OUTSIDE the cousin place a rain fine as an aerosol was falling. Lights glistened on the tarmac. To the east a lethargic dawn was bleaching the sky. Tali, Reen, and Thural walked past a mothballed B-1 bomber to a four-seater Cousin craft. As they climbed into the ship, his Brother resumed what must have been an earlier lecture.
“It was embarrassing to the Keepers,” Tali grumbled, appropriating the front passenger seat.
Thural plunked himself down gloomily at the controls, leaving Reen the back.
“Involving the police. Looking for a man only to find him recently dead,” Tali went on.
The ship, not sensing other passengers, closed its transparent canopy. Thural grasped the control ball and pulled, drawing the craft upward a few feet, where it paused, wobbling.
“I had no way of knowing he had been murdered. And if the Keepers were more skilled at hiding the truth, the police would have never found out we were looking for him.” With unCousinly petulance, Thural slammed the control ball right. The craft skipped northwestward like a flat stone across water.
Past the white egg shapes of the Anacostia Cousin Center the Capitol dome rose through a thorny crown of trees. Beyond that, the Washington Monument stood gravestone sentinel over the Mall.
Tali swiveled toward Thural. “I think you know more than you are telling. That this man was found strangled means the President is involved in a conspiracy against us.”
Alarmed by the direction of the conversation, Reen leaned forward, inserting his body between the two Cousins. “You jump to conclusions, Brother Conscience. That there is a conspiracy is obvious, but perhaps the President, not the Cousins, is the target.”
“Gullible Reen.” Tali’s vitriol stung. “You trusted Eisenhower. You signed his silly Vandenberg treaty. And you see how he lied to us.”
Reen sat back, perplexed. “Lied to us? Eisenhower might have delayed our landing, but even as he signed the treaty he vowed his people would never accept our leadership. And so it is. It was we with our arrogance who misjudged the situation. The humans are thrown into chaos, Brother, even fifty years after contact.”
Tali sniffed. “It is not chaos. It is anger you see. The humans rage as Eisenhower did the first time he saw our ships. The man smiled and smiled, but still he raged.”
Reen recalled Eisenhower’s fixed, tense grin; how the President’s hands, held stiffly at his sides, had clenched with impotent, white-knuckled fury.
The ship banked over the drab Potomac. Ahead of them, a Delta airliner, landing lights blazing, descended from the low clouds toward National.
“But we were the ones who broke the Vandenberg treaty,” Thural said. “We allowed the humans to think we could wage war against them.”
“It is not our fault they jumped to conclusions. And who broke the treaty first, Cousin, when Kennedy plotted to have Reen killed? In the skill of lying the humans will always have the edge.” Tali’s gaze fell on his Brother with the finality of a guillotine. “Find us a good man to take over the presidency, Reen-ja. Someone like J. Edgar Hoover. Someone we can trust.”
Reen tried to avoid Tali’s eyes but was only partially successful. The way the seating was arranged in the ship, it was impossible to turn his back.
“Where are we going?” Reen asked Thural.
“M Street,” Thural muttered.
Reen glanced down. The quaint roads of Georgetown were constipated with rush-hour traffic. Ahead, where Wisconsin Avenue crossed M Street, strobes from a group of squad cars washed the morning sidewalk with festive red and blue. Thural inched the ship over the gold dome of the Riggs Bank and to an empty space near the curb.
“Both of you forget Communal Duty,” Tali said as the ship settled at a slight angle.
The canopy peeled back. Reen lifted his face to the mist. His Brother’s reedy whine and insolent clicks were beginning to tire him, and he was looking forward to the relative peace of talking with the policemen.
As soon as the door spread open, Thural hopped out, Reen at his heels. A frigid breeze from the nearby C&O Canal pressed the fungal scent of river water into Reen’s face. Traffic was backing up behind the parked ship, and frustrated commuters were leaning on their horns. A gathering of people at a bus stop turned to eye the three Cousins darkly.
A human with skin the fine texture and rich brown of glove leather approached with circumspection.
