Camouflage Part 20

"Okay up to the driving. I take a cab back."

"What, you don't trust me?"

He snorted. "Once you have the ticket and pa.s.sport, I'm more use to you dead than alive."

"I hadn't thought of that," the changeling said honestly. "You must know the criminal mind better than I do."

" 'Ask the man who owns one,'" he said. They got out and walked into the building. It was open-air, no walls on the ground floor.

There were dozens of people sitting around on plastic chairs, reading or watching television. A group of teenaged boys and girls in traditional garb chattered happily. They would be the song-and-dance welcome for the flight from the States.

The changeling went upstairs to the bar while his accomplice approached the ticket counter. There was no line and only a single agent, making no effort to appear happy or alert.

It got a beer and sat near the stairway, where it could watch the transaction. It could imagine what would happen Stateside, if you walked up after midnight and tried to buy an international ticket with fifties and hundreds from a thick roll, no luggage.

The young woman treated it as if he were buying a loaf of bread, though she looked at his pa.s.sport.

Back at the car, the changeling checked the pa.s.sport and ticket, and handed the black man the keys. "You okay to drive?"

"If I go as slowly as you did, yeah.You staying here until the flight?"

The changeling reached over to the back seat and stuffed a bill into the girl's s.h.i.+rt pocket. "Go back to the hash house and don't tell anybody where you've been."

"I might just go back and get my car, and head home. Enough excitement for one night. What if the girl wakes up?"

The changeling considered. "Best just tell her you dropped me off at a house in town. And ... don't come back to the airport tomorrow. That could be awkward."

"Yeah. I already figured that out." He started the car, then shook his head. "This is crazy."

"Just keep an eye on the mailbox." They exchanged stares for a moment, and the man drove off.

The changeling had a few things to do, but there was no rush; the gate didn't open till twelve. It went back inside and left pa.s.sport and wallet in a storage locker, and then set out to find twenty pounds of flesh.

In the daytime it would have been easy: just go into a supermarket and buy twenty pounds of meat. It didn't want to chance taking someone's dog or piglet, so it had to be the sea.

It walked back to the road and headed away from town. Everyone had gone to bed and clouds covered the stars; between headlights the world was black as pitch. The changeling came to a path that led to a stone beach, and slipped quietly into the water.

There was no need to masquerade as a fish. It just stretched its feet into something resembling swim fins, unhinged its jaws, and made its mouth and throat wide enough to accept a large fish. It glided out to the reef and looked around with nose and skin more than its large eyes-like a shark, it could sense the change in electric potential that meant a large fish in trouble.

That was the meal ticket-it felt the slight tingling and went straight toward it, and came to a reef shark wrestling with a skipjack tuna half its size. The changeling killed the shark with a big bite, severing the notochord, and easily chased down the crippled tuna and ingested it in one gulp. Then it went back and consumed the shark.

The two of them had provided plenty of ma.s.s. It swam back to the sh.o.r.e, grew feet inside shoes, and walked back toward the airport, a large white American, and took a cab into town.

Bad Billy's was still open-it advertised being the last bar to close in the Western Hemisphere-but the changeling didn't want to attract attention, so it had the cab stop at the first vacant motel, the Klub Lodge, where it took a small room and lay thinking for some hours.

It hated leaving the artifact, hated leaving Russ, and considered just presenting itself for what it was: obviously from another planet, and possibly related to that impossible machine. But it didn't want to wind up a specimen to be examined, and they could probably infer enough about its abilities to build a cage from which it couldn't escape.

Would Russ protect it? If it returned as Rae? No; he knew by now that Rae wasn't really a woman, and had tricked him.

And could trick him again. After a cooling-off period, the changeling could show up as another woman, and win his love again. It wouldn't even be acting.

