Crime Rave (12 page)

Chamelia snarls. “That’s the bastard who tried to kill us.” Chamelia’s rage forces her into her natural shape, but this time she’s covered in red patches and her amber double-irised eyes are yellow with fury.

“You saw
this
man at the party?”

“Yes. We showed him.” Her smile is a grimace.

“Do you recognize any more of these photos? Maybe the woman with the,” clears his throat, “ooze?” Red Feather hands her the stack of Polaroids.

Chamelia’s face crinkles as she looks through the stack. “Yeah, they all look sort of familiar, the eyes mainly, but I can’t remember their names. Keep in mind that my vision is heat sensitive, so faces change depending on the circumstances. Plus, they were in costume. I’m not sure I ever would have recognized them if I’d seen them walking down the street. Except Lily, of course. And the bird chick had a distinct aura, bright yellow like her name. I think these two,” points to the photo of Karma Devi and an as-yet-unidentified curly-haired long-nailed woman, “were dressed as Poison Ivy and Catwoman. Maybe. But they had masks on so I can’t be a hundred percent sure. These two are my friends I already told you about, NRG and Secrete.” She puts the photos down. “I think the woman with the ooze was wearing a Powerpuff Girl costume? But I’m really not sure.”

“And you were on drugs as well, further compromising your ability to recall,” Günn says, her forensics bedside manner coming to the fore. Chamelia does not like anything about this woman who is combative for combat’s sake.

“Yes, I was. But not by choice. Don’t forget that,” Chamelia warns. “So, how did I get here? And what was that explosion?”

Red Feather clears his throat. “Well, ma’am, somebody blew up not just the mansion, but the hill it was on. The whole thing is vaporized.”

Chamelia’s forehead creases, her double blinking eyes work overtime. “I don’t understand. How did I get out?”

“You didn’t. We found your—
ahem
—tail at the explosion site. You, grew back.” Red Feather doesn’t know why he’s mortified having witnessed the alien’s regenerative powers, but hearing those words come from his own mouth feels like an out of body experience, part two.

Praise the Gods
, thinks Chamelia.

“So all these people, they were also just body parts when you found them?” She gestures at the photographs.

“Not all, but the majority yes.”

“That’s why you asked if I had anything to do with it before? Because of my thumb?” Chamelia laughs—a mad sound that frightens Red Feather—and holds her belly. “I assure you, Detective. I had nothing to do with any of this. And oh, your scientists are going to have
so much fun
trying to explain this one! Your entire belief structure is going to collapse!” She has no idea why that is so very funny, but it feels good to laugh until she realizes she can’t stop.
Get a grip, girl, get a grip.

“You said before that the Roswell Institute are coming for you. Can you tell us more about that?”

Chamelia’s borderline hysteria cuts short. An inadvertent tear trickles from her left eye.

“Dangerous, ruthless men. Part of an organization that is so secret they will kill every possible witness just to reclaim us from here.” She pauses, thinking. “You know, they’ll probably want the other survivors, too. For their collection.” She spits the last word.

A secret government agency with aliens in custody?
Red Feather scratches away in his notebook, fighting the urge to scratch his head as well.

“If you tell us who they are and where we can find them, we can better protect you.”
What is she hiding?
“You can trust us.”

A sad smile drifts across Chamelia’s face. “Sorry, Detective. They’re ghosts. You can’t protect anyone from spooks.” She considers, liking Red Feather and feeling uncustomarily helpful. “If I were you, I’d station the best teams you’ve got on the roof of this hospital. Put some in the basement, too. I don’t know when they’ll come, but they will. Is that all, detectives?”
I’m just so tired. Of this. Of your planet. These small rooms you in which you insist on housing people. Your voices give me a headache.

Red Feather knows a dismissal when he hears one and Günn knows better than to press it in this case.

“We appreciate your help, Chamelia.”

She nods.

Red Feather and Günn have so many more questions for her.
Where did she come from? How long has she been a prisoner? What is the Roswell Institute? And what else is out there in the universe?

But it’s clear Chamelia will not be talking about any of that. Not now anyway. Her proud face is etched with anxiety, even though she seems accepting of an eventual recapture. Red Feather wishes there were more he could do to help.

Red Feather hands her his card. “Please call me if you remember anything else or feel like talking about some of the other stuff…”

“Don’t hold your breath, detective.”