“Morning.” He scanned their chests. When his eyes fell on Reen’s nametag, they widened. “White House Chief Reen. I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”
Rain was condensing like liquid diamonds in the man’s black curls. He flashed his badge. “Detective Rushing, D.C. police. Hear your people are interested in the victim.” Rushing let the sentence dangle, as though hoping Reen might pick up the thread and weave something useful out of it.
An army of policemen was gathered around the door of the old Vigilant Firehouse.
“You’ve called out many policemen for the murder of an inconsequential homeless man,” Reen remarked.
A few yards away a squad car’s radio spat static as monotonously as a teakettle on the boil. The huge detective laughed. “Homeless man? Bernard Martinez wasn’t a homeless man, sir. Or at least he was homeless by religious conviction. Karma seller. That’s what Martinez was.” Rushing took a plastic bag from his pocket; a roll of blue tickets was coiled at the bottom like a snake.
Reen took the bag.
“Five-and-dime-store tickets, like the kind you’d buy for a church carnival,” the detective explained. “I recognized the victim, but the tickets were the clincher. We’ve picked up Martinez eight times for airport solicitation.”
Rushing plucked the bag from Reen’s hand.
Reen walked to the body, which lay under the plaque dedicated to the dead firehouse dog. The wet pulp of a Wall Street Journal was pulled down from Martinez’s face. The eyes bulged like eggs. Stars of blood marred the whites. The cheeks were chicken-pocked with burst capillaries. The garrote was still embedded in the neck like a vindictive necklace.
“Saint Bernard,” Rushing said.
Reen turned inquiringly.
“That’s what they called the victim. Saint Bernard. Seems he had quite a reputation among the karma sellers.” Rushing’s lips stretched into a semblance of a smile; his eyes were quietly observant. “If I might ask the reason you were looking for him, sir?”
On M Street the volume of honking intensified. The detective raised his head and called, “Thomas!”
A uniformed policeman shouted back, “Lieutenant?”
“Get over there and direct traffic.”
“Alien ship’s in the way, sir. Maybe–”
“Just get the traffic moving! So–” Rushing dropped his voice and looked skeptically down at Reen–“we got a helluva mystery here, sir. A religious corpse with all the marks of a professional hit. You’d be doing us a favor if you could–” The detective glanced over Reen’s shoulder.
Reen turned. A green Plymouth compact sedan was making its way slowly down the sidewalk, herding the sullen people at the bus stop to the edge of the curb. The car halted, and four men in dark suits climbed out.
“Shit.” Rushing ran a hand through his cap of black hair. “I goddamn don’t believe–”
“Kapavik, FBI,” one of the approaching quartet said, flipping open his ID. “We’ll take over the investigation from here, officer.” He whirled to a shorter man behind him. “Call the lab to pick up the body.”
A metallic crash.
The driver of a cherry red Jaguar, patience lost, had rammed the Cousin ship with his car. As Reen watched, the Jag backed into a Seville behind, then roared forward. Headlights broke with a wind-chime tinkle. The Cousin ship scraped a few feet along the sidewalk.
“Thomas!” Rushing shouted. “Handcuff that man!” Bending to Reen, the lieutenant said, “Maybe you should move your ship, sir.”
“They can’t hurt it.”
A grimace passed over Rushing’s face, as though from a twinge of indigestion. Quickly he turned to Kapavik, who was observing with professional interest how the driver was being dragged from his Jaguar.
“The Bureau doesn’t have jurisdiction, Kapavik.”
The FBI man’s eyes were a pale wintry blue. “I believe we do.”
Tali caught Reen’s sleeve with a claw and pulled him away from the humans. “A karma seller, Reen-ja,” he said with breathless alarm. “I begin to suspect terrible things. Was Jonis not aware karma selling is illegal? What could Jonis have been thinking, Cousin Brother? And what other illegalities could he have been involved in?”
More officers had run to Thomas’s aid. The owner of the Jaguar was struggling; it was taking three men to subdue him. Reen’s eyes met Thural’s, and he saw remorse there. “Did you know this?”
Thural wrung his hands. “Cousin Reen-ja, I would never–”
“Did you know!”