But it wouldn't be smart to hang around Samoa. The island would be thick with U.S. government agents in another day or two, once they figured out what they had almost caught. Even if they didn't didn't figure it out, and thought the changeling was some sort of augmented human or spy machine, they'd still be all over the island trying to track it down. It hoped they were looking for a one-armed woman. figure it out, and thought the changeling was some sort of augmented human or spy machine, they'd still be all over the island trying to track it down. It hoped they were looking for a one-armed woman.

It waited until almost ten to walk into town; the sidewalk was crowded enough that it didn't stand out particularly, just another sunburnt tourist. It had earlier, as Rae, found a church charity store; it went straight there and bought a suitcase and a few changes of clothing. At a more touristy place, it bought a couple of bright s.h.i.+rts and a souvenir lavalava. An a.s.sortment of toiletries from a convenience store, and a couple of gift bottles of Robert Louis Stevenson liqueur. In a coffeehouse rest room it disposed of some of the toothpaste and shaving gel, so they wouldn't look just-bought, and caught a cab to the airport.

There were three uniformed policemen on duty, and one Samoan woman in a business suit pretty obviously surveying the crowd. It occurred to the changeling that its choice of ident.i.ty might have been disastrous, if Scott Windsor Daniel, African-American hash hound, was known to the police.

Best done quickly. The changeling went into a crowded men's room and waited for a stall. Once behind the door, it went through the uncomfortable business of changing its face and hands to match Daniel's. It also changed s.h.i.+rts, putting on a souvenir one that, under the circ.u.mstances, acted as protective coloration.

The whole business took fifteen minutes. If anyone noticed that a white man had gone in and a black man had come out, they didn't say anything.

The first test was pa.s.sport control. A native woman checked doc.u.ments and retinal scan, and collected departure tax, but the woman sitting behind her in the booth, right arm in a sling, was the one from "the United States intelligence community," who had almost put a bullet into Rae the day before.

Neither of them paid any special attention to Scott Windsor Daniel, so maybe they actually were looking for a woman. A small white one with a missing arm? They did do a fingerprint check, though, as well as the usual retinal scan. The spy woman put on a jeweler's loupe and, glancing, clumsy with one hand, compared the thumbprint to one on a card.

Security was likewise easy, which was encouraging. It hadn't occurred to them that they were looking for a shape-changer. They sorted through Daniel's unremarkable luggage, wanded him, and sent the suitcase down a chute and him through an optical baffle into the multilingual murmur of the waiting room.

It sat at the bar and nursed something they claimed was chardonnay, leafing through the Samoa Observer. Observer. The disturbance at Aggie Grey's was the front-page story, with an interesting twist-the movie people were "not at liberty to say" whether it was part of the thriller they were filming. Presumably someone had coached them; they The disturbance at Aggie Grey's was the front-page story, with an interesting twist-the movie people were "not at liberty to say" whether it was part of the thriller they were filming. Presumably someone had coached them; they were were an American company, and the government could ha.s.sle them if they didn't cooperate. Though it could be that they came up with the evasiveness on their own, latching onto free publicity. an American company, and the government could ha.s.sle them if they didn't cooperate. Though it could be that they came up with the evasiveness on their own, latching onto free publicity.

Interviews with Aggie Grey people and the police were not much more informative. Some tourists agreed that the "man" who ran across the park and dived into the harbor appeared to be one-armed. Their consensus was movie.

Hard to plan with so little information. The flight switched to Delta in Honolulu, and there was a six-hour layover. It might be prudent to switch ident.i.ty again there, in case they'd picked up the trail to Daniel. If they had, there would be a greeting party at LAX. If Mr. Daniel didn't show up there, they would no doubt smoke the real one out in Samoa.

Or they might be waiting in Honolulu. What would it do? The airport wasn't too far from the sea, but harder to emergency-exit from than the Wing Room at Aggie Grey's. They would presumably be expecting someone with unusual powers-depending on who "they" were. The spies might not have told the police everything. So one scenario was "police looking for a drug dealer with Mr. Daniel's pa.s.sport," which wouldn't be that hard to step around.

