Chapter 4
Sam’s calves burned as he and the other cadets jogged down the lawn at Pepperdine University. He could see the ocean, half a mile away, across the highway. The sky was a cloudless green, the water grayish blue with ash.
When terrorists sabotaged the Hadron collider and caused the cataclysm that had killed so many people, all those irradiated particles dispersed into the atmosphere and the ocean. Spo technology mostly scrubbed the atmosphere, but the colors were different.
He hoped Greg wouldn’t jog them down by the beach today, though. They weren’t up to it. Armen lurched along next to him, his head dipping with each jarring step. Melanie was just in front of them. She was usually the chipmunk of the group, but the transition to Earth’s atmosphere was weighing her down. Sam tried to remind them how to breathe correctly, to avoid over-oxygenation, but Armen shook his head, still sucking air like an asthmatic.
Greg brought them diagonally across the grounds to the corner of Malibu Canyon Road and the Pacific Coast Highway, PCH. The light turned red as they approached and Greg halted on the sidewalk.
Melanie grabbed Sam’s arm as they stopped, doubled over and panting. Her brown hair was coming out of its pony tail; strands of it stuck to her face and fell past the tattoo on her cheek.
“Physical strength, important to survival,” Greg said to them. “Survival is sanity!”
“Survival is sanity,” chanted Sam.
“Survival is sanity!” Greg shouted.
“Survival is sanity!” they repeated. Sam could hear Armen, Melanie, Nat, Downy, and all the others yelling with him.
Greg nodded, and began running as the crossing sign changed to WALK.
A yellow Mustang squealed to a halt at the intersection. The driver’s mouth hung open as he watched Greg bound in front of him, and he groped for his phone, holding it up to snap a picture of Greg in the street. The Mustang guy must be a tourist, Sam thought. There were still a few of those, even though LA plummeted in popularity when the spooks made it their global headquarters.
The driver took a picture of Sam and his friends, too. The tattoo on each of their cheeks displayed what they were. Spook cadets. The newscasters had already dubbed Pepperdine the ‘alien academy.’
“Don’t quit, Sam,” his friend Armen muttered. “Remember, Snickers are sanity.”
“Right. Idiot.”
Greg jogged them through a huge parking lot on the other side of the highway toward the water. It was one of those gargantuan parking lots for beach visitors, with section labels so people would remember where they parked. There were only a few cars in it now, although July was perfect beach weather.
A general moan trickled through the group when Greg left the asphalt and they started across the sand.
Half an hour later they started back up the hill to Pepperdine. Sam was getting a bit of a runner’s high now, but he ran at the rear of the group with Armen, who clearly wasn’t on a high. Greg headed straight towards their dorm, but Sam saw Nat veer off to run past the tower at the front of campus.
Sam grunted to Armen and followed her. By the time he caught up, she’d stopped. Sam pounded to a stop next to her, in front of the Theme Tower. She was standing off the path, staring at the tower with her arms wrapped around herself. The tower had no purpose now; it was several stories high and about six foot square, sporting a huge, empty cross on the front. It could be lit from within, making the cross visible for miles around. Pepperdine’s had been a Christian university.
But Nat wasn’t looking at the cross.
The base of the tower was defaced. A huge yin yang, in red paint, was swirled on the wall. Sam remembered his sister wearing the symbol on bracelets and stuff. Asian, meant peace or tranquility or something? He couldn’t remember. He did know they were black and white. This yin yang, in red paint that was drying brown, looked messy. Long drips and smears made the circle appear to be melting, dripping onto the ground. Nat rubbed her mouth, and then spat. Sam saw with surprise that she’d thrown up on the ground nearby.
Sam stood next to her for a moment, then put his arm around her. She looked cold, after all. From this angle he could see that the next wall said, “Die, now,” in the same dark red.
“That’s nasty,” Sam said. “Somebody else angry with the Spo, I guess. We knew it would be a problem.”
Nat shook her head. “Go around,” she said.
Sam frowned. He took his arm away from her and circled the tower. The yin yang was on his left. “Die, now,” was scrawled on the next wall. The wall after that held a sketchy picture that might have been a Spo killing a person. Or maybe it was a Spo and a human making out. Sam squinted at it. Maybe a human cutting off a Spo’s head. The figures were strangely drawn. Sam was no criminal profiler, but it disturbed him. The details were unclear but still managed to scream violence and passion. Whoever painted them didn’t see the world the same way Sam did.
Sam forced himself to complete the circle. On the back wall of the tower, facing campus, were two slaughtered sheep. Not just slaughtered, but dismembered. And skinned. Parts of them were scattered on the ground before the tower, and their pelts, clotted wool and skin, were taped on the wall with duct tape. Some of the wool was stained with blood. The perpetrator must have used the wool to paint the other sides of the tower.