“OK then. Just get some rest in the meantime.”

Günn turns off the video camera. As the detectives leave the room Red Feather sees Chamelia shimmer back into her lizard form. She resumes staring outside the window, enjoying—if briefly—a view that doesn’t consist of cell walls, and taking in the sounds of traffic instead of The Institute’s soundtrack of tortured screams.

Chamelia

Y
ou’re anxious as an atheist in a witch hunt. There’s no way you’re going back to The Institute. No way in hell. No way, no how. Even if you have to leave your daughters behind, it’s not in your future. You’ve decided, and you’re sticking to it.

Your form shivers and shifts from one former guise to another, unable to settle your nerves. You pace the room. You feel claustrophobic. You stick your head out the open window. You think about jumping out. You get vertigo looking down.

You open the door to your room, maybe that will help the walls stop closing in. Now the humans are staring. Are they staring? You can’t tell, their eyes are so beady, they could be looking anywhere. You close the door. You close the window. You can’t breathe. You open the window. The smog smell chokes you. The traffic sounds comfort you.

You turn on the television. You ask the nurse for a pizza; she’s been told you can have anything you want. Pizza is your favorite human food. The algae here doesn’t taste right, not like home. You order a meat pizza, extra meat. The protein will calm you down; the starch will take these knots out of your belly.

Try to sleep, try to sleep, try to sleep.
You’re so tired you can’t. You find the station with old black and white movies, hoping for some Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe. In luck.
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
. Marilyn sings you to sleep, though your dreams are troubled memories of your years of abuse and the dread certainty that there’s more to come.

9:30 AM The Roswell Institute

U
sing a dummy line leading back to the FBI, Colonel Randall Ransom calls the LAPD, asks for Captain Anderson.

“I’m sorry, sir, the captain is unavailable. Can I take a message?” The voice tells him.

“Who’s in charge?” Ransom’s hand tightens around the phone.

“At the moment, Special Agent Linus. He’s one of yours. The assistant chief is back on site—”

Ransom hangs up the phone. “FUCK!” He screams and drops to the floor for more push-ups.

He picks up the phone and calls Spruce-Musa directly, this time from an NSA dummy line.

“This is Roger Waters from the NSA. Patch me through to the floor with the Crane Massacre survivors.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” a woman’s voice says, “I’m not authorized—”

“Who is the doctor in charge of recovery?” Ransom starts seeing red, imagining pulling this woman’s hair out with his bare hands. Ripper calms.

“He’s in surgery at the moment—”

Ransom tries to keep his voice level but the pissed off creeps through. “Is there not a damn soul there actually doing their jobs?”

“Sir, they
are
doing their jobs. That’s why they aren’t available. I can patch you through to one of the head nurses if—”

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Get her on the phone NOW.”

“Yes, sir,” her voice squeaks. “Right away.”

Insipid muzak pours through the phone, a watered down version of
The Sound of Silence
, as if that song could get any more pussified. Ransom’s heart starts racing again. He balls his free hand into a fist, feeling his nails cut into his palm. Better.

“This is Nurse Pratchett, how may I assist you?” The voice is clipped and formal, a British accent.

“Yes, I’m Agent Roger Waters from the NSA. I need a status update on the survivors. And don’t you dare tell me you can’t give me that information over the phone.”

“Well, then, you’ve beat me to it. I’m under strict instructions from the police here. Would you like to speak to one of the detectives? Maybe they’re authorized to—”

The colonel hangs up. Motherfuckers.

“They wanna play rough?” Ransom growls. “Well then, here comes Johnny.”

Colonel Ransom writes a memo to Julie Keaton, authorizing her to hack into the Spruce-Musa computer system, find the location of the survivors, and download the blueprints for a special ops. Those rogue bitches are coming home, along with their new friends.

9:40 AM Spruce-Musa Hospital

D
etective Red Feather calls the station to request rooftop and basement back-up per Chamelia’s recommendation, to find that Captain Anderson had a heart attack and Detective Murphy’s suspended for botching an interrogation with one of the Crane Massacre terrorists.

Reeling, Red Feather waits as dispatch connects him with the assistant chief, Gabriel Ortiz. He fills his new boss in, and Chief Ortiz, while dubious, agrees to step up the police presence on the roof and basement levels.

