Camouflage (6 page)

RUSS

You'd have to ask why. I'd want to hide it in my own country.

MALLORY

Have the Russians or Americans contacted you?

JACK

Sure.

RUSS

We don't want to talk about that. Yet.

Screen changes to an aerial view with countdown superimposed. A 360-degree pan shows all the military helicopters watching. At ten seconds, it zooms in on the artifact. A laconic voice offscreen counts down.

VOICE (OFF)

Ten.

JACK

(rising)

About time.

The three of them move to the window to watch. A split screen adds an aerial view. The voice counts down to zero.

The Chinese rocket ignites, its exhaust churning billows of steam in the sea behind it. For long seconds, as the noise increases to a banshee scream, it doesn't move. Then the artifact lurches and moves slowly, then faster, up the guide rails toward the metal cradle that will be its resting place. A camera by the cradle shows it fall into place with a jarring crash, just as the rocket goes silent.

RUSS

Textbook. Those Chinese are pretty damn good.

JACK

Glad they're on our side. For the time being.

- 10-

San Quillermo, California, 1932

The Berrys had to admit that Jimmy was unmanageable, and quietly had him committed to St. Anthony's, a private insane asylum.

It was a valuable change of venue. The drugs the changeling was compelled to take by mouth or injection were metabolically insignificant. The shock treatments, where they wrapped you in wet sheets and splashed you with buckets of ice water, were gently stimulating to a creature who could live on Mercury or Pluto.

But the changeling was surrounded by extremes of human behavior, in both the patients and their attendants, that it would never have seen at the mansion. It learned more in its first week than it had in months of cossetted coddling.

The guards were brutal and stupid. If the changeling did anything outside of a certain range of behaviors, they would wrap it in a strait-jacket and throw it in the rubber room.

It came to understand coercion and confinement. It could have slipped out of the straitjacket, prefiguring Plasticman, and kicked down the door like Superman. But there would be no education in that. It submitted to beatings and rapes—rich pretty boy who can't tell on you. It learned something like sympathy for Dutch, though pain was just input to it, and humiliation was not yet in its emotional range.

It listened to the other patients when they had social time together. That it responded in monosyllables, sometimes bizarre, went unnoticed. In fact, it was getting a slow, and somewhat skewed, version of the learning process that a human child would go through. It "grew up" by observation and assimilation.

A large part of the puzzle was human linguistics, and the ultimately related problem of mimicking human thought processes. It took two years, but by the time "Jimmy" was twenty, no one was beating or raping him. He was moved into a clean, quiet part of St. Anthony's, and after awhile was allowed to have visitors.

His parents were so glad to see him acting "normal" that they overlooked the fact that he didn't act like Jimmy at all. He was released into their care.

The changeling had assimilated a wide range of behaviors, and a fairly sophisticated sense of which was appropriate at which time. To the Berrys, their son had become quiet and dignified and perhaps a little shy, which was a real advance over the brutal sodomist they'd tendered to St. Anthony's.

The changeling played piano for hours at a time, and it also spent a long time just watching the sea. It knew it was being observed and evaluated, this time by amateurs, and could deliver a nuanced performance.

It had learned how to simulate the behavior of a teenager who had been troubled, but now was on the road to recovery. It had seen that that was the only way to get out of St. Anthony's and move on to the next stage of development.

This was the most complex creature it had ever imitated. Its successes gave it a pleasure like joy.

-11-

Apia, Samoa, 2020

Once the artifact was seated on its pad, a gang of workers paid extra for speed and overtime began building the laboratory around it. The government moved in before the drywall was up.

Halliburton and Russell had come down from their hotel lunch to take a look at the building's progress. They crossed over the moat on a makeshift bamboo bridge and let a supervisor show them around the place. He claimed they could begin moving in equipment in four days; the trim and painting would be done in five. That was better than they'd contracted for.