Sam didn’t throw up, but he turned away and stared back toward the ocean for a few minutes. He breathed deeply of the fresh sea air and let his stomach settle. And his mind. He didn’t blame Nat for throwing up. The sheep slaughter was disgusting on a deep level. Sam ate meat, he didn’t think it was wrong to slaughter animals for food, but something about this wrenched his gut.
Pull it together, Sam, he told himself. You’ve been trained for analysis. Why exactly is this scary? He walked away from the dead sheep, back to Nat. He didn’t speak to her, but just looked at the yin yang symbol for a while. Then he circled and looked at the other three walls again.
The violence in the killing was a rational reason to be upset. But some reptile part of his brain was telling him that he and Nat should run. Get under cover, out of the open.
Sam started to tabulate the parts that disturbed him. The sheep, of course, and particularly the chaos of the dismemberment. The wacko who did this should have placed them in an orderly arrangement. Or placed a piece at each corner of the tower. Or something.
If he didn’t want to do anything with the pieces, why did he cut them apart? He didn’t have to do it to skin the sheep.
The yin yang. It was a fairly benign symbol. Not a swastika or an upside down cross or anything that your average American would find intimidating. Heck, a McDonald’s M might have conveyed more.
“Die now.” That was just boring. It was trite and didn’t fit the visual creativity used for the rest of it. It didn’t even have an exclamation point, just a period. That had to be weird.
Nat started circling with him.
“We should go talk to Greg. This isn’t a normal hate message.”
Sam started to rub the small of Nat’s back, but she moved away from him.
“Don’t do that, Sam.”
“I wasn’t – sorry, Nat. I miss you. You’re not going to let Greg’s stupid plan get in the way forever are you?”
“No, but… how can I not? They’ve controlled everything in our lives Sam. Everything. I can’t let them control this too.”
She shivered and backed up a step. “I need to get cleaned up. Will you tell Greg about this?”
That afternoon Sam showered off in the dorm. Grey sand ran down his legs and made silt lines around the drain. Greg had called the local police to report the graffiti/animal blood on the tower, and now some unlucky grounds crew guys were cleaning it up. Greg took the threat seriously, but advised Sam not to be overly concerned.
“The Spo fascination with sheep has been widely publicized. I’ll get a Spo investigator to look into it, but I suspect the rage is aimed at the Spo, not the cadets.”
Armen and Downy were already showered off, but they lingered in the large bathroom. Armen put on deodorant, and Downy crouched near the sinks rubbing engine oil in his joint crevices and chattering. Downy was small for a Spo at about six feet tall. His skin was slick like a McDonald’s toy and he smelled like a tire shop, which the engine oil only enhanced.
Spo faces, when relaxed, looked like they were smiling. It didn’t mean they were happy, but gave them a cheerful animal look – like a dolphin. Of course, when one of them threatened you with death for noncompliance that same half smile became extremely creepy.
“You know what guys?” Downy said. “I want to go to a petting zoo in La Brea tomorrow. It sounds very great. Goats, pigs, chickens, even an emo.” He rubbed the thick oil into his second pair of knees.
“I think you mean emu,” Sam said. “At least I hope you do. And if you get that oil on my clothes I’ll put sand in your bed.”
Downy flicked a hand, spattering drops of oil toward Sam, who jumped backward.
“Hold still,” Downy said, “It would only improve your smell.”
Sam grabbed his clothes off the counter. “If we’re going to talk about smell – what did you eat this morning? I almost puked during Greg’s debriefing.”
“I drank root beer,” Downy said simply. “It is fantastic.”
Sam groaned while he brushed his teeth. “Please, please Downy. Stick to Spo food. You’re my roommate, you owe me.”
Armen laughed. “That’s why none of us would take him. It’s your own fault, Sam.”
Sam and Downy went down the hall to their room, where Downy dropped to his mattress on the floor. Downy wasn’t a bad roommate, really. Just smelly. When Sam was fully dressed, Downy hoisted himself off the mattress and walked with him down to Greg’s office for a meeting.
“So, what do you think? Did I pass at the Cathedral?” Sam asked.
“I hope, dud. Dud, is that right?” Downy asked.
“Dude – friend, cool buddy.”
“Ah. I think so, dude. Your species is very aggressive. I was told so, but it is different to see it.”
“You should talk. Your species owns half the galaxy.”
“It is our winning personalities,” Downy said, turning green with pleasure.
Sam slapped the back of Downy’s head affectionately. “Crazy alien,” he said.
Downy flicked Sam with the smooth side of a claw. “Look who’s talking.”
Sam followed him into Greg’s office, wiping his grin away.
