had just entered. When she turned, Adrian was already headed toward a second line at the entrance to the north tower. He waved to her to hurry: “The gargoyles. Come on!”

  He saved a place for her in the line to the disapproving frowns of the people behind. Tomma Lee was mildly annoyed. She had wanted to take in more of the church interior. This was, after all, a thousand years of history—where the Crusades had been proclaimed, where the revolutionaries had danced and mocked in a renamed “Temple of Reason,” where Napoleon had crowned himself emperor.

  Adrian noted something in her expression. “What’s the matter?” he said, arching a brow. “Are you okay?”

  She just shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Just a little headache.”

  They began to climb the stone steps as part of an endless line of tourists. Nearly four hundred steps later they had reached the open gallery between the two towers. The gargoyles, in all manner of open-mouthed horror, were drainpipes. There were also various grotesque beasts, demons, and sharp-beaked griffins. A cool breeze blew Tomma Lee’s hair across her face.

  “The south tower has the biggest bell,” Adrian was saying. “Are you up for another climb?”

  Tomma Lee had been studying the view of Paris while pushing back her hair. “Whatever you think . . .” she started to say, but when she turned, it wasn’t Adrian, but one of the Neighbors—all orange and oily and working its mouthparts. “Who are you?” she gasped, stricken with fear and revulsion. “Where is my husband?”

  XV

  Tomma Lee awoke without an alarm at 11 A.M., after nearly eight hours of refreshing sleep. She was left with only the faintest impression of a dream of indistinct content. The little yellow pills had done their job. She couldn’t remember when she had felt better rested.

  Normally not a breakfast eater, today she was ravenous. She microwaved pancakes and sausage and poured juice, not coffee. She found herself pedaling to the office with unaccustomed enthusiasm, even after she remembered her intention to squeeze a story out of Avery.

  The late breakfast had quenched her appetite, but she kept to her plan to intercept the secret Holy Unionist in the lunchroom. Tomma Lee surveyed the small throng milling among the vending machines and the knots of people at the lunch tables. No Avery. She was a bit surprised. On days when she was in the office she had always avoided the lunchroom at this hour to discourage his embarrassing youthful attentions. Could Cliff have caught the local news story last night and already fired him? Unlikely.

  Tomma Lee walked back toward the production graphics wing and tried the knob at photography. Sometimes it was locked if they were set up for a shoot, but the door opened easily. The lights were on, but no one appeared to be about. Tomma Lee stepped carefully arou
nd a maze of cables and light tripods toward an inner office area. Peering around the open doorway, she found the kid with his head down on folded arms on a desktop, apparently asleep.

  She hesitated for a moment, envisioning a disturbing scene in which the would-be Lothario would take this as a cue for action. But she needed to find out more about the Holy Union network—leaders’ names, links, if any, to the Eurasian terrorist Holy Alliance. The possibility of the kind of feature story tie-in to yesterday’s Paris bombing that Cliff would want. She would have to promise to keep Avery’s name out of it, if he would spill what he knew. It would be blackmail, but this was the news business. Anyway, she told herself, the kid was keeping nasty company.

  “Avery!”

  Evidently, the kid had been lightly dozing because he reacted like a firecracker had just gone off in the room. When he saw Tomma Lee standing in the doorway he began to shake.

  The effect she had produced shocked Tomma Lee. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

  “Tomma . . . Miss Evans . . .” Avery’s hands were trembling, and he hid them under the desk.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you sleeping?”

  “Yes . . . ah, no just . . . thinking . . .”

  Avery’s reaction was not at all what she had expected. He was behaving strangely, almost as if he were frightened of her.

  Tomma Lee pulled up an office chair and sat down. “Something’s bothering you, Avery.” She touched his arm, and he stared at her wide eyed. “You can tell me about it,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “I think I’m losing it, Miss Evans,” he said.

  She gave him a questioning look, trying to retain the smile.

  Avery stared at the wall, unable to meet her eyes. “I . . . heard you this morning,” he said. “It was your voice. I was sure it was you . . . I even started to answer. But I looked around in the elevator and you weren’t there.”