Faced with the First Brother’s wrath, Thural groaned. “Yes. Forgive me, but President Womack is anguished. Jonis felt pity for him and bought him things: karma and liquor and pizza. He arranged meetings with mediums. Cousin Reen-ja, believe me. Jonis was foolish but kindhearted. It was an innocent–”
A glint of grape purple at the edge of Reen’s vision. The Vespa was speeding down the sidewalk. Reen sucked in a startled breath and took a quick step backward, stumbling over the bare concrete, over his own mortality.
He tried to shout for help. Only a croak emerged. So stupid. Why hadn’t he mentioned the boy to Hopkins? To Marian? They could have stopped it. They could have ...
At the corner of his vision Reen could see Rushing and the FBI men. They were too far away to stop what had become inevitable, too absorbed in their argument to notice what was happening.
The boy parked and hurried to the trio of Cousins, his stride purposeful, his gaze intent. He was reading nametags.
Less than ten feet away now–point-blank range. The boy took the backpack from his shoulder, unzipped it, shoved his hand inside. Across the black plastic, cheerful yellow letters: GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL. Reen’s world compressed until the boy filled it, horizon to horizon. The youthful pink-cheeked innocence, the rain-soaked hair, the brown eyes swollen from lack of sleep.
Closer. Close enough so that a weary and unsteady hand wouldn’t miss the shot. Close enough to shove the muzzle against Reen’s chest as he pulled the trigger. This near doom, a human would have fled. Reen froze. His pulse slowed. His vision blurred.
Through the hum in his ears, a voice, softer and more musical than fate’s voice had a right to be: “White House Chief Reen? This is from the Senate Appropriations Committee.”
The Senate. Had Reen been wiser, had Womack taught him better, he might have sensed the direction from which danger would come.
“Sir?” The boy again. “Sir? You’re required to take this. With all due respect, sir, it’s not within your right to ignore a subpoena.”
Reen’s vision slowly cleared. The boy’s hand was outstretched toward his chest. There was a piece of paper in it.
With trembling fingers Reen took the subpoena and stuffed it into his pocket. The boy nodded and trudged to his scooter. Numb, Reen watched him drive off into the rain.
“A subpoena?” Tali’s voice dripped contempt. “First Jonis embarrasses the Community, and now you, First Brother. Do you see what your laxity has done? It is your function to lead, and lead with morality. Not–”
Rushing’s voice rose in a shout. He was livid. “You are obstructing a homicide investigation.”
Kapavik shook his head. “This isn’t one of your holdups or drug shootings. This homicide is directly related to a kidnapping, and that makes it a federal matter.”
Reen’s attention wandered, his disoriented mind still trying to grasp that he was alive.
Then he saw the mob.
They had emerged from their cars to gather on the slick cobblestones. Some were holding folded umbrellas like clubs.
Temper lost, Rushing drove a forefinger into Kapavik’s chest. “It doesn’t matter if twenty aliens were kidnapped, the stiff is mine.”
The crowd was ominously silent. Their eyes were on the three Cousins. The policemen, sensing the crowd’s mood, left the irate motorist lying against his Jag’s hood and retreated west, toward Potomac Street.
Reen thought it prudent to point out the glowering mob to Rushing. He was opening his mouth to speak when Kapavik snapped, “How the hell did you hear the kidnap victim was an alien?”
A man in the crowd cocked his arm and let fly with a coffee mug, his pitching style even more beautiful and fluid than Marian Cole’s. The mug whizzed through the air, a blur of white. It sped past Reen and, with a meaty thud, knocked Tali off his feet.
“Tali!” Reen cried. He dropped to his knees beside him. “Brother!”
Tali’s cheek lay against the sidewalk, his eyes dull and sightless. Reen put his hand to his Brother’s back, then jerked away as he touched sticky blood and the ravenous suck of Communal Mind.
Rushing inserted his bulk between the trio of Cousins and the mob.
“Alien down!” Kapavik screamed to his men. “There’s an alien down!”
Somewhere from the circle of FBI and police a gun boomed.
“Cousin Reen-ja!” Thural cried in a piping, hysterical voice. “Is he dead?”
