J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (9 page)

Nearby, the three who formed the Advocacy broke off their communion. Xashron looked at them and felt deep hatred for those hidden inside their hosts: Xana, Horek, Oshar. Strategists from the ruling class who spouted theory, who knew nothing themselves of war, but who planned the battles, decided who would live and who would die. To Xashron, they represented the idiocy of the ruling class; their carelessness, their impatience, caused the invasion to fail at the moment victory seemed surest. Over the protests of the lower-class scientists who feared not enough was known about the new planet, the government ordered the invasion. It was Xashron's duty to prepare the planet for his people, so they might leave their dying world to start anew. .
. Only,
he told himself bitterly,
so the ruling class can allow this planet as well to be poisoned by our technology.

And so Xashron, member of the military class, was obliged to forsake mate, carrier, children, and home, to come to this strange world. He was no lower-class servant. He was Supreme Commander, a member of the elite, in charge of an entire hemisphere's invasion . .. only to see all his soldiers perish from sickness until at last he, too, succumbed.

He wondered now how many of his people had survived.. . and how many of them had expired, torn and mangled beyond all awakening when they lost consciousness at the controls and their ships plunged

from the sky. Two of the metal containers he had opened contained the decayed, mortally wounded remnants of such soldiers. Even now he mourned.

The Advocate had, of course, survived without scars, having always been protected like a carrier from all violence.

The three of the Advocate moved and opened their eyes—small, strange eyes. It would have been far more just, Xashron reflected, for them to have died instead of his soldiers.

Xana, the lone female member of the Advocate, stared at Xashron with multicolored eyes: black in the middle, ringed with blue, then white. The body she had chosen was softer, as delicate and pampered as a carrier's. He began to speak to her in his native tongue, but she interrupted, displeased. "Speak as the body you occupy would speak."

"Yes, Advocate." The strange sensation of forming unknown words, hearing them with another's ears, yet somehow understanding. "How long have we been inert?"

"Unknown at this time." She, Horek, and Oshar frowned up at the harsh yellow sun adrift in a strange blue sky.

Horek, the member of the Advocacy Xashron despised the most for his lack of intelligence, spoke. His host body was male, slightly older than the others, and his control of it was inept. He articulated the words thickly, clumsily. "But many revolutions around their sun."

"These bodies are weak," Xashron challenged, "and contaminated by negative thoughts." The brain of his human host was disturbingly disorganized and undisciplined, making control of the body more difficult. The Council was correct in its judgment that the Earth inhabitants were of limited, fitful intelligence, and therefore could be exterminated without compunction. "We would more easily accomplish our mission in our natural state."

The three stared at him, then closed their eyes to consider. After a moment they simultaneously opened them again. "The consensus is," Horek said, "yours is not an accurate statement. These bodies protect us from detection."

"Until we know more," Xana added, "we will use the resources available to us."

Xashron exchanged a dissatisfied look with Konar and Xeera. These two were soldiers, like himself, although lower ranking; he knew they shared his hatred of the upper-class advisers. But they seemed unwilling to stage a rebellion at the moment.

"We surrender to your judgment as always, Advocate," Konar responded, but his tone was slightly grudging.

"Do you wish us to release the others so that our battle can continue?" Xashron asked with false helpfulness. The more soldiers revived and free, the better his chances of overpowering the Advocacy.

Xana nodded—a foreign gesture, yet Xashron understood it, just as he understood the humans' language. "Yes . . . however, the Advocacy has concluded there is no timefor transmutation now, "she said. "Collect our people as they are, in the metal containers."

So .. . she had detected his motive. Xana was by far

the shrewdest member of the Advocacy. Doing his best to conceal his disappointment, Xashron bowed and moved off with Xeera and Konar to do so.

Xana stood watching them for a moment; she had correctly guessed the extent of Xashron's bitterness, even before defeat and the long slumber had overtaken them. Xashron's quick mind made him a useful ally and a formidable enemy . . . and Xana preferred to keep him the former. Surely there was some way to dispel his anger before harm came to him—or to the Advocacy.

She turned back to her peers in their pale, hideous bodies, and spoke urgently. "Without the guidance of the Council, we are nothing."

"What can be done?" Horek whined. Even the human eyes of his host body managed to reflect the depths of his stupidity.

But Oshar, his new flesh white against the black clothing he wore, understood. "Once the Council is aware of our plight, it will know what to do."

"Yes," Xana replied, grateful that Oshar's mind, at least, was nearly adequate for the high office he held. "We must contact our home base. They have rather primitive equipment." She pointed with the thick, clumsy arm; the three walked over to examine the transmitter equipment.

Oshar picked up the dish and examined it. "It will be adequate if properly refined."

They set to work.

Harrison adjusted the strap on his helmet and started pedaling through the expansive parking lot.

Normally, he was in a great mood by the end of the workday; a day at the Institute left him exhilarated, ready to enjoy the rest of the evening. He realized he was one of the lucky few who got paid for doing what he loved best. But today his mood was particularly sour, thanks to Suzanne McCullough: if she quit the project, he doubted he'd find anyone else qualified to do it. The minute anyone found out what the work was all about, they turned it down. Mass denial. .. the whole world wanted to forget what had happened thirty-five years ago, and that frightened him.

He had figured Suzanne would be different because of her uncle. Matthew Van Buren's death had been widely publicized, like the deaths of Harrison's parents. Yet somehow it wasn't real to her, in spite of the fact that she had been alive during the invasion— although, he admitted to himself, not that long. And not only had she lost an uncle, but her second cousin, Sylvia Van Buren, had witnessed Matthew's death and subsequently suffered a breakdown from which she never recovered. Two relatives lost to the alien invasion . . . and yet the woman went through life trying to pretend the whole thing never happened.

