The Star Country

CHAPTER 1

People's Republic of Chicago,
Sunday Night

Lisa Marquez had just finished unpacking when someone knocked at her door. "It's open!"

Doug Shapiro, one of the mission's second secretaries, put his head in. "Sorry to bother you, Doctor. Did you hear about the latest changes?"

"What changes?" She stuffed the last of her empty bags into the tiny hotel closet. "Hey, you don't have to stand in the hall. Come in."

"Thanks." Shapiro squeezed past, noting the view outside. "Nice. I see Special Assistants rate windows."

The Hilton looked down on an ancient park which lay bare and peaceful under a thin blanket of snow. In the distance, toward the lake, there was an ice rink upon which pairs of stolid, well-bundled Chicagoans glided in the pale sunset. It was so pretty that Lisa hardly noticed the barricades separating the hotel from the park.

"Nice for Chicago, you mean."

"Well, yeah." Shapiro smiled. He was twenty-eight, five years her junior, thin, quiet, and all but invisible until you knew him awhile. They had become friends of a sort in the last two months. "My grandfather got his head busted down there, you know."

"In People's Park? When was this--during the War?" Lisa had turned on the TV, quickly sampling the three official channels serving the People's Republic, to her regret. She left set on, however; while her own counterbugging devices were in place, a dose of good old white noise never hurt--in the unlikely case anyone happened to be listening in.

"Oh, long before the War. Last century, in fact, about 1970. There was a riot during a political convention, Nixon's or Reagan's someone like that. Grandpa got arrested and roughed up and thrown in jail, along with a couple of hundred other kids. I guess it was a pretty big deal. He used to talk about it like it was."

Lisa stepped up to the window, wishing for a contraband cigarette or, at very least, an illegal drink.--"So you come by your deviationist tendencies naturally. I have to say I'm shocked to think that a counterrevolutionary like you could reach a position of responsibility in the service of the Great States of Texas." They both laughed at that. "Changes in what, Douglas?"

"Oh, sorry: itinerary."

"Really?" She kept a casual expression and tone--she'd had lots of practice--but began to worry. "Getting out of Chicago a day early, something like that?"

"No such luck. There's been what can kindly be described as a hitch in the negotiations with the Californians."

"A major hitch?" She really wanted that cigarette now.

"I'd say so, They're canceling the whole L.A. conference"

Damn! "Does anybody know why?"

"No one talks to me, but I get the feeling it had to do with basic admission criteria and access. The Californians want more than the Africans are willing to give."

"Christ, Douglas, everybody wants his people to have first crack at the Hocq when they come to town. They were probably just bluffing anyway. The 'workers' paradise' here gave us a lot of trouble, too, but here we are."

"Tell that to Bannekker and his buddies--"

"Those clowns."

"--All I know is, we'll make the stop in Minneapolis as scheduled and then go home. No Denver, no L.A."

"Great." She did not have to fake a tone of annoyance. "Do the Hocq know yet?"

"The Governor was on her way up there a while ago."

"I hope they take this better than they usually take bad news."

"Yeah, it'd be tough to explain to the folks back home that we let the Governor get eaten by aliens from outer space."

Lisa couldn't help smiling. "Still, it's too bad. I was hoping to try surfing."

"You're originally from that area, aren't you?"

"I was born there, yeah."

"Well . . . maybe next year," Shapiro said. "I'd better finish my appointed rounds."

"Thanks for giving me the news."

When she was alone again she had to fight a strong urge to throw some heavy object against the wall. As soon as that impotent anger subsided she allowed herself to get depressed. The whole plan depended on that rendezvous in Denver . . . Could the two of them now escape across fifteen hundred miles of hostile countryside? What a horrible idea.

The phone rang. She knew who it would be.

Lisa was used to his voice by now, an accomplishment she would have thought impossible only a few months ago. Each member of the Hocq mission spoke English, of course--but with the assistance of voders that made them sound like terribly grammatical car crashes. Harrek was one of the more understandable ones, but listening to him still gave her a headache.

"I assume you've heard the news," she said.

"Yes," the alien rasped. "Very distressing."

Aware that they might be under surveillance, Lisa was forced into the ridiculous position of communicating with an extraterrestrial by means of an improvised code. "How are you feeling?" she asked, knowing that, physically, Harrek was fine "Are your greater knees still giving you trouble?"

"I still suffer," the alien replied.

Lisa could easily picture Harrek, hunched by the telephone in the penthouse several floors overhead, the room crammed with support equipment . . . and three other Hocq, including Big Bad Boroz. "Has the . . . uh, doctor given you any medication?"

"Not yet." There was a pause. "She wishes to continue the treatment."

Oh my God, he wants to go through with it! "is that even possible?"

"There is no choice."

Was he telling her that one of his sisters suspected? It was probably inevitable that their plan would leak. You couldn't keep a defection a secret forever--

"Maybe I can help you out. There's some special medication in cruiser three, down in the garage."

"I'll meet you there," Harrek said.

She took a deep breath and looked around the tacky hotel room. These were probably her final moments as a good citizen of Texas. "Ten minutes," she said.

"That will be satisfactory."

She hung up, wanting only to lie down and sleep, preferably for a week--and that was sure sign that she was terrified. Relax. The worst they can do is kill you! Then she tried to pack her clothes, think about money, worry about her career, wonder about her skill with the cruiser, all at the same time. Another sign of terror. Calm down, kid. One step at a time. Pack up the clothes, the essentials. Forget about money right now: you'll have to make do with what you've got in your purse, since Chicago is closed on a Sunday night and hustling a few hundred bucks from other members of the mission would only raise suspicions. The keys to cruiser three? Ask Shapiro.

Poor Douglas.

She took one last glance out the window. It was completely dark now. The skaters were gone and even the lines seemed shorter in front of the distant shops.

Slinging a single bag over her shoulder, she hurried out.