When they started to go back, there was a man in a white tropical suit waiting on the other side of the moat, an uncomfortable-looking guard at his side.

"Mr. Halliburton, he—"

Halliburton cut him off with a gesture. "Who are you and who are you working for?"

"Dr. Franklin Nesbitt," he said, "chief of NASA Advanced Planning." He was a tanned muscular man with close-cropped white hair who stood absolutely still, except for offering his hand.

Russell took it. "We've had correspondence."

"Of a sort," Nesbitt said. "You basically said that whatever I was selling, you weren't buying."

"That's still true," Halliburton said. "You have no jurisdiction here."

"Nor claim any. But I have an offer you might find interesting."

"No, you don't. You've come a long way for nothing."

"Jack," Russell said, "we can at least be civil." To Nesbitt: "They're serving tea at the hotel. It would be nice to talk to somebody who isn't a reporter." He called ahead while they walked to the Jeep, and by the time they got to the hotel their private dining room was set with crisp linens and heavy silver.

An Irish woman brought in tea and trays of trimmed sandwiches and pastries.

"My indulgence," Russell said. "Jack is more like beer and potato chips."

"Total barbarian," Halliburton said, snagging a watercress sandwich as he sat down. "So what do you have that's so interesting? What do you have that's
interesting
at all?

The other two men waited while the woman poured tea and left. "General or specific?" Nesbitt said.

"General," Russell said.

He rubbed his forehead, and for a moment you could see the seven time zones of jet lag.

"Basically, and expecting initial rejection, I'm offering you our expertise for free."

"Right about that," Jack said. "The rejection."

"If we did seek outside help," Russ said, "why should it be you rather than the Europeans or Japanese?"

"We're older and larger—not in terms of money, true, but as a research organization."

"We are doing research here," Jack said, peering doubtfully into a sandwich, "but we're primarily a for-profit organization. One that doesn't have the faintest idea of what it will find. But we have a good chance that it will be earth-shaking.

"I've sunk most of a large fortune into this. I took on Dr. Sutton and his team because I felt I could trust them. In exchange for keeping their work secret, they are limited partners as well as salaried employees: if things go well, they all get a small percentage of what should be an astronomical return. If there's any leak, anything, they all get nothing."

"We're prepared to allow you to keep all financial returns from anything our people discover."

"People. That's the problem, Dr. Nesbitt. As an organization, NASA can promise anything it wants. But if one of your
people
stumbles on an antigravity machine, I think he or she might trade a job with NASA for limitless wealth."

Nesbitt nodded amicably, tasted his tea, and sifted some sugar into it. "Your investment is, what, about a third of a billion eurodollars?"

"Close enough."

"Then let me go from the general to the specific. We're prepared to match your funds. Wipe the slate clean."

"In exchange for?" Russ asked.

"A team of twelve researchers who would clear every publication with you, and also assign any present or future profits to you." He looked at Jack over the rim of his teacup and sipped. "Up in my room I have a long contract to that effect, which I'm told covers everything. Also, dossiers of the twelve."

"Including you?"

"I wish, but no. I'm just an administrator who loves science. I don't think you'd be impressed by my physics B.S. from Arkansas."

Jack smiled. "Maybe more by that than by your MBA from Harvard." He tapped his hearing aid. "Wonderful machines, these."

Nesbitt didn't blink. "Is it tempting?"

"Of course it is," Jack said harshly.

"Jack, we agreed from the get-go. No government. No military applications."

"We'd be amenable to that. It's not what we're looking for."

"What
are
you looking for?"

"Half our team are exobiologists. It's not so much a 'what' ... as a 'who.'"

-12-

Woods Hole, Massachusetts, 1935

The Berrys were surprised when their son didn't want to go to Juilliard, which they certainly could have afforded. The changeling was interested in music, but its interest was not human, and it could be indulged anywhere. It could sit alone in the dark and play, in its mind, fantastic compositions that no human could play. With two extra imaginary hands, it could play a Bach fugue forward and backward at the same time. It often did things like that in the hours it had to feign sleep.