“Hey, have you heard any whispers about a secret government agency that deals with alien life forms?” Red Feather asks the assistant chief.

“Not outside of a science fiction movie or that ridiculous show on TV at the moment. But if what Chang said is true, we’re going to have to start entertaining all kinds of notions.” Chief Ortiz pauses. Red Feather hears him taking a drag of a cigarette. Ortiz exhales hard. “Keep plugging away at the interviews. You call me with updates every hour.”

“You got it, sir.”

“Good luck, Detective.”

Red Feather hangs up the phone to see Nurse Pratchett walking toward him, a concerned look on her face. “Detective, a man just called wanting to know the location of the survivors.” Red Feather’s eyes widen. “Don’t worry,” Pratchett assures him, “I didn’t tell him anything. Said his name was Roger Waters and was from the NSA. Rather funny his name is that of the singer from Pink Floyd. He hung up, didn’t leave a message.”

Red Feather’s brow furrows. The NSA has zero jurisdiction with the survivors. “OK. Thank you for letting me know. We’re stepping up security as we speak. Something fishy is going on.”

“To say the least,” Pratchett says and walks away. She turns back. “He sounded angry. Like the drunk fellow at the bar who’s had one too many and that last-straw rejection from a lady.”

Red Feather nods, troubled. “Appreciate your help, Nurse Pratchett.”

Günn returns from the bathroom where she once again fought the urge to vomit and failed. This is a bad day to be a pregnant detective. The worst.

“You ready for the next ‘alien’ interview?” Günn says.

“Ready as apple pie on a windowsill,” Red Feather replies. Günn snorts.

They walk into knife girl’s room, the one Chamelia called NRG. Nurse Jonelle, a portly African-American nurse with a warm smile and quick laugh, tries to draw blood but the needle breaks at NRG’s skin.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” NRG says. Her voice has a metallic edge, the taste of blood. Her skin shimmers like a fresh-waxed car. Her eyes are saucer-sized and silver, set back in her face, an H.R. Giger vision come to life.

“No harm in trying, sugar,” Nurse Jonelle laughs and shrugs. “You are a wonder to behold, miss.”

NRG can’t help but smile. Nurse Jonelle is infectious joy.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Günn says. “We’re Detectives Günn and Red Feather from the LAPD. Can we ask you some questions about the rave last night?”

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Nurse Jonelle chortles. “You call if you need anything, honey.” NRG nods. “Oh and detectives, you watch out for this one. She spits knives!” Nurse Jonelle cracks up. “Oh Lordy Lord, the things I seen today!” They hear her laughing as she walks down the hallway.

“Well, she’s certainly dealing with this better than the rest of us,” Red Feather says.

“She’s religious,” NRG responds, “thinks all this is proof of divine intervention. Who knows, maybe she’s right.”

Günn sets up the video camera and begins recording. Looking at the woman is like staring into a mirage. Günn feels her eyes begin to cross, blinks to clear her vision.

“So, what’s your name?” Red Feather starts.

“I don’t really have a name. They just call me NRG. Pronounced
energy
.” She sits like an obedient child, hands folded in her lap.

“Does NRG stand for something?”

“Knife Regeneration Project.”

Red Feather does his best not to raise his eyebrows and fails. “And where do you live?”

“At the moment nowhere. And the other place, I wouldn’t say I live there, I’m more of a prisoner. ‘We made you, you belong to us.’ Macho bullshit.” NRG’s face contorts imitating Ripper Ransom. Knife points start to tremble underneath her skin. “Oh shit, you better stand back, I can’t quite remember how to control them yet.” She turns her body and a volley of knives spits out through her dermis, plunking into a chair in the corner. “Fuck,” she says. “Seems to happen when I get upset.”

“So, um, who made you?” Red Feather hopes she’ll not be as evasive as her friend Chamelia in the next room.

“The Roswell Institute. I’m a pet project. They used recombinant alien DNA and a bunch of other stuff I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be the newest super soldier version. Cyborg tech. Cool word. Painful process. My friends and I escaped. Twice! Hah. Gotta love our gumption, right? And those fuckers are probably on their way to take us back to hell right now.” Bravado drops from her face. “I don’t want to go back there. Can you help us?”