It set that problem aside, and returned to its usual mental occupation, a.n.a.lyzing 31,433 bits of information. Or noise. It continued its methodical way through those gazillion permutations as it filed through early boarding, took its seat in first cla.s.s, and selected a random movie on its monitor. It nodded for champagne and made rote responses to the attendant's rote queries.

If it spent one second on each possible combination of the 31,433 digits, it would take about as long as the Roman Empire had lasted. The changeling did have the time, but it was hoping that some sort of pattern would emerge long before that.

It had no seating companion, so the time went quickly, in a blur of ones and zeros. It came out of its five-hour reverie when the landing gear hit the tarmac in Hawaii.

First cla.s.s exited democratically, allowing one hoi polloi interleaved between each of the elite, and the changeling entered the airport with a neutral expression, looking around with no particular interest, just a guy changing planes, who had to go through the inconvenience of pa.s.sport check and baggage transfer.

There was nothing unusual at first. But then he saw that every u.s. citizen checkpoint was protected by a large policeman, standing between pa.s.sport control and the luggage check.

Maybe they were always there. He didn't remember them from earlier flights, when he was going back and forth between Australia and the States. It would be better not to take the chance.

There were two bathrooms, for the convenience of people who were willing to take a later place in line, in exchange for comfort. The changeling angled toward the men's. Its timing was good.

As it entered the privacy baffle between the corridor and the men's room, an attendant with a cart was backing out of a utility room. After a glance confirming that there were no witnesses, it covered the man's mouth and nose and shoved him back into the room.

It punched him on the chin just hard enough to daze him, and slapped on the light. It was a room about the size of a walk-in closet, with racks of supplies. It plucked a roll of wide duct tape and carefully pressed a piece of it over the man's mouth, and squares over each eye, after capturing his retinal pattern. Then it undressed him and put on his uniform, and bound him tightly with tape.

It took his fingerprints, studied him for a moment, and then turned out the light and concentrated on becoming him. It wasn't too painful, skin color and facial structure. Then it pushed its way out behind the cart, leaving the door locked.

How much time did it have? If those cops were waiting for Mr. Daniel, it was only minutes.

It hesitated by a door that said authorized personnel only, trying to imagine what might be behind the sign. It could be the place where janitors went to catch a smoke. Or it might be full of nervous security types.

Turning the cart around, it headed back toward Customs. There were six lanes open for U.S. citizens, and three for foreigners-and one marked "employees."

It got halfway through the short lane, and somebody shouted, "Hey! a.s.shole!"

It stopped and turned around. A fat cop said something angry. It was in Hawaiian, unfortunately.

It shrugged, hoping that not everyone who looked Hawaiian spoke Hawaiian. "You know the drill," he said. "Where the h.e.l.l you goin'?"

"Just out to the car," the changeling said. "My dinner is in the cooler."

"Yeah, liquid liquid dinner. Just leave the G.o.dd.a.m.n cart on this side, okay?" The changeling trudged back and parked it out of the way. dinner. Just leave the G.o.dd.a.m.n cart on this side, okay?" The changeling trudged back and parked it out of the way.

Once outside, of course, the uniform made its wearer stand out rather than blend in. It would be conspicuous to hail a cab or get on a bus. Bad planning, not to carry along Daniel's clothes.

It would take about twenty minutes to "grow" inconspicuous clothes, and discard the janitor's. Too long. Taking a chance, it ducked into a souvenir shop and bought fairly modest tourist clothes-Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt, Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops. It changed in the men's room-also changing its skin to pale white-and carried the uniform out in the shop's paper bags.

In the line at the cab stand, it started mapping out its strategy. It told the cab to take it to the downtown Hilton, but paid attention for the last mile, looking for a more seedy place. The Crossed Palms looked suitably run-down.

It paid off the cab with an unremarkable tip, and walked straight through the Hilton lobby. On the way back to the Crossed Palms, it threw the janitor's uniform into a Dumpster.