“No. Not yet.” Frantically Reen tried to drag his Brother toward the ship with his claw. Tali’s head lolled; his flaccid arms hung; the body rolled out of Reen’s grasp and tumbled heavily to the pavement.
Over the screams of the crowd and the shouts of the policemen, Reen heard the stuttering rattle of a machine gun. One of the FBI agents was firing warning shots with his Uzi. Poofs of dust ran along the wall of the Riggs Bank.
“Help me, Thural! Please! Won’t you help me carry him?” Hooking his claw under the seam at Tali’s upper arm, Reen jerked the body to its knees. Thural mastered his stunned confusion enough to grab the Cousin Conscience by the belt. Staggering under the dead weight, they dragged him to the ship.
The door parted as they approached. Thural let go of Tali and threw himself into the pilot’s seat. Reen eased Tali’s slumped form into his lap.
It was as though he were falling into a pillowy well. Reen dimly felt the ship jerk sideways, heard a metallic clunk as it slammed the red Jaguar into the grille of the Cadillac behind. He struggled to think. If he didn’t fight the Communal Mind, he would end up as useless as a Loving Helper. “Up! Go up!”
Thural pulled on the ball. The ship wrenched itself into the air.
And silently, helplessly, Reen dropped. He fell toward a colorless place where nothing was important: the Vespa, the riot, the coming war. Then Reen’s weakening grip loosened even the cherished: Womack, Marian, Angela.
With a moan Reen sat up. The ship was hovering above the Victorian mass of Georgetown Park, quivering as much as Thural himself. “The Potomac,” Reen said.
Thural slewed the craft over the elevated Whitehurst Freeway until it was seesawing above the river.
Again Reen tumbled down, down, this time into a darkness where Tali’s secret thoughts lurked, an unexpected and unexplored den of monsters. Startled, he pushed away his Brother’s frightening thoughts. “Andrews. Get us to Andrews,” he mumbled.
“Yes, Cousin.” Thural lifted the craft high enough to miss the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.
Tali’s hand twitched. Thural glanced over in surprised relief. “I think he is coming out of it, Reen-ja.”
Tali heaved himself upright in Reen’s lap, drunkenly fumbling at the wound on his shoulder. Caught in the undertow of oblivion, Reen held his Brother tight so the childhood comfort of Cousin flesh against flesh would call him back.
“Cousin Conscience,” Thural said. “Tali. Listen to me. You must stir yourself. The little death nibbles at you.”
A few nonsense syllables dropped from Tali’s mouth. Then he said in a muddy voice, “They hurt me.”
“Yes. Do you remember now?”
Tali’s eyes were suddenly clear, the gaze piercing. He twisted out of Reen’s grip and the bonds of Communal Mind dropped away so suddenly that the onrush of freedom made Reen gasp.
“I remember. Get your hands off me, Cousin Brother. We are not children anymore.”
He shoved past Reen with such force that he bumped Thural, sending the ship into a brief, alarming dive toward the Capitol. Tali did not notice. Breathing hard, he dropped into the rear seat. “They hurt me.”
Reen remembered when they were children–when thoughts were innocent and life was less constrained. Centuries before, he and Tali had touched. Then, when they were grown, touching became taboo. As much as the Communal Mind repulsed Reen, he’d once mourned its loss, and Tali had mourned with him.
Now his Brother sat, arms rigidly at his sides, disgust in his face.
“Are you all right, Cousin?” Thural asked solicitously.
Tali curled his claw underneath the bar of his nameplate and savagely tore it off. The bit of plastic flew past Thural’s head and pinged off the canopy. “They do not bother to learn our names.”
Reen stared at the rectangle of black plastic lying on the control panel. The hook of the nameplate was bent at a furious angle.
Thural told him, “They don’t see as we see, Cousin. We all look alike to them.”
The ship swept over the congestion on Suitland Parkway.
“I will never wear the nameplate again. Not ever.”
Reen turned to study his Brother. Tali was glaring down at the traffic below as though he wished he were an alien from an old science fiction movie and the scene they were playing with the humans was from War of the Worlds. He stared down at the pedestrians and the cars like Godzilla, wanting to crush them all.
Reen’s heart skipped a beat. “As you wish, Cousin Brother.”