Red Feather knows the FBI will probably put her right back into a cage. She sees it in his face. “Never mind.” Annoyed. “Whadya wanna know? My friends and I can take care of our damn selves, anyway. Fucking humans.” Hate drips from her voice.

“Tell us more about the Roswell Institute,” Günn demands.

“What about it?” NRG might be more ready to pick a fight than even Günn.

“For starters, where is it?”

“Underneath LA. It might even be under this building. I’m not sure of the dimensions. We always surfaced in different places.”

“Los Angeles is built over fault lines, how is an underground anything even possible?” Günn’s annoyance returns.

“I don’t frickin’ know. Prisoner, remember? Alls I do know is they’re self contained.” NRG returns the irritation pound for pound. Talks to Günn like she’s mentally disabled and needs it spelled out. “Recycled air, water, hydro and solar powered via access points all over this city. It’s run by a madman. Came home from Vietnam touched in the head. Likes to torture creatures. Likes to kill humans. He’s a mercenary. Name’s Colonel Randall Ransom, pet name’s Ripper. Isn’t that just adorable? Go ahead and look him up. I bet you won’t find much after his Vietnam years, but you’ll see at least what he was party to while he was there.” Shudders.

“And you and your friends are held captive there?”

“I said that already. What’re you, thick or something? This is the second time we’ve escaped as a group. Chamelia’s managed it a few times before on her own.”

“How’d she manage that?”
Holes in this story a mile wide,
Günn thinks.

“Magic,” NRG says with a mean wink. “No really. Chamelia is amazing. She can basically do anything she wants, teleporting being one of many talents. She’s full-blooded alien, not like us hybrids. She’s sort of an ultimate being, from a planet of other ultimate beings.” NRG shakes her head. “Man, what I’d have given to see that place. Whooeee,” NRG whistles and both detectives break out in gooseflesh.

“She was not very forthcoming about herself in her interview.” Red Feather says, hoping for more information.

“Figures. She doesn’t like—doesn’t
trust
—strangers after all she’s been through. She’s really not a big fan of humans at all. Don’t tell her I told you, but her planet was invaded and so they sent out emergency ships just in case they lost the war. At least there could be survivors, even if not at the home planet. Her ship crashed on Earth and we still don’t know if there were any other survivors.” NRG’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, her anger aside for the moment. “Can I tell you something else?”

“Sure,” Red Feather says, pulling his chair in closer.

“It’s so incredible. So, her people are all shapeshifters, right? So crazy. Well, each individual has their own ultimate shape. Hers is the lizard one you saw. Can you imagine a place where you’re all the same species but you look totally different from each other? Each individual has their own ultimate shape but they can change to look like anything they want? Think about it, you’re hanging out with your friend who looks like a zebra man and you keep knocking him with your lizard tail so BAM,” she claps her hands. “You look like zebra man, but in your own way, and you can hang out no problem.” Her metal eyes are wide and she’s talking fast. “Like, WOW! My brain does a loop-de-loop when I think about how awesome that must have been. I get stared at a lot and I hate it. I’d love to just blend in.”

Red Feather sits back in his chair. “So incredible I can hardly believe it.” He doesn’t.

Günn on the other hand is captivated. Attitude aside, NRG appears to be telling the truth. Though, it does now occur to Günn that her ability might not work on extraterrestrials and hybrid cyborgs.

“Yeah, figures. But according to Chamelia, it’s true. And I believe
her
. She’s the cornerstone of The Institute’s projects. An ultimate being from an ultimate planet. Her blood. Her DNA. Without her they’re just a bunch of douchebags with guns and empty labs.” NRG beams, “I’m actually partly made from her. Lots of the hybrids come from her. She’s tops.”

And dangerous,
Red Feather thinks,
especially in the hands of a madman, if that’s what this Colonel Ransom is.
“There’re more hybrids like you?”

“Oh yeah. Basically any kind you can imagine, they’ve got ’em.”

NRG starts to fidget. “Shit, I shouldn’t have told you any of that. Chamelia didn’t tell you for a reason. I shouldn’t have said anything. Omyfuckinggod I have such a big mouth. She’s going to be angry with me!” NRG works herself into such a state that another series of knives shoot from her body.