The chain-smoking woman at the desk was glad to give "James Baker" a room for three days, paid in advance with cash, no ID or luggage.

The room was musty and dark, and definitely not worth $150 a night. But the changeling was finally able to relax, for the first time since the side door to the Wing Room had opened to admit the unwelcome spies.

This couldn't be rushed, it told itself; the ident.i.ty it took back to Apia had to be absolutely bulletproof. It could go back to California and re-create its college-boy surfer dude, but why not just stay in Hawaii? Closer to Samoa, and so a more likely point of origin for a job-seeker.

There would be a job opening soon. Mich.e.l.le, the project's receptionist, was seven months pregnant. She was looking forward to quitting and becoming a full-time mother.

The changeling had perhaps a month to construct a perfect replacement and establish her in Samoa.

Receptionist would be good. It didn't dare try lab technician again, but it did want to be someone Russ would notice, and fall for.

It had evidently been caught because it had masqueraded as a real person, and was snagged by some routine security procedure. "We talked to the real Rae Archer" was all the changeling knew or needed to know. Using an actual human had been lazy. This time it would create a woman from the ground up.

The changeling knew pretty exactly what Russ liked in a woman. But it probably wouldn't be too smart to make a woman perfectly built to order-even if it didn't make Russ suspicious, someone else might notice.

So she wouldn't be a modest slender Oriental woman with a degree in astronomy. A normally plump blonde Caucasian who had studied marine biology. It would be smart if her first impression (especially to Jan, but also to Russ) was not too s.e.xy. She could work on Russ slowly, in time-honored ways.

It bothered her to be sneaky with him. She loved him more than she had any other man or woman on Earth. But she had to find a way to the artifact, either through trust or stealth, and Russ was the obvious candidate for either.

What is this thing called love? that song asked when she had come out of the water the second time-back when those ex-Marine centenarians at the anniversary celebration had been h.o.r.n.y young men. Could the changeling really know the answer, even eighty years later; even all those books and plays, poems and songs later? that song asked when she had come out of the water the second time-back when those ex-Marine centenarians at the anniversary celebration had been h.o.r.n.y young men. Could the changeling really know the answer, even eighty years later; even all those books and plays, poems and songs later?

It thought so. The answer was Russ.

If she couldn't have him as Rae, conjure up a second best love. Someday she would amaze him with the story. First, though, she had to seduce him again.

The changeling wanted to be about thirty years old, married once briefly and widowed, no children, no ties. It had to be in complete control of the woman's fictional paper trail, starting with birth.

It took most of a beautiful morning, walking through Kalaepohaku Cemetery, before the changeling found the perfect burial plot: Sharon Valida, born in 1990, died in '91. Her parents were buried beside her, both dead in 2010.

A short computer search in the library showed her parents had died together in an auto accident. Sharon, just to complicate things, had been born in Maui, and died there. She was cremated and her ashes brought back here. But her death certificate was presumably in Maui, and had to be pulled from the system there.

Best to do things in proper order. The changeling flew over to Maui, still the pasty-faced tourist guy, and easily found the office where birth and death records were kept.

It spent a night in a closet, listening, making sure the place would be empty the next night. There was one complication: although there was no night watchman, there were video cameras covering every hall.

The changeling didn't like to take the form of objects rather than living things; it was difficult and painful and time-consuming. But there didn't seem to be any alternative in this case.

It became a sheet of grimy linoleum. The floors of every hall were the same dirt-colored plastic. So it was able to slide out through the millimeter clearance between door and floor and slowly undulate down the hall to Vital Statistics. There were no cameras in the office, so it rolled up into a cylinder and turned into a sort of cartoon human for convenience, or at least a roll of linoleum with feet and two two-fingered hands, keeping the drab linoleum color and texture.

The file drawers weren't locked, so it was easy to pull the paper death certificate. The electronic record was another matter. Even if it knew which machine to use, there would be pa.s.swords and protocols. It would have to solve that problem from outside the system, as Sharon Valida.