Greg was a seasoned warrior of the Spo nation, with a long, half melted scar of battle on his face. Sam stood and Downy crouched at attention when they entered. Greg motioned for them to sit. He was pale lavender – extremely tired or disgusted.
Six years ago, when Sam and a bunch of other terrified kids were loaded onto a Spo spaceship, an alien met them in the loading bay.
“You,” he said, gesturing to the first boy in line. “What is a common male name?”
The boy just looked at him, the giant four-legged alien.
“Come now,” the alien said. “What is your grandfather’s name?”
“Um … Greg?”
“Acceptable. I will be Officer Greg. I will be your teacher. Please follow me.”
And that was that. It was typical Greg, as they learned later. He didn’t waste any time. He chose an acceptable name and went with it. Armen said if he took a last name, it would be Acceptable.
Downy was just the opposite. He’d picked their brains about their favorite names and watched hours of TV. He almost chose Cinema as his name, but then he’d seen a Downy commercial with a little teddy bear flopping around on a pile of white, fluffy towels. He fell in love with it. He was Downy from then on.
Greg turned on the lamp behind his desk.
“The police want a statement about the tower vandalism, Sam. I’ve already given mine. Call them this evening,” Greg said.
“Why?” Sam asked.
“They don’t like the timing. Our arrival, animal killing.”
“Surely they don’t think we did it?”
“No. I don’t think so. Don’t concern yourself. We need to talk about your performance at the Cathedral.”
Sam grimaced. “How’d I do?”
“You did extremely well,” Greg said. “You are our best manipulator, after all. That’s why I’ve slotted you for most of the press events in the next few weeks.”
“I- Manipulator? You’ve never called me that before.”
“We’ve discussed your strengths many times," he said impatiently. "You read humans extremely well, you discern weaknesses – ”
“You said I was a natural communicator, that I was good at steering a crowd toward a common viewpoint.”
“Exactly. A manipulator. I do not see why we are having this conversation,” Greg said. His eyestalks twitched.
“Just…don’t call me a manipulator, okay? It has bad overtones.” A cold feeling seeped up Sam’s back. He knew he shouldn’t take Greg’s word choice too seriously, the alien didn’t understand English nuances, but somehow this assessment scared him.
“The riots in the Midwest stopped,” Greg added.
Sam blinked. “Riots?”
“Yes, some protestors were killed a few weeks ago, but the riots have stopped now, because of your return. They’re waiting to see what happens. That’s why we spaced out the cadets’ return – Los Angeles, Sao Paolo, Hong Kong, Moscow… We’ve got a little time, probably a matter of weeks, before the rioting resumes.” Greg paused. “You’re part of our team now, Sam. We showed you to the world as our human spokesperson, and there is no turning back. Not for you. Not for us. From now on you will be apprised of the major obstacles in our path.”
“I already was on your team,” Sam said.
“I appreciate that,” Greg said, turning muddy purple, “but you haven’t been challenged yet. It’ll be harder to support us now that you’re home.”
“You mean with all the accusations of brainwashing?”
“We did brainwash you, Sam,” Greg said slowly.
Sam glanced at Downy. Was this some kind of test? “What – in what way?”
Downy looked as baffled as Sam.
“We took you away from your home as a child. Essentially you were a prisoner of war. We taught you from a position of complete power. That’s one method of brainwashing.”
“Is it – did you lie to me?”
“No. But something that is true to us is not necessarily true for humans. In their eyes, we’ve taught you nothing but lies.”
“I guess I knew that already,” Sam said.
“Yes. But you haven’t felt it. You assumed that you’d be a hero, or at least a popular celebrity, but they’re going to hate you, too. Their fascination and pity for you won’t last long. Then they’ll get angry.”
“And humans are stupid,” Downy added helpfully.
“Thanks," Sam said. “Any advice?”
Greg grimaced. “You’ll find your way, I’m sure. You’re dismissed. Downy, please stay. I have a communication from your father.”
Sam rose to go. Downy’s father was the Spo emperor, and Sam for sure didn’t rank high enough to listen in on that.
Downy was one the emperor's younger sons and Sam had heard that Downy chose to attach himself to Greg to become an expert on humans.
Sam hesitated at the door. “Has anyone contacted Paolo’s family yet, to give them his things?” he asked. “I had to tell the press that one cadet died, and all the cadet families are going to be nuts until they figure out who.”
“That’s taken care of,” Greg said.
“I would like permission to call them. I’m sure they want to know about Paolo, the last few years before he died. Like how he loved diving in the chemical groves…”
“It is unnecessary. His family died eight months ago.”
Sam felt punched in the gut. “All of them? There’s not anybody?”
“They died in the firestorm that took out La Paz.”
“So – what? There’s no one to tell Paolo is dead?”
“At least they won’t suffer his loss,” Greg said. “You’re dismissed.”