“We won’t say anything to her, NRG, please just relax.” Red Feather has the urge to pet her hand but quells it, remembering the waiver Nurse Pratchett had him sign. “And your other friend?”

“Secrete? She’s like me, another experiment in recombinant DNA. She’s also one of Chamelia’s sort-of kids. Well, there’re lots of us, but we’re the only two who are actually friends with her.” NRG is a proud daughter. “But Secrete? Dude, she can take out a person by directing her scent at them and you can die by touching her bare skin. Well, not Chamelia or I, but basically everyone else. So, yeah, we’re super soldieresses.” NRG snorts. “I’m a fucking pacifist, man. They didn’t expect that!”

“Wow, I, uh…” Red Feather at a loss for words, part thirty-seven.

“Yeah. I know. It’s a lot. She at least told you they’ll be coming for us, right?”

Red Feather nods.

“I’ll tell you right now, those people are crazy violent. They will kill everyone in here just to get to us. They’ll kill you because they like to kill. Sickos.” The knives quiver under her skin but don’t emerge.

“We’ve got a SWAT team on the roof and one in the basement, waiting for them. We’re not gonna let them hurt you,” Red Feather assures.

“We’ll see about that. I think the three of us would be more effective weapons, but hey, you guys do your thing. Oh, by the way, do you have body armor that will protect you from gamma radiation?” NRG smirks.

Shit,
Red Feather thinks. “Why did Chamelia refuse to talk to us about herself and the Roswell Institute?”

Nice move,
Günn thinks.
If you can’t get intel from the horse’s mouth, get it from the horse’s kid.

NRG shivers. “She used to be fucking badass when I first met her, about forty or so years ago.”

Red Feather looks at the twenty-something girl in front of him.

“Yeah, we age to a point and then stop.” A shrug. “That’s how they programmed us. Anyway, back then Chamelia had been in for probably ten years already. She was always arguing, fighting, finding ways out of her cage. Shifting into this soldier or that, even getting out of The Institute. So clever. To tame her they came up with this serum that forces her into human form. They’d shoot her up and send all kinds of creatures to rape her. You can’t imagine how she’s been tortured. And then months of solitary confinement at a time. She’s this close to being broken. In here,” NRG taps her finger on her temple. “I mean, who treats an ultimate being like that? We should be fucking worshipping her.” NRG’s tears are silver and bounce off her polka-dotted hospital gown. “I hope you kill the bastards.” The knifepoints rise to the surface of her skin again. “Oh man, back up!”
Pfft, pfft, pfft.
The slivers shoot from beneath her skin, into the chair.

“Does it hurt?” Red Feather asks.

“Yeah. It feels just how it looks—knives going through my skin. Why didn’t they make me so it didn’t hurt, huh? Wouldn’t that make me more efficient?” NRG is now bitter, her emotions all over the place. Red Feather wonders if she’s got some disturbia going on in her own cerebrum.

“Can you tell us about the party at the Crane Mansion?”

NRG recounts the same tale as Chamelia: The attempted gang rape by security guards before the party, the attempted kidnapping and murder of the one-eyed girl by Mr. Crane’s goons, the vulval pink ooze that ate Mr. Crane. Next, the DJ spinning poison music, ravers with bleeding ears, and then the explosion.

Red Feather shows her the photos of the survivors. She IDs Chamelia, Secrete, and Lily. She also IDs Charles Wallace Crane, the motel king.

“Sorry, I don’t really recognize the other ones. Humans sort of look the same to me. I’ve heard that my vision is like photo negatives, reverse black and white. I can’t really tell one person from another unless there’s something really distinct. Sorry. I know race is a big thing for you guys.”

“Major,” says Red Feather, a wry smile.

“What else do you want to know?”

Red Feather looks over at Günn, who nods, still not smelling anything, and not understanding how that’s possible. “I think we’ve got all we need for right now. You just hang tight and rest.” Red Feather pauses. “Do you mind if we…” he points to the knives that have turned the visitor’s chair into a pincushion.

“Have at them. Nobody will believe you otherwise,” NRG smiles and raises a silver eyebrow. Sarcasm suits her.

Red Feather collects a few samples and puts them into a plastic baggie to send to Stacey Chang over at the lab.

“Thank you for your help, NRG.”

“No worries,” she replies. But Red Feather and Günn can see she is very, very worried indeed.