He'd checked and discovered she hadn't even requisitioned the samples yet. A bad sign: she'd made up her mind not to do it, she was leaving. Or at least wavering.

Now I know why Clayton gave up .. . it's enough to drive someone insane, trying to convince people to face what could still happen.

Yet he felt that somewhere underneath all her uptightness there was a real person, someone he could work with. He was thinking, if he could just break through that anal retentive facade ... at which point he had a brilliantly evil inspiration. It was time to find out the stuff of which Suzanne McCullough was made. He grinned to himself as he plotted—then braked the bike as he spotted her.

A
few yards ahead, Suzanne was striding through the parking lot, her back to him. She must have been pretty lost in thought, because she didn't look behind her as the brakes squealed.

There she goes, 1988 working woman of the year.
He glanced down at his watch and almost laughed aloud. Exactly 5:01. Incredible. She'd spent the entire afternoon killing time,
not
doing the one job she'd been hired to do... but she didn't dare take off one minute early. As physically beautiful as she was, Harrison reflected, she was not a pretty sight, marching like a good little corporate soldier to her car in her sensible gray suit, neatly trimmed shoulder-length brown hair, sensible leather briefcase clutched in one fist, the heels of her sensibly low pumps clicking against the asphalt like a metronome. She would grow old and sour in her little cubicle here, just like Guterman.

Not if I have anything to do with it.
Immediately he was taken aback at himself. What the hell kind of thought was that? As if he cared about what happened to her, as if he had any right. After all, he was engaged to be married. He pushed the thought back and impulsively pedaled up behind her.

"Still feeling guilty about goofing off on company time?"

Startled, she jerked her head around, dark hair swinging, but managed to recover. Somehow she didn't seem as defensive now as she'd been just after lunch, but her attitude was still cautious. She slowed her pace. "Well, I've got to admit. . .. It's a little weird."

He paced her on the bike, balancing, never touching foot to ground even as they slowed. For the first time, he noticed the light freckles that covered her pale skin. Not at all professional-looking .. . which was no doubt why she tried to minimize them with makeup. He smiled at the thought. "I take it you haven't requisitioned those samples yet—"

That flustered her. She stopped and gestured apologetically with her free hand. "I'm sorry . .. It's just that—well, I kept pretty busy just settling into the office and finding out how things worked-—"

"Hey," he said gently. "It's perfectly understandable; I wasn't asking for an explanation."

Back to old cautious. She narrowed her hazel eyes at Mm—nice eyes, Harrison thought, or at least they would be if they weren't so suspicious—and started walking again. "Then why
did
you mention it?"

"My, aren't we defensive," Harrison said cheerfully. "I asked because I thought I could save you the hassle of finding the proper requisition forms, filling them out, then trying to figure out who gets them. I can see to it that you get the remains." "Remains?" Her eyes widened just a bit. "I've actually managed to get hold of an undissected alien corpse. Been in someone's freezer in the garage all this time. Believe it or not, it's in pretty good shape. Was a real big hit with the neighborhood kids." He grinned at the thought. "But I thought you'd be interested in seeing one close up. And that way you can get as many different types of tissue samples as you need, including the internal organs."

She was less than thrilled. "Oh. Thank you."

"Instead of the usual two-day delay, I can get it for you tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow," she repeated flatly. Was it his imagination, or was she looking a bit green? "That would be good. Yes. Thank you."

He smiled, secretly gloating. "No problem."

"Harrison!" A woman's voice floated over from the far end of the parking lot. "Over here!"

He craned his neck and saw Charlotte waving madly as she stood by the open door of the little Mercedes. What the hell was she doing here? He must have forgotten something .. . another one of those social functions she so adored. It was one of the few things that really irritated him about her; he loved her because she was bright and witty and had a great sense of humor, and she took very few things seriously, except these damn parties.

She was also rich, but he did his best to forgive her that.

He nodded at Suzanne. "Excuse me, I'm being paged by my fiancee. Have a pleasant evening."

He pedaled the bike over to Charlotte. Yup, a party all right; Charlotte was dressed in a slinky but somehow tasteful cocktail dress of deep emerald green, to bring out the color of her eyes. Her expertly permed blond hair was done up. He liked it down and flowing, but he had learned through experience that in situations like this one, honesty was not necessarily the shrewdest policy. "Char—you look fantastic." He eyed her appreciatively and bent forward on the bike to give her a light kiss.

"Thanks." But her forehead wrinkled as she stared past him at Suzanne. "Who was that?"

He got off the bike. "New microbiologist," he said easily, and gave her a big one-armed hug, the other hand on the handlebars. "Suzanne McCullough."

She hugged back, but he could tell by the tension in her body that she was staring over his shoulder at Suzanne. He smiled to himself. Charlotte was rich, beautiful,
and
intelligent, yet for
all
her seeming self-assurance, she could sometimes be ridiculously insecure. Not that she would ever admit to something as mundane as jealousy.

"I thought all microbiologists were nearsighted and balding." Her sharp chin dug into his shoulder as she spoke.

He broke
the
embrace and held
her
at arm's length to admire her. "Common misconception. Sounds like you've been talking to Norton."

"Not me." She put her hands on her hips and adopted a teasingly nagging tone. "We're late, Harrison. For the third time in a row."

He feigned ignorance. "For what?"

"Bleaker-Williams Industries? The Founders' Ball?"

He slapped his forehead in exaggerated repentance. "God, how could I
ever
have forgotten?"