All it really knew of its origin was that it had come from the sea, and before taking human form it remembered having been for centuries a great white shark and a killer whale. There were other manifestations before that, and though the memories were vague, it seemed they had all been sea creatures of some sort.

Were there a lot of its kind? There was no way to tell. Others who had taken human form could pass for human indefinitely, appearing to age at a normal rate, "dying," and resuming life as someone else.

Its readings in psychology indicated that its transition, while it was learning the difference between killer whale behavior and human behavior, cannot have been common. There were tales of "feral children," supposedly raised by wolves or other animals, who might fit the pattern. He had plenty of time to investigate that.

There was no compelling reason for someone like it to become human. They could still be white sharks or killer whales—or coral reefs or rocks, if that made them content. The sea was a good hiding place.

So it decided that oceanography would be a reasonable place to start. If that didn't pan out, it could study some other discipline, switch identity and do it again and again. Time was of no importance.

The leading edge of oceanographic research was Woods Hole, a new, privately endowed institution. It was in Massachusetts, so the changeling applied to several places in that commonwealth. Turned down by both Harvard and MIT, possibly because most of its high school courses had been taught by home tutors, it wound up going to the University of Massachusetts, majoring in oceanography. Woods Hole did take graduate students from there as summer interns, and that was its eventual plan.

Its academic performance was predictably irregular; it aced anything that had to do with logic or memorization, but didn't do well in courses like literature or philosophy. It saw that many other students were that way, and most of them were shy loners, too.

After part of one semester of dormitory life, it moved out and got an apartment in town. That minimized the time and energy devoted to maintaining the Jimmy Berry facade, and gave it freedom to practice being other people, which it assumed would someday be a useful talent. After careful practice, it could become a different person of the same size in about ten minutes. Smaller or larger took twice as long or more, and was more painful and tiring. Once it became two children, though one had only average intelligence, and the other was dim-witted.

It had a cautious social life as Jimmy, going to a dance or the movies once or twice a month, always with a different girl. There was no shortage of dates for a handsome older California boy with money and family. There was no record of Jimmy's peculiar past in regard to the opposite sex, and in 1935, sex never became an issue on the first and only date.

(The changeling realized it would sooner or later have to learn sexual etiquette, but decided to put it off until later. There was almost no reliable information on the subject in America at that time; people in movies and books made obvious sexual overtures, but never followed through. It knew that "Take off your clothes and put them on the dresser" would only work under certain conditions. You did have to wind up alone and in a state of undress together, but how you got there from the passionate kiss or arched eyebrow was a mystery.)

So its course was set: four years of work that shined in science and mathematics and language, but little else, which was good protective coloration, and then a couple of years on a master's, then a doctorate and, eventually, Woods Hole.

It did get to work at Woods Hole for two summers, sailing the ketch
Atlantis
as a graduate intern. Every now and then, on days off, it would go to a deserted cove and spend an hour changing into a dolphin, to get back to the sea in a more personal, familiar way. These cold rich waters were another world from its Pacific home, and it learned a lot, some of which would direct its own research.

But before the doctorate came, war intervened.

The changeling saw people being drafted and assigned to whatever kind of job and place the military desired. But people who joined up were allowed to choose, within reason.

It wanted to study the Pacific, suspecting its origin must be somewhere out there. Danger wasn't a factor; as far as it knew, it couldn't die. So it joined the Marines, and asked for a Pacific assignment.

To most graduate students, it would be an annoyance and delay— not to mention the possibility of being shot or succumbing to some tropical disease. But to the changeling, time was just time, meaningless. Every new experience had been useful.

It didn't tell the Marine Corps about college, which probably would have led to a desk job. So instead of being a marine science Marine, it became a plain foot soldier, grunt, jarhead. Pearl Harbor was a year away.