It found Sharon's birth certificate, and memorized the handprint and footprint on it. No retinal scans in 1990.

It gave itself a 2007 driver's license, still no retinal scan. It had to take a chance on the Social Security number, changing a few digits from one that belonged to a person born in Maui the same year as Sharon.

Her parents' driver's licenses were still on file, with pictures; they'd lived in Maui until 2009, the year before they died. Her mother had been a strikingly beautiful blonde, which was convenient. The changeling generated a teenaged version for Sharon, with a 2007 hairstyle, nothing extreme. No facial tattoo or ritual scars. For "Scars or identifying marks," it gave Sharon a small hummingbird tattoo on the left breast.

Russell would like that. Dipping into the nipple.

It found a map with school districts, but of course they'd have been much different in 2007. Guessing would be dangerous; some d.a.m.ned computer was liable to do a routine systems check and flag an anomaly. It took a little searching, but there was a file called "HS District Archives"; it found the one closest to her parents' address and enrolled her.

It gave her a science track with APS; she aced all her science and math but didn't do too well in humanities and arts. She also aced business and keyboard, which might count for more than her college degree. That would be the next day's work.

Checking against other students' yearbook entries, it gave her Chess Club and volleyball. Religious preference, none. Then it worked back through middle school and grade school records, which were mostly routine stuff. Her fourth-grade teacher noted that she did her work "with ease and dispatch," a compliment she had given to about half the cla.s.s. She skipped fifth grade, making it possible for her to finish college the year her parents died.

It was not quite dawn when the changeling turned back into linear linoleum and slid down a corridor to a location that wasn't covered by the cameras, a stairwell that led to a musty bas.e.m.e.nt. It took its janitor form, remembered from Berkeley, and waited until ten to walk upstairs and pa.s.s through the crowd, out onto the street.

It turned back into the tourist in a public library rest room stall, and used the library computer system to outline Sharon Valida's academic career at the University of Hawaii, a more reasonable destination for an ambitious girl than the community college on Maui. She would study business with a concentration in oceanography-in fact, she would take an introductory oceanography course from herself, as the charismatic professor Jimmy Coleridge. The changeling used its intimate knowledge of the university's academic and bureaucratic structure to give Sharon a respectable-but-not-brilliant four years of study. Inserting the paper and computer records verifying her existence there would be even easier than the past night's work in Maui.

(The changeling had not just dropped everything when it changed from Professor Coleridge into Rae Archer. The timing had been perfect; the Sky and Telescope Sky and Telescope ad appearing right at the end of the term. So the professor turned in his grades and told everyone he was taking the summer off for a diving vacation in Polynesia, which was not completely a lie.) ad appearing right at the end of the term. So the professor turned in his grades and told everyone he was taking the summer off for a diving vacation in Polynesia, which was not completely a lie.) There was one thing left to do before going back to Honolulu. The changeling went to a mall and bought a recent wardrobe for Sharon, and then went back to the Crossed Palms and spent a painful half hour changing into her. She rented another room for the night and went back to the Vital Statistics office at four thirty, a half hour before closing.

"May I help you?" The woman at the window, about forty, had a bright fixed stare as if she'd been caffeine-loading to stay awake till five, and seemed less than sincere in her desire to help.

"I can't find my birth certificate," the changeling said. "I need a certified copy to get a pa.s.sport."

"Photo ID," the woman said, and the changeling handed over the fresh, though worn, driver's license.

The woman sat down at a console and typed in Valida's name. She stared at the screen, cleared it, and typed it in again. "This says you died in '91."

"What, died?" died?"

"One year old." She looked up suspiciously.

"Well, duh. I didn't."

"Wait here a moment." She hustled off in the direction of the room where the changeling had spent the night.

She came back shaking her head. "Computer error," she said, and deleted the record with a couple of strokes. Wordlessly, she made a copy of the birth certificate and notarized it. She went down the hall to have another clerk witness it. The changeling walked out with